I spent another few minutes with Georgia. Although she wouldn’t buy into my theory that Oscar might be guilty, as a favor to me and to our illustrious police force, she promised not to depart Providence until noon tomorrow. She assured me that as long as she was around, Oscar wouldn’t leave town. I had to give her credit for believing in the power of her female allure.
As I drove home, headlights glaring through the windshield, wipers whisking icy rain off the glass, a chill gripped my body. A short while later, in the warmth of my kitchen, with my Briard and Ragdoll for companionship—the rest of the household was quiet—I settled at the table with a soothing cup of Cinnamon Stick tea and dialed Urso to update him on my findings. The clerk at the precinct answered. She explained that Urso and both of his deputies were dealing with another round of emergencies. Urso and the new-hire deputy were roping off a flooding road; the other deputy was aiding a stranded driver whose engine had erupted.
Frustrated that Urso and I had yet to complete a conversation in the past few days, I trudged upstairs. Rocket and Rags followed. I didn’t tell them no. I needed company.
In the privacy of my room, I nestled on my bed and hit the first number on my speed dial. Jordan answered after one ring.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
Hearing his throaty voice sent a rapture of good vibes through me. I didn’t care that he hadn’t said what I had hoped he would say at the pub when he and Chip had faced off. I was simply happy that we had gotten over the hump of his secret past, and I loved him. That was all there was to it. He would say he loved me, in time.
I asked him about Quigley.
“He’ll sleep it off. How was the recital?”
I told him about Sylvie and Prudence’s spat. He laughed.
“I miss you, sweetheart,” he said. “We need a night. Or two. Or six.”
More yummy feelings swirled through me. I murmured, “Soon.” I didn’t tell him about Emma Burrell’s collapse or my meeting with Georgia. I didn’t want our conversation to end with a warning to be careful. I whispered, “Soon,” again and sent kisses through the receiver.
After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I cuddled beneath my duvet, read three delicious chapters of a new Domestic Diva Mystery, and finally, unable to keep my eyes open any longer, drifted to sleep.
* * *
The next morning, while coffee was brewing and a San Simon cheese frittata cooked on the stovetop, I trotted to the porch to fetch the newspaper. Bracing myself for the crisp morning air—more inclement weather was imminent, promising a sturdy wind and the possibility of a wintry mix—I swung open the door. Hundreds of icicles had formed after last night’s rain and hung from the eaves. I ducked beneath a huge one and headed down the steps but stopped short when I spotted luggage sitting on the veranda at Lavender and Lace. Seeing one of the suitcases whiplashed me back to memory lane, to the first day of freshman year at OSU. Chip had appeared in the doorway of my dorm room, brown leather satchel in his hand, camera at the ready, dimple etched in his cheek. He snapped a picture of me and whisked me into his arms. “I transferred because of you, babe,” he said. In record time, our relationship had zoomed to the next level. And now he was leaving. For good. I felt relieved and sad, all at the same time. I didn’t love him anymore. I never would. Years ago, I had torn up the mental picture of us as a lifelong couple. Matthew was right. I had been engaged to Peter Pan—the boy who wouldn’t grow up.
I considered going over and offering Chip a formal goodbye, but I halted when a silhouette in the shadows on the side of the inn caught my attention. Lois’s husband, Ainsley, moved from window to window, popping up then hunkering down, reminding me of a meerkat needing an all-clear signal from the pack. The hackles on the back of my neck rose. When Lois had booted Ainsley out, he had tried to pilfer his prized hockey stick from the wall in the great room, though he had claimed he was merely adjusting its alignment. Did he hope to steal it now?
Lois burst from the tornado shelter. Dressed in a lavender snowsuit and wielding a broom, she charged her husband. “You!” Her emergence from below made me recall a reference about the Furies in
Was I wrong to suspect Oscar of killing Kaitlyn Clydesdale? Was Ainsley, Kaitlyn’s former lover, the real culprit? Had he lied to me about his whereabouts on the night she died? He only had a dog as his witness.
Lois yelled, “I told you to leave, don’t you know.”
“Lois, darling.”
“Go! Get! I do not want to set eyes on you again, you lying, detestable womanizer.” She flailed the broom.
Ainsley, fleet for someone so wide, hightailed it down the street. Occasionally he slipped on icy patches but quickly righted himself. Had he been equally speedy and agile stealing into Ipo’s place and taking his pu’ili sticks? Had he been the broad-shouldered thief running from my tent after filching a carton of cheese?
I paused and thought again of Oscar waggling Chip’s iPhone. What if he hadn’t been signaling me about a list of Chip’s conquests? I returned to my previous notion. What if Chip had a photograph on his cell phone? Chip was always taking pictures. Without knowing the significance, he might have snapped a picture of Ainsley hiding the pu’ili sticks on the night of the murder.
No, he couldn’t have. Chip had been at the pub with Luigi. But something—some piece of evidence—was on his cell phone. As Rebecca would say, I felt it in my bones.
I glanced toward the kitchen. The frittata was cooking on low; it wouldn’t burn, and I needed to view Chip’s phone. Now.
I scooted down the steps of my home, the nippy wind cutting through my silk honey-colored sweater and cotton trousers, and raced along the slippery sidewalk. My loafers skidded as I darted up the path to the inn. “Lois, is Chip here?”
She huffed. “Did you see that no-good husband of mine lurking around here? The gall.” Her eyes grew watery. “I gave him my best years. The best, don’t you know. You’d do right to stay single. All men are worthless.” She turned on her heel and barged into the bed-and-breakfast, my question unanswered.
“Where’s Chip?” I repeated, shivering, wishing I had grabbed a jacket before racing out of the house.
“He’s gone out for one last sightseeing tour,” she said through the screened door. “He said he’d be back in a while.”
“Tell him I need to speak with him.”
Church bells gonged, jarring me to act. I had to track down Oscar and get the scoop. Before I could, I had to finish serving up breakfast. I retrieved the morning newspaper, sprinted back to my kitchen, and popped the frittata under the broiler. Three minutes later, as I was dishing the frittata onto plates, Matthew entered, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Mmm. Smells good. Let me guess.” He placed his hands on the counter and peeked beneath the cabinets. “You used San Simon, a cow’s cheese from Spain. Melts nicely and pairs well with sausage and spices.”
“Cheater. You read the cheese label.”
“Did not.”
“You’ve trapped it beneath your hands.”
He chortled and revealed his ruse.
I scooted around the counter with the plates.
“Why are you rushing?” he asked.
“Got someplace to be.”
“Where?”
“Someplace.” I set the plates on the table, yelled, “Girls, breakfast,” and then hurried to the foyer. Rocket and Rags jogged after me, their claws clicking as they scurried around corners.
Matthew trailed the pack. “Where’s the fire?”
“No fire. Just an errand.”
“An errand. Uh-huh, and I’m competing on
