it?”
“Do you think she did it?”
No, no, and no.
“Did she have a motive?” asked Mr. Nakamura, the cherub of a man who had moved to Providence two years ago and opened a well-stocked hardware store called Nuts for Nails.
“Of course not,” I snapped.
“I saw them coming out of the town hall together last week,” a nun from St. Mary’s said.
My dental hygienist waved her hand like a game show contestant who had the winning answer and yelled, “Me, too!”
I couldn’t refute either of them. I didn’t know my grandmother’s every coming and going. She could have been at the town hall at the same time as Ed. She was the mayor. He did business with the city. All real estate transactions were handled in an office on the second floor.
“Were she and Ed having an affair?” asked the beekeeper, a transplanted Hawaiian who provided The Cheese Shop’s stock of jarred honey. I was surprised by his query. He was a naturalist, not usually drawn in by town gossip.
Fearing the day could only get worse, I didn’t grant him a response.
“Of course they weren’t having an affair, sugar,” Tyanne chimed in as she pushed to the front of the throng, her floral perfume cloying, her plump face looking smooth and unwrinkled but smug enough to pop with glee.
I was surprised to see her. Prior to hooking up with Kristine, Tyanne had often visited The Cheese Shop alone. I’d commiserated with her about losing her home to the hurricane and having to start life anew. We had chatted about good food and interesting books. At that time, I couldn’t get enough of her honey-drenched drawl. But once she became a Kristine groupie, she stopped coming in by herself. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her without the others. Granted, I hadn’t expected Kristine to come to Fromagerie Bessette the day after her husband was found murdered on the sidewalk, but it surprised me that Tyanne was there. Felicia and Prudence, usually at the forefront of town gossip, had yet to surface. Were they flocking together, trying to cement their alibis?
“I heard Ed and Bernadette were in love in high school,” said the older woman standing next to Tyanne, an animal rescuer who had given me Rags.
“That’s ridiculous.” Like a clipper ship in rough waters, Vivian carved a path to the front of the pack and faced the crowd. “Bernadette was twenty years older than Ed.”
And she didn’t move to the United States until she was eighteen, I wanted to say, but kept my mouth shut. I was not fueling this gossip-fest any longer. I filled Vivian’s order first and thanked her for her defense of my grandmother. She patted my hand and said not to worry. She was certain Bernadette was innocent.
By midmorning, my stomach churned with excess acid and my jaw felt screwed together. I wished I could change out of the button-down shirt and long slacks I had worn into something cooler, but I had no time. A half dozen reporters from as far away as Cleveland had descended upon us, each with a camera crew. I had hoped Fromagerie Bessette would get attention from the press, but not for this reason.
In an attempt to dissuade the reporters, I set out a wooden platter arrayed with paper-thin slices of Double Cream Gouda from Pace Hill Farm, one of the smoothest tasting cheeses around. As the reporters and their crews munched, I talked up the new ownership of the store and its expansion. I enlightened them about how much my grandparents loved Providence and how much they had done to improve the town by adding color and vitality and a sense of joie de vivre, but in the end, the reporters clamored for a story about murder.
“Was Bernadette in love with Ed Woodhouse?” said a weasel of a reporter with bug-eyed glasses who I had seen at the gala.
“Did he reject her?” said another reporter, equally as creepy looking as the weasel.
“Was that why she killed him?” said the youngest reporter in the group, an overly made-up female whose
“Do you think she did it?”
No, no, and no.
“Did she have a motive?” asked Mr. Nakamura, the cherub of a man who had moved to Providence two years ago and opened a well-stocked hardware store called Nuts for Nails.
“Of course not,” I snapped.
“I saw them coming out of the town hall together last week,” a nun from St. Mary’s said.
My dental hygienist waved her hand like a game show contestant who had the winning answer and yelled, “Me, too!”
I couldn’t refute either of them. I didn’t know my grandmother’s every coming and going. She could have been at the town hall at the same time as Ed. She was the mayor. He did business with the city. All real estate transactions were handled in an office on the second floor.
“Were she and Ed having an affair?” asked the beekeeper, a transplanted Hawaiian who provided The Cheese Shop’s stock of jarred honey. I was surprised by his query. He was a naturalist, not usually drawn in by town gossip.
Fearing the day could only get worse, I didn’t grant him a response.
“Of course they weren’t having an affair, sugar,” Tyanne chimed in as she pushed to the front of the throng, her floral perfume cloying, her plump face looking smooth and unwrinkled but smug enough to pop with glee.
I was surprised to see her. Prior to hooking up with Kristine, Tyanne had often visited The Cheese Shop alone. I’d commiserated with her about losing her home to the hurricane and having to start life anew. We had chatted about good food and interesting books. At that time, I couldn’t get enough of her honey-drenched drawl. But once she became a Kristine groupie, she stopped coming in by herself. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her without the others. Granted, I hadn’t expected Kristine to come to Fromagerie Bessette the day after her husband was found murdered on the sidewalk, but it surprised me that Tyanne was there. Felicia and Prudence, usually at the forefront of town gossip, had yet to surface. Were they flocking together, trying to cement their alibis?
“I heard Ed and Bernadette were in love in high school,” said the older woman standing next to Tyanne, an animal rescuer who had given me Rags.
“That’s ridiculous.” Like a clipper ship in rough waters, Vivian carved a path to the front of the pack and faced the crowd. “Bernadette was twenty years older than Ed.”
And she didn’t move to the United States until she was eighteen, I wanted to say, but kept my mouth shut. I was not fueling this gossip-fest any longer. I filled Vivian’s order first and thanked her for her defense of my grandmother. She patted my hand and said not to worry. She was certain Bernadette was innocent.
By midmorning, my stomach churned with excess acid and my jaw felt screwed together. I wished I could change out of the button-down shirt and long slacks I had worn into something cooler, but I had no time. A half dozen reporters from as far away as Cleveland had descended upon us, each with a camera crew. I had hoped Fromagerie Bessette would get attention from the press, but not for this reason.
In an attempt to dissuade the reporters, I set out a wooden platter arrayed with paper-thin slices of Double Cream Gouda from Pace Hill Farm, one of the smoothest tasting cheeses around. As the reporters and their crews munched, I talked up the new ownership of the store and its expansion. I enlightened them about how much my grandparents loved Providence and how much they had done to improve the town by adding color and vitality and a sense of joie de vivre, but in the end, the reporters clamored for a story about murder.
“Was Bernadette in love with Ed Woodhouse?” said a weasel of a reporter with bug-eyed glasses who I had seen at the gala.
“Did he reject her?” said another reporter, equally as creepy looking as the weasel.
“Was that why she killed him?” said the youngest reporter in the group, an overly made-up female whose
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