Clobbered by Camembert

investigate, and rose to my feet.

“Back in a sec,” I told my friends. I traipsed to the bar and caught up with Tim ducking under the bar’s hatch door. “Hey, bartender.”

Tim rose to his full six-foot height. “Hello, darlin’.” Tim may have been born in America, but he loved to put on an Irish brogue. It was good for tourists, he said. He hitched his head. “Looks like Jordan has come to the rescue again.”

A few stools away, Jordan sat with Quigley, a steaming cup of coffee in front of each of them. The sight of him nursing Quigley back to sober-dom made me proud. He didn’t know Quigley at all, and yet there he was, being a friend.

“Jordan’s got a way about him, don’t you think?” Tim said.

I cut a look back at him and tilted my head. Had he and Jordan known each other before Jordan moved to town? They had bonded right off the bat. If Jordan had been a restaurateur, the two knowing each other previously wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

If? Stop it, Charlotte. You do not want to question Jordan’s story any more. Look at him. He was dealing with Quigley like a restaurant owner would. My fluttery nerves settled down, and I concentrated again on Tim.

“Got a question,” I said.

Tim slung the white towel over his shoulder and spanked the bar. “Fire away, darlin’.”

“Georgia Plachette said she was here playing darts on the night of Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s death.”

“Indeed, she was. She’s an eagle eye, that one.”

“Did she ever leave?”

Tim cocked an eyebrow. “I told Chief Urso all of this. Why’re you asking?”

“Humor me.”

Tim laughed heartily. “You are one for the books, Miz Bessette, you are. A snoop, like my mother, if ever I knew one. I couldn’t slip anything past my mom.” He tweaked his beard with his thumb and forefinger. “Okay, let me see. Georgia stopped throwing darts to go to the restroom once or twice.”

“That’s it? She didn’t leave the pub?”

“Takes a world of tries to hit the bull’s-eye. She was going for a record. She hit it nine times. The gang was counting.” He gestured to the crowd and leaned forward on his forearms. “Poor lass couldn’t get the tenth. Some of the guys were giving her guff about that, to be sure. Your pal Chip and Luigi, as well as a few others. Luigi got into an argument with her.”

“That’s what Chip said.”

Tim shook a finger. “Not wise. The poor sot was critiquing her form. She had a bit of an arc to the throw.” He showed me the action. “Luigi said she was cheating. She sniped. He carped back. He’d had—” Tim rocked his fingers, indicating Luigi had downed a drink or two.

I flashed on Luigi at the library with his granddaughter the other day. He had looked worse for wear and had admitted that he had drunk shots the night before.

“He’s a bit of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol.” Tim chuckled. “Say, what’s this I hear about Barton Burrell being a suspect?”

“Who told you that?”

“That delicious Tyanne.” He gazed longingly over my shoulder. “While Rebecca was talking to Quigley.”

I swiveled and caught Tyanne making eyes at Tim from where she sat in the booth. She coyly looked away, and I had to laugh. Something about February always stirred up romance. Perhaps St. Valentine’s Day truly had a way of uniting hearts, and Tyanne’s, for all intents and purposes, was available.

A clatter resounded at the end of the bar. Quigley pushed his coffee aside. He lumbered off his stool and headed my way. “Hey, you!”

Jordan tried to stop him, but Quigley eluded him.

“I heard you, O’Shea!” Quigley growled.

I felt somewhat gratified he wasn’t prepared to attack me.

Tim glanced over his shoulder and thumbed his chest. “Me?”

“Yeah, I’m talking to you.” Quigley sneered. “Who else around here is named O’Shea?”

“I can think of a dozen,” Tim quipped, not flustered in the least. “I’ve got six brothers and they’ve all got wives and a ton of kids.”

“Don’t be a smart aleck. You don’t know the half of it.”

Half of what? I wondered, not sure I wanted to know.

“Barton Burrell is a saint. Don’t go spouting bad things about him, hear me?” Quigley moved closer and banged his palm on the bar. “Barton Burrell is one of the best. He takes that wife of his back and forth. Never thinks twice.”

“Back and forth where?” I asked.

“To the hospital. Week in, week out. I saw them the other night. You know”—he snapped his fingers but they didn’t quite click—“that night what’s-her-name died. She looked white as snow.”

“Kaitlyn Clydesdale?”

“No. Emma Burrell.” Quigley brandished a finger. “You know how people look when headlights of oncoming cars hit the—” He fluttered his fingers and drew them apart, at a loss for a word.

“Windshield,” I said. Back in college, I was a master at charades.

“Yeah. I was driving the other direction. The lights made her look so pale.” He tapped the side of his head. “A journalist notices things like this, see? Rebecca doesn’t appreciate me. She goes for that … that hula dancer. Sheesh. I can hula.” He jiggled his hips and nearly toppled over.

“Whoa, buddy.” Jordan wrapped an arm around Quigley. “Let’s get you home. The coffee isn’t working its magic quickly enough.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at me. “I’m afraid I’ll miss the recital.”

Recital? In the to-do, I had nearly forgotten. Yipes. I glanced at my watch. I was late, yet again. “Tyanne!”

I thanked Tim for his input and raced to the faire, my mind reeling with ideas. Why would Barton say Emma and he had been watching television the night Kaitlyn died? Why wouldn’t he tell the truth about taking his wife to the hospital? That would provide a perfect alibi.

CHAPTER

While we were in the pub, a light snow had started to fall outside. Now, a thin layer decorated the ground. Flakes dusted my face as Tyanne and I sprinted through the Winter Wonderland tents. I dialed Urso to tell him about the new information on the Burrells. When he didn’t answer, I followed with a call to the precinct. The clerk said she wasn’t sure she could reach him. He was indisposed. Indisposed, I wanted to shout; he was with Jacky. If I wished, the clerk said she would patch me through to one of the deputies, both of whom were on non-urgent calls.

“Sugar, hear that?” Tyanne said. “The recital’s starting. We might better get a move on.”

The lilting strains of a piano sonata that my grandmother had written to herald the start of the recital filtered through the faire’s speakers.

Not wanting to arrive late to the songfest, I left a message for Urso or one of his deputies to call me, and dashed ahead.

The recital “hall” was housed in an oversized tent with a gaping entrance and white poles that held up the center peak. Rows of polished wooden benches, set in graceful arcs, faced a stage that was thirty feet wide. On the stage there was a three-tiered semicircle where the girls would stand. A combo band, consisting of an electric piano, guitar, and drums, was wedged into a tiny spot on the right of the stage.

Dusting snowflakes off my face, I hurried to the buffet that was set up against the tent wall. Tyanne followed. Grandmere trundled around the table, setting out napkins, forks, and shimmery blue paper plates. Pepere poured plastic cups of his spiced cider and set them in lines.

I pecked my grandmother hello. “The song you wrote is lovely, and the food looks yummy, Grandmere.” I reached for a cider, but she thwacked my hand.