by Avery Aames
I was equally as stunned, but worse, I was disappointed. Kristine had a legitimate alibi. And Mr. Nakamura, who I adored, could corroborate it.
As if he knew we were talking about him, Mr. Nakamura glanced our way, offered a cherubic smile, and waved. Like a goofball, I waved back. What else could I do? Charge through the crowd and grill him right then and there?
Kristine said, “He was a lawyer in Cleveland. A few years ago, he decided law was not his calling and moved here. He likes to work with his hands, but he never gave up his practice.”
In our many encounters, Mr. Nakamura and I had talked about a lot of things, like how to refinish wood and how to hang a chandelier without electrocuting myself and possibly frying my hair. Why hadn’t he mentioned his previous career? How had self-centered Kristine found out? She was the kind of person who would always turn a conversation back to being about her.
“I have granted him permission to give the details to Chief Urso,” Kristine went on.
I moaned. She’d granted him permission. Like she was the Queen of England. My blood churned like hot oil ready to burst from a geyser, but I didn’t lash out because it was Grandmère’s night and she was climbing onto the picnic table.
A cheer broke out from the crowd.
Grandmère tapped the microphone to get everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome.” The microphone hissed. She passed it to Pépère, who fiddled with the switch.
“That’s my cue to exit stage left,” Kristine said.
“Wait a second.” I grabbed her sleeve. “Mr. Nakamura and his wife were seen hustling into their shop a short time after the murder. Is that where you and he met?” She couldn’t have met them at the shop. Luigi would have seen her go inside with them. I’d trapped her.
“No, we met at his house at nine thirty, which I believe was about the same time that Ed was . . .” Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a sob. Phony or not, I couldn’t tell. She recovered quickly. “I wanted to keep the meeting hush-hush so Ed wouldn’t find out. Mrs. Nakamura was there. She saw me. They left your soirée early.”
How could I dispute her? I couldn’t remember seeing the Nakamuras during the last hour of the gala opening. “How long were you with him?”
Kristine raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What are you, the district attorney?”
“How long?” Meredith said, edging to my side.
“Ten minutes. Maybe twenty.”
That timing was in keeping with what Mrs. Nakamura said. At ten to ten, they had entered their shop to do inventory.
“Ed was selling off building after building,” Kristine went on. “He wouldn’t tell me why. I thought he had made bad business investments. I didn’t know he was planning to divorce me. I had to protect my interests. Married, I would be responsible for any of his losses. I couldn’t go through that, no matter how much I loved him.” She glowered at me. “And I did love him.”
“Why didn’t the Nakamuras mention this to Urso?” Vivian asked.
“Or why didn’t you?” Delilah pressed.
“Yeah,” Meredith said.
I smiled at my little team of assistant district attorneys, proud to call them all friends.
Kristine cocked a hip. “Because Chief Urso never suspected me of killing my husband. He has Charlotte’s grandmother as a prime suspect.”
“Welcome, everyone!” Grandmère said, with no hissing from the microphone. “The time is now!”
“It sure is.” Kristine cackled. “If you’ll all excuse me, ladies, I’m off. See you tomorrow when you will bow to me in allegiance.” She waltzed away, the black chiffon getup fluttering behind her. If she had flown off on a broom, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
When I was able to calm my breathing, I said, “So if Kristine didn’t kill Ed, who did and why?”
“Swoozie Swenten had a lot to gain,” Vivian said.
“Maybe that wasn’t her that Luigi saw walking down the street with the reporter,” Meredith offered. “He’s got bad eyes, and he’s too vain to wear glasses.”
“And I wouldn’t rule out Felicia, no matter what she says,” Delilah added. “I saw the way she looked at Ed. Have you checked out her alibi with her aunt or reviewed her bookkeeping with her accountant?”
I hadn’t. I had taken Felicia at her word. Was I nuts? “Vivian, didn’t you see anybody running from The Cheese Shop when you went to your antique store that night?”
She shook her head. “I was too focused on getting a shipment ready for the next day.”
“The killer had to be somebody who knew Ed, someone who had a history with him,” I said.
“The time is now!” Grandmère repeated, her words echoing over the crowd.
Meredith gripped my arm. “Give it a rest and give your grandmother her due.”
She was right. I put my theorizing on hold and turned toward the picnic table.
“I love the town of Providence,” Grandmère went on. “We have prospered not only in business, but in education and the arts, as well. They are the three pillars of our society. Your vote for me tomorrow means you want to continue to thrive as a town. You want visitors to come and share in our excitement. Isn’t that right?”
Rousing shouts of approval followed.
“Now, I have to admit . . .” Grandmère chuckled. I’d bet she had scripted every laugh and hand gesture for emphasis. “I’m a little nervous, for the first time in my life. I stand before you accused of murder.”
“No!” the crowd intoned.
“I’m innocent. If you believe me, then vote for me.”
“We believe,” the crowd roared like revival attendees.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Jordan ambling solo through the knot of people in the driveway. I left my friends and drew up beside him, pivoting so we were both facing my grandmother on stage. “Nice of you to make it.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it. She’s won my vote.”
It warmed my heart to hear that. “Where’s your sister?”
“She has business to attend to.” He looked up at the sky. “Nice night. A gentle breeze, perfect temperature.”
“Lovely.” The sky was smoky from the firecrackers Pépère had shot off, but stars shone through. However, a breeze was kicking up from the west and a storm was in the forecast.
Jordan slipped his hand around mine and good vibes spiraled up my arm. We stood like that, part of the night’s tableau, for a full three minutes.
When Grandmère stopped speaking and the crowd started to disassemble, Jordan pecked me on the cheek.
“What was that for?” I said feeling like a schoolgirl who wouldn’t wash her face for a week.
“Couldn’t resist. Now, about that date. I missed you at the shop.”
“Yes, about that—”
“Saturday, say, eleven?”
I couldn’t believe it. We were actually setting not only the day but the time. “You’re on!”
“Charlotte!” Pépère charged toward me, his face etched with panic. “Come quickly. Your grandmère.”
Jordan and I raced after Pépère. We found Grandmère slumped on the picnic table bench. She wasn’t passed out, but she looked dazed. Jordan broke free and knelt beside her. He clutched my grandmother’s wrist and put his other hand to her temple. “She’s feverish.”
“Nerves,” my grandfather said.
“Did she eat beforehand, Pépère? She might have low blood sugar.”
“She was too excited.” He wrung his hands together.
“We need some cold compresses,” Jordan said. “And some juice.”
As if by magic, Rebecca appeared with a glass of orange juice, wet washcloths, and a couple of Hershey’s Kisses. Knowing about my weakness for the darned things, Grandmère always kept a bag of the tasty treats on hand. “Charlotte, take these.”
I grabbed the items from her, knelt beside Jordan, and slipped the cool cloths around Grandmère’s neck. When she could sit, I peeled off the Hershey’s shiny silver wrappers
and forced her to eat a couple of them and drink some of the liquid.
When her eyes cleared, she smiled. “Oh, mon dieu. I’m so sorry. I’m better now. Don’t fuss over me.” She waved a hand. “I was so nervous. I could feel my heart . . .” She pounded her chest. “I want to win. I never knew how much.”
Pépère sat beside her and clutched her hand in his. “Mon amie, you are getting—”
“Don’t say it,” she snapped. “Do not say, ‘You are getting old.’ I am seventy.”
“Seventy-two,” he muttered.
“That is young enough to jump out of a plane and young enough to climb a mountain, so it is not too old to run a town.”
Pépère winked at me. “She’s better now.”
Grandmère batted him on the arm and laughed. “You old goat.”
“Ma-a-a-a-a,” he droned.
Rebecca giggled.
Jordan and I stood up, moment of crisis averted. He said, “Why don’t we take a walk—?”
“Charlotte, chérie, I almost forgot.” Grandmère scrambled to her feet and clutched my arm. “Delilah needs you.”
“What for?”
“Tech rehearsal. Right now. We start full dress rehearsals in two days. Delilah isn’t sure she’s up to the task. She would never admit it, I know, but will you help her, please? You are so organized. You see the big picture.” She released me and folded her hands in prayer. “It would mean so much to me. It is a very difficult production.”
I glanced at Jordan, who offered a what-can-you-do smile. “Saturday, eleven,” I said. “A walk and a picnic. I make a mean prosciutto and Tomme Crayeuse panini.”
“Done.” He pecked my cheek again, in front of Grandmère and everybody, and strode across the grass toward his sister’s house.
When the moment of swoon passed, I said, “What about the twins, Grandmère?”
“They can stay here for the night. That will give Matthew and Meredith, you know, a little time.”
“First, I need to go home and change.” Even though my clothes didn’t smell of beer any longer, a skirt and blouse weren’t the right attire for hanging out in an air-conditioned theater. Providence Playhouse was only a few blocks from my house.
“Bless you. Bless you.” Grandmère kissed me on each cheek and gave my chin a tweak.
“May I go with you?” Rebecca said. “I’d love to see what a tech rehearsal is like.”
A howling wind kicked up as Rebecca and I rounded the corner to my neighborhood. My house, dark except for the sole kitchen light that I had left on for Rags, looked as ominous as a ghost house in a suspense novel. The willow tree in the front yard waved its arms like a banshee. A few loose shutters jackhammered the sides of the house. I made a mental note to fix them. I wasn’t one to let things go to pot. It wasn’t a good business practice.
I unlocked the kitchen door, and Rebecca followed me inside. Usually Rags flew out of nowhere and attacked my shoes. “Rags!” I didn’t hear him scrabbling down the stairs. “Rags?”
“Could he have gone outside?” Rebecca asked.
“He’s an indoor cat.”
“But you have the cat door.”
“He never uses it.” I slapped the granite counter. “Ragsie!” When he didn’t come running, I pressed down the lever of the can opener to fake a dinnertime sound. He still didn’t tear into the room. A riddling of fear snaked up my back. “Rags!”
“Shhhh,” Rebecca said. “Listen.”
A faint mewing came from the direction of the laundry room. I hurried down the hall, flew into the laundry room, and whipped open a cupboard that stood slightly ajar. I found Rags huddling beneath a pile of towels and shivering with fright.
I scooped him up and scratched his neck. “Hey, bud, what’s up? You didn’t hear those firecrackers all the way on this side of town, did you?” Rags was a bit of a scaredy-cat. When he was a stray kitten, he was attacked by a bully of an alley cat. He was taken in by the local animal rescuer, who gave him to me. Not worried about tomcats in my neighborhood, I’d allowed Rags to still be an outdoor cat. That ended one night, after a horrific lightning storm hit, and I’d found Rags howling with terror because he’d been pinned beneath the fallen branch of a red oak. He hadn’t had any broken bones, but I’d cried and apologized for weeks. “I’m so sorry, fella, for whatever spooked you.” He purred and nuzzled my neck. I said, “Yes, I adore you, too.” I handed him to Rebecca. “Crisis averted. I’ll be ready in a second. Give him some kisses, will you?”
She retreated to the kitchen, cooing to him like a lover.
I switched on the foyer chandelier and trotted upstairs, the old steps squeaking beneath my weight.
Near the top, my foot skidded on something slippery. I lurched to the right and groped for the railing. Without warning, the banister gave way, opening like a gate and propelling me sideways.
“Yipes!” Heart hammering, I grabbed the rim of the second-floor landing. My feet dangled down. My palms felt slippery. I dug my fingernails into the wood, but I knew I couldn’t hold on for long. “Rebecca!” If the post had broken outright, I would have fallen headfirst to the floor. As it was, I could drop and break an ankle, maybe a leg. Needless to say, I didn’t want to suffer either. My pulse thundered in my head as I repeated, “Rebecca.”
She appeared, Rags in her arms, and squealed. “Oh, my, what—?”
“Darned old house needs a major tune-up.”
“Do you want a ladder?”
“No use. My feet wouldn’t reach. Besides, I can’t hold on that long. Grab some pillows from the living room. Pile them on the floor beneath me.”
“Will do.” She released Rags, who stood beneath me, mewling like crazy.
“It’s okay, buddy. I’m okay. Move away. Go sit.” He weaved a figure eight beneath me. How I wished he was a dog and obeyed commands. “Rags, split, darn it!” I kicked off my shoes. They hit the floor with a thud-thunk. Rags scampered under the foyer table and peered out at me, his eyes glistening with betrayal.
Rebecca returned with two seat cushions and as many throw pillows as she could manage to squeeze beneath her arms. She nudged my shoes out of the way with her toe, then she tossed the pillows on the floor. “Let go. I’ll catch you.” She jutted out her thin arms.
If I wasn’t so panicked, I would have laughed. Little ol’ her catching slightly bigger ol’ me.
I landed on the pillows, heels first, then on my rear end. Rebecca braced my back. Rags leapt into my lap and dug his claws into my thighs. “Ouch!”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I booted Rags off of me and struggled to my knees, then my feet. The good news was that everything worked. I’d have some black and blue marks, but nothing was broken. The other good news was that I hadn’t slammed my head on the hardwood and ended up with a concussion. I’d suffered one years ago in a rousing game of softball. The recovery had taken weeks. “Let’s get some ribbon and mark off that section of the staircase. I don’t want the girls or Matthew getting hurt.”
I returned to the laundry room where I kept my sewing supplies and grabbed a spool of grosgrain ribbon and a washcloth. Giving one end of the ribbon to Rebecca, who remained at the base of the stairs, I gingerly climbed the staircase, hugging the wall. When I reached the top, I bravely ventured toward the banister, looped my end of the ribbon around the newel on the second floor balustrade and said, “Okay, Rebecca, tie it off on that newel down there.” Once that chore was done, I sank to my knees to mop up whatever was slippery on the stair thinking the girls, against house rules, must have sneaked some kind of food up to their room. But I was wrong. What I saw made me shudder.
Sawdust.
CHAPTER 27
My stomach did a flip-flop. Either I had really professional termites or somebody had wanted to sabotage me. Because of the marks on the bottom edges of the banister posts, I voted for the latter. That’s what must have scared Rags into hiding. Who had broken into my house? Was it with the intent to kill me? I couldn’t
believe an angry Cheese Shop customer would resort to a home invasion. We had comment cards by the register for passive-aggressive people and, to date, hadn’t received one. Did Ed’s killer think I was getting too close to the truth? I shuddered at the thought.
I grabbed Rags and said, “Rebecca, let’s go. Out of the house. Now!”
“But shouldn’t we call Chief Urso?”
“I’ll call him on our way to the theater.” I would not renege on my promise to Grandmère.
“You’re taking the cat?”
“Rags loves theater.”
Trotting down Cherry Orchard, I punched Urso’s telephone number into my cell phone. As usual, he did not answer, but I cut him some slack. It was after business hours. I left a message and told him where I was headed.
Halfway to the theater, thunder rumbled and Rags mewed in my arms. “Yes, buddy, a storm is brewing, but don’t worry. I’ve got you, you big baby.” I nuzzled his head between his ears and he purred loudly. I hoped the skies wouldn’t open up before we arrived at the theater. The town’s farmers would welcome a hearty downpour. Rags, Rebecca, and I, on the other hand, wouldn’t. We had left the house without an umbrella. I could only hope the rain would pass by the time I returned home later tonight. If I returned home. The twins were staying with Grandmère. Perhaps that was what I would do as well. My insides felt a little queasy even thinking about sleeping in my house alone. Matthew was spending a little one-on-one time with Meredith at her place.
“You know,” Rebecca said, huffing beside me, her espadrilles smacking the sidewalk, “I saw something on Law & Order. No, that’s wrong, it was in a movie. That old one with Glenn Close.”
“Fatal Attraction?”
“No, not that one. Anyway, this woman . . . yes, it was Glenn Close and what’s-his-name . . .” She snapped her fingers. “Bridges. Jeff Bridges.”
“The Jagged Edge.” If I didn’t have a good mystery to read and shows on the Food Network Channel didn’t catch my eye, I would seek out a classic movie for entertainment. At last count, I had watched fifty of the American Film Institute’s top one hundred movies.
