The Long Quiche Goodbye (16 page)

“Earth to Charlotte!” Freckles elbowed me. “Where’d you drift off to now?”

“Huh?”

“We have returned to the discussion of Kristine.”

“Kristine isn’t up to anything,” Delilah said in answer to a question I must have missed. She leaned closer and whispered, “She was crying at the diner earlier.”

“Kristine, crying?” I couldn’t imagine.

“I smelled a little liquor on her breath,” Delilah confided.

“She doesn’t handle liquor well,” Freckles added. “Remember the night Ed died? Hoo-boy.”

Did I ever! Kristine had waltzed past me, the smell of alcohol strong enough to knock over the stoutest bartender. Had she had so much to drink that she couldn’t remember what she had done? Was that how she could convince Urso, without a hint of a lie, that she hadn’t killed her husband? No, I couldn’t believe anyone could erase such a horrid memory.

“There’s definitely a crack in her veneer.” Freckles popped a piece of bread into her mouth. Matthew had set baskets of torn bread around the room, to help cleanse the palate between tastings.

“From what I gather,” Delilah went on, “Kristine is feeling the pressure of keeping up appearances.”

“That’s not what the gossip is. I heard”—Freckles snickered—“she had a fight with Felicia at the diner. Didn’t you see Felicia storm out?”

“Wait a sec,” I cut in. “Felicia was in the diner? Grandmère said she wouldn’t set foot in it because—”

“—of Pops?” Delilah shrugged. “They’re back on speaking terms.”

“What was the argument about?” I asked.

“One owing the other money,” Freckles said.

“Felicia owing Kristine, or the other way around?”

“Kristine owing Felicia, and Kristine telling her she wouldn’t pay her a dime.”

“‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be.’” Vivian squeezed into the group, a glass of red wine in her hand.

“‘For loan oft loses both itself and friend,’” Delilah added. “Shakespeare,
Hamlet
.”

“I see Felicia’s running solo tonight,” Vivian said. “Kristine must be burning more bridges.”

Freckles giggled.

“By the way, Charlotte.” Vivian raised her glass. “This cabernet is fabulous. Beautiful, dense, with the sweet aromas of black cherries and a subtle hint of roasted herbs.”

“You sound like you’ve been memorizing Matthew’s cards,” Freckles said.

“I have.” Vivian blushed. “Only the one glass, that’s my limit. What cheese would you pair with this, Charlotte?”

“Brie. It’s the king of cheeses,” I said out of habit, though my mind was still stuck on the phrase from
Hamlet
and Felicia and Kristine’s altercation. Had Felicia demanded Kristine give her the money that Ed had promised to donate to the museum? Why argue at the diner? That kind of conversation seemed much better suited to a meeting at one’s home. Unless, of course, Felicia was worried that Kristine was a killer and wouldn’t risk a one-on-one meeting. On the other hand, Felicia was also clever enough to raise a ruckus to divert suspicion from herself. Maybe she wanted the town to believe Kristine was unstable.

I eyed Felicia, who seemed content as a solo act. Was she the real killer, setting up her old friend to take the fall?

CHAPTER 17

“Breakfast in five,” I yelled up the stairs and returned to the kitchen where I had one omelet pan heating for scrambled eggs and another for Parmigiano Zircles, a tasty crispy treat.

Morning had come with a bang. Literally. Thunderclaps at seven A.M., followed by Rags pouncing on my stomach, and a phone call from Meredith asking the girls on an outing. Meredith had decided last night during the wine tasting that private time with the twins would be a perfect opportunity for her to break the news about her blossoming relationship with their father. The storm would pass by nine, she said. When the girls heard about the excursion, they couldn’t get dressed fast enough. The patter of feet overhead as the girls ran from their closet to the bathroom and back to their closet made me smile. I whipped eggs into a yellow froth and prayed that Meredith and Matthew would last as a couple. I wasn’t sure either girl, not even plucky little Amy, could handle another woman walking out on them.

Rags weaved between my ankles and mewed.

I said, “Yes, breakfast for you, too. I haven’t forgotten.” He loved a dollop of scrambled egg on his tuna.

Matthew traipsed in, tucking his shirt into his trousers, a huge grin on his face. “So far so good.”

“You haven’t told the girls the full story yet.”

“And I won’t have to.” He poked my back. “Meredith said she’d do it all.”

I clucked like a chicken.

“Got that right.” He retrieved a loaf of bread from the refrigerator, sour cherry jam, and a wedge of Haute-Savoie cheese, and he set them on the counter. “You look good.”

“Flattery won’t get you a cup of coffee. You’ve got to pour it yourself.”

He grinned. “New dress?”

“It’s the same one I wore last week.” A simple sheath with vertical green and white stripes. Very slimming. I added a pat of butter to the omelet pan and poured in the eggs. The mixture sizzled instantly. I stirred with a spatula, turned down the heat, and concentrated on the Zircles, spoonfuls of shredded Parmesan cheese dropped onto melted butter to crisp up like a pancake. A great substitute for bread any time of the day.

Matthew popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. “Hey, heard anything from that lawyer for Grandmère?”

I had, and I hated the news. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you last night, since you went straight to bed. Mr. Lincoln left a message on the answering machine. He said Urso has agreed to let Grandmère continue staying in her house.”

“That’s great.”

“But”—this was the part I hated—“he said he isn’t hopeful about keeping her out of jail.”

“Why not?”

“Urso hasn’t come up with anything on Kristine Woodhouse that would suggest she killed Ed. No bloody gloves, no bloody dress, no evidence whatsoever.”

Matthew groaned. “And he doesn’t have any other suspects, other than Meredith, who is now in the clear—”

“Don’t start.” I wielded the spatula like a sword.

Matthew held up his hands and backed away. “What about that trust fund thing? Didn’t Kristine dip into Willamina’s money?”

“How did you hear—?”

“Talk is rampant right now, with the election just around the corner.”

Less than a week away. Pépère had confided that Grandmère had cried herself to sleep with worry the past two nights. She was certain she would lose.

“You can kiss that gossip goodbye. Mr. Lincoln said Kristine has plenty of funds.” I dished eggs onto plates and added slices of fresh oranges. “There was some snag with her own trust fund, but that’s been resolved. She doesn’t need Ed’s or Willamina’s money.”

Matthew snapped up the toast as it burst from the toaster. “Hot, hot.” He juggled the pieces onto a breakfast plate and made himself a sandwich with the jam and cheese as he continued his theorizing. “Double indemnity means a lot of cash. I don’t care how much you’ve got in a trust fund. It’s motive, with a capital
M
.”

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—”

“Is no doll.” Lois stiffened. Her eyes narrowed with something just short of hostility. “What about her?”

“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.”