Clobbered by Camembert (10 page)

CHAPTER

In one fell swoop, dusk settled around the town like a theater backdrop. The skies grew dark purple. Polaris, the brightest star in Ursa Major, twinkled with persistence, offering a glimmer of hope to the hopeless. As a girl, I loved to walk at night and wish upon stars and predict my future. Sometimes I talked to my parents and felt sure they were listening up in heaven. On this evening, I did both.

So why, when I reentered Fromagerie Bessette, did my blithe spirit wane? Because Chip and Jordan were both there. Chip stood at the tasting counter, chatting it up with Lois and her husband Ainsley, while Jordan lingered near the jars of honey, glowering at the trio. Jordan inclined his head, signaling he wanted a private chat, but as much as I needed to get a handle on his past, I knew I couldn’t dally. A flurry of customers filled the shop, as well.

Where were Rebecca, Tyanne, and Matthew? They couldn’t all be downstairs checking out the cellar.

I headed for the rack of aprons at the rear of the store. “Grab a number, folks.” I hadn’t wanted to resort to a number system in The Cheese Shop, but I had succumbed a few months ago. The crowds at the holidays had overwhelmed me.

Chip laughed heartily. “Good one, Ainsley!” He punched Ainsley on the arm and laughed again, louder than he needed to. Was he trying to show up Jordan? He was failing miserably. I had never enjoyed Chip’s bluster, and he knew it.

“Hey, babe!” Chip cut me off near the arch to the annex. “Looking beautiful, as always.” He pecked me on the cheek.

For a guy who had just lost his meal ticket, he seemed too primed and pumped. Concern prickled the back of my neck. Did he have something to do with Kaitlyn’s death?
No, no, no.
Chip was impulsive. He had a temper, but he would never lash out. He would smolder like a heap of ashes and attack with verbal undercuts—a snipe here, a snipe there. It had taken years to rebuild my confidence after he left. I could never explain why I missed him and sobbed myself to sleep, and I had tried explaining—to two different therapists.

I swiped his moist kiss off my skin, snagged an apron, and moved to my position behind the cheese counter. “Who’s got number”—I glanced at the wall behind me—“fifty-seven?”

“Me.” Chip waved a tag in the air.

“You bought cheese earlier,” I said, unable to curtail the miffed tone in my voice.

“And I shared it with the folks at the inn. Let’s see, give me a wedge of that Point Reyes Farmstead blue. That’s one of your favorites, isn’t it? I remember something about it being so good because of the combination of the milk from the Holstein cows and the coastal fog and”—he wagged a finger—“something else.”

“The salty Pacific breeze,” I said.

“That’s it.” As I prepared his order, he sauntered back to Lois and Ainsley. “Hey, babe, we were talking about the game last night.” He elbowed Ainsley. “Tell her.”

Ainsley, a brick of a man, equal in height to Chip and Jordan but squarer, raked his thinning red hair. “It was something, all right,” he said, his soft voice a stark contrast to Chip’s bravado. Ainsley had never been a loud man. He was thoughtful, Lois told me, preferring books to conversation. At times, I felt Lois hungered for more. Perhaps an evening out at the pub or a Sunday picnic at Kindred Creek.

Chip jabbed Ainsley again. “Tell her about Lukashenko. You said he had two goals.”

Ainsley nodded.

“Wham-bam.” Chip did a one-two punch. “Man, did I miss hockey when I was in France.”

I slipped his wedge of cheese into a gold bag and gestured for him to come to the cash register.

As Chip paid, he continued. “I mean, yeah, France has got teams, but not like the Bluejackets. Hey, babe, remember the roar inside the Nationwide Arena? It scared you so much the first time that you leaped into my lap.” He eyed me lustily. “Sure you don’t want to go with me to a game?”

I raised my right eyebrow.

“Right, you said you can’t because you’ve got to work at the faire.” Chip thumped his head like a goof. “I forgot.”

I heard someone groan and looked for the source. Jordan was retreating through the rear door of the shop. He gave me a two-finger salute as he disappeared, our signal for
catch you later
, and my pulse revved. If I ran, I could catch him by the iced-over co-op garden. And do what? Kiss him or grill him about the deceased cheese maker issue?

The door swung shut.

Move, run, talk to him,
my heart urged, but I couldn’t because Rebecca popped out from the kitchen doing something akin to a St. Vitus’s dance. Was she ill? Her skin color looked good.

“Psst.” She waved her hands wildly overhead.

“Fifty-eight,” I said.

Lois tittered. “That’s us, but I think your little assistant wants a word.” She slipped her hand around her husband’s elbow. “Ainsley, dear, let’s take a look at the tea biscuits. I need something to go with the stew I prepared for dinner, and I’m not up to baking tonight, don’t you know. And Charlotte, when you get the chance, we’ll want a quarter of a pound of the usual. It’s so yummy with Ipo’s honey.” She tsked. “Poor boy.”

As they moved away from the counter, Chip said, “Babe—”

“Not now!” I snapped.

Chip’s mouth opened slightly, as if he wanted to say something more to me, but then he closed his mouth. He wasn’t going to offer an apology for rehashing our past in front of my boyfriend. He never would.

“Psst,” Rebecca repeated.

Silently Chip trudged from the shop. He lingered on the sidewalk for a brief moment before moving on. I didn’t give him a second thought and gestured for Rebecca to join me at the counter.

While I cut a portion of Lois’s favorite Rouge et Noir Brie, Rebecca whispered, “What did Octavia say?”

“Is that why you were doing a jig?”

“I’m so nervous I can barely breathe.”

“Tend to the next customer.” The line had grown to six deep. “We’ll talk in a while.”

“Uh-uh. Now. Scoop first.” She folded her arms.

I kept mum and wrapped the Brie in our special paper and applied a label, but she didn’t budge. Finally giving in, I filled her in about the Burrells’ sad situation and the possibility that Barton might know where Ipo had stowed his kala’au rods.

“I can’t believe it.” A sound of glee burst from her mouth. “Barton Burrell might have killed Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”

“No, siree.” Lois stopped examining the boxes of tea biscuits on a display barrel and scooted toward the counter. “He did no such thing.”

I swear Lois has elephant ears. More than once, she had inserted herself into a private conversation I was having on my porch at home, which abutted the gardens of Lois’s bed-and-breakfast.

“Barton Burrell did not kill Kaitlyn Clydesdale.” Lois edged into her spot at the front of the line. “I won’t believe it for a second. Mr. Burrell was at the inn that night until just about this time.” She tapped her watch. “And, mind you, he was dog tired. He wouldn’t have had the energy to swat a fly. Not to mention, I have never known that man to argue.”

“Ipo doesn’t argue, either,” Rebecca cried.

Could a murderer go free based on public opinion? If judged by their peers, neither Barton nor Ipo would be declared guilty.

“If you ask me, that Arlo MacMillan has something to hide,” Lois said.

I offered Lois a slice of Pecorino Romano. Though she preferred soft-centered cheeses, I was always trying to introduce her to something new. The Pecorino Romano was a firm cheese made from ewe’s milk and tasted great shaved on top of pastas and such.

Lois downed the tidbit in one bite and licked her fingertips. “Mmm, nice. Buttery. I’ll take a quarter pound of that, too.”

I cut and wrapped the cheese and handed it to Rebecca.

“Go on about Arlo MacMillan,” Rebecca said as she bagged Lois’s purchases and moved to the register.

“That man.” Lois sneered. “Just the other day he was snooping around the inn, asking folks if they’d seen Kaitlyn Clydesdale. It was right after she transferred to Violet’s.”

“Don’t gossip, Lois.” Ainsley laid crackers and a jar of honey by the register and handed Rebecca a credit card.

“Gossip is what makes the world go ’round, dear.” Lois patted his arm. “As I was saying, there was Arlo, looking all creepy as he normally does.”

Rebecca handed Ainsley a credit slip to sign. He scrawled a quick signature and attempted to pull Lois away from the counter.

“Don’t manhandle me,” she said.

But he persisted and won.

As he steered her toward the exit, Lois called over her shoulder, “There was something between Arlo MacMillan and Kaitlyn Clydesdale. Mark my words.”

Something between them?
I flashed on Arlo racing from The Cheese Shop the moment Kaitlyn had shown up. He hadn’t acted scared, but after he bumped her shoulder, he ran out looking like he had tasted a dirty penny. Moments later, Kaitlyn’s cell phone chimed. Had Arlo called her? According to Georgia Plachette, Kaitlyn had dallied with a lover. Could the lover have been Arlo? No, I couldn’t see dramatic Kaitlyn with passive-aggressive Arlo. So what was the connection that Lois had sensed?

Rebecca untied her apron and whipped it off.

I gripped her wrist. The apron dangled between us. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“We’ve got to question Arlo MacMillan.”

“Uh-uh, no way. Look at the line.”

“Tyanne can watch the shop. Can’t you, Tyanne?” Rebecca looked past me at Tyanne, who was emerging from the office carrying Rags.

“Sorry, Tyanne,” I said, “but Rags stays in the office.”

“I forgot, sugar. He’s so darned sweet.” She looked like she had been crying. Should I be worried?

She deposited the cat in the office, then quickly returned, a smile planted on her pretty face, and said, “Fifty-nine.” A thickset man waved his number. “Mr. White,” Tyanne said. “So good to see you, sir. What’ll it be? How about a creamy Camembert?”

“Told you. She’s totally capable on her own.” Rebecca wrenched her wrist from my grasp. “And your grandfather will be here soon, too.”

“Says who?”

“You know he sneaks in every day for a nip of cheese before dinner.”

“I thought he’d stopped that habit.”

Rebecca held a finger to her lips. “Don’t rat him out to Grandmère. Promise?”

If my grandmother found out Pépère was nibbling foods not included on his diet, he would be toast—French toast, sizzled to a crisp.

“Charlotte.” Delilah whooshed into the shop, speeding past the line of customers with the fury of a tornado. Brisk air followed her inside. A shiver squiggled down my spine. She sashayed behind the counter and clutched my elbow. “That creepy guy is on the loose again.”

“Who do you mean?” I cut a look from Rebecca, who sniffed because I had allowed my attention to be diverted, and back to Delilah, who seemed miffed beyond compare.

“Oscar what’s-his-name,” Delilah said. “You know who I mean. He wears that stupid hat and trench coat all the time. He’s stalking the new gal in town. Starts with a G.”

“Georgia Plachette.”

“That’s it.”

I shook my head. For a former actress, Delilah sure couldn’t remember last names well. Not that she had to. At the diner she called people
hon
and
sweetie
and got away with it. Nicknames, according to her father, made people feel at home.

“The creep is obsessed with her, I think,” Delilah went on. “We should tell Urso. C’mon.” She guided me toward the exit.

“Uh-uh.” Rebecca scooted around the counter and blocked our path, hands on hips. “We’re checking out Arlo MacMillan.” She leveled me with a glare that sent shivers to my toes. How well my grandmother had trained her.

Delilah huffed.

Caught between two formidable goddesses, I said, “Arlo first.”

Rebecca clapped with smug glee and started for the exit.

CHAPTER

It was my turn to play defensive lineman. I darted to the front door of The Cheese Shop and blocked Rebecca, making full body contact. She bounced off me and staggered backward in the direction of one of The Cheese Shop barrels. I pursued her.

“What’s wrong?” She attempted a defiant pose.

“You’re not going. Not this time.”

“Why not?”

“Because you like your job.”

She frowned. “You’re kidding. You’d fire me?”

I wouldn’t. Not in a million years. But I also wanted to rein her in. I promised to report back as soon as possible. A teenager assigned to kitchen duty couldn’t have looked more miserable.

On our way out of town, Delilah and I drove past the Winter Wonderland faire where ice sculptors were fine-tuning their ice blocks and vendors were making last-minute finishes to their tents. The lights on the tents and pine trees twinkled with magical delight.

“What a night!” With her head all the way out the passenger window, Delilah reminded me of a dog, her curls flapping like floppy ears. “This is what fairy tales are made of.”

The sliver of sun that dared to make an appearance in the afternoon hadn’t dried up the moisture in the air.

“Close the window,” I said. “It’s freezing in here.”

“You think this is cold?” She chuckled. “Try getting around New York in a sleet storm.”

As we headed north, I whizzed past a variety of roadside stores, including garden shops that wouldn’t open their doors until April and a shed maker who also made playhouses. The twins had been begging for a pink and white mini-mansion. Matthew promised that when Meredith and he got married and moved into their own home, he would buy the girls the house. While growing up, I’d had something similar at my grandparents’ house, but it was now painted ten layers of white and held a lawn mower and garden tools. A memory of kissing Chip in the shed swept through my mind. I stepped harder on the gas pedal as our view became mile after mile of farms and rough-hewn fences, each laced with barbed wire to keep livestock penned in. The wood glistened with crystallized particles of ice.

“Thinking about Chip?” Delilah said, a teasing bite to her question.

I glowered at her. How had she guessed?

“What was he doing at the store?” she asked.

“How did you know he was there?”

“He was carrying one of your tote bags.”

I drummed the steering wheel.

“At some point you have to talk about him,” Delilah said. “There’s an elephant in the car. Is he stalking you like Oscar’s stalking Georgia?”

“No. And Oscar’s not stalking Georgia.”

“Oh, yes, he is.”

“He likes her.”

“That doesn’t give him the right to moon about. It doesn’t give Chip the right, either.”

I drummed the steering wheel harder.

“Georgia was at the diner,” Delilah said. “She sat at the counter, drinking a root beer and mumbling to herself. She looked pretty torn up. When I asked her what was wrong, she said she didn’t believe for a second that Oscar witnessed the giggling incident between Rebecca and Ipo. She said it would be just like him to make that up.”

That piqued my attention. Oscar had said that he wanted to get to know Georgia better, meaning he didn’t know her well, but her statement implied a deeper intimacy. What was the truth?

Delilah said, “Tell me, why are we in such a hurry to see Arlo?”

“He’s been acting pretty suspicious.” I related what Lois had told me.

“But Arlo’s always shifty, so why the giddyup now?”

“Someone made a call to Kaitlyn Clydesdale when she was at The Cheese Shop. She was not happy and threatened the caller. She said, ‘
You’ll do nothing of the kind. I’ll ruin you.
’”

“And you think she was talking to Arlo.”

“It’s as good a guess as any.” I turned on my bright headlights. With no streetlamps, the curves of the road were harder to navigate as dusk turned to dark. “She was buying the property next to his. Maybe she had designs on his place, too. Maybe that made him mad.”

“Angry enough to kill?” Delilah tapped the car door with her fingernails. “You know, Arlo’s great-grandfather was among the original settlers in Providence. He’s lived here his whole life. Preserving one’s heritage might be a strong motive for murder. On the other hand, how would Kaitlyn know that Arlo’s homeland mattered to him?”

“She lived here years ago,” I said.

Delilah thumped her thigh. “Whoa, didn’t know that.”

“She and Arlo were about the same age,” I added. “Do you think he might have been having a relationship with her?”

“Not Arlo.” Delilah frittered her hand. “No way. Have you taken a look at him lately? He’s pasty and has that perpetual sneer. And he’s always wearing that dreadful oversized overcoat. For all we know, he’s a flasher.” She laughed heartily. “My, oh, my, did we have a lot of flashers in New York. I don’t miss running around the lake in Central Park, I’m telling you. You know, Arlo’s an enigma,” she went on, changing the subject easily. “I remember him, years ago, bringing candy into the Country Kitchen and passing it around. He was sweet and not so”—she searched for a word—“odd.”

I swerved around a cattle truck and nearly came nose-to-nose with an Econoline van. Braking, I fell in behind the truck. Delilah gripped the handle over the passenger window.

“Slow down,” she said. “Arlo’s not going anywhere.”

I veered up the road that entered the property between the Burrells’ place and Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm.

“Something went screwy with Arlo once his wife died.” Delilah twisted in her seat to face me. “Do you think that’s what happens when someone doesn’t have a mate to help them through life?” Her voice caught.

I glanced over. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes glistened in the dark. She wasn’t going to cry, was she? I didn’t need a sobbing sidekick.

“Luigi loves you,” I said.

“I know that.” She paused. “Why did you feel the need to tell me?”

“Because your eyes were getting teary, and I thought—”

“I’m crying for Arlo, you nitwit. He’s such a sad, lonely soul.”

Who might very well be a killer.

* * *

A pair of posts carved with the surname MacMillan flanked the entrance to the MacMillan Chicken Farm. My tires crunched on the gravel driveway as I drove toward the run-down, ranch-style house. The car’s headlights highlighted toys and rusty bikes lying on the dormant grass.

I couldn’t see Kaitlyn Clydesdale setting foot on the property, but I wouldn’t rule out Arlo being her paramour. Lois said Kaitlyn had moved to Violet’s Victoriana Inn. What if she had met her lover there? Would a taste of Violet’s favorite double-cream cheese—Fromager d’Affinois—help me persuade her to reveal the truth? Maybe I would throw in a wedge of Caciotta al Tartufo—a semi-soft cow and sheep’s cheese with the delicate flavor of truffles—and a bottle of a lusty Merlot. Violet had her vices.

I pulled to a stop in front of Arlo’s house and put my hand on the door handle.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Delilah said, her voice barely a whisper. “What a dump. Why doesn’t Arlo keep it up? It’s not like he doesn’t have the money. I’ve seen him at the art gallery. He bids on pieces of art.”

“Perhaps he bids but never buys.” I often browsed shops to admire the beautiful wares, but I couldn’t afford to purchase everything I set eyes on.

“Maybe that would explain why he only buys a seltzer water at the diner. He’s flat-out cheap.”

“Don’t be quick to judge. He could be thrifty. He did have four children with his wife.”

“Where do they live?”

“Got me.” I hadn’t seen Arlo accompanied by anyone since I graduated high school. “Maybe he prefers to live lean, like his chickens.”

Delilah shot me a
yeah, right
look.

Taking a courageous breath, I exited the car, and despite the fact that the porch light was broken, headed to the front door. The muted cackle of chickens drifted from the weathered chicken house.

Delilah joined me, plumes of her warm breath clouding the chilly air. “What’s the plan? Bang on the door and beg him to confess?”

“Something like that.”

I pressed the doorbell, but like the porch light, it didn’t work. I knocked and waited.

“Not home,” Delilah said. “Let’s go check out Oscar’s story.”

I grabbed her elbow to detain her and knocked again.

No one answered.

“Hear that?” I said, craning an ear to listen. Eerie music emanated from somewhere deep in the house. I recognized the theme from the movie
Psycho
. Grandmère had used the piece as background music in one of her dramatic plays.

Delilah shivered. “I’m heading back to the car.”

“ ’Fraidy cat.”

“Sticks and stones.”

A frisson of fear snaked up my back. “Wait.” I held her in place. “What if Arlo knew something about the killer, and the killer found him first?”
With a knife, in a shower,
my vivid imagination added. “What if Arlo is lying injured inside?” So much for him being guilty in my mind. “I’m going in.”

“Charlotte Bessette, you are not the appointed savior of everyone in Providence, Ohio, no matter what people say,” Delilah said snarkily, then moaned. “Sorry, that was rude of me.”

I had heard people talk. Solve one murder, I was lucky. Solve two, I was a snoop. Only recently had the
appointed savior
nickname surfaced. I had overheard someone whispering the words in The Cheese Shop. I rarely bought into gossip. “Rebecca’s going to have my hide if I don’t come back with info.”

“Ooooh, she’s so scary.”

I glowered. “Truly, he might be hurt.”

“Fine. One peek, but then we’re out of here.” Delilah tried the front doorknob. It didn’t budge. She stole to the corner of the house and peered around it. “Got a flashlight?”

I scampered back to the car, fetched the flashlight from my glove compartment, and returned. I flared the light on the wood siding. “I see a window. I think it’s ajar, but it’s too high up.”

“There are knotholes. I’ll go first.”

As girls, Delilah, Meredith, and I had spent many hours climbing trees, most particularly the two-hundred-year-old oak on Meredith’s family property. Delilah had been the best climber.

While I trained the flashlight beam on the wall, Delilah ascended. She forced open the window; it squeaked its resistance. Delilah peeked inside. “Oh, lord, I think there’s a body on the floor. Toss me the flashlight.”

I did. Poorly. It hit the lip beneath the window and caromed to the ground; the top popped off and the batteries flew out.

“Never mind. I’m going in.” Delilah slithered through the opening.

Stuffing down any worry about what Urso would say if he found me breaking and entering yet again, I clambered up the side of the house, slithered over the windowsill, and dropped to the floor inside.

“Psst,” Delilah said.

I spun around. Shadows and the musty smell of chicken feathers and dust filled the room. “Where’s the body?”

“This way.”

I hurried behind Delilah to a puffy shape. I tapped it with my toe. It gave ever so slightly. I bent down, and the scent of wet hay met my nostrils. “You goon. It’s an old scarecrow.”

“My mistake. I’m going to find a light switch.”

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I made out a table in the center of the room. It was filled with a variety of shapes. And there was shelving everywhere. Racks and racks of shelving on every wall. The shelves looked packed, but with what?

Before I could find out, a guttural howl wracked the air.

The lights flipped on, and I saw Arlo leaping headlong at me. He was wearing chicken-decorated pajamas. In his hands he gripped a pair of karate-style nunchakus. The chain connecting them clacked with ferocity.

Delilah screamed and attacked him from behind.

“Whoa,” I yelled. “Arlo, stop.”

He kept coming. I tucked my head down to bear the brunt of his rush. He hit me full force. The top of my head made contact with his solar plexus. The air popped out of him. The nunchakus flew from his hands and clattered on the wooden floor. Groaning, Arlo bent forward and clutched his knees.

Delilah, who had been attacked once when she lived in New York and swore she would never let someone get the better of her again, slung an arm around Arlo’s neck. “Grab his hands,” she ordered.

“Let him go,” I said.

“Not until he calms down.”

Arlo took multiple short breaths. “I’m okay now. I won’t attack. I’m sorry. Uncle.”

“Delilah, let him go.”

She did.

“Arlo, why are you dressed in pajamas this early at night?” I said.

“I’ve been fighting a cold. I was in bed.”

“Watching
Psycho
?”

He bobbed his head. “I didn’t know it was you.”

“Who’d you think it was?”

“Someone’s after me. People have been following me. Watching, watching, watching.”

“Whoa. No more Hitchcock for you,” Delilah said.

“I’ve got the whole set.”

I’ll bet he did. And the whole set of a lot more things, if the contents of his living room were a telltale sign. Curios, trinkets, DVDs, and canned items filled the shelves. The floors swam with bikes and balls. It was a junk hoarder’s paradise. I also spotted peculiar looking things that I was pretty sure were medieval weaponry, and another idea hit me. Arlo liked to collect weapons. Had he stolen Ipo’s kala’au rods?