The Long Quiche Goodbye (17 page)

“Me? That night? Oh, no, she must be mistaken.”

“Really?” I said, doing my best not to overreact. I took a sip of my tea.

“I was out of town. Visiting our aunt. She’s eighty-two. Poor thing’s laid up with a broken hip.”

“But the bed-and-breakfast was filled with guests.”

“My husband takes care of things when I’m gone.”

Her husband was a cube-shaped man with a ruddy complexion and thick red hair who puttered around the garden starting at dawn and hit the hay not long after dusk. When he wasn’t at home, he was roaming the hardware store.

“I guess I misunderstood her.” I paused. How could I broach the next question without accusing Felicia of out-and-out lying? “Do you know anything about Ed Woodhouse’s promise to contribute to the museum?”

“You mean, money?”

“Yes, money. Did he—?”

“Ed Woodhouse, that no-good, promised Felicia the moon. After her husband died, God rest his soul, she was so lonely. I tried to console her, but sisters . . . well, you know. Anyway, Felicia turned to Ed in friendship, and the man preyed on her.”

“Preyed?”

“Made her all sorts of promises. Lifelong promises.” Lois winked her good eye and gave a little nod. “You know the kind of promises I mean.”

“Like he’d leave his wife for her?’

Another nod. “But, no-o-o-o, nothing doing.” Lois sat upright and folded her hands primly in her lap. “I happen to know he had other lovers.”

“Like who?”

“Like Swoozie. She was his partner, as well.”

“But—” I sputtered. Ipo sure hadn’t picked up on that! I carefully set my teacup back on the tray and said as innocently as I could muster, “Partner in what?”

“Real estate deals. Felicia wanted to invest with Ed,” Lois went on, “but she invested too much of her inheritance in some moneymaking scheme and ran through it. I’m always encouraging her to travel with me, get out of town, get a new perspective, but she turns me down flat. That’s how I know she’s strapped. She’s so proud, she wouldn’t tell me if she’s in financial trouble, but sisters know things.”

Lois fluttered her hand in the air. “In the end, she chose not to be Ed’s business partner, and then he reneged on the promise to donate to the museum, and, well . . .” She covered her mouth with her hand and battled tears. “Felicia is an innocent sometimes, don’t you know.”

I was beginning to think that Felicia was anything but innocent.

CHAPTER 18

The air smelled deliciously sweet and there wasn’t a threatening cloud in the sky, so I took the long route to the shop and swung by Grandmère’s house. While walking, I decided that I would not share with Grandmère the news I had learned from Lois. I didn’t want to give her false hope.

I found her barefoot, plucking weeds from the grass, dressed in her favorite pink-striped capris and a Billy Joel Revival Tour T-shirt. The polka-dotted bandanna around her neck was drenched with perspiration.

“How long have you been at it?” I asked as I gave her a hug.

“An hour, maybe more. Who knows?”

“Drinking enough water?”

She gave me a baleful look. She was usually the one making sure I was keeping hydrated.

“Where is Pépère?”

“At the coffee shop. He needs the conversation. I am not much joy.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Time slips by,
chérie
.” She shook her trowel at me. Flecks of dirt and grass scattered into the air. “The town needs me, but do they plead my innocence to Chief Urso?
Non!
”

“They will. I have.” I petted her shoulder. “Any more plans for rehearsals on the lawn?”

The notion seemed to brighten her mood. “As a matter of fact, this afternoon we will have one. I’m going to broadcast the music as loud as I can.” She giggled. “I hope our new neighbor won’t mind.” She hitched her chin at Mystery Woman, who was climbing into a shiny silver Mercedes in the driveway.

She waved at us. Grandmère waved back.

“Who is she?” I said, curbing the impulse to dash to the woman and grill her for information. I couldn’t erase the sultry image of her leaning against Jordan’s office door jamb.

“I assure you, I would know, if I was able to get farther than the gate,” Grandmère said. “But I am shackled to . . . to this.” She threw her arms wide.

Plenty of people would love to have twenty-four hours a day to tend to their gardens and homes, but not my grandmother. Not under duress.

“I have begged your grandfather to snoop, but he r efuses.”

“A name at least?”

“Jacky. I introduced myself the other day when the real estate sign came down. She said, ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Jacky.’”

“That’s all? No last name. No, ‘Gee, I’m moving here from Timbuktu’?”

Grandmère shrugged. “What more could I do?
Toute seule
.”

“You are alone, yes, I know.” I watched as the Mercedes pulled out into the street and Jacky, the mystery woman from who-knew-where, drove away. “She’s awfully pretty.”

“She is handsome, yes, and strong. Perhaps too strong. She has broken one or two men’s hearts, I would bet.”

Was Jordan one of them?

Grandmère poked me with the trowel. “Why do you frown so?”

“It’s nothing.” I glanced at my watch. “I have to go. Deliveries are due.” I had a business to run and my grandmother’s innocence to prove. Details of my love life, or non-love life, could wait. “Would you like me to bring you lunch?”

“I have plenty. Go, run.” She swatted me with the trowel.

Moments after I arrived at the shop and slipped on my apron, the deliveries started to arrive. New shipments of soft-rind cheeses from France, jams and condiments from the Heaven’s Bliss Farm, and artisanal cheeses from Two Plug Nickels Farm. Two new up-and-comer cheesemongers from Wisconsin also showed up, without an appointment, and pitched their blue-veined cheeses. They tasted divine and I ordered ten pounds. Matthew helped unload the wares, then returned to the annex to compile a list of wines to order based on last night’s purchases.

As I added the condiments to the shelves near the front of the store, Kristine Woodhouse marched into the shop, a scowl on her face. What now? I wondered, surprised to see her. Instinctively, I peeked at the new set of olive-wood-handled knives sitting on the display table to her right. She didn’t give them a passing glance.

“Charlotte, I heard you’re providing platters of cheese for Felicia Hassleton’s affair tomorrow.”

Was she here to pit me against her friend? She couldn’t possibly dream that I would choose to side with her on anything, not with all the anguish she had caused my grandmother.

“That’s right,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Well, just make sure that she pays you up front.”

Without another word, Kristine spun on her spiked heels and stormed out of the shop. The grape-leaf-shaped chimes jingled merrily, but my insides went cold.

Rebecca ran to my side. “What was that about?”

“Got me.” Perhaps Kristine had been taking a mental picture that she could share with whoever was bidding against me for the building. What was the status of that deal, by the way? I needed to call Octavia and get an update.

“Mind if I take a break?” Rebecca said. “I could use a little sunshine.”

“Go ahead. I can manage the counter,” I said, as my mind reeled with other possible scenarios for Kristine’s sudden appearance. Had she hoped for a crowd? Had she wanted to make me and everyone else in town question the status of Felicia’s finances?

As Rebecca headed toward the rear door, a couple of customers entered. Urso and our lawyer, Mr. Lincoln, followed them in. Mr. Lincoln had grown a beard since our last meeting, which made him look even more like our historic president. Neither he nor Urso looked happy.

Rebecca scurried back and whispered, “Go talk to them. I’ll see to the customers.”

I thanked her and strolled to Urso and Lincoln. “I take it you gentlemen are not here to buy cheese.”

“Miss Bessette, I’m sorry,” Mr. Lincoln said in a deep, reassuring baritone voice. “I’ve been trying to negotiate with Chief Urso—”

“Charlotte,” Urso cut in. “There have been complaints.”

“About?” I put my hands on my hips.

“The recitals in your grandparents’ yard.”

“Rehearsals,” I corrected.

“Whatever. The noise. The frivolity.” Urso ticked the points off on his fingertips. “The blatant display of . . . of . . .”

“Of what?” I snapped, bristling at the idea of Urso taking away my grandmother’s one and only pleasure at the moment.

Mr. Lincoln stepped toward me, palms open. “Display of disrespect.”

“My grandmother is not disrespecting a soul. She is trying to have a life, which you”—I pointed an accusatory finger at Urso—“have denied her. She is not guilty. You have absolutely no motive to connect her to the crime whatsoever. A jury will—”

“We have her holding the knife and kneeling over the body,” Urso said.

“That’s enough to put her in jail,” Mr. Lincoln said softly, as if he was embarrassed to have to state the obvious.

“But—” I stammered. “Do something. That’s why we hired you. Do something!”

“He can’t, Charlotte.” Urso took a step forward. “If Bernadette doesn’t live a quieter life, I’m going to be forced to remove her from her home. I’m the good guy here, don’t you see that?”

I did. He was. I had no right to blame him. “I will talk to my grandmother. In the meantime, I’ve come up with some other theories.”

“No, Charlotte.” Urso towered over me.

I withered beneath his scowl, feeling about as insignificant as a toadstool. Fine, I thought. I wouldn’t share my theories. But I wouldn’t stop investigating, either. And I would have a chat with our attorney, in private, and see if he could come up with some legal hocus-pocus.

They left and business resumed. Customers who had received the first of our newsletters came in asking about the cheese-of-the-month: Rolf Beeler Val Bagnes, a cow’s milk from Switzerland. It was cured in white wine and tasted excellent at room temperature or, like a typical raclette, served warm and scraped onto a plate—
raclette
means to scrape in French. I usually decked out the dish with potatoes, gherkins, pickled onions, and other tangy tidbits. Matthew had imported a lighthearted pinot gris from the Valais region to accompany the cheese.

Midafternoon, Rebecca elbowed me and said, “Ohho-ho, look who’s here.” She raised an eyebrow and jerked her chin to the right.

Swoozie Swenten, the blonde tour guide, and a group of tourists all dressed in jeans and red T-shirts with
I Love Ohio Wine
emblazoned across the fronts, stood in a semicircle by the gift table. All were laughing. Someone must have told a good joke.

I sauntered to them and smiled. “Care to share?”

One of the male tourists smacked Swoozie on the back. “You do it.”

“Okay,” Swoozie said, her voice husky from years of smoking. “How do you get a Scotsman on the roof?” She eyed her pals, then me. “Tell him drinks are on the house!”

The joke wasn’t that funny. I had heard it told dozens of times with a different nationality affixed each time. But the crowd burst into another fit of giggles, making me wonder just how many of the local winery tasting rooms they had visited in the past twenty-four hours.

“Swoozie, do you have a sec?” I said.

“Yeah, sure.” She bumped me with her hip and flourished an arm to steer me toward the far wall, as if she were the instigator in our little tête-à-tête. When we settled into the corner by the jars of honey, she licked her teeth and combed her ponytail with her fingers. “What’s up?”

“A friend said you and Ed Woodhouse were business partners.”

She sobered instantly. Her gaze grew guarded. “Which friend?”

“And that you were lovers, as well,” I blurted.

“Your friend got it wrong.” Her tone was as clipped as a prison matron’s. She turned to leave, but I gripped her elbow, feeling emboldened by the crowd roaming the shop. Swoozie wouldn’t attack me with all these witnesses. At least, I hoped she wouldn’t.

“How wrong?”

“I was his partner, yeah. I put every last bit of my savings into Ed’s ventures, but I was not his lover.”

I reminded her of The Cheese Shop opening, when practically everyone in town saw her licking olive oil off Ed’s fingers.

She blanched. “It’s not what you think.”

“What should I think?”

She shifted feet.

“He’s dead,” I said.

“I didn’t kill him. You don’t—” Swoozie’s eyes widened with dawning realization. “Oh, shoot, it’s your grandmother who’s suspected, right? I’m so sorry about that. My mind drew a blank. How’s she doing?”

“Where were you that night?”

“Here. With my tour. I’d had a little . . .” She made a drinking gesture and cocked her head. “Goes with the job sometimes.”

Seemed to me that a lot of people had too much to drink that night. I made a mental note to talk to Matthew about monitoring future tastings and refocused on Swoozie, my foot tapping the floor like a riveter.

“Where were you after?”

“After?”

“I don’t remember seeing you after the argument that broke out between my grandmother and Kristine Woodhouse, and I sure as heck didn’t see you afterward, at the scene of the crime.”

A glimmer of fear flashed in her eyes. Swoozie glanced at her group of tourists and back at me. She fingered the strands of silver necklaces encircling her neck, then cleared her throat. “Look, Ed and I, we played around a bit, but it never meant anything . . . I mean, I never get serious with anyone, you know? It was just fun. We were partners.”

“In shady deals.”

“Shady?” Her hands balled into fists.

I wondered if I should duck.

“Lois told you, didn’t she? Shoot. I should’ve known better than . . . Shoot. Okay, yeah, Ed and me, we charged excessive amounts of rent. I didn’t like it much, but he said supply and demand allowed for it.”

“I heard he was planning on invalidating the partnership,” I lied. Anything to get her more riled up and spilling the story.

“Invalidating? He—”

“You stood to lose a lot of income.”

Swoozie’s shoulders sagged as if she was finally accepting her own truth. “But he didn’t break up the partnership.”

According to her. “The way I see it, you could have killed him for two reasons. Either to not lose the partnership, or to get your name disassociated with the deals in order to keep your reputation clean,” I said, using the same reasoning my friends had applied to Meredith being guilty. “A gal like you, in a public business like leading tours, can’t afford to sully her reputation.”

“I didn’t kill him,” she blurted. “Ed’s death left me with a mess. Ask Kristine.”

“Ask her what?”

“Aren’t you listening? Ed and I were partners. My name is on a lot of documents. I couldn’t have kept that a secret. Kristine knew about me.” Swoozie barked out a laugh. “I can see you’re shocked.”

Creep Chef said I had a lousy poker face. Guess he was right.

“Suffice it to say that Kristine”—Swoozie licked her teeth—“she’s riding me hard to sell off these puppies, and she expects results yesterday.”

Good old Kristine. How surprised she must have been, believing she had gotten rid of her philandering husband only to end up with his lover as her new partner. She soared to the top of my suspect list yet again.

“So where were you at the time of the murder?”

“I guess Ed won’t care any longer, not like he cared then.” A bitter sadness swept across Swoozie’s face but quickly vanished. Maybe she really did love him. Why, I couldn’t imagine. “I was with somebody else.”