The Long Quiche Goodbye

by Avery Aames

  Silence filled the room. I shifted feet.

  Vivian whispered, “Perhaps I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  I gripped her arm and made her stay.

  “Why are you here?” Meredith asked, curiosity replacing laughter.

  I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to tell my best friend that Rebecca and Vivian had suspected her of murder, but I didn’t want her to think I was checking up on her and my cousin, either. Red-hot embarrassment crept up my neck and into my face.

  Vivian said, “Ed Woodhouse had a lover who was his partner in some unsavory real estate investments. Supposedly Ed lavished gifts upon her, and when I saw you at the jewelry store, and you avoided me—”

  “You kept ducking us,” I blurted. I couldn’t let Vivian take all the blame. I was the one who had led the march to Meredith’s house.

  “You thought I was Ed’s lover?” Meredith’s free hand flew to her mouth, knuckles against her lips. Her cheeks grew pink. After a moment, realization set in and she let her arm fall to her lap. Her gaze turned to hurt. “You thought I killed him?”

  “Not Charlotte. Never Charlotte,” Vivian said.

  “Ed was old enough to be . . . I would never . . .” Meredith drew in deep, rolling yoga breaths. “Never . . . oh, my.”

  “I gave her the jewelry,” Matthew admitted. “My ex—” He ground his teeth together. “She ran off with everything I had given her. My mother’s jewelry. I wanted Meredith to know how much I cared.”

  Meredith fingered the chain that hung around her neck. She’d replaced the sapphire necklace with a pretty silver one that held a heart-shaped charm. “This was what I was picking up at the jewelers. Matthew had it engraved. Inside it says, ‘I promise.’”

  “A promise is the best I can do for now.” Matthew swiveled in his spot and grabbed Meredith’s other hand. “I promise to be loving, honest, and good in—”

  Meredith elbowed him. He grinned, then they both broke into laughter, a joyous sound that eased the tension in the room. I could breathe again.

  “Charlotte.” Meredith sobered. “I’m sorry for dodging you. If I hadn’t, none of this . . . I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize. I’m the one who should. It’s my fault for letting them all jump to conclusions. Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Of course. We have too many years between us.” Meredith smiled. “For the record, Vivian, at the time of the murder, I was behind The Cheese Shop kissing Matthew. I heard a scream. I told Matthew to return inside, and I ran to the front of the shop.”

  “I protested,” Matthew said.

  “But I’m trained in self-defense,” Meredith countered. She had encouraged me to take classes with her and her fellow elementary schoolteachers.

  I turned to leave, eager to get away so I could castigate myself without a crowd.

  “Wait, Charlotte, what about the girls?” Meredith said. “You won’t tell them, will you?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “You tell them in your own time. My lips are sealed.”

  Meredith and Matthew’s giggles followed me as I descended the stairs, and I felt a pang of jealousy. What I wouldn’t give for a little taste of love. I thought of Jordan and hoped he was waiting outside so we could talk, but he wasn’t.

  “I’m so sorry, Charlotte,” Vivian said. “I never should have assumed—”

  “It’s not your fault. Rebecca fueled the fire, and I let her. Let’s put it behind us.”

  As Vivian and I returned outside, thunderclouds were gathering on the horizon as if preparing to wage another attack. I hoped the rain would hold off until after dark. I needed a little reassuring sunshine. We headed back toward the center of town, the twittering of thrushes and warblers replacing conversation, until I decided to broach another subject that had been eating at me since talking with Pépère.

  “Vivian, my grandfather mentioned seeing you and Ed arguing in your store the night before he was killed. It’s none of my business, but—”

  “It’s a long story, but it was about my lease.” Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Ed could be such a toad about what was important to me . . . to my future.”

  “He told you about the sale?”

  She gave a curt nod. “I’ve pleaded with Kristine to put in a good word for me with the new owner, but she refuses.”

  “Someone bid on our building. Was it you?”

  “If only I had that kind of cash.”

  “Do you know who bought yours?”

  She shook her head. “I could strangle Kristine, she’s so tight-lipped.”

  “Perhaps it’s Ed’s partner, this lover the tour guide mentioned?” Who, thankfully, was not Meredith.

  “For all we know, it could be Kristine pulling a fast one. Maybe she bought out Ed before he died, to get everything in her name in case creditors came calling on him.”

  “And then he was killed—”

  “—which means she wouldn’t have been after his money.”

  I nodded. “But as Rebecca said, jealousy could be a driving factor.”

  We reached the front of the shop, and Vivian pecked me on the cheek. “Please don’t think ill of me. I hate gossip and, well, I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “I’m relieved to know the truth.”

  “The truth shall set you free,” she said in a tone a revivalist could appreciate, then trotted toward Europa Antiques and Collectibles, her purchases swinging on her arm.

  Matthew returned to the shop around five P.M. with an easiness about him that had been missing since we took over the shop. He didn’t mention a thing about my intrusion at Meredith’s. I sure as heck didn’t intend to raise the issue again.

  Soon after, three regional wine representatives arrived, two men and one woman. Matthew had invited them to give mini-seminars on the evening’s twelve wine selections. Matthew guided them from wine station to wine station, sharing his thoughts on how to best present the wines. He set out cards he had prepared with wine reviews and pairing suggestions as he roved.

  While they waxed poetic about wine, I returned to the cheese counter. “Rebecca, are you ready?”

  She gave me a thumbs-up. “Your grandfather is in the kitchen.”

  I had told Pépère he didn’t have to come in, but he said Grandmère had ordered him out of the house. Apparently, she and the twins were going to watch a chick flick and then dance the night away.

  At six P.M., I strode to the front door and braced it open with a cheese-wedge-shaped doorstop. The cool evening breeze swept inside, as did a handful of townsfolk and tourists.

  Delilah moseyed in with Freckles, and they strolled directly toward the tasting room.

  The oldest wine rep, an overly-suntanned man from California, greeted them at the arch and directed them to his station.

  Meredith sauntered into the shop and pinched my arm affectionately. “Bygones?”

  “Bygones,” I said. “I’m so sorry—”

  She put her finger to my lips. “No more sorries. Say, I spied Jordan over your shoulder at the house. Are things going well in that department?”

  “Not well at all.” I told her about Mystery Woman.

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation. I saw the way he looked at you at the gala. He’s interested with a capital I.”

  I as in iceberg, I thought. Especially after the day’s fiasco.

  “Charlotte,” Pépère approached. “People are asking for you.”

  Meredith kissed my cheek, then left me to track down Matthew.

  “What do they want?”

  “To know how to tell a good Brie from a bad Brie.”

  I tweaked his cheek. “Pépère, you are perfectly capable of educating them. After all, you are my Yoda.” By the age of seven, I knew ripeness was key to selecting a soft-rinded cheese. Pépère had provided a great example of an overripe Brie that was runny and reeked of ammonia. I hadn’t thought my nose would ever revive. The underripe Brie, which had been thick and chalky-white in the middle, h
ad been much easier to stomach.

  “They asked for you,” he said, his gaze wistful and heart-wrenching.

  “Let’s both do it.” I tucked my hand in his and we ambled to the counter.

  After ringing up the customers’ purchases, Pépère was once again whistling to himself. Hopeful that all would soon be right with the world, I went to check how the wine tasting was going.

  “Charlotte, over here.” Delilah beckoned me to join her and Freckles, who was laughing so hard I thought wine might come out her nose.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Kristine,” Freckles said.

  “Ever since the funeral, people just can’t seem to stop talking about her.” Delilah swept her curly hair over her shoulders. “And not in a good way.”

  “Sip?” Freckles offered me her glass.

  I tasted the white wine, a Groth sauvignon blanc, one of my favorites. It had just the right balance of citrus and melons.

  “This would go perfectly with that salmon-mascarpone risotto recipe you gave me,” Delilah said.

  Indeed, it would.

  Freckles hitched her chin toward the arch. “Who’s the cute guy?”

  “Which one?”

  “With your protégé?” She chuckled.

  Through the annex, I spotted the wine rep from New York talking to Rebecca, who was manning the register. Beyond them, I spotted Felicia sitting at the tasting bar. I was surprised to see her alone, without Prudence, Tyanne, or Kristine by her side. Kristine hadn’t set foot in the shop since the murder. Either she feared giving herself away with a furtive glance at the olive-wood-handled knife display, or she couldn’t bear to walk past the site of Ed’s demise. I figured it was option number one.

  “That girl draws men like moths to the flame, doesn’t she?” Freckles said.

  “Who? Felicia?”

  “Rebecca. Haven’t you been listening?” Freckles eyed her glass of wine and giggled. “I’m the one who’s been drinking, not you.”

  “That’s because Rebecca’s not intimidating,” Delilah chimed in.

  “And you are?” Freckles batted Delilah on the shoulder.

  “I hate to admit it, but yes, I am. I came home to Providence with hopes of finding my one true love. But in Providence, men can’t handle a woman as seasoned as me.” She tapped her glass to Freckles and took a sip. “Charlotte, you’re the same, right?”

  I didn’t think of myself as seasoned. I hadn’t traveled the world other than my few trips to France and Italy with Pépère. But I was passionate about my job. I devoted more hours than I had in a day to it. Was that why Jordan kept his distance? I would have sworn that our mutual affection for cheese had created a bond between us. But how would I know? I couldn’t stand outside myself and see what others saw. Perhaps Jordan thought I was intimidating. Perhaps he wanted someone more available. Like Mystery Woman.

  “Earth to Charlotte!” Freckles elbowed me. “Where’d you drift off to now?”

  “Huh?”

  “We have returned to the discussion of Kristine.”

  “Kristine isn’t up to anything,” Delilah said in answer to a question I must have missed. She leaned closer and whispered, “She was crying at the diner earlier.”

  “Kristine, crying?” I couldn’t imagine.

  “I smelled a little liquor on her breath,” Delilah confided.

  “She doesn’t handle liquor well,” Freckles added. “Remember the night Ed died? Hoo-boy.”

  Did I ever! Kristine had waltzed past me, the smell of alcohol strong enough to knock over the stoutest bartender. Had she had so much to drink that she couldn’t remember what she had done? Was that how she could convince Urso, without a hint of a lie, that she hadn’t killed her husband? No, I couldn’t believe anyone could erase such a horrid memory.

  “There’s definitely a crack in her veneer.” Freckles popped a piece of bread into her mouth. Matthew had set baskets of torn bread around the room, to help cleanse the palate between tastings.

  “From what I gather,” Delilah went on, “Kristine is feeling the pressure of keeping up appearances.”

  “That’s not what the gossip is. I heard”—Freckles snickered—“she had a fight with Felicia at the diner. Didn’t you see Felicia storm out?”

  “Wait a sec,” I cut in. “Felicia was in the diner? Grandmère said she wouldn’t set foot in it because—”

  “—of Pops?” Delilah shrugged. “They’re back on speaking terms.”

  “What was the argument about?” I asked.

  “One owing the other money,” Freckles said.

  “Felicia owing Kristine, or the other way around?”

  “Kristine owing Felicia, and Kristine telling her she wouldn’t pay her a dime.”

  “‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be.’” Vivian squeezed into the group, a glass of red wine in her hand.

  “‘For loan oft loses both itself and friend,’” Delilah added. “Shakespeare, Hamlet.”

  “I see Felicia’s running solo tonight,” Vivian said. “Kristine must be burning more bridges.”

  Freckles giggled.

  “By the way, Charlotte.” Vivian raised her glass. “This cabernet is fabulous. Beautiful, dense, with the sweet aromas of black cherries and a subtle hint of roasted herbs.”

  “You sound like you’ve been memorizing Matthew’s cards,” Freckles said.

  “I have.” Vivian blushed. “Only the one glass, that’s my limit. What cheese would you pair with this, Charlotte?”

  “Brie. It’s the king of cheeses,” I said out of habit, though my mind was still stuck on the phrase from Hamlet and Felicia and Kristine’s altercation. Had Felicia demanded Kristine give her the money that Ed had promised to donate to the museum? Why argue at the diner? That kind of conversation seemed much better suited to a meeting at one’s home. Unless, of course, Felicia was worried that Kristine was a killer and wouldn’t risk a one-on-one meeting. On the other hand, Felicia was also clever enough to raise a ruckus to divert suspicion from herself. Maybe she wanted the town to believe Kristine was unstable.

  I eyed Felicia, who seemed content as a solo act. Was she the real killer, setting up her old friend to take the fall?

  CHAPTER 17

  “Breakfast in five,” I yelled up the stairs and returned to the kitchen where I had one omelet pan heating for scrambled eggs and another for Parmigiano Zircles, a tasty crispy treat.

  Morning had come with a bang. Literally. Thunderclaps at seven A.M., followed by Rags pouncing on my stomach, and a phone call from Meredith asking the girls on an outing. Meredith had decided last night during the wine tasting that private time with the twins would be a perfect opportunity for her to break the news about her blossoming relationship with their father. The storm would pass by nine, she said. When the girls heard about the excursion, they couldn’t get dressed fast enough. The patter of feet overhead as the girls ran from their closet to the bathroom and back to their closet made me smile. I whipped eggs into a yellow froth and prayed that Meredith and Matthew would last as a couple. I wasn’t sure either girl, not even plucky little Amy, could handle another woman walking out on them.

  Rags weaved between my ankles and mewed.

  I said, “Yes, breakfast for you, too. I haven’t forgotten.” He loved a dollop of scrambled egg on his tuna.

  Matthew traipsed in, tucking his shirt into his trousers, a huge grin on his face. “So far so good.”

  “You haven’t told the girls the full story yet.”

  “And I won’t have to.” He poked my back. “Meredith said she’d do it all.”

  I clucked like a chicken.

  “Got that right.” He retrieved a loaf of bread from the refrigerator, sour cherry jam, and a wedge of Haute-Savoie cheese, and he set them on the counter. “You look good.”

  “Flattery won’t get you a cup of coffee. You’ve got to pour it yourself.”

  He grinned. “New dress?”

  “It’s the same one I wore last week.
” A simple sheath with vertical green and white stripes. Very slimming. I added a pat of butter to the omelet pan and poured in the eggs. The mixture sizzled instantly. I stirred with a spatula, turned down the heat, and concentrated on the Zircles, spoonfuls of shredded Parmesan cheese dropped onto melted butter to crisp up like a pancake. A great substitute for bread any time of the day.

  Matthew popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. “Hey, heard anything from that lawyer for Grandmère?”

  I had, and I hated the news. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you last night, since you went straight to bed. Mr. Lincoln left a message on the answering machine. He said Urso has agreed to let Grandmère continue staying in her house.”

  “That’s great.”

  “But”—this was the part I hated—“he said he isn’t hopeful about keeping her out of jail.”

  “Why not?”

  “Urso hasn’t come up with anything on Kristine Woodhouse that would suggest she killed Ed. No bloody gloves, no bloody dress, no evidence whatsoever.”

  Matthew groaned. “And he doesn’t have any other suspects, other than Meredith, who is now in the clear—”

  “Don’t start.” I wielded the spatula like a sword.

  Matthew held up his hands and backed away. “What about that trust fund thing? Didn’t Kristine dip into Willamina’s money?”

  “How did you hear—?”

  “Talk is rampant right now, with the election just around the corner.”

  Less than a week away. Pépère had confided that Grandmère had cried herself to sleep with worry the past two nights. She was certain she would lose.

  “You can kiss that gossip goodbye. Mr. Lincoln said Kristine has plenty of funds.” I dished eggs onto plates and added slices of fresh oranges. “There was some snag with her own trust fund, but that’s been resolved. She doesn’t need Ed’s or Willamina’s money.”

  Matthew snapped up the toast as it burst from the toaster. “Hot, hot.” He juggled the pieces onto a breakfast plate and made himself a sandwich with the jam and cheese as he continued his theorizing. “Double indemnity means a lot of cash. I don’t care how much you’ve got in a trust fund. It’s motive, with a capital M.”