by Avery Aames
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 Ks and Zs 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.
Bozz and I followed her to the sidewalk, where dozens of people clustered around Kristine Woodhouse, dressed in a red silk dress, matching hat, and two-toned shoes. Her fists were jammed with flyers.
“Kristine,” Vivian said. “Stop what you’re doing this i nstant.”
“This is public property,” Kristine countered.
Oh, no, I thought. Here we go again. Was Kristine intent on fighting with everyone in town? Her flyers read Elect Me, Not Bernadette. I had to give her points for bluntness. No one would mistake her meaning. But people didn’t seem to want her flyers. Many were suppressing a smile. Some were muttering
nasty comments. Did Kristine realize that people were finding her zealousness ridiculous and her lack of etiquette appalling?
Vivian said, “I’m having a gathering today. I can’t have—”
“You can have whatever I dish out, got me?” Kristine’s jaw jutted forward. “I refuse to let the police bully me into hiding.”
“Bully you?” I said.
“Raiding my home, peering through my closets, sorting through my garbage. The day before my husband’s funeral, no less.”
I wanted to cheer. Urso had actually taken my advice. I didn’t care that he might have foresworn decorum for due process. I wondered if he would share his findings.
Vivian said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Kristine, but really, I need you to move along.”
Kristine took a step closer and met Vivian eye-to-eye. “I’m on to you. You don’t want your precious auction attendees to back out. If they do, you might not have enough money to pay rent, and that would leave you in, let’s say, a tenuous position, wouldn’t it, dear? We wouldn’t want to make the new owner edgy.”
I said, “What are you talking about?”
Bozz whispered, “A developer bought Miss Williams’s building. The deal was all cash. It closed before Mr. Woodhouse . . . died.”
I remembered Zinnia from Délicieux mentioning the sale, but I hadn’t realized the sale involved Vivian’s building.
Vivian’s face turned chalk-white.
“Forget about Kristine.” I gripped Vivian’s hand. “Let’s go inside. Bozz, go back to The Cheese Shop and see if you can help Rebecca.”
As he trotted off, I led Vivian away from the burgeoning crowd and into the antique store. “It’s going to be fine,” I said, hoping it would be. Kristine and Ed had been bad enough as landlords, but a new owner could be iffy. He could hike rents or kick a tenant out for any number of reasons.
“If she has her way, I’ll be ruined,” Vivian said.
“If she has her way, everyone will be. She’s a spiteful, nasty woman, and I wouldn’t put it past her to have killed Ed.”
“With the candlestick in the parlor, Miss Scarlet.” Vivian dissolved into a fit of giggles.
I pressed her into a Victorian walnut gentleman’s chair, its cushions a creamy silk with a diamond pattern. “Breathe. C’mon, like in yoga class. One long wave. Then repeat.”
She knew what I was talking about. She was a stalwart yoga enthusiast, an avid runner, and she even worked out with a personal trainer.
When Vivian looked more relaxed, I uncorked a bottle of sauvignon blanc and poured her half a glass. She protested, but I ordered her to drink a sip. As she did, I caught sight of Meredith threading her way through the throng on the sidewalk, a silver gift bag tied with glittery ribbon in her hand. I called out, but she continued on, as if she was on a mission and couldn’t spare a second.
Odd behavior, but I couldn’t think about her now. I had to help Vivian get ready for what could possibly be a do-or-die auction.
CHAPTER 10
Two hours later, I gathered up the platters and baskets and recycled the wine bottles in the garbage behind Vivian’s store. I returned to The Cheese Shop, elated that I could help Vivian sell every item she had hoped to auction off, most over the reserved bid. She swore the buyers were loose with their checkbooks because Fromagerie Bessette had provided such wonderful food and wine, and she promised to praise us at the next city council meeting. Word-of-mouth advertising was worth its price in gold.
I bustled to the back of the shop with the platters and baskets and deposited them in the kitchen. When I returned to the cheese counter, I saw the cute young woman who owned All Booked Up bookstore slipping out the back door. Matthew stood in the arch leading to the annex. He looked eons better than he had the night before, his shoulders back, his eyes and skin glowing with energy.
“Aha!” I grinned. “You are seeing her.”
“Am not. She asked me to check out her books about wine at the store. She wants to make sure she has the right ones.”
“Uh-huh.” I winked.
He frowned. “Crowd’s thin now.” He removed his apron and smoothed the front of his pin-striped shirt. “But business was solid today.”
Those words were music to my ears. Actually, just having Matthew talk to me put a song in my heart. Maybe we could clear the air. “Are you—?”
“I’m leaving a little early. Rebecca said she was more than happy to take over in the wine annex. The girls are busy at an afternoon art program, and one of their friends’ parents will drop them off at Grandmère’s. You’re going there for dinner, right?”
“So are you, I thought.” I peered through the arch. The annex stood empty of customers. Rebecca was wiping down the bar with a fervor bordering on obsession.
“I’ll be there late.”
“Are you calling on the local wineries?” I asked, knowing that I had to visit all the local farmers soon. Maintaining public relations was one of my top priorities. “Or calling on a certain bookstore owner?”
Matthew didn’t answer.
“Or are you going to see Zoe, who owns the bakery?”
“Charlotte, don’t.”
Why couldn’t he admit he was dating somebody? Unless he wasn’t and had something else to hide.
He slung his apron on the hook by the rear door, tidied the tail of his shirt that had come free of his slacks, and strolled wordlessly toward the front of the shop.
As the grape-leaf-shaped chimes jingled goodbye to Matthew, a wistful feeling toyed with my heart, and I hated myself for it. I was not my cousin’s keeper. He had a right to privacy. Maybe he was doing something totally innocent, like attending some event at the Congregational Church down the street and he was late. I’d heard the bells ringing a welcome when I had left Vivian’s shop. A little time spent praying might do Matthew a world of good. Maybe he could find a way to get past the hurt that his ex had caused him and reconnect with me.
I ambled into the annex and said to Rebecca. “Looks polished to a shine.”
She beamed.
“Are we still on for tonight?” I asked.
“I am.” She tossed her wet rag into the sink behind the bar.
“Any word from Meredith?”
“Not a peep.”
The front door chimes tinkled again, signaling last-minute customers had arrived. I put off worrying about Meredith and hurried through the arch connecting the annex to The Cheese Shop to find Prudence and Felicia waltzing in, sunhats flopping, frothy floral dresses wafting up around their knees. The skirts settled down again as the door shut.
“Good afternoon,” Felicia said, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Why would she? Her deceased husband had left her a mound of cash that covered a fairly extravagant lifestyle. A trip down the Nile. A hike up Machu Picchu. A ballooning escapade across the south of France. I dreamed of doing all three.
Someday . . .
Prudence, as usual, looked uptight and edgy. Maybe it was because she never had any fun. She was a well-known penny-pincher. In all these years, she hadn’t purchased one ounce of cheese from Fromagerie Bessette. Gossip was that she had never married because she wasn’t willing to share a dime with a husband.
Some people changed over time; some people didn’t. I remembered being a gawky teen with acne and drab hair, ignored by the jocks, teased by the in-crowd girls. I had found my confidence and sense of style during college. Nowadays, I usually felt good in my skin, that is when I wasn’t fumbling for nouns and verbs in front of Jordan Pace.
The two women paraded toward me. Prudence took up residence on one of the ladder-back chairs by the tasting counter and crossed her spindly legs. She tapped her manicured nails on the counter as if to remind Felicia that time was a-ticking.
“Charlotte, dear, lovely little dress you’re wearing,” Felicia said.
I fingered the neckline of my sheath self-consciously. Felicia wasn’t prone to handing out compliments.
“How are you holding up?” Feli
cia didn’t really care how I was. She simply didn’t want me to boot her out of the shop. She perused items behind the glass, her gaze as focused as a rat surveying the contents of a mousetrap. “I’d like a half pound each of three of your favorite cheeses. Make sure that Tartuffo thingie I read about is included.” The Délicieux reporter hadn’t completed her interview with me yet, but she had written a blog on the Internet. In it, she had raved about the morsel of cheese I had fed her. Today the Tartuffo had almost sold out. I made a mental note to purchase more.
“How about a Vermont Grayson?” I suggested. I adored Grayson, which tasted like a Taleggio, a semisoft raw cow’s milk cheese, excellent melted on panini with a slice of chicken and a dried cherry reduction sauce. Felicia liked cheeses with creamy centers.
“Sure. Whatever. I’m having a little garden soirée at the museum this weekend. A mini fund-raiser.”
“Is the museum in financial trouble?” I asked.
“Nonsense!” Felicia hesitated then wiggled her fingers. “But reserve funds must always be in place. Ed was going to donate, but then, well, you know.” Something flickered in her gaze. Sorrow? Anger? She flipped her hand as if to swat away the emotion. “Oh, if you have any of that scrumptious ham and pineapple quiche around, let’s include that.” She leaned in to Prudence. “Charlotte features a different quiche every week. You should try some.”
At times, I wondered if Prudence ate anything other than lemons and grapefruit. She could do with a little sugar, a bite of cheese, and an extra dose of belly laughter in her diet.
“Let’s see, what else?” Felicia wandered away from the counter, dragging her tapered fingernails across the fronts of the basil pesto jars as she roamed.
The movement made me jerk to attention. I flashed again on the gala event when Kristine and her chums had marched in like a drill team. They had all come with gloves. Any could have put back on the gloves, grabbed the olive-wood-handled knife, killed Ed, and left the scene without leaving a fingerprint on the box or the knife. The killer could have disposed of the bloody gloves—at least one from the pair would have to be bloody—and purchased a replacement pair the next morning. Kristine’s Boutique was the only shop in town that sold gloves. If she wasn’t the killer, one of her friends might be. Would she reveal to Urso which of her pals had needed a new pair?
