by Avery Aames
I asked Rebecca to tend to the three customers, and I hitched a finger at the rear door. “How about some sunshine out back, Chief?”
Urso nodded and lumbered up to the counter, a scowl etched into his forehead. I removed my apron, smoothed the front of my pleated blouse, and grabbed a bottle of Pellegrino from the cooler. I pushed open the door at the rear of the shop and Urso followed.
The fresh scent of morning filled the air and infused me with hope. We were going to get to the bottom of the mystery and free my grandmother.
“I’m so glad you got my message.” I handed him the bottle of sparkling water.
He screwed off the top and slugged down a couple of gulps. “I didn’t get any message.”
That surprised me. “Then why are you here? Did Luigi call you?”
“No. Why would he?”
“Gretel?”
“Nope.”
“Because . . .” I swallowed hard. “Why did you stop by?”
“You know why.”
My stomach turned to jelly. Felicia must have said something to him about my raid on her museum office after all. Rats. I steered Urso to the meditation bench at the far end of the garden. “Sit.”
“I’m happy standing.” He folded his arms across his massive chest and glowered at me.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “Felicia has every right to press charges. I never should have broken into her office and rifled through—”
“You did what?”
He didn’t know? Felicia hadn’t blabbed? My cheeks felt hotter than hot. “Well, doesn’t that beat all? Hoisted by my own petard.”
“What the heck does that mean?”
“A petard is an old French bomb, set against a castle wall to—”
“I know what a petard is,” he snapped. “What did you do?”
“Why are you here?” I countered.
“You first. Why did you break into Felicia’s office?”
“I thought that Felicia . . .” I zipped my mouth shut. It didn’t matter what I thought, I’d been wrong. “I made a mistake. She’s forgiven me.”
“Charlotte, if you don’t stop prying into others’ affairs, I’m going to lock you up. Better yet, I’ll remove your grandmother from her cushy house arrest and put her in the slammer. That’d serve you right.”
“As long as you throw me in with her.”
“Don’t be a smart aleck.” Urso gazed at me with hard eyes as he swigged more of the water and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Why are you here?” I demanded, angry that I’d given him Pellegrino water when I could have given him tap water for all the good he was doing to free Grandmère.
“Because your grandmother has a battalion of women parading around her yard with rally posters this morning, and they’re chanting. I told you—”
“She has the right to have friends over.”
“She’s under house arrest. Don’t you understand—?”
I put my hand on his arm. “U-ey, that’s not important.” “Don’t call me U-ey.”
“You’ve got to talk to Luigi Bozzuto.”
He flipped my hand away. “I don’t have to do anything of the kind.”
“He knows something that’s pertinent to the case.”
“Charlotte—”
“Ed Woodhouse met with a divorce attorney.”
“A divorce . . .” He blew a stream of air out his nose and growled, reminding me of a frustrated bear who couldn’t reach a hive of honey. “Why didn’t Luigi come forward?”
“Because he didn’t remember until yesterday. He saw the guy at church and it came back to him in a flash.”
“And he told you?”
“He came straight from church to Felicia’s museum party. You were with your family.” I paced in front of him and explained my theory about Kristine needing the status of being Mrs. Ed Woodhouse and her dream of a political future. “That’s motive, right? If Kristine knew Ed was getting a divorce, she’d have done everything in her power to stop him. And get this, Gretel Hildegard, the pastor’s wife? She saw someone who looked like Kristine digging in the hills that night. After ten o’clock. Kristine claimed she was picking up Willamina. She lied. What if she was out there burying her bloody dress and gloves?”
“Man, oh, man, oh, man.” Urso slumped onto the bench and set the Pellegrino bottle between his thighs. He squinted up at me.
Rebecca poked her head out the rear entrance. “ Charlotte—”
“Not now.” I remained focused on Urso. “Seeing Kristine out there casts doubt, right?”
“What casts doubt?” Rebecca hurried over and drilled me with her gaze.
I repeated what I had told Urso.
“Yeah, that’s motive.” Rebecca snapped her fingers. “I saw on Law & Order where this wife—”
“Now, Miss Zook—”
“Don’t ‘Miss Zook’ me, Chief. You call me Rebecca like everybody else.”
“Rebecca, let’s not—”
“Let’s not what, theorize? Find out the truth? Prove Grandmère is innocent?” She plopped onto the bench next to Urso and rapped him on the arm with her knuckle. “It’s your job, I repeat, your job to keep hunting until you have all the clues. Did you get evidence from the crime scene? Did you scour the financial records of your major suspects? Are you going out to that hill and look for a bloody dress and gloves? Well, are you? On an episode of Law & Order, this wife refused the divorce, and—”
“I saw the show. I know what happens.” Urso leaned back and let out a deep, throaty laugh.
“Don’t laugh at me.” Rebecca popped up like a firecracker and faced Urso, hands on her narrow hips.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh, it’s just. . . .” He swallowed back a chortle. “I will check into Kristine Woodhouse’s financial records and Ed’s meeting with the attorney and Gretel’s sighting, and I will do my best to pin down exactly what happened and when. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” Rebecca gave a curt nod. “Oh, Charlotte, I almost forgot. I came out to find you. Matthew’s looking for you.”
Panic swept through me. “Why?”
“There’s been another altercation at school.”
Matthew and I raced into the school’s main office, a hectic place filled with children who had forgotten their lunches. A saintly receptionist advised us that Principal Yale was attending to the twins in the music room rather than her office. The principal doubled as the music teacher. Arts, thanks to special funds granted by the PTA, were an integral part of the Providence school system’s curriculum.
The sound of our footsteps echoed off the floors as we hurried down hall after colorfully decorated hall, veering toward the music room at the far end of the school.
A teacher standing by the door to the library said, “ Shhhhh.”
Inside, a group of students sat bent over their desks, each with a test in front of them, and I wondered if Amy had been caught cheating on an exam. The end of school was near.
We raced past another room and I heard, “Charlotte, Matt!”
I clutched Matthew’s arm and we backed up a pace. Meredith stood on a ladder, a cloud of dust billowing around her, a feather duster in her hand.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Penance for not telling you the truth about Matt and me.”
I cocked an eyebrow.
“Just kidding. I’m taking every lunch hour to clean out our storage room of historical books. Seeing Felicia’s wonderful museum set me to thinking that perhaps, with a little display of our own, we could get more folks to fund our special projects.” She tucked a strand of hair under the red kerchief she’d tied around her head. “Why are you here?”
“Amy got into trouble,” Matthew said.
“Oh, no. Why didn’t Principal Yale tell me? I’m coming.” She scrambled down the ladder, brushed dust off her clothes, and pecked Matthew on the cheek. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Walking
in rank, we pushed through a set of double doors and down the last hall. Sunlight slashed the big-paned windows on our left and made the area feel as warm and dry as a sauna. The sound of children playing scales, up and down, up and down, on more than one piano, and in varying octaves, came from inside the music room near the auditorium. I peeked through the windows in the door. The room was set up for a small orchestra, with metal chairs, music stands, and a conductor’s podium. Instruments were stowed neatly on shelves. A bass violin rested in a T-stand in the corner, with probably the same old apple box beside it that I’d had to stand on to play the “brown monster” when I was the twins’ age. Bass violins were a rare commodity in schools. Not only were they expensive, but they were hard to play. Always up for a challenge, I’d latched onto the “brown monster” with the passion of a virtuoso. I wondered who was playing it nowadays.
By the upright piano on the near wall of the room stood Principal Yale, a fortysomething woman and mother of five grown girls, who reminded me of Ina Garten, the Barefoot Contessa, full-figured with a beaming goodness. She was advising the twins, who were perched on the bench playing scales on the piano keys. At another piano near a window with a view of the schoolyard sat Willamina and Tyanne Taylor’s son. They, too, were playing scales.
I pushed open the door and strode inside with Matthew and Meredith at my heels.
Principal Yale spun around and offered a tight smile. “So good to see you.”
The children stopped playing and peered at us over their shoulders. Clair offered a weak smile. Amy made a goofy face. Matthew looked at me, helplessness in his gaze.
“Meredith, good of you to join us,” Principal Yale went on.
“I didn’t know—” Meredith sputtered.
“A playground fracas. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“I’m their teacher.”
“You were so intent with your project, and I have been paying close attention to this matter, but now that you’re here, perfect. Why don’t we convene out in the hall?” Yale extended a hand to guide the way. “Children, keep up the good work, in sync with the metronome, please. Scales build strong fingers. Do the C scale three more times and then move on to ‘Pomp and Circumstance.’ Clair, you’re the leader. We want to sound good at graduation, don’t we?”
The children said, “Yes, Principal Yale,” and began again, their little thumbs stretching beneath their palms to make the transition upward.
Yale pushed through the door and led us to the far end of the hall near the entrance to the auditorium, where she had set up a semicircle of metal chairs. “Take a seat, please. Meredith, grab an extra chair, please.” Meredith obeyed. “We’ll have privacy here, I assure you.”
“What did Amy do this time?” Matthew said.
“Actually, it was Clair.”
“Clair?” Matthew, Meredith, and I said in unison as we sank into our chairs.
Yale remained standing. “She got into a fight with Willamina Woodhouse.”
“Oh, no,” we intoned like a Greek chorus.
“What I gather from the other children is that Willamina started ranting about the vote scheduled for tomorrow.” Yale folded her hands in front of her. “She marched around the playground and called to her friends to join in. When they didn’t, she chanted louder, saying her mother was going to win. Your little Clair . . .”
“She’s always so good,” Matthew whispered.
“Even the good ones lash out. It seems that Clair rushed Willamina, her fingers primed like claws.”
“Did you see her do it, ma’am?” Meredith asked.
“No. The other children . . . they’re quite descriptive with their words, as you well know.” Yale tried to stifle a smile but failed. “Anyway, my understanding is that Clair rushed Willamina, grabbed her hair, and tugged her to the ground.”
The three of us gasped.
A choppy rendition of “Pomp and Circumstance” started up in the music room.
“They tussled. Amy tried to pull Clair off, but Clair in sisted that her grandmother was going to win the election. Willamina, bless her disagreeable soul, continued to oppose.” Yale checked her watch and looked down the empty hallway. “Politics can bring out the worst in people, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” we all agreed.
Yale lowered her voice. “Willamina is a handful, I’ll admit.”
“She’s going through such a sorrowful time right now,” Meredith said.
“I’m afraid she knows how to push your twins’ buttons.” Yale gazed at Matthew and me. “I’m hopeful that this will all blow over after tomorrow’s results, aren’t you?”
“I’m not so sure,” Matthew said.
I wasn’t so certain, either. Who knew what Willamina might do if Grandmère were to be elected?
“You know the Taylor child?” Yale went on.
I did. Tyanne often brought her son, Thomas—a shy, gangly boy—into the shop. She encouraged his curious nature. Like Amy, he loved to sniff and touch.
“He tried to break up the fight, as well. I was surprised. He’s not, you know, very spirited in that regard. He’s a bit of a computer nerd, frankly.”
Meredith said, “I think he has a little crush on Amy.”
“Yes, probably so.” Yale glanced at her watch again and huffed. “Anyway, I’ve asked Kristine and Tyanne to join us.”
As if on cue, Kristine barged through the double doors at the end of the hall and stomped toward us, her high heels clickety-clacking as she drew nearer. A few feet from us, she planted her hands on her hips, bonier looking because of the skintight ecru sheath she wore, and screamed, “What in heaven’s name—?”
“Please, keep your voice low, Mrs. Woodhouse,” Principal Yale ordered. “The children are in the music room. I do not want them to hear us conversing.”
“Why did you call me—”
“Willamina was in yet another altercation.”
Kristine glowered at me and back at Yale. “She didn’t start it.”
“As a matter of fact, she did. I believe she takes her cues from you,” Yale said. “Sit, please.”
“Why, I never!”
“Sit!”
Kristine plunked into the chair beside Meredith, and I bit back a smile, impressed by the turn of events. In a matter of seconds, our genteel principal had turned into a lioness defending her pride.
“Listen, carefully,” Yale said, a muscle ticking in her jaw. “I will not have this school turned into a vetting ground for your political aspirations. Do you hear me?”
Kristine nodded.
“Your child is undergoing severe emotional issues. Even her good friends are shying away from her.”
The double doors squeaked open again. Tyanne pushed through, her chin quivering, her hands clutching the strap of her oversized yellow purse. She slinked toward us like a dog who knew she was about to be punished. “What’s happened, ma’am?”
“Please, sit, Mrs. Taylor,” Yale said in a much kinder tone.
“Yes, ma’am.” Tyanne perched on the remaining chair, the one beside Kristine. She straightened her honey-colored linen skirt primly beneath her bottom, fiddled with the flaps of the matching jacket, and set her purse on the floor with a clunk. Then she scooched her chair inches away from Kristine. The feet of the chair squealed in protest.
Kristine went rigid, probably realizing that her friends, like her daughter’s, were separating themselves from her, as well.
The principal began her account.
When she finished, Tyanne fetched a tissue from her purse and blotted the tears that had pooled in the corner of her eyes. “What do y’all need us to do?”
“I’m not doing a darned thing,” Kristine said.
“Kristine, let me—”
“Not a word!” Kristine thrust a finger at Tyanne as she bounded from her chair. “It was not my child’s fault. It was that . . . that . . . willful twin.”
“Her name is Clair.” Matthew leaped to his feet, too, his face red. I co
uld see his hands, which were jammed into his pockets, balling up and releasing beneath the fabric.
“Hush, both of you!” Principal Yale said.
“She’s incorrigible. They both are,” Kristine yelled, heedless of the principal’s warning. “They’re wild children.”
“That’s it.” Unable to rein in my own anger any longer, I jumped to my feet and glowered at Kristine. “Your daughter is the one running all over town unsupervised.”
“She is doing no such thing!”
“Please, all of you, lower your voice,” Principal Yale said. “You do not want the children hearing—”
“I’ve seen her on more than one occasion in the diner, by herself,” I hissed. “When our girls aren’t at school, they are with my grandmother and grandfather or with a sitter.”
“Ha!” Kristine shrieked. “I rest my case.” She jutted her index finger in the air. “Your grandmother cannot be trusted. She’s a murderer.”
“Take it back,” I ordered.
“Now!” Matthew hissed.
A look of triumph crossed Kristine’s face. She leaned toward Matthew, probably hedging her bet that he wouldn’t hit her in front of so many women. “You tell your twins to cease and desist, or I’ll . . .” She swung around and brandished her finger like a sword. “I’ll . . . I’ll—”
“—what? Kill me, too?” he snapped.
CHAPTER 24
Matthew and I, exasperated with the way we had behaved at school, returned to work bristling with manic energy. Luckily, customers were swarming The Cheese Shop and the wine annex and provided neither of us with the time to think about how we could have handled the meeting with Kristine better. I downed a Hershey’s Kiss to take the edge off and offered one to Matthew. He declined. I pocketed another for later, just in case.
Throughout the morning, Rebecca grilled me like a masterful DA, but I didn’t divulge anything about our encounter. Not one word. Grandmère would have been so proud of me.