The Long Quiche Goodbye (7 page)

CHAPTER 7

Who could imagine that a tale of murder would make for gawkers and curious shoppers? For days, the uptick in business had me, Matthew, and Rebecca hopping. Townsfolk who had never shown an interest in purchasing cheese before became frequent customers. More tourists arrived, from Cleveland, Columbus, Millersburg, and Akron. Reporters from as far away as Pennsylvania continued to arrive, hungry for a lurid story. Whoever couldn’t find a room at a local inn or bed-and-breakfast camped at the nearby Nature Reserve beside Kindred Creek. Luckily for them, the weather was cooperating. No rain was in the forecast for a few days.

For three mornings in a row, Matthew, Rebecca, and I had arrived early. Matthew would order vast quantities of wine. I would get the fresh-baked treats into the oven. Rebecca would pop together new gift baskets of wine and cheese—all extravagant looking, tweaked with silk flowers and lots of ribbon, a knack fast becoming her specialty. Afterward, the three of us powwowed to discuss what our collective response to reporters and visitors would be.
No comment
hadn’t worked. Not once. We all agreed that putting the right spin on whatever came out of our mouths could affect Grandmère’s case.

Dear, sweet Grandmère. I had visited her every day. No longer was she sipping gin fizzes, but she still wasn’t herself. I tried to devise a plan to help her, but other than proving her innocent, I couldn’t come up with one. My heart felt raw.

“Charlotte, how about this cheese?” Vivian had shown up on this particular morning, not to gossip like the others, but to make food selections for the antique auction she was going to hold at Europa Antiques and Collectibles the next afternoon. She wanted Fromagerie Bessette to cater the event, which would be modest in size. I suggested she ask Luigi Bozzuto, Bozz’s uncle, the owner of the four-star La Bella Ristorante, to manage it, but Vivian wouldn’t hear of it. Apparently she had gone to high school with Luigi and didn’t care for him. A boor, she called him. I didn’t agree. I had taken a number of cooking classes with him and found him to be a clever, witty, and talented chef, much more so than my ex-fiancée who, after two years of planning our wedding, had left me in the wee hours of the morning to pursue his dream of being a chef in Paris. His sudden departure had left me hesitant about opening my heart to anyone ever again. Last I heard, he was still working at a two-bit creperie and living in a hovel. Creep Chef, Meredith had dubbed him. Speaking of which, why hadn’t she returned my phone calls? I had rung her numerous times since the murder. Instead of talking every other day like we usually did, we’d chatted only once. She had consoled me about my grandmother but ended the call quickly. I tried to cut her some slack. She was a tender soul. She had to be devastated after having seen Ed’s dead body up close.

“Charlotte.” Vivian navigated her way through the display tables. “You’ve told me I should always serve not one cheese, but a selection of cheeses.” I followed in her wake, adjusting the gathered sleeves of my peasant blouse as I went. She pointed to a box of crackers and a round of Petit Basque cheese. “Good choice?”

“Absolutely.” Petit Basque, a sheep’s milk cheese, was highly popular with my customers. The interior paste had a fabulous taffylike feel and a mild caramel aroma.

“How is Bernadette holding up?”

Without going into the intimate details, I brought Vivian up to date. At the same time, I made notations on a pad of paper as she chose other items for her soirée
.
I would stock her order later in the day.

“And the case? How is it going? Do you like the attorney?”

“He said the wheels of bureaucracy turn slowly. Other than that, he’s pretty tight-lipped.”

Vivian clucked her tongue. “Your little assistant certainly isn’t.”

Standing amidst a handful of reporters by the cheese counter, Rebecca looked more poised than when she had arrived on our doorstep. For today’s crowd, she had dressed professionally in a crisp white blouse and camel-colored A-line skirt, her hair pulled back in a clip, her daring red nail polish replaced with a refined soft pink to match her dusty pink lipstick. I feared she might be having visions of becoming an on-camera news reporter in the future.

The grape-leaf-shaped chimes jingled. Jordan sauntered into the shop, looking as handsome as ever, and casual, the top of his work shirt unbuttoned, one hand jammed into the front pocket of his jeans. I gave what I considered an understated wave of my fingertips. Far be it for me to let the man know I was still hoping he’d ask me on a date. I hadn’t felt like this about anyone since Creep Chef left.

“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.”