expensive, but . . .”
The world turned strangely silent. I glanced at the kids and a quiver of excitement coursed through me as multiple ideas melted into one—Camembert, hockey sticks, my playful pets, and hyper-electricity.
Was the supercharged air causing people to act not only forgetfully but irrationally? Had Ainsley Smith snatched the hockey stick from the wall of the bed-and-breakfast, tracked down Kaitlyn Clydesdale at Rebecca’s, and argued with her? Had he flailed the stick at her? When the stick didn’t hit its mark, had he, like Rags and Rocket, turned a hatbox-style cheese container—not of Camembert, but of goat cheese—into a hockey puck? Rebecca had brought a round of Emerald Isles goat cheese home to serve to Ipo. If Ainsley dropped the disk of cheese on the floor and swung hard, could he have propelled the cheese into Kaitlyn’s throat with such force that she fell backward to her death?
The Emerald Isles goat cheese box was made of bamboo. While building the twins’ aquarium, Pepere had suggested that the box could have left ribbed marks similar to what the coroner had found, but at the time I couldn’t figure out how a hatbox-style container of goat cheese would have made contact with Kaitlyn’s neck.
Now I had an idea.
CHAPTER
I was pretty sure that Urso wouldn’t accept my theory. I needed evidence. When the crowd at Fromagerie Bessette thinned, I removed my apron, put on my camel coat, scarf, and gloves, and hurried to the office for my purse. Rags, who was nestled into the crook of Rocket’s forearm on the tiger-striped pillow, looked up. His ears perked. Why in heavens hadn’t Sylvie taken them home as Matthew had asked? Oooh, that woman.
“No treats,” I said.
He mewled.
“All right. You win.” I rummaged in the side drawer of the desk and pulled out the small brown bag of Tallulah Barker’s homemade kibble. I set a handful of kibble on the floor. Rocket stirred and yipped. I said, “Sorry, pup. You’ll eat what Rags eats.” I replaced the bag then nabbed a Hershey’s Kiss from my private stash. I pulled out the strip of paper and unwrapped the foil. I plopped the candy into my mouth and hummed. Exactly the kind of fortification I needed.
I hooked my purse over my shoulder and turned toward the door.
“Boo!” Rebecca said.
“Yipes!” My heart beat triple time. “You surprised me.”
Dressed in the nubby bisque-colored sweater I had given her earlier, she blended into the walls. She said, “Where are you going?”
“On an errand.”
“My foot.”
“To see Jordan.”
“Uh-uh. You would have put on lipstick.” She whistled and pointed. “Rocket, block the door.”
To my stunned surprise, the traitor hurtled to his feet and obeyed. Maybe he was mad that I hadn’t given him his own treats. Peering at me through his shaggy bangs, he didn’t look very dangerous. I could take him.
Rebecca folded her arms and drummed her fingertips on the sleeve of the sweater. “Tell me the truth. I don’t like it when you lie.”
Neither did I. Lying left a bitter taste in my mouth. “I’m going to Lavender and Lace.”
“To beg Chip not to leave?”
“Are you nuts? Whatever would make you think that? I don’t want him to stay in Providence.”
“You don’t?”
“I’m in love with Jordan, or did you miss the signs?”
She screwed up her mouth. “Then why are you going to the bed-and-breakfast?”
“To fetch a hockey stick.” I told her my theory.
She slapped her forehead with a palm. “You’re right. It’s as plain as day. I’m going with you.”
“Not this time.”
She stomped her foot. “Look, I told you a dozen times, I’m sorry about leaving you at Oscar’s to look for Ipo. I’m sorry that guy attacked you. Do you think it was Ainsley Smith?”
Ainsley would have been the right height.
“You have to take me along,” Rebecca insisted. “He might be a killer.”
“He’s not there. Lois kicked him out.”
“That doesn’t mean he isn’t skulking around.”
I flashed on Lois chasing her husband with the broom and felt almost certain that he wouldn’t return anytime soon, but Rebecca was not going to be dissuaded. She raced out of the office to the coat rack.
I followed.
She grabbed the winter white parka she had borrowed for our raid on Oscar’s house and shrugged into it. “Your grandfather is here. He can watch the store. We’ll tell him we’re going to the precinct. He’ll buy that.”
Yet another lie. Was I becoming pathological?
Rebecca raced to the front door, snatched a burgundy-striped umbrella from the umbrella stand by the office door, and brandished it. “We’ll take this for protection.” She whipped open the front door.
“Rebecca, wait.”
She didn’t. She marched outside. Over her shoulder, she said, “I saw this episode of
* * *
With Rebecca as my quasi-bodyguard, I hurried to the bed-and-breakfast. I trotted inside and nearly bumped into Lois, who was dusting her precious tea sets—Limoges, Dalton, Ucagco, Haviland. Each set was displayed on its own circular, marble-topped antique table. Agatha scampered at Lois’s feet, barking at dust bunnies.
Lois nudged the Shih Tzu away and said in a lackluster voice, “Hello, girls.” She plucked a piece of lint off of her lilac-colored jogging suit.
Rebecca said, “You sure look nice today, Mrs. Smith.”
I cut my sweet assistant an odd look. We weren’t there to bolster Lois’s ego. On the other hand, we were going to drop a bomb on her. A compliment or two might not be a bad idea. She looked sullen and drawn.
Lois regarded Rebecca’s umbrella. “I thought the storm was gone.”
“Another is on its way. Better safe than sorry.” Rebecca did a lunge, as if the umbrella were an epee. Agatha yipped her disapproval and hid behind Lois’s legs.
“Hush, Aggie,” Lois said. “She’s only playing.” The purple Plexiglas timer that hung on a chain around Lois’s neck tweeted. “Excuse me.” She bustled to the kitchen. Agatha trotted after her, glancing over her shoulder at us as to warn us not to follow.
But we did. The pipsqueak didn’t scare me.
“It smells great in here,” Rebecca said.
The sweet aroma of blueberry cinnamon scones hung in the air. The makings for cream-cheese icing sat on the granite counter.
“Where are all your guests?” I asked.
“At the faire, don’t you know. The ice sculpting winner will be announced in about a half hour. It’s all folderol, if you ask me.” Lois pried open the oven door. Without pulling out the rack, she touched the top of a scone with a fingertip, then shook her head. The dough gave way; the treats weren’t ready. She closed the oven door, reset the timer, and sauntered to the foyer. Without a word to us, she resumed dusting.
Her silence gnawed at my resolve. If it turned out her husband was a killer, would it break her heart? Was it already broken?
“Where’s Mr. Smith?” Rebecca asked.
“Gone, gone, gone.” Lois whisked the feather duster in rhythm. “I drove him away. Forever.” A scowl formed the number eleven between her eyebrows. “Charlotte, you saw him run off.”
I remembered how fleet he was. Fast enough to have beaten me to Oscar’s. Fast enough to have disappeared from Oscar’s after attacking me before I could find my footing.
