Free Clobbered by Camembert by Avery Aames Page A

gears, I mused. He wasn’t angry at me for ruining his sculpture; he was railing at me for hiring his wife—the wife he had cheated on. I wondered if medication for a rapidly fluctuating temperament might be in his future.
    “Fire her,” he demanded.
    A crowd emerged from between the surrounding tents. I peered among them for Matthew. He had to be in the area. I could hear the twins’ chorale group practicing the Beatles’ “She Loves You.” Was Matthew aware that I was about to be ripped limb from limb? Would he save me?
    Feeling bolstered by the crowd, I employed the tone I used for the twins whenever I had to mediate an argument and said, “I’ll do nothing of the sort. Tyanne is free to do as she pleases. End of discussion.” Oscar started to worm away from the scene, but I rested the toe of my boot on his arm. “Uh-uh, you stay put.” I regarded Theo. “I’m sorry about the ice sculpture. Grandmère ordered extra blocks of ice just in case anything untoward happened. You’re obviously very talented. You can carve your masterpiece again.”
    My apology redirected Theo back to the real reason for his anger. He raised his heel, I assumed to crush Oscar’s pale face, but he stopped, foot in mid-air, and his eyes went wide.
    “Problem?” a man said from behind me.
    I turned toward the welcome sound.
    Jordan, arms casually hanging by his sides, strolled toward Theo. He carried a sparkly white bag in one hand and looked relaxed, but something about his steady gaze and his loping walk reminded me of a panther ready to attack.
    Theo must have picked up on the feral energy, too. He lowered his foot, took a step back, dusted off his parka with the edge of his hand, then thrust an index finger at Oscar. “You’re lucky, you bozo.” He eyeballed Jordan one last time, then grabbed his tool kit and stormed out of sight.
    The crowd dispersed, discussions about the altercation rising in pitch as the folks departed, but soon the quiet of night settled around Jordan, Oscar, and me. Only the faint humming of the chorale filled the air.
    I smiled at Jordan. “Thank you.”
    “No thanks needed. Someone in the crowd would have jumped in if you hadn’t been assertive.”
    I wasn’t so sure.
    Jordan glanced at my toe, which was still pinning Oscar’s arm. I felt my face redden. What kind of beast was I? I removed my foot and said, “Stay.”
    Oscar squirmed to a sitting position.
    “What do you want with him?” Jordan asked.
    “I want to interrogate him.”
    “You don’t look like you need me for that. I’ll mosey along.”
    “No, please.” I grabbed Jordan’s wrist, the one holding the sparkly bag.
    “Why? Because you want some of my candy?” He wriggled the bag, which came from the Igloo Ice Cream Parlor. “I’ve got chocolate bonbons stuffed with peanut butter cream. I bought them for Jacky, but I’m sure she’ll share.”
    “I don’t want candy.” I mean, I did. I often do. A girl doesn’t live on cheese alone, although I do my best. As my grandfather says, There are so many choices, so little time. “Stay, please?” I explained about Kaitlyn’s death and how Urso was honing in on Ipo as a suspect and the fact that I’d caught Oscar lingering at Rebecca’s cottage.
    Jordan’s face turned grave. “Question away, but don’t expect to get much from him. You know he’s—” Jordan tapped his head.
    Challenged or not, Oscar was going to answer me. I crouched beside him and held him with my gaze. “Did you kill Kaitlyn Clydesdale?” I was no district attorney. Subtlety was not my forte.
    “We’re talking somebody’s life here,” Oscar said.
    His indirect response jarred me, but I continued. “You ran from Rebecca Zook’s cottage.”
    “Do you think you were born with a monopoly on the truth?” he replied.
    Again, his response struck me as odd. So did his speech pattern. It wasn’t jagged. It sounded almost rehearsed.
    “Oscar . . .”
    His gaze roved—to the right and left,