Clobbered by Camembert

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.