The Long Quiche Goodbye

by Avery Aames

  Muttering to myself, I toured the perimeter of the Dumpster a second time. Why, for heaven’s sake did, Felicia need a Dumpster for her small enterprise? Why didn’t she have a simple little green Tupperware garbage can like all the other houses in the area? Perhaps she had done some renovating, except if she was running low on money, that wouldn’t make any sense.

  “I know,” Rebecca said. “I’ll give you a boost and you can look over the edge.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I’m really strong.”

  “That’s not the point.” I blew a stream of frustrated air out my nose. A sheath and sandals were not exactly appropriate attire for scaling a metal behemoth.

  “C’mon. Step into my hands.” Rebecca bent down and laced her fingers together. “Don’t worry. I’ve lifted my brothers this way. Promise. I won’t let you fall. Just take a peek.”

  Feeling like a numbskull, I slipped my foot into the stirrup she formed with her hands, and grabbing hold of the corner of the Dumpster and one of the braces running top to bottom, heaved myself toward the upper edge.

  “What is going on, Charlotte?” Urso said from behind me, his voice authoritative and curt.

  I dropped from the Dumpster, heart pumping, goose bumps prickling my arms, and shielded my eyes from the blinding beam of Urso’s flashlight. Why in the heck was he carrying a flashlight at dusk? To intimidate me, no doubt. The tactic worked. Rebecca huddled behind me, trembling. I shook off my initial alarm and poked her to do the same. Urso was harmless. At least I hoped so.

  “Well?” Urso switched off the flashlight and slung it into a holster on his belt. “Did you lose something?” He eyed my dress.

  I followed his gaze and my cheeks warmed. The darned sheath had bunched up around my thighs. What I would have given for a baggy overcoat and galoshes right about now. I tugged the sheath’s hem down to my knees, then stood a little taller, but that didn’t make any difference. I still felt like a pipsqueak around Urso.

  “Don’t tell me you’re looking for more bloody evidence,” he said. “Let me guess, Felicia Hassleton’s dress?”

  I caught the smug humor in his gaze and bristled. Why was I so sure it was a woman who had killed Ed? Because it was a crime of passion. The killer had stabbed Ed in the heart. Yet another reason I didn’t believe that my grandmother was guilty. As organized and forthright as she was, she would have plotted to kill Ed and then shot him. She owned a little snub-nosed revolver, handed down to her from her father. I chose not to offer that little tidbit to Urso. He didn’t need more reason to suspect Grandmère.

  “Find anything?” Urso asked.

  “Hard to tell with a mere nanosecond to peek over the edge.” I didn’t even try to keep the snarkiness from my tone.

  “I already searched Kristine Woodhouse’s boutique.”

  Did he expect me to gush with thanks?

  “I didn’t find anything incriminating,” he went on. “I think she’s innocent.”

  A series of rejoinders rattled through my brain. Innocent, my foot. Maniacal, maybe. Pretentious, definitely. I tapped my fingers on my mouth, as if to keep the words nailed inside. What other possibilities were there?

  I said, “What if Kristine burned the dress and gloves? Or buried them?”

  “Or stuffed them in the back of her toilet?” Rebecca popped from her hiding place, my confidence apparently spurring hers. “I saw that storyline once on CSI. It was drugs, not a dress, but it’s the same thing. At least, I think it is. Seems the same.”

  Urso sighed. “It’s late, Charlotte. Why don’t you visit your grandparents and then go home? As for you, Miss Zook . . .”

  “Yes?” Rebecca squeaked.

  “You should know better than to orchestrate something like this.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Oh, but you did.” Urso snorted. “I happened to be at the pub.”

  Rebecca and I gasped in unison.

  “Yep, sitting in the booth beyond yours. I heard the entire plot.”

  Why, the rascal. Playing cat and mouse with us. Letting us go off half-cocked just so he could trap us. I’d have to keep his diabolical nature in mind when dealing with him in the future.

  “Now go home.” Without another word, Urso strode from the alley. His shoulders shook with laughter as he turned the corner.

  When he was out of sight, I realized I had forgotten to tell him about the theory that any of Kristine’s friends—not just Felicia—could have killed Ed, but I didn’t call him back. He wouldn’t be in the mood to listen. That conversation could wait until morning.

  But dinner wouldn’t. Rebecca and I returned to The Cheese Shop. I selected a bottle of Markham sauvignon blanc, and I boxed the apricot-cream-cheese coffee cake I’d made earlier in the day, gluten-free so Clair could have a taste, and then we strolled toward my grandparents, heading south. On our way, Rebecca was eager to hash around other theories, but I nixed that idea.

  As we neared the corner of Grace Street and Cherry Orchard Road, orchestral music filled the air. In moments, I realized it was coming from my grandparents’ yard. A crowd had gathered three-deep and ran the length of my grandparents’ white picket fence. I groaned. Just what I needed, as if my evening’s run-in with the law wasn’t enough excitement for one day.

  Mr. Nakamura, the Nuts for Nails owner, waved and smiled. “I love a free concert,” he said, his almond-shaped eyes glittering with humor. He always looked for the fun in life. He had seen too much as a young boy, he told me one day when I was buying nails by the pound. I didn’t know what he’d seen, but I could commiserate. “Nice night for one,” he added.

  Yes, it was a lovely night. The temperature was a balmy seventy-five. Not too hot, not too cool. So why was I suddenly perspiring? I was too young for hot flashes.

  I pushed through the crowd, and the pastor’s wife, Gretel, a hearty woman with blonde braids who looked like she would be right at home yodeling in the Alps, grabbed hold of my arm.

  “How divine of your grandmother to offer us a peek at a rehearsal for the new ballet.”

  Now I recognized the tune. “Good Morning, Baltimore” from Hairspray, a reedy string version, probably recorded by Providence’s very own ten-piece orchestra, conducted by my very own bullheaded grandmother. What was she thinking, putting on such a spectacle when she was under house arrest?

  “It’s going to be quite a show.” Gretel winked. “A little risqué, but that’s all right with me.” Like Delilah, she had spent considerable time in New York. She’d wanted to be a publisher, but after a few years, she returned to Providence looking for a simpler, more spiritually fulfilling life. She once confided that spending an evening walking the rolling hills beyond town and drinking in the beauty of the stars, like those twinkling overhead tonight, were all she needed to feel at one with God. I craved a night like that.

  “Oh, my, look at her go.” Gretel clapped her hands. Her braids bounced in rhythm.

  Delilah, dancing the lead role of Tracy, was clad in a frumpy dress with slits up the legs. She pirouetted across the yard and threw herself into the arms of a local farmer who moonlighted as Providence’s leading man. He bent her backward, and she raised her arms gracefully over her head. A gathering of other dancers, part of the Baltimore street scene, cheered.

  “Isn’t she splendid?” Gretel said.

  I had to agree. Delilah was graceful yet athletic. Her face shone with enthusiasm.

  “Your grandmother has such an eye for these things. I commend her.”

  Grandmère, dressed like Martha Graham in a chic black leotard and wraparound skirt, looked fit, trim, and back in control of her emotions. She pounded out the rhythm of the music on the porch.

  “She’s certainly resilient, isn’t she?” Gretel went on. “Acting like she hasn’t a worry in the world.”

  “She didn’t do it,” I blurted. “She didn’t kill Ed Woodhouse.”

  “Of course not, sweetheart, but who did?”

  That was the mill
ion-dollar question, wasn’t it?

  “I don’t know . . . yet. But I will. Excuse me.” I hoisted my tote filled with wine and dessert and gave a little nod. “We’re expected for dinner.”

  “Please tell your grandmother our prayers are with her.” Rebecca traipsed behind me as I cut through the rehearsal to the front porch.

  “Delilah,” I said as I passed her. “Come join us for a bite when you’re through.”

  She agreed and, in time to the music, did a little jig and clicked her heels.

  Grandmère, her body warm with exertion, gave me a hug as I crested the top stair.

  “You’re looking better,” I said.

  She gave a perfunctory nod as if to say, why wouldn’t she? “The twins are inside. They brought your cat.”

  Grandmère didn’t care for Rags. I wasn’t sure why. She’d never allowed me to have a pet while growing up. Through the screened door, I spied Clair rolling on the floor of the living room with him. Amy was sitting on the couch, an album laid across her lap.

  “Your grandfather is in the kitchen baking,” Grandmère added. “Zucchini and onion quiche. I had a craving.” I had gotten all of my quiche recipes from my grandfather. He was a wizard with flaky pastry. “Rebecca, chérie, I hope you like quiche.”

  “I love it.”

  I inhaled the lush aroma of cheese and nutmeg. No doubt, Pépère was putting together one of his legendary salads, as well. I could hardly wait. My garbological adventure at the museum hadn’t deterred my appetite in the least.

  “Is Matthew here?” I asked.

  “He called. He’s running late.”

  “Hmph,” I muttered, again wondering what Matthew was up to. He wasn’t dating Delilah, because she was at rehearsal. The wineries had closed, so he wasn’t making business calls. Had he gone to the movies? The gym? Had he found some kind of local card game? Did he have a problem that we should discuss? Maybe he had stolen off with my elusive pal Meredith, I thought, then I chuckled at the ludicrous notion. She said she was dating someone who recited poetry. Matthew’s idea of poetry was what he read on the labels of wine bottles. Not to mention, about an hour ago, I’d seen him chatting up Zoe, the bakery owner. She’d be getting off work just about now.

  “What’s so funny?” Grandmère said.

  “Nothing.” Tension melted from my shoulders. Laughter truly was the best medicine. “When is your rehearsal over? How soon do we eat?”

  “Now.” Grandmère pounded her stick again.

  As she ended the session and bid everyone adieu, I pressed open the screened door. Rebecca followed me inside. Delilah joined us minutes later.

  We ate dinner in the dining room, a charming space with burgundy flocked wallpaper, the most handsome country French Provincial dining table with a parquet top, and a matching hutch that housed a glistening set of Lenox white-gold-banded china. The table, fitted with burgundy placemats and napkins, set off the plates beautifully. The salad Pépère had made—field greens, slices of Roma tomatoes, thin slices of red onion, and a sprinkling of crumbled Humboldt Fog, with his special oil and vinegar dressing seasoned with crushed garlic, mustard, and a pinch of sugar—was mouthwateringly good.

  We kept the conversation light. We didn’t discuss Grandmère’s situation. We didn’t bring up Matthew or his ex-wife. Not in front of the girls. Delilah regaled us with stories about the mishaps that had occurred during the rehearsal. When she told us that the leading man had landed on her foot not once, not twice, but five times, we all laughed. Even Grandmère.

  Delilah came into the kitchen while I was scooping homemade espresso mascarpone ice cream into bowls. She leaned her hip against one of the cabinets. “I’m sorry your cousin isn’t here.”

  Aha! I had picked up that she was interested in Matthew. “He’s certainly been in the diner a lot lately.”

  She nodded. “Likes his coffee black.”

  “Do you two . . . chat . . . while he’s there?”

  “A little. Mostly he comes in, grabs the coffee, and leaves.”

  Did I detect a note of regret? And if he wasn’t hanging around Delilah, where was he spending the rest of his time? Before I could ask, Amy appeared. I recognized the picture album she had tucked under her arm, and the muscles around my heart tightened. There were photographs of Matthew’s wedding in it. Which meant photos of her mother.

  “Are you okay?” I said.

  She plunked herself onto one of the chairs at the table. “Mum never calls.”

  “She’s probably very busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Delilah whispered and sashayed out of the room.

  “Well,” I said, weighing my words carefully. “She’s probably working.”

  “Working where?”

  “Waitressing is my guess. That’s what she did when she and your dad met.”

  “Was she a good waitress?”

  “Sure, she was.” Honestly, I didn’t have a clue. The woman hadn’t worked in the restaurant a week when she set her sights on Matthew, the sommelier. She quit waitressing and moved in with Matthew a week after that. Grandmère had called her a gold digger. On the other hand, she hadn’t asked for a cent when she left him and the girls. Mumsie and Dad had plenty of cash to keep their little princess in pretty frocks and expensive shoes for decades to come.

  “Now, why don’t you help me serve this ice cream.” I clipped the tip of her nose with my knuckle.

  “What about Clair’s allergies?”

  I loved that she cared so much about her sister, a result of the twin bond, I imagined, or perhaps the bond that grew stronger when a parent left. My bond to my grandparents had certainly cemented after my parents died.

  “It’s gluten-free,” I said, “but that one’s the biggest scoop, so it’s yours.”

  She giggled, and leaving the album on the kitchen table, trotted out of the room carrying two dessert dishes.

  By the time we finished our meal, it was close to nine.

  “Bedtime,” I said to the girls. “Gather your things.”

  Rebecca yawned, thanked my grandparents for a lovely dinner, and headed home. She lived a block away. So did Meredith. I considered stopping by her place, but dropping in unannounced was not my style.

  Before Delilah could slip out, Grandmère clutched her arm and asked if she would teach the morning dance classes for the next week. The elderly students really needed the workout, she said, and, well, the women wouldn’t want to exercise on the lawn.

  As they negotiated hours and salary, Delilah insisting she needed none of the latter, I went in search of Rags and found him lying on the living room floor. He looked like the Cheshire Cat, a grin on his silly face. Pie crust crumbs led from a little rooster plate on the floor to Rags’s mouth. The scamp must have begged Pépère for a taste of quiche, and Pépère, knowing I would disapprove, brought it to him on the sly.

  “Slob,” I muttered and hoisted him into my arms.

  Pépère appeared in the arch. He eyed the cat and his mouth tilted up on one side.

  “She is better, no?” he said. “Your grandmère?”

  “Yes.”

  “I keep replaying that night. How I wish—”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Chief Urso. He pressed me for the truth.”

  “As he should have.”

  “Ed and your grandmother argued, Charlotte, nothing more.”

  I patted his shoulder. “Pépère, do you remember seeing anybody running in your direction as you left the Igloo?” The ice cream store stood three doors north of Kristine’s Boutique. If I had murdered Ed, I would have headed away from the crime scene. I would have weaved my way home on side streets. Someone had to have seen her.

  “I saw no one.” He tapped a finger to his chin. “You know, I did see Ed with Vivian the night before he died. They were at his office. They were quarreling. I can’t remember ever hearing Vivian raise her voice before. She is such a lady.”

 
If disagreement was evidence that could hang a person, we would all be suspects in the murder of Ed Woodhouse. Everyone except Pépère. He never bickered. Oh, sure, he lambasted himself in French diatribes, but he never lashed out at others.

  “She must have learned that Ed sold her building. I’d have raised my voice as well.”

  “Oui, of course. Oh, chérie, this is making me think like a crazy man.” Pépère beat the side of his leg with his palm. “Vivian is as innocent as your grandmother, no? Everybody is innocent until proven guilty. That is the American way.”

  Usually, unless one was covered with the victim’s blood.

  I kissed him on both cheeks and said, “Get a good night’s rest. I’m sure we’ll find answers tomorrow.”

  “I’ll drive you home.”

  “The girls and I can walk.”

  “I’ll drive.” He was adamant.

  I gathered the twins, kissed my grandmother good night, and we headed for his Audi. As I opened the passenger door, I heard Jordan’s voice coming from next door. I peered around the hedge of well-trimmed holly.

  Jordan was standing on the porch talking to an attractive woman who had moved to Providence only last week. Grandmère had promised to get me the dirt on her but had yet to do so. I didn’t know what the woman did for a living. She didn’t own a shop in town. She didn’t have a husband or a pet or any children, as far as my snoopy grandmother could tell. With a solid build, strong features, and athletic forearms, she looked like the kind of woman who could wrestle a Wall Street broker to the ground at the end of a day of heavy trading. Grandmère and I teasingly called her Mystery Woman.

  So who was she, how did Jordan know her, and why was he hugging her?

  CHAPTER 13

  A night of tossing and thinking about Jordan Pace, his cowboy good looks, his husky voice, and his arms wrapped around Mystery Woman did nothing for my mood. Neither did dressing in a somber suit and tight heels for Ed Woodhouse’s funeral. Determined to do something that felt constructive, I called Urso. He wasn’t pleased that I was, yet again, his first call of the day. He reminded me that it was the day of the funeral, and he was on his way to it. I told him I was, too, but I wasn’t going to wait to tell him that there had to be a witness who had seen Kristine leaving her coterie of friends on the night of the murder. I recapped my conversation with Pépère in three sentences, and Urso be-grudgingly promised to check into the entire town’s alibis. After the funeral.