The Long Quiche Goodbye

by Avery Aames

  The Congregational Church was packed to overflowing. Among the assemblage were many familiar faces: Delilah and her father, Meredith and other schoolteachers, Freckles and her group of crafters, Mr. Nakamura and his teensy wife. The last to enter was Urso, looking decidedly handsome in a dark blue suit.

  Huge five-foot candles lined the curved apse behind the altar. Early morning sunlight gleamed through the six stained-glass depictions of scenes from the New Testament. The pastor and his wife Gretel sat in a pair of brown velvet, high-backed chairs in the chancel.

  Kristine, for once appropriately clad in a black dress, strutted down the aisle of the nave, her chin held high, a black-veiled toque cupping her perfectly coifed hair. Willamina, also wearing a black frock, shuffled behind her mother. The poor thing looked as sallow as a corpse. Her nose was chapped and red, her eyes swollen. She twisted a handkerchief in her hands. Without a glance back at her daughter, Kristine proceeded to the first pew. As Willamina passed, I had the urge to swoop her into my arms and comfort her. I fought the impulse with all my might. The girl didn’t need me to incite her mother.

  Felicia, Prudence, and Tyanne followed Kristine and Willamina, each wearing a black chiffon sheath and black lace gloves. Each carried a black linen hankie. How much had Kristine charged them for those get-ups? I wondered, and pinched myself for such catty thoughts. They slid into the first pew, with Willamina squeezed between her mother and Felicia.

  Urso had granted my grandmother dispensation to appear at the funeral, but Grandmère said she didn’t think Kristine would want her there, so she had declined. Pépère sat beside me, Matthew and the twins beyond him, and Rebecca at the far end. Vivian came in late, wearing a dark blue suit buttoned to the neck, and wedged herself into the pew beside Rebecca. We shared a somber nod.

  The pastor, with his sage voice and owlish looks, gave a lovely sermon about life in the hereafter and reminded the family that they should feel solace knowing that they were loved. I wasn’t sure how much of that was true, but it sounded good. Attendees who had lost loved ones in the recent past were weeping. A tear slipped down my cheek in memory of my parents. I often wondered what my life would have been like had they lived, but Grandmère warned that dredging up the past could only lead to sorrow.

  After the organist played a mournful tune by Bach, the pastor offered Kristine the opportunity to address the congregation. If it was me, I would have passed, but Kristine practically leapt at the chance. She stood and cut a bitter look in my direction. I tensed. Would she attack my family? Were we wrong to have come?

  Pépère grabbed my hand.

  I squeezed his hard. “Be strong,” I said. I had encouraged him to attend, to be the face of innocence for Grandmère. Our friends—our real friends—believed she would be exonerated.

  Like a queen ready to be crowned, Kristine strode to the front of the church, lifted her mid-calf-length skirt an inch, and took the carpeted steps to the podium, one at a time, slowly, deliberately. She moved behind the pulpit and braced her hands on either side, gripping so hard that her knuckles turned white. She took a deep breath, glanced up at the ceiling, and then back at the crowd. I had seen an actress in one of Grandmère’s plays do the same thing to prepare for her overly melodramatic monologue. She was panned for her performance, a critic saying she had run the gamut of emotions from A to B.

  “My dear, dear friends,” Kristine intoned. Her words echoed into the rafters. She scanned the crowd but avoided looking in my direction. “I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful it is to see all of you here. Ed would be so . . .” She paused, licked her upper lip ever so slightly. “So . . .” She paused again, this time I was sure it was for effect. “So . . .” She began to wail. Huge, gushing wails.

  The assembly uttered a collective gasp.

  Kristine laid the back of her hand on her mouth, then held up her other hand as if to tell us she was all right, to give her a moment. Not a soul whispered. When she had composed herself, she wiped tears off her cheeks with her gloved pinky and began again. “Ed was the most wonderful man. I have never known another who was better than him.”

  I had. Dozens. Hundreds. I bit my tongue.

  “He was a wonderful husband, a fabulous father.” She didn’t look at Willamina, who was hunched over in the front pew, shoulders shuddering. “He supported me in everything I tried to do. I know he would want me to—”

  Here it comes, I thought. The pitch. The beleaguered widow wants my grandmother to go to jail, and she wants the town of Providence to elect her. I squeezed Pépère’s hand harder.

  “Ed would want me to continue in my quest to make this the finest city in Ohio.”

  I knew it. Voilà! People were so predictable sometimes.

  “I promise you . . .” Kristine’s hand flew to her mouth again, and she slurped back tears. A soap opera actress would be hard-pressed to emote like she did. “I promise you that I will keep his spirit alive by doing exactly that. I will make you and Ed proud. Thank you all for coming. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She actually blew kisses and I was reminded of scenes from Evita, when the insincere Eva Peron played the crowd like a fine-tuned fiddle.

  As Kristine strode to her daughter and people roused to their feet, I sat frozen in my spot, too stunned to move. The cheek, the gall. Poor little Willamina looked mortified. No siblings to help her. No grandparents to comfort her. Kristine reached out to stroke her daughter’s hair, but Willamina batted her mother’s hand away and fled into the aisle.

  When I finally found my composure, I stood with the rest of my family and made my way out of the church. As we passed Kristine and Willamina, who were standing in the chapel’s foyer speaking to well-wishers, Amy and Clair whispered to Willamina that they were sorry. She mumbled the same to them, and my heart broke. The poor kid looked in dire need of a friend.

  Outside the church, we kissed Pépère goodbye. I told him not to say a word to Grandmère about Kristine’s brazen promise, and he agreed.

  Out in the sunlight, I looked for Jordan, hoping to catch a word with him. I hadn’t seen him in the church, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t come.

  “Charlotte.” Vivian tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry. What she did in there . . .”

  “Forget it.”

  “It was unforgiveable. She has no class, that woman. She and Ed. They never should have gotten married.”

  But they did, and the rest, as pundits would say, was history.

  “I still think we can prove she killed him,” Vivian said. “Money is a powerful motivator. Do we know how much she inherited? Has Urso or your lawyer found that out?”

  I didn’t know if anyone had, but I was too upset to think about it right then. I told her I would confer with both of them later.

  Matthew, the twins, and I trundled home. We changed clothes, grabbed Rags, ferried the girls to school in Matthew’s Jeep, and went to the shop. Out of respect for the Woodhouse family, whether they deserved our respect or not, we had chosen not to open The Cheese Shop until ten A.M.

  The rest of the day passed quickly. Rebecca and I tended to the customers while Matthew prepared for the wine tasting we were having tomorrow evening. We expected a large crowd. He didn’t mention missing dinner last night. In fact, he didn’t talk at all, and though I was dying to ask him who, what, where, and why, I kept quiet. I wasn’t a harpy. Our business was running smoothly. The girls, other than the incident with Amy missing her mother, seemed happy. Why rock the proverbial boat?

  Besides, I had bigger issues to contend with. How was I going to compete with Jordan’s new flame, and how was I going to prove that Kristine Woodhouse was guilty and my grandmother was innocent of murder? I decided to deal with Jordan tomorrow when I made the weekly tour to local farms. Somehow I would get him to spill the beans about Mystery Woman and perhaps, if I was supremely lucky, I could snag a date.

  I spent the afternoon filling orders and consulting with Bozz about new pictures to add to our website. He had done a
spectacular job photographing an array of cheeses. Around three, I wrote the first of what I hoped would be a monthly newsletter to our customers. I had set a guest book by the register so friends of The Cheese Shop could sign up and give us their email addresses. It was nearly full. In the newsletter, I focused on three distinctly different cheeses—one goat’s milk, one sheep’s milk, and one cow’s milk—and I shared a few tips on how to serve the cheeses. One of my favorites was Caerphilly, a soft, nutty cow’s milk cheese from Wales, which tasted great with a drizzle of apricot jam and a sprinkling of chopped cashews. Matthew popped into the office and offered a suggestion for wine to go with the Caerphilly, a red Ada Nada Dolcetto d’Alba from Italy, a mouthful to say, but delicious.

  At four, I returned to the cheese counter, and Rebecca asked if she could take a break.

  “Before you go, grab another wheel of Morbier from the refrigerator, would you?” We had sold all of the wedges I had set out. Our customers loved specials.

  Rebecca trotted off and I found myself humming for the first time in a long time. Until I heard a pounding sound. Then a kicking sound. Then a scream. Well, not a scream really. A fit of laughter. Rebecca had locked herself into the refrigerator. Again.

  “Problem?” a customer with a peanut-sized child in tow asked.

  “Nope.” I chuckled. Rebecca would be angry if I rescued her. I’d give her sixty seconds to figure out her escape route. “What’ll it be?”

  Two more customers strolled into the store and headed straight for the wine annex.

  “Don’t you need to help her?” the customer with the toddler asked.

  “She’ll figure her way out. I promise.” She had before.

  The woman asked for a quarter pound each of Molinari Toscano Picante salami, prosciutto, and Manchego cheese. As I filled the order, the grape-leaf-shaped chimes jingled. Zinnia scuttled into the shop.

  She strode toward me and said, “Got a tidbit for you,” then she began playing peekaboo with the customer’s toddler, seemingly content to bide her time until I was free.

  As I moved toward the register, I heard a slam and then a muttering of French swear words. Rebecca had escaped her chilly dungeon. I would bet she hadn’t a clue what she was saying and would blush when I told her. And I would. Later. Out of earshot of customers. I had no intention of letting my purer-than-pure helper go down a path she didn’t understand.

  She shuffled to my side, looking like she had grappled with a bear, strands of hair falling around her delicate face, her ponytail loose, and the apron that she wore over her shirred-neck dress twisted almost backward. She smiled her elfin smile. “I’ve returned, thanks to the stool.” The inner handle of the refrigerator stuck every once in a while. It required a little extra oomph to open it. I had put a step-stool into the refrigerator just in case Clair or Amy got trapped. The extra height would give them enough leverage to open the door. Rebecca, as slight as she was, had to use it, too.

  “Charlotte, got a sec?” Zinnia said, no longer willing to wait.

  I sidled from behind the cheese counter and joined her by the display of balsamic vinegar and extra-virgin olive oil bottles. “What’s up?”

  “I’m going back home.”

  “But—” I sputtered. We hadn’t finished the interview.

  “Don’t worry. It’s my fault we haven’t completed the interview. I’m writing the article, anyway, and I promise it’ll be very positive.”

  That was a relief.

  “Before I go, I wanted to impart a little more gossip that I gleaned at Lois’s B&B.” Zinnia snagged my shirtsleeve and pulled me close. “Get this. Kristine Woodhouse is trying to get control of her daughter’s trust fund.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Sounds to me like she might be a little hard up for cash. I don’t think Ed left her much else.”

  I needed to talk to Urso. Money was always a motive for murder.

  “I know you’re trying to buy this place,” Zinnia went on. “Maybe now you can get it for a song.”

  No matter how destitute Kristine Woodhouse was, I couldn’t see her letting anybody get a bargain. But a meeting with my Realtor, Octavia Tibble, was in order. I’d call her on my way to pick up the twins from school.

  Providence Elementary was a lovely one-story brick building sandwiched between the matching junior high school and high school. All three, thanks to Grandmère and the city counsel, had recently been spruced up with new gymnasiums, repainted classrooms, and lots of thriving perennials interspersed with glorious beds of deep purple petunias.

  I drove into the turnabout driveway by the elementary school.

  Within seconds Amy tagged the front door of my white Escort and yelled, “Shotgun!”

  Clair clambered into the backseat and huddled over her iPod, her blonde hair falling forward like a curtain to hide her face. The day after their mother split, Matthew had given each girl an iPod and twenty-five downloaded songs. They knew each song by heart. Clair had the better voice. Amy sang the loudest.

  “How’s Grandmère today?” Amy said, kicking her blue backpack forward under the dash.

  “Eager to see you. And she’s prepared your favorite snack.”

  “Peanut butter apple pie?” Amy asked, and rubbed her hands together like a money-hungry miser. Peanut butter apple pie was a little sandwich Grandmère had concocted, made with bread, raisins, peanut butter, apple, and Cheddar cheese. Melt-in-your-mouth delicious. “Does she have milk?”

  “Of course. And don’t worry, Clair. You’ll get the treat, too. Grandmère made your special bread.” A gluten-free bread that was soft and didn’t need toasting. I glanced over the car seat. Clair looked up at me, eyes moist. My heart tightened. “Are you okay?”

  “Mm-hm,” she lied, and resumed staring at her iPod.

  I’d have to pry the truth out of her.

  “Miss Vance asked about Grandmère,” Amy said. “I told her she was sad.”

  I frowned. People didn’t need to know that Grandmère was crying at the drop of a sunhat.

  “How is Miss Vance?” I said, still worried about Meredith. She hadn’t made eye contact at the funeral. Why, why, why? rang out in my head. What had I done wrong?

  “She’s happy,” Amy said.

  Children were so easily fooled. If a teacher smiled, she was happy.

  “Kids are talking,” Clair added.

  “About?”

  “About Grandmère.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. Clair stared back at me, her eyes now awash with tears. I pulled the Escort to the side of the road, switched off the engine, and swiveled in my seat. “She’s going to be fine. I promise.”

  “But what if she’s guilty?” Clair chewed her lip. “What if Mum hears? What if she comes and takes us away?”

  Indignation rushed up my neck and warmed my cheeks. I understood Clair’s concern, but I had no worries that the girls’ mother would suddenly reappear. She had made her choice. She would not come to reclaim them.

  Amy smacked her thigh with her palm. “I think we should investigate.”

  “Huh? Investigate what?”

  “The murder, of course.”

  “You are not to do a thing,” I said with the sternest voice I could muster. “We have lawyers—”

  “But we might hear something at school.”

  I reached out to both girls and clutched their hands in mine. “Your grandmother is innocent. Do you hear me? Innocent! And no matter what happens, we are a family. Nothing will break us apart. Nothing. Do you believe me?”

  Both girls nodded. Clair wiped tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand.

  Amy said, “Just in case, we’ll keep our ears to the ground, okay?”

  “Where do you hear things like that?’

  “Rebecca.”

  I bit back a smile. Of course. My budding sleuth, Rebecca.

  I pulled back onto the road. We arrived at my grandparents’ house a few minutes later. Grandmère, dressed in cheerful red capri pants
and a red-striped scarf top, had set up a puppet show stage—mine, as a little girl—in the living room. A wooden box filled with well-loved hand puppets sat beside it.

  As the twins rummaged through the box to claim their favorites, I left for my appointment with my Realtor.

  Octavia Tibble reminded me of a border collie, always in motion. She’d asked if, rather than meeting in her office, I would oblige her by coming to the local library where she doubled as the librarian. She had taken on the responsibility when the last librarian retired, saying it was easy to lock up the library and show houses. “These books aren’t going any place without my say-so,” she teased. She had earned a BA and PhD in English from Ohio State University and could have taught college-level students, but she preferred the looser hours of real estate to teaching.

  I found Octavia standing, not sitting, in the pre-school section, a dozen moppets at her feet, all listening with rapt attention to her earthy alto voice as she read a Junie B story. When she finished, she set the book down and encouraged all the children to cheer for Junie. They obeyed with glee.

  So much for decorum in the library.

  As parents gathered up their children, Octavia beckoned me into a glass-enclosed cubicle merrily decorated with yellow, red, and blue paper balloons tacked to a wall-sized corkboard.

  Octavia offered me a chair, but she remained on her feet and fiddled with the beautifully beaded cornrows of black hair that framed her chocolate-colored face. “So, my darling girl”—Octavia was a good thirty years older than me—“what we have is a mess.”

  “She’s not selling? The court won’t allow it because of the murder investigation? What? Is it a probate issue?” I was not a lawyer. At one time I had intended to learn more about the law than simply how to read and sign a contract, but, like creating a website, I hadn’t been able to find the time.