The Long Quiche Goodbye (19 page)

Followed by, “You!”

I whirled around.

Kristine stormed toward me, a rally flag in her hand, a
Vote for Me
banner slung across her chest. “The hostess said you were here. I searched the kitchen, but no-o-o-o. You . . . you . . .” She shook a finger at me. “Outside. Now!” With her rally flag she prodded me into the sunlight.

Neither Luigi nor Jordan found the wherewithal to confront her.

I did. My dry mouth vanished as I batted the rally flag from her hands and dug in my heels. “Cut it out.”

A herd of women, similarly dressed in rally clothes, gathered around us. Among them stood Prudence, as tight-lipped as a clam, and Tyanne, looking totally abashed. Reluctantly she picked up the fallen flag and handed it to Kristine, who tucked it under her arm like a riding crop and screamed, “You must stop her!”

“What did my grandmother do this time?”

“Not your grandmother. Felicia!” Kristine jutted her chin forward. “She’s digging.”

“Digging what?”

Into your past? Into your finances? Into your flimsy alibi?

“The ground,” Kristine snapped.

“So?”

“Who knows what she could be burying!”

“Her garden party is tomorrow. She’s probably planting. She takes pride in her garden.”

“I don’t believe it for a second.” Kristine nearly vibrated with anger.

“Look, Kristine, I don’t know what the beef is between you two—”

“Kristine, sugar, let’s go.” Tyanne tapped Kristine on the shoulder.

Kristine glowered at her and back at me. “Felicia could have bodies buried around that place she calls a museum.”

“Bodies?” I snorted. “Oh, please.”

“You tell Chief Urso to stop churning up my life and nose into hers, do you hear me?” With that, she beckoned her pals, and they marched south like a well-trained unit, all except Tyanne, who hung back for a moment, looking as if she wanted to say something. A moment passed, the two of us staring like old friends who wanted to make amends, but then she faltered and hurried off to join the others.

My breathing was staccato. My skin prickled with pent-up energy. What was Kristine’s game? She had to be pretty desperate to cause a ruckus like she just did. I tried not to give her attack another thought, but I couldn’t. She had upset me. I glanced at the front of La Bella Ristorante and decided now was not the time to return inside to ask Jordan about our upcoming picnic.

However, once I returned to the shop, I called Octavia Tibble. I left a message on her voice mail and asked her to find out more about Jacky Peterson. Call me crazy, but I was still curious about her. Where had she come from? Why was she settling in Providence? Next, I called Vivian, and like I had with Octavia, reached her voice mail. I left her a message to call me. If she had glanced at her watch, as Luigi claimed, perhaps she could corroborate my grandmother’s clock tower alibi.

By midafternoon the crowd in the shop had thinned, and I realized I was exhausted. My voice was worn out from talking to customers about the origin of the cheeses and the ingredients for the special quiche of the day—white Cheddar with turkey and cranberry sauce.

I glanced at Rebecca, who was withdrawn and subdued, and felt a tug on my heartstrings. Often, she eyed her grandmother’s lace shawl, which she had hung on one of the hooks at the rear of the shop, but I kept mum. When she wanted to talk about her loss, she knew she had my ear. Matthew was chatting up one of the local vintners in the wine annex.

“Taking five,” I said.

Before I could remove my apron, the front door shot open and the twins ran into the shop.

Amy charged to the counter. “Aunt Charlotte, we had the most wonderful day.”

“We threw rocks,” Clair said, her enthusiasm matching Amy’s.

“Big huge rocks into the river.”

“And we skipped them.” Clair mimed the action.

“We did lots of skipping. And laughing. And we sang songs.”

They broke into a round of “Frère Jacques,” conducting each other with their index fingers
.

Meredith trotted in a minute later, her skin and eyes glowing with energy.

Amy stopped singing and scooted around the counter. “And guess what else? We know a secret about Daddy and Miss Vance.”

I peeked into the annex. Matthew was still chatting with the vintner.

I said, “Um, what is it?”

Clair joined our little powwow. “Daddy and Miss Vance are going to go on a date.”

I smiled at Meredith, who gave me a thumbs-up. She had handled the announcement perfectly. Matthew would be thrilled. One date would lead to another, and slowly the girls would adjust.

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “Now, who wants dessert?”

Each waved a hand in the air.

“Taking fifteen,” I said to Rebecca, who was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “Are you okay to—?”

“Busy hands are a good thing. Go!”

Meredith, the twins, and I settled into the first booth inside the Country Kitchen, with Clair beside me and Amy beside Meredith. Delilah, Pops, and a pair of waitresses were roving between the booths and tables singing along with Van Morrison in a loud rendition of “Brown-Eyed Girl
.
”

“Ew, look,” Amy said under her breath. “Willamina is over there.” She pointed and Clair twisted in her seat to take a gander.

“Amy, put your hand down,” I said. “It’s not nice to point.”

“Why are they always giggling?” Clair asked.

Willamina, holding court like her mother, was surrounded by the wealthiest girls in town. Some, I knew for a fact, went to the beauty salon for highlights and to get their nails done. At eight-years-old. What mother in her right mind encouraged her daughter to be that vain? Willamina looked up, saw Amy, and made a sour face. Amy stuck her tongue out. So did Clair.

“Girls, stop it. I mean it. No more,” I snapped. “Go wash your hands.”

They obeyed, passing by Willamina’s table and sharing another tongue-sticking-out moment before disappearing into the restroom. So much for following orders.

Delilah and the other waitstaff wrapped up the song, customers applauded. Seconds later, Delilah slid into the booth beside me. “Hey, ladies.”

“Sounding good,” I said.

“Man, there are days when I miss Broadway. Or at least trying to be on Broadway.” She gazed at the ceiling with a wistful look.

“Maybe you should take Grandmère up on teaching more of her dance classes.”

“We’ll see.” She thumped the table like a drum. “So, what’s going on? I heard Kristine accosted you.”

Meredith’s eyes widened.

I quickly explained the encounter outside La Bella. “Kristine’s something else. She saw Felicia digging in her yard, and she intimated that Felicia could be burying bodies there.”

“It wouldn’t be that far-fetched,” Delilah said. “There were rumors that she did away with her husband.”

“What?” Meredith nearly shrieked.

“He returned from Europe in an urn. Pops said people talked for days.”

I had been off at college when Felicia became a widow. I knew nothing about the incident. In all my brief conversations with Lois, she hadn’t mentioned anything suspicious in Felicia’s past. Until today. “Lois hinted that, at one time, Felicia had wanted to invest with Ed.”

“When did you talk to Lois?”

“This morning.”

Delilah poked me. “Look at you. Providence’s very own Nancy Drew.”

I moved the silverware on the table out of my way and leaned forward on my elbows. “Felicia wanted to invest, except she came into some difficult financial times.”

“How would Lois know?” Delilah said.

“Felicia put off traveling with Lois, and when Ed didn’t invest in the museum—”

“Shhhh.” Meredith hitched her head at the girls, who were skipping toward us between tables.

Amy and Clair stopped for a moment at Willamina’s table and exchanged a few words. No sticking out of tongues, which was a good sign, but when they returned to the table, Clair looked miffed.

Delilah scooted from her spot to let the twins slip back in. “Sorry, girls. Who wants a slice of caramel cheesecake?”

“I do,” Amy said.

“How ’bout you, Clair?” Delilah asked.

Clair didn’t answer. She was staring at Willamina, her forehead creased, her eyes hot with fury.

I laid my hand on hers. “What’s the matter, Clair?”

“Willie said Grandmère’s going to get killed.”

CHAPTER 20

I glanced at the big-handed clock over the diner’s counter and groaned inwardly. There simply weren’t enough hours in the day to take care of a shop, guide my nieces, and chastise another woman’s child. I patted Clair’s hand. “That’s just an expression, sweetheart. It’s not nice, but Willamina means her mother will win the election in a landslide.”

“A landslide?” Clair’s face turned pale.

“Not a real landslide. Not dirt. She thinks her mother will win all the votes.”

“Well, she won’t. Grandmère will win.”

“I agree.”

While we finished our sodas, I glowered at Willamina and at the same time felt sorry for her during this challenging time in her life, robbed of her father and abandoned by her campaigning mother. At the very least, Kristine should hire a nanny for the girl. I didn’t think she should be left alone to roam Providence.

Feeling overly protective, I returned to The Cheese Shop and invited Rebecca for dinner. She didn’t speak during the meal except to say how much she liked the risotto and to comment occasionally on Amy and Clair’s account of their day at the river with Meredith. Rebecca, it turned out, was a master rock-skipper, which only encouraged the girls to expand upon their stories.

As Rebecca was leaving, I gave her a hug and said, “Take the day off tomorrow. Allow yourself to grieve.” I felt her tears splash my shoulders before she scurried away.

The next morning, to my surprise, Rebecca arrived at Fromagerie Bessette at the same time I did, both of us in summery pink dresses, the frilly hem of mine touching my kneecaps, the tight stretchy hem of hers clinging to her slim thighs.

“We match,” Rebecca said.

“Hardly,” I said, stupidly wishing for the days when I was twenty-two, footloose and fancy-free, and had thighs of steel. I silently rebuked myself. Long ago, I had learned not to look back. The past was gone and could not be replayed. So why did I have regrets today? If only I could turn back the clocks to a week ago, before Ed was murdered, when Grandmère was undoubtedly innocent. I sighed and eyed my sweet associate. “Why are you here?”

“Busy hands.”

“But I told you Pépère offered to help Matthew in the shop. The twins are spending the day with Grandmère making a scrapbook project of all the theater projects she’s done.”

“A scrapbook. That sounds fun.”

“She said if she loses the election, she will become a squeaky wheel at city council meetings, if only to ensure that the theater program receives all the funding it needs.”

Rebecca swept her hair over her shoulders and looked at me with earnest eyes. “Please, may I stay?”

Who was I to say no? Church bells pealed as I pushed open the door. In less than an hour, we created the platters for Felicia’s garden party. Pépère arrived at ten A.M. with a worrisome look on his face and a cup of coffee from the Country Kitchen in hand.

“You look perplexed.” I ran a finger along the scowl lines etching his forehead.

“Your grandmother was singing this morning, full voice. She has this plan—” He tapped his temple. “She’s going to have a campaign rally in the front yard.”

I gulped. Urso would not be pleased. But once Grandmère got an idea in her head, it would be impossible to dissuade her.

“The election,” Pépère went on. “It is in two days, you remember. You saw Kristine’s posters as you came to work?”

How could I have missed them? Kristine and her legions had posted hundreds of posters overnight. Three feet by four feet with bold red lettering.

“Don’t worry. The townsfolk will do the right thing. Promise.” I patted his arm. “Now, Mr. Strong Man, fetch me a wheel of Morbier.”

On his way, he sneaked a piece of Double Cream Gouda from one of the platters for Felicia’s party and plopped it into his mouth. I smiled. At least he was upbeat enough to practice his old tricks and believe he was getting away with them.

Two hours later, even though I had made a point of telling Felicia that I, myself, would not be delivering the platters, I pulled the delivery van in front of the beautiful chocolate brown and white Victorian house that served as the Providence Historical Museum. For Rebecca, work was something she could handle in her fragile state, but attending a party was not. I’d hired Bozz to help me. Our arms loaded with trays of cheese and accoutrements, Bozz and I tramped up the cobblestone path leading to the entrance. The dozens of tea roses were starting to bloom. The smell of sweet mown grass and the perfume of lilac stirred something inside me as I climbed the steps to the front porch. Hope, maybe? Felicia’s list of guests was extensive and included our attorney, Mr. Lincoln. Perhaps I could get a moment alone with him to discuss Grandmère’s case. I’d make a point of mentioning Luigi’s sighting of her heading toward the clock tower.

Felicia must have been peering through the break in the gold brocade drapes, because she whipped open the door before I could press the doorbell. Dressed in an antique green crinoline dress and high-buttoned shoes, her curly hair swept up in a loose chignon, she looked like a lady right out of the eighteen hundreds. “Come in.” She eyed the trays we were carrying. “Ooooh, aren’t those pretty?”

“We have another six to bring in,” I said. “And the wine, of course.”

“Lovely. This way. Follow me.” She trotted along the hall, her heels clicking the hardwood floor with precision. “Perfect day for a garden party, isn’t it? Not a cloud in the sky. Seventy-two degrees.” She glided past four marble statues of frontiersmen and disappeared into the kitchen at the back of the house.

As I followed, I peered into the rooms on either side of the hall with new appreciation. I had visited the museum a number of times, but I never failed to see something unique. Felicia did a nice job of moving the exhibits around with regularity. The wood-paneled study was filled with books and historical photographs. The living room was furnished with a mixed set of antique chairs and settees, its walls finished with dainty floral wallpaper. Glass cases held tomahawks and pottery and china. Much of the china had belonged to Kristine Woodhouse’s great-grandparents. I wondered whether, in the wake of her argument with Felicia, she would demand they be returned.

Bozz and I staged the food and wine in the celadon-tiled kitchen, then set out a few platters in the rear garden. Felicia had strategically placed verdigris metal tables and chairs around the yard in shaded spots beneath magnificent oak trees. A string quartet tuned their instruments at the far end of the yard.

Within an hour, guests started to arrive. Couples at first: Mr. Nakamura and his wife, Freckles and her husband. Felicia greeted them warmly and discreetly tucked their donations into a glitzy handbag. A frizzy-haired female photographer for the
Providence Post
, who had arrived minutes before the guests, roamed the grounds snapping photographs.

I made my way to Mr. Nakamura and his wife. “Sir, a word, if you don’t mind.” I told him about Luigi seeing him entering his shop the night of Ed’s murder. “Do you remember what time it was? Luigi thought you glanced at your watch.”

“Nine fifty, remember, dear?” his wife said. “You said, ‘Oh, my, it’s ten to ten. I thought it was later than that.’” She eyed me. “Except his watch does run fast sometimes.”

“Do you remember seeing my grandmother?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t,” his wife said.

“We were focused on one thing and one thing only: inventory,” Mr. Nakamura said. “You understand.”

Mrs. Nakamura glanced at her husband and gave him a curious look. “Perhaps Vivian saw her.”

I caught sight of Vivian over Mrs. Nakamura’s shoulder, offered my thanks, and headed toward my friend. She looked as brilliant as a spinnaker, in a white dress with bold blue stripes that showed off her shapely frame. Luigi Bozzuto, strikingly good looking in a tan linen suit, appeared right behind her. He batted Vivian gently on the arm. She turned and, to my surprise, smiled at him. Was she open to love after all? What could she not have liked about him back in high school? I chose not to intrude on the moment.

Octavia swept in behind them, her linen jacket flapping open, her beaded cornrows bouncing on her shoulders. She scoured the crowd and her gaze landed on me. She gave a curt point of her finger for me not to move, slapped a check into Felicia’s outstretched palm, then bulldozed through the crowd to me. Grabbing my elbow, she steered me to an arbor of wisteria far from the crowd.

“Jacky Peterson doesn’t exist.”

“She’s got to. She’s Jordan’s sister.”

“I’m telling you she’s buried her identity.”

“Buried?”

“Maybe she’s running from an abusive husband.”

“Oh, my.”

“Hush.” Octavia wiggled her hand for me to be quiet. She eyed someone over my shoulder.

Jordan and Jacky were approaching our huddle. Each carried a glass of wine. I had to admit that Jacky didn’t appear abused in the least. Not a scratch on her pretty face. She looked radiant in a warm yellow suit. Jordan was dashing in a rumpled linen shirt, jeans, and loafers, like something out of an Errol Flynn movie. He smelled good, too, like fresh mown hay. My heart did a little tap dance.

I think Jordan could tell, because his mouth quirked up in a half-grin. He said, “Seeing as we were interrupted at the restaurant yesterday, let’s start this over. Jacky Peterson, please meet Charlotte Bessette, cheese shop owner extraordinaire.”

I said to Jacky, “You must think I’m so rude.”

She chuckled. “If I recall, you were being prodded by a woman with a flag. How do you do?”

As we shook hands, Octavia cleared her throat.

“Oh, sorry. Octavia Tibble,” I said, “this is Jacky Peterson. I think you know Jordan Pace.”

“Peterson. Is that your husband’s name?” Octavia said, with all the subtlety of a bull charging a red cape.

“I’m divorced.”

Octavia ogled me with a knowing glance.

Jacky smiled, unruffled. “Charlotte, please tell me the history of this place,” she said. “It’s so lovely.”

While I filled her in about Felicia’s passion for documenting Providence’s history, I thought about ex-husbands and divorces and found myself wondering about Felicia’s personal history. I didn’t for a second believe what Kristine had said about Felicia burying bodies in her yard, but rumors did circulate about Felicia’s husband passing away while they were in Europe. Had she killed him? Would she have gone that far to finance her museum? After running through her funds, as Prudence and even Lois had suggested, Felicia could have seduced Ed Woodhouse to entice him to invest. Had she killed Ed when he opted not to keep her dream alive? I thought of the fight Felicia and Kristine had had at the diner. Perhaps Felicia had instigated it to cast suspicion on Kristine and to keep Urso from suspecting her of murder.

A blood-curdling scream cut through the air.

“Leave!” Felicia yelled.

Looking as livid as I’d ever seen her, Felicia charged toward Kristine, who swept onto the rear porch with the ferocity of a tornado. She was flanked by Prudence and Tyanne. Each wore elaborate outfits—tea-length, animal print sheaths, three-inch heels with matching clutch purses, and lacy black hats and gloves. If the frizzy-haired photographer snapped a picture and sold it to
Vogue
, she could label it
Sex in the City, the feral side
.

“What are you doing here?” Felicia demanded.

“I have an invitation.” Kristine brandished an embossed card.

“I thought you, of all people, knew better than to come.” Felicia’s high-pitched tone revealed her dismay.

“You need money. I’ve got it,” Kristine boasted. “Want to beg? I hear you’re good on your knees.”

I nearly choked. Had Kristine no shame?

Felicia, as pale as crème fraiche, raised her chin, collected the folds of her skirt, and dashed into the museum.

Nobody ran after her. Not Prudence. Not Tyanne.

Though Felicia was not my friend, I didn’t think she should suffer such a humiliating experience alone. I excused myself from Jordan, Jacky, and Octavia, and chased after her.

“Felicia,” I called as I hurried through the kitchen, but she didn’t answer. “Felicia!” I glimpsed her fleeing down the hall. I caught up with her in the foyer and gripped her by the arm.