The Long Quiche Goodbye (23 page)

“Big difference,” Freckles cut in.

Rebecca giggled. “I’m addicted to all of them.”

Jacky appeared with drinks and silverware setups. As she set a glass of wine in front of Delilah, then delivered Rebecca’s Cosmopolitan, Rebecca continued.

“Anyway, there was a woman running for office, and she was so out there, you know, stumping all the time, and—” She threw her arms wide and landed a blow to Jacky’s wrist. The glass of beer she was setting in front of Freckles went flying and frothy liquid spilled down the table and over the edge.

Onto me.

“I’m so sorry,” Jacky cried. She tossed a silverware setup to me.

I quickly unfurled it, dumped the silverware on the table, and tried to stop the flow of beer, but the napkin was one of those fabrics that wouldn’t sop up anything. Totally useless.

“Go, go!” Freckles scooted out of the booth. She yanked me after her and propelled me in the direction of the ladies’ room.

I bent forward, trying to keep the beer from hitting my brushed denim skirt. I pushed the restroom door open, hurried to the sink, grabbed a handful of paper towels, and dabbed my blouse, but unless I did something drastic, I was going to smell like a brewery when I went to Grandmère’s rally. Risking exposure, I unbuttoned my blouse, whisked it off, and ran water through the spill. I’d rather be wet than stinky.

At the same time, a stall door opened. Tyanne emerged and gasped. Hadn’t she ever been in a women’s locker room?

“Sorry,” I blurted. “Beer spilled and—”

“Are y’all alone, sugar?”

“Yes, why?”

Her face was tear-stained. Her dark hair, which usually fell smoothly around her plump face, was a rat’s nest like she had been massaging it trying to get blood to her beleaguered brain. She chewed on her lower lip, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m so sorry about . . .” She shuffled to the sink and rinsed her hands, scrubbing as hard as she could. I thought of Shakespeare’s
MacBeth
when his wife said, “Out, damned spot! Out!”

“It was not your fault the kids got into a scuffle, Tyanne.”

I wrung my blouse free of as much water as I could. Luckily, it was drip-dry and the pleats wouldn’t pucker. “It wasn’t Thomas’s either.”

“Thomas . . . oh, my sweet Thomas.” She sucked back a sob. “He’s such a darling child, isn’t he?”

I nodded. He was.

“He deserves someone better than me. And his father . . . his father . . . deserves someone better, too. Someone who . . .” Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. “Oh, my, where do I start?”

“Start what?”

She looked at me through wet eyelashes. “I have something to confess. It’s . . . it’s about . . .” She hiccupped. “It’s about the night Ed died.”

CHAPTER 25

I slumped against the sink and stared at Tyanne in disbelief. Had I gotten my theory all wrong? Had Tyanne, not Felicia, been the one in love with Ed? Had she killed him? It was unlikely she was the woman Gretel saw walking in the hills. She was as tall as Kristine but half again as wide. Was Gretel’s sighting meaningless?

I drew in a deep, calming breath. “Go ahead,” I said, not worried that Tyanne would attack me in a public restroom. She needed a confessional. I would be her priest. “Tell me about the night Ed died.”

“I was so . . . flummoxed. In a flurry, you know? Ed was making eyes at everyone, and Kristine was getting as drunk as a skunk. She couldn’t see straight and she was muttering under her breath to me, and . . . she . . . she . . .” Tyanne licked her lips. “She made me do it.”

“Do what?” I felt light-headed. Had Kristine and her friends banded together for one evil purpose? I’d seen movies of such things . . . read accounts. “Are you telling me you killed Ed?”

“Lord, no! I didn’t . . . Oh, no! I . . .” She whacked her chest with her palm as if to jump-start her sputtering engine. “I lied, sugar. Kristine made me lie. She . . .” Tyanne squared her shoulders and stabbed the air with her finger. “Kristine didn’t pick up Willamina from my house the night Ed was killed. I drove her little girl home.”

“Tyanne, that’s wonderful news.” I gripped her hand. “Not wonderful for Kristine, but for you and for Grandmère.”

“But I lied.” She drew the word out.

“To protect yourself from a killer.”

“My family would be mortified.”

“We have to call Urso. My purse is at the table. Have you got a cell phone?”

“I can’t talk to him.”

“I won’t make you. Promise. I just want him to protect you.”

She rummaged through her yellow tote and pulled one out. “You can try, but I warn you, the reception in this place is as slow as molasses.”

After a long wait, Urso answered. I told him I had a big break in the case and to come to Tim’s as quickly as he could, but because of crackling static, I was only able to hear him say, “I’m on my way.” I snapped the cell phone shut and eyed Tyanne.

“Oh, Lord,” Tyanne drawled, looking like a trapped animal, anxious to escape. She glanced at the door, at the narrow window beyond the sinks. There wasn’t a chance in ten that she could slip through it. “If Kristine finds out—”

“She’s not going to. I won’t tell her. Urso will keep this confidential.”

“She’s so proud. And so strong. And . . . Oh, my. Chief Urso’s going to want me to tell him everything. No, no, no. I can’t do it.” Tyanne shook her head like a child having a fit. “I just can’t. I’m so sorry, y’all. So sorry.” She barreled past me, using her shoulder like a defensive guard, knocking me sideways into the bathroom wall. Her jock of a husband would be proud.

By the time I was able to find my footing and put my clammy shirt back on, she was long gone. I hurried back to the table.

Rebecca said, “I’m so sorry, Charlotte. Hey, are you okay? You look like you’re in shock.”

“I’m fine.” I slipped into the booth, my shirt sticking to the Naugahyde.

“We’ve got to get a move on,” Rebecca went on. “Your grandmother’s rally starts in a half hour. Seven sharp, she said.”

“We paid the bill,” Delilah added.

“And took the liberty of eating your mushrooms.” Freckles chuckled.

Plates, empty of appetizers, sat in the center of the table. What did I care? I wasn’t hungry anymore.

“Are you okay, really?” Rebecca’s forehead wrinkled with concern. “You’re not mad at me or something.”

I told them what happened in the restroom.

“I’ll wait for Chief Urso,” Rebecca announced. “You go ahead. No way are you going to miss your grandmother’s moment in the sun.”

Before I could object, the front door burst open. Urso marched in, looking steamed.

“Uh-oh. That’s our cue,” Delilah said. She and Felicia slipped from the booth and whispered that they would see us at Grandmère’s.

Urso’s warning for my grandmother to cease and desist public displays resounded in my head. Was that why he was here? With town gossip, he probably suspected what Grandmère was up to.

He trundled across the room while removing his hat with one hand and running his other hand over the top of his thick hair.

When he reached our table, I said, “Are you okay? What’s got you miffed?”

He remained standing. “I’ve been walking the hills all day with Gretel Hildegard and a group of church ladies. They just about preached me to death.” He slapped his hat against his thigh. “I must have memorized twelve Bible verses just to keep them searching.” Urso was a staunch churchgoer. I’d bet he had memorized the Bible in its entirety by the age of twelve and was just mollifying them.

I offered a supportive smile. “Did you learn anything?” “Besides my favorite, ‘The truth shall set you free’? No.” He grimaced. “Not a scrap of clothing. No freshly-dug holes. Nothing. It would take days and crews of people, not to mention a few search dogs with trained noses, to scour the entire area. Needless to say, Mrs. Hildegard was not as specific as she could have been. That woman is a saint and she means well, but she’s a little in the clouds, know what I mean? Always sees the best in people. Always hopeful.”

Two traits I used to treasure in myself prior to my grandmother’s arrest. Could I become that way again?

“Before my adventure on the hill, I did meet with Ed’s divorce attorney,” Urso went on. “Although he can’t divulge the specific details of his confidential meeting, he confirmed that Ed was planning to divorce Kristine.”

Rebecca smacked the table with her palm. “So there you have it. Kristine had motive and opportunity. That’s like a double whammy, according to Jessica Fletcher. You know, she’s the character on—”

“
Murder, She Wrote.
” Urso sighed. “Yes, Miss Zook, it’s motive, but not necessarily opportunity. Don’t look so smug.”

“It’s Rebecca, remember? R-e-b-e-c-c-a. Rebecca.”

Urso refocused on me. “What’s got you looking like the cat that swallowed the canary?”

I told him what Tyanne Taylor had confessed. “Kristine’s guilty, U-ey. She lied about her alibi. Please free my grandmother.”

“Please,” Rebecca echoed.

“Talk to Tyanne.”

“Confirm her story.”

Urso nodded. “I’ll do that.” He ran his fingers along the brim of his hat. “Look, Charlotte. When all this is over . . .”

I got the distinct feeling he was preparing to ask me for a date. Panicked, I stood up from the table and clapped him on the arm. “Thank you for all your hard work.”

He jerked his chin as a gesture of goodbye, donned his hat, and left the pub.

As Rebecca and I strolled into the waning sunlight, I felt a heavy weight lift off my heart. Soon, Kristine Woodhouse would be behind bars and my grandmother would be free.

When Rebecca and I arrived at my grandparents’ house, a modest number of Grandmère’s supporters waited in line on the sidewalk as if anticipating a standing-room-only Broadway show. More crowded the yard and had formed a semicircle inside a dozen rented lights that Pépère and Matthew were setting on the front yard grass. A picnic table stood in front of the throng—Grandmère’s mock-stage
,
I assumed. Amy and Clair snaked through the crowd handing out red, white, and blue pom-poms, rally signs, and party horns. The chatter was deafening, the cool evening air stimulating.

Rebecca and I ran to the front of the line, and with Mr. Nakamura’s blessing, we pressed through the gate into the yard ahead of him.

My grandmother, looking like a human flag in her red ruffled skirt and blue T-shirt with white stars, climbed on top of the picnic table. Through a microphone, she said, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention? We’ll start in five.” She spotted me and Rebecca and scrambled off her mock-pedestal. She set the microphone on the table and embraced Rebecca. “Dear child, I am so sorry to hear about your grandmother. I want you to know that we welcome you as part of our growing family.”

Tears sprang to Rebecca’s eyes. She gripped Grandmère in a bear hug and wept for a long minute, her shoulders shuddering. When she came up for air, she looked sheepishly at me. “I’m not crying about . . . I’m not . . . It’s just . . . your grandmother is going to be set free, and I’m so excited.”

“I’m what?” Grandmère said.

Words spilled out of Rebecca.

“It’s true,
chérie
?” Grandmère looked so excited she could pop.

I nodded.

“Magnifique!”
She grabbed my hands and twirled me in a circle. “Oh, this is a red-letter day.”

“I need a tissue,” Rebecca said.

Grandmère petted Rebecca’s back. “Go get one. I won’t be speaking for a few minutes.”

Rebecca tore up the porch steps and inside the house.

“You have been blessed with that girl, Charlotte,” Grandmère said.

“Don’t I know it!”

She clapped her hands. “Urso believes I am innocent now. It is incredible, no?”

I nodded. “He’s tracking down Tyanne. With her statement, Kristine will be forced to tell the truth.”

Grandmère shook a gnarled finger at me. “You did not have faith. But I—” She jabbed her chest. “I never faltered. The American system works.” She pecked me on the cheek, then grabbed the microphone and climbed to her post on top of the picnic table. “Ladies and gentlemen. Three minutes. At the stroke of seven, we will begin.”

A huge roar from the crowd echoed through the night. I hoped if Urso was anywhere near, that the noise wouldn’t make him divert from his mission to talk to Tyanne and nab Kristine.

At the fringe of the crowd I caught sight of Swoozie Swenten, wearing what seemed to be her uniform of jeans, tight T-shirt and strands of silver jewelry. She was chatting with Vivian. I approached her and said, “Did you hear?”

Swoozie looked bemused. “Hear what?”

“Ed was planning on getting divorced.”

Swoozie blanched. “Not for me. I—”

“No one said it was for you,” Vivian cut in.

“But you don’t look surprised,” I said.

Swoozie shrugged. “Ed wasn’t happy with Kristine. I knew it. I’m sure she and her pals knew it, too. Ask her.” She pointed.

I spun around, expecting to see Kristine, and spotted Tyanne marching toward me, her eyes haunted and red-lined. Her linen jacket was jammed into her bulky purse. The tails of her blouse hung free of her skirt’s waistband. If I didn’t know her, I would have sworn she was destitute.

I approached cautiously, Vivian at my heels. “Tyanne, are you okay?”

“I can’t talk to Chief Urso. I can’t.” She shook her head erratically.

I reached for her.

“No. Don’t touch me! You can’t make me. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.” She scurried off, bucking her head against anybody that got in her way. Why had she come to the rally? Why join the others in the yard if not to support Grandmère? She was clutching her purse like a life preserver. Did she have something tucked beneath the wadded up jacket? A gun? A bomb?

Fear peppering my bloodstream, I ran to her and grasped her purse.

“Let go!” she screeched.

“What do you have in there?”

“Nothing. Let go. Let—”

I yanked and stumbled backward with her purse in my hands. Though I despised myself for being such a bully, I rifled through the contents. I found nothing other than personal items. Perplexed, I handed back her purse and said, “Why did you come here? Why are you acting so strangely?”

“I can’t tell . . . Tommy . . . I have to get home to my son.” She started shivering and hiccupping, and she dropped to her knees.

“Tyanne!” I crouched beside her and clutched her in a bear hug. “Vivian, find Pastor Hildegard.” I scanned the crowd for Gretel and her husband. “Over there. Hurry!”

In seconds Vivian returned with them.

“Out of the way, everyone. Give her some room to breathe.” Pastor Hildegard knelt beside Tyanne, his chiseled face radiating warmth and concern. Prior to becoming a minister, he had worked in a mental hospital. He clutched Tyanne’s hand, told her to focus on his eyes, and whispered words of encouragement. She calmed down, her body stilled.

“I think she might be having a breakdown,” I said. Who knew what keeping a lie about murder had done to her, not to mention the scars a tragedy like Hurricane Katrina had left on her delicate soul? “Can you take her home and make sure her husband is there?”