The Long Quiche Goodbye (9 page)

Something inside me clenched, too. How dare I be so selfish? These girls needed me to be a sane adult. Just because their father was being a jerk didn’t mean I had to be.

“Sure, let’s read.”

Her fingers loosened their death grip on the spoon, but her eyes and mouth remained tight. How I wished she could express herself more, but I knew I shouldn’t expect miracles overnight. With loss came pain. With pain came all sorts of emotional complications. I had swathed myself in tension at the same age. Perhaps in time, Clair would relax and her beautiful soul would blossom.

“Leave the dishes and follow me.” I set a tray with three mugs of hot cocoa and a plate of gluten-free cream-cheese button cookies, and the three of us headed for the attic. Amy sprinted ahead, sounding like an elephant as she charged up the squeaky stairs.

In the attic, I had created a nook with fake-fur pillows and quilted throw blankets that I’d purchased at Sew Inspired. A small rustic bookshelf held the books the girls liked the best. Brass lamps with pretty ruffled shades stood at various spots around the room. The familiar scent of dust and lilac hung in the air.

I laid the tray on a little side table beside the red oak rocking chair that had been my mother’s. “Amy, open the window, please.”

She cranked the handle on the circular dormer window. Cool night air wafted into the room.

“This one, please.” Clair handed me the first in the Crafty Sleuth series by Didi Jackson. In the story, a teenage protagonist used the craft of beading to solve crimes.

I wondered if I could be crafty enough to solve Ed Woodhouse’s murder. More important, would Urso have my hide if I got too crafty?

“Get your beading bags,” I said.

Kit bags filled with colorful beads, needle and thread, and instructions for making a three-strand bracelet came along with the mystery. The girls settled onto their pillows, Amy preferring the blue set, and Clair opting for the aqua green. I nestled onto the cushioned rocker and set my feet on the needlepoint ottoman. A wealth of emotions raced through me. If only my mother was here to help me make sense of the mystery surrounding my grandmother. Or my father, to help me get Matthew to open up to me. Grandmère said my father had a knack for getting people to talk and discuss their problems. He had been the principal of Providence High School. A plaque hung there in his honor. Sadly, none of his wizardry had rubbed off on me.

Amy scattered beads onto the pillow between her legs. One beading strand was already strung and tied off. Clair wasn’t as far along. She invariably got distracted by Rags, who chose her lap for his nest.

“Okay, start,” Amy said.

I took a deep breath, then obeyed. “‘I couldn’t find my aunt Bailey anywhere,’” I read from the text. “‘Now, I’m not the kind of girl who freaks out, but I have to admit, hearing a guy on the radio say the biggest blizzard of the century was coming to Lake Tahoe in less than four hours—’”

“Do we ever get blizzards here?” Clair said.

The weather had been quite mild since April. Rain was due later in the week. Maybe a thunderstorm.

“We get snowstorms,” I said, “but don’t worry. None in May. And the last really big blizzard occurred before I was born.”

“We got some real bad storms in Cleveland,” Amy said.

I wondered if she was referring to the weather or to the outbursts between her father and mother. Contemplating the latter made my heart ache. What drove a woman to hurt the ones she loved?

“Ouch,” Clair said, drawing me back to the moment at hand. She’d pricked her thumb.

“Put on your thimble,” I said.

“It’s like a glove for your thumb,” Amy added, reiterating what I had said nights before.

By the end of the first chapter, both girls were yawning. Stress could make even the stoutest sleepy.

Once I was nestled in my sleigh-style bed, I got to thinking about women hurting the ones they loved. How could I prove that Kristine had killed Ed? According to Grandmère, Felicia had headed toward the museum, and Kristine, Prudence, and Tyanne had gone into the Country Kitchen. Had anyone seen Kristine after she’d left the diner?

I slipped out of bed and paced the floor. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, making my skin hot and prickly, as I counted off details on my fingers.

One: The gala opening of The Cheese Shop had continued after the fracas between Grandmère and Kristine.

Two: Guests had remained focused on wine and cheese and lively conversation. Hadn’t anyone gone outside at just that moment when someone stabbed Ed, which had to be between nine fifteen or nine thirty?

Three: Grandmère told me that after her visit to the clock tower, she had returned. She found Ed on the ground at ten o’clock. She rushed to help, but he wasn’t breathing. She said Ed must have been dead for at least a few minutes, maybe more. She looked around, but she didn’t see anyone dashing into shadows.

Four: Meredith had appeared seconds later and screamed. Where had she come from? Had she seen something implicating my grandmother? Was she afraid to tell me? Was that why she was avoiding me? Had somebody—Kristine—threatened her?

Five: If Kristine had killed Ed, she would have been splattered with blood like my grandmother and Meredith. Had she hurried to her boutique not far from the Country Kitchen to change clothes? Had she disposed of the dress and her gloves and then slipped out, wearing a new frock?

I stopped pacing and stared at myself in the mirror over the bureau as something Amy said to Clair came to me. About the thimble in the attic.
“It’s like a glove for your thumb.”

Kristine and her girlfriends had donned gloves while at the gala. If she had been wearing gloves when snatching the olive-wood-handled knife, she wouldn’t have left fingerprints on the gift box or the knife.

But that didn’t matter now, did it? If she killed Ed, she would have had to dispose of the bloody gloves. Garbage collection wasn’t due for three more days. They might still be in the Dumpster behind her store.

CHAPTER 9

The next morning, after I dropped the twins at school, I went to the Providence Precinct and strode into Urso’s office. Sunlight cut through the vertical Levelor blinds and cast prisonlike bar shadows on the beige walls. I shuddered but didn’t miss a step.

“Chief Urso.” I gave a discreet tug to the seams of my split-neck shift—my prettiest, with a turquoise and brown swirl print—and I squared my shoulders. I had dressed for business, not confrontation.

Urso rose from his desk chair, dwarfing me, and offered me a seat in one of the hard-backed chairs.

I declined, and instead paced in front of his bulky desk, which was as neat as a pin, papers stacked just so. The walls were empty of anything that might be considered pretentious. A silver frame with a picture of his family, including his parents and brothers, stood on the metal file cabinet.

“A bloody dress and gloves,” I blurted.

“What about ’em?” He remained standing, arms hanging comfortably by his sides.

I explained my theory.

“Now, Charlotte.” Urso worked his tongue around the inside of his cheek. “I can’t have you getting involved. You know that.”

“I’m not involved. I’m theorizing.”

“And I’m theorizing, as well,” he said. “All day long. Not in between slicing cheese.”

I bridled at the remark.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That came out wrong. I just meant . . .” He ran a hand down his thick neck, then held it out to me, palm up in a pleading gesture. “Aw, heck, it’s my job. It’s not yours. You shouldn’t—”

“—bother my silly head about it?” I snapped. “You men!”

Urso bristled that time. He wasn’t like other guys, and obviously didn’t like me bundling him in with the others. He appreciated a woman with a bright mind. The one time he had asked me out in high school was after I had aced a history test. I had said no, not because he wasn’t handsome—he was, in that teddy bear way, with kind eyes and a warm smile—but because Meredith had a crush on him, and I hadn’t wanted to lose my friendship with her. Following his divorce, I had considered asking him out, but then Jordan Pace showed up, and, well, I was smitten.

“Charlotte, I assure you that I am taking every tip and witness statement under consideration. I am looking at suspects other than your grandmother.”

“Where was Kristine at the time?”

“Picking up her daughter from Tyanne Taylor’s house.”

Tyanne, as Kristine’s good friend, wouldn’t deny that, but I didn’t put it past Kristine to dump her daughter at home and return to the scene to kill Ed. “Did you test the knife that killed Ed for fingerprints?”

“Of course.”

“And? Were my grandmother’s fingerprints on the handle?”

Urso licked his lips. “We already discussed how long it takes for results to come through.”

“Oh, sheesh, U-ey.” I rapped my knuckles on his desk. “You know something!”

“The knife was wiped clean.”

I groaned. That meant anybody could be guilty. Anybody.

I left, as frustrated as when I’d arrived, and went to open The Cheese Shop. Within minutes, I was overwhelmed by an onrush of customers. Rebecca and Matthew could barely keep up with slicing and wrapping the orders in our pretty gold and white wax paper, while I printed off labels that included the country of origin, the milk source, the type of cheese, and the price per pound. By lunch, my brain, usually a steel-trap for figures and details, was fried.

At one point, Rebecca thumped my shoulder and said, “Girls’ night out tonight? You look like you could use a little fun.”

Rebecca, Meredith, Delilah, and I met once a week at Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub, known for its international list of beers. However, the pub also offered a super-duper Cosmo, with a smidge more of Rose’s lime juice, the glass rimmed with multicolored sugar. Rebecca had grown quite fond of Cosmos. She had also taken to watching whatever sport aired on the multiple televisions around the pub, favoring the Cleveland Indians over the Cincinnati Reds, and the Cleveland Browns over any other football team. She had a major crush on the hunky quarterback. I, being an alum of OSU, preferred watching the Buckeyes play. If there wasn’t a football game on TV, I immersed myself in the live Irish music. My mother’s family originated from Ireland. Listening to the soulful strains was one of the ways I could keep her memory alive.

“I’m in,” I said. “But I’ll need to change.”

“Oh, no, you look wonderful. I love your dress. And your cute little sandals.” She thumped my shoulder again. “They show off your legs.”

I batted her away, then called Meredith and left a message on her cell phone telling her I missed her and needed to chat. I had never truly embraced using a cell phone, preferring conversations in person, but in dire emergencies a cell phone was useful. I hoped Meredith would realize I was desperate to talk and return my call between classes.

Late afternoon arrived quickly. When I had to leave to set up Vivian’s auction party, the wine annex was unusually busy, so instead of Rebecca, I asked Bozz to help me carry platters of cheese, baskets of artisanal breads, and bottles of wine to Europa Antiques and Collectibles.

Vivian lived and breathed antiques and, if she could have, I believe she would have taken up residence in the store. She had created an international extravaganza inside the shop. Each section was decorated in furniture and gift items from a different country. Posters and photographs highlighting the country’s most beautiful sites were hung on the walls. Italy was my favorite area, as it was decorated with photos of the Tuscany coast and posters of Michelangelo’s most famous statues. Once, a few years ago, Pépère had taken me to Italy and France to further my cheese education. I yearned to go back. For now, until the shop’s books were regularly in the black, my travels would be confined to tours via the Internet and practicing French with weekly brush-up classes using Rosetta Stone.

Vivian swooped up to me, her unbuttoned silk jacket billowing open. “Don’t you look pretty? And aren’t those platters beautiful! I love how you’ve arranged them.”

I had set the three types of cheeses that she’d ordered—one each of goat’s milk, sheep’s milk, and cow’s milk—on an oval platter. In between, I decorated with large helpings of strawberries, grapes, dried apricots, and cashews. The Barefoot Contessa would be proud.

Vivian said, “Set them over there, please.” She had adorned antique end tables with vases of fresh flowers and placed doilies on a handsome Henry VIII Tudor-style dining table. “And Bozz, why don’t you put the wine bottles on the sideboard.” She pointed with one hand while strategically straightening price tags on a display of silver platters.

Bozz rested the six bottles of wine on the lace runner that Vivian had set out. A dozen vintage-cut crystal wineglasses stood nearby, all beautifully etched with a leaf pattern.

“Bozz, be a dear and go into the storage room and fetch two more hard-backed chairs, the ones with the burgundy needlepoint seats. They’re just beyond the worktables that are cluttered with rolls of bubble wrap.” Vivian fluttered her fingers and Bozz trotted through a pair of black velvet curtains at the rear of the shop. “Charlotte, carving knives are in the sideboard’s cupboard, beneath all the junk.”

I opened the doors and had to remove a set of engraved linens, antique books, yearbooks, silver platters, and picture frames before I found a set of Bakelite-handled knives and forks stowed in a black silk box. I selected two of the knives and said, “These are pretty.”

“Thank you. They’re my mother’s. That’s my little mock hope chest. I won’t sell anything that’s in there.”

I kept my parent’s precious memories in my mother’s maple hope chest. Once a year, I took them out to appreciate them. My mother loved white linen tablecloths. My father had a box filled with more than a hundred fishing lures, all polished and ready to go. Whenever I touched the items, I recalled my mother’s smile and how my father’s eyes crinkled with delight whenever he looked at me—bittersweet memories that brought fresh tears to my eyes. I brushed them away and gave my cheeks a quick pinch for color. No sense dwelling on the past. I couldn’t fix it.

“Charlotte, help me with these.” Vivian straightened cards that she had placed by the various items to be auctioned.

“Do you always serve food for these auctions?” I asked. I couldn’t remember Pépère providing cheese platters for the antique shop before.

Vivian shook her head. “I wanted this one to be special. We have so much to celebrate. With all the tourism, business is picking up. Six wholesale buyers from Cleveland are due today. They buy huge lots.”

“Why twelve glasses for wine?”

“Didn’t Matthew say that I needed different glasses for tasting?”

“You can pour a red in after a white, just not the other way around.”

Vivian clucked her tongue. “My, my, so much to learn.” She started to collect the ones she didn’t need.

“Leave them,” I said. “They look lovely.”

“Good, good.” She rearranged them, put her hands on her hips, and stared at the room. “Something’s missing.” She chewed her lower lip, then snapped her fingers. “Be right back.” She disappeared into an office at the rear of the shop.

The door didn’t close behind her, offering me my first-ever peek into the office. While the shop was tidy and organized, the office looked like a tornado had charged through. A trail of crumbs led from the door to a bureau. The bureau’s drawers spilled over with vibrant blue and gold and crimson fabrics. The desk was swamped in paper, an old-style hand-crank calculator, and bric-a-brac. Oriental curios, Christmas ornaments, and teacups were crammed onto bookshelves. I smiled to myself. No wonder Vivian always kept the door closed. She didn’t want the townsfolk of Providence to know she was a slob.

Vivian returned with white monogrammed linen napkins. She untied the ribbon holding the set together and placed the napkins by the cheese displays.

“Those are beautiful,” I said. “The W’s are hand-embroidered, aren’t they? Did you do the work?”

Vivian blushed and stammered, “The W’s are for my married name.”

I wasn’t sure why that embarrassed her. Maybe because she had made such a fuss over getting married only to have it fizzle in less than a month. Annulled. Last I heard, her ex-husband had moved to Chicago. Vivian never spoke of him. She had kept his name, but why wouldn’t she? Her maiden name—with
K
s and
Z
s and far too few vowels—was impossible to spell.

Bozz returned with a pair of beautiful chairs with lions’ paw feet. “Are these the ones?”

Vivian nodded and directed him to set them by the table. She squeezed my arm. “Thank you for helping out. This means a lot to me. I wish Bernadette could have come to—” She pressed her palm over her heart. “You know, she and I, we’re the same . . . in here. We like the same music, the same theater.” Vivian had always supported Grandmère’s choices over Kristine’s for the Providence Playhouse’s season offerings. “We believe the town should grow and prosper, but that Kristine Woodhouse . . .”

Kristine had voted for isolationism. Naively, she believed she could have a thriving boutique with only the locals as clientele. At the prices she charged, maybe she could.

Vivian lifted the carving knife, cut off a slice of the cow’s milk cheese, and sighed. “Mmmm. Morbier, my favorite.” She peeled off the rind, tossed it into a basket expressly for discarded rinds, and slipped the morsel into her mouth. “Fabulous. Just the right texture. That nutty flavor. And do I detect a hint of hard-boiled eggs?”

I nodded. Morbier is a fabulous cheese, traditionally two cheeses, made at two times of the day, one section made from the morning milk and one from the evening milk, though nowadays it is made from a single milking. Vegetable ash is spread in the middle to maintain the visual appeal. I had imported Franche-Comté/Jura made
au lait cru
, from raw milk.

“It tastes even better if you eat it with a slice of the prosciutto I brought, and have a sip of the Estancia pinot noir.”

“I shouldn’t drink. Not if I want to keep my wits about—” She gaped through the opened window. “Oh, lordy. What in the blazes is Kristine doing now?” Vivian wiped her fingers on a linen napkin, tossed it into the basket with the rinds, and sailed past me.