The Long Quiche Goodbye (11 page)

A tingling of hope shot through me. Lois was Felicia’s alibi? Felicia couldn’t have picked a worse person for corroboration. Lois was known to drink a little too much after five P.M.

CHAPTER 11

The instant the ladies were gone, I called the police department. A clerk said Chief Urso was out and couldn’t be reached for the evening. I left a quick message about Felicia’s flimsy alibi, closed the shop, and walked with Rebecca to our girls’ night out.

As usual, Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub smelled of rich, foamy Guinness and warm bodies. Locals and tourists stood two-thick at the antique bar, a beautifully hand-carved stretch of wood that Tim had purchased in Ireland. Most of the folks craned their necks so they could watch one of the televisions hanging beyond the bar, three of which displayed different sporting events. A fourth TV aired the latest episode of
Vintage Today
, a regional cable show starring a hunk of a guy who taught people how to update the interiors of their homes with new fixtures and appliances. All of the televisions had the sound turned off and the closed-captioning option turned on. If no sporting events were major battles, then Tim preferred to promote conversation, laughter, and rollicking Irish music. A trio—two on electric violins, one on an ancient drum—played in the far corner. I patted my thigh in rhythm and thought about taking up Irish clog dancing. The nearest class was in Columbus.

Rebecca nudged me. “Go that way.”

Like a woman on a mission, she steered me across the hardwood floor, through the round claw-footed oak tables, to one of the rustic booths lining the far wall. The backs of the booths reached to the ceiling, ensuring a small degree of privacy.

“By the way . . .” Rebecca scooted onto the bench opposite me and pulled an appetizer menu from the holder on the table. “Delilah can’t join us. She’s got rehearsal.”

I wondered if Meredith would show up. The Pollyanna in me said good friends should be able to talk about anything, but the cynic in me, that little voice that I so desperately tried to keep locked in a mental trunk, said perhaps there was something sinister brewing—what, I couldn’t imagine. Did she want to break up our friendship? Had I done something to offend her?

Rebecca rapped the table with her knuckles. “Yoo-hoo. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I didn’t like talking about my fears. Especially at night. After my parents died in the crash, I took to crawling under the covers of my bed with a flashlight and a book, and I would sink into utter silence. Grandmère never pressed me. Creep Chef once told me that, like a porcupine, I stuck my needles out to guard myself from hurt. I wanted to convince myself that Meredith was simply avoiding me because she had so much end-of-the-year stuff going on at school that she didn’t have an ounce of time, but I wasn’t that cavalier. And she’d lied about the parent/teacher conferences. To my face.

A waitress toting a tray filled with drinks paused at the end of our booth. “The usual?”

Rebecca nodded. A Cosmo for her, a glass of Guinness for me. Tim’s boasted sixty beers on his menu, both domestic and foreign. I’d made it a quest to try every one at least once. I was up to twenty-two. Guiness was still my favorite. When the waitress left, I asked Rebecca if she would like to have dinner with me and my grandparents, but she declined, saying she actually had a date.

“With whom?”

Her face flushed bright pink. She had shown interest in a couple of local farmers, but I didn’t think any had found the courage to ask her out yet, she being Amish and, in their minds, possibly too prim for them.

“C’mon, who?”

“A reporter.”

“Oh, no.” The first reporter that came to mind was the weasel with the bug-eyed glasses who had grilled me the day after my grandmother’s arrest.

“Oh, yes, and Charlotte, he’s very cute. He says he’ll tell me everything he’s learned about being an investigative reporter and how to get a good scoop and, well, everything. He said he’ll show me his notes.”

I’d bet he wanted to show her a lot more than his notes. I said, “Reporters don’t divulge secrets.”

“I know.” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “I’m not naïve.”

“Look, Rebecca—”

“Please, don’t talk me out of it. Back home, I wouldn’t get a choice of whom I got to date, you know? My marriage would be . . . arranged. I’d really like to—”

“I get it.” A spurt of anxiety rushed through me. Rebecca reminded me of a young colt, growing up so fast, believing she was ready for wide-open pastures. I wanted her to slow down, be wary, but I feared anything I said would fall on deaf ears. Wary wasn’t exciting. She wanted exciting.

“What about you?” Rebecca said. “Who are you interested in?”

She couldn’t tell? Hooray for me. Perhaps I was subtler than I gave myself credit.

“Come on, there has to be someone,” she prodded.

“Why does there have to be someone?” For the past few years, prior to meeting Jordan, I had been perfectly happy being single. Sure, I’d had an occasional date, but Creep Chef had done such a number on my confidence, constantly making me feel insignificant for wanting to become a cheesemonger, that when he split, I assured myself that if I ended up single for the rest of my life, I would be happy to fill the days with the things I loved. Work, cheese, good food, family, and travel. I yearned to travel—when the shop was a super success and the budget allowed.

“Charlotte, c’mon, spill.”

“Oh, look, there’s Freckles.” I wiggled my fingers, eager to get the subject off me. “And Felicia.”

Rebecca looked where I pointed. “Ewww. She’s with that Prudence. The woman never smiles!” she added, her tone tart, judgmental. “Oh, and isn’t that the
Délicieux
r eporter?”

Zinnia, wearing yet another flower-decorated blouse, sat at a table with the stocky man who ran the farmer’s market. Her tape recorder stood on the table. Was she interviewing him? Had she forgotten about me? Perhaps
Délicieux
had warned her off the Bessette family for now. Too much conflict. Except wasn’t any publicity good publicity? My shoulders sagged. Perhaps not.

“Say, isn’t that gal at the bar the one from the Cleveland wine tour?” Rebecca pointed.

Unable to see much of the bar from where I sat, I peered around the corner of the booth. The bleached blonde woman—her tight brown tour T-shirt replaced with an even tighter pink one, her jeans so snug they looked painted on—sat with her legs crossed and one arm slung over the back of the bar stool. A jaunty man in a loose-fitting suit joined her. A pencil wove through the shaggy hair above his ear. He looked to be at least ten years her junior.

“Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.” Rebecca covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s . . . it’s . . .” Tears sprang into her eyes.

I could only surmise. “Your date?”

She nodded. “Quigley.” She sniffled, then shrugged in a worldly way, well beyond her years. “Oh, what do I care?” She wiped tears away with her pinky. “He didn’t like any of the cheeses I offered him. He has no taste.”

A good measure of a man, I thought, flashing briefly on Jordan and how much he enjoyed cheese and a hearty glass of wine. And cooking. And Ohio. And, well, everything I liked.

Our waitress set our drinks on the table.

Rebecca took a big gulp of her Cosmo, then ran her tongue along her lips. “Say, do you think the tour lady might have killed Ed? I mean, the one night she’s in town, and he dies. Some coincidence, huh?”

“Lots of people visit here,” I said. “Just because someone dies doesn’t make a happenstance visitor a suspect. Heck, if that were the case, then Zinnia could be a suspect.”

“But the tour guide was flirting with Ed. Don’t you remember how he fed her and she licked the oil off his fingers?”

How could I forget? At The Cheese Shop opening, Ed’s blatant disdain for Kristine had bothered me. Grandmère said she had seen Ed visiting the tour guide at Lois’s B&B. Were they having an affair? Had she killed him in a
crime passionnel
?

“Or better yet,” Rebecca went on. “What if my date is actually the guide’s husband or her boyfriend, and he got super jealous and he offed Ed?” She shuddered and shook her hands as if trying to get sticky leaves off of them. “Ew. That’s just too creepy to contemplate. He’s a killer and I could have gone on a date with him. Let’s go find out.” She started to rise.

I pinned her arm to the table and prevented her from leaving. “Are you nuts?”

“Please? We’ll find out if she knew Ed, you know, for a long time. Like maybe they were lovers before Kristine married him. They were only married nine years. Ed could have been with a lot of women.”

My mouth dropped open. Rebecca was learning way too much from TV and the Internet.

“Oh, look, there’s Jordan,” Rebecca said.

Instantly I released Rebecca and my hands went to my hair to primp. Rebecca took the opportunity to bolt off the bench.

“Ha! Fooled you,” she said with glee.

Guess I wasn’t as subtle as I thought. Rats
.

Rebecca hurried toward the tour guide. I wasn’t certain which was more important to her, getting the scoop on the tour guide or snubbing her erstwhile date, but before she could embarrass herself, I raced to her, slipped my arm around her waist, and steered her into a U-turn.

“But they have motive and opportunity,” Rebecca protested.

“That’s enough, my little flatfoot.” She had watched entirely too many reruns of
Law & Order
and
NCIS
and who knew what else. “Trust me, you’ll thank me,” I said. Once we were seated back at our table, I said, “By the way, I need your help tomorrow putting together Felicia Hassleton’s garden party order.”

Rebecca looked chagrined. “Yeah, okay, I heard you talking before we left. You know, it’s possible that when Ed Woodhouse pulled out of donating to the museum, Miss Hassleton got so angry that she killed him.” She drank another sip of her Cosmo. “Maybe we should tell Chief Urso to go to her house and search for evidence. I mean, if she killed him, the flowery dress she wore that night would be all bloody. Garbage collection hasn’t come this week.”

Apparently I wasn’t the only one clever enough to think of these things. No wonder Urso had bridled when I’d strutted into his office. I cringed at the thought of how he would react when he heard the message I left earlier. I was more of a novice than Rebecca, it appeared.

“Hey, maybe we should look in her garbage for ourselves,” Rebecca said, her eyes bright with zeal. “Or better yet . . .”

I felt a panic rising in my stomach.

“. . . we should scour through the museum’s garbage. If I killed somebody, that’s where I’d put it. In that big Dumpster out back.” Rebecca hitched a thumb, which thwacked the back of the booth. “Ow.” She rubbed and snickered. “Clumsy me.” She wasn’t snockered, but one Cosmo was her limit. “We could go now, on our way to dinner with your grandparents. I’m re-inviting myself, if that’s okay.”

“It’s fine.” Grandmère and Pépère would welcome her with open arms. “But Rebecca, the museum is out of the way.”

“C’mon. Don’t be a ninny. Felicia won’t do her walk-around until nine. It’s only seven.” She slapped cash on the table to pay for our drinks, eyed the front door, then leaned forward and whispered, “We won’t go inside. We’ll just take a peak. Deal?”

Maybe one beer was my limit, as well, because I wasn’t seeing any harm in her plan. After all, garbage was public property.

CHAPTER 12

“Isn’t there a ladder on the darned thing?” Rebecca left her lookout point at the end of the alley behind the historical museum and its neighboring homes and stole to my side.

Muttering to myself, I toured the perimeter of the Dumpster a second time. Why, for heaven’s sake did, Felicia need a Dumpster for her small enterprise? Why didn’t she have a simple little green Tupperware garbage can like all the other houses in the area? Perhaps she had done some renovating, except if she was running low on money, that wouldn’t make any sense.

“I know,” Rebecca said. “I’ll give you a boost and you can look over the edge.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I’m really strong.”

“That’s not the point.” I blew a stream of frustrated air out my nose. A sheath and sandals were not exactly appropriate attire for scaling a metal behemoth.

“C’mon. Step into my hands.” Rebecca bent down and laced her fingers together. “Don’t worry. I’ve lifted my brothers this way. Promise. I won’t let you fall. Just take a peek.”

Feeling like a numbskull, I slipped my foot into the stirrup she formed with her hands, and grabbing hold of the corner of the Dumpster and one of the braces running top to bottom, heaved myself toward the upper edge.

“What is going on, Charlotte?” Urso said from behind me, his voice authoritative and curt.

I dropped from the Dumpster, heart pumping, goose bumps prickling my arms, and shielded my eyes from the blinding beam of Urso’s flashlight. Why in the heck was he carrying a flashlight at dusk? To intimidate me, no doubt. The tactic worked. Rebecca huddled behind me, trembling. I shook off my initial alarm and poked her to do the same. Urso was harmless. At least I hoped so.

“Well?” Urso switched off the flashlight and slung it into a holster on his belt. “Did you lose something?” He eyed my dress.

I followed his gaze and my cheeks warmed. The darned sheath had bunched up around my thighs. What I would have given for a baggy overcoat and galoshes right about now. I tugged the sheath’s hem down to my knees, then stood a little taller, but that didn’t make any difference. I still felt like a pipsqueak around Urso.

“Don’t tell me you’re looking for more bloody evidence,” he said. “Let me guess, Felicia Hassleton’s dress?”

I caught the smug humor in his gaze and bristled. Why was I so sure it was a woman who had killed Ed? Because it was a crime of passion. The killer had stabbed Ed in the heart. Yet another reason I didn’t believe that my grandmother was guilty. As organized and forthright as she was, she would have plotted to kill Ed and then shot him. She owned a little snub-nosed revolver, handed down to her from her father. I chose not to offer that little tidbit to Urso. He didn’t need more reason to suspect Grandmère.

“Find anything?” Urso asked.

“Hard to tell with a mere nanosecond to peek over the edge.” I didn’t even try to keep the snarkiness from my tone.

“I already searched Kristine Woodhouse’s boutique.”

Did he expect me to gush with thanks?

“I didn’t find anything incriminating,” he went on. “I think she’s innocent.”

A series of rejoinders rattled through my brain. Innocent, my foot. Maniacal, maybe. Pretentious, definitely. I tapped my fingers on my mouth, as if to keep the words nailed inside. What other possibilities were there?

I said, “What if Kristine burned the dress and gloves? Or buried them?”

“Or stuffed them in the back of her toilet?” Rebecca popped from her hiding place, my confidence apparently spurring hers. “I saw that storyline once on
CSI.
It was drugs, not a dress, but it’s the same thing. At least, I think it is. Seems the same.”

Urso sighed. “It’s late, Charlotte. Why don’t you visit your grandparents and then go home? As for you, Miss Zook . . .”

“Yes?” Rebecca squeaked.

“You should know better than to orchestrate something like this.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Oh, but you did.” Urso snorted. “I happened to be at the pub.”

Rebecca and I gasped in unison.

“Yep, sitting in the booth beyond yours. I heard the entire plot.”

Why, the rascal. Playing cat and mouse with us. Letting us go off half-cocked just so he could trap us. I’d have to keep his diabolical nature in mind when dealing with him in the future.

“Now go home.” Without another word, Urso strode from the alley. His shoulders shook with laughter as he turned the corner.

When he was out of sight, I realized I had forgotten to tell him about the theory that any of Kristine’s friends—not just Felicia—could have killed Ed, but I didn’t call him back. He wouldn’t be in the mood to listen. That conversation could wait until morning.

But dinner wouldn’t. Rebecca and I returned to The Cheese Shop. I selected a bottle of Markham sauvignon blanc, and I boxed the apricot-cream-cheese coffee cake I’d made earlier in the day, gluten-free so Clair could have a taste, and then we strolled toward my grandparents, heading south. On our way, Rebecca was eager to hash around other theories, but I nixed that idea.

As we neared the corner of Grace Street and Cherry Orchard Road, orchestral music filled the air. In moments, I realized it was coming from my grandparents’ yard. A crowd had gathered three-deep and ran the length of my grandparents’ white picket fence. I groaned. Just what I needed, as if my evening’s run-in with the law wasn’t enough excitement for one day.

Mr. Nakamura, the Nuts for Nails owner, waved and smiled. “I love a free concert,” he said, his almond-shaped eyes glittering with humor. He always looked for the fun in life. He had seen too much as a young boy, he told me one day when I was buying nails by the pound. I didn’t know what he’d seen, but I could commiserate. “Nice night for one,” he added.

Yes, it was a lovely night. The temperature was a balmy seventy-five. Not too hot, not too cool. So why was I suddenly perspiring? I was too young for hot flashes.

I pushed through the crowd, and the pastor’s wife, Gretel, a hearty woman with blonde braids who looked like she would be right at home yodeling in the Alps, grabbed hold of my arm.

“How divine of your grandmother to offer us a peek at a rehearsal for the new ballet.”

Now I recognized the tune. “Good Morning, Baltimore” from
Hairspray
, a reedy string version, probably recorded by Providence’s very own ten-piece orchestra, conducted by my very own bullheaded grandmother. What was she thinking, putting on such a spectacle when she was under house arrest?

“It’s going to be quite a show.” Gretel winked. “A little risqué, but that’s all right with me.” Like Delilah, she had spent considerable time in New York. She’d wanted to be a publisher, but after a few years, she returned to Providence looking for a simpler, more spiritually fulfilling life. She once confided that spending an evening walking the rolling hills beyond town and drinking in the beauty of the stars, like those twinkling overhead tonight, were all she needed to feel at one with God. I craved a night like that.

“Oh, my, look at her go.” Gretel clapped her hands. Her braids bounced in rhythm.

Delilah, dancing the lead role of Tracy, was clad in a frumpy dress with slits up the legs. She pirouetted across the yard and threw herself into the arms of a local farmer who moonlighted as Providence’s leading man. He bent her backward, and she raised her arms gracefully over her head. A gathering of other dancers, part of the Baltimore street scene, cheered.

“Isn’t she splendid?” Gretel said.

I had to agree. Delilah was graceful yet athletic. Her face shone with enthusiasm.

“Your grandmother has such an eye for these things. I commend her.”

Grandmère, dressed like Martha Graham in a chic black leotard and wraparound skirt, looked fit, trim, and back in control of her emotions. She pounded out the rhythm of the music on the porch.

“She’s certainly resilient, isn’t she?” Gretel went on. “Acting like she hasn’t a worry in the world.”

“She didn’t do it,” I blurted. “She didn’t kill Ed Woodhouse.”

“Of course not, sweetheart, but who did?”

That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it?

“I don’t know . . . yet. But I will. Excuse me.” I hoisted my tote filled with wine and dessert and gave a little nod. “We’re expected for dinner.”

“Please tell your grandmother our prayers are with her.” Rebecca traipsed behind me as I cut through the rehearsal to the front porch.

“Delilah,” I said as I passed her. “Come join us for a bite when you’re through.”

She agreed and, in time to the music, did a little jig and clicked her heels.

Grandmère, her body warm with exertion, gave me a hug as I crested the top stair.

“You’re looking better,” I said.

She gave a perfunctory nod as if to say, why wouldn’t she? “The twins are inside. They brought your cat.”

Grandmère didn’t care for Rags. I wasn’t sure why. She’d never allowed me to have a pet while growing up. Through the screened door, I spied Clair rolling on the floor of the living room with him. Amy was sitting on the couch, an album laid across her lap.

“Your grandfather is in the kitchen baking,” Grandmère added. “Zucchini and onion quiche. I had a craving.” I had gotten all of my quiche recipes from my grandfather. He was a wizard with flaky pastry. “Rebecca,
chérie
, I hope you like quiche.”

“I love it.”

I inhaled the lush aroma of cheese and nutmeg. No doubt, Pépère was putting together one of his legendary salads, as well. I could hardly wait. My garbological adventure at the museum hadn’t deterred my appetite in the least.

“Is Matthew here?” I asked.

“He called. He’s running late.”

“Hmph,”
I muttered, again wondering what Matthew was up to. He wasn’t dating Delilah, because she was at rehearsal. The wineries had closed, so he wasn’t making business calls. Had he gone to the movies? The gym? Had he found some kind of local card game? Did he have a problem that we should discuss? Maybe he had stolen off with my elusive pal Meredith, I thought, then I chuckled at the ludicrous notion. She said she was dating someone who recited poetry. Matthew’s idea of poetry was what he read on the labels of wine bottles. Not to mention, about an hour ago, I’d seen him chatting up Zoe, the bakery owner. She’d be getting off work just about now.

“What’s so funny?” Grandmère said.

“Nothing.” Tension melted from my shoulders. Laughter truly was the best medicine. “When is your rehearsal over? How soon do we eat?”

“Now.” Grandmère pounded her stick again.

As she ended the session and bid everyone adieu, I pressed open the screened door. Rebecca followed me inside. Delilah joined us minutes later.

We ate dinner in the dining room, a charming space with burgundy flocked wallpaper, the most handsome country French Provincial dining table with a parquet top, and a matching hutch that housed a glistening set of Lenox white-gold-banded china. The table, fitted with burgundy placemats and napkins, set off the plates beautifully. The salad Pépère had made—field greens, slices of Roma tomatoes, thin slices of red onion, and a sprinkling of crumbled Humboldt Fog, with his special oil and vinegar dressing seasoned with crushed garlic, mustard, and a pinch of sugar—was mouthwateringly good.

We kept the conversation light. We didn’t discuss Grandmère’s situation. We didn’t bring up Matthew or his ex-wife. Not in front of the girls. Delilah regaled us with stories about the mishaps that had occurred during the rehearsal. When she told us that the leading man had landed on her foot not once, not twice, but five times, we all laughed. Even Grandmère.

Delilah came into the kitchen while I was scooping homemade espresso mascarpone ice cream into bowls. She leaned her hip against one of the cabinets. “I’m sorry your cousin isn’t here.”

Aha! I had picked up that she was interested in Matthew. “He’s certainly been in the diner a lot lately.”

She nodded. “Likes his coffee black.”

“Do you two . . . chat . . . while he’s there?”

“A little. Mostly he comes in, grabs the coffee, and leaves.”

Did I detect a note of regret? And if he wasn’t hanging around Delilah, where was he spending the rest of his time? Before I could ask, Amy appeared. I recognized the picture album she had tucked under her arm, and the muscles around my heart tightened. There were photographs of Matthew’s wedding in it. Which meant photos of her mother.

“Are you okay?” I said.

She plunked herself onto one of the chairs at the table. “Mum never calls.”

“She’s probably very busy.”

“Doing what?”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Delilah whispered and sashayed out of the room.

“Well,” I said, weighing my words carefully. “She’s probably working.”

“Working where?”

“Waitressing is my guess. That’s what she did when she and your dad met.”

“Was she a good waitress?”

“Sure, she was.” Honestly, I didn’t have a clue. The woman hadn’t worked in the restaurant a week when she set her sights on Matthew, the sommelier. She quit waitressing and moved in with Matthew a week after that. Grandmère had called her a gold digger. On the other hand, she hadn’t asked for a cent when she left him and the girls. Mumsie and Dad had plenty of cash to keep their little princess in pretty frocks and expensive shoes for decades to come.