The Long Quiche Goodbye

by Avery Aames

  “Anyway, she figured out what had happened to his wife because of a typewriter, but she couldn’t prove it. She was certain that he knew she had figured it out. So she laid in wait for him. He came into her house that night wearing a mask, and he had this big knife and—”

  “Rebecca, stop. I don’t need you to scare me any more than I already am.”

  “I just wanted to say that, to prove he was guilty, she had to set him up. Sometimes if there’s not enough evidence—”

  “I don’t know what evidence Urso has,” I said. “He hasn’t shared any of that with me.” Why would he? For over a week, he had believed that my sweet grandmother was guilty. Well, she couldn’t be any longer. She wouldn’t have severed my banister.

  I cycled through my list of suspects one more time. Other than Kristine, I had three: Swoozie, who wanted Ed’s love; Vivian, who had argued with Ed; and Felicia, who was certainly handy with garden tools. Could she wield a saw? And then I added one more suspect: Luigi. He had known Ed during high school. He admitted that he and Ed had been rivals for years. In high school, they’d played sports and probably vied for the same girls or student government positions or, knowing Luigi, prom king. Both had been building up real estate conglomerates in town. But Ed owned more property. Maybe Luigi resented Ed because of that. Maybe he killed Ed to eliminate the competition. Had Luigi put in an anonymous bid on Vivian’s building like I had for mine? Ed might have found out and refused to do business with him. The night Ed died, Luigi could have gone outside for his cigarette, caught sight of Ed leaving Fromagerie Bessette, and seen his opportunity.

  I nearly stopped in my tracks as I realized the ridiculousness of my theory. Luigi couldn’t have gotten hold of one of the olive-wood-handled knives. He hadn’t come to the gala opening. And I knew, for a fact, that the murder weapon had come from my shop.

  “We’re here,” Rebecca said, stopping for a moment to catch her breath.

  Providence Playhouse was located at the north side of town. It had been built in the late eighteen hundreds and should have been a run-down heap, but with funds raised by my grandmother and her cronies, the playhouse had shored up its aging stage, hung new drapes and stage lights, acquired a state-of-the-art tech board, and restructured its backstage environment, which included fabulous dressing rooms and a full-sized green room. The fundraising campaign for the auditorium, whereby townsfolk could donate a plush loge seat and have a gold plaque with his or her name posted on the seat, had reached its goal of replacing five hundred seats in less than a year. Grandmère had danced around the living room with Pépère to celebrate the campaign’s success.

  I pushed open the playhouse’s gilded doors and stepped into the foyer. The inner doors leading to the theater stood open. The strains of “Good Morning, Baltimore”—in tune—sent chills down my spine. Good chills. Practice, practice, practice, was Grandmère’s motto, not practice makes perfect. Nothing could ever be perfect, she said, and to strive for perfection was setting oneself up for failure. Was that what I was doing? Practicing out my theories and setting myself up for failure? Had I voiced those opinions around someone who now wanted me dead?

  “Wow!” Rebecca whistled as she stepped into the darkened auditorium. “The set is beautiful. And the dancers . . .” She let out another whistle.

  On stage, six ballerinas pirouetted in front of a silhouette of the Baltimore skyline. Fake stars lit the gray blue sky overhead. Delilah, dressed in a red leotard and skirt, her hair loose and lush hanging down her back, paced the apron in front of the dancers and banged out the rhythm of the music with a pole. “That’s it. Jeté, chassé, one-two-three-excellent,” she intoned, as if she was channeling Grandmère. Why she needed my moral support was beyond me.

  I strode down the left aisle, eager to let her know that I had arrived, but I was distracted by people talking at the back of the theater on the right. I recognized the voices and a prickle of apprehension shot through me. I set Rags on a seat in the front row and said, “Stay here, fella. Rebecca, you too.”

  She sat obediently and stroked Rags’s fur. “Where are you going?”

  “Back in a sec.” I made a beeline toward the rear of the theater, stopped at the last row, and put my hands on my hips. “What are you doing here?”

  Grandmère beamed up at me.

  Pépère didn’t look nearly so happy. He said, “I couldn’t talk her out of coming.”

  “I thought you were going home to change,” Grandmère said.

  “Long story. Answer me.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Her eyes glistened with child-like joy.

  “The ballet will be great,” I conceded.

  “No, chérie. Isn’t it wonderful that I’m going to be set free? My house arrest is over.”

  “Grandmère, it isn’t over until Chief Urso says it’s over and he—”

  “—doesn’t say it’s over.” Urso cut across the back row of the theater.

  I moaned. Why, oh why, had I told him to meet me here? The light from the projection room illuminated the upper half of his angry face and made the badge on his uniform gleam bright gold.

  “What in the heck are you doing, Bernadette?” he barked. She scrambled to her feet. Pépère rose and propped her at the small of her back.

  “If townsfolk see you, they’re going to assume I shirked my duty,” Urso continued.

  “But Charlotte said—”

  “She was wrong,” he snapped, and glowered at me.

  I gulped. Earlier, when Grandmère had swooned following her rally speech, I didn’t dare tell her that Kristine had yet another alibi, and that the new one was solid.

  “Let’s go.” Urso crooked a finger, urging my grandmother to move into the aisle. He pulled a set of handcuffs from his pocket.

  “You’re not going to cuff her!” My voice reached a decibel I didn’t know I could hit.

  “I’m taking her to jail. She’s a flight risk.”

  “U-ey, be reasonable. She’s not running from you. She’s feeble.”

  “I’m nothing of the sort,” my grandmother said.

  “Please, U-ey—”

  “Chief Urso.”

  “Chief Urso, sorry,” I said. “Please give her twenty-four hours more at home. At least until the end of voting day.”

  “I can’t, Charlotte. I have to—”

  “No one is going to think you’re shirking your duty. For heaven’s sake, you never have and you never will. You are Mr. Reliable with a capital R.” I restrained his arm. “Please. Nobody in town believes she killed Ed. And I promise she’ll stay put.” I crossed my heart like a Girl Scout, hoping to appeal to the former Eagle Scout in him. The ploy worked.

  He pocketed the handcuffs. “But she has to leave now.”

  “I’ve only seen the first act,” Grandmère protested.

  “Gee, life’s tough, Bernadette,” Urso said. “Go home, now, or I’ll put you in my cruiser.”

  “I’m going, Officer.” She muttered a few salty French words as she scuttled from between the seats.

  Urso clinched Pépère’s elbow before he could escape. “I know she’s a handful. Do your best.”

  As Pépère escorted Grandmère from the building, Urso turned to me. He tried his best not to let a smile reach his eyes, which made me feel a whole ton better. He wasn’t mad at Grandmère, just flummoxed as to what to do with someone as willful as she was. He said, “What was so important that I had to track you down?”

  “Did you meet with Tyanne?”

  He nodded. “She changed her claim. She’s a wreck and on sedatives. And I verified Kristine’s alibi with Mr. Nakamura. He said client privilege prohibited him from telling me anything further.” He perched on the arm of the loge chair. “Your turn. What else have you done tonight to impede my investigation?”

  “I’m not impeding anything. I’m getting close. I know that because someone sabotaged my house.”

  “Sabotaged?”

  “Whoever it was cut the posts of my banist
er. It gave way. I almost—” I started to shiver.

  “Let’s go.”

  Minutes later, beating out the rain by seconds, I entered my house through the kitchen door, with Rags tucked under my arm. Urso raced in behind me and ordered me to sit at the kitchen table while he took a look-see. He returned, a frown creasing his forehead.

  “House is clear.”

  “But you saw the flakes of sawdust on the floor.”

  He nodded.

  I said, “Someone cut the wood deliberately.”

  “I’ll repair it for you.” He flipped a chair around and straddled it. “In the meantime, who would do such a thing?”

  “Felicia comes to mind,” I said, putting voice to my thoughts. “She’s handy with tools. Maybe she thinks I have a photographic memory and could figure out if something was doctored in the museum ledger that I rifled through. And . . .” I paused for effect. “I think she lied about her alibi.”

  “How so?”

  “She told me she met with her sister Lois that night, but her sister said she was out of town visiting their aunt. Felicia wasn’t happy when I told her what Lois said.”

  “You told her—”

  “And then, earlier today, Felicia and Lois dropped by The Cheese Shop, and Felicia made certain that Lois revised her story, to the minute. I think Lois is lying.”

  “Okay.” Urso took a pen and a pad of paper from his pocket and jotted notes. “Who else is on your suspect list?”

  “That tour guide, Swoozie Swenten. She was Ed’s business partner. I think she was in love with him. Maybe Ed was getting divorced so he could marry her and then reneged. And Vivian Williams was having lease trouble with Ed. I can’t see that as a reason to kill him, especially since her lease deal was closed the day before he died. Killing him wouldn’t have changed anything. And then there’s Luigi Bozzuto, but I can’t figure out how he would have gotten hold of the murder weapon.”

  Urso leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. “You’ve been busy working those little gray cells.”

  “Don’t patronize me. What do you have?”

  He jammed his lips together, flipped his notebook shut, and pocketed it.

  “Not sharing, huh?”

  He chuckled. “Look, I want you to stay with your grandmother tonight. I’ll shore up your banister, and tomorrow we’ll have a better idea of how to proceed, okay?”

  I nodded. I was exhausted and ready for a good night’s sleep. Rags and I left with an umbrella in hand.

  Grandmère and Pépère fussed over me like I was three years old, and I let them.

  I woke to a stream of sunlight peeking through the split in the yellow-striped drapes. Years ago, Grandmère had redecorated my old room, changing it from turquoise, my favorite color, to buttercup yellow, but it still smelled of lavender and made me feel safe. I rose and stretched, then braced myself for a long Tuesday. Voting Day. Anything could happen.

  After a warm shower, I saw the twins off to school, bid Grandmère and Pépère goodbye, and with Rags slung over my shoulders, returned home. Urso had set the banister back in place and replaced my grosgrain ribbon with crime scene tape. He hadn’t been by yet to do the repair.

  I set out food for my edgy Ragdoll cat, but he shunned it and roamed the house like a curious detective. I ate an English muffin with a slice of tomato and melted Collier’s Cheddar and drank a quick cup of coffee, then I changed into a pair of coral chinos and a matching ribbed V-neck. I added sparkly earrings, dabbed on some blush, and hurried to work.

  By the time I arrived at Fromagerie Bessette, the shop was awhirl with activity. Rebecca stood behind the cheese counter, prettifying gift baskets. Matthew, the sweetheart, was tending to cheese orders. While waiting, customers talked about who they had voted for. I didn’t hear anyone admit to having voted for Kristine. Most were certain that Grandmère would win.

  Leaving Matthew and Rebecca in charge of the shop, I retreated to the kitchen and, for the next hour, baked fresh quiche. Afterward, I headed to the office and busied myself with writing a newsletter and calling our vendors and the local farmers to ensure this week’s deliveries. I had a quick chat on the telephone with Jordan that made me warm all over. He told me he was looking forward to tasting my panini. I was looking forward to another taste of his delicious lips. I didn’t mention the banister incident. I didn’t need him to worry if, indeed, all I had were very hungry termites.

  Midmorning, Rebecca rapped on the office door and hovered in the arch. Rags bounded from my lap and rubbed his head up against Rebecca’s ankles. “Not you.” She wagged her finger at him. “No more treats for you.” He hadn’t eaten breakfast at home, probably still sensing the stranger’s intrusion, so I’d asked Rebecca to feed him at the office. Like a silly goose, she had hand-fed him. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to have a spoiled cat on my hands. I had to get him back on a schedule fast.

  “You know,” Rebecca said. “I thought about you all night. There was this CSI on, and it was about someone poisoning somebody else.”

  “What does poison have to do with me?”

  “The victim on CSI had put two and two together. The killer couldn’t let him live.” Rebecca stepped into the office and perched on the end of my cluttered desk, while using her hands to work through her theory. “See, I got to thinking, what if Tyanne, knowing Kristine was otherwise occupied, actually killed Ed? I mean, her husband could have watched the children, right? He wasn’t at the gala opening. And what if Tyanne thinks you’ve put it all together, so she sabotaged your house?”

  I hadn’t even considered Tyanne. Should I have?

  “But then I thought, who did Gretel see on the hill?” Rebecca popped off the desk and left the room, her question creating a void I couldn’t fill.

  I closed the office door and returned to the desk chair. Rags leapt into my lap and kneaded my abdomen with his claws. I ignored him, laced my fingers behind my neck, and looked up at the whirling ceiling fan, trying to clear my head. Who did Gretel see on the hill? Certainly not Tyanne. She was shorter and wider than Kristine. Felicia was about the same size. So were a whole slew of people in town.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  I sat upright. “Come in, Rebecca.”

  Meredith rushed in, once again covered in cobwebs. She held up a book. “You’ve got to see this.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Curiosity didn’t propel me from my office chair. Meredith often brought me rare books. She wanted me to become an aficionado like her. She often talked about starting up a book club. “Is it something you . . . ahem . . . borrowed”—I cleared my throat deliberately—“from Felicia’s museum?”

  “No, it’s from the room I’ve been cleaning out at school. It’s a Providence High School yearbook.”

  “So?”

  “I’ve found yearbooks dating back seventy years. I’ve been thinking I might scan pictures of the fun stuff about people still living in Providence. You know, prom queens and kings, Most Likely to Succeed, Most Persevering. I thought I’d make a video collage, and then show it at our next fund-raiser.”

  “What an undertaking.”

  “You’re telling me, but I think for historical value, it could be really cool. Maybe some of the old coots would donate just to get the picture out of circulation.”

  “Why would they—?”

  “A ton of them were really geeky back then.”

  “That’s blackmail,” I teased.

  “Sue me.” She winked. “So, speaking of geeky, which is why I’m here . . .” She opened the book and set it on my desk. “While I was hunting, look what I found. A picture of Ed and Vivian, voted Most Perfect Couple.” Meredith snorted. “It had to be a joke of course. Look at Vivian.”

  I peered at the picture. Vivian, as thick as a sparkplug, was wearing a plaid skirt and sweater, knee socks, and big glasses. She had a bow in her hair and braces that glimmered in the sunlight—a nerd by all accounts. She stood stiffly beside Ed, who, though gaunt and spooky during his
last days on earth, had been handsome in high school. He had that jock look, with strong cheekbones, smoky bedroom eyes, and a smile that would make girls weak at the knees. Slap a letter jacket on him, and he could have been cast as the cocky hero in any Hollywood movie. How life had changed him. Life with Kristine.

  “I wonder how Vivian felt about being mocked like this?” Meredith said.

  I ran my finger around the borders of the picture and something clicked in my mind. I never would have suspected that Vivian and Ed were the same age. With her taut body and creamy skin, she looked way younger than fifty. Ed had been going to seed. Yet, there they were, a couple. I should have put it together earlier. Luigi said he and Ed had been teammates, and Vivian admitted that Luigi had tried to date her in high school.

  “Do you think someone made them pose like this?” Meredith asked. “They’re standing so . . .” She mimed the awkward pose. “Some jerk on the yearbook staff, I’d bet. Thank God whoever it was didn’t make them kiss or something.”

  I remembered kissing my first boy about that age. He was always tugging my hair and telling me I was ugly, ugly, ugly. I stared again at the picture of Ed and Vivian. Had he teased her mercilessly and made her adore him? She looked like she might have welcomed a kiss. In the picture, she was gazing longingly at him. What if, after all these years, she had remained in love with him?

  “Kids can be such toads,” Meredith said.

  I shifted in my chair as comments Vivian had made over the past few days started to make sense. She said that Ed and Kristine were nothing alike, that they didn’t belong together, they were oil and water. Did she feel that she and Ed were better suited? Had she pined for him? When I’d asked her about her tiff with Ed, she said he could be such a toad when it came to her future. What if she had meant her future with him? She could have found out that he met with a divorce lawyer. What if he made her think she could win his heart, but at the last minute, he sold off her building, her livelihood? A final slap in the face.

  “Meredith, what if—?”

  Meredith’s cell phone rang. “Hold that thought.” She fished her phone from her purse and answered. “Yes? Oh, no.” Her face turned pale. She snapped the phone shut. “It’s the school. There’s a plumbing problem in the storage room. I have to go.” She reached for the yearbook.