“Why?”
“Your contract will be null and void with Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s death.”
“I hope not. I’m discussing the issue with Georgia Plachette, the CFO, in a half hour.”
Rebecca purposely cleared her throat. I knew what she was trying to do; she wanted me to view Chip as a suspect.
I glowered at her to back off and handed Chip his purchase and change. “Good luck.”
“Hope you mean that. If Georgia comes through, I’ll be sticking around.” He tipped an imaginary hat and strode out of the shop.
A minute later, Georgia traipsed in, head lowered, gaze fixed on the floor. Why did I get the feeling that she had seen Chip inside and had waited in the shadows, pretending to be invisible until he’d left? Her face was puffy; her nose redder than before. Had she been crying? Was she mourning the death of her boss? Her outfit of funereal black did nothing for her pale complexion, though she looked quite put together. Leather gloves matched her platform high-heeled shoes and purse. Her makeup looked fresh, and she had tamed her previously matted curls into attractive locks.
Rebecca nudged me with her elbow and whispered, “She might know who Kaitlyn’s enemies were. And remember how Sylvie said Kaitlyn wanted to take over Providence? What did that mean? Was she planning to buy more property? Ask Miss Plachette.”
“Excuse me.” Georgia sneezed and dabbed at her nose with a tissue. “I heard you’re having a cheese tasting. I need something to distract me. Am I too early?”
“A wee bit. It’s tomorrow,” I said, bemoaning my lack of foresight. What had I been thinking scheduling a tasting right before we opened our tent at Winter Wonderland?
“Oh, sorry.” Georgia turned to leave.
Rebecca prodded me again. “Ask her.”
“Before you go, Miss Plachette—” I cut my sentence short. How could I ask her about Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s enemies and her real estate intentions without sounding inappropriate?
Georgia swiveled around. “What?” she said curtly, then jammed her lips together. “Sorry. It’s just …” She fluttered her hand, the tissue waving like a white flag. “Poor Kaitlyn. She’d expected so much from this trip.”
What a perfect opening. I nearly cheered. I edged my way around the cheese counter to draw nearer to her. “Um, exactly what expectations did she have?”
“She wanted to expand her Do-Gooder programs, and she wanted to reconnect with old friends.”
Rats. Not the answers I’d hoped for.
“Why did she want to purchase the Burrell place?” I asked.
Rebecca clapped her hands silently.
Georgia cocked her head. “So she could build a honeybee farm.”
“Was she planning to buy more property?” I asked.
“I can’t say.”
Rebecca stepped toward her. “Can’t say or
Georgia winced. “Kaitlyn wanted to give back to the town she used to call home. She—”
The front door whisked open. Cool air flooded the shop. A tourist flipped off her fur-hooded parka and cried, “Oh, my!” She made a quick U-turn, as if she had forgotten something, and ran headlong into Urso.
Like a gentleman, Urso stepped out of her way and held the door open for her. She flew outside.
Urso spun around as the door swung shut, and a gloom in his eyes made me wary. He didn’t make a beeline for me, so perhaps my grilling Georgia Plachette wasn’t the cause of his turmoil, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I ended the conversation with a polite nod.
Rebecca, on the other hand, abandoned caution and bolted forward. “Ipo is not guilty.”
“Good morning to you, too, Miss Zook,” Urso said. Despite his snappy retort, his hangdog face didn’t brighten. Had he and Jacky broken up, as I had feared at the yoga studio? He slogged toward the counter.
“Barton Burrell.” Rebecca shadowed him. “What do we know about him?”
“How about a sandwich, Charlotte?” Urso said. “The Country Kitchen is full-up.”
More than happy to placate him, I returned to my position behind the cheese counter and grabbed a torpedo-shaped sandwich from the refrigerator. Urso’s favorite sandwich was Jarlsburg with maple-infused ham on sourdough. The savory flavor of the cheese blended perfectly with the salty sweetness of the meat. I set the sandwich on the cutting board and sliced it in half, at an angle.
“Barton Burrell,” Rebecca repeated, undaunted. “Charlotte said he was doing handyman stuff at Lavender and Lace around the time of the murder, but he could have left with plenty of time to kill Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”
Urso fixed her with a glare. “I questioned him. He has a solid alibi. His wife verified it.”
“His wife?” Rebecca swished her ponytail over her shoulder.
“They were home watching television.”
“Oh, please.” Rebecca addressed Urso like he was an underling.
As she continued to harangue him, citing weak alibis and how TiVo was changing the face of investigations, I recalled the moment when Kaitlyn had come into The Cheese Shop that first day. Her phone had rung. She’d talked to someone like a minion, too. She cut off the caller with a curt, “I’ll ruin you,” and then slapped on a phony smile. Had the caller been one of her employees? Oscar Carson, perhaps? Had her threat caused him to want her dead?
“You’re wrong, Chief.” Rebecca waggled a finger. “Barton Burrell could be guilty, alibi or not.”
Urso growled. I finished wrapping his sandwich, inserted it into a gold bag, and handed it to him, free of charge.
“Maybe Octavia Tibble knows more about the sale of his farm,” Rebecca went on. “Maybe Kaitlyn Clydesdale was trying to pull a fast one, and Mr. Burrell came to my place, and he lost control, and—”
Urso raised his free hand in surrender, thanked me for the sandwich, and strode from the shop … before I could tell him about the phone call Kaitlyn received.
I glowered at Rebecca. “Why do you incite him that way?”
“Because he’s stubborn!”
I explained my theory about the conversation between Kaitlyn and her anonymous caller. “I’ll bet whoever called wanted her dead.”
A woman gasped. I spun around, having forgotten Georgia was in the shop. She had moved to the Camembert display on the barrel in the center of the store.
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Do you know who Kaitlyn was talking to that day?”
Worming one hand into the other, Georgia moved toward the counter. Her lower lip trembled. Finally she said, “It could have been any of a number of people. Plenty wanted Kaitlyn dead. She could be quite exacting.”
“Did you want her to die?” Rebecca eyed Georgia with cold suspicion.
Georgia stopped wringing her hands and shot Rebecca a withering glare. “Of course not. She and I were”— she licked her upper lip—“the best of friends.”
“Where were you last night?” Rebecca had no shame.
Me? I felt like crawling under the tasting counter at Rebecca’s brashness.
“I was at Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub playing darts.” Georgia cocked a hip and tilted her head, a pose a teenager could perfect—a pose that looked weak for a woman in her late twenties. “Lots of people saw me. I told Chief Urso. He came by the inn and interrogated me last night. Question him if you don’t believe me.” She pointed to the street. Urso was out of sight.
An awkward silence filled the shop.
“Ask her, Charlotte,” Rebecca said.
“Ask her what?”
“The question that’s on the tip of your tongue.”
Perhaps I was slow, but I felt a step behind in this game of twenty questions. I didn’t have a question on the tip of my tongue or anywhere else.
Rebecca faced Georgia. “Who else might have wanted Kaitlyn Clydesdale dead?”
Georgia counted a list on her gloved fingertips. “Her spy, her developer, and don’t forget her lover.”
“Are they three different men or all the same man?”
