by Avery Aames
“Miss Vance started to cry and she ran out of the room.”
Poor Meredith. No matter what, tomorrow I was going to track her down and—
“There she is again. Getting coffee. See her?”
I swung around on my stool. Indeed, Meredith was standing at the register, paying for a to-go cup of coffee. Had my presence forced her to retreat from the farmer’s market? I didn’t want to believe that. I couldn’t. She had a tote bag from All Booked Up on her arm. Books poked from the top. Meredith was an avid reader. Maybe she had run from the farmer’s market to buy her weekly stash.
“Girls, I’ll be right back.” I hurried to my friend and tapped her on the shoulder.
Meredith spun around. Tawny hair flapped her face. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“Pretty necklace.” I hitched my chin at the sapphire pendant hanging around her neck. “New?”
Her hand flew to it. Her cheeks turned crimson. “It’s . . . an antique.”
I could tell that. And it looked expensive. “From your grandmother’s estate?” Meredith was the only girl in a family of boys. Upon her grandmother’s death, she had received all the jewelry.
Before she could answer, Delilah, her spiky-haired father, and two waitresses paraded from the kitchen singing an Elvis oldie, “(Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear.” As usual, customers joined in.
Over the din, Meredith said, “I’ve got to go.”
“Wait, Meredith, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
“I can’t talk now.”
“I heard what happened at school today. That Willamina—”
“Sorry, I’ve got to run. Parent/teacher stuff.” She scooped up her cup of coffee, and without another word, dashed out the door.
“Meredith, wait!”
But she didn’t. I blew a stream of frustrated air out my nose. I distinctly remembered Bozz telling me that parent/ teacher conferences were the other day, so why had Meredith lied to me? Was I now a pariah, unworthy of friendship because my grandmother was suspected of murder? Or was I being paranoid and trying to read the worst of every little encounter?
“Stop it!” I heard Amy scream.
Delilah and her staff ceased singing.
At the far end of the restaurant, Amy tussled with Willamina Woodhouse. The girl had her fingers woven into Amy’s hair. Where in the heck was her mother? I raced to the girls and pressed them apart by the shoulders, then wedged myself between them. Amy continued to scuffle against me.
“She started it,” Amy said.
“Did not.”
Willamina looked like a street urchin, her cheeks smudged with dirt, her tumble of curls knotted and frazzled. When was the last time the poor girl had taken a bath? For a moment, I felt as worried as a social worker. Did the child need someone to intervene?
But then she bit me.
It took all my reserve not to pinch her back. “Where’s your mother?” I demanded.
“Campaigning.”
With Ed’s funeral days away? The woman ought to be committed.
“What happened here?” I said.
“She called Grandmère names,” Amy cried.
“Did not.”
“Did so. You said ‘the old goat is guilty.’”
Something inside me snapped. I tightened my hold on Willamina’s arm and shook once. “Where did you hear such a thing?”
“I made it up.”
“I don’t believe you.” She wasn’t nearly clever enough. “Young lady, you tell your mother that she is not to say anything like that in the future, do you hear me?”
“My mother didn’t say it. Mrs. Taylor did.”
Tyanne? Why?
I leveled Willamina with my gaze. “I don’t care who said it, you don’t repeat it. Now, get out of here.” I released her. “And don’t touch Amy again.”
Willamina began to blubber. She scurried out of the shop, knobby knees battering each other.
Delilah sashayed to my side, wiping her hands on her frilly apron. “I’m so sorry. That girl is definitely trouble.”
Everyone in the restaurant was staring at us. My cheeks turned warm.
Delilah raised her hands over her head and clapped. “Okay, folks. Show’s over. Lots of tension in this town. Let’s not add to it. Everybody have a soda on me. Pops, re-cue ‘Teddy Bear.’”
That night, dinner at the house was somber. Matthew sat hunched over, eyes dark, as if he was still angry that I had pressed him for answers at The Cheese Shop. Rags seemed to pick up on the tension. He did figure eights around my ankles, rubbing his head against my leg as he roamed.
While we ate our black bean soup laced with crème fraiche in silence, I fretted about Grandmère’s situation. It didn’t help that Willamina Woodhouse had attacked Amy, or that Ed Woodhouse’s funeral would soon be upon us, or that Kristine was making a big to-do about it, playing the grieving widow, expecting everyone in town to come—even us. I’m sure she thought she could rustle up some votes if she cried crocodile tears.
“I saw Meredith today,” I said, hoping Matthew might jump in and give me a little perspective. “Funny, but I think she was trying to ditch me.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Matthew dropped his spoon onto the serving plate with a clack. “Don’t assume just because someone doesn’t talk to you that they are hiding something.”
“Best friends are supposed to confide in each other.”
“Mommy used to be Daddy’s best friend,” Amy chimed in.
Matthew winced. I did, too. I reached for his hand to offer a silent apology, but he shook my hand away, shoved back his chair, and scrambled to his feet. Rags darted from beneath the table and out of the room.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I’ve got some research to do,” he snapped.
“Can I help, Daddy?” Amy popped up from her chair and hurried to him.
“No.”
“Please, Daddy?” She peered up into his eyes. “I’m sorry if I made you angry.”
He softened. “You didn’t make me angry, Peanut. I . . .” Sad creases bracketed his eyes and mouth. “I need a little alone time.”
And what about me? What did I need? I hadn’t signed on to be a single parent. Out of the graciousness of my heart, I had allowed my cousin and his girls to move in. What had I gotten myself into? If I rocked the boat, would I ruin our budding partnership?
Matthew bent to Amy’s level and kissed her cheek. “Daddy has some business to attend to. That’s all.” He lumbered to the study at the front of the house and shut the door.
I frowned. So much for his spending time with the girls tonight.
“Why don’t we read, Aunt Charlotte?” Clair said, her face pale, eyes wide. She was clenching her soup spoon so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.
Something inside me clenched, too. How dare I be so selfish? These girls needed me to be a sane adult. Just because their father was being a jerk didn’t mean I had to be.
“Sure, let’s read.”
Her fingers loosened their death grip on the spoon, but her eyes and mouth remained tight. How I wished she could express herself more, but I knew I shouldn’t expect miracles overnight. With loss came pain. With pain came all sorts of emotional complications. I had swathed myself in tension at the same age. Perhaps in time, Clair would relax and her beautiful soul would blossom.
“Leave the dishes and follow me.” I set a tray with three mugs of hot cocoa and a plate of gluten-free cream-cheese button cookies, and the three of us headed for the attic. Amy sprinted ahead, sounding like an elephant as she charged up the squeaky stairs.
In the attic, I had created a nook with fake-fur pillows and quilted throw blankets that I’d purchased at Sew Inspired. A small rustic bookshelf held the books the girls liked the best. Brass lamps with pretty ruffled shades stood at various spots around t
he room. The familiar scent of dust and lilac hung in the air.
I laid the tray on a little side table beside the red oak rocking chair that had been my mother’s. “Amy, open the window, please.”
She cranked the handle on the circular dormer window. Cool night air wafted into the room.
“This one, please.” Clair handed me the first in the Crafty Sleuth series by Didi Jackson. In the story, a teenage protagonist used the craft of beading to solve crimes.
I wondered if I could be crafty enough to solve Ed Woodhouse’s murder. More important, would Urso have my hide if I got too crafty?
“Get your beading bags,” I said.
Kit bags filled with colorful beads, needle and thread, and instructions for making a three-strand bracelet came along with the mystery. The girls settled onto their pillows, Amy preferring the blue set, and Clair opting for the aqua green. I nestled onto the cushioned rocker and set my feet on the needlepoint ottoman. A wealth of emotions raced through me. If only my mother was here to help me make sense of the mystery surrounding my grandmother. Or my father, to help me get Matthew to open up to me. Grandmère said my father had a knack for getting people to talk and discuss their problems. He had been the principal of Providence High School. A plaque hung there in his honor. Sadly, none of his wizardry had rubbed off on me.
Amy scattered beads onto the pillow between her legs. One beading strand was already strung and tied off. Clair wasn’t as far along. She invariably got distracted by Rags, who chose her lap for his nest.
“Okay, start,” Amy said.
I took a deep breath, then obeyed. “‘I couldn’t find my aunt Bailey anywhere,’” I read from the text. “‘Now, I’m not the kind of girl who freaks out, but I have to admit, hearing a guy on the radio say the biggest blizzard of the century was coming to Lake Tahoe in less than four hours—’”
“Do we ever get blizzards here?” Clair said.
The weather had been quite mild since April. Rain was due later in the week. Maybe a thunderstorm.
“We get snowstorms,” I said, “but don’t worry. None in May. And the last really big blizzard occurred before I was born.”
“We got some real bad storms in Cleveland,” Amy said.
I wondered if she was referring to the weather or to the outbursts between her father and mother. Contemplating the latter made my heart ache. What drove a woman to hurt the ones she loved?
“Ouch,” Clair said, drawing me back to the moment at hand. She’d pricked her thumb.
“Put on your thimble,” I said.
“It’s like a glove for your thumb,” Amy added, reiterating what I had said nights before.
By the end of the first chapter, both girls were yawning. Stress could make even the stoutest sleepy.
Once I was nestled in my sleigh-style bed, I got to thinking about women hurting the ones they loved. How could I prove that Kristine had killed Ed? According to Grandmère, Felicia had headed toward the museum, and Kristine, Prudence, and Tyanne had gone into the Country Kitchen. Had anyone seen Kristine after she’d left the diner?
I slipped out of bed and paced the floor. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, making my skin hot and prickly, as I counted off details on my fingers.
One: The gala opening of The Cheese Shop had continued after the fracas between Grandmère and Kristine.
Two: Guests had remained focused on wine and cheese and lively conversation. Hadn’t anyone gone outside at just that moment when someone stabbed Ed, which had to be between nine fifteen or nine thirty?
Three: Grandmère told me that after her visit to the clock tower, she had returned. She found Ed on the ground at ten o’clock. She rushed to help, but he wasn’t breathing. She said Ed must have been dead for at least a few minutes, maybe more. She looked around, but she didn’t see anyone dashing into shadows.
Four: Meredith had appeared seconds later and screamed. Where had she come from? Had she seen something implicating my grandmother? Was she afraid to tell me? Was that why she was avoiding me? Had somebody—Kristine—threatened her?
Five: If Kristine had killed Ed, she would have been splattered with blood like my grandmother and Meredith. Had she hurried to her boutique not far from the Country Kitchen to change clothes? Had she disposed of the dress and her gloves and then slipped out, wearing a new frock?
I stopped pacing and stared at myself in the mirror over the bureau as something Amy said to Clair came to me. About the thimble in the attic. “It’s like a glove for your thumb.”
Kristine and her girlfriends had donned gloves while at the gala. If she had been wearing gloves when snatching the olive-wood-handled knife, she wouldn’t have left fingerprints on the gift box or the knife.
But that didn’t matter now, did it? If she killed Ed, she would have had to dispose of the bloody gloves. Garbage collection wasn’t due for three more days. They might still be in the Dumpster behind her store.
CHAPTER 9
The next morning, after I dropped the twins at school, I went to the Providence Precinct and strode into Urso’s office. Sunlight cut through the vertical Levelor blinds and cast prisonlike bar shadows on the beige walls. I shuddered but didn’t miss a step.
“Chief Urso.” I gave a discreet tug to the seams of my split-neck shift—my prettiest, with a turquoise and brown swirl print—and I squared my shoulders. I had dressed for business, not confrontation.
Urso rose from his desk chair, dwarfing me, and offered me a seat in one of the hard-backed chairs.
I declined, and instead paced in front of his bulky desk, which was as neat as a pin, papers stacked just so. The walls were empty of anything that might be considered pretentious. A silver frame with a picture of his family, including his parents and brothers, stood on the metal file cabinet.
“A bloody dress and gloves,” I blurted.
“What about ’em?” He remained standing, arms hanging comfortably by his sides.
I explained my theory.
“Now, Charlotte.” Urso worked his tongue around the inside of his cheek. “I can’t have you getting involved. You know that.”
“I’m not involved. I’m theorizing.”
“And I’m theorizing, as well,” he said. “All day long. Not in between slicing cheese.”
I bridled at the remark.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That came out wrong. I just meant . . .” He ran a hand down his thick neck, then held it out to me, palm up in a pleading gesture. “Aw, heck, it’s my job. It’s not yours. You shouldn’t—”
“—bother my silly head about it?” I snapped. “You men!”
Urso bristled that time. He wasn’t like other guys, and obviously didn’t like me bundling him in with the others. He appreciated a woman with a bright mind. The one time he had asked me out in high school was after I had aced a history test. I had said no, not because he wasn’t handsome—he was, in that teddy bear way, with kind eyes and a warm smile—but because Meredith had a crush on him, and I hadn’t wanted to lose my friendship with her. Following his divorce, I had considered asking him out, but then Jordan Pace showed up, and, well, I was smitten.
“Charlotte, I assure you that I am taking every tip and witness statement under consideration. I am looking at suspects other than your grandmother.”
“Where was Kristine at the time?”
“Picking up her daughter from Tyanne Taylor’s house.”
Tyanne, as Kristine’s good friend, wouldn’t deny that, but I didn’t put it past Kristine to dump her daughter at home and return to the scene to kill Ed. “Did you test the knife that killed Ed for fingerprints?”
“Of course.”
“And? Were my grandmother’s fingerprints on the handle?”
Urso licked his lips. “We already discussed how long it takes for results to come through.”
“Oh, sheesh, U-ey.” I rapped my knuckles on his desk. “You know something!”
“The knife was wiped clean.”
I groaned. That mea
nt anybody could be guilty. Anybody.
I left, as frustrated as when I’d arrived, and went to open The Cheese Shop. Within minutes, I was overwhelmed by an onrush of customers. Rebecca and Matthew could barely keep up with slicing and wrapping the orders in our pretty gold and white wax paper, while I printed off labels that included the country of origin, the milk source, the type of cheese, and the price per pound. By lunch, my brain, usually a steel-trap for figures and details, was fried.
At one point, Rebecca thumped my shoulder and said, “Girls’ night out tonight? You look like you could use a little fun.”
Rebecca, Meredith, Delilah, and I met once a week at Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub, known for its international list of beers. However, the pub also offered a super-duper Cosmo, with a smidge more of Rose’s lime juice, the glass rimmed with multicolored sugar. Rebecca had grown quite fond of Cosmos. She had also taken to watching whatever sport aired on the multiple televisions around the pub, favoring the Cleveland Indians over the Cincinnati Reds, and the Cleveland Browns over any other football team. She had a major crush on the hunky quarterback. I, being an alum of OSU, preferred watching the Buckeyes play. If there wasn’t a football game on TV, I immersed myself in the live Irish music. My mother’s family originated from Ireland. Listening to the soulful strains was one of the ways I could keep her memory alive.
“I’m in,” I said. “But I’ll need to change.”
“Oh, no, you look wonderful. I love your dress. And your cute little sandals.” She thumped my shoulder again. “They show off your legs.”
I batted her away, then called Meredith and left a message on her cell phone telling her I missed her and needed to chat. I had never truly embraced using a cell phone, preferring conversations in person, but in dire emergencies a cell phone was useful. I hoped Meredith would realize I was desperate to talk and return my call between classes.