Clobbered by Camembert (22 page)

Chip split from the hostess and sauntered to Georgia’s table. He put his hand on the back of her chair and she looked up, her eyes glistening with interest. She introduced him to the older couple and offered him the extra chair. He didn’t sit. Oscar, who looked miffed at Chip’s arrival, deftly wiped the scowl off his face, then stood up and clapped Chip on the shoulder as if they were old friends. He said something. Chip buffed Oscar’s arm with his knuckles. Oscar bandied with a one-two jab, pulling his punches and reminding me of Bozz when he was shadowboxing. Chip countered playfully. Oscar attempted another jab at Chip’s face, but Chip raised both hands to protect his jaw. At the same time, as sly as the corporate spy he claimed to be, Oscar ducked and rifled through Chip’s pockets. He came up with Chip’s iPhone and danced backward in a celebratory way. Chip tried to snatch the cell phone back. In the process, he spotted me. Quickly he backed away from Oscar, made some excuse to Georgia, and strode toward me.

“Here he comes,” Delilah said.

“I’m not blind.”

“You’re snapping again.”

For good reason. Chip wasn’t carrying flowers, but he looked like a man on a mission. I steeled myself. I would tell him, once and for all, that he didn’t have a chance with me. With his dream of being a restaurateur squelched by Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s untimely demise, it was time for him to leave Providence. I nudged Delilah to scoot out of the booth. She did, and I followed. I was almost at a full stand when Chip arrived.

“Ladies,” Chip said.

Freckles tittered. I glowered at her.

“Can we talk, Charlotte?” He ran his thumb along my shoulder. “Alone?”

“Chip, I—” Why was my mouth stone-dry?

“It’ll only take a minute.”

“No,” I managed to say.
Superb, Charlotte. Clever. Forthright.
Not!

“Fine, I’ll tell you here.” He hooked a finger into the loop of his jeans. “I’m moving back to France.”

Relief, mixed with something else I couldn’t identify, swept over me.

“Georgia has power of attorney for Kaitlyn,” Chip went on. “She won’t honor the contract. She’s being a b—” He mashed his lips together. “A businesswoman. She’s not interested in having me around.”

Why didn’t I believe him? She had looked way more than interested.

“I—” Chip’s gaze darted to the left.

I followed his stare and saw Jordan marching past the hostess who was pointing in our direction. Jordan ground his teeth as he walked. Chip stepped toward him. The two faced off as if they were players on the ice, waiting for a referee to blow a whistle and drop the puck.

“What’s your problem?” Chip raised his chin.

“Are you bothering the lady?” Jordan demanded.

“I was telling her my plans for the future. What’s it to you?”

“You know what it is.”

I didn’t. My pulse started to race. Would Jordan spell it out? And not in Morse code. I was no good at deciphering code. Especially when hyperventilating. He had said that he adored me. Did he love me? Would he say it in front of everyone? Now that I knew the truth about him, I could shout
I love you
back. The anticipation made me tingly all over. But he didn’t utter a word.

While he glowered menacingly at Chip, I caught sight of Oscar waggling Chip’s cell phone. I thumped my chest and mimed:
Me?
He nodded. Did he have someone waiting at the other end of the line that he wanted me to talk to? Not now, for heaven’s sake.

I mouthed:
No.

Oscar shook the phone harder.

Chip glanced over his shoulder. Oscar, like a copycat, peeked over his own. At Georgia? She glimpsed up from the table. Her mouth drew into a thin line of disapproval.

Oscar glanced at me, his gaze full of fear, and a new thought occurred to me. The other night when I had tackled him, he had told me that he had been working for Kaitlyn. Was that a lie? Had he been working for Georgia all along? Was his declaration of love for her a ruse? Tyanne had suggested a murder-for-hire scenario. Had Georgia paid Oscar to kill her mother? But then why would he want to talk to me? And why now? He waggled Chip’s cell phone with more vigor. I was missing something, but what?

I peeked at Georgia, whose eyes burned with unbridled fury. Had Oscar borrowed Chip’s cell phone another time? Had he used the telephone’s camera to snap an incriminating picture of Georgia, perhaps, on the night of the murder? Or had Chip taken the photograph and Oscar had stumbled upon it?

Be real, Charlotte. Oscar’s trying to get a rise out of you or out of Georgia.

“Charlotte, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Jordan cut around Chip and brushed my cheek with the back of his hand.

At the same time, the music in the pub ceased. The quiet was unsettling.

I shivered. “Nothing.”

“Something has you spooked.”

I couldn’t tell him about Oscar. Not in front of Chip, who might run and blab to Georgia to get in her good graces.

“Nothing,” I repeated.

“You’re lying,” Chip said.

I whipped my gaze to my ex-fiancé. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me. When I say nothing has me spooked, nothing has me spooked.”

He threw his hands up, palms forward. “Alert, alert! I’m not the enemy.”

“Had me fooled,” Jordan said.

I shot him a sharp look. Chip chortled, as if he had won round one.

I lasered my gaze back at him. “I’m sorry things haven’t worked out for you here, Chip. Good luck in all your future endeavors.” A game-show host couldn’t have sounded more disingenuous. I thrust out my hand. Chip took hold and ran his thumb along the curve. I snatched my hand back. “Goodbye.”

Chip flinched but he didn’t make a peep. What could he say? Jordan, smart man, also kept mute.

As Chip skulked away, I scanned the room for Oscar, but he had disappeared. Before I could make excuses to Jordan so I could track down Oscar, the antique entry door that the pub had purchased from a defunct Irish castle crashed open.

Quigley, the shaggy-haired reporter, barged in. “Rebe-e-e-cca!”

Visions of a drunken Stanley Kowalski in
A Streetcar Named Desire
boogied through my mind. Quigley wasn’t buff like Stanley, and he was wearing a rumpled linen jacket, not a tattered undershirt, but he was wild-eyed and looked highly unpredictable. He headed toward Rebecca and Ipo, who had taken seats at a small round table.

Ipo tried to leap to a stand, but a foot tangled in his chair. He and the chair slammed to the floor.

I raced to intervene, with Jordan at my heels, but Rebecca was swift. She bolted from the table, cut around the fallen Ipo, and smacked Quigley hard across the face.

CHAPTER

“Ouch!” Quigley scanned the pub, checking to see if anyone saw the slap. Everyone had. Jaws hung open. Quigley glanced at Rebecca, hurt filling his gaze. “Why’d you do that?”

“You … you …” Rebecca hauled back a second time.

I grabbed her arm in midair. “Cool it, Babe Ruth.”

After a long, edgy moment, Rebecca whispered, “I’m good, Charlotte. Let me go.”

I did. Instantly she swung again, the little snip.

Jordan, in a quicker-than-lightning move, pinned her arms to the side. “Chill, Rebecca. He’s not worth a lawsuit.”

Rebecca squirmed, her feet tap-dancing in front of Jordan’s, but he didn’t release her.

“I’d never sue her.” Quigley sniffled. “I love her.”

The word
love
burbled through the crowd.

“Out of the way, folks.” Tim, the owner of the pub, his red hair and beard matching the burnt red plaid of his shirt, lumbered through the throng. In his hand, he carried a pitcher of ice water. If a fight got out of hand, Tim wouldn’t think twice. He would douse the participants. Water required fewer stitches than a baseball bat, he had once told me.

“Darling.” Quigley dropped to the floor on one knee, emitting a grunt as he landed. He wobbled for a second, then licked his lips and said, “Will you marry me?” Fumes of alcohol drifted our way.

“For heaven’s sake.” Rebecca wriggled free of Jordan. He let her, I was pretty sure. She folded her arms across her chest. “No.”

“Why?” Quigley teetered.

“Because she’s marrying me.” Ipo broke through the pack, face flushed, chest heaving with emotion.

“We’re engaged,” Rebecca announced, and for the first time I noticed a ring on her finger—a narrow band of gold etched with hearts. When had she received that? Why hadn’t she told me? Could that have been why Ipo had looked so nervous entering the pub earlier? I could only imagine his proposal at the precinct, kneeling behind bars.

Rebecca curled into Ipo. He slung his arm around her slender back.

Quigley scrambled to his feet and tugged on the hem of his linen jacket. “But he’s a murderer.”

“No, he’s not.” Rebecca resumed her combative stance. “Take it back.”

“But the luau thingies—”

“Someone took them, don’t you get it?” Rebecca poked Quigley’s chest. “He was robbed, and he’s being set up.” She whirled in a circle, pointing at everyone who had gathered around. “Ipo is innocent, do you hear me? If one of you knows something, you’ve got to speak up. Go to the police. It’s your civic duty. And now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re leaving.” She grabbed Ipo’s hand, and as regally as she could muster, forced people to clear a path as she marched her dearly beloved out of the pub.

As the door swung shut, Quigley grazed his hair with his hands. “I don’t get it. I thought she had the hots for me.”

I shook my head. Apparently Chip wasn’t the only man missing signals on this chilly evening.

Jordan bypassed me and patted Quigley on the back. “Hey, buddy, let’s get some coffee into you.”

As Jordan guided Quigley to the bar, Tim twirled a finger in the air. In an instant, Irish music resumed and members of the lookie-loo crowd returned to their tables or stools.

“Sugar.” Tyanne tapped my elbow. “Come on back to the table. Food’s getting cold.”

As much as I wanted to assist Jordan, I had to admit that he would have better luck getting Quigley sober by himself than with me tagging along.

I returned to the booth with my friends and polished off the rest of my ciabatta appetizer. “Has anybody heard back from Jacky?”

Delilah jiggled her cell phone. “She just called. She found a sitter, but she dumped us for a date with the big guy.”

I was tickled to learn Jacky and Urso might be working out whatever their issue was. I was also delighted that Urso was no longer scouring Providence for a thief. I hadn’t had the chance to ask Jordan if they had tracked him down, but I didn’t think either man would have given up until they had.

Licking my fingers clean, I glanced around the pub. Georgia and the elderly couple had departed, their meals virtually untouched. Oscar wasn’t anywhere to be seen, either. What had he been trying to show me? Had his signal to me incited Georgia to disappear? Was there something on Chip’s iPhone that would refute Georgia’s alibi? Maybe Chip had a picture of her slipping out of the pub on the night of Kaitlyn’s death. A time stamp on the photo could be mighty incriminating. So would a confirmation from an eyewitness. I decided now was as good a time as any to investigate, and rose to my feet.

“Back in a sec,” I told my friends. I traipsed to the bar and caught up with Tim ducking under the bar’s hatch door. “Hey, bartender.”

Tim rose to his full six-foot height. “Hello, darlin’.” Tim may have been born in America, but he loved to put on an Irish brogue. It was good for tourists, he said. He hitched his head. “Looks like Jordan has come to the rescue again.”

A few stools away, Jordan sat with Quigley, a steaming cup of coffee in front of each of them. The sight of him nursing Quigley back to sober-dom made me proud. He didn’t know Quigley at all, and yet there he was, being a friend.

“Jordan’s got a way about him, don’t you think?” Tim said.

I cut a look back at him and tilted my head. Had he and Jordan known each other before Jordan moved to town? They had bonded right off the bat. If Jordan had been a restaurateur, the two knowing each other previously wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

If? Stop it, Charlotte. You do not want to question Jordan’s story any more
.
Look at him.
He was dealing with Quigley like a restaurant owner would. My fluttery nerves settled down, and I concentrated again on Tim.

“Got a question,” I said.

Tim slung the white towel over his shoulder and spanked the bar. “Fire away, darlin’.”

“Georgia Plachette said she was here playing darts on the night of Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s death.”

“Indeed, she was. She’s an eagle eye, that one.”

“Did she ever leave?”

Tim cocked an eyebrow. “I told Chief Urso all of this. Why’re you asking?”

“Humor me.”

Tim laughed heartily. “You are one for the books, Miz Bessette, you are. A snoop, like my mother, if ever I knew one. I couldn’t slip anything past my mom.” He tweaked his beard with his thumb and forefinger. “Okay, let me see. Georgia stopped throwing darts to go to the restroom once or twice.”

“That’s it? She didn’t leave the pub?”

“Takes a world of tries to hit the bull’s-eye. She was going for a record. She hit it nine times. The gang was counting.” He gestured to the crowd and leaned forward on his forearms. “Poor lass couldn’t get the tenth. Some of the guys were giving her guff about that, to be sure. Your pal Chip and Luigi, as well as a few others. Luigi got into an argument with her.”

“That’s what Chip said.”

Tim shook a finger. “Not wise. The poor sot was critiquing her form. She had a bit of an arc to the throw.” He showed me the action. “Luigi said she was cheating. She sniped. He carped back. He’d had—” Tim rocked his fingers, indicating Luigi had downed a drink or two.

I flashed on Luigi at the library with his granddaughter the other day. He had looked worse for wear and had admitted that he had drunk shots the night before.

“He’s a bit of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol.” Tim chuckled. “Say, what’s this I hear about Barton Burrell being a suspect?”

“Who told you that?”

“That delicious Tyanne.” He gazed longingly over my shoulder. “While Rebecca was talking to Quigley.”

I swiveled and caught Tyanne making eyes at Tim from where she sat in the booth. She coyly looked away, and I had to laugh. Something about February always stirred up romance. Perhaps St. Valentine’s Day truly had a way of uniting hearts, and Tyanne’s, for all intents and purposes, was available.

A clatter resounded at the end of the bar. Quigley pushed his coffee aside. He lumbered off his stool and headed my way. “Hey, you!”

Jordan tried to stop him, but Quigley eluded him.

“I heard you, O’Shea!” Quigley growled.

I felt somewhat gratified he wasn’t prepared to attack me.

Tim glanced over his shoulder and thumbed his chest. “Me?”

“Yeah, I’m talking to you.” Quigley sneered. “Who else around here is named O’Shea?”

“I can think of a dozen,” Tim quipped, not flustered in the least. “I’ve got six brothers and they’ve all got wives and a ton of kids.”

“Don’t be a smart aleck. You don’t know the half of it.”

Half of what? I wondered, not sure I wanted to know.

“Barton Burrell is a saint. Don’t go spouting bad things about him, hear me?” Quigley moved closer and banged his palm on the bar. “Barton Burrell is one of the best. He takes that wife of his back and forth. Never thinks twice.”

“Back and forth where?” I asked.

“To the hospital. Week in, week out. I saw them the other night. You know”—he snapped his fingers but they didn’t quite click—“that night what’s-her-name died. She looked white as snow.”

“Kaitlyn Clydesdale?”

“No. Emma Burrell.” Quigley brandished a finger. “You know how people look when headlights of oncoming cars hit the—” He fluttered his fingers and drew them apart, at a loss for a word.

“Windshield,” I said. Back in college, I was a master at charades.

“Yeah. I was driving the other direction. The lights made her look so pale.” He tapped the side of his head. “A journalist notices things like this, see? Rebecca doesn’t appreciate me. She goes for that … that hula dancer. Sheesh. I can hula.” He jiggled his hips and nearly toppled over.

“Whoa, buddy.” Jordan wrapped an arm around Quigley. “Let’s get you home. The coffee isn’t working its magic quickly enough.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at me. “I’m afraid I’ll miss the recital.”

Recital? In the to-do, I had nearly forgotten. Yipes. I glanced at my watch. I was late, yet again. “Tyanne!”

I thanked Tim for his input and raced to the faire, my mind reeling with ideas. Why would Barton say Emma and he had been watching television the night Kaitlyn died? Why wouldn’t he tell the truth about taking his wife to the hospital? That would provide a perfect alibi.