Frankie took a large bottle out of the refrigerator and filled the goblets right up to the brim before setting the bottle in a marble cooler. Then she brought the plates of salad to the table and gestured for Lucy to sit down. “Bon appetit!”
“This is really lovely,” said Lucy, spearing a piece of goat cheese. “Do you eat like this every day?”
“I try to.” Frankie shrugged. “I’m French, at least my family is, and this is the way I was brought up. Food, mealtimes, were always important to us.”
“No fast food?”
“My mother didn’t know the meaning of the phrase.” Frankie was lifting her glass. “She was all about slow food. Cassoulet that took days to prepare, pork pies, homemade sausage, fruit tarts…” She waved her hand. “I could go on and on.”
“My mother was more the ‘dump a can of Campbell’s cream soup into it and call it a casserole’ kind of cook,” said Lucy.
“The important thing is that she was there for you,” said Frankie, waving her fork for emphasis. “That’s why I went into real estate—so I could be home for Renee. At first I only worked during school hours and, now that I’ve built up my clientele, I pretty much work from home. I’m here when she needs me.”
“I have flexible hours, too,” said Lucy. “For me the problem is getting Sara to tell me what’s on her mind.” Before she quite realized what she was doing, Lucy was pouring out her worries about Sara and the way the football players were harassing the cheerleaders. “The only way we’re going to stop this is if somebody goes public, but I can’t get Sara to tell me what’s really happening and she flat-out refused to let Ted, he’s my editor, interview her for the Pennysaver.”
“You can’t blame her,” said Frankie. “No one wants to be a whistle-blower, especially at her age. She wants to be popular.” She nodded knowingly. “These girls will do anything to be popular.”
“Has Renee talked to you about this?”
“Renee is old for her years.” Frankie took a sip of wine and held it in her mouth, savoring it, before she swallowed. “She spent six weeks in France this summer, with her cousins. She came back very sophisticated.” Frankie grinned. “She thinks American attitudes to sex are silly. At least that’s what she says. I suspect it’s not quite that simple for her.”
“There’s going to be a meeting Thursday night, about rumors of hazing on the team. Will you go?”
“Of course.”
Lucy put her fork down and sat back in her chair. Wine with lunch was a terrific idea. She felt relaxed and completely at peace. “It’s so quiet here,” she said. “You don’t even get road noise from Red Top Road. And Prudence Path seems deserted.”
“It seems like that but it isn’t really.” There was a little gleam in her eye. “There’s a lot of coming and going.”
Lucy swallowed the last of her wine. It seemed as if Frankie had something she wanted to tell her. “I noticed you didn’t join the chorus at the bus stop yesterday when Fred was arrested. Do you think somebody else did it?”
“I don’t think Fred did it, that’s for sure.” She paused, refilling her glass. “Those other women, they don’t really know Fred. He’s a good guy.”
Lucy swallowed hard. She had to ask. “I’ve heard rumors that you know him extremely well.”
Frankie nodded. “I do. He asked me to sell those new condos he’s building on the other side of town and we’ve been working together on a marketing plan.”
So much for the grapevine, thought Lucy. “Is he the sort of guy who’d abuse his wife, like they say?”
“He yells and screams, sure, but that’s just his style. He’s loud. My father was like that. A lot of bark but no bite.” She smiled at the memory, then raised an eyebrow. “I can tell you, I would rather have a man who gets it all out than some sneaky-Pete who goes around knocking at the neighbor’s back doors when I’m not looking.”
Lucy grinned mischievously. “And who does that?”
“Willie’s husband. What’s his name? Scratch. She maybe loves her horses a little too much because Scratch is definitely looking for love in lots of places.”
Lucy thought Scratch, who was a skinny string bean of a man with thinning hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a stoop was an unlikely Lothario. “Really?”
Frankie was well on her way through her second glass of wine. “He came knocking on my door but I sent him on his way.” She made a little moue with her mouth. “He’s not my type. Too English. No fire.”
“He must have a few smoldering embers,” observed Lucy.
Frankie laughed. “Well, I think Mimi found a way to fan his flames, if you know what I mean.”
“Mimi?”
Frankie nodded.
“Do you think he killed Mimi?”
Frankie shook her head. “No. He wouldn’t hurt a flea. He’s a vet, you know. He loves all the fuzzy little creatures.”
Lucy thought she was right. But what about his wife? “Does Willie know about this?”
“Sure. Why do you think she hates me so much? She knows Scratch would hop into bed with me if I gave him the least encouragement.”
“Did she know about Mimi?” asked Lucy, wondering if Willie might have been jealous enough to kill Mimi. If she had, it might explain her recent odd behavior.
“I think she must have. It’s a pretty small street, after all.” Frankie got up and removed the empty plates. “I have a bit of crème brulee left over from last night. Would you like some? And coffee?”
“Sure,” said Lucy, “why not?” If this was how Frenchwomen stayed slim, she was all for it.
When Lucy got home she wasn’t convinced the French diet really worked, not for Americans, anyway. Her pants felt tight and she could definitely use a nap. Libby seemed to sense her guilt, greeting her with a wagging tail and reproachful eyes.
“Okay, I admit it,” she told the Lab. “I had wine at lunch.”
The dog hung her head.
“And crème brulee.”
The dog slid to the floor, front legs extended and hind legs tucked under her. She sighed and rested her chin on the floor as Lucy sat down at the table and began sorting the mail. A reminder notice that the dog was overdue for her one-year checkup gave her an idea. There was no harm in switching vets, especially since she really ought to support her neighbors. She picked up the phone and made an appointment with Dr. Westwood. She wanted to meet this Lothario and decide for herself if he qualified as a murder suspect.
Hearing her name mentioned in the conversation, Libby got up and rested her chin on Lucy’s knee. She stroked the dog’s silky ears and her woofily, whiskery chin. Libby responded by wagging her tail. Lucy could hardly believe a year had passed since Toby and Molly gave her the squirmy little puppy. They named her Liberty to commemorate the fact that she joined the family on the Fourth of July.
“You’re a real live niece of your Uncle Sam,” sang Lucy, and the dog wagged her tail enthusiastically. “Born on the Fourth of July.”
Lucy got to her feet. “Well, not exactly born on the Fourth of July but you get the idea. How about a walk?”
Libby was on her feet, ready to go.