Clobbered by Camembert

I couldn’t lie to Matthew. I simply couldn’t. “I think Oscar Carson might know who killed Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”

Matthew bayed like a hound. “Snoop Doggy Dogg.”

Rocket echoed him. Rags yowled.

“Hush, you guys,” I said.

Matthew frowned. “Have you let Urso in on your theories?”

“I’ve left messages.” Myriad messages.

“And … ?”

“It’s Sunday.” I shrugged into my camel coat, looped a multicolored scarf around my neck, slung my purse over my shoulder, and donned a pair of brown gloves. “Not everyone is up at the crack of sunrise like us.”

“I’m tagging along.”

“No, you and the girls are going with Meredith to church.”

“It’s not safe for you—”

“Oscar is not the killer.”

“How can you be sure?” Matthew gripped my shoulders, his gaze filled with concern. “And don’t tell me gut instinct.”

A knock rattled the door. Expecting Chip, I opened quickly.

Rebecca faced me wearing no jacket, no hat, and no gloves. She was shivering. Her lips were nearly blue.

Fear spiked inside me. “What’s wrong?”

“He … we …” She rushed inside. “I stayed the night at Ipo’s.”

“Oka-a-a-ay.” I closed the door.

“He didn’t … We didn’t”—she stammered—“we wanted to, but we didn’t.” She tapped her legs nervously with her fingertips.

“Matthew, get Rebecca a cup of coffee, please.” I forced her to don a nubby sweater I kept hanging on a hook by the door, then smashed a matching knit hat on her head—anything for warmth.

“We smooched again.” Rebecca blushed. “We smooched a lot, and then he … I . . .”

I gestured the letter T. We were approaching the moment of too much information.

“What?” she said. “All I was going to say was I fell asleep. On the couch. By myself.”

“Here we go.” Matthew returned with a cat-shaped mug. Steam rose from the mouth of the cup. He handed it to Rebecca.

As she took a sip of warm liquid, she ogled me from head to toe. “Are you going someplace?”

“You bet she is,” Matthew said with a smirk. “She’s off to pry again.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Rebecca’s angst vanished in a poof. “Not without me.” She set the coffee mug on the antique foyer table, grabbed my winter white parka for extra warmth, and whisked open the door. “Where are we going?”

“Back to Ipo’s,” Matthew said.

“Why?” Rebecca cried.

I kissed my cousin’s cheek. “Thanks a bunch.”

“Anytime.” He grinned. “Anytime.”

* * *

On the way to Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm, I explained to Rebecca that we weren’t going to visit Ipo but rather to visit Oscar. Atypically, Rebecca kept mute, probably wondering whether going anywhere near Ipo’s was her best move, but far be it from her to beg out of an investigation.

The wind, which had doubled in intensity since I left the house, kicked around fallen branches on the road north out of town. Horses in fields huddled together.

As I turned onto the road leading to Ipo’s farm, Rebecca yelled, “Watch out!”

A hailstorm of eddying dirt and dust looked ready to attack. I swerved left. “Thanks.”

“That’s why I’m here.” She tittered, definitely tense.

Rows of dormant fruit trees defined the perimeter of Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm. Small, weathered wooden pallet hives were stacked in rows in front of the trees. A state-of-the-art honeybee feeding facility stood to the left of Ipo’s ranch-style house.

“What if Ipo sees me?” Rebecca said as we drove along the gravel road. “He’ll think I’m throwing myself at him.”

I cut her a look of admonishment. “Ipo has way too much respect for you to think that.”

“Will he hate me? I ran out.”

“You were overwhelmed.”

She clapped her hands, the gloves muting the sound but not her enthusiasm. “Ooh, I like that. Overwhelmed. That’s so much better than chicken.”

“You are not a chicken if you’re not ready.”

She chewed on her lower lip. “I think I need to be married to be ready. Is that totally geeky?”

I shook my head. “It’s refreshing.”

Oscar’s bungalow was located behind the ranch-style house. Rime coated the windows and eaves. A Dodge pickup was stationed in front, nose facing the porch.

I parked my white Escort beside the pickup and twisted in my seat. “Now, let’s focus. I’m going inside to talk to Oscar. I want you to stay in the car and call Urso.”

“Roger.”

I offered my cell phone, but she fetched hers from her purse and shook it.

Adrenaline warming me like no sweater or coat could, I scrambled out of the car and dashed up the rickety stairs to the front door. Leaves kicked up around my ankles. As I was about to knock, I heard a squeak. I turned toward the noise. Rebecca was creeping out of the Escort. She mouthed an apology for the squeaky door and then stole around the side of the bungalow. What in the heck was she up to?

Dang. So much for expecting her to follow orders. When would I learn?

I rapped on the door and it inched open. No lights were on. I didn’t detect the aroma of breakfast either. Remaining on the porch, I yelled, “Oscar? Are you there?”

A horse whinnied, but Oscar didn’t answer.

Thinking a gust of wind might accidentally have jostled the door, I pushed it open farther, and whispered, “Oscar?”

In the path of daylight that swathed the hardwood floor, I caught sight of a pair of boots, toes to the ground. Legs in jeans jutted from the boots. A man lay facedown on the shabby area rug. It was Oscar. I recognized the pale blue shirt he had worn to the pub last night.

“Oscar!” I raced to him.

His back rose with breath, but he wasn’t stirring. Blood dripped from his head. A busted floor lamp rested on its side beside Oscar’s head. A leather wallet lay open beyond the lampshade. Had someone robbed Oscar—the thief who Urso and Jordan had failed to capture? Was he still in the house? I scanned the dim room but didn’t see movement. If the thief were there, he was as silent as a gravedigger.

“Rebecca!” I yelled. Had she reached Urso? She didn’t answer. I tore to the door and said, “Rebecca, where are you? Oscar’s hurt.” I didn’t see any sign of her.

I dashed back to Oscar, knelt beside him, and checked his pulse. Weak. I stabbed 911 into my cell phone.

A creature screeched. A ferret shot from beneath the worn green couch and flew across the backs of my calves. I yelped and clambered to my feet, heart pumping. Accidentally, I dropped the cell phone.

At the same time someone charged from the kitchenette wearing a ski mask and dark clothing. He … She … It grabbed me by the throat.

My self-defense refresher course with Jordan came back to me in a flash. Hands free, I rounded my right arm over my attacker’s and jabbed the ski mask where the hollow of the attacker’s neck should be. He—definitely a he —released his hands.

I tried to knee him in the groin, but my knee tangled in the folds of my camel coat and I missed my mark; I