Clobbered by Camembert (21 page)

“I recently found out,” I said.

Sylvie rolled a bare shoulder back in triumph. “Oho! I”—supreme emphasis on the
I
—“discovered it yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?” I said, employing the same tone she had used on me.

“Because gossip is tastier if it takes longer to learn.”

Wish I’d thought up that line. Rats. “What about Barton Burrell?” I said.

Sylvie tapped her fan against her palm. “What about him?”

“He was having an affair with her, too.”

Sylvie sniffed. “Where did you learn that?”

“You mean you haven’t heard it?”

“No, and if I haven’t, it’s probably not true.”

The actresses at the theater said they had picked up the tidbit at the clothing store. Had they meant Prudence’s Le Chic Boutique? I said, “Sylvie, you do not own the market on gossip.”

“Oh, yes, I do, Charlotte, and when you figure that out, you’ll be oh so much smarter. Ta-ta.” Sylvie gathered the train of her skirt in a bundle and trotted out. Scarlett O’Hara couldn’t have made a more dramatically smug exit.

“Charlotte, we’re running out of Zamorano,” Rebecca said.

“I’ll handle it.” I fetched a new hunk of cheese from the ice chest and set it on the prep table behind the cheese counter. “Why don’t you take a break.”

As she wiped her hands on a towel, she said, “Well, well, lookie who’s still roaming about.”

“Who?”

“That creep.” She jerked her chin toward the northernmost tent window where Oscar Carson was pacing back and forth outside. “He came in earlier, asking when you would arrive, and I said I wasn’t sure, so he said he’d wait out there.” She grinned. “He must not have seen you slip in.”

Wondering what Oscar could possibly want to tell me, and spurred on by my grandfather’s insistence that I
adjust my thinking
, I said, “I’ll be right back.”

“What about my break?”

“In a minute.” Quickly I wove a path through the crowd; however, by the time I reached the spot outside the tent where Oscar had been pacing, he was gone. I spun in a circle and caught sight of him walking down an aisle with Georgia. She had her arm looped over his shoulders; her face was turned toward him; she was speaking into his ear. I was tempted to follow and listen in, but before I moved a step, Georgia swiveled her head, locked eyes with me, and smirked. A shiver of suspicion spiraled down my back. What was her story? Why the smug look?

I had no time to mull over the answer because at that same moment Barton Burrell, with his three sons in tow, was striding purposefully between the tents. They looked like a posse in search of a criminal. I tracked the direction Barton was headed and spied his wife, Emma, who fidgeted near the knight on a horse ice sculpture. Though she stood tall, her shoulders nearly even with the horse’s, Emma looked withdrawn and sullen. The heavy drape of her coal black coat didn’t help the image. She clung to a bottle of soda and her mouth was moving, as if she was talking to herself.

Barton arrived beside her, his face a solemn grimace, and seized the soda from her hand. He tossed it into a nearby trash can, then returned to Emma and pulled her into a fierce hug. Emma burst into tears. The boys clutched their parents in a ring of love.

My heart broke at the sight. Had Emma heard about Barton’s affair with Kaitlyn and gone off to contemplate her options, or had she gone off to grieve the child she had miscarried? Either way, the family appeared devastated.

CHAPTER

At five thirty, Rebecca left the tent to visit Ipo. Matthew and Meredith departed a few minutes after her. At six o’clock, Tyanne and I left the shop in the capable hands of Bozz and Philby.

Outside, the scents of hot pretzels and roasted nuts rose up to meet us. My stomach panged big time. Since my quickie slice of pizza at the theater, I hadn’t eaten more than a nibble of Zamorano cheese.

“We’ve got an hour to get a bite of dinner before the recital starts,” I said. “Are you hungry?”

“Sure am, sugar. Good ol’ comfort food would do.”

“Charlotte and Tyanne,” Delilah called. She and Freckles looked like happy-go-lucky children, skipping toward us, each carrying a wand of fluffy cotton candy. The glow of the tent’s lights danced on their faces. “We’ve decided we need a spur-of-the-moment night out.”

“There’s so much electricity in the air,” Freckles said.

Delilah bobbed her head in agreement.

“My sweet hubby is escorting our daughters around the faire, so I’m a free woman.” Freckles did a gleeful hop-skip. “Are you game?”

“What we are is starved,” I said. Even the sight of their cotton candy made my mouth water. “But we don’t have much time. We’ve got to attend the recital in an hour.”

Delilah grabbed our hands. “Let’s get a move on, then.”

“Have you spoken to Jacky?” I asked. “How’s baby Cecily?”

“They came into the diner,” Delilah said. “Cecily’s fine. Colicky but fine.”

“Is Jacky going to join us?”

“Her babysitter stood her up. She’s trying to find another.”

The noise at Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub was deafening. Beyond the long antique bar, a pair of electric violinists played a Clancy Brothers’ tune. Many in the large crowd—which, thanks to the Winter Wonderland event, was double the normal size for February—clapped in time. Others watched the variety of sporting events playing silently on televisions that hung over the bar.

Waitresses wearing jeans, plaid shirts, and red scarves at their necks, meandered through the throng. One patted Freckles’s shoulder and said, “I’ve held a table for you over there.”

Freckles herded us toward a wooden booth, which had been set with a reserved sign.

After removing our hats, gloves, and coats, we clambered into the oak banquette. Freckles and Tyanne settled opposite Delilah and me.

Freckles said, “By the way, I saw Matthew heading over to secure some seats for the recital. Meredith was on one side of him and Sylvie was on the other. He didn’t look pleased.”

Oh, no, I thought. Sylvie must have lain in wait for Matthew to leave the tent. What a plotter.

“That woman,” Tyanne said. “She opens her mouth and out comes nastiness.”

“No kidding,” Freckles said. “My, oh, my. A customer was in Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe yesterday. You know who I mean, that curly-haired woman who is now running Clydesdale Enterprises.”

“Georgia Plachette,” I said.

“She needed some lace to repair her black gloves,” Freckles went on. “Anyway, Sylvie was there, too, and she had the gall to walk right up to Georgia and tell her lace was passé. Can you believe it?”

I couldn’t, not after seeing Sylvie’s Punk-Southern look today.

Freckles giggled. “Hollywood should do a TV show with Sylvie as a personal taste expert. That would be a hoot. British trailer park chic.”

“There she is,” Delilah said.

“Who, Sylvie?” I turned.

“No.” Delilah tweaked my arm. “That Georgia woman, talking to Prudence.”

Tyanne snuffled. “Prudence looks like she’s had a nip too many, don’t you think?”

Prudence Hart, hard to miss in her mustard yellow suit and teetering on stiletto heels, was hugging Georgia. The whole scenario looked awkward. In my lifetime, I had never seen Prudence hug a soul. What was she doing? If I had to guess, I would bet Georgia had bestowed some Do-Gooder funds on Prudence’s pet project. Locked in Prudence’s uncomfortable embrace, Georgia looked ill at ease. Her nose and eyes were puffy, and her black sheath bunched around her thighs. Like an antsy riveter, she rat-a-tatted her clunky five-inch platforms on the hardwood floor. Prudence finally released her and Georgia regrouped.

At the table with Georgia was an elderly couple. Was this the twosome Sylvie had mentioned to the twins? Without needing to draw nearer, I could tell Georgia and the woman were related—her grandmother, perhaps. They had the same curly hair, the same prominent chin.

From the right, Oscar Carson approached Georgia’s table. In his hands he carried a tray filled with glasses and a pitcher of beer. While he set the beverages down, Prudence bid the group goodbye and sauntered to a table with her zipper-thin friend who ran the garden club. Georgia offered Oscar a sly smile, which again set off alarm bells in my head. What was their story? Oscar seemed to have won her approval. Had he won her heart, as well? Was that why she had smirked at me earlier? Had she viewed me as competition?
Puh-leese.

With his mouth moving, Oscar slid onto a chair beside the gray-haired man who I assumed was Georgia’s grandfather. The man laughed heartily at whatever Oscar said. His eyes crinkled like Georgia’s. All thoughts of the elderly couple being
after something
, as Sylvie had intimated, flew from my mind. They were there to support Georgia in her time of need. But was she in need, or was she looking to inherit a vast sum?

“Charlotte.” Delilah tugged on my sweater sleeve and handed me a menu. “Time to order.”

Our waitress tapped a pencil on her pad. Not to keep rhythm with the music. Time meant money to her.

“Oh, right, just a sec.” I scanned the menu.

The pub was known for its selection of more than one hundred and fifty beers. We all ordered flights of beers—three choices poured in miniature beer steins. I asked for the potato skins, but was informed that they had sold out. The goat cheese mushrooms had gone quickly, as well. So I opted for my third favorite item on the appetizer menu, bite-sized morsels of ciabatta with ricotta cheese and sardines. Tyanne echoed the choice. Delilah and Freckles decided to split the mac-and-cheese mini-tureen appetizer, and our waitress sashayed away.

“Hey.” Tyanne pointed. “Look who’s out of jail.”

Ipo and Rebecca strolled through the front door and paused near the hostess’s podium. Both wore heavy coats and matching blue scarves. Rebecca held her head high, as if daring anyone to indict her beloved. Ipo looked nervous. His gaze darted from patron to patron.

“I think Urso’s got a soft spot for our local honey maker,” Delilah said.

“Why do you say that?” Freckles asked.

“He let him go on bail.”

Either that or Urso had come up with evidence that exonerated Ipo. I felt the urgent need to talk to Urso. Where in the heck was he? Had he and Jordan tracked down the thief? Did he now suspect the thief of killing Kaitlyn?

Our waitress returned with our flights of beer and placed them in rows in front of us. Each set included a Pilsner, a Porter, and a micro-brewed beer. I tasted the Pilsner first. It was light, creamy, and refreshing.

“Say, what’s the scoop with Lois and Ainsley?” Delilah knuckled the table. “When he came into the diner a bit ago, I spotted a pile of luggage stacked in the rear of his truck. Is he moving?”

I confided that Ainsley had had an affair with Kaitlyn Clydesdale and Lois found out.

Delilah snorted. “Talk about the least likely person in Providence to have an affair. I mean, the Cube’s not exactly Rhett Butler in the looks department.”

“Looks aren’t the only reason someone strays,” Tyanne said with authority, not an ounce of self-pity on her face.

“Do you think Ainsley killed Kaitlyn to keep the affair quiet?” Freckles asked.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” I said.

“Aha!” Delilah shot a finger at me. “I knew you were involved. Spill the details. How did you find out about the affair? And don’t tell me Sylvie told you.”

I related my chat with Ainsley.

“He claims he was walking his dog?” Delilah scoffed. “That’s not a very reliable alibi.”

“Who else do you suspect?” Freckles leaned forward on her elbows, all ears.

I said, “Barton Burrell.”

“No way.” Freckles shook her head.

“No stinking way,” Tyanne said. “He’s the sweetest man.”

“He might have had an affair with Kaitlyn, too.” I added that he didn’t want to sell his property. “She might have lured him into an affair to blackmail him.”

Delilah said, “First Arlo, then Ainsley, and now Barton.”

Freckles’s jaw dropped open. “Kaitlyn was blackmailing Arlo?”

“He’s a klepto,” Delilah said.

“Hoo-boy, not good.” Tyanne whistled.

“That explains why he hangs around the shop all the time,” Freckles said. “Just last week I had to shoo him out. He never buys a thing, but now that you mention it, sleeves of buttons have gone missing.”

“And this, my friends, is how rumors get started,” I said.

“Except sometimes,” Delilah said, “rumors contain a nugget of truth.”

We went mum as our waitress returned with our appetizers. The six slices of ciabatta, topped with ricotta and sardines, were set in a pinwheel pattern on the silver-gray stoneware plate and set off by a fresh sprig of basil. I popped a morsel into my mouth. The ciabatta was crispy. The ricotta-and-sardines combination had a nice salty tang; the underlying flavor of olive oil was just right.

Freckles took a bite from her half of the mini-tureen of mac-and-cheese and hummed. “Mmm. Havarti, Parmesan, and Fontina cheeses. Delish!” She pushed the stoneware tureen to Delilah.

“One bite, that’s it?” Delilah said. “That’s all you’re going to eat?”

“I’m watching my figure.”

“And I’m not?” Delilah laughed. “Who am I kidding? I’m not when I’ve got this to eat.” She pulled the tureen closer and started to devour the contents. Between bites, she said, “Back to the Kaitlyn Clydesdale mystery. What’s with that Oscar guy?” She gestured with her thumb. “One day he’s stalking Georgia Plachette; the next he’s chummy with her.”

Oscar was still sitting with Georgia and her grandparents, but he wasn’t paying an iota of attention to them. He was scanning the room. Why had he gone off with Georgia at the tent when, according to Rebecca, he had wanted to talk to me?

“He seems pretty suspicious,” Freckles said. “He’s big and he’s got beady eyes. But then so does Arlo. He’s downright creepy.”

“And Barton Burrell is not,” Tyanne said, matter-of-factly.

“Speaking of which”—Delilah pushed the mini-tureen away from her—“I saw Georgia spying on Barton earlier.”

“I saw her, too.” I revealed Georgia’s semi-secret identity.

Freckles said, “She doesn’t look a thing like Kaitlyn Clydesdale. Does she stand to inherit everything?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “But she has an ironclad alibi. She was here at the pub until the wee hours of the morning, playing darts. Chip verified it.”

“That doesn’t mean she didn’t hire somebody to kill her mother,” Tyanne said.

I gawked at her, wondering if she was channeling Rebecca. “This is Providence.”

“Providence is in flux,” Delilah said.

“She’s right. We’re in flux,” Tyanne echoed.

“Flux?” Freckles huffed. “Is that what you call it? You know me, my business is all about attracting tourists, and I was in support of the addition of a college. But lately we’ve been getting more than studious types and tourists in search of a good deal. All sorts of riffraff are coming to town.” She clapped her hand over her mouth, then removed it and whispered, “Will you listen to me? I’m starting to sound like Prudence Hart. Did I actually say
riffraff
? Heavens.”

Delilah chortled.

I didn’t. I flashed on the thief that had assaulted me in the tent and the other thief who had stolen ice sculpting tools, which spurred me to consider what Jordan and I had discussed. Was there anything we could do to thwart what was happening to our gentle town? Were we being overrun by riffraff? Perhaps I should suggest that Grandmère put on the show
Brigadoon
next year. Maybe the musical would remind townsfolk that we lived in a magical place, and everyone who lived here had to do his or her part to preserve the town’s innocence.

Dream on, Charlotte. One theater show would not turn the tide. Change has to be organic.

“Lose the frown,” Freckles said. “Providence is fine. We’re still the safest town in America. Promise.”

Delilah elbowed me. “Take a gander at who just entered the pub. You have to admit he’s a handsome devil.”

Chip, dressed in his zippered suede jacket, striped buttoned-down shirt, and jeans, lingered by the front door, chatting with the hostess. A hint of a five-o’clock shadow outlined his jaw. His wavy hair looked windblown. The Marlboro Man couldn’t have looked any better.

“Feeling any of the old passion for him?” Delilah asked.

“No.”

“Don’t snap at me.”

Had I snapped? Yes, I probably had.

“He is awfully good looking,” Freckles said.

“He’s average,” I said, knowing I was lying.

Tyanne clucked. “Sugar, there is nothing average about him. If he were an actor, he’d win
People
Magazine’s: Most Beautiful Person award.”