Clobbered by Camembert

“Not usually.”

Rebecca poked me. “Charlotte, you told me once that Barton loves his cattle farm more than life itself.” She had a mind like a steel trap. “If he were going to lose it …” She looked to Matthew for support.

Matthew tubed the sheaf of papers and slipped them under his arm. “Sure, Barton loves his farm. Why shouldn’t he? It belonged to three generations of Burrells. But I promise you, he would never hurt a fly. Back in school, he didn’t go out for any contact sports. Ride a horse? You bet. Rope a steer? He won contests. But kill somebody?” Matthew shook his head. “Barton did not do this.”

“Neither did Ipo,” Rebecca said.

“I didn’t say he did.” Matthew stepped into the kitchen and put his hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. “Hang in there. Justice will prevail.” He plucked the papers from under his arm and waved them at me. “When you’ve got time.”

As he left, Rebecca stamped her foot, clearly frustrated. “What about that Oscar Carson? He could have killed Miss Clydesdale.”

“He’s your alibi,” I said.

“But what if he’s actually establishing us as his alibi? What if Oscar didn’t hear us giggling? What if he made up overhearing us to give himself an alibi?”

I hadn’t considered that because I was so delighted that his testimony would help Rebecca and Ipo.

“You didn’t grill him that hard,” Rebecca went on. “What if Oscar broke into Ipo’s and stole those kala’au rods? I’ll bet he knew about them. He lives on the property. He could have gone in and out in a flash.” She darted out of the kitchen. “He was an actor, right?” she said, calling over her shoulder. “Is Oscar Carson his real name or is it a stage name?”

“Where are you going?”

“The office. I want to do a Google search.”

I started to chuckle but bit my lip. This was not a laughing matter. My eager assistant was serious. I hurried after her, taking a quick moment to peek around the shop. No customers.

The office was toasty. The fax machine, copier, and computer were all switched on, adding to the warmth.

“What if he has a criminal record?” Rebecca asked as she nudged Rags out of the office chair and plunked herself onto the seat. After opening a Google search page, she tap-danced her fingers across the computer keyboard.

“Hold on there, Nancy Drew.” I gripped her upper arm.

She wrenched free and continued typing. “He’s an actor. An actor could fake every bit of what he said.”

She had a point. Oscar admitted that he wanted to quit working for Clydesdale Enterprises. Maybe Kaitlyn wouldn’t let him out of his contract. Maybe he became so incensed that he slugged her. But where had he gotten one of Ipo’s kala’au rods? Ipo said they were stowed at his house. No, something didn’t jibe with the scenario I was fashioning. The killer had brought the weapon to the cottage. That indicated premeditated murder.

Rebecca’s search revealed hundreds of Oscar Carsons from which to choose. She inserted a plus sign and the word actor on the search line. The listings narrowed to three. Each Oscar had a different middle initial, which I assumed the actors’ union required to distinguish one actor from the other. There couldn’t be three George Clooneys, right? Rebecca clicked on the first entry. A picture of an ancient-looking man materialized. “Rats, not ours,” she muttered. She opened the second Oscar Carson record, the one with an I as its middle initial. The actor looked like a hoot of a character, with a big bulbous nose and thick black glasses and a sloppy grin. “Not this one either.”

Upon opening the third listing, a movie database site came into view.

“Gotcha.” Rebecca zoomed in. Oscar stared out from his headshot photograph with intense, soul-searching eyes. “Zowie, get a load of him. Who’d have guessed a hunk lived beneath all the baggy clothing and scruffy beard?” Accompanying photos showed Oscar escorting at least a dozen beautiful women to events. Each photo blazed with flashbulb glare. “Phooey. No criminal record for him that I can see.” Rebecca closed the window and swiveled to face me. “What about Creep Chef?”

“What about him?”

“Maybe he killed Kaitlyn.”

“Why?” I sputtered.

“I don’t know. What if he has a criminal record?” She started to type his name into the search field.

“Uh-uh. No way.” I pinned her wrists and hitched my head toward the door. “Back to work.”

She wriggled free. “C’mon, Charlotte.”

“No. We’re done in here. You are not going to bring up Chip’s history on the Internet, got me?” I had no desire to see how many beautiful women Chip had escorted in France—not that he had—but knowing how much Chip loved the limelight, his living a glamorous nightlife was not beyond possibility. “Besides, he had every reason to keep Kaitlyn alive. She was going to make his dreams come true.” As much as I wanted Chip out of my life, I couldn’t forget his delight when he had told me about the restaurant he would one day own.

Chimes at the front of the store jangled.

“Customers,” I said, relieved. “Let’s go.”

Rebecca harrumphed as she hurried ahead of me. She stopped short of the cheese counter and whispered, “Speak of the devil.”

I faltered. Was a day going to pass without seeing my ex-fiance? How could I encourage him to leave town ASAP? He swaggered into Fromagerie Bessette, grinning like a drunken cowboy who’d prevailed in a shoot-out. Okay, maybe I was embellishing, giving him attributes that didn’t fit. Could you blame me? I didn’t want to like him and didn’t want to feel the least attracted to him.

“Hey, Charlotte.” Chip sauntered toward the cheese counter. “Looking good. I like you in red.”

I fingered the collar of my sweater, which suddenly felt as tight as a tourniquet. Dang. I could only hope my cheeks hadn’t turned the same color as my sweater.

Rebecca leaned in. “He sure seems cheerful for someone whose benefactor just died.”

“I heard that.” Chip’s mouth turned down, his gaze grim. “I am sorry. It’s a shame, isn’t it? But accidents happen. It was an accident, right? That’s what Lois Smith told me.”

“Urso isn’t sure,” I said.

“He thinks one of Ipo’s luau sticks was deliberately used as a weapon,” Rebecca added.

“Wow, I didn’t realize that.” Chip fidgeted. “Look, I’m sorry she’s dead, and I’m sorry to hear about Ipo’s problems, and I don’t want to seem heartless, but”—he brandished a pair of tickets—“do you want to go to a Bluejackets hockey game with me, Charlotte? Lois’s husband, Ainsley, gave them to me.”

“Can’t.”

“How do you know? I didn’t tell you when they were for.”

“I just can’t.”

“Oho, I get it.” He pocketed the tickets and viewed the cheeses displayed in the case. “How about giving me a taste of that Wisconsin Colby?”

Whenever a customer requested a taste of a cheese, I complied. I didn’t want anyone to complain that he didn’t like it after buying a quarter- or half-pound. That would be bad for business.

I removed the Colby from the case and, using an OXO wire cheese slicer, shaved off a thin piece. I placed it on a square of cheese paper and offered it to Chip. As he reached for it, his fingers grazed mine. On purpose? I snatched my hand back.

He plopped the morsel into his mouth and groaned with delight. “Oh, yeah, cut me a good-sized wedge of that. I love American cheeses. I’ll take some of these, as well.” He plucked two boxes of seed crackers off the shelf by the annex and set them on the counter by the register, then pulled his wallet from his pocket. The sight jolted me. It was the same wallet he had carried in high school, with a peeling Winner sticker stuck to the cracked brown leather.

He saw where I was looking and winked. “Good memories, huh? Hey, I heard you’re dating some new guy. A farmer.”

“A cheese maker. His name’s Jordan.” Thinking of Jordan made me feel stronger, more assured, but I wasn’t about to discuss him with my ex. I completed Chip’s order and stowed it in a gold bag. “I guess you’ll be heading back to France.”