Free Clobbered by Camembert by Avery Aames Page B

up and down. When he did focus on my face, he blinked rapidly. Was he purposely making his eyes flutter? I clapped my hands inches in front of his face. He looked at me—directly at me. His pupils didn’t waver. Not a whit. I recalled a boy in seventh grade who would fake seizures if he hadn’t done his homework. Old Miss Magilicutty, our apple-faced teacher, would buy the con every time and cart the boy to the nurse’s office.
    A cloud lifted from my brain. I said, “You’re acting, Oscar. Those responses you just gave me are from the play Twelve Angry Men .” As a teen, I had been cast as the judge in the high school play—the only woman in an otherwise all-male cast. Grandmère had rallied on my behalf.
    Oscar said, “The burden of proof is on the prosecution.”
    “I’m right.” I jabbed a finger at him. “You’re spouting Juror Number Eight’s lines. Why?”
    Jordan deliberately cleared his throat.
    Oscar cut a look in Jordan’s direction and shuddered. “Wh-wh-who are you?” He wasn’t asking Jordan’s identity. He had met him around town.
    “Your worst nightmare, if you don’t start answering the lady’s questions.” Jordan grabbed Oscar by the elbow and hoisted him to his feet. “Are you going to talk? No more pretense.”
    Oscar shivered in his shoes, but not because the temperature hovered in the upper thirties. I rose, too, my gaze trained on Jordan as the question Meredith had posed to me earlier in the day scudded through my mind. Who was Jordan really? He had such command over people. Was he merely a cheese farmer, or was there something in his mysterious past that should frighten me?
    Oscar lowered his eyelids, as if he was considering his options, and then his eyes blinked open. “Yeah, okay.” He brushed off the front of his trench coat, all pretense gone. “I worked for Kaitlyn.”
    I said, “You mean you worked for Ipo.”
    “And Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”
    Adrenaline ping-ponged through my veins. Now we were getting somewhere. “What precisely did you do for her?”
    “About ten months ago, she hired me to check out neighboring properties.” Now that he was talking freely, he allowed a New Jersey accent to color his tone. “So’s I got a job at Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm to fit into the community.”
    “Were you checking them out to rob them?” I asked.
    “Nah. We were searching out a good buy.”
    “Are you a detective?”
    “Sorta.”
    “A corporate spy?” Jordan said.
    “That’s more like it.” Oscar steepled his hands. “See, I told Kaitlyn about the Burrell farm. They were having problems making payments. Based on my intel, Kaitlyn made a bid for the place.”
    “Why was Kaitlyn looking to invest in Providence?” I asked.
    “Why not? There’s a lot of growth here, what with all the tourism and people leaving the big cities for charming little towns. Kaitlyn is … was”—he gulped—“she was an opportunist.”
    I frowned. Something wasn’t ringing true with Oscar’s story. “Why were you at Rebecca’s cottage? Did you kill Kaitlyn Clydesdale?”
    “Me? No!” He gulped, peeked at Jordan, and returned my gaze. “Do you know Georgia Plachette? Kaitlyn’s gal. Real pretty with dark curly hair.”
    She was Kaitlyn’s CFO, the young woman with the bad cold who had reminded me of a wet poodle.
    Oscar’s cheeks flushed. “I like her, and, see, she wouldn’t go for no liar. So’s I decided to come clean with her about my so-called duties, but first I had to quit working for Clydesdale Enterprises and be who I really am.”
    “And who is that?”
    “An actor,” Jordan said.
    Oscar tapped his nose and pointed at Jordan.
    “Kaitlyn saw you in a play,” Jordan added.
    “Man, you’re good.” Oscar looked at me. “See, she checked me out, found out I was in debt. Big debt. She made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” He stubbed his toe into the ground. “I was going to tell Georgia everything, but first I had to quit. I saw Kaitlyn at the pub