Clobbered by Camembert (11 page)

“What is all this, Arlo?” I swept my hand at the array of goods.

“A mess.” Delilah left us to browse the room.

“Why are you inside my house?” Arlo folded his arms in front of his torso as if that might make him look brawnier. It didn’t.

“We thought you might be hurt.” I didn’t add that we thought he might have been dead or Kaitlyn’s lover or possibly a killer. There was no need to confuse him with the details.

Delilah held up three tubes of wrapping paper with wedding bells on it. “Arlo, why do you have these? And what about this?” She displayed a stuffed spotted giraffe, the freebie given only to tots from the children’s store in town.

“I can explain.”

“How about this?” Delilah nabbed a carton of seven-seed crackers. “Did you buy this?”

“No.”

Delilah turned to me. “Are you missing inventory from the shop, Charlotte? As far as I know, you’re the only one in town who sells these. There are hatbox-style cheese containers here, too. Not refrigerated. Ugh.” She glowered at Arlo. “Did you filch all this stuff? Are you a kleptomaniac?”

I looked at Arlo, searching for a nicer word. “Are you a collector?”

His arms fell to his sides. He lowered his chin. “When my wife died, I had this … need … to fill the void.”

“With things?” I said.

He kicked the nunchakus on the floor with disgust.

“Who are you afraid of, Arlo?”

“Huh?” He looked at me, rheumy eyed.

“You said you believed someone was following you. Who?” I thought of Oscar Carson. Delilah claimed he was stalking Georgia. What if Oscar was stalking Arlo on Kaitlyn’s orders? She was dead, but that didn’t mean Oscar didn’t have a job to do. “And why?”

“Blackmail,” he said.

“Kaitlyn Clydesdale was blackmailing you.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” he blurted, as if prompted to confess on his deathbed.

On the night of the murder, had he gone to confront Kaitlyn? Had the confrontation gotten out of hand?

“For how much money?” I asked.

“I don’t have any money. I’m broke. I’ve given everything I have to my four girls. But do they and their kids come to visit Grandpa? No, they hate me!” His face drew into a pitiful pucker.

Delilah nudged me. “We’re getting off track.”

“Arlo,” I said, wishing I could salve his obvious pain. “I’m sorry about your family, but I asked you a question about Kaitlyn. You said she was blackmailing you. For how much?” Peanuts might not be a good enough motive.

“She didn’t want money,” he snarled.

“What did she want?”

“My property.”

I couldn’t see Kaitlyn Clydesdale ever setting foot on the chicken farm. Had she wanted the property so she could expand the honeybee farm she was planning?

“Did you steal Ipo’s kala’au rods?” I asked.

Arlo looked perplexed. “Why would I do something like that? Ipo’s my friend.”

At least Arlo had a modicum of honor. Or did he? I eyed the nunchakus again. They looked about the same size as the luau instruments. Had Urso and the coroner gotten the weapon of destruction wrong? Arlo glanced where I was looking and back at me. His gaze narrowed.

“Arlo, you were in The Cheese Shop the other day,” I said. “You left hurriedly when Kaitlyn Clydesdale entered.”

“Did not.”

“Yes, you did. A few minutes later, someone called her. Was it you?”

“I don’t have her number.”

Delilah jabbed a finger at him. “She was blackmailing you.”

“We never spoke on the telephone.” He shifted feet.

“It’s easy enough to check,” Delilah went on. “Hand over your cell phone.”

“I don’t have to.”

Delilah took a menacing step toward him.

Arlo sputtered, “I lost it.”

“Oh, please.” Delilah threw him a cynical look.

“It’s true. I lost it yesterday while I was at the Village Green. It must have fallen out of my overcoat. It’s got a hole in the pocket.”

“Did you check lost and found?” I asked. Grandmère had set up a booth at the north end of the faire, closest to the Providence Precinct.

Sheepishly, he shook his head.

I said, “Arlo, your story is sounding fishy. I think you were worried that Kaitlyn was going to tell people that you are a kleptomaniac. Did you hurt her before she could?”

“I threatened her, but I didn’t kill her.” His eyes flickered with desperation. “I need help. Mental help. I know that. I’m a thief, but I’m not a killer. Please, you’ve got to believe me.” He caved in on himself. “Please,” he whimpered. “I did lose my phone.”

Pépère always said:
Never hit a man when he’s down
.

“Arlo, I believe you.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. A little white lie wouldn’t hurt anything, right?

The man looked as happy as if I had bailed him out of a raging river.

“But you have to do one thing for me,” I went on.

“Name it.”

“Come with me and tell Chief Urso everything.” The least I could do for Ipo Ho was give Urso the notion that there might be other suspects.

CHAPTER

After suggesting that Arlo change into something more appropriate than pajamas, Delilah and I escorted him to the Providence Precinct. Clad in black trousers, a sweater, and the peacoat that Delilah insisted he wear, he looked like a decent, upstanding citizen. We left him with the clerk and entered Urso’s office.

Quickly I gave him a recap: how we went to Arlo’s place for a chat; how we entered when we thought he might be injured; and what facts we had gleaned—Kaitlyn had blackmailed Arlo about his kleptomania and had barred Barton Burrell from backing out of the contract.

“Okay, stop right there.” Urso strode around his tidy desk and stalked me like a hungry bear ready to pounce on fresh meat. “Charlotte, you have a lot of nerve—”

“We had to do something,” I cut in, my voice weaker than I’d hoped. “Arlo was acting so sneaky. Lois said he was skulking around the B&B.”

“Lots of folks in town are sneaky. Are you going to break into their homes, too?”

“We came up with answers,” Delilah said, much more forcefully than I.

Urso cut her a harsh look. “Not a word from you, understood?”

Delilah wove her hands behind her back like a chastised student in the principal’s office.

Urso regarded me again. I wished I could melt into the carpet and disappear. He sighed. “Explain about the blackmail.”

I did. Because I wasn’t completely sold on the idea that Arlo was innocent of attacking Kaitlyn Clydesdale, I added, “You’ve got to make sure he doesn’t bolt until he’s signed a statement.”

“I do not need you telling me how to do my job,” Urso said.

“I know. It’s just—”

“Charlotte, what am I going to do with you?”

“Ipo is not guilty.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’m checking out all angles.”

“Did you know that Kaitlyn Clydesdale had a lover?” I blurted, remembering an item I had forgotten to include in my previous rundown.

Urso worked his tongue inside his cheek, a telltale sign that meant he hadn’t known. I squelched the urge to cheer. One-upmanship was not my style, but I didn’t want him to bully me out of following my instincts.

“You could have gotten hurt,” he conceded.

“Could have, but didn’t.” I nudged Delilah. “We’ll leave now.”

Urso raised a finger. “In the future, if you impede my investigation—”

“I won’t.” At least, I hoped I wouldn’t. As I reached the door, I pivoted. “Oh, by the way, Delilah thinks Oscar Carson might be stalking Georgia Plachette.”

* * *

I said good night to Delilah, but before heading off to Le Petit Fromagerie to double-check that everything was ready for our grand opening tomorrow, I returned to The Cheese Shop to bring Rebecca up to date. I told her about our raid on Arlo’s home, about Arlo’s propensity for, shall we say, filching things he didn’t need, and about our tête-à-tête with Urso.

Rebecca paced behind the cheese counter like a caged tigress. “It sounds to me like Arlo is guilty. Do you know why he isn’t behind bars?” She didn’t give me a beat to respond. “I’ll tell you why. Because the chief is biased against Ipo.”

I gaped. “Umberto Urso is the least biased person I know.”

“He’s going to lock Ipo up and throw away the key. You watch.”

“No, he’s not. I won’t let him.”

She halted and jutted a finger at me. “Cross your heart.”

I obeyed. Far be it from me to annoy a tigress. “Hope to die,” I added, although I prayed I didn’t need to go that far.

Rebecca wrapped her arms around her chest. “Oh, Charlotte, what am I going to do?”

“You’re going to close up shop and take one day at a time. Got me?” I pecked her on the cheek, then dashed off to the faire.

By eight P.M., though I was exhausted from multiple shifts and my side job of trespassing, I felt Le Petit Fromagerie was ready to open tomorrow evening, thanks to Tyanne’s expert help. What a smart hire she was turning out to be.

“Let’s call it a night,” I said.

Tyanne agreed. As she fetched her purse from beneath the antique buffet table, the door flew open and Amy bolted into the tent.

“Hi, Aunt Charlotte. Hey, Mrs. Taylor. How’s it going?”

“Fine, thanks.” Tyanne set her purse on the table and started rifling through it.

“Hello, Mrs. Taylor.” Clair traipsed in behind her sister. Her blonde hair crackled with electricity as she removed her turquoise knit cap. In her arms, she toted a book about training a dog. She had taken to Rocket. She was the one who played ball with him, tugged rope with him, and combed the shaggy hair from his eyes.

“What are you girls doing here?” I asked.

“We just finished rehearsal,” Amy said.

Matthew and Meredith entered the tent and waved a greeting. Matthew said, “Hey, cuz, did you hear? We’ve sold the most tickets ever for our Founder’s Day celebration. Tomorrow tourists will be flooding the area.”

“Daddy, I was talking,” Amy said.

“Sorry, princess.” Matthew steered Meredith toward the wine-tasting area on the buffet and straightened the stacks of tasting cups. “Please continue.”

Amy whisked off her striped scarf and swung it like a lasso in the air. “Aunt Charlotte, do you want to hear about what happened at rehearsal tonight?” Her cheeks shone pink from the brisk weather; her chocolate brown eyes glistened with enthusiasm. “It was great. Really great. Grandmère listened.”

“And guess who else?” Clair said in singsong fashion.

Amy glowered at her.

Clair tilted a head in Tyanne’s direction. I winked that I understood. Tyanne’s son Thomas must have made an appearance. When I had arrived at the faire earlier, I had seen Thomas and his sister watching their father ice sculpt a second knight on a horse.

“We sang lots of songs,” Amy went on. “Want to hear one?” She burst into a chorus of
Let It Snow.
On key.

“Tommy blew her a kiss,” Clair said.

Amy stopped singing. “His name is Thomas.”

I glanced at Tyanne, who was applying lipstick while trying to stifle a smile. A teensy chortle escaped her mouth. If I wasn’t careful, I would follow her down the path to outright laughter. I nudged her ankle with the toe of my shoe. She nudged me back.

“He was moony-eyed.” Clair tapped her chin with a fingertip. “Or maybe he was feeling queasy because you make him sick.”

Amy huffed and slogged away to inspect jars of jam on the decorated shelves. Clair trotted after while continuing her taunting.

At the same time, Sylvie pushed open the tent door. “Hello, my babies. Did you see Mumsie at the rehearsal?”

How could they have missed her? She was wearing a thickly quilted white outfit with shoulder pads so wide she could have been a hockey goalie … or the Pillsbury Doughboy.

The girls abandoned their tiff and sprinted to their mother. They threw their arms around her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matthew and Meredith wince. Both had admitted to me that sharing the girls with the ex-wife was hard, especially when the ex-wife didn’t deserve them. Since she had moved back to town, Sylvie had won the girls’ affection, and she wasn’t half-bad as a mother when she focused her full attention on them, but too many times she was
busy, busy, busy
—her words.

“What are you wearing, Sylvie?” I asked.

“Yes, do tell.” Tyanne’s pert nose curled up as if she had smelled something bad.

Sylvie missed the look. “Like it?” She freed herself of the twins and pirouetted.

“Not really,” Tyanne whispered for my ears only.

“It’s an original Gretchen Grunfeld.”

“Never heard of her,” I said.

“Tosh!” Sylvie said. “Everyone who is anyone has heard of Gretchen Grunfeld.”

I guessed I wasn’t anyone. And I was glad I wasn’t.

“Are you cold, Sylvie?” Meredith asked.

“Must be,” Tyanne said. “An Eskimo would sweat in that.” That dig, Sylvie could hear.

She planted a hand on her quilted hip. “I’ll have you know that this one-of-a-kind outfit is made of wicking material. It breathes.” She bent forward with great effort to display the designer’s tag at the neck.

As she did, I feared she might pop and fly around the room backward. I held my breath. She didn’t. Rats.

“Girls, do you want Mumsie to buy you matching outfits?” She tweaked their chins and grabbed hold of their hands. “Let’s see what I’ve got in my magical tent for my two beautiful daughters.”

Nothing, I imagined. Her wares were for adult women.

“Wait,” Matthew said. “We’re taking the girls for ice cream.”

“Too bad, love. I’m here now.” As Sylvie and the twins reached the door, she turned. “By the by, Charlotte, it smells sort of musty in here. I’d spruce it up if I were you. A spritz of patchouli incense might do the trick.”

In a cheese shop? Never. Not to mention that the faire was awash with other aromas. Cotton candy, cocoa, cookies, and pine trees. I did not want to add to the sensual overload.

“Incense is
trés chic
and oh so stylish.” Sylvie flicked her acid-white hair over her shoulder. “A quality you lack at times.”

My hands formed into fists.

As fast as a ninja, Tyanne pinned my arms to my sides. “Don’t let her rile y’all.”

Sylvie exited with the girls, and though she didn’t laugh out loud, I could tell she was pleased with her gotcha moment. Her padded shoulders were jiggling.

Matthew huffed. “Another nice night, ruined.”

“It’s not ruined, sugar,” Tyanne assured him. “You go get those girls back.”

“She’s right,” I said. “Go.”

Meredith rubbed Matthew’s neck. “Remember what you told me, honey? No more kowtowing to Sylvie. We set our plan, and we keep it. If the girls happen to hear a debate—”

“A fight,” Matthew corrected.

“Fine. A fight. Then so be it. We had plans. We stick to them.”

“Be strong,” Tyanne said. “Sylvie doesn’t set the rules.”

Meredith gave Matthew a shove. “Let’s go, mister. Be a Daddy hero.”

Matthew stood taller, which made me proud. He had suffered enough. It was time to grow back the spine that Sylvie had ripped out of him.

As they headed for the door, Meredith said over her shoulder, “After going to the Igloo, we’ll go home and see to the puppy. We fed him before we came to the faire. You’re getting Rags at The Cheese Shop, right?”

“When I wind up my business here,” I said. Taking care of two animals was infinitely more challenging than one.

They departed, and I said to Tyanne, “You certainly showed your mettle with Sylvie.”

“Blame it on therapy. I had my second session today. The doctor said:
Say what you feel; feel what you
say
.”

“It’s working.”

She offered a smile that quickly dissolved. “It’s all a cover. I’m a mess, sugar, no two ways about it. I am not adjusting well to being without Theo. And my kids are suffering something awful. Thomas is acting up. He flails at things. It’s like he can’t control himself.”

“Which is why you have to set rules.”

“I had to give him three time-outs yesterday. Three.” She fanned herself. “I don’t want him smacking his sister, you know? So far, he’s only hurt a lamp, but …” Her shoulders heaved. “Boys are so darned impulsive.”

I patted her back. “Take a break. In fact, take off the rest of the night. We’re done here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Find your kids and take them for ice cream. I hear the double-deluxe strawberry mascarpone is great.”

She bussed me on the cheek, fetched her purse, and sped out the door like a Thoroughbred.

As I closed up, I found myself humming
Pretty Horses
, a song my mother had sung to me.

Hush-a-bye don’t you cry. Go to sleep-y little baby.

When you wake you shall have

All the pretty little horses.

Dapples and grays, pintos and bays

All the pretty little horses.

First, I checked the plug on the refrigerator. Next, I made sure the zippers on the tent windows were secure and the knife case locked. Lastly, I dropped to my knees to switch off the temporary fluorescent light strips that were plugged in behind the antique buffet counter.

As I started to stand, I heard a creak followed by a rasp. I peeked over the edge of the counter. In the dim light cast by the strands of twinkling lights outside the tent, I made out the shadow of a person. Inside the tent. The intruder was dressed in a black peacoat and trousers and wearing a face mask. He—I assumed it was a he; he looked too broad-shouldered to be a she—scooped something from one of the coolers and dropped it into a knapsack. I swallowed hard. He was robbing the shop? Would he hurt me?

Fearful of drawing attention to myself—loss of cheese was better than loss of life—I ducked lower, but my knee hit one of the boxes beneath the counter. I peeked to see if the intruder had heard me. He had. He ran at the counter. I was trapped, with nowhere to escape. My only option was to scream.

“Security!” My plea sounded muted, like the kind of non-shriek I had when waking out of a nightmare. Great. Right when I needed a cheerleader-sized voice, I had turned into a pipsqueak. “Security,” I tried again, this time louder with more conviction.