by Avery Aames
“I don’t know. What if he has a criminal record?” She started to type his name into the search field.
“Uh-uh. No way.” I pinned her wrists and hitched my head toward the door. “Back to work.”
She wriggled free. “C’mon, Charlotte.”
“No. We’re done in here. You are not going to bring up Chip’s history on the Internet, got me?” I had no desire to see how many beautiful women Chip had escorted in France—not that he had—but knowing how much Chip loved the limelight, his living a glamorous nightlife was not beyond possibility. “Besides, he had every reason to keep Kaitlyn alive. She was going to make his dreams come true.” As much as I wanted Chip out of my life, I couldn’t forget his delight when he had told me about the restaurant he would one day own.
Chimes at the front of the store jangled.
“Customers,” I said, relieved. “Let’s go.”
Rebecca harrumphed as she hurried ahead of me. She stopped short of the cheese counter and whispered, “Speak of the devil.”
I faltered. Was a day going to pass without seeing my ex-fiancé? How could I encourage him to leave town ASAP? He swaggered into Fromagerie Bessette, grinning like a drunken cowboy who’d prevailed in a shoot-out. Okay, maybe I was embellishing, giving him attributes that didn’t fit. Could you blame me? I didn’t want to like him and didn’t want to feel the least attracted to him.
“Hey, Charlotte.” Chip sauntered toward the cheese counter. “Looking good. I like you in red.”
I fingered the collar of my sweater, which suddenly felt as tight as a tourniquet. Dang. I could only hope my cheeks hadn’t turned the same color as my sweater.
Rebecca leaned in. “He sure seems cheerful for someone whose benefactor just died.”
“I heard that.” Chip’s mouth turned down, his gaze grim. “I am sorry. It’s a shame, isn’t it? But accidents happen. It was an accident, right? That’s what Lois Smith told me.”
“Urso isn’t sure,” I said.
“He thinks one of Ipo’s luau sticks was deliberately used as a weapon,” Rebecca added.
“Wow, I didn’t realize that.” Chip fidgeted. “Look, I’m sorry she’s dead, and I’m sorry to hear about Ipo’s problems, and I don’t want to seem heartless, but”—he brandished a pair of tickets—“do you want to go to a Bluejackets hockey game with me, Charlotte? Lois’s husband, Ainsley, gave them to me.”
“Can’t.”
“How do you know? I didn’t tell you when they were for.”
“I just can’t.”
“Oho, I get it.” He pocketed the tickets and viewed the cheeses displayed in the case. “How about giving me a taste of that Wisconsin Colby?”
Whenever a customer requested a taste of a cheese, I complied. I didn’t want anyone to complain that he didn’t like it after buying a quarter- or half-pound. That would be bad for business.
I removed the Colby from the case and, using an OXO wire cheese slicer, shaved off a thin piece. I placed it on a square of cheese paper and offered it to Chip. As he reached for it, his fingers grazed mine. On purpose? I snatched my hand back.
He plopped the morsel into his mouth and groaned with delight. “Oh, yeah, cut me a good-sized wedge of that. I love American cheeses. I’ll take some of these, as well.” He plucked two boxes of seed crackers off the shelf by the annex and set them on the counter by the register, then pulled his wallet from his pocket. The sight jolted me. It was the same wallet he had carried in high school, with a peeling Winner sticker stuck to the cracked brown leather.
He saw where I was looking and winked. “Good memories, huh? Hey, I heard you’re dating some new guy. A farmer.”
“A cheese maker. His name’s Jordan.” Thinking of Jordan made me feel stronger, more assured, but I wasn’t about to discuss him with my ex. I completed Chip’s order and stowed it in a gold bag. “I guess you’ll be heading back to France.”
“Why?”
“Your contract will be null and void with Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s death.”
“I hope not. I’m discussing the issue with Georgia Plachette, the CFO, in a half hour.”
Rebecca purposely cleared her throat. I knew what she was trying to do; she wanted me to view Chip as a suspect.
I glowered at her to back off and handed Chip his purchase and change. “Good luck.”
“Hope you mean that. If Georgia comes through, I’ll be sticking around.” He tipped an imaginary hat and strode out of the shop.
A minute later, Georgia traipsed in, head lowered, gaze fixed on the floor. Why did I get the feeling that she had seen Chip inside and had waited in the shadows, pretending to be invisible until he’d left? Her face was puffy; her nose redder than before. Had she been crying? Was she mourning the death of her boss? Her outfit of funereal black did nothing for her pale complexion, though she looked quite put together. Leather gloves matched her platform high-heeled shoes and purse. Her makeup looked fresh, and she had tamed her previously matted curls into attractive locks.
Rebecca nudged me with her elbow and whispered, “She might know who Kaitlyn’s enemies were. And remember how Sylvie said Kaitlyn wanted to take over Providence? What did that mean? Was she planning to buy more property? Ask Miss Plachette.”
“Excuse me.” Georgia sneezed and dabbed at her nose with a tissue. “I heard you’re having a cheese tasting. I need something to distract me. Am I too early?”
“A wee bit. It’s tomorrow,” I said, bemoaning my lack of foresight. What had I been thinking scheduling a tasting right before we opened our tent at Winter Wonderland?
“Oh, sorry.” Georgia turned to leave.
Rebecca prodded me again. “Ask her.”
“Before you go, Miss Plachette—” I cut my sentence short. How could I ask her about Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s enemies and her real estate intentions without sounding inappropriate?
Georgia swiveled around. “What?” she said curtly, then jammed her lips together. “Sorry. It’s just …” She fluttered her hand, the tissue waving like a white flag. “Poor Kaitlyn. She’d expected so much from this trip.”
What a perfect opening. I nearly cheered. I edged my way around the cheese counter to draw nearer to her. “Um, exactly what expectations did she have?”
“She wanted to expand her Do-Gooder programs, and she wanted to reconnect with old friends.”
Rats. Not the answers I’d hoped for. Be direct, I could hear my grandmother say.
“Why did she want to purchase the Burrell place?” I asked.
Rebecca clapped her hands silently.
Georgia cocked her head. “So she could build a honeybee farm.”
“Was she planning to buy more property?” I asked.
“I can’t say.”
Rebecca stepped toward her. “Can’t say or won’t say?”
Georgia winced. “Kaitlyn wanted to give back to the town she used to call home. She—”
The front door whisked open. Cool air flooded the shop. A tourist flipped off her fur-hooded parka and cried, “Oh, my!” She made a quick U-turn, as if she had forgotten something, and ran headlong into Urso.
Like a gentleman, Urso stepped out of her way and held the door open for her. She flew outside.
Urso spun around as the door swung shut, and a gloom in his eyes made me wary. He didn’t make a beeline for me, so perhaps my grilling Georgia Plachette wasn’t the cause of his turmoil, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I ended the conversation with a polite nod.
Rebecca, on the other hand, abandoned caution and bolted forward. “Ipo is not guilty.”
“Good morning to you, too, Miss Zook,” Urso said. Despite his snappy retort, his hangdog face didn’t brighten. Had he and Jacky broken up, as I had feared at the yoga studio? He slogged toward the counter.
“Barton Burrell.” Rebecca shadowed him. “What do we know about him?”
“How about a sandwich, Charlotte?” Urso said. “The Country Kitchen is full-up.”
More than happy to pl
acate him, I returned to my position behind the cheese counter and grabbed a torpedo-shaped sandwich from the refrigerator. Urso’s favorite sandwich was Jarlsburg with maple-infused ham on sourdough. The savory flavor of the cheese blended perfectly with the salty sweetness of the meat. I set the sandwich on the cutting board and sliced it in half, at an angle.
“Barton Burrell,” Rebecca repeated, undaunted. “Charlotte said he was doing handyman stuff at Lavender and Lace around the time of the murder, but he could have left with plenty of time to kill Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”
Urso fixed her with a glare. “I questioned him. He has a solid alibi. His wife verified it.”
“His wife?” Rebecca swished her ponytail over her shoulder.
“They were home watching television.”
“Oh, please.” Rebecca addressed Urso like he was an underling.
As she continued to harangue him, citing weak alibis and how TiVo was changing the face of investigations, I recalled the moment when Kaitlyn had come into The Cheese Shop that first day. Her phone had rung. She’d talked to someone like a minion, too. She cut off the caller with a curt, “I’ll ruin you,” and then slapped on a phony smile. Had the caller been one of her employees? Oscar Carson, perhaps? Had her threat caused him to want her dead?
“You’re wrong, Chief.” Rebecca waggled a finger. “Barton Burrell could be guilty, alibi or not.”
Urso growled. I finished wrapping his sandwich, inserted it into a gold bag, and handed it to him, free of charge.
“Maybe Octavia Tibble knows more about the sale of his farm,” Rebecca went on. “Maybe Kaitlyn Clydesdale was trying to pull a fast one, and Mr. Burrell came to my place, and he lost control, and—”
Urso raised his free hand in surrender, thanked me for the sandwich, and strode from the shop … before I could tell him about the phone call Kaitlyn received.
I glowered at Rebecca. “Why do you incite him that way?”
“Because he’s stubborn!”
I explained my theory about the conversation between Kaitlyn and her anonymous caller. “I’ll bet whoever called wanted her dead.”
A woman gasped. I spun around, having forgotten Georgia was in the shop. She had moved to the Camembert display on the barrel in the center of the store.
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Do you know who Kaitlyn was talking to that day?”
Worming one hand into the other, Georgia moved toward the counter. Her lower lip trembled. Finally she said, “It could have been any of a number of people. Plenty wanted Kaitlyn dead. She could be quite exacting.”
“Did you want her to die?” Rebecca eyed Georgia with cold suspicion.
Georgia stopped wringing her hands and shot Rebecca a withering glare. “Of course not. She and I were”—she licked her upper lip—“the best of friends.”
“Where were you last night?” Rebecca had no shame.
Me? I felt like crawling under the tasting counter at Rebecca’s brashness.
“I was at Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub playing darts.” Georgia cocked a hip and tilted her head, a pose a teenager could perfect—a pose that looked weak for a woman in her late twenties. “Lots of people saw me. I told Chief Urso. He came by the inn and interrogated me last night. Question him if you don’t believe me.” She pointed to the street. Urso was out of sight.
An awkward silence filled the shop.
“Ask her, Charlotte,” Rebecca said.
“Ask her what?”
“The question that’s on the tip of your tongue.”
Perhaps I was slow, but I felt a step behind in this game of twenty questions. I didn’t have a question on the tip of my tongue or anywhere else.
Rebecca faced Georgia. “Who else might have wanted Kaitlyn Clydesdale dead?”
Georgia counted a list on her gloved fingertips. “Her spy, her developer, and don’t forget her lover.”
“Are they three different men or all the same man?”
“Three.”
“Who is the lover?” I asked.
Georgia shrugged. “I don’t know. Kaitlyn could be very discreet.”
Visions of Chip in bed with Kaitlyn Clydesdale sprang to mind, except he was twenty years her junior. On the other hand, she had offered him a big role in her enterprise. Would he have offered himself up as a boy-toy for the chance to own his own restaurant?
“And then there’s Ipo Ho.” Georgia raised one lip in an Elvis sneer. “He’s very cute. Kaitlyn liked them cute.”
“He’s innocent!” Rebecca cried.
“Is he?” Without purchasing a thing, Georgia pivoted and strutted out of the shop, and I had to wonder whether the whole intent for her appearance at my store had been to upset my sweet assistant.
Breathing high in her chest, Rebecca scurried to the office and I followed. She braced her palms on the desk, shoulders heaving. Rags weaved figure eights around her ankles and mewed loudly. I nudged him away with my toe and petted Rebecca’s arm.
“No matter what,” I said, “the way Kaitlyn died will be considered involuntary manslaughter.” I hoped I sounded reassuring. “Remember, the coroner said it was the bump on her head from the coffee table that killed her. It could have been an accident, which would mean no malice aforethought.”
“The killer didn’t report it, didn’t stick around. That can’t be argued as no malice aforethought, and you know it.” Rebecca broke away from the counter and jabbed her index finger at me. “You think Ipo did it, don’t you?”
Truth be told, Ipo was as passive a man as I had ever met. I couldn’t see him hitting Kaitlyn. And if he had, wouldn’t Rebecca have witnessed the event? She didn’t go outside to smooch by herself. She wasn’t twelve, for heaven’s sake.
“You do,” she cried before I could answer. “You’re trying to console me by making me think Ipo will get a shorter prison sentence. Well, he shouldn’t get any prison sentence, do you hear me? He didn’t do it. I was with him. Every minute.” She thumped her chest. “Besides, I couldn’t love a man who committed this crime or any horrible act. Could you?”
Her words coldcocked me. Had Jordan ever committed a horrible act? Could I love him if he had?
“You’ve got to beg Octavia Tibble for details about the sale of the Burrell farm,” Rebecca said. “There’s a story there. I can feel it in my bones.”
CHAPTER
I was pretty sure what Rebecca felt in her bones was a drop in the temperature, now hovering at below freezing. The gentle snowstorm that had been predicted had passed north of us, but a nippy wind had taken its place. What I craved was a warm fire, a good book, and a cup of tea, but I would have to wait. The remainder of the day beckoned. Bundled in my camel coat, red scarf, and matching gloves, I braved the afternoon chill and headed to the Le Petit Fromagerie tent.
For three hours, while Tyanne and I decorated and moved stock, I couldn’t help thinking about Ipo. How could I bail the love of Rebecca’s life out of a jam? Ipo was innocent until proven guilty, right? Except Urso didn’t seem to be focused on anyone else as a suspect—at least, not to my untrained ears.
By the time Tyanne and I had finished our tasks, I decided the best course of action was to follow through on my promise to Rebecca. I would discuss the sale of the Burrell farm with Octavia Tibble and find out if something had gone awry with the contract.
* * *
Octavia wore two professional hats. She spent half of her time as the owner and sole operator of Tibble Realty and the other half as our town librarian. Bracing against the wind, I headed to our quaint library to track her down. The moment I entered the Victorian building, which was built the same year as the town and painted the color of ripe lemons, I felt an instant sense of peace and harmony.
I followed the sound of young laughter and found Octavia in the children’s section, decked out in a plumed feather turban, purple brocade robes, and brocade slippers, prancing in front of a dozen three- and four-year-olds. She was reading from a glittery book, and as she turned a page, the plumed
feather fell forward—intentionally, I was pretty sure. She blew it off her face, and the children roared again with laughter.
I smiled to myself. As a child, how many hours had I spent entertained by the clever librarian who read stories of adventure in far-off lands? Oh, to be that child again, at a time when cruelty and death were no part of my daily life.
When the reading ended and the children started to toddle out, I said to Octavia, “Purple looks good with your coloring.” She had the richest, creamiest café au lait skin I’d ever seen.
“Why, thank you.” She removed her turban and swooped her beaded black braids over her shoulder.
“I see you had the kids in stitches, yet again.”
She chuckled. “You know me. Always in for the fun of it.” She brandished The Fortune-Tellers by Lloyd Alexander. “This author is incredible, and the artwork is exquisite. It might be a little young for the twins, but you never know.” She had recently turned the twins on to reading the original Nancy Drew series. After setting The Fortune-Tellers on the checkout table, she said, “To what do I owe the privilege of your company?”
“It’s about the Clydesdale murder.”
Octavia fanned her chest. “Lord, isn’t it horrible? Wooden batons to the throat.”
“That’s not proven yet. It’s just a theory.”
“Ipo couldn’t find them, I hear.”
“It’s a rumor.” I sounded like one of Rebecca’s TV lawyers. Next thing I knew, I would be attending an online law school.
Octavia said, “You know, I was thinking—”
“Bye-bye, Mrs. Tibble.” A little girl with golden locks danced on tiptoe and wiggled her fingers. “Want to see me twirl before we leave?”
The man holding the girl’s hand spun her like a jewel-box ballerina. Around and around and around.
Octavia regarded him. “Is she your grandchild, Luigi?”
Luigi nodded. “She’s my youngest daughter’s child.”
If Octavia hadn’t said Luigi’s name, I almost wouldn’t have recognized him. Luigi Bozzuto, the restaurateur who owned La Bella Ristorante and was dating Delilah, was usually devilishly handsome, but he looked worse for wear, as if he had run a hundred miles without drinking a sip of water. Bags folded beneath his aging eyes. His skin sagged with fatigue.