Clobbered by Camembert

Chip stopped his victory dance. “Like he’ll listen to me.”

“Why won’t he?”

“He’s riding me, like old times. Didn’t you see him on the way out of here? He bumped into me on purpose.”

I could’ve sworn it was Chip who had done the bumping, but maybe I had imagined it. Urso had never liked Chip. They had been warriors on the field; warriors for the same girl—me. I had expected Urso to have moved past their history by now. What did he care whether Chip was back in town, unless Chip had made a move on Jacky? Perhaps that was why Urso and Jacky seemed at odds.

“What’s he giving you a hard time about?” I said.

Chip worked his tongue against his cheek. “He asked me where I was when Kaitlyn was killed.”

“He’s asking everybody.”

“I was with Luigi at the pub.” He slipped onto one of the ladder-back chairs at the tasting counter and batted the salamis, which were hanging on a goosenecked hook. The salamis swung to and fro. “Lots of people saw me. Georgia Plachette, for one. She was playing darts. She had a set-to with Luigi.”

I wadded up the wet towel, plopped it on the counter, and gazed hard at him. Why had he felt the need to tell me his alibi? Warning signals flared in my overextended brain. Was Chip having an affair with Georgia? Had corroborating her whereabouts been his real intention in telling me the story? Indict Ainsley and clear Georgia?

Stop it, Charlotte. Jealousy does not become you!

But I wasn’t jealous, was I? I wanted to solve this crime and clear Ipo. I had made Rebecca a promise. If Urso wasn’t looking in the right direction, I was there to guide him, right? On the other hand, Georgia’s alibi sounded solid. Dozens of people would have seen her at the pub.

I refocused on Chip, wishing he would disappear. From town. From my life. “What was your deal with Kaitlyn?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your contract. What were the stipulations?”

His jaw tensed. He blew an angry stream of air through his nose. “I see how it is.”

“How what is?”

“I had no motive to kill her, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I’m not—”

“Sure, you are.” He slipped off the chair and started to pace in front of the counter. “Look, I only prospered with her alive. If you don’t believe me—” He jammed a hand inside his jacket and pulled a folded set of papers from a pocket. He snapped the papers in the air. “Would you like to review my contract? Huh?”

“Stop that.”

“Sheesh, Charlotte.” He hurled the papers on top of the flowers and wine that were sitting beside the register, then made a U-turn and stomped toward the exit. At the door, he pivoted. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

As the door slammed, Rebecca swooped up the contract and scanned it. “He’s telling the truth. Like the Burrells, his contract is null and void now that Kaitlyn Clydesdale is dead.”

What law school did she attend? I thought snarkily, but bit back the comment because Chip’s contract wasn’t what was worrying me. Neither was his angry outburst. I had witnessed him blow before. He would calm down. But seeing him passionate enough to track me down—not only at my grandparents’ house but at The Cheese Shop, as well—made me think again of his objective. He had wanted me to focus my suspicions on Ainsley Smith. Ainsley hadn’t attended that hockey game, or if he had, he hadn’t stayed for the whole thing. So where had he gone?

A notion zipped into my mind. What if Ainsley had been Kaitlyn’s lover? He was married. What if Kaitlyn had wanted to proclaim her love to the world, as I had reasoned before? Ainsley could have become angry. He might have followed her to Rebecca’s. He could have lashed out as a warning to keep quiet. And the rest was history.

CHAPTER

While working through my theory, I resumed swabbing the cheese counter with a vengeance, though nothing needed swabbing, not in the entire shop. Every wedge of cheese was in its place. The barrels looked neat and appealing. We had a cleaning service come in every week to vacuum up any fleck of dust. The rime at the base of the plastic covering over the basement door had been whisked away.

Rebecca snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Yoo-hoo, Charlotte.” She set Chip’s contract by the register and swooped up the daisies. “I can see the wheels turning in your head.” She moved to the kitchen, plunked the flowers into an amber vase, and added water. “What are you thinking?”

“That Ainsley Smith might be hiding something.”

“I agree.” She returned with the vase. “Chief Urso has to question him.”

“Except Urso is looking for Jordan and a thief.”

“Then it’s up to us.” Rebecca set the flowers aside, snatched the towel out of my hands, and launched it into a laundry bin near the kitchen. “Let’s go.”

I held out a palm to stop her. “Uh-uh. Not you. Me. Alone.”

“But—”

“You have to go to Le Petit Fromagerie and relieve Tyanne.”

“Send Bozz.”

“He’s got the afternoon shift here at The Cheese Shop.”

She stamped her foot.

I smirked. “Oh, yeah, that works for the twins, too.” I toted the wine bottle and corkscrew that Matthew had left to the annex. Over my shoulder, I said, “Look, I know Lois and Ainsley. Neither will react well to us ganging up on them. Let me do this my way.”

“But Mr. Smith could be a murderer.”

“If he did kill Kaitlyn, it was an accident. In the heat of passion.”

“It’s not in the heat of passion if he willfully took a weapon with him.” Rebecca grabbed the vase of daisies, and we crossed paths as I returned to the shop. “People don’t walk around with pu’ili sticks tucked in their pockets. They just don’t.” She set the vase of daisies on the display shelf against the wall, shifting bottles of aged balsamic vinegar to make room for it, and looked for my approval. I hated to admit it, but the cheery flowers did give the shop an instant face-lift.

“When do you think Ainsley could have stolen the pu’ili sticks?” I removed my apron. “He didn’t play poker with Ipo and Barton and the others, did he?”

“Not to my knowledge, but maybe he did some handyman work for Ipo. I could ask.”

“No.”

“I can do it without Mr. Smith even knowing.” Rebecca lifted her chin proudly. “I’ve been studying interrogation techniques.”

“You’ve been what?”

“There’s this TV show that has a site on the Internet. I’ve learned all about interrogation and spy equipment.”

Oh, my, I thought, surprised by what she was learning on television and online.

“Please, Charlotte? Let me grill him.”

Grill him. Spare me. “No. You’re going to the tent. Now.”

Her lower lip puckered. “Whatever you do, be subtle. Don’t ask direct questions. Compliment him, if you need to. It’ll take him off his guard. He’ll trust you.”

“Go.”

“You flip out the fishing line and let the fish swallow the bait.” She mimed her instruction, reeling back as if she had caught a fifteen-foot marlin. “Then tug.”

I prodded her. “I’ve got this. Promise.”