Free The Long Quiche Goodbye by Avery Aames Page A

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