Free The Long Quiche Goodbye by Avery Aames

after she chastised him at the gala.
    Grandmère rose from the table, shambled to the sink, and started a pot of coffee. As she waited for it to process, she fussed with the glass roosters I had given her last year for her birthday. They stood on the counter, catching sunlight, their cocks’ combs glimmering bright red. A few minutes later, she returned to the table with two steaming mugs of not-so-great but drinkable coffee.
    I pressed on. “After your spat with Ed, you pushed Kristine outside.”
    “She said horrible things. And that Felicia. She said worse.”
    Had Felicia incited the crowd on the sidewalk in front of my grandparents’ house? Though she could be a nice woman when separated from Kristine, she could also take instruction well. One flick of Kristine’s index finger and Felicia would follow. Why some smart and talented people didn’t develop backbones was beyond me.
    “What did Felicia say?”
    “Just worse. I can’t remember.”
    Grandmère couldn’t remember? The woman, who, over her lifetime, had memorized as many scripts as Meryl Streep, couldn’t remember a few simple sentences? I sighed. Stress was really eroding her spirit.
    “Then what happened?” I asked.
    “The three of them crossed the street and went into the Country Kitchen.”
    “Three? You mean four.”
    “No, chérie , three.”
    “Which three?”
    “Kristine, Prudence, and Tyanne, of course.”
    “Not Felicia?”
    “No, never.”
    “Why do you say never?”
    “Because Felicia has not set foot in that restaurant since Delilah returned to town.” She leaned closer. “At one time, Felicia was in love with Delilah’s father.”
    “With Pops?”
    “She’d wanted to marry him, but he never asked her. She’s always resented that he gave Delilah the diner.”
    I leaned back in my chair. Felicia, a widow for thirteen years, had more than enough money to buy the Country Kitchen should it ever go up for sale. Why would she hold a grudge against Delilah? Sometimes the secrets our little town kept astounded me. “So Felicia went off on her own?”
    Grandmère nodded.
    “And you?”
    “That is when I took my walk. In the opposite direction of Felicia. I headed to the clock tower. She strolled south down Honeysuckle Street.”
    Toward the museum. That would make sense. Felicia, an avid art lover and devotee of history, had established Providence’s Historical Museum. It was located in the residential district, thanks to a special permit that allowed her to use a historic landmark house that had been built in the early 1700s. The museum boasted artifacts of the Indian tribes that once inhabited Ohio, as well as relics of the first settlers and original artworks of American painters. Ever since vandals attacked statuary at the museum last year, Felicia had been religious about double-checking to make sure the museum doors and gates were locked. Fearlessly, she did a walk-around with a huge flashlight at nine and midnight.
    “You stayed at the clock tower for how long?”
    “I have no idea. Long enough to be able to breathe again and realize I had left you in disarray, so I hurried back. That’s when . . .” Her lower lip began to quiver. “That’s when I found . . .” Her gnarled hand flew to her mouth. She bit back a sob.
    I patted her shoulder.
    “He didn’t deserve to die, Charlotte. Ed was not a nice man, but he didn’t deserve to die.”
    I’m not sure everyone in town agreed with her.

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