“Shoo. No eating or drinking until after.”
“Spoilsport.”
She clucked her delight.
The table was laden with a variety of dishes. Fromagerie Bessette had supplied the pepperoni-apple quiches. Providence Patisserie had provided breads and pastries. Other locals had made casseroles and an assortment of appetizers.
“By the way,” I said, “did you catch the thief?”
“No, but Urso said not to worry. He has an idea who it is.” She touched my cheek. “You’re perspiring,
“Tyanne and I ran the whole way here.” I spotted a sign in front of a Crock-Pot that read:
“This morning.” She twirled a finger. “Slow cookers make everything so easy. Plop the items in and switch on the heat. It’s my mama’s recipe.”
I gave her a knowing look. She had arrived at The Cheese Shop before eight, which meant she had to have made the casserole at the crack of dawn. “You’re not sleeping, are you?”
She shook her head. “I will soon.”
I drank in the scent of sausages, onions, and spices, and my stomach grumbled. Silly, I know. After eating the ciabatta appetizer at the pub, I shouldn’t have been hungry in the least, but tasty aromas always stirred my taste buds.
“Oh, there are my kids.” Tyanne waved to her children. “Thomas. Tisha. Mama’s—” She halted and dropped her arm to her side when her husband emerged through the tent opening with his Lolita-esque girlfriend.
“Are you going to be okay?” I asked.
“Fine, sugar.” Like a steel magnolia, Tyanne shook off any sign of distress and pasted on a big smile. “My little darlings need me to be a good role model. Don’t you agree?” She squeezed my arm for support, whispered, “Thanks,” and then she zigzagged through the crowd toward her children.
I admired how resilient she was. Theo would have to watch out for himself in divorce court.
“Charlotte!” Matthew called. He sat at the center of the third row of benches, flanked by Meredith and Sylvie. Their coats were piled on the bench beyond Meredith.
Sylvie, still clad in her ridiculous antebellum outfit, said, “I’ve saved you a seat right next to me, Charlotte.”
Oh, lucky day.
I scooted down the aisle. As I settled into my spot, Sylvie handed me a program. I read the list of songs that the girls would be singing and recognized many from my youth. “Meredith, did you see?” I leaned around Sylvie and pointed at a title on the program.
Meredith snickered. “Hope they can make it all the way through.” She was referring to an incident from our past.
Matthew made a face, letting me know that he remembered the event. When Meredith and I were slightly older than the twins, we had sung in the Winter Wonderland chorus. Meredith was notorious for making me laugh at the most inconvenient times. For one rousing rendition of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”—a song the twins were going to sing—I had been given a solo. During my moment in the sun, Meredith, who was standing beside me, repeatedly cleared her throat, pretending she had a frog in it—imitating me, of course. I could have clocked her. Luckily neither of the twins had solos. I could only imagine what precocious Amy would have done to Clair—or vice versa.
I chuckled to myself and continued reading.
“By the way, what are you wearing, Charlotte?” Sylvie plucked the sleeve of my tweed jacket. “How
“Actually, I purchased it recently.” I wasn’t lying. I had found the jacket at a secondhand store in Columbus that specialized in businesswomen’s attire. I liked the neutral tone, the wing collar, and the one-button front.
“What is fashion coming to?” Sylvie sniffed. “You and Prudence Hart have a lot to learn. Speaking of Prudence, she’s so mad at your grandmother about starting a Do-Gooder chapter without inviting her. I don’t think I’ll ever hear the end—”
“Shhh. The recital is starting.”
A dozen girls in scarlet robes trotted onto the stage and formed two lines.
“There are our babies, Matthew. Amy! Clair!” Sylvie rose from the bench and waved her arms like she was guiding in a 747 airplane.
Matthew looked like he wanted to disappear into the fake green grass flooring.
The conductor, none other than my friend Octavia, strode in front of the chorale. She swept back the folds of her chorale robe and, facing the audience, took a brief bow. Then she pivoted, brushed her cornrow braids over her shoulder, and struck a baton on the music stand. The musicians began and the chorus launched into a breezy version of “Let It Snow” followed by “Big Rock Candy Mountain,” “She Loves You,” and “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
In between the fourth and fifth songs, Sylvie said, “Like I was saying, Prudence is so mad—”
I flicked her hoopskirt. “Sylvie, please. Wait until the songfest is over.”
“I’m simply saying that your grandmother had better watch her backside. You never know when someone like Prudence might thwack her with one of those … those”—she flicked her finger toward the stage—“batons.”
I followed to where she pointed and a shiver wriggled up the back of my neck as Octavia raised one hand overhead to hold the girls in a vocal pause. In her other hand, she poised the baton, ready for the downbeat. The image made me think of the weapon that was used to fell Kaitlyn Clydesdale. Had she seen the attack coming or had she been taken by surprise? Had she arrived at Rebecca’s cottage to argue with Ipo, only to find that someone had followed her? Whoever it was had arrived with the pu’ili stick in hand. Was it Arlo, trying to keep her from telling the world about his kleptomania? Or Oscar, who had wanted to be released from his employment contract? Or her daughter, Georgia, who stood to inherit cash and possibly control of Clydesdale Enterprises? I wouldn’t rule out Barton Burrell either, despite Quigley’s assertion that Barton had not one but two alibis that might stand up in court. Barton’s real estate contract bound him to sell, and Emma wanted to nullify it. And then there was the rumored affair—
“O-o-o-oh.” The chorus of girls held a long note, drawing me back to the moment at hand, and then they broke into a bubbly version of “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.”
As they headed into the second verse, Sylvie whispered, “You know, I was a great singer when I was young. I started a band. We called it Spicy Chicks.”
I whispered, “Shhh.”
“When the Spice Girls stole the name and became famous, I was ready to wreak bloody havoc on them. I was so jealous.”
Another theory about Kaitlyn’s death invaded my thoughts. Was jealousy the reason for the attack? I didn’t believe Lois had hurt Kaitlyn. Though she was upset now, she had a backbone of iron. She wouldn’t have let Ainsley’s momentary fling with Kaitlyn drive her to violence. Had some other wife lashed out? Emma Burrell, perhaps?
The girls finished singing, and Octavia turned to the crowd.
“For our finale …” Octavia spread her arms and beckoned us all to stand and join in the singing of “America, the Beautiful,” one of my all-time favorite songs. The lyric about amber waves of grain perfectly depicted the hills of Ohio in autumn.
When the song ended, the audience cheered. The applause died out and folks started to filter from the benches toward the buffet.
Sylvie trailed me like a shadow, chattering about her failed musical career. Matthew and Meredith followed.
“Sylvie Bessette!” Prudence plowed into the tent.
Everyone turned to stare.
“Aha. There you are.” Prudence charged through the crowd, her arms pumping like pistons. “How dare you.”
Matthew moaned. “What did you do now, Sylvie?”
“Nothing,” Sylvie replied, but I saw amusement in her eyes. She had done something, all right. On
