Clobbered by Camembert

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 Grandmere. Promise?”

If my grandmother found out Pepere 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.