The Long Quiche Goodbye (18 page)

“Who?”

“A reporter from Cleveland.”

“The man I saw you with at the pub? He was wearing a jaunty hat and a shabby-chic suit.”

“That’s the one. Quigley. He was here visiting his mother. Sweet, huh? Twelve years younger than me but so much fun. Sex with a randy man makes a gal feel alive, you know?”

No, I didn’t know, but wished I did.

“Like I said, Ed didn’t care. Not that way.”

I didn’t get the sense that Swoozie was lying. Her eyes were clear. She didn’t look away. Urso could probably corroborate the alibi.

“Am I free to go now, Officer Bessette?” she quipped.

“I’m sorry—”

“Nah, I don’t blame you. You’ve got a lot at stake.” She clapped me on the shoulder like we were old friends discussing the weather. “Don’t worry. I won’t boycott the shop. Best tasting cheese for hundreds of miles. Love what you’ve done with the place, by the way. The gold tones, the wood. I’d like my kitchen to look like this someday. If I ever have a kitchen.” She sniffed. “If Kristine Woodhouse has her way, I’ll be heading for the poorhouse sooner rather than later.”

Swoozie started to head off, but I called out, “One more question. Are you a partner in this building?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Nah. Nothing here in town. It’s all in Cleveland or Columbus.” She wiggled her fingers as a goodbye and strode across the shop to rejoin her group, full hips swinging, her gait confident.

I skulked back to the cheese counter, mumbling to myself, furious that, yet again, I had jumped to a wrong conclusion. But what was I to do? Urso was going to take my grandmother to jail if I didn’t find out who killed Ed. Before I could flail myself with my typical string of rebukes, the door flew open.

Bozz darted in, his face tight with panic. “Hey, Miss B! There’s a weird looking man outside asking for Rebecca.”

CHAPTER 19

Like a mother bird, I flew outside to protect my chick. Bozz followed at my heels. I skidded to a stop when I saw a bearded older gentleman waiting beside his horse and cart at the curb. My racing heart settled down to a moderate thumpathump, and I glanced back at Bozz.

“Weird looking?” I said. “Bozz, he’s Amish.”

“Yeah, I know, but that hair and that straw hat. It’s like, bizarre-o, don’t you think?”

“You look weird to him,” I hissed. “Did that ever occur to you?”

“Uh, no,” he stammered. “But I’m normal.”

“Young man.” I poked him with my forefinger. “Do not let me hear you talk like that again. He is normal in his world. His world is simply not like ours. Got me?”

Bozz nodded.

“Now, go fetch Rebecca. Tell her that her father is outside.”

“That’s her dad?”

I gave one of my most commanding gazes and, without another word, he turned tail and sprinted inside.

A crowd of lookie-loos had gathered, as always happened when an Amish person came to town. In their horse-drawn carts and common garb, the Amish folk were a novelty to the rest of civilization that seemed to be progressing at a furious pace.

“Mr. Zook.” I strode to Rebecca’s father. I had only met him once. He wasn’t one of the regulars from the Swartzentruber Order who came to town to sell furniture and goods to the shops.

He did not proffer a hand. He did not smile. “Rebecca, she is here?” His liquid blue eyes looked stressed, his thin mouth as taut as piano wire.

Something was clearly wrong. My heart started to race again. Had something happened to her mother? I didn’t expect him to fill me in. Rebecca told me how private he was, how he shunned typical society. Coming into town to locate her must have taken all of his reserve.

Rebecca appeared at the doorway, her apron off, her hands fiddling with the straps of the sweet peasant blouse that she wore over capri slacks. She secured her long hair in a clip, then approached her father and lifted her chin. He kissed her forehead but made no other physical contact.

“Why have you come?” she asked. “If it’s to ask me to go back—”

“Your grandmother—”

“—wants me to come home?”

“No.”

“Then what?” When he didn’t answer, Rebecca’s hand flew to her mouth. “Is she sick?”

Tight-lipped, her father surveyed the crowd.

“Papa, please explain.” Rebecca gripped his hand. “Please. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you and the family, but let that pass for now. You came to me. Please?”

He screwed up his mouth. “It was old age.”

“Was . . . ?” Moisture pooled in Rebecca’s eyes. “Do you mean she’s . . . ?”

Her father held out a brown paper package tied with twine. He removed the twine and opened the package. Within lay an off-white lace shawl.

“Oh, my.” The tears streamed down Rebecca’s cheeks. “It’s her wedding shawl.”

“She wanted you to have this. She said to tell you that you are loved.” He placed the package in her outstretched arms, kissed her once more on her forehead, and then he climbed into his buggy and drove away.

With slow deliberation, Rebecca draped the shawl over her heaving shoulders, the moment reminding me of one of my favorite all-time movies,
An Affair to Remember
, this scene so different yet strikingly poignant. I slipped my arm around Rebecca’s waist, and we watched in silence as her father turned the corner near the Congregational Church.

As the crowd dispersed, I said, “Do you want to talk about her?”

“She was . . .” Rebecca hiccupped. “She encouraged me to leave the community. She said I had a hunger, and it wouldn’t be satisfied if I didn’t take the chance.” Rebecca placed her hand on her chest. “She understood me.”

“And now she’s watching over you,” I whispered.

Rebecca threw herself into my arms. I patted her back for a long while. When she came up for air, I said, “Why don’t you take that break now?”

“I can’t. The spinach quiches are in the oven.”

“I’ll handle them. Go read in the garden. Or walk to the clock tower. Grandmère always finds strength visiting the Village Green.”

“Thank you.” Rebecca gave me a hug, and clutching the ends of the lace shawl in her fists, wandered off.

I returned to the kitchen, and as I set the quiches to cool on racks, I revisited the moments after Ed’s murder. Grandmère said she had gone to the clock tower. Where had everyone else disappeared to directly following the argument with Kristine? Urso must have canvassed the shop owners and the people who had attended the gala, but hearing their answers for myself was in order.

An hour later, Rebecca returned from her break, her eyes glassy but her makeup refreshed, and she ordered me to take my break. Although Saturdays are typically our busiest sales days, I said I could handle the cheese counter alone if she wanted more time. She refused. Work, she told me, was good for the soul.

Before sleuthing, I took an ever-so-needed moment to drink in the scent of the vine roses tied to the fences in the Village Green and the daisies and petunias planted in huge decorative pots that stood on every street corner, all of which seemed to have doubled in size overnight. As I did, I became aware of how much I needed to take a good hike with Mother Nature to revitalize my flagging spirit, and I set a tentative date in my mind.

For now, business first.

At the art gallery, the bakery, and a half dozen other shops, I talked to the owners and received the same responses. Those who attended the gala opening had seen nothing. Those who had worked at their shops had seen nothing. At Sew Inspired, Freckles reported that she had stayed in the wine annex with the group of knitting students she brought to the party. The bald-headed owner of the Igloo remembered seeing Kristine and Grandmère burst onto the sidewalk. After that, the ice cream store was inundated with customers, Pépère among them. Mr. Nakamura said he returned to the hardware store with his wife to take inventory. Not wise after a little too much wine, he advised me; however, as he unlocked the door to his shop, he recalled seeing Prudence and Felicia chatting outside the diner near the corner of Cherry Orchard and Hope. He hadn’t seen either Tyanne or Kristine.

My last stop was La Bella Ristorante. I sauntered into the restaurant and let my eyes adjust to the dim light. With its arched brick ceilings and twinkling candelabras, La Bella was considered the most romantic place in town. I agreed, though I hadn’t experienced the romance part first-hand. I hoped to one day.

“Come in, signorina. Welcome.” Luigi Bozzuto clutched my elbow. “You look so beautiful today. The green, it matches your eyes.”

Luigi was a sly dog. Though he was born in the United States and as American as they come, he insisted on calling ladies
signorina
and often spoke with a put-on Italian accent. With his handlebar mustache, dyed black hair, and devil-may-care eyes, he reminded me of the bad guy you loved to hate in old movies.

I told him about my quest for answers, but he refused to talk without feeding me. I followed him through the packed restaurant to the back room where the walls were faced in distressed brick. Historical photographs hung everywhere, the Bozzuto family pictures among them.

“Sit, Charlotte. I will return in moments with my latest dish.” He pushed me into a cane-backed chair and clapped his hands once to draw the attention of a waiter. I was pretty sure that Luigi’s dish would consist of a meal laced with cheese. He was always trying out new recipes on me, free of charge. I didn’t squabble. My stomach was grumbling like a train hungry for coal.

He returned with a delectable appetizer of artichoke hearts drenched in melted Taleggio. I took one bite and thought I had died and gone to heaven.

“Wow. I detect nutmeg,” I said.

“And white wine.” He perched on the chair across from me, a smug smile on his lips. “But just a hint. Mama’s recipe.”

It tasted like fondue without the bread. “Next cooking class, you have to teach us this recipe.” The thought of standing by Jordan’s side, tasting something this scrumptious, made me shiver with desire. How I wished I could learn the truth of his relationship with the mysterious Jacky.

“So, what have you come to ask me?” Luigi twisted the flower vase on the table so the face of the bloom leaned toward me.

“It’s about the night Ed Woodhouse—”

“Ha!” He spanked the table. “I wondered when someone would come asking. I know all of Ed’s secrets. He and I went all the way back to high school, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.” Luigi looked eight to ten years younger than Ed. “And what do you mean, someone would come asking? Hasn’t Chief Urso questioned you?”

“Why would he? I was here with a restaurant full of customers and had no reason to kill Ed.”

I tilted my head.

“Okay,” Luigi grinned. “So everybody had a reason to kill Ed. He wasn’t a nice man. He was always two-timing someone. Interested in the short fix. That’s why we couldn’t trust him on the basketball team.” Luigi crossed himself and glanced at the ceiling where dozens of strands of garlic and red peppers were hanging. “Sorry, Mama, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.” He gazed back at me. “Now, you are here to clear your grandmother, no?”

I nodded.

“What can I tell you?”

“You have a habit.”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“After all the meals are served, you stand on the street and drink in the air.”

“Don’t be coy.” He shook a finger at me. “I smoke a cigarette, and you know it. I am trying to quit.”

“That night . . .” I said, leading my witness.

“I smoked one, maybe two.”

“Did you see Kristine pass by?” I didn’t add
covered in blood
.

Luigi tweaked the ends of his mustache. “I saw your grandfather go into the ice cream shop. Mr. Nakamura and his wife hustled into their store, and Vivian went into hers.” Luigi gazed into space for a moment, and I wondered if he was remembering the time when he had professed his love to Vivian. Why she hadn’t thrown herself at him was beyond me. He was funny, sexy, successful. Perhaps her one-year marriage had made her sour on love forever. “Oh, yes, and I saw your grandmother walking south from the Village Green.”

I seized on that information. “What time?”

“I did not look at my watch, but you could ask Vivian. She looked at hers. So did Mr. Nakamura. Perhaps they all wondered why they were working at such a late hour, unlike me, who works until two every night.” He chuckled and tweaked my elbow. “It is the fate of a restaurateur, no?”

I nodded. “You don’t remember seeing Kristine or Tyanne?”

“Let’s see.” He stroked his chin. “I noticed a very voluptuous woman walking hand-in-hand with a young man half her age. He wore a wrinkled suit and he had shaggy hair. They followed your grandmother. I’m not sure they would have seen her, however. They were lip-locked most of the way.”

“A bleached-blonde wearing a tight T-shirt and lots of jewelry?”

“That’s the one.”

Swoozie Swenten’s alibi was now airtight.

Luigi sighed. “You were hoping for more?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to sway your memory.” If he hadn’t seen Kristine, he hadn’t. I wiped my mouth with a napkin and rose from the table. “Thank you for your time and for lunch. If you wouldn’t mind calling Chief Urso and at least telling him that you saw my grandmother.”

“It would be my pleasure. If there is anything else . . .”

“Yes, one thing.” I pecked him on the cheek and headed to the front door. “Why are you still single?”

He laughed. “You know, I would date a lovely woman like you, even though you are twenty years younger than I, if you didn’t have eyes for another.”

“For another?” I cast a flirty glance over my shoulder.

“Speak of the devil.” Luigi scooted past me and grabbed the front door of the restaurant as it opened.

I squinted into the sunlight that gleamed through the opening and caught sight of Jordan. On his arm was Jacky the Mystery Woman, looking radiant in a crimson sheath. Like a gentleman, his hand was cupped at the arch of her back. My heart started to gallop. My mouth went dry. What would I say? And how did Luigi know I had eyes for Jordan? So much for thinking I was good at keeping a secret.

Luigi embraced Jacky and kissed both of her cheeks, as he had done to me. “You look lovely.”

“Charlotte, it’s good to see you.” Jordan released Mystery Woman and clutched my elbow. He leaned in close and spoke in a hushed tone. “After you ran from my office, I came by The Cheese Shop hoping to ask you on a date, but then there was the confrontation with Meredith and, well . . .” He worked his tongue inside his cheek. “Do you want to go out sometime?”

My mouth turned dryer, if that was possible. I couldn’t speak.

“How about a picnic next Saturday?” he said.

I eyed his companion. She looked as good or better than she had at the farm. No wrinkles. A fabulous complexion. Striking features.

He followed my gaze. “Oh, sorry, Charlotte, let me introduce you to Jacky Peterson, my sister.”

“Sister?” I blurted. I flashed on the awkward moment in his office. The real estate contract. He’d bought his sister her house. Jealousy skedaddled from my mind, but embarrassment for making a hasty assumption didn’t. My chest, neck, and cheeks flushed with heat. I reached to shake Jacky’s hand, but before we could, a shriek sliced the air.