Free Clobbered by Camembert by Avery Aames

leading to Rebecca’s cottage saying, “Excuse me. Sorry. Let me through.”
    Sylvie ordered me to stay put, but I ignored her. I didn’t want to lose the lurker. Who was he? Had he attacked Kaitlyn when Rebecca and Ipo were outside kissing? Or was he a Peeping Tom? Maybe he had been hanging around for a while. Maybe he could tell Urso what had happened at the cottage and exonerate Ipo.
    I tore after him, north on Cherry Orchard and along sidewalks illuminated by streetlamps. As I drew closer, I could make out more of his shape. In a word: sloppy. Raggedy knit ski hat, baggy pants beneath his coat, work boots. He wasn’t as tall as Deputy Rodham. He was more like the size of Matthew or Jordan or Lois’s husband, the Cube. He passed Fromagerie Bessette, the Country Kitchen, and Under Wraps.
    At the west entrance to the Village Green, my breathing grew ragged, but I wouldn’t give up. I was gaining on him. When he cut around a couple pushing a baby carriage, he glanced over his shoulder and his mouth gaped open. My guess, he was surprised to see me on his tail. I recognized him. He worked for Ipo at the honeybee farm.
    “Oscar,” I yelled.
    He didn’t slow.
    “Oscar Carson!”
    He dashed into the Winter Wonderland. I ran faster, my lungs heaving, thighs burning. I definitely needed more exercise. Maybe a regimen. Twenty minutes of aerobics when I woke up, followed by twenty of stretching. No, that sounded much too difficult. Cobwebs usually clouded my brain until my first cup of coffee or tea. Maybe I could exercise after work. Or I could double up on yoga and walk the dog and cat an extra mile.
    “Oscar!”
    I had only met him a couple of times. He didn’t make good eye contact. I’d heard he was slightly challenged. Ipo had hired him at the farm to clean out storage bins.
    Oscar zigzagged left and right, weaving between the white tents. I sprinted after him, the twinkling lights and luscious scents of cocoa and fresh-baked goodies in Winter Wonderland distracting.
    Focus, Charlotte.
    I drew to within fifteen feet of him. Ten feet. Five.
    Oscar veered around a corner. I followed and pulled up short as he charged into the ice sculpture of the knight on the horse. Splinters of ice spurted upward. The knight’s lance shattered into pieces. Oscar slipped and skated forward. His feet shot into the forelegs of the horse. The sculpture buckled. The horse’s head wavered. Oscar scrambled to get out of the way, but his hands got caught in the folds of his trench coat, and he lost purchase on the slushy grass. He hit the ground with a thud and flung his arms in front of his face to prepare for the inevitable.
    The horse’s head plunged. Its chin gored the ground inches from Oscar’s hips.
    Oscar screeched.
    “What the heck?” The sculptor, none other than Tyanne’s philandering husband Theo, arrived with a hot dog in his hand. He hurled the hot dog aside and stamped toward Oscar. A defensive linebacker in college, Theo hadn’t lost any of his bulk nor, it appeared, any of his rage. Red faced, he grabbed Oscar by the collar and whipped him to a standing position. “What’s going on?”
    Oscar said, “Accident.” Head lowered, he looked half a foot shorter than Theo, though if he stood tall, he would have been roughly the same height.
    “All my work. My precious work. You … you …” Theo hurled Oscar to the ground, but rather than kick the man, he slammed his toe into an open metal box that held his ice-sculpting tools. The box rattled like thunder. Theo swiveled his head and shook a fist at me. “This was your fault.”
    “No, it wasn’t,” I said, knees knocking. Oscar was the one who had opted to run into ice sculpture territory. Why couldn’t he have nailed the sculpture by our peace-loving hardware store owner? Mr. Nakamura would have uttered some blessing and re-created his artwork without a word of reproach.
    Theo moved toward me, fist pumping. “You hired my Tyanne!”
    How nimbly he changed