Clobbered by Camembert

Delilah grabbed our hands. “Let’s get a move on, then.”

“Have you spoken to Jacky?” I asked. “How’s baby Cecily?”

“They came into the diner,” Delilah said. “Cecily’s fine. Colicky but fine.”

“Is Jacky going to join us?”

“Her babysitter stood her up. She’s trying to find another.”

The noise at Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub was deafening. Beyond the long antique bar, a pair of electric violinists played a Clancy Brothers’ tune. Many in the large crowd—which, thanks to the Winter Wonderland event, was double the normal size for February—clapped in time. Others watched the variety of sporting events playing silently on televisions that hung over the bar.

Waitresses wearing jeans, plaid shirts, and red scarves at their necks, meandered through the throng. One patted Freckles’s shoulder and said, “I’ve held a table for you over there.”

Freckles herded us toward a wooden booth, which had been set with a reserved sign.

After removing our hats, gloves, and coats, we clambered into the oak banquette. Freckles and Tyanne settled opposite Delilah and me.

Freckles said, “By the way, I saw Matthew heading over to secure some seats for the recital. Meredith was on one side of him and Sylvie was on the other. He didn’t look pleased.”

Oh, no, I thought. Sylvie must have lain in wait for Matthew to leave the tent. What a plotter.

“That woman,” Tyanne said. “She opens her mouth and out comes nastiness.”

“No kidding,” Freckles said. “My, oh, my. A customer was in Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe yesterday. You know who I mean, that curly-haired woman who is now running Clydesdale Enterprises.”

“Georgia Plachette,” I said.

“She needed some lace to repair her black gloves,” Freckles went on. “Anyway, Sylvie was there, too, and she had the gall to walk right up to Georgia and tell her lace was passe. Can you believe it?”

I couldn’t, not after seeing Sylvie’s Punk-Southern look today.

Freckles giggled. “Hollywood should do a TV show with Sylvie as a personal taste expert. That would be a hoot. British trailer park chic.”

“There she is,” Delilah said.

“Who, Sylvie?” I turned.

“No.” Delilah tweaked my arm. “That Georgia woman, talking to Prudence.”

Tyanne snuffled. “Prudence looks like she’s had a nip too many, don’t you think?”

Prudence Hart, hard to miss in her mustard yellow suit and teetering on stiletto heels, was hugging Georgia. The whole scenario looked awkward. In my lifetime, I had never seen Prudence hug a soul. What was she doing? If I had to guess, I would bet Georgia had bestowed some Do-Gooder funds on Prudence’s pet project. Locked in Prudence’s uncomfortable embrace, Georgia looked ill at ease. Her nose and eyes were puffy, and her black sheath bunched around her thighs. Like an antsy riveter, she rat-a-tatted her clunky five-inch platforms on the hardwood floor. Prudence finally released her and Georgia regrouped.

At the table with Georgia was an elderly couple. Was this the twosome Sylvie had mentioned to the twins? Without needing to draw nearer, I could tell Georgia and the woman were related—her grandmother, perhaps. They had the same curly hair, the same prominent chin.

From the right, Oscar Carson approached Georgia’s table. In his hands he carried a tray filled with glasses and a pitcher of beer. While he set the beverages down, Prudence bid the group goodbye and sauntered to a table with her zipper-thin friend who ran the garden club. Georgia offered Oscar a sly smile, which again set off alarm bells in my head. What was their story? Oscar seemed to have won her approval. Had he won her heart, as well? Was that why she had smirked at me earlier? Had she viewed me as competition? Puh- leese.

With his mouth moving, Oscar slid onto a chair beside the gray-haired man who I assumed was Georgia’s grandfather. The man laughed heartily at whatever Oscar said. His eyes crinkled like Georgia’s. All thoughts of the elderly couple being after something, as Sylvie had intimated, flew from my mind. They were there to support Georgia in her time of need. But was she in need, or was she looking to inherit a vast sum?

“Charlotte.” Delilah tugged on my sweater sleeve and handed me a menu. “Time to order.”

Our waitress tapped a pencil on her pad. Not to keep rhythm with the music. Time meant money to her.

“Oh, right, just a sec.” I scanned the menu.

The pub was known for its selection of more than one hundred and fifty beers. We all ordered flights of beers—three choices poured in miniature beer steins. I asked for the potato skins, but was informed that they had sold out. The goat cheese mushrooms had gone quickly, as well. So I opted for my third favorite item on the appetizer menu, bite-sized morsels of ciabatta with ricotta cheese and sardines. Tyanne echoed the choice. Delilah and Freckles decided to split the mac-and-cheese mini-tureen appetizer, and our waitress sashayed away.

“Hey.” Tyanne pointed. “Look who’s out of jail.”

Ipo and Rebecca strolled through the front door and paused near the hostess’s podium. Both wore heavy coats and matching blue scarves. Rebecca held her head high, as if daring anyone to indict her beloved. Ipo looked nervous. His gaze darted from patron to patron.

“I think Urso’s got a soft spot for our local honey maker,” Delilah said.

“Why do you say that?” Freckles asked.

“He let him go on bail.”

Either that or Urso had come up with evidence that exonerated Ipo. I felt the urgent need to talk to Urso. Where in the heck was he? Had he and Jordan tracked down the thief? Did he now suspect the thief of killing Kaitlyn?

Our waitress returned with our flights of beer and placed them in rows in front of us. Each set included a Pilsner, a Porter, and a micro-brewed beer. I tasted the Pilsner first. It was light, creamy, and refreshing.

“Say, what’s the scoop with Lois and Ainsley?” Delilah knuckled the table. “When he came into the diner a bit ago, I spotted a pile of luggage stacked in the rear of his truck. Is he moving?”

I confided that Ainsley had had an affair with Kaitlyn Clydesdale and Lois found out.

Delilah snorted. “Talk about the least likely person in Providence to have an affair. I mean, the Cube’s not exactly Rhett Butler in the looks department.”

“Looks aren’t the only reason someone strays,” Tyanne said with authority, not an ounce of self-pity on her face.

“Do you think Ainsley killed Kaitlyn to keep the affair quiet?” Freckles asked.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” I said.

“Aha!” Delilah shot a finger at me. “I knew you were involved. Spill the details. How did you find out about the affair? And don’t tell me Sylvie told you.”

I related my chat with Ainsley.

“He claims he was walking his dog?” Delilah scoffed. “That’s not a very reliable alibi.”

“Who else do you suspect?” Freckles leaned forward on her elbows, all ears.

I said, “Barton Burrell.”

“No way.” Freckles shook her head.

“No stinking way,” Tyanne said. “He’s the sweetest man.”

“He might have had an affair with Kaitlyn, too.” I added that he didn’t want to sell his property. “She might have lured him into an affair to blackmail him.”

Delilah said, “First Arlo, then Ainsley, and now Barton.”

Freckles’s jaw dropped open. “Kaitlyn was blackmailing Arlo?”

“He’s a klepto,” Delilah said.

“Hoo-boy, not good.” Tyanne whistled.

“That explains why he hangs around the shop all the time,” Freckles said. “Just last week I had to shoo him out. He never buys a thing, but now that you mention it, sleeves of buttons have gone missing.”

“And this, my friends, is how rumors get started,” I said.

“Except sometimes,” Delilah said, “rumors contain a nugget of truth.”

We went mum as our waitress returned with our appetizers. The six slices of ciabatta, topped with ricotta and sardines, were set in a pinwheel pattern on the silver-gray stoneware plate and set off by a fresh sprig of basil.