The Long Quiche Goodbye (30 page)

She was right. My grandfather loved spending time here. He may have retired, but he needed to breathe the pungent air inside Fromagerie Bessette on a daily basis or he’d die.

“He’s hiding,
non
?” Grandmère returned to my side and peered cynically into my eyes, like a snake charmer who was being conned by the snake.

“Oh, please,” I sniffed. “You think I’m abetting him?

Maybe he’s taking a little stroll. You know how self-conscious he’s become about the few pounds he’s gained since his retirement.” My grandfather loved to sneak slices of cheese from the tasting platters we set on the marble countertop. “Look, there he is.” I pointed. Pépère was exiting the Country Kitchen across the street. “And you’ll notice he’s not headed this way.”

Grandmère muttered something in French, chastising herself for not believing the love of her life, and I smiled. Theirs was the kind of relationship I craved, aged like a fine cheese.

“Charlotte,” Rebecca said. “Did you tell your grandmother about Meredith’s fund-raiser? And that she wants local actors to perform?”

I cocked my head. Exactly when did she think I’d had time to do that?

“At the abandoned winery,” Rebecca added.

Color drained from my grandmother’s face. “Not at Ziegler’s. No, no, no!
”

I flinched at the panic in her tone. She wasn’t one to buy into rumors. “Why not?” I asked, unable to mask my concern.

She didn’t answer.

A shiver coursed through me. “Grandmère?”

She shook her head. “I must fly.” She petted my cheek.
“Au revoir, chérie.”

As she scurried out, I turned the sign in the front window to open. Customers bustled inside. Many sampled cheeses, while others came to hang out and chat. With the flurry of activity, the feeling of foreboding vanished. An hour later, I thought nothing in the world could go wrong.

Was I ever mistaken.

The door burst open, a gust of cool air invaded the shop, and in bounded Sylvie, Matthew’s ex-wife.

With her you-owe-me attitude, enhanced lips, and augmented breasts, Sylvie, as Grandmère would say, was all huff and fluff. She adjusted a gargantuan leather tote over the shoulder of her faux ocelot coat—at least I hoped it was faux—flipped her acid-white hair off her shoulders, and in a shrill English accent that would make Anglophiles cringe, shouted, “Where are my babies?”