The Long Quiche Goodbye (10 page)

Bozz and I followed her to the sidewalk, where dozens of people clustered around Kristine Woodhouse, dressed in a red silk dress, matching hat, and two-toned shoes. Her fists were jammed with flyers.

“Kristine,” Vivian said. “Stop what you’re doing this i nstant.”

“This is public property,” Kristine countered.

Oh, no, I thought. Here we go again. Was Kristine intent on fighting with everyone in town? Her flyers read
Elect Me, Not Bernadette.
I had to give her points for bluntness. No one would mistake her meaning. But people didn’t seem to want her flyers. Many were suppressing a smile. Some were muttering nasty comments. Did Kristine realize that people were finding her zealousness ridiculous and her lack of etiquette appalling?

Vivian said, “I’m having a gathering today. I can’t have—”

“You can have whatever I dish out, got me?” Kristine’s jaw jutted forward. “I refuse to let the police bully me into hiding.”

“Bully you?” I said.

“Raiding my home, peering through my closets, sorting through my garbage. The day before my husband’s funeral, no less.”

I wanted to cheer. Urso had actually taken my advice. I didn’t care that he might have foresworn decorum for due process. I wondered if he would share his findings.

Vivian said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Kristine, but really, I need you to move along.”

Kristine took a step closer and met Vivian eye-to-eye. “I’m on to you. You don’t want your precious auction attendees to back out. If they do, you might not have enough money to pay rent, and that would leave you in, let’s say, a tenuous position, wouldn’t it, dear? We wouldn’t want to make the new owner edgy.”

I said, “What are you talking about?”

Bozz whispered, “A developer bought Miss Williams’s building. The deal was all cash. It closed before Mr. Woodhouse . . . died.”

I remembered Zinnia from
Délicieux
mentioning the sale, but I hadn’t realized the sale involved Vivian’s building.

Vivian’s face turned chalk-white.

“Forget about Kristine.” I gripped Vivian’s hand. “Let’s go inside. Bozz, go back to The Cheese Shop and see if you can help Rebecca.”

As he trotted off, I led Vivian away from the burgeoning crowd and into the antique store. “It’s going to be fine,” I said, hoping it would be. Kristine and Ed had been bad enough as landlords, but a new owner could be iffy. He could hike rents or kick a tenant out for any number of reasons.

“If she has her way, I’ll be ruined,” Vivian said.

“If she has her way, everyone will be. She’s a spiteful, nasty woman, and I wouldn’t put it past her to have killed Ed.”

“With the candlestick in the parlor, Miss Scarlet.” Vivian dissolved into a fit of giggles.

I pressed her into a Victorian walnut gentleman’s chair, its cushions a creamy silk with a diamond pattern. “Breathe. C’mon, like in yoga class. One long wave. Then repeat.”

She knew what I was talking about. She was a stalwart yoga enthusiast, an avid runner, and she even worked out with a personal trainer.

When Vivian looked more relaxed, I uncorked a bottle of sauvignon blanc and poured her half a glass. She protested, but I ordered her to drink a sip. As she did, I caught sight of Meredith threading her way through the throng on the sidewalk, a silver gift bag tied with glittery ribbon in her hand. I called out, but she continued on, as if she was on a mission and couldn’t spare a second.

Odd behavior, but I couldn’t think about her now. I had to help Vivian get ready for what could possibly be a do-or-die auction.

CHAPTER 10

Two hours later, I gathered up the platters and baskets and recycled the wine bottles in the garbage behind Vivian’s store. I returned to The Cheese Shop, elated that I could help Vivian sell every item she had hoped to auction off, most over the reserved bid. She swore the buyers were loose with their checkbooks because Fromagerie Bessette had provided such wonderful food and wine, and she promised to praise us at the next city council meeting. Word-of-mouth advertising was worth its price in gold.

I bustled to the back of the shop with the platters and baskets and deposited them in the kitchen. When I returned to the cheese counter, I saw the cute young woman who owned All Booked Up bookstore slipping out the back door. Matthew stood in the arch leading to the annex. He looked eons better than he had the night before, his shoulders back, his eyes and skin glowing with energy.

“Aha!” I grinned. “You are seeing her.”

“Am not. She asked me to check out her books about wine at the store. She wants to make sure she has the right ones.”

“Uh-huh.” I winked.

He frowned. “Crowd’s thin now.” He removed his apron and smoothed the front of his pin-striped shirt. “But business was solid today.”

Those words were music to my ears. Actually, just having Matthew talk to me put a song in my heart. Maybe we could clear the air. “Are you—?”

“I’m leaving a little early. Rebecca said she was more than happy to take over in the wine annex. The girls are busy at an afternoon art program, and one of their friends’ parents will drop them off at Grandmère’s. You’re going there for dinner, right?”

“So are you, I thought.” I peered through the arch. The annex stood empty of customers. Rebecca was wiping down the bar with a fervor bordering on obsession.

“I’ll be there late.”

“Are you calling on the local wineries?” I asked, knowing that I had to visit all the local farmers soon. Maintaining public relations was one of my top priorities. “Or calling on a certain bookstore owner?”

Matthew didn’t answer.

“Or are you going to see Zoe, who owns the bakery?”

“Charlotte, don’t.”

Why couldn’t he admit he was dating somebody? Unless he wasn’t and had something else to hide.

He slung his apron on the hook by the rear door, tidied the tail of his shirt that had come free of his slacks, and strolled wordlessly toward the front of the shop.

As the grape-leaf-shaped chimes jingled goodbye to Matthew, a wistful feeling toyed with my heart, and I hated myself for it. I was not my cousin’s keeper. He had a right to privacy. Maybe he was doing something totally innocent, like attending some event at the Congregational Church down the street and he was late. I’d heard the bells ringing a welcome when I had left Vivian’s shop. A little time spent praying might do Matthew a world of good. Maybe he could find a way to get past the hurt that his ex had caused him and reconnect with me.

I ambled into the annex and said to Rebecca. “Looks polished to a shine.”

She beamed.

“Are we still on for tonight?” I asked.

“I am.” She tossed her wet rag into the sink behind the bar.

“Any word from Meredith?”

“Not a peep.”

The front door chimes tinkled again, signaling last-minute customers had arrived. I put off worrying about Meredith and hurried through the arch connecting the annex to The Cheese Shop to find Prudence and Felicia waltzing in, sunhats flopping, frothy floral dresses wafting up around their knees. The skirts settled down again as the door shut.

“Good afternoon,” Felicia said, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Why would she? Her deceased husband had left her a mound of cash that covered a fairly extravagant lifestyle. A trip down the Nile. A hike up Machu Picchu. A ballooning escapade across the south of France. I dreamed of doing all three.

Someday . . .

Prudence, as usual, looked uptight and edgy. Maybe it was because she never had any fun. She was a well-known penny-pincher. In all these years, she hadn’t purchased one ounce of cheese from Fromagerie Bessette. Gossip was that she had never married because she wasn’t willing to share a dime with a husband.

Some people changed over time; some people didn’t. I remembered being a gawky teen with acne and drab hair, ignored by the jocks, teased by the in-crowd girls. I had found my confidence and sense of style during college. Nowadays, I usually felt good in my skin, that is when I wasn’t fumbling for nouns and verbs in front of Jordan Pace.

The two women paraded toward me. Prudence took up residence on one of the ladder-back chairs by the tasting counter and crossed her spindly legs. She tapped her manicured nails on the counter as if to remind Felicia that time was a-ticking.

“Charlotte, dear, lovely little dress you’re wearing,” Felicia said.

I fingered the neckline of my sheath self-consciously. Felicia wasn’t prone to handing out compliments.

“How are you holding up?” Felicia didn’t really care how I was. She simply didn’t want me to boot her out of the shop. She perused items behind the glass, her gaze as focused as a rat surveying the contents of a mousetrap. “I’d like a half pound each of three of your favorite cheeses. Make sure that Tartuffo thingie I read about is included.” The
Délicieux
reporter hadn’t completed her interview with me yet, but she had written a blog on the Internet. In it, she had raved about the morsel of cheese I had fed her. Today the Tartuffo had almost sold out. I made a mental note to purchase more.

“How about a Vermont Grayson?” I suggested. I adored Grayson, which tasted like a Taleggio, a semisoft raw cow’s milk cheese, excellent melted on panini with a slice of chicken and a dried cherry reduction sauce. Felicia liked cheeses with creamy centers.

“Sure. Whatever. I’m having a little garden soirée at the museum this weekend. A mini fund-raiser.”

“Is the museum in financial trouble?” I asked.

“Nonsense!” Felicia hesitated then wiggled her fingers. “But reserve funds must always be in place. Ed was going to donate, but then, well, you know.” Something flickered in her gaze. Sorrow? Anger? She flipped her hand as if to swat away the emotion. “Oh, if you have any of that scrumptious ham and pineapple quiche around, let’s include that.” She leaned in to Prudence. “Charlotte features a different quiche every week. You should try some.”

At times, I wondered if Prudence ate anything other than lemons and grapefruit. She could do with a little sugar, a bite of cheese, and an extra dose of belly laughter in her diet.

“Let’s see, what else?” Felicia wandered away from the counter, dragging her tapered fingernails across the fronts of the basil pesto jars as she roamed.

The movement made me jerk to attention. I flashed again on the gala event when Kristine and her chums had marched in like a drill team. They had all come with gloves. Any could have put back on the gloves, grabbed the olive-wood-handled knife, killed Ed, and left the scene without leaving a fingerprint on the box or the knife. The killer could have disposed of the bloody gloves—at least one from the pair would have to be bloody—and purchased a replacement pair the next morning. Kristine’s Boutique was the only shop in town that sold gloves. If she wasn’t the killer, one of her friends might be. Would she reveal to Urso which of her pals had needed a new pair?

Itchy to be rid of my customers so I could call our chief of police with yet another theory, I quickly fetched a quiche from the refrigerator, set it into a cake box, and tied it with gold ribbon. “Is that all, Felicia?”

“Oh, no, I’ve got an extensive list.”

Great.

“Pssst.”
Prudence, who hadn’t moved from her spot, spanked the granite with her palm and beckoned me closer. “Felicia is very upset, though she wouldn’t let you know. Ed actually withdrew his offer to donate at the last minute. Can you believe it?”

“Why would he do that?”

“Why do you think?” Prudence rolled her eyes suggestively.

I gaped. Had Ed made the stipulation that, in order for him to give money to the museum, Felicia had to have an affair with him? Had she turned him down? They had looked pretty chummy at The Cheese Shop’s reopening.

“Charlotte,” Felicia called from the front of the store. “Let’s throw in a couple of these jars of honey, too. I know how you suggest adorning cheese with yummy concoctions.”

“Will do,” I said in a light, airy tone, though my mind was churning with new theories.

“By the by, how’s Bernadette?” Felicia went on. “I truly can’t believe what everyone is saying that she’s, you know . . .” She tapped her head with her finger.

My grandmother was nowhere near crazy. “She’s holding up well.”

“I saw her wandering the yard in her robe,” Felicia said.

Prudence clucked her tongue. “Leave it to Bernadette.” “She’s taking advantage of a well-deserved vacation,” I countered. That was the pat answer that Pépère and I had come up with, to counteract any rumors that townsfolk might start.

“And losing votes in the process,” Prudence said. “The election is days away. She can’t afford to look like a loony bird.”

I bit my tongue. Prudence’s pal Kristine wasn’t looking all that sane lately either.

Felicia drew up to the counter, her arm loaded with jars. “Kristine’s bound to win now.”

I stiffened. Could Kristine have killed Ed and thrown suspicion on Grandmère simply to win an election, as Vivian and Rebecca had intimated?

“I wonder if she’ll have time to do it all.” Felicia set the jars by the cash register. “The dress boutique, being mayor, handling all the real estate deals. Ed hooked up with a new developer, did you hear? New blood is what the developer wants.” She pulled a credit card from her vintage gold-filigree Lucite handbag but didn’t hand it to me. She brandished it in the air as she made her point. “Ed was getting ready to evict your grandparents. The scuttlebutt is that Bernadette was so furious when she heard the news, she lost it.”

My fingers formed tight fists. These women were never going to believe my grandmother was innocent until she was proven above suspicion. Eager to be rid of them before I punched each in the nose, I carved off wedges of cheese, bundled them, and placed them in one of our gold bags. Then I thrust them at Felicia.

“Oh, no, no, no, dear.” She stopped me with her palm raised high. “I’d like you to deliver the order, on platters, just like you did for Vivian.”

I resented her tone. I had taken Vivian’s order to her as a favor to a friend. Felicia was business. I lifted my chin and said, “I’ll have Rebecca deliver it.”

“Fine. Whatever. You can add a tip to the charge, of course. Don’t make a face.”

I didn’t know that I had. So much for thinking I was the model of discretion. But Felicia had a way of making a person feel like a servant. I wondered if people like her and Kristine simply couldn’t help themselves. Even if they couldn’t, that was no excuse for being rude.

“Pretty it up,” she went on. “You know, add the fruits and things, like you did at your gala. Presentation is so important. I aim to impress.”

“That’ll cost extra.”

She winced but recovered quickly, fluttered her fingers, and said, “Of course. You know, I really don’t know what happened between your grandmother and Ed.” She handed me a credit card. “Bernadette seemed fine when we parted ways that night. I mean, after the blowup with Kristine over that niece of yours.”

“My grandmother did not kill Ed Woodhouse,” I snapped as I punched in the appropriate numbers on the keypad to close out the transaction.

“But who else would have, dear?”

Kristine, or you, for that matter,
I wanted to say, but I was smart enough to know a blatant indictment would make Felicia clam up. And how was I supposed to get answers unless I listened and scraped together information?

I said, “Prudence, I heard you and Kristine and Tyanne went to the Country Kitchen after the fracas.”

“Mm-hmm,” Prudence said, her face as unreadable as a marble statue’s.

“And, Felicia, you went where?”

“To the museum, as I always do at the end of the day. Why do you ask?”

“I was hoping one or both of you might have seen my grandmother at the clock tower.”

“Sad to say, I didn’t.” Prudence slipped off her chair and clip-clopped toward a display table. She bent near a three-pound wheel of Brie, inhaled, then said, “Heavenly.”

I knew for a fact that she couldn’t smell a thing. I had recently refaced and rewrapped it.

“You and Tyanne stayed at the Country Kitchen for how long?” I asked.

“We listened to Kristine gripe for a minute or two, and then we headed home.” Prudence snickered. “We didn’t even buy a cup of coffee. Delilah Swain wasn’t happy about that.”

“And Kristine went to Tyanne’s house to pick up her daughter?” I asked.

Prudence and Felicia nodded in unison.

They all lived in different directions, which meant only two had alibis for the time of the murder, if the alibis were to be believed.

“What about you, Felicia?” I said.

“Me?”

“See anybody on your way to the museum?”

She tilted her head, the feathers on her hat flopping to one side, and stared at me, reminding me of a chicken who thought a rival hen was interested in stealing her seed. “Why, I stopped and chatted with my sister, Lois, at her place.”