Clobbered by Camembert

Her eyes glistened in the dark. She wasn’t going to cry, was she? I didn’t need a sobbing sidekick.

“Luigi loves you,” I said.

“I know that.” She paused. “Why did you feel the need to tell me?”

“Because your eyes were getting teary, and I thought—”

“I’m crying for Arlo, you nitwit. He’s such a sad, lonely soul.”

Who might very well be a killer.

* * *

A pair of posts carved with the surname MacMillan flanked the entrance to the MacMillan Chicken Farm. My tires crunched on the gravel driveway as I drove toward the run-down, ranch-style house. The car’s headlights highlighted toys and rusty bikes lying on the dormant grass.

I couldn’t see Kaitlyn Clydesdale setting foot on the property, but I wouldn’t rule out Arlo being her paramour. Lois said Kaitlyn had moved to Violet’s Victoriana Inn. What if she had met her lover there? Would a taste of Violet’s favorite double-cream cheese—Fromager d’Affinois—help me persuade her to reveal the truth? Maybe I would throw in a wedge of Caciotta al Tartufo—a semi-soft cow and sheep’s cheese with the delicate flavor of truffles— and a bottle of a lusty Merlot. Violet had her vices.

I pulled to a stop in front of Arlo’s house and put my hand on the door handle.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Delilah said, her voice barely a whisper. “What a dump. Why doesn’t Arlo keep it up? It’s not like he doesn’t have the money. I’ve seen him at the art gallery. He bids on pieces of art.”

“Perhaps he bids but never buys.” I often browsed shops to admire the beautiful wares, but I couldn’t afford to purchase everything I set eyes on.

“Maybe that would explain why he only buys a seltzer water at the diner. He’s flat-out cheap.”

“Don’t be quick to judge. He could be thrifty. He did have four children with his wife.”

“Where do they live?”

“Got me.” I hadn’t seen Arlo accompanied by anyone since I graduated high school. “Maybe he prefers to live lean, like his chickens.”

Delilah shot me a yeah, right look.

Taking a courageous breath, I exited the car, and despite the fact that the porch light was broken, headed to the front door. The muted cackle of chickens drifted from the weathered chicken house.

Delilah joined me, plumes of her warm breath clouding the chilly air. “What’s the plan? Bang on the door and beg him to confess?”

“Something like that.”

I pressed the doorbell, but like the porch light, it didn’t work. I knocked and waited.

“Not home,” Delilah said. “Let’s go check out Oscar’s story.”

I grabbed her elbow to detain her and knocked again.

No one answered.

“Hear that?” I said, craning an ear to listen. Eerie music emanated from somewhere deep in the house. I recognized the theme from the movie Psycho. Grandmere had used the piece as background music in one of her dramatic plays.

Delilah shivered. “I’m heading back to the car.”

“ ’Fraidy cat.”

“Sticks and stones.”

A frisson of fear snaked up my back. “Wait.” I held her in place. “What if Arlo knew something about the killer, and the killer found him first?” With a knife, in a shower, my vivid imagination added. “What if Arlo is lying injured inside?” So much for him being guilty in my mind. “I’m going in.”

“Charlotte Bessette, you are not the appointed savior of everyone in Providence, Ohio, no matter what people say,” Delilah said snarkily, then moaned. “Sorry, that was rude of me.”

I had heard people talk. Solve one murder, I was lucky. Solve two, I was a snoop. Only recently had the appointed savior nickname surfaced. I had overheard someone whispering the words in The Cheese Shop. I rarely bought into gossip. “Rebecca’s going to have my hide if I don’t come back with info.”

“Ooooh, she’s so scary.”

I glowered. “Truly, he might be hurt.”

“Fine. One peek, but then we’re out of here.” Delilah tried the front doorknob. It didn’t budge. She stole to the corner of the house and peered around it. “Got a flashlight?”

I scampered back to the car, fetched the flashlight from my glove compartment, and returned. I flared the light on the wood siding. “I see a window. I think it’s ajar, but it’s too high up.”

“There are knotholes. I’ll go first.”

As girls, Delilah, Meredith, and I had spent many hours climbing trees, most particularly the two-hundred- year-old oak on Meredith’s family property. Delilah had been the best climber.

While I trained the flashlight beam on the wall, Delilah ascended. She forced open the window; it squeaked its resistance. Delilah peeked inside. “Oh, lord, I think there’s a body on the floor. Toss me the flashlight.”

I did. Poorly. It hit the lip beneath the window and caromed to the ground; the top popped off and the batteries flew out.

“Never mind. I’m going in.” Delilah slithered through the opening.

Stuffing down any worry about what Urso would say if he found me breaking and entering yet again, I clambered up the side of the house, slithered over the windowsill, and dropped to the floor inside.

“Psst,” Delilah said.

I spun around. Shadows and the musty smell of chicken feathers and dust filled the room. “Where’s the body?”

“This way.”

I hurried behind Delilah to a puffy shape. I tapped it with my toe. It gave ever so slightly. I bent down, and the scent of wet hay met my nostrils. “You goon. It’s an old scarecrow.”

“My mistake. I’m going to find a light switch.”

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I made out a table in the center of the room. It was filled with a variety of shapes. And there was shelving everywhere. Racks and racks of shelving on every wall. The shelves looked packed, but with what?

Before I could find out, a guttural howl wracked the air.

The lights flipped on, and I saw Arlo leaping headlong at me. He was wearing chicken-decorated pajamas. In his hands he gripped a pair of karate-style nunchakus. The chain connecting them clacked with ferocity.

Delilah screamed and attacked him from behind.

“Whoa,” I yelled. “Arlo, stop.”

He kept coming. I tucked my head down to bear the brunt of his rush. He hit me full force. The top of my head made contact with his solar plexus. The air popped out of him. The nunchakus flew from his hands and clattered on the wooden floor. Groaning, Arlo bent forward and clutched his knees.

Delilah, who had been attacked once when she lived in New York and swore she would never let someone get the better of her again, slung an arm around Arlo’s neck. “Grab his hands,” she ordered.

“Let him go,” I said.

“Not until he calms down.”

Arlo took multiple short breaths. “I’m okay now. I won’t attack. I’m sorry. Uncle.”

“Delilah, let him go.”

She did.

“Arlo, why are you dressed in pajamas this early at night?” I said.

“I’ve been fighting a cold. I was in bed.”

“Watching Psycho?”

He bobbed his head. “I didn’t know it was you.”

“Who’d you think it was?”

“Someone’s after me. People have been following me. Watching, watching, watching.”

“Whoa. No more Hitchcock for you,” Delilah said.

“I’ve got the whole set.”