by Avery Aames
According to Rebecca, money, power, and revenge were the top three motives for murder.
“I heard Kristine had an argument with Felicia,” Matthew said. “What was that about?”
“Ed promised to invest in the museum.”
“And Kristine doesn’t want to make good on the promise?”
“Ed might have pulled out on his own.”
“Well, that’s motive, too.”
Amy hurried into the kitchen ahead of Clair. “I know what a motive is.”
Matthew eyed me.
I quickly changed the subject. “Don’t you two look pretty?”
“Thank you.” Amy, dressed in a blue checkered shirt and a polka-dotted red skirt, did a twirl and then a curtsey. Grandmère would have been proud of her eclectic taste.
Clair, who had opted for a more conservative shorts outfit in aqua, pulled her ponytail tight and plunked into her chair at the table. “Where are we going with Meredith?”
Matthew said, “To the river.”
“Cool,” Amy said. “About that motive thing—”
“To do what?” Clair cut in.
“Throw rocks, wade in the water, whatever you want.” Matthew gave a playful tug on her ponytail. “Fun stuff.”
“And we don’t have to think,” Amy added. “Today is a day for not thinking. Except for about motives.”
“No,” Matthew said. “No thinking. Period.”
“But, at school, I heard Mr. Nakamura’s son say that his father wanted to kill that Mr. Woodhouse because he sold a building, and—”
Matthew thrust a warning finger at her.
Amy pulled an imaginary zipper across her lips and looked sufficiently warned.
I wished I had a child’s ability to block out thoughts about motives and double indemnity insurance and Grandmère crying and wondering about people’s alibis and . . .
“Is something wrong, Aunt Charlotte?” Clair said.
I forced a smile. “Not a thing. Who’s hungry?”
Both girls raised a hand.
“What are you doing today, Daddy?” Amy said, diving into her eggs as I set dishes on the table.
“I’m going to work.”
More lighthearted chatter ensued. I joined them at the table, pushed my serious thoughts aside, ate heartily, and then washed the dishes and waited with the girls on the porch for Meredith to appear.
The moment they drove away, my mind started churning again. Motive. Who had motive other than Kristine? Or could the killer still be Kristine? She might not need money, but she did crave power. With my grandmother in confinement, Kristine had gained a free ride toward getting elected. Mr. Nakamura, Vivian, and a whole horde or other tenants would lose their leases because Ed sold the building. But according to Bozz, that deal had concluded before Ed died. There was no turning back the tide. On the other hand, without Ed’s financial support, Felicia might have worried that she would lose the museum, so she resorted to murder.
Seeing a delivery truck pull into the neighboring driveway at Lois’s Lavender and Lace set me to thinking again about what Ipo said Swoozie the tour guide had told Lois. Pure gossip, sure, but what if some of it was true? Ed had a business partner. A lover. What if Ed had decided to end his relationship with his partner? What if the mysterious partner killed Ed in a rage? What if Felicia, secretly in love with Ed, had found out about the lover and killed Ed in a jealous rage? The list could go on and on.
A screen door slammed. Lois shuffled onto her porch, her wispy hair wrapped in a purple bandanna, the hem of her lavender-colored bathrobe fluttering around her ankles, a feather duster in hand. She started batting the upper corners of her windows and arches, attacking imaginary cobwebs, no doubt. She hunted cobwebs daily with a wild-eyed ferocity. Even I didn’t have spiders that were that industrious. As she dusted, I flashed again on Felicia’s alibi of seeing her sister the night of the murder, an alibi that was shaky at best because Lois, on occasion, would have a little too much to drink. How clear would Lois’s memories be in the light of day? In all our years of being neighbors, we hadn’t shared more than a handful of conversations. Would she confide in me now?
In an effort to entice her, I snipped a couple of sprigs of lilac, plunked them into an old wine bottle stripped of its label, and filled it with water. I tied a piece of lavender ribbon around the neck and hurried to the bed-and-breakfast. I found Lois teetering on one of the many floral sofas she had set around the porch. She was stretched to the limit trying to dust the wooden beams beneath the wisteria that tumbled over the eaves. The lower portion of her robe had parted, revealing stark-white bony legs.
“Good morning, Lois,” I said.
“Mornin’, Charlotte,” she said with crisp politeness.
“Gorgeous day, isn’t it? Thought you might like some flowers for the dining table.”
Lois glanced over her shoulder and tried to focus, which was difficult because she had a partially blind eye that blinked nonstop. “For me?” She smiled delightedly, like a little girl who never received presents from Santa. She clambered off the sofa, shoved her duster into the belt cinched at her waist, and reached for the flowers. “How lovely. Aren’t you sweet? And the ribbon. It’s my favorite color, don’t you know.”
I did. Everything inside the bed-and-breakfast was decorated in shades of purple: the wallpapers, the bedspreads, the drapes. Though forewarned of Lois’s fondness for the color, B&B guests never ceased to be amazed.
“Come on in.” She beckoned me with the crook of her little finger. “Have a moment for tea?”
“Do you have Quail Ridge honey?”
“I wouldn’t have any other. That Ipo. He’s a honey of a guy, don’t you think?” She chortled at her little joke and shambled inside.
I fished in my pocket for my cell phone, texted Matthew what I was up to, and followed Lois inside. Matthew and Rebecca could manage to open the shop without me.
Lois hummed as she brewed tea. “You arrived at the perfect time. All my boarders are out and about. So much to do in and around Providence.”
We settled into the wicker chairs on the sun porch, a fresh pot of English Breakfast tea and two dainty floral teacups on a tray before us. Lois was an avid teacup collector. Havilland, Limoges, Royal Doulton. She had at least one in every pattern. Most of our previous conversations had revolved around the history of teacups.
“I’d offer you a nippa.” She mimed drinking from a flask. “But I’m clean and sober going on thirty days and can’t be tempted, you understand.”
“Good for you,” I said, though that wiped out my theory that she couldn’t be relied upon for corroborating Felicia’s alibi. “Speaking of Ipo,” I went on as I sweetened my tea. “He was telling me about your guest. A tour guide, I think.” I snapped my fingers as if struggling for the name. “Swoozie. . . .”
“Swoozie Swenten. What a name! Swoozie Swenten, Swoozie Swenten,” she sang, then snickered. “Adorable girl.”
I pictured the bosomy tour guide and her tight T-shirts bursting at the seams and didn’t think adorable and girl were the terms I’d use.
“Funny, too,” Lois added. “She always gets me laughing.”
“She’s still in town?”
“Oh, sure. Her tour is here for a whole week. They’re doing the Amish thing, don’t you know. And the cheese farm tours. And the wineries. I think they’re all at Quail Ridge today. Ipo must be reveling in that, what with his saucy bride running off with that artist and leaving him with the farm to take care of—a farm he only took on because of her.” Lois fanned her face with her fingertips. “Poor, poor man. Can you imagine moving all the way from Hawaii and ending up in the middle of America alone? Although . . .”
She leaned in close. “I think he has a thing for your little helper. Why, the other day, I saw him slip a note into her mailbox, the sneak.”
“Rebecca?”
“That’s the one. What a doll-baby.”
“You know, that reminds me. Your sister—”
“Oh, we were talking at The Cheese Shop,” I said, treading carefully so as not to rile her further. I’d seen Lois chase off Rags with a wicker broom more than once. Nips of liquor drove her to it, I reasoned, but if she was clean and sober, perhaps I had nothing to worry about. I didn’t see any brooms nearby. “You know how Felicia loves cheese.”
“I like it myself, but I can’t eat much. Too rich, don’t you know.”
“The soft-rind cheeses aren’t. And a bite of cheese a day never hurt anyone.”
“A bite? Who can settle for just a bite?” She chortled and eased back in chair, wariness gone.
“Anyway, Felicia was in the shop, and we were talking about the night of Ed’s murder.”
“How is your grandmother?”
“She didn’t do it,” I said out of habit.
“I didn’t think for a second she did.” Lois clucked her tongue. “Nobody in town does.”
Hearing that gave me goose bumps, the good kind. Maybe if Grandmère was tried by her peers, she would never be convicted.
“Felicia and I were pondering possibilities, talking about alibis, and she mentioned that Kristine—”
Lois slapped her thigh. “That woman makes me furious.”
You and everybody else.
“Felicia said that Kristine went off on her own and she—Felicia—strolled to the museum, and then visited you.”
“Me? That night? Oh, no, she must be mistaken.”
“Really?” I said, doing my best not to overreact. I took a sip of my tea.
“I was out of town. Visiting our aunt. She’s eighty-two. Poor thing’s laid up with a broken hip.”
“But the bed-and-breakfast was filled with guests.”
“My husband takes care of things when I’m gone.”
Her husband was a cube-shaped man with a ruddy complexion and thick red hair who puttered around the garden starting at dawn and hit the hay not long after dusk. When he wasn’t at home, he was roaming the hardware store.
“I guess I misunderstood her.” I paused. How could I broach the next question without accusing Felicia of out-and-out lying? “Do you know anything about Ed Woodhouse’s promise to contribute to the museum?”
“You mean, money?”
“Yes, money. Did he—?”
“Ed Woodhouse, that no-good, promised Felicia the moon. After her husband died, God rest his soul, she was so lonely. I tried to console her, but sisters . . . well, you know. Anyway, Felicia turned to Ed in friendship, and the man preyed on her.”
“Preyed?”
“Made her all sorts of promises. Lifelong promises.” Lois winked her good eye and gave a little nod. “You know the kind of promises I mean.”
“Like he’d leave his wife for her?’
Another nod. “But, no-o-o-o, nothing doing.” Lois sat upright and folded her hands primly in her lap. “I happen to know he had other lovers.”
“Like who?”
“Like Swoozie. She was his partner, as well.”
“But—” I sputtered. Ipo sure hadn’t picked up on that! I carefully set my teacup back on the tray and said as innocently as I could muster, “Partner in what?”
“Real estate deals. Felicia wanted to invest with Ed,” Lois went on, “but she invested too much of her inheritance in some moneymaking scheme and ran through it. I’m always encouraging her to travel with me, get out of town, get a new perspective, but she turns me down flat. That’s how I know she’s strapped. She’s so proud, she wouldn’t tell me if she’s in financial trouble, but sisters know things.”
Lois fluttered her hand in the air. “In the end, she chose not to be Ed’s business partner, and then he reneged on the promise to donate to the museum, and, well . . .” She covered her mouth with her hand and battled tears. “Felicia is an innocent sometimes, don’t you know.”
I was beginning to think that Felicia was anything but innocent.
CHAPTER 18
The air smelled deliciously sweet and there wasn’t a threatening cloud in the sky, so I took the long route to the shop and swung by Grandmère’s house. While walking, I decided that I would not share with Grandmère the news I had learned from Lois. I didn’t want to give her false hope.
I found her barefoot, plucking weeds from the grass, dressed in her favorite pink-striped capris and a Billy Joel Revival Tour T-shirt. The polka-dotted bandanna around her neck was drenched with perspiration.
“How long have you been at it?” I asked as I gave her a hug.
“An hour, maybe more. Who knows?”
“Drinking enough water?”
She gave me a baleful look. She was usually the one making sure I was keeping hydrated.
“Where is Pépère?”
“At the coffee shop. He needs the conversation. I am not much joy.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Time slips by, chérie.” She shook her trowel at me. Flecks of dirt and grass scattered into the air. “The town needs me, but do they plead my innocence to Chief Urso? Non! ”
“They will. I have.” I petted her shoulder. “Any more plans for rehearsals on the lawn?”
The notion seemed to brighten her mood. “As a matter of fact, this afternoon we will have one. I’m going to broadcast the music as loud as I can.” She giggled. “I hope our new neighbor won’t mind.” She hitched her chin at Mystery Woman, who was climbing into a shiny silver Mercedes in the driveway.
She waved at us. Grandmère waved back.
“Who is she?” I said, curbing the impulse to dash to the woman and grill her for information. I couldn’t erase the sultry image of her leaning against Jordan’s office door jamb.
“I assure you, I would know, if I was able to get farther than the gate,” Grandmère said. “But I am shackled to . . . to this.” She threw her arms wide.
Plenty of people would love to have twenty-four hours a day to tend to their gardens and homes, but not my grandmother. Not under duress.
“I have begged your grandfather to snoop, but he r efuses.”
“A name at least?”
“Jacky. I introduced myself the other day when the real estate sign came down. She said, ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Jacky.’”
“That’s all? No last name. No, ‘Gee, I’m moving here from Timbuktu’?”
Grandmère shrugged. “What more could I do? Toute seule.”
“You are alone, yes, I know.” I watched as the Mercedes pulled out into the street and Jacky, the mystery woman from who-knew-where, drove away. “She’s awfully pretty.”
“She is handsome, yes, and strong. Perhaps too strong. She has broken one or two men’s hearts, I would bet.”
Was Jordan one of them?
Grandmère poked me with the trowel. “Why do you frown so?”
“It’s nothing.” I glanced at my watch. “I have to go. Deliveries are due.” I had a business to run and my grandmother’s innocence to prove. Details of my love life, or non-love life, could wait. “Would you like me to bring you lunch?”
“I have plenty. Go, run.” She swatted me with the trowel.
Moments after I arrived at the shop and slipped on my apron, the deliveries started to arrive. New shipments of soft-rind cheeses from France, jams and condiments from the Heaven’s Bliss Farm, and artisanal cheeses from Two Plug Nickels Farm. Two new up-and-comer cheesemongers from Wisconsin also showed up, without an appointment, and pitched their blue-veined cheeses. They tasted divine and I ordered ten pounds. Matthew helped unload the wares, then returned to the annex to compile a list of wines to order based on last night’s purchases.
As I added the condiments to the shelves near the front of the store, Kristine Woodhouse marched into the shop, a scowl on her face. What now? I wondered, surprised to see her. Instinctively, I peeked at the new set of olive-wood-handled knives sitting on the display table to her right. She didn’t give them a p
assing glance.
“Charlotte, I heard you’re providing platters of cheese for Felicia Hassleton’s affair tomorrow.”
Was she here to pit me against her friend? She couldn’t possibly dream that I would choose to side with her on anything, not with all the anguish she had caused my grandmother.
“That’s right,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Well, just make sure that she pays you up front.”
Without another word, Kristine spun on her spiked heels and stormed out of the shop. The grape-leaf-shaped chimes jingled merrily, but my insides went cold.
Rebecca ran to my side. “What was that about?”
“Got me.” Perhaps Kristine had been taking a mental picture that she could share with whoever was bidding against me for the building. What was the status of that deal, by the way? I needed to call Octavia and get an update.
“Mind if I take a break?” Rebecca said. “I could use a little sunshine.”
“Go ahead. I can manage the counter,” I said, as my mind reeled with other possible scenarios for Kristine’s sudden appearance. Had she hoped for a crowd? Had she wanted to make me and everyone else in town question the status of Felicia’s finances?
As Rebecca headed toward the rear door, a couple of customers entered. Urso and our lawyer, Mr. Lincoln, followed them in. Mr. Lincoln had grown a beard since our last meeting, which made him look even more like our historic president. Neither he nor Urso looked happy.
Rebecca scurried back and whispered, “Go talk to them. I’ll see to the customers.”
I thanked her and strolled to Urso and Lincoln. “I take it you gentlemen are not here to buy cheese.”
“Miss Bessette, I’m sorry,” Mr. Lincoln said in a deep, reassuring baritone voice. “I’ve been trying to negotiate with Chief Urso—”
“Charlotte,” Urso cut in. “There have been complaints.”
“About?” I put my hands on my hips.
“The recitals in your grandparents’ yard.”
“Rehearsals,” I corrected.