The Long Quiche Goodbye (20 page)

“Leave me alone.” She wrenched free and raced out the front door, slamming the thing so hard that it rattled.

Meredith called, “Charlotte! Is that you?” She stood in the study by the far wall, one of the museum’s books open in her hands. “What was that about?”

I paused in the archway and explained what had happened.

“What a horrid, horrid woman Kristine Woodhouse is.”

“She’s like a train wreck waiting to happen.”

“If I didn’t suspect she was the murderer, I’d worry she was next on someone’s hit list.”

“What are you doing?”

“Snooping.” Meredith grinned. “Just kidding. You know me and books.”

What she said gave me an idea. I glanced at the front door and then back at the mahogany staircase. Would something in Felicia’s ledgers show me what Ed had or hadn’t promised? Would that information confirm that Felicia had been so desperate for Ed’s donation that, when he reneged, she—not Kristine—killed him? The office where she did her bookkeeping was upstairs. I remembered taking a tour of the museum once and seeing Felicia busy at work at a handsome Edwardian rolltop desk. I had remarked on the beauty of its ornately carved side supports. Circa the eighteen nineties, she had said. Would the desk contain documents that could pin her with a motive and absolve my grandmother?

“You won’t believe all the stuff I’m learning about Providence,” Meredith went on. “Felicia has done a great job with this place. Want to see what I’ve discovered?”

“In a sec.” I stole to the front door and peeked out one of the stained glass panels that flanked it. Felicia was nowhere in sight. How long would she wander? If I had been as upset as she had been, I would have needed at least a half-hour walk.

“Charlotte,” Meredith said.

None of the party people were touring the museum yet. I had to take the chance.

“I’ll be right back.” I tiptoed up the staircase, bypassed the Victorian costume display and the room housing an assortment of antique clocks, slipped into Felicia’s office, and pulled the sheer drapes closed.

CHAPTER 21

Felicia’s office was tidy and modest. The Edwardian rolltop desk and a secretary’s swivel chair stood in the center, a small round table with an antiquated dial telephone and an iron lamp to the right. Oil paintings of Kindred Creek hung on the walls. There were no file drawers, antique or otherwise. No free-standing boxes or trunks.

I tried to open the tambour rolltop, but it wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t jostle open any of the three drawers beneath it. As much as I’d hate to ruin such a lovely piece of furniture, I needed something to jimmy the lock, or I needed a key. Preferring my second option, I ran my hand beneath the drawers. No key was attached with tape. I fingered the backside of the desk’s frieze. Nothing had been stuck there either. I groped beneath the seat of the desk chair and came up empty.

I stood on the heart-shaped hooked rug in the middle of the floor and slowly scanned every inch of the room. Had Felicia hidden the key somewhere, or did she have the key on her person to prevent nosy museum visitors like me from prying?

I wasn’t ready to give up. I rarely did when on a quest. Perhaps she had stashed it in the lampshade. No.

Under the telephone? Again, no.

In the coat closet?

I scurried to the door and opened it. The hinges creaked. I froze. My heart thundered as I listened for movement outside the room. Nothing. But I didn’t have much time before someone would note my absence and come looking for me. I peered into the small cedar-lined closet and saw a series of antique jackets, dresses, bonnets, and high-buttoned shoes similar to those Felicia had worn for the party. The shelf overhead didn’t hold anything remotely resembling file records or a ledger. Frustration building, I rooted through the pockets of the jackets and dresses for the desk key and I was about to quit, when I suddenly remembered where I put my house key whenever I went to yoga class. Because my yoga clothes have no pockets, I stuffed the key in my shoe.

I turned each pair of shoes upside down, and in the next to last pair, a sassy brown number with white-tipped toes, I found a scrolled key.

My pulse racing, I crept to the office door and listened again for sound of anyone approaching. Hearing nothing, I returned to the desk, slotted the key into the lock, and twisted. Success.

With a gentle shove, I pushed up the tambour rolltop. A pen and a set of reading glasses lay dead-center, at the ready. The stationery compartments to the right were filled with personalized museum stationery, envelopes, and panes of stamps. The twin drawers held paperclips. Certain I was looking for a ledger of some sort, I whipped open the tiny cupboard on the left, but it merely contained business cards and boxes of pens. A clock with a second hand ticked mercilessly on the shelf above the stationery slots.

“Hush,” I muttered as I slid open the three front drawers. In the first and second, I found lined pads, void of notes or doodles. In the third, I discovered a green-spined book. I pulled it out, my fingers shaking with nervous energy, and flipped to the first page. Numbers and names of donors stared back at me, each entry dated. The same on the second and third pages.

Before I could read more, I heard footsteps on the stairs. The clickety-clack grew louder. My adrenaline pumping, I searched for a hiding place. The room was too sparse, the closet too far away. I barely managed to pull the tambour rolltop down and stuff the ledger behind me as the door to the office squeaked open.

Feeling like a girl caught stealing money from her mother’s purse, I forced a smile at Felicia.

“What the heck do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, her eyes sparkling with suspicion.

“I . . . I . . .” Sputtering didn’t become me.

“What’s behind your back?”

“Nothing.”

“Give it to me.” Felicia charged me.

I wielded the ledger like a shield, reluctant to fork it over.

She snatched it from my hands. “I’m calling Chief Urso.” She crossed to the telephone and lifted the receiver.

“Don’t,” I pleaded, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my eardrums, not because I was anxious about being alone with Felicia—people downstairs knew I’d gone to console her—but because I was worried about Urso finding out I’d been sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong. Besides, she looked more intent on strangling the telephone than me.

She tapped her toe. “Well?”

I swallowed hard, then confessed, starting with my theories.

Felicia exhaled as if she were a balloon that I had punctured with a sharp needle.

I continued. “When your sister, Lois, said you couldn’t afford to take trips with her—”

“Couldn’t afford to? Heck, I didn’t want to!”

“Didn’t want to what?”

“Travel with her,” she snapped, her righteous anger r evived.

“But she said you didn’t have the cash. That you have money issues. She said you ran through your inheritance from your dead husband.” I didn’t add that people were talking about the possibility that, to get his money, she had killed her dearly departed husband while sojourning in Europe. “And Prudence thought—”

“I don’t give a darn what that penny-pincher Prudence thinks.” She replaced the telephone receiver, then whipped open the ledger to the last page and stabbed her finger at an entry. “Five million dollars and counting. I’m flush. You can ask my banker, who happens to be downstairs.”

“But Lois said—”

“I told my demented sister that I couldn’t travel because she snores and talks in her sleep.”

I thought of Felicia’s alibi for the night of the murder. “Lois said you didn’t meet up with her the night Ed was killed.”

“Of course, I did.”

“No-o-o.” I drew the word out. “She was visiting your aunt who had broken her hip.”

“Auntie broke her hip the week before. I visited her at the same time as Lois. Auntie will verify the date. She may be in her eighties, but she’s not the one losing her marbles, if you know what I mean.”

Hearing people shuffling about in the hallway emboldened me. I said, “Then why did you argue with Kristine about money at the diner?”

“We didn’t argue.”

“You demanded she pay you what Ed promised you.”

“Who told you—?”

“There were witnesses.”

Felicia worked her tongue inside her mouth. “It was a matter of principle. Ed made a pledge.”

“Some people say you were a woman scorned, and—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, enough gossip! Whoever your
some people
might be, they’re wrong. I am not a woman scorned. I despised that man.”

I felt like I was stuck in a kaleidoscope, my theories a jangle of fractured colored pieces. “I don’t know who started that rumor,” Felicia went on. “Lois, I imagine. She hates me for being prettier and younger, like I could help either. No matter. It’s totally false. Ed was a sack of bones who liked to flirt, and when he flirted with me, he always added money into the equation. I’m not stupid. This museum needs constant renovations. Why not accept money from the richest man in town? So many others in town wanted to match contributions. Who was I to say no? Luigi Bozzuto, Mr. Nakamura, those three buffoons on the town council who kowtow to your grandmother. If they want our town on the map, then they shouldn’t mind giving a pretty penny to preserve our history, right? Ed was my link, nothing more.”

“But if he bowed out, all the others—”

“They paid up. All the contributions are in the ledger.” She shook the book. “I had no motive to kill Ed Woodhouse.”

I stood there, heat suffusing my cheeks, unable to apologize quickly enough. “I’m sorry, Felicia. Truly sorry, I—”

“Hmmph.”

“My grandmother . . .” I shrugged. “She’s not guilty. I need something, anything, to prove her innocence. I thought you . . .” I shook my head. “I didn’t think.”

Felicia snorted. She had every right. I couldn’t prove any of my claims. All I had was hearsay. But if Felicia hadn’t killed Ed, then who had? There had to be something I was missing, right under my nose, but I couldn’t see it.

“My money is on Kristine,” Felicia said as she stowed the ledger in its rightful place and locked the rolltop desk. “She’s hiding something.”

“But what?”

“She cut me off after that night. Cut me off! We’ve been friends for years, but . . .” Felicia made a slicing gesture across her throat. “She’s been picking at me ever since.”

“To cast suspicion?”

“That’s my bet.” She strode to the door, stopped, and peered at me coyly over her shoulder. “You’re a sneak, you know that? I never thought you had it in you.”

I returned to the party, dazed and confused. Jordan and his sister Jacky had vanished. So had Kristine, but like the tornado that she was, she had left destruction and devastation in her wake. Prudence and Tyanne stood near the cheese displays, looking nothing less than shell-shocked.

For moral support, I searched for Meredith or Vivian among the guests, but they seemed to have departed, as well. When was I going to learn that I couldn’t go off half-cocked? How many times over the course of my life had Pépère instructed me to believe the best of people first? Worrying about Grandmère was making me act irrationally and was eroding my natural joie de vivre, not to mention that my sleuthing had lost me the opportunity to discover more about Jordan’s sister, Jacky.

Someone called out, “Tyanne, yoo-hoo!” The head of the PTA, a vibrant woman with a fondness for red, made a beeline for Tyanne and Prudence.

I stared at Kristine’s pals again and couldn’t help wondering why they had remained at the party. Had they broken ranks with her? Though Prudence had never shown an affinity for cheese while in Fromagerie Bessette, she was wolfing down slices of Emmental and chattering, her mouth full, to her friend. Her face looked grave. Her body language screamed nervous. Was she plagued by guilt for doing nothing to help Felicia? Maybe now, while the PTA gal chatted up Tyanne, I could isolate Prudence and find out what really happened that night.

I strode down the stairs and was halfway to Prudence when Luigi clutched my elbow.

“I remembered something else,” he said. “Ed Woodhouse came to the restaurant the day before he died. He met with someone. A lawyer.”

“What kind of lawyer?”

“A divorce lawyer.”

CHAPTER 22

Around five P.M., I returned to the shop and forced Rebecca to take off the rest of the afternoon, no arguments. Then I called Urso. The precinct clerk informed me that he was out, saying in a dismissive tone that he always visited his family on Sundays, as if everyone in town should know that.

I hung up, disheartened. What I had to tell him could wait, of course, but I couldn’t stop tidbits of information from cycling through my head. Ed Woodhouse had consulted a divorce attorney the day before he died. If Kristine had known, she would have knocked off Ed to prevent him from following through with the divorce—not to get his money, but to save face. Status meant everything to Kristine. She might have looked the other way when he cheated, but she would not have allowed Ed to leave her for good.

At six, Bozz returned with the platters from Felicia’s soirée. I asked him to wash and dry the platters, then thanked him for his great work and said he would see a bonus in his paycheck. He was proving to be a terrific assistant. Thank heaven he liked his toys and was willing to work hard to pay for them.

As Bozz disappeared into the kitchen, Matthew poked his head into the shop, two bottles of wine in his hands. “I’ve closed up the annex. Did Grandmère reach you? Are you coming to their house for dinner? I’m bringing Meredith.”

“And wine, I see.”

“Carlisle zinfandel from the Russian River. It’s big and jammy with the aroma of blueberries.”

“Sounds yummy.”

“Pépère’s barbecuing.”

“Double yummy.” Every summer Pépère became a glutton for barbecue and watched Bobby Flay religiously on the Food Network. “Yes, I’m coming. Wouldn’t miss it. You know how I love barbecue.” I winked. “I think Grandmère knows something’s up between you and Meredith. She had that sing-song lilt to her voice when she called me.”

He grinned. “Yeah, she’s always two steps ahead, isn’t she?”

If only she had been two steps ahead on the night of Ed’s murder, or at least a step ahead of me the other day so I wouldn’t have barged in on my cousin and my friend and found them in an intimate embrace.

Matthew jerked a thumb. “Need help closing down the counter?”

“No, thanks.”

“I’m done, Miss B.” Bozz bounded from the kitchen. “See you after school tomorrow.” He followed Matthew out the rear exit and let the door slam shut.

In the relative quiet, the hum of the appliances the only sound in the shop, I threw together an appetizer tray to take to Grandmère’s, then I stowed the cheese in the refrigerator, and turned off the lights. As I always did, I strolled to the front door and locked it from the inside. I peered through the plate-glass windows, my gaze drawn to the spot where Ed had been slain, which was no longer a shadowy corner. Late afternoon sun cast a warm, hazy glow on the sidewalk. And yet I shuddered. What were Ed’s last words? Did he plead for mercy? He must have known his killer. Had the killer plunged an olive-wood-handled cheese knife into Ed’s chest and held it there until he died?

“Aunt Charlotte, come see!” Amy, wearing a paint-and-glitter-splattered artist’s smock, grabbed my hand and dragged me to the wooden picnic table that had been moved from the backyard of Grandmère’s house to the grass in front. Cans of paint, paint brushes, glitter, glue, rags, nails, and thumbtacks had been strategically laid out on top. A stand of wooden poles, no doubt filched from Pépère’s birdhouse collection, leaned against the far end. Strewn on the grass beyond the picnic table lay a handful of completed two-by-three-foot rally signs that read:

A vote for Bernadette is a vote of confidence. Vote smart. Vote Bernadette.

I smiled. Apparently the scrapbooking project for the theater had morphed into a sign-making fest for the campaign. I could always count on Grandmère to keep little hands busy.

“Aren’t they colorful?” Clair was also dressed in an artist’s smock, her cheeks rosy with enthusiasm.

Grandmère must have sent someone to collect the smocks from the Providence Playhouse art department, probably Freckles, who sat huddled between Meredith and Gretel, the pastor’s wife, painting slogans on rally signs at the far end of the table. Amy and Clair were dousing the signs with glue and glitter.

I squeezed Clair’s shoulder. “The signs look great.”

“We talked her into it,” Clair said. “We didn’t want her to get killed.”

Grandmère clucked her tongue. “Nonsense. No one is going to kill me.”

“Grandmère will definitely win,” Amy said.

Dressed in an artist’s smock as paint-splattered as the others’, Grandmère circled her campaign group like a doting art teacher while giving tips and encouragement. I loved how she had turned her house arrest into something productive. If Kristine Woodhouse got word, she would be steaming mad.

Pépère appeared in the driveway, a barbecue apron tied at his plump waist and long-handled tongs in his hand. “Dinner!”

Grandmère, her supporters, the twins, and I traipsed to the backyard. Pépère had decorated the garden with tiki torches and card tables covered with checkered tablecloths. Each of Grandmère’s campaigners had supplied a dish. Gretel had brought her five-cheese macaroni and cheese, yummy with its broiled crust and the creamiest insides I’d ever tasted. She’d even remembered to bring a portion for Clair that was made with gluten-free pasta. Freckles had provided her favorite baked beans and a delicious fresh-from-the-garden salad. Pépère had made succulent ribs and chicken with a zesty sauce of his own creation.

I set the tray of appetizers on the patio table. Amy plopped a marinated olive into her mouth. Clair did the same.

“Hello, Charlotte!” Meredith strode from the kitchen, quickly followed by Matthew who let the screen door slam shut behind him. Meredith carried loaves of crunchy bread from the Providence Patisserie. She couldn’t cook worth a lick. Matthew held two open bottles of wine.

“Girls, wash your hands!” he said.

The twins obeyed.

As everyone started to serve up dinner, Grandmère pulled me to the swing on the porch. She thumped the cushion, indicating I should sit, then gripped my chin with her gnarled fingers. “
Chérie
, you look tired.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You work too hard. You need extra helpers.”

“That’s not—” I pressed my lips together. Grandmère did not need to know all that I had been doing in addition to running The Cheese Shop. I wanted to share what I had heard about Ed and the divorce lawyer, but I didn’t want any more rumors starting, and I didn’t want to fill her with false hope. I would go through the proper channels and reveal my findings to Urso tomorrow. I patted my grandmother’s cheek. “I’m fine.”

“
Très bien.
Now, you know who I saw today? Jordan and—”

“She’s his sister.”

Grandmère grinned. “I was about to tell you. We were introduced. I invited them to dinner.”

“You what?”

She glanced at her watch. “He’s due any minute.”

I fiddled with the feathers of hair around my face and picked at the sleeves of my pink dress, wishing I had changed since Felicia’s party. I was overdressed for a barbecue.

“Relax.” Grandmère smiled. “You look adorable.”

I wasn’t sure a thirtysomething woman could ever look adorable, but I loved her for telling me.

“Besides, he can’t stay. They have other plans.” Grandmère rose from the swing with a little grunt. “Just so you know, his sister is troubled.”

I stood and straightened the front of my dress. “What do you mean? Like tetched in the head?”

“No,
chérie
. She is worried.”

About her ex-husband showing up? I wondered.

“I see it in her eyes,” Grandmère went on. “There is something weighing on her mind, but she covers with that smile. So like Jordan, don’t you think?”

I cocked my head. Was he troubled, too? My grandmother claimed she was prescient at times. Was this one of them? Perhaps when I solved Ed’s murder, I could get back to handling my own life and delve into Jordan’s.

“So tell me, Charlotte, do you love him?”

A laugh burbled out of me. “Oh, Grandmère, it’s way too early for love.” I didn’t love him, did I? A woman needs to know a man to fall in love, right? I knew he made good cheese and took great delight in food. I had stood beside him at a couple of cooking classes at La Bella Ristorante, and we had flirted and shared tips on slicing and dicing, but I didn’t know what books he liked. I didn’t know what his favorite color was. I didn’t know squat. “I like him, Grandmère, and I want to get to know him better, but life has gotten in the way.”

“Do not let it.” She gave me a stern look. “You must drive your life. Your life does not drive you. Remember this!”

“Yes, ma’am.” I kissed her cheek.
“Je t’aime
.
”

“Je t’aime, aussi.”
Grandmère slung her hand around the crook of my elbow, and we strolled to join the others. “Matthew looks happy.”

“Yes, he does.” I eyed my cousin and Meredith, standing apart from the others, his mouth tilted to her ear, whispering. He did look happy. And so did she. I hoped it would last.

“Ah, there’s Jordan, and he’s brought cheese.” Grandmère released my arm and swatted my rear end. “Go bat those pretty eyes of yours. It will do you good.”

Jordan, who had donned a linen jacket since Felicia’s party, strode up the driveway, a wheel of Gouda tucked under an arm, a ray of setting sun glazing his forehead. Handsome as ever. My heart did a little somersault.

I met him halfway and, laughing, took the wheel of cheese from him. “A wedge would have been perfectly acceptable.”

“I figured your grandmother could use a little spoiling. It’s her favorite.” He inhaled. “Mmm, the food smells good.”

“Pépère’s special cracked pepper barbecue sauce.”

“Spicy.”

Silence fell between us. Was he upset that I’d abandoned him at Felicia’s soirée yesterday? If we were going to get past this uncomfortable stage in our relationship, I had to find the courage to push through it.

“Um, you mentioned a date,” I said, heart pounding. “A picnic. I’m game.” I jutted a hip, a flimsy attempt at flirting. I needed more practice. “You said Saturday.”

“Why don’t I stop by the shop tomorrow, and we’ll pin it down.” He turned to leave.

Courage!

“Wait, don’t go.” I grabbed his sleeve. An impulse to run my hands down his chest swept over me. I released his jacket and anchored my hands at my sides. “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been a little erratic lately, first with Meredith and then Felicia and—”

“Charlotte!” Vivian yelled to me from the sidewalk. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

She raced toward us, bobbling a gold box from Fromagerie Bessette in her hands. I looked regretfully at Jordan. His features softened, his smile finally met his eyes, and I breathed easier.

He clipped my chin with his knuckles and whispered, “We’ll figure this date thing out tomorrow, okay?” He strode to his sister’s house, giving Vivian a passing nod.

Tomorrow. I would look forward to tomorrow.

Vivian skidded to my side, jamming a heel on the cement like an anchor grounding on the ocean floor. “What’s this about Ed meeting with a divorce attorney?”

“Luigi told you.”

“No, I overheard him telling Jordan as I was heading out of the museum.” She thrust the gold box at me. “Bringing a bacon and shallot quiche from Fromagerie Bessette is cheating, I know, but I’d bought it for my dinner earlier, and I didn’t want it to go to waste. Now, come on, tell me.”

We moseyed toward the picnickers, and I filled her in with what little I knew. Her eyes went wide. I said, “Unless the divorce attorney has another specialty that Luigi doesn’t know about, it appears that Ed wanted a divorce.”

“Do you think that’s why Kristine killed him?”

“It’s certainly a strong motive. She would not have appreciated being the ex-Mrs. Ed Woodhouse. I’ve called Urso.”

“They never should have gotten married. They were like oil and water.”

“Charlotte, Vivian,” Grandmère said. “Come eat.
Mangez, mangez.
”

I unwrapped the quiche, put it on the table with the other potluck items, and placed one of the cake knives that Grandmère had set out beside it. Vivian handed me a plate decorated with a rooster and took one for herself. We filled them with good eats, both of us opting for ribs, coleslaw, and a slice of quiche. I poured each of us a glass of Matthew’s remarkable wine.