Free The Long Quiche Goodbye by Avery Aames Page B

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