Clobbered by Camembert (25 page)

Georgia coughed out a nasal laugh. “He made Chip a bet that he could win the heart of anyone Chip had in his little black book. Chip didn’t want to give him the phone, but Oscar”—she clopped the floor with her heel—“let’s just say he can be quite persistent.”

“Do you know he’s in love with you?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “He was going to talk to my mother that night to beg out of his contract so he could ask me on a date. She was dead before he could.”

“Do you think he killed her?”

“Oscar?” She shook her head. Her mane of curls bounced with abandon. “Not a chance.”

“Are you sure? He’s an actor. Did you know that?”

She gaped. Apparently she didn’t know.

“That would make him a good liar,” I said.

Georgia offered a dismissive wave of her hand. “He didn’t kill my mother. He’s much too passive.”

“When he was playing with Chip’s cell phone, he looked at you oddly. Like he was scared.”

Her mouth twisted up on one side. “He’d better be scared. I told him if he called one of those women, he was toast.”

Aha! So she did like him.

But that didn’t solve my quandary. Oscar had wanted out of his contract. What if he met with Kaitlyn? What if she laughed in his face? What if rage, fueled by his love for Georgia, made him lash out?

CHAPTER

I spent another few minutes with Georgia. Although she wouldn’t buy into my theory that Oscar might be guilty, as a favor to me and to our illustrious police force, she promised not to depart Providence until noon tomorrow. She assured me that as long as she was around, Oscar wouldn’t leave town. I had to give her credit for believing in the power of her female allure.

As I drove home, headlights glaring through the windshield, wipers whisking icy rain off the glass, a chill gripped my body. A short while later, in the warmth of my kitchen, with my Briard and Ragdoll for companionship—the rest of the household was quiet—I settled at the table with a soothing cup of Cinnamon Stick tea and dialed Urso to update him on my findings. The clerk at the precinct answered. She explained that Urso and both of his deputies were dealing with another round of emergencies. Urso and the new-hire deputy were roping off a flooding road; the other deputy was aiding a stranded driver whose engine had erupted.

Frustrated that Urso and I had yet to complete a conversation in the past few days, I trudged upstairs. Rocket and Rags followed. I didn’t tell them no. I needed company.

In the privacy of my room, I nestled on my bed and hit the first number on my speed dial. Jordan answered after one ring.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

Hearing his throaty voice sent a rapture of good vibes through me. I didn’t care that he hadn’t said what I had hoped he would say at the pub when he and Chip had faced off. I was simply happy that we had gotten over the hump of his secret past, and I loved him. That was all there was to it. He would say he loved me, in time.

I asked him about Quigley.

“He’ll sleep it off. How was the recital?”

I told him about Sylvie and Prudence’s spat. He laughed.

“I miss you, sweetheart,” he said. “We need a night. Or two. Or six.”

More yummy feelings swirled through me. I murmured, “Soon.” I didn’t tell him about Emma Burrell’s collapse or my meeting with Georgia. I didn’t want our conversation to end with a warning to be careful. I whispered, “Soon,” again and sent kisses through the receiver.

After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I cuddled beneath my duvet, read three delicious chapters of a new Domestic Diva Mystery, and finally, unable to keep my eyes open any longer, drifted to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, while coffee was brewing and a San Simon cheese frittata cooked on the stovetop, I trotted to the porch to fetch the newspaper. Bracing myself for the crisp morning air—more inclement weather was imminent, promising a sturdy wind and the possibility of a wintry mix—I swung open the door. Hundreds of icicles had formed after last night’s rain and hung from the eaves. I ducked beneath a huge one and headed down the steps but stopped short when I spotted luggage sitting on the veranda at Lavender and Lace. Seeing one of the suitcases whiplashed me back to memory lane, to the first day of freshman year at OSU. Chip had appeared in the doorway of my dorm room, brown leather satchel in his hand, camera at the ready, dimple etched in his cheek. He snapped a picture of me and whisked me into his arms. “I transferred because of you, babe,” he said. In record time, our relationship had zoomed to the next level. And now he was leaving. For good. I felt relieved and sad, all at the same time. I didn’t love him anymore. I never would. Years ago, I had torn up the mental picture of us as a lifelong couple. Matthew was right. I had been engaged to Peter Pan—the boy who wouldn’t grow up.

I considered going over and offering Chip a formal goodbye, but I halted when a silhouette in the shadows on the side of the inn caught my attention. Lois’s husband, Ainsley, moved from window to window, popping up then hunkering down, reminding me of a meerkat needing an all-clear signal from the pack. The hackles on the back of my neck rose. When Lois had booted Ainsley out, he had tried to pilfer his prized hockey stick from the wall in the great room, though he had claimed he was merely adjusting its alignment. Did he hope to steal it now?

Lois burst from the tornado shelter. Dressed in a lavender snowsuit and wielding a broom, she charged her husband. “You!” Her emergence from below made me recall a reference about the Furies in
The Iliad
by Homer. The Furies were: “Those who beneath the earth punish whosoever has sworn a false oath.”

Was I wrong to suspect Oscar of killing Kaitlyn Clydesdale? Was Ainsley, Kaitlyn’s former lover, the real culprit? Had he lied to me about his whereabouts on the night she died? He only had a dog as his witness.

Lois yelled, “I told you to leave, don’t you know.”

“Lois, darling.”

“Go! Get! I do not want to set eyes on you again, you lying, detestable womanizer.” She flailed the broom.

Ainsley, fleet for someone so wide, hightailed it down the street. Occasionally he slipped on icy patches but quickly righted himself. Had he been equally speedy and agile stealing into Ipo’s place and taking his pu’ili sticks? Had he been the broad-shouldered thief running from my tent after filching a carton of cheese?

I paused and thought again of Oscar waggling Chip’s iPhone. What if he hadn’t been signaling me about a list of Chip’s conquests? I returned to my previous notion. What if Chip had a photograph on his cell phone? Chip was always taking pictures. Without knowing the significance, he might have snapped a picture of Ainsley hiding the pu’ili sticks on the night of the murder.

No, he couldn’t have. Chip had been at the pub with Luigi. But something—some piece of evidence—was on his cell phone. As Rebecca would say, I felt it in my bones.

I glanced toward the kitchen. The frittata was cooking on low; it wouldn’t burn, and I needed to view Chip’s phone. Now.

I scooted down the steps of my home, the nippy wind cutting through my silk honey-colored sweater and cotton trousers, and raced along the slippery sidewalk. My loafers skidded as I darted up the path to the inn. “Lois, is Chip here?”

She huffed. “Did you see that no-good husband of mine lurking around here? The gall.” Her eyes grew watery. “I gave him my best years. The best, don’t you know. You’d do right to stay single. All men are worthless.” She turned on her heel and barged into the bed-and-breakfast, my question unanswered.

“Where’s Chip?” I repeated, shivering, wishing I had grabbed a jacket before racing out of the house.

“He’s gone out for one last sightseeing tour,” she said through the screened door. “He said he’d be back in a while.”

“Tell him I need to speak with him.”

Church bells gonged, jarring me to act. I had to track down Oscar and get the scoop. Before I could, I had to finish serving up breakfast. I retrieved the morning newspaper, sprinted back to my kitchen, and popped the frittata under the broiler. Three minutes later, as I was dishing the frittata onto plates, Matthew entered, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Mmm. Smells good. Let me guess.” He placed his hands on the counter and peeked beneath the cabinets. “You used San Simon, a cow’s cheese from Spain. Melts nicely and pairs well with sausage and spices.”

“Cheater. You read the cheese label.”

“Did not.”

“You’ve trapped it beneath your hands.”

He chortled and revealed his ruse.

I scooted around the counter with the plates.

“Why are you rushing?” he asked.

“Got someplace to be.”

“Where?”

“Someplace.” I set the plates on the table, yelled, “Girls, breakfast,” and then hurried to the foyer. Rocket and Rags jogged after me, their claws clicking as they scurried around corners.

Matthew trailed the pack. “Where’s the fire?”

“No fire. Just an errand.”

“An errand. Uh-huh, and I’m competing on
Dancing with the Stars
.” At the age of twelve, Matthew had taken ballroom dancing lessons, and on occasion, I caught him doing the cha-cha with one of the twins in the kitchen, but he wasn’t what I would call dance savvy. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “Who are you investigating now?”

I couldn’t lie to Matthew. I simply couldn’t. “I think Oscar Carson might know who killed Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”

Matthew bayed like a hound. “Snoop Doggy Dogg.”

Rocket echoed him. Rags yowled.

“Hush, you guys,” I said.

Matthew frowned. “Have you let Urso in on your theories?”

“I’ve left messages.” Myriad messages.

“And … ?”

“It’s Sunday.” I shrugged into my camel coat, looped a multicolored scarf around my neck, slung my purse over my shoulder, and donned a pair of brown gloves. “Not everyone is up at the crack of sunrise like us.”

“I’m tagging along.”

“No, you and the girls are going with Meredith to church.”

“It’s not safe for you—”

“Oscar is not the killer.”

“How can you be sure?” Matthew gripped my shoulders, his gaze filled with concern. “And don’t tell me gut instinct.”

A knock rattled the door. Expecting Chip, I opened quickly.

Rebecca faced me wearing no jacket, no hat, and no gloves. She was shivering. Her lips were nearly blue.

Fear spiked inside me. “What’s wrong?”

“He … we …” She rushed inside. “I stayed the night at Ipo’s.”

“Oka-a-a-ay.” I closed the door.

“He didn’t …
We
didn’t”—she stammered—“we wanted to, but we didn’t.” She tapped her legs nervously with her fingertips.

“Matthew, get Rebecca a cup of coffee, please.” I forced her to don a nubby sweater I kept hanging on a hook by the door, then smashed a matching knit hat on her head—anything for warmth.

“We smooched again.” Rebecca blushed. “We smooched a lot, and then he … I . . .”

I gestured the letter T. We were approaching the moment of
too much information
.

“What?” she said. “All I was going to say was I fell asleep. On the couch. By myself.”

“Here we go.” Matthew returned with a cat-shaped mug. Steam rose from the mouth of the cup. He handed it to Rebecca.

As she took a sip of warm liquid, she ogled me from head to toe. “Are you going someplace?”

“You bet she is,” Matthew said with a smirk. “She’s off to pry again.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Rebecca’s angst vanished in a poof. “Not without me.” She set the coffee mug on the antique foyer table, grabbed my winter white parka for extra warmth, and whisked open the door. “Where are we going?”

“Back to Ipo’s,” Matthew said.

“Why?” Rebecca cried.

I kissed my cousin’s cheek. “Thanks a bunch.”

“Anytime.” He grinned. “Anytime.”

* * *

On the way to Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm, I explained to Rebecca that we weren’t going to visit Ipo but rather to visit Oscar. Atypically, Rebecca kept mute, probably wondering whether going anywhere near Ipo’s was her best move, but far be it from her to beg out of an investigation.

The wind, which had doubled in intensity since I left the house, kicked around fallen branches on the road north out of town. Horses in fields huddled together.

As I turned onto the road leading to Ipo’s farm, Rebecca yelled, “Watch out!”

A hailstorm of eddying dirt and dust looked ready to attack. I swerved left. “Thanks.”

“That’s why I’m here.” She tittered, definitely tense.

Rows of dormant fruit trees defined the perimeter of Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm. Small, weathered wooden pallet hives were stacked in rows in front of the trees. A state-of-the-art honeybee feeding facility stood to the left of Ipo’s ranch-style house.

“What if Ipo sees me?” Rebecca said as we drove along the gravel road. “He’ll think I’m throwing myself at him.”

I cut her a look of admonishment. “Ipo has way too much respect for you to think that.”

“Will he hate me? I ran out.”

“You were overwhelmed.”

She clapped her hands, the gloves muting the sound but not her enthusiasm. “Ooh, I like that. Overwhelmed. That’s so much better than chicken.”

“You are not a chicken if you’re not ready.”

She chewed on her lower lip. “I think I need to be married to be ready. Is that totally geeky?”

I shook my head. “It’s refreshing.”

Oscar’s bungalow was located behind the ranch-style house. Rime coated the windows and eaves. A Dodge pickup was stationed in front, nose facing the porch.

I parked my white Escort beside the pickup and twisted in my seat. “Now, let’s focus. I’m going inside to talk to Oscar. I want you to stay in the car and call Urso.”

“Roger.”

I offered my cell phone, but she fetched hers from her purse and shook it.

Adrenaline warming me like no sweater or coat could, I scrambled out of the car and dashed up the rickety stairs to the front door. Leaves kicked up around my ankles. As I was about to knock, I heard a squeak. I turned toward the noise. Rebecca was creeping out of the Escort. She mouthed an apology for the squeaky door and then stole around the side of the bungalow. What in the heck was she up to?

Dang.
So much for expecting her to follow orders. When would I learn?

I rapped on the door and it inched open. No lights were on. I didn’t detect the aroma of breakfast either. Remaining on the porch, I yelled, “Oscar? Are you there?”