Clobbered by Camembert (19 page)

CHAPTER

While working through my theory, I resumed swabbing the cheese counter with a vengeance, though nothing needed swabbing, not in the entire shop. Every wedge of cheese was in its place. The barrels looked neat and appealing. We had a cleaning service come in every week to vacuum up any fleck of dust. The rime at the base of the plastic covering over the basement door had been whisked away.

Rebecca snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Yoo-hoo, Charlotte.” She set Chip’s contract by the register and swooped up the daisies. “I can see the wheels turning in your head.” She moved to the kitchen, plunked the flowers into an amber vase, and added water. “What are you thinking?”

“That Ainsley Smith might be hiding something.”

“I agree.” She returned with the vase. “Chief Urso has to question him.”

“Except Urso is looking for Jordan and a thief.”

“Then it’s up to us.” Rebecca set the flowers aside, snatched the towel out of my hands, and launched it into a laundry bin near the kitchen. “Let’s go.”

I held out a palm to stop her. “Uh-uh. Not you. Me. Alone.”

“But—”

“You have to go to Le Petit Fromagerie and relieve Tyanne.”

“Send Bozz.”

“He’s got the afternoon shift here at The Cheese Shop.”

She stamped her foot.

I smirked. “Oh, yeah, that works for the twins, too.” I toted the wine bottle and corkscrew that Matthew had left to the annex. Over my shoulder, I said, “Look, I know Lois and Ainsley. Neither will react well to us ganging up on them. Let me do this my way.”

“But Mr. Smith could be a murderer.”

“If he did kill Kaitlyn, it was an accident. In the heat of passion.”

“It’s not in the heat of passion if he willfully took a weapon with him.” Rebecca grabbed the vase of daisies, and we crossed paths as I returned to the shop. “People don’t walk around with pu’ili sticks tucked in their pockets. They just don’t.” She set the vase of daisies on the display shelf against the wall, shifting bottles of aged balsamic vinegar to make room for it, and looked for my approval. I hated to admit it, but the cheery flowers did give the shop an instant face-lift.

“When do you think Ainsley could have stolen the pu’ili sticks?” I removed my apron. “He didn’t play poker with Ipo and Barton and the others, did he?”

“Not to my knowledge, but maybe he did some handyman work for Ipo. I could ask.”

“No.”

“I can do it without Mr. Smith even knowing.” Rebecca lifted her chin proudly. “I’ve been studying interrogation techniques.”

“You’ve been what?”

“There’s this TV show that has a site on the Internet. I’ve learned all about interrogation and spy equipment.”

Oh, my,
I thought, surprised by what she was learning on television and online.

“Please, Charlotte? Let me grill him.”

Grill him. Spare me.
“No. You’re going to the tent. Now.”

Her lower lip puckered. “Whatever you do, be subtle. Don’t ask direct questions. Compliment him, if you need to. It’ll take him off his guard. He’ll trust you.”

“Go.”

“You flip out the fishing line and let the fish swallow the bait.” She mimed her instruction, reeling back as if she had caught a fifteen-foot marlin. “Then tug.”

I prodded her. “I’ve got this. Promise.”

She dug in her heels. “Ooh, and if for any reason you need to break into the inn, take along some sunglasses. If you snap off the ends”—more demonstration—“you can use the arm of the glasses like a pick, but if Urso were to catch you, he wouldn’t know you were breaking and entering. You’d merely have broken sunglasses. Cool, huh?”

Why couldn’t she get hooked on family-friendly shows? “Go,” I repeated.

As she scurried out of the shop, I considered making a plaque to honor the event:
Rebecca obeyed Charlotte
, inscribed with a date. I kept gold paper and glitter pens that I used to make signs for the shop in a drawer in the office.

“Bozz!” I called.

He didn’t answer.

“Bozz?” I dashed to the office and saw a Post-it note stuck to the computer screen:
Philby called. Had to go. Hope it’s okay.

No, it wasn’t okay. I couldn’t leave the shop unattended. What was I going to do now? Rebecca would never forgive me if I let the opportunity to question Ainsley Smith slip away.

The front door chimes jingled. I hurried into the shop, spotted my grandfather, and nearly applauded.

“Bon soir, chérie.”
He toddled to the counter, a look of concern pinching his forehead. “Have you seen your
grandmère
? I sent her for cheese, but she didn’t return. I have got hungry actors, and you know what that means.”

I explained that Grandmère had fetched the cheese, but she had run off to help Urso.

“I knew something was up.” He shook his pudgy finger. “She is getting too old for this life as mayor.”

“She isn’t old. Shakespeare said, ‘April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.’”

“Now you are quoting Shakespeare, too?” he grumbled. “So like your
grandmère
. I suppose I must return to the theater empty-handed.” He snatched a piece of cheese from the platter on the tasting counter and slipped it into his mouth. “Ah, Piave. One of my favorites.
Merci. Au revoir.
”

“Wait. Could you … Would you manage the shop for an hour? Please, Pépère. It’s not busy. The actors can run lines without you. Hunger will make them focus, no? I have an errand.”

“An errand?” He raised one eyebrow. “
Ma petite-fille
. You think you are as sly as your
grandmère
, but you lack years of practice.”

“Perhaps I do,” I said, but I wasn’t dim-witted. I fetched a heart-shaped cheese called Rivers Edge Chèvre Old Flame from the display case. It was a silky, bloomy-rind goat cheese—a specialty offered only in February—and just to my grandfather’s liking. I sliced off a sliver and offered it to him. He reached, and I snatched it back. “Uh-uh, not unless you watch the shop for me.”

“
Diablesse
. You know I can’t refuse. Fine, fine. I will stay.” He slipped the cheese into his mouth and his face lit up with delight.

Ah, if all men could be so enticed.

* * *

Ainsley Smith sat in one of the wicker porch chairs at the front of Lavender and Lace. A plaid blanket lay across his lap. The Shih Tzu, Agatha, sat on top of the blanket.

As I strolled up the front path, Agatha yipped a greeting. Ainsley glanced at me, but pretending he hadn’t seen me, spanked out the creases of the newspaper he held in his hands and zeroed in on the headlines.

I snickered. Did he honestly think I hadn’t seen him look?

Agatha shimmied, padded in a circle, and settled back down.

I climbed the steps and said, “Hello, Mr. Smith,” offering him due respect.

“Charlotte.” He peered at me, this time clearing his throat. “Didn’t see you there.” A jackrabbit being stalked by a wolf couldn’t have looked more wary. Had Chip alerted him? No, he wouldn’t have done that.

I kneaded my hands together, ruing the fact that I had run out of Fromagerie Bessette without donning gloves. Real smart. At least I had slipped on my coat. “Brisk, isn’t it?”

“I’m dressed for it.” He wore a heavy peacoat, corduroy trousers, leather gloves, and Timberland boots. Wisps of his thinning red hair poked out from beneath a lavender knit cap, no doubt one of Lois’s many creations. How she loved the color lavender.

“Got a moment to chat?” I said.

He squirmed.

I took that as a yes and plunked down into the chair opposite him. The rattan squeaked beneath my weight. The chill in the air cut through my coat and up the legs of my trousers, but I wasn’t about to ask if we could go inside. I wanted him on edge with no time to regroup. “I heard some news. Gossip, probably.”

He folded his paper and tucked it between his thigh and the side of the chair. “Hungry?” he asked. The front door was open a crack, and the flavorful aroma of pot roast wafted through the screen door, but he wasn’t inviting me for lunch. He lifted a pretty floral plate from the table beside him and offered me a frosted cookie. His hand shook ever so slightly.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“So what’s your news?” He popped a cookie into his mouth and fed a crumb to Agatha, who licked his fingers in thanks.

“It’s about that hockey game.”

He swallowed the cookie and replaced the plate on the table. “Which one?”

“That Bluejackets game you went to on the night of Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s death. You were talking about it at the shop. Lois gave you the tickets as a birthday present.”

He stroked his chin, as if culling the memory from a distant place in his mind. “Oh, yeah, I remember. We played the Kings.”

“That’s the one. Did you stay for the whole game?”

“Sure did.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t go often. I’ve got to relish every minute when I get the chance.”

“I know what you mean. I’m that way at an OSU football game.” I pumped my arm overhead. “Go Buckeyes.” I made the warbling sound that had become a standard cheer at games.

Ainsley chuckled and his shoulders relaxed. He was getting into my rhythm. Rebecca would have been proud of me.

“So what’s the gossip?” he asked.

“It was about their star. Luka … Luka . . .”

“Lukashenko.”

“That’s the guy’s name.” I smacked my thigh in agreement. “I heard Lukashenko achieved a hat trick that night. That must have been great to see.”

“It was.”

“Except I don’t remember you mentioning the hat trick when you were in The Cheese Shop yesterday. You told us he’d scored two goals.”

Ainsley blanched but quickly recovered. “My mistake.”

“So, you did see it. How did it play out? Did he score in each period?”

“Um, gee …” He tapped his head with a knobby finger. “The old noggin’s not as good as it used to be.”

“Maybe you missed seeing one.”

His eyes drew to narrow slits.

“Perhaps you were someplace else,” I went on, throwing him a bone. “Maybe you were buying food at the concession stand.”

He bobbed his head. “That was it. I ate my way through the game. The hot dogs at the arena are the best.”

“Slathered in beans and cheese.”

“And onions,” he added.

“You need a fork to eat them.” The thought made my mouth water. My grandfather had tried to duplicate the recipe, but his beans were always missing something. I had suggested extra molasses and maybe a dash of white pepper. “Except”—I shook a finger—“there are television screens by every concession stand. You should have seen the play. Fans would have been going wild.”

Ainsley grew quiet. He glanced at the screen door and back at me. In a thin voice he said, “I wasn’t at the game, but you know that, don’t you?”

“Where were you?”

Silence.

“Were you with Kaitlyn Clydesdale?” I said.

“What? No.”

“You knew her.”

“Of course, I did. She stayed here for one night, but she moved on to Violet’s Victoriana Inn.” His gaze shifted up to the porch ceiling and down again. He was lying.

“Years ago,” I said, “she lived in Providence. Did you know her back in high school?”

“I don’t recall.” He sounded like a well-prepared witness.

“I see.” I slid forward in my chair, as if I were planning to get to my feet. “Maybe I should talk to Violet to get the scoop. I’ll bet she knew who Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s gentlemen callers were.”

“What do you want, money?” Ainsley blurted. “Do you have compromising photos? Huh, do you? I’ll pay whatever you ask.”

“I don’t want your money, Ainsley.”

“If you don’t want money”—he screwed up his mouth—“then what do you want?”

“I want the truth. I believe you were having an affair with Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”

The man exhaled like a harpoon had punctured him. “It’s not what you think.”

“Tell me what it was,” I said, sitting taller, feeling my oats.

“You have to promise not to tell Lois.” He glanced again at the screen door.

I followed his gaze, seeing no sign of his wife or any of the inn’s guests, for that matter. I said, “Where is Lois?”

“In the kitchen, making pot roast using your grandmother’s recipe.”

Grandmère, who had inherited the recipe from her grandmother, had raffled off the recipe at a fund-raiser. The dish asked for extra bay leaves, a handful of cloves, and ten grinds of the peppermill. It was the kind of food that went down easily in the winter and worked like a heating element from the inside out.

“Promise you won’t tell Lois,” Ainsley repeated.

“It’s not mine to tell.”

He drew in a deep breath. “Whatever you’ve heard, you don’t know the half of it.” He plucked Agatha from his lap, wadded the blanket into a ball, and rose from his chair. Agatha leaped back onto the chair and nestled on the cushion as Ainsley ambled down the porch steps. He crooked a finger for me to follow. I shook my head. I wasn’t stupid. I wasn’t going to follow him to a shadowy spot behind the inn, not after Rebecca had reminded me that he might be capable of extreme violence.

I remained in my seat. “We can talk here, sir.”