Clobbered by Camembert csm-3

by Avery Aames

  “Deputy Rodham,” Urso barked.

  The gangly young policeman with a roosterlike hairdo stepped forward from the shadows, his narrow shoulders squared.

  “Secure this scene. ASAP. And close that front door.”

  Rodham saluted and fetched a roll of yellow crime-scene tape from a satchel. “Move back, folks.” He pressed open the lower half of the Dutch door, which forced me to shuffle aside, then secured and shut the whole door after him.

  But I wasn’t done listening yet. He headed left, so I veered right and found a spot near a Bieber tilt-turn window, cracked open enough to ventilate but not refrigerate. Grandmère nestled in beside me.

  “What can you see, chérie?”

  “Urso is crouching beside the coroner. He’s whispering something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The coroner responded with a hushed word to Urso. Oh, to be Superwoman and have supersonic hearing.

  “Thanks.” Urso rose to his incredible height and faced Rebecca and Ipo, his back to me.

  From where I stood, it was like watching a play. Shadows created by the varying light in the room danced on each of the players’ faces.

  Rebecca and Ipo sank deeper into the couch, both probably wishing they had worn red clothing and could blend into the background.

  “Mr. Ho, you come from Hawaii,” Urso said.

  “Yes.”

  I stiffened. Where was Urso going with this line of questioning? What significance did it have? Why was he being so hard-hearted? On any other day, he would have called Ipo by his first name.

  “Oh, there is your grandfather,” Grandmère said. “He will want to know everything. I will return.” She scuttled away.

  A cold draft filled her spot, and then a body did. Sylvie. Lucky me. She was wearing a skintight purple sweaterdress and reeked of patchouli. I wondered if all her Under Wraps items smelled the same. If they did, I would run from the store the moment I entered. Not that I would enter. I had steered clear since it opened.

  “Fill me in,” Sylvie said, breathless with curiosity.

  “Shhh.”

  “Don’t you hush—”

  I gave her a sterner than stern look. Without asking, she wedged herself in beside me so that she could peer through the opening.

  “Oof,” I whispered.

  “Shhh,” she said with a snicker.

  Urso continued. “Tell me about your luau jobs, Mr. Ho.”

  “I was a fire dancer.” An edge crept into Ipo’s normally gentle tone.

  “Fire dancer.”

  “Yes.” Ipo’s face pinched with concern. He seemed as baffled as I was by the questions.

  Rebecca caught sight of me, and her eyes filled with such pleading that my heart wrenched. I held up a finger to give her hope. For what, I couldn’t be sure—for a miracle answer, a suspect other than Ipo, something. And soon.

  “Tell me about the wooden batons used in your ceremonies,” Urso said.

  Ipo fidgeted.

  “What are they called again?” Urso snapped his fingers, but I would bet dimes to dollars he knew the name. During high school, when most teens suffered wanderlust, Urso had devoured the entire set of James Michener books. He had looked so dorky carrying huge thick tomes to school when the rest of us were trying to read the thinnest books possible.

  “Kala’au rods,” Ipo said.

  “That’s it. Kala’au rods. Hardwood, right? About nine inches long.” Urso sounded somber. He fisted his hand, as if gripping one of the rods. “You’ve got a pair of them, don’t you?”

  Ipo said, “They’re stored in a cabinet at home.”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  “I didn’t do this,” Ipo said, his voice ripe with intensity.

  “He didn’t!” Rebecca echoed. “We never saw this … this Clydesdale woman. Not here, I mean. We saw her in the shop but not here. I don’t know why she came to my house. We were outside.” She slurped in air and started to cough.

  Ipo patted Rebecca’s back and clutched her tighter.

  “Outside?” Urso said.

  “Yes, Chief,” Ipo answered. “We were outside—”

  “—smooching,” Rebecca cried. “We smooched for a very long time.”

  Urso pivoted to the right, biting down on his lower lip. To keep from laughing? He ran his fingers along the brim of his hat, then turned back to Rebecca and Ipo. “How long were you, um, kissing?”

  “How should I know?” Rebecca shifted on the sofa. “It was our first time. I was nervous.”

  “So nervous she couldn’t stop giggling,” Ipo admitted.

  “Urso, she’s telling the truth,” I blurted.

  Urso whirled around. When he spotted me by the Bieber window, he snarled. Not out loud, mind you, but I didn’t miss the extrasensory thrust of his anger. In a seething stage whisper, he said, “Don’t get involved this time, Charlotte.”

  He was referring, of course, to the other times I had inserted myself into an investigation. But how could I not? He was attacking Rebecca.

  “She’s Amish,” I said. “She wouldn’t lie.”

  “Are you sure?” Sylvie whispered.

  I stomped my foot to drive her away from me. “U-ey, you can’t possibly think Ipo did this.”

  Urso whirled away, and I instantly regretted using his nickname. As the saying goes: Loose lips sink ships. But since grade school I had called him U-ey—for the double U in his name: Umberto Urso. By the way he raked his hand down his neck, I could tell he wouldn’t give me another second of his time. Shoot.

  Sylvie nudged me. “Do you think Ipo whacked Kaitlyn with one of those whatchamacallits?”

  “Hush!”

  “He had motive, from what I’ve heard.”

  “What motive?” I glowered at her.

  “Kaitlyn was in my shop earlier having a facial and talking about her empire. Ooh, did I tell you? I’ve added a facial room in the back of Under Wraps. I found this glorious woman with great hands. Doesn’t my skin look better?” Sylvie turned her chin, lifting it to remove any glimmer of loose skin. “Mind you, women want more than a dress when they come to a boutique. They want to leave looking smashing. I’ve created a one-stop shop.”

  “Stay on topic, Sylvie.”

  “Right-o.” She toyed with one of her gaudy purple dangle earrings. “As Kaitlyn left the shop, she said she was heading to Ipo’s farm to have it out with him. It seems he’s hired a lawyer to block her purchase of the Burrell farm.”

  “Block it?”

  “On the grounds of unfair competition or something, but it sounds like motive to me.” Sylvie punctuated her revelation with a curt nod.

  “Miss Bessette.” From behind me, Deputy Rodham cleared his squeaky throat. “I’m going to have to ask you and your friend to move.”

  I whirled around and froze, my mouth agape. Over Rodham’s shoulder, I spied someone lurking in the shadows. A man in a trench coat. He looked like he was assessing the crowd.

  “Miss Bessette,” Deputy Rodham said, an officious edge to his voice.

  “Not now,” I snapped.

  That caught the lurker’s attention. He jerked his head in my direction. I couldn’t make out his features before he hightailed it away.

  CHAPTER

  Curious behavior has often lured me to be impulsive. A man running from a crime scene definitely fell into the category of curious behavior.

  I raced through the throng clogging the path leading to Rebecca’s cottage saying, “Excuse me. Sorry. Let me through.”

  Sylvie ordered me to stay put, but I ignored her. I didn’t want to lose the lurker. Who was he? Had he attacked Kaitlyn when Rebecca and Ipo were outside kissing? Or was he a Peeping Tom? Maybe he had been hanging around for a while. Maybe he could tell Urso what had happened at the cottage and exonerate Ipo.

  I tore after him, north on Cherry Orchard and along sidewalks illuminated by streetlamps. As I drew closer, I could make out more of his shape. In a word:
sloppy. Raggedy knit ski hat, baggy pants beneath his coat, work boots. He wasn’t as tall as Deputy Rodham. He was more like the size of Matthew or Jordan or Lois’s husband, the Cube. He passed Fromagerie Bessette, the Country Kitchen, and Under Wraps.

  At the west entrance to the Village Green, my breathing grew ragged, but I wouldn’t give up. I was gaining on him. When he cut around a couple pushing a baby carriage, he glanced over his shoulder and his mouth gaped open. My guess, he was surprised to see me on his tail. I recognized him. He worked for Ipo at the honeybee farm.

  “Oscar,” I yelled.

  He didn’t slow.

  “Oscar Carson!”

  He dashed into the Winter Wonderland. I ran faster, my lungs heaving, thighs burning. I definitely needed more exercise. Maybe a regimen. Twenty minutes of aerobics when I woke up, followed by twenty of stretching. No, that sounded much too difficult. Cobwebs usually clouded my brain until my first cup of coffee or tea. Maybe I could exercise after work. Or I could double up on yoga and walk the dog and cat an extra mile.

  “Oscar!”

  I had only met him a couple of times. He didn’t make good eye contact. I’d heard he was slightly challenged. Ipo had hired him at the farm to clean out storage bins.

  Oscar zigzagged left and right, weaving between the white tents. I sprinted after him, the twinkling lights and luscious scents of cocoa and fresh-baked goodies in Winter Wonderland distracting.

  Focus, Charlotte.

  I drew to within fifteen feet of him. Ten feet. Five.

  Oscar veered around a corner. I followed and pulled up short as he charged into the ice sculpture of the knight on the horse. Splinters of ice spurted upward. The knight’s lance shattered into pieces. Oscar slipped and skated forward. His feet shot into the forelegs of the horse. The sculpture buckled. The horse’s head wavered. Oscar scrambled to get out of the way, but his hands got caught in the folds of his trench coat, and he lost purchase on the slushy grass. He hit the ground with a thud and flung his arms in front of his face to prepare for the inevitable.

  The horse’s head plunged. Its chin gored the ground inches from Oscar’s hips.

  Oscar screeched.

  “What the heck?” The sculptor, none other than Tyanne’s philandering husband Theo, arrived with a hot dog in his hand. He hurled the hot dog aside and stamped toward Oscar. A defensive linebacker in college, Theo hadn’t lost any of his bulk nor, it appeared, any of his rage. Red faced, he grabbed Oscar by the collar and whipped him to a standing position. “What’s going on?”

  Oscar said, “Accident.” Head lowered, he looked half a foot shorter than Theo, though if he stood tall, he would have been roughly the same height.

  “All my work. My precious work. You … you …” Theo hurled Oscar to the ground, but rather than kick the man, he slammed his toe into an open metal box that held his ice-sculpting tools. The box rattled like thunder. Theo swiveled his head and shook a fist at me. “This was your fault.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I said, knees knocking. Oscar was the one who had opted to run into ice sculpture territory. Why couldn’t he have nailed the sculpture by our peace-loving hardware store owner? Mr. Nakamura would have uttered some blessing and re-created his artwork without a word of reproach.

  Theo moved toward me, fist pumping. “You hired my Tyanne!”

  How nimbly he changed gears, I mused. He wasn’t angry at me for ruining his sculpture; he was railing at me for hiring his wife—the wife he had cheated on. I wondered if medication for a rapidly fluctuating temperament might be in his future.

  “Fire her,” he demanded.

  A crowd emerged from between the surrounding tents. I peered among them for Matthew. He had to be in the area. I could hear the twins’ chorale group practicing the Beatles’ “She Loves You.” Was Matthew aware that I was about to be ripped limb from limb? Would he save me?

  Feeling bolstered by the crowd, I employed the tone I used for the twins whenever I had to mediate an argument and said, “I’ll do nothing of the sort. Tyanne is free to do as she pleases. End of discussion.” Oscar started to worm away from the scene, but I rested the toe of my boot on his arm. “Uh-uh, you stay put.” I regarded Theo. “I’m sorry about the ice sculpture. Grandmère ordered extra blocks of ice just in case anything untoward happened. You’re obviously very talented. You can carve your masterpiece again.”

  My apology redirected Theo back to the real reason for his anger. He raised his heel, I assumed to crush Oscar’s pale face, but he stopped, foot in mid-air, and his eyes went wide.

  “Problem?” a man said from behind me.

  I turned toward the welcome sound.

  Jordan, arms casually hanging by his sides, strolled toward Theo. He carried a sparkly white bag in one hand and looked relaxed, but something about his steady gaze and his loping walk reminded me of a panther ready to attack.

  Theo must have picked up on the feral energy, too. He lowered his foot, took a step back, dusted off his parka with the edge of his hand, then thrust an index finger at Oscar. “You’re lucky, you bozo.” He eyeballed Jordan one last time, then grabbed his tool kit and stormed out of sight.

  The crowd dispersed, discussions about the altercation rising in pitch as the folks departed, but soon the quiet of night settled around Jordan, Oscar, and me. Only the faint humming of the chorale filled the air.

  I smiled at Jordan. “Thank you.”

  “No thanks needed. Someone in the crowd would have jumped in if you hadn’t been assertive.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  Jordan glanced at my toe, which was still pinning Oscar’s arm. I felt my face redden. What kind of beast was I? I removed my foot and said, “Stay.”

  Oscar squirmed to a sitting position.

  “What do you want with him?” Jordan asked.

  “I want to interrogate him.”

  “You don’t look like you need me for that. I’ll mosey along.”

  “No, please.” I grabbed Jordan’s wrist, the one holding the sparkly bag.

  “Why? Because you want some of my candy?” He wriggled the bag, which came from the Igloo Ice Cream Parlor. “I’ve got chocolate bonbons stuffed with peanut butter cream. I bought them for Jacky, but I’m sure she’ll share.”

  “I don’t want candy.” I mean, I did. I often do. A girl doesn’t live on cheese alone, although I do my best. As my grandfather says, There are so many choices, so little time. “Stay, please?” I explained about Kaitlyn’s death and how Urso was honing in on Ipo as a suspect and the fact that I’d caught Oscar lingering at Rebecca’s cottage.

  Jordan’s face turned grave. “Question away, but don’t expect to get much from him. You know he’s—” Jordan tapped his head.

  Challenged or not, Oscar was going to answer me. I crouched beside him and held him with my gaze. “Did you kill Kaitlyn Clydesdale?” I was no district attorney. Subtlety was not my forte.

  “We’re talking somebody’s life here,” Oscar said.

  His indirect response jarred me, but I continued. “You ran from Rebecca Zook’s cottage.”

  “Do you think you were born with a monopoly on the truth?” he replied.

  Again, his response struck me as odd. So did his speech pattern. It wasn’t jagged. It sounded almost rehearsed.

  “Oscar . . .”

  His gaze roved—to the right and left, up and down. When he did focus on my face, he blinked rapidly. Was he purposely making his eyes flutter? I clapped my hands inches in front of his face. He looked at me—directly at me. His pupils didn’t waver. Not a whit. I recalled a boy in seventh grade who would fake seizures if he hadn’t done his homework. Old Miss Magilicutty, our apple-faced teacher, would buy the con every time and cart the boy to the nurse’s office.

  A cloud lifted from my brain. I said, “You’re acting, Oscar. Those responses you just gave me are from the play Twelve Angry Men.” As a teen, I had been cast as the judge in the high school play—the only woman in an otherwise all-male cast. Grandmè
re had rallied on my behalf.

  Oscar said, “The burden of proof is on the prosecution.”

  “I’m right.” I jabbed a finger at him. “You’re spouting Juror Number Eight’s lines. Why?”

  Jordan deliberately cleared his throat.

  Oscar cut a look in Jordan’s direction and shuddered. “Wh-wh-who are you?” He wasn’t asking Jordan’s identity. He had met him around town.

  “Your worst nightmare, if you don’t start answering the lady’s questions.” Jordan grabbed Oscar by the elbow and hoisted him to his feet. “Are you going to talk? No more pretense.”

  Oscar shivered in his shoes, but not because the temperature hovered in the upper thirties. I rose, too, my gaze trained on Jordan as the question Meredith had posed to me earlier in the day scudded through my mind. Who was Jordan really? He had such command over people. Was he merely a cheese farmer, or was there something in his mysterious past that should frighten me?

  Oscar lowered his eyelids, as if he was considering his options, and then his eyes blinked open. “Yeah, okay.” He brushed off the front of his trench coat, all pretense gone. “I worked for Kaitlyn.”

  I said, “You mean you worked for Ipo.”

  “And Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”

  Adrenaline ping-ponged through my veins. Now we were getting somewhere. “What precisely did you do for her?”

  “About ten months ago, she hired me to check out neighboring properties.” Now that he was talking freely, he allowed a New Jersey accent to color his tone. “So’s I got a job at Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm to fit into the community.”

  “Were you checking them out to rob them?” I asked.

  “Nah. We were searching out a good buy.”

  “Are you a detective?”

  “Sorta.”

  “A corporate spy?” Jordan said.

  “That’s more like it.” Oscar steepled his hands. “See, I told Kaitlyn about the Burrell farm. They were having problems making payments. Based on my intel, Kaitlyn made a bid for the place.”

  “Why was Kaitlyn looking to invest in Providence?” I asked.