The Long Quiche Goodbye

by Avery Aames

  “But he didn’t cheat with you. Why not?”

  Vivian gave a look that could drill a hole in the hull of a ship.

  I swallowed hard and kept my cool. Provoking her probably wasn’t the best idea.

  “He told me he cared for me too much to have an affair. He was a liar, of course. I would have accepted an affair and he knew it, but he rejected me. I couldn’t sleep. Every moment of the day I was thinking about him being with somebody else. It hurt so much, I couldn’t breathe. At the gala opening, I—”

  Rebecca’s pounding stopped. I wondered if she had run out of energy or had given up. I wouldn’t blame her if she had. At twenty-two, I would have curled into a ball and admitted failure.

  Vivian said, “I drank too much that night.”

  “You shouldn’t drink.”

  “I’ve only had one glass today.”

  She shouldn’t have any, not if it made her want to slash someone to ribbons with a knife. I said, “Why were you drinking in the middle of the day?”

  “I have nothing to live for.”

  “That night you killed Ed—”

  “He . . . he . . .” She chewed her lips as if trying to keep a flood of anger from erupting from her soul. “Seeing Ed, with all those women, acting so cavalier.”

  The word cavalier made a proverbial lightbulb go off in my head. If I could reach the floor lamp to my right and use it like a lance . . .

  I inched toward it. “You grabbed the olive-wood-handled cheese knife.”

  “I tucked it up my sleeve.”

  “After you fought, you followed him outside.”

  “I yelled at him. I don’t remember what came out of my mouth. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. He said he sold my building just to see if I would finally leave town. He was . . . horrible.”

  “Horrible,” I echoed.

  “Take it back,” she snapped.

  “What?”

  “He wasn’t horrible.”

  “But you said—”

  “Take it back!” She lunged at me with the knife. Her toe caught on the carpet. She teetered.

  I dodged her and raced to the lamp. I batted off the lampshade, and using the stem like a medieval lance, I rushed her and whacked the knife out of her hand. Vivian tried to grab the lamp pole but missed. I flailed it again.

  She threw her arms up in defense.

  I withdrew but kept the lamp aimed. “You sawed through my banister. You endangered not only me but my family.”

  “I didn’t mean . . . I couldn’t hurt you. I . . . don’t hit me!” She slumped to the ground. The skirt of her dress fell in a puddle around her knees, as if she had deflated without the wind of righteousness to billow her sails. “The night Ed died, I had a dream,” she whispered. “I was hugging a small carcass wrapped in swaddling clothes. It was Ed. He apologized. For taking away my building. For stripping me of my pride. He said I was the best woman he had ever known. I believed him, but it was too late. Too late.” She moaned. “I didn’t mean to hurt you or implicate your grandmother, Charlotte.”

  I believed her.

  Risking everything, unable to see an old friend in such bitter pain, I set the lamp aside, crouched beside her, and wrapped my arm around her shoulders.

  “Kristine was supposed to be the suspect,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. So—”

  Rebecca burst into the room, a candlestick raised over her head, and screamed like a banshee. She skidded to a stop and looked at me, at Vivian, and back at me. She lowered her weapon. “I guess you have it under control.”

  I wasn’t sure what I had under control, but I didn’t think Vivian was going to be a problem any longer. She buried her head against my arm. Her tears drenched my sleeve. “How’d you get out?”

  Rebecca grinned. “You’ll be so proud of me. I used the old refrigerator-at-the-cheese-shop technique. I boosted myself onto one of those antique tables and jumped on the door handle. It broke off and I pushed it out the other side with this.” She brandished the candlestick. “I saw someone do that on—”

  “—CSI.”

  “Magnum, P.I.”

  Television was educational after all. Who knew?

  “Let’s call Chief Urso.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Urso charged into Europa Antiques and Collectibles with a scowl on his face and his gun drawn. His young, gangly deputy bounded in at his heels.

  “Put your guns back in your holsters, gentlemen,” I said, and beckoned Urso toward the office.

  He told his deputy to hang back, and he crowded into the doorway beside me.

  Rebecca was standing guard by Vivian, who remained on the floor, running her fingers back and forth along the hem of her dress while humming the Providence High School fight song.

  In a hushed tone, I explained everything to Urso. Vivian’s motive, her emotional admission, and what evidence corroborated my theory: the trail of quiche crumbs, the saw in the gym bag, the old yearbooks with promises from Ed to love Vivian forever, the embroidered napkins, Vivian in a raincoat at the scene of the crime. I told him why I thought her bloody dress had been shoved into the drawer but removed.

  “Charlotte, what were you thinking?” Urso said. “I warned you not to take the law in your own hands. I . . .” He rubbed his hand down his neck. “You put Rebecca and yourself in harm’s way.”

  He was right, and it bothered me that I had done so, but my grandmother’s freedom—her reputation—had been at stake. “I’ve got to tell Grandmère.”

  “Not until I say so.”

  “But—”

  “No.” When Urso set his mind to it, he could be so stubborn. “Now, explain to me why Vivian let me suspect your grandmother.”

  “She didn’t mean to incriminate Grandmère. She kept trying to implicate Kristine. She hated her so much and couldn’t believe Ed would break his promise. She had such dreams.”

  Urso nodded, then ambled into the office and crouched beside Vivian. She didn’t stop singing. Calmly, slowly, he explained her rights to her. “Do you understand, Miss Williams?”

  Vivian glanced at me, her face smooth and unworried. “You didn’t find the most important piece of evidence, Charlotte. Would you like to know where it is?”

  “Your dress?”

  She nodded. “I took the dress and I wrapped it in a tarp, and I buried it.”

  My heart clenched with sadness. “Would you show Chief Urso where?”

  Vivian held out her hand. Like a gentleman, Urso helped her to her feet, and the two of them set off on their journey. His deputy trailed behind.

  Rebecca and I returned to The Cheese Shop, forbidden from telling anyone what had happened until Urso came back with news. In the course of two hours, we cleaned every shelf in the shop, baked four quiches, and jotted out an inventory of the contents of the refrigerator. We had at least twice as many customers as usual because it was voting day and the townsfolk wanted to give us updates on the exit polls, most of which were favorable for Grandmère. I wouldn’t rely on their say-so, of course. People could lie about anything.

  When the grape-leaf-shaped chimes announced Urso’s arrival, I perked up.

  Urso looked exhausted, his face and clothing dusted with dirt. “We found the dress in a totally different spot than Gretel Hildegard had thought.” He shook his head. “That woman.”

  “She meant well.” I crossed to the cheese counter, spread a thick swatch of apricot jam on a chunk of sourdough bread, and topped it off with an artisanal chèvre made by Urso’s mother’s farm, Two Plug Nickels. “Eat this. It’ll give you a boost. Rebecca, grab a bottle of Orangina for the officer.” I happened to know Orangina was Urso’s favorite beverage, next to wine, but while on duty, he couldn’t drink a glass of pinot grigio,

  He downed half of his snack in one bite and made an appreciative hum. “This tastes great. I’ve got to tell my mom about adding the jam.”

  “She knows.”

  “Hmph.” He polished off the rest of his meal, gulped down half of t
he Orangina, and set the bottle on the counter.

  Rebecca disposed of the trash in the bin beyond the counter and handed him a napkin. “How’s Vivian?”

  “I’ve put her in jail.”

  “Do you think a county judge will be lenient?” We only had one judge in Providence, a seasoned female who had never presided over a murder trial. I couldn’t imagine she’d start now. “I mean, will the judge allow a plea of insanity?”

  “We’ll have to see. I’ve asked a psychiatrist to take a look at Vivian and make an assessment.”

  “She wasn’t faking, as far as I could tell,” Rebecca said.

  I grinned. Not only was she a master sleuth, now she was a certified physician. “Is it all right if I call our lawyer on her behalf?”

  Urso nodded. “Something definitely snapped, but she is guilty, and she’ll serve time somewhere.” He flung the napkin into the garbage bin. “On the other hand, your grandmother isn’t guilty.”

  “So, now, I can tell her.” I dashed toward the front door.

  Urso blocked my exit. “Not so fast. This is the part of my job I enjoy. You have to keep your mouth shut until I share the news, otherwise I tell her what you and Miss Zook—” He cleared his throat. “What you and Rebecca have been up to. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Agreed!” Rebecca whipped off her apron and wiggled her fingers for me to give her mine.

  I did, then I flipped the Closed sign on the door and skipped out after Urso.

  Townsfolk collected behind us, as if joining a citizens’ army. A few who had seen Urso exiting Europa Antiques and Collectibles with Vivian in handcuffs started saying what they believed had happened.

  Luigi caught up with me at the front of the line. “What’s going on? Where’s Vivian?”

  I could tell by the look in his eyes that he knew something had happened to the woman he loved, and it pained my heart, but I wouldn’t break my vow of secrecy until Urso spoke to Grandmère. “I can’t say.”

  Luigi kept pace with the crowd, his face somber.

  Block by block, the assembly grew into a swell of voices, each with a newer rendition of the story. By the time we arrived outside Grandmère’s gate, the group had stopped theorizing and was only chanting, “Bernadette! Bernadette!”

  As Urso pushed through the gate, with Rebecca and me scuttling behind him, the townsfolk went silent, no doubt hoping to hear a snippet of what the real story was.

  Grandmère emerged through the front door. She paused on the porch, the skirt of her red silk dress dancing in the breeze, and she tilted her head, as if listening for the song of the morning lark but not hearing it.

  I tried to make eye contact and give my grandmother a heads-up, but she wasn’t looking at me, only Urso.

  After a moment, she yelled, “Etienne!” then, bracing herself, she jutted her arms out in front of her, wrists together, ready to be hauled off.

  Pépère shot through the door, an apron tied around his waist, a spatula in one hand, a tray of his mascarpone chocolate chip cookies in the other, the aroma amazing and triggering all sorts of memories in me. The day my parents died. The first day of grade school. The first play I had ever been in. Pépère stared at Grandmère, her arms thrust forward, then at Urso, and his face wilted. I could only imagine the horrible expression Urso was putting on. I could have slugged him. Heedless of the heat emanating from the stone baking sheet, Pépère set the cookie tray and spatula on the porch table and wrapped an arm around Grandmère.

  Urso marched to the steps and halted. “Bernadette Bessette, come here, please.”

  She crept down the steps and squinted up at him, the planes of her face glowing in the sun. She cut a quick look at me. “I’m sorry, chérie.”

  I whispered, “Don’t be—”

  Urso glowered at me. I zipped my mouth shut.

  “Bernadette Bessette, you are officially . . .” Urso drew in a long, deep breath, dragging out the moment for effect. I made a mental note to tell Grandmère to cast him in her next theater production. He was a born ham. “You are officially released from house arrest. You are innocent.”

  A moment passed before the news sunk in, then Grandmère shrieked with delight and grasped my grandfather in a bear hug. Rebecca and I raced up the steps and joined the hug-fest. The crowd cheered.

  Over the din, I quickly explained how Vivian had confessed. I did not reveal that Rebecca and I had gone to the shop to find evidence. According to our agreement, neither did Urso.

  “That poor, poor woman,” Grandmère said.

  “She apologized for putting you through this,” I said.

  “What will happen to her?”

  “She’ll be given a psychiatric evaluation.”

  “The heart, it makes us do crazy things, no?” Grandmère patted her chest.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jacky Peterson sitting in a white rattan chair on her front porch. She caught my gaze and raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  I said, “Grandmère, I’ll be right back. I love you, and I’m so happy for you.”

  She wagged a finger at me. “When you return, you will tell me what role you played in all this.”

  Throughout my life, I hadn’t been able to get away with a thing. Grandmère had a second sense about me. I smiled. “I promise.”

  I skipped across the yard, letting the well-wishers have their moment with Grandmère, most talking about the exit polls and certain that she was going to win the election. I trotted up the path to Jacky’s front porch. She set a magazine on the matching rattan table.

  “What’re you reading?” I asked.

  “Victorian Houses. I need to learn something about this place I purchased. It’s a little ramshackle inside. I’m pretty handy at sprucing things up. Jordan said you’d made all sorts of improvements to your home. If you’ve got any tips, I’d love to hear them.”

  How would Jordan know that I tinkered? He’d never been to my home. Of course, Mr. Nakamura could have told him. I had relied heavily on Mr. Nakamura’s expertise when it came to little fixes. A pang gripped my heart. I had also relied on Vivian for decorating tips.

  I drew in a calming breath and said, “Is Jordan around?” “He’s busy at the farm. Why?”

  “I wanted to share the good news about Grandmère.” I told her briefly what happened.

  “That explains the crowd and the roar. Shouldn’t there be more good news soon?” She glanced at her watch. “The polls will be closing in two minutes.”

  “Yep.”

  Voting booths in Providence were traditionally opened from five A.M. until five P.M. for local elections because it was a farming community.

  “The scuttlebutt is she’ll win,” Jacky said.

  If only scuttlebutt could be relied upon.

  “You’d better get back so you can cheer with the rest.” I nodded. “It’s been nice talking to you.” I started to leave. “Charlotte, wait!”

  I turned back.

  She said, “I quit at Tim’s.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I wasn’t cut out to be a waitress.” She toyed with her long black hair. “I’m a little too unstructured for that, know what I mean?”

  I didn’t, but I figured over the course of the next few months, if Jordan and I started dating, I would find out.

  “I was thinking of opening up a pottery place,” she went on. “You know, one where kids and their moms come for birthday parties and things like that.”

  “Great idea. There isn’t one in town, and tourists love handmade items. I happen to know there are some rental locations coming available.” I hoped mine would not be one of them.

  “In the meantime,” Jacky said, “maybe you could tell me what’s fun to do around here.”

  I rattled off a list of my favorite activities, including boating, walking trails, tube rafting, farm tours, all of which I needed to take advantage of some time soon, once Fromagerie Bessette was running smoothly and the pressure of being the owne
r eased up.

  “I meant for us girls.”

  “Oh, well, there’s yoga, sewing classes, candle making classes, a reading group—if Meredith ever gets that going—and Fromagerie Bessette is going to offer some cheese and wine pairing classes.”

  “Is that all?”

  I cocked my head. Was she begging for an invitation to girls’ night out? My friends and I hadn’t had all that much fun at the pub last night, or at least I hadn’t after the beer spilled on me. Perhaps Delilah, Freckles, and Rebecca had roared at my expense. Laughter could be a lure to a woman looking for new friends. “If you want, you could join me and my girlfriends on girls’ night out at the pub.”

  “I’d love that.”

  “Side note, we have a tradition.” I was lying, but she didn’t need to know. “First time out with the girls, you’re in the hot seat.”

  She smiled, a bit of the devil in her gaze, like Jordan, and she nodded. “Okay, I get it. Sure. I’m game.”

  Another cheer, twice as loud as the first, let out from the crowd at my grandparents’ house.

  Jacky said, “Guess that means she won, huh? Tell her congratulations.”

  I raced back and found Grandmère dancing in a circle with Pépère and other townsfolk.

  “It’s official,” Pépère said. “You are looking at Providence’s four-time-elected mayor.”

  I pecked Grandmère on the cheek.

  Matthew pulled up in his Jeep and Meredith and the girls tumbled out. They raced up the front path, rally flags waving.

  Matthew said, “We just heard on the radio.”

  “Let the voters prevail!” Meredith yelled.

  Amy and Clair hugged Grandmère. Fresh tears of joy streamed down her cheeks.

  “May your Hairspray ballet go as smoothly,” I teased.

  “Oh, tosh,” Grandmère said. “It will be amazing.”

  CHAPTER 31

  We celebrated with an incredible dinner. In hopes of a victory, Pépère had whipped up a fancy all-American dinner: a platter of cheeses, nuts, and fruit for the appetizer; fried chicken and creamy polenta enhanced with melted Taleggio, garnished with crispy basil for dinner; and a New York- style cheesecake, laced with melted caramel and sprinkled with crushed Hershey’s dark chocolate, for dessert. Each course was paired with a wine chosen by Matthew.