The Long Quiche Goodbye

by Avery Aames

  “Morning, Charlotte,” Jordan said. “Morning, Vivian.”

  “Hello, Jordan.” Vivian elbowed me as Jordan proceeded toward the cheese counter. “If you want my opinion—”

  “We’re just friends,” I said quickly.

  Vivian chuckled. “I wasn’t talking about Mr. Gorgeous, but if I was, I’d tell you to ask him out yourself. Men can be so dense.”

  My cheeks grew warm. I had to stop assuming that everyone in town could tell I had a crush on Jordan. He certainly had no idea.

  “What I was referring to,” Vivian went on, “was if you wanted my opinion regarding what to do about your grandmother’s case.”

  “The lawyer says he has it handled.” He wouldn’t discuss the fine points of the case with me, not yet, but he said he was reviewing witness statements. By my recollection, none of the witnesses had seen a darned thing. Shock, the lawyer said, caused people to forget things. He hoped that as shock wore off, someone would remember something that would be beneficial.

  “Has he hired an investigator?” Vivian asked.

  “What for?”

  “To look into the why and wherefore—the motives, if you will—of other suspects.”

  Rebecca sidled up, fetched the half-eaten tray of Vermont Cabot Cheddar, and headed back toward the counter.

  I gripped her elbow. “What are you doing, feeding the darned reporters?”

  She nodded.

  “No, stop now!” I didn’t mean to shriek.

  Rebecca set the tray down in a flash and said, “She’s right, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Williams.”

  “Me?” Vivian cocked her head.

  “About hiring an investigator. I heard . . .” Rebecca’s mouth quirked up on one side. “Do you want to know what I heard?”

  I sighed. If she couldn’t be the belle of the reporters, she would subject me to her opinions. “Go on. What did you hear on Law & Order now?”

  “Quiet investigation is often more effective than what the police do, you know, barge in and demand answers.”

  “You dig for dirt,” Vivian said.

  “Quietly,” Rebecca added.

  “We can’t afford an investigator,” I said, not when all the savings had gone into the renovation of The Cheese Shop.

  “Then you do it.” Rebecca poked my arm.

  “Me, investigate?” What, did she think I had oodles of time on my hands? Both Matthew and I were run ragged looking after Grandmère and Pépère and the twins. On the other hand, who better than I to dig for dirt?

  “You know everyone in town,” Rebecca went on, echoing my exact thought.

  “My money is on Kristine,” Vivian said. “Ed left her everything. And I’d bet his insurance policy was paid up. Double indemnity.”

  “But she has her own trust fund,” I argued.

  Vivian raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Murder is not always about money.”

  “What about the election?” Rebecca said. “If Mrs. Woodhouse implicates your grandmother, she’ll sail through to a landslide victory. I’ll bet that’s why she used one of the cheese knives from the shop.”

  Come to think of it, Kristine had hovered over the table where the knives had been displayed. Had she pilfered one? In her warped mind, stabbing her roving husband while putting the blame on my grandmother might have killed two birds with one cheese knife. It was a crazy theory, of course, but Kristine bordered on crazy, didn’t she? I couldn’t imagine a sane person committing murder. Sane people reasoned things out. Sane people worked through problems. What was she thinking, parading around in bright colors like a beauty contestant? And why hadn’t she had a funeral yet? What was she waiting for?

  “And don’t forget her friend Felicia Hassleton,” Rebecca said, her cheeks rosy with zeal. “She could be a suspect, too. I saw her flirting with Mr. Woodhouse. She was twirling her hair around her finger.” Rebecca demonstrated. “What if he dumped her and she flew into a rage?”

  I suppressed a smile. My young protégé was becoming entirely too enraptured with the investigative process.

  “C’mon, Charlotte.” Rebecca prodded me again. “You know you are more than capable of cracking this case. Just think.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.” Jordan slipped into the huddle, a gold Fromagerie Bessette bag tucked under his arm. He plopped a sample of Molinari Toscano Picante salami into his mouth and chewed.

  “Do what? Think?” I pulled innocently on the hair cupping the nape of my neck, caught myself doing it, and whipped my hand to my side. I was nothing like Felicia Hassleton. Girlish machinations were not my style.

  “Investigate,” Jordan said. “Chief Urso is a good man. He’ll get to the bottom of things.”

  “I know that.”

  “Isn’t Mr. Lincoln doing his job?” Jordan asked.

  Mr. Lincoln, our attorney, was as gaunt and as tall as the historic president, and about as stoic.

  “I heard he visited your grandmother today,” Jordan said.

  Mr. Lincoln had shown up at the house at the end of my picnic with Grandmère. He had brought Grandmère a selection of magazines to help her through the confinement.

  Vivian said, “Doing one’s job and being a kind neighbor isn’t always good enough, Jordan, and you know it. Sometimes it takes extraordinary circumstances to make a person do extraordinary things.”

  Her words held an undercurrent of meaning that I couldn’t decipher, and I realized that I didn’t know beans about Jordan Pace. I cocked my head. What was his story? Did he have skeletons in a closet? Did Vivian know something I didn’t? He wasn’t homegrown. He had moved to Providence from California about three years ago with little luggage and no job. Within months, he had established his thriving Pace Hill Farm. Tongues had wagged, but that hadn’t stopped a number of eligible ladies from dating him, all of whom were married now. Their husbands teased that Jordan was a little slow on making decisions in matters of the heart. I was willing to be patient, to a point.

  Jordan faced me and riveted me with his gaze. “If your grandmother is innocent, there is nothing to worry about.”

  “If?” I asked, my tone sharp, his doubt ricocheting me out of Dreamland and back to the present. “If? Of course, she’s innocent. She said she didn’t do this. I believe her.”

  “I believe her, too,” Rebecca said.

  A muscle ticked in Jordan’s jaw. My guess was he didn’t like women ganging up on him. What man did? He said, “Talk is that she and Ed argued that night about him evicting you from the premises.”

  Rebecca turned pale. Her bravado withered.

  Vivian’s didn’t. She squared her shoulders and glowered at Jordan. “Talk is cheap, and Ed didn’t evict them or anybody else.”

  “That’s because he’s dead,” Jordan said.

  We all went silent.

  Jordan shifted his feet, probably realizing he had overstepped his bounds. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. Just—” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. Tread softly, okay?”

  Tread softly? What the heck did that mean? Did he think I would go around town like Annie Oakley, wielding a rifle and demanding answers?

  With an aching heart, I watched him leave the shop, wishing we could return to life before the murder—minutes before, when Jordan had looked ready to ask me out. His interest in me had obviously fizzled. Why? Because I was the granddaughter of a murder suspect? Or was it something else?

  To put the quarrel from my mind, I finished up Vivian’s order, bid her goodbye, then set about straightening the shop’s various displays. More than half of our supply of homemade basil pesto had sold. I would have to make another batch.

  Matthew strode up, his apron a mess of oily fingerprints. We laundered them daily to keep them looking fresh. “Charlotte, Rebecca is trying to get rid of the reporters. Will you take over at the counter? I’m going into the annex. I’ll get it set up for this afternoon’s tastings, then I’ll visit Grandmère.” He checked his watch as if trying to figure
out how to squeeze all his duties in. The girls, the shop, and a private life of some kind. Last night he had arrived home at two A.M. again. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to burn out, but I didn’t want to point that out to him. He was a grown man. He knew what he could and couldn’t do. If life wasn’t so tense right now, I would tease him into revealing who in town had caught his eye. Delilah Swain, maybe? Matthew had taken ballroom dancing lessons as a kid. He could cha-cha with the best of them. The past few mornings, he had entered The Cheese Shop with a coffee from the Country Kitchen. I’d also seen him talking to the bake shop owner, an apple-cheeked beauty.

  “Hold up,” I said.

  He didn’t.

  I tracked him into the annex. “Business is slow. Let’s chat a moment.”

  “About?”

  “Who are you seeing?”

  “None of your beeswax.”

  I perched on a stool by the bar and watched Matthew unpack boxes filled with bottles of wine, “Is that the pinot noir you’ve been hoping for?”

  He nodded. “From Joseph Phelps in California. Hard to get. It’s fabulous, with flavors of blackberries and balsamic reduction, and—”

  “Are you kidding? Balsamic reduction?”

  “And sandalwood.”

  I laughed.

  He jabbed a finger at me. “C’mon, you talk about the flavor of grass in cheese.”

  I did. Which season a cow, goat, or sheep grazed during the year made a difference to the flavors inherent in the cheese. The younger the grass, the younger-tasting the cheese. If the animal ate clover, I could taste it in the product.

  “It’s the same with wine. The grapes draw their flavor from the earth.” He sliced open another box and withdrew twelve bottles of Argentinean malbec, a spicier, edgier red wine than a merlot, so Matthew claimed. I had yet to taste it.

  And I wouldn’t today. I hadn’t tagged along to get an education on wine. I wanted to grill my new housemate. We hadn’t had a moment alone since Grandmère had been arrested.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “With . . . ?”

  “You.”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re not spending much time with the girls.”

  He bridled and exhaled through his nose. “Don’t start—”

  “I’m not criticizing. I’m not complaining. It’s giving me time to get to know them.” I had enjoyed the last few nights, reading to the girls and teaching them how to cook, although with Clair’s allergies to wheat, gluten, and nuts, I was forced to be creative with recipes or make two of everything. Luckily, few cheeses caused allergic reactions, and Rags was the least allergenic breed of cat. Clair hadn’t had an upset tummy or itchy nose and eyes since moving in. At times, I mused that she might have been allergic to her wayward mother, and with the shrew out of the picture, her symptoms had cleared up. “I’m just wondering what’s up. Are you all right? Have you met someone already? Is it Delilah Swain?”

  “I’m not seeing anyone.” He didn’t make eye contact as he set the bottles of wine on the bar.

  “Or that gal who owns the bookshop?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m such a reader.”

  Matthew’s reading consisted of books about wineries, grapes, and terroir.

  “I’m intruding, I know, but you’re acting differently. You’re sort of shut down. I don’t want you worrying about Grandmère.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Is it your ex? Did she call or something?”

  “I’m fine, Charlotte.” He twisted the wine bottles so all the labels pointed out. “Look, I’ll come straight home from work tonight and make sure I spend time with the girls. Okay? Just give it a rest.”

  “Matthew—”

  “Really. Don’t mother hen me. I’m fine. Go tend to the customers in the shop.”

  “Rebecca’s doing that.”

  “Then bake a quiche or something.”

  “Can’t. I’m off to pick up the girls from school.”

  “Fine.” He tromped across the hardwood floor and started inspecting bottles of wine in the slots we had built along the far wall. End of discussion.

  A ball of frustration gathered in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t like secrets. But Matthew had one, and I intended to find out what it was.

  CHAPTER 8

  I had been so focused on the shop and Grandmère’s situation that I had neglected to restock the refrigerator at home. With the girls in tow, I headed to the farmer’s market that took place once a week in the Village Green. It would close when the sun set.

  A broad white-and-green-striped tent covered the market, which consisted of twelve rows of fruits, vegetables, artisanal breads, coffees, meats, sweets, and nuts. Half the townsfolk seemed to be browsing the goods.

  Amy, who appeared to get her fashion sense from my grandmother—blue skirt and purple shirt, with a matching headband threaded through her dark hair, and light blue cape tied at the neck—skipped ahead of Clair and me. Down the aisle of fresh fruits. Up the aisle of vegetables. Twice she twirled and bumped into a customer. I didn’t want to rein her in, her spirit being so much like Grandmère’s, but I didn’t want her to become the terror of Providence either. I gave a quick whistle. Amy flashed me one of her gamine grins.

  I stopped, item by item, and filled paper bags with apples, salad fixings, and broccoli.

  Clair, dressed in a subdued white blouse and mint capris, pulled idly on the long blonde tresses that framed her face as she studied baskets of strawberries. “These look good. Can I eat them without . . . ?” She wriggled her nose. “You know.”

  “Yes. You do fine with all fruits. Pick out the carton you like best. Look for plump and red, no tinges of lime green. Get a carton for Grandmère, too.”

  She picked up a basket, turned it in her hands, and put it back. She lifted another. Her hands began to shake. Then her shoulders.

  “Clair, what’s wrong?”

  She looked over her shoulder at me. Tears dripped down her cheeks. “I’m . . . I’m so worried about Great-Grandmère. The kids at school . . .” She licked a teardrop off her lip.

  I turned her around, brushed her hair back over her shoulders, and lifted her chin with my fingertip. “Sweetheart, your great-grandmother is going to be fine. Promise.”

  “Amy says . . . Amy says . . .” Clair hiccupped. “Amy says I should slug them.”

  I bit back a smile. “Using your fists isn’t always the best solution.”

  “I know and I tell her that, but she doesn’t listen to me.” She shuddered beneath my touch. “I want to see Grandmère.”

  “We’ll go for dinner soon, okay?”

  She nodded.

  Amy raced back to us and spun in a circle, eyeing the hem of her cape as it flared. “Did I tell you what happened at school today?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Willamina Woodhouse got put in detention.” Amy did a little jig.

  I grimaced, hoping Amy hadn’t been the one to spur on Willamina. “Er, what did she do?”

  “She sassed the teacher.”

  “Miss Vance?”

  “Uh-huh. She said . . .” Mocking Willamina, Amy fluffed her hair and in a nasal voice said, “‘My father is being buried in two days and you can’t come.’”

  So, Kristine had at last set the date. About time.

  “What did Miss Vance say?”

  “Ask her.” Amy pointed. “Hey, Miss Vance!”

  Meredith stood on the far side of the market by the organic coffee display. She glanced up, and then like a meerkat checking its surroundings, looked right and left and ducked down. She didn’t have a hole to dive into, but she slipped from view. Where had she gone? Had she crawled away? I was positive she had seen me. Was she avoiding me? Something gnawed inside me, but I refused to take her actions personally. Not yet.

  When the girls and I finished our shopping, I offered to take them to the Country Kitchen for a soda. I didn’t allow them to drink soda during the week, but after the encounter
with Meredith, even I wanted a little cooling-off period. A glass of soda would do the trick.

  The fifties-style diner was packed and noisy, its red booths and red-checkered tables crammed with teenagers and adults. Rock and roll music played through overhead speakers. Customers made choices of music using the mini jukeboxes set on the tables. Each day, a song was chosen as the “song of the day.” Whenever a customer selected that song, Delilah, the waitresses, and her father “Pops” would parade from the kitchen and sing along with the song, Delilah louder and more on key than the others.

  We settled onto three empty stools at the red laminate counter. I sat in the middle, with the girls on either side. Their forearms and elbows barely reached the counter. We each ordered a Mama Bozzuto root beer from the perky counter waitress. The Bozzuto Winery had smartly expanded its product line in recent years and had started making delicious natural sodas. With a thick head of foam and rich caramel flavors, the soda tasted like dessert.

  As I sipped my drink, I noticed a few of the customers staring at us and talking under their breaths, but I shrugged off their attention. Gossip and googly-eyed staring was to be expected.

  Delilah passed by, the red ruffled skirt of her uniform swishing around her knees, a tray balanced on her shoulder. She winked. “Got what you need?”

  I nodded.

  Amy tugged on my sleeve. “I didn’t finish my story about Willamina.” She made a huge slurping sound as she drank her soda.

  I gave her the evil eye.

  She shrugged an apology, then said, “Anyway, when Willie went to detention.”

  “Willamina,” I corrected.

  “Uh-uh, she prefers Willie.”

  That had to make Kristine cringe.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Anyway, she skipped past Miss Vance, and she stuck out her tongue.”

  “You’re kidding!” I don’t know why I expected good behavior from Kristine Woodhouse’s daughter. The “apple falling far from the tree” metaphor would definitely apply. On the other hand, I didn’t want the twins to be judged by their errant mother. That wouldn’t be fair. “Then what happened?”