by Emma Belmont
On the old fashioned main street, where only a few cars were parked at diagonals, the stores were quiet except for the coffee and pastry shop. A couple of people were walking their dogs, but the village had an early morning “stillness before the bustle” feel that Maris used to enjoy in her hospitality days.
Finally though, her GPS navigated her to the Cheeseman Village high school. There was plenty of parking in the lot and, since Maris had left herself extra time on her first trip to the school, she decided to find the classroom early and not be in a rush. She checked the flyer in her paper bag of supplies, found the room number, and headed to the buildings.
To her pleasant surprise, she was the first student to arrive for the class, where she found the instructor distributing jars of water around the room.
“Good,” Maris said, “I found the right place .”
Clio looked up, her brows arching as she smiled. “Maris Seaver, what a wonderful surprise.” She looked past her through the door. “You didn’t bring that wonderful lighthouse with you, did you?”
Maris laughed. “If only I could,” she said, setting down the bag. “Then again, it’s foggy at the bay, so I’m afraid she’s needed there.”
Clio gave her a little smile. “She,” the artist said. “That’s funny, because I think of her that way too.”
Maris nodded. “She has a way of growing on you.” She glanced around the room. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Sure,” she said. “Every station needs two glass jars of water, about two-thirds full.” She pointed to the back of the room. “The sink is there.”
As they set up each painting area at the long tables, Maris noticed Clio’s slightly frazzled look. Not only were her eyes a bit puffy, her nose looked red. For a moment, she recalled Robbie’s words about the sensitive artist. Then she recalled Claribel’s vision of the nurse painting.
As she helped to distribute rolls of drafting tape to each place, Maris said, “Can I ask you about one of the other paintings that was at the exhibit?”
Clio began setting out a few paper towels in each painting area. “Of course. Which one?”
“There was a large painting of a nurse,” Maris said. “It was in a…curious style.”
Clio laughed a little. “That’s a polite way of putting it.” She set some paper towels in place and moved to the next chair. “Pedigreed Nurse, by Damien Previs.”
“Right,” Maris said, “Pedigreed Nurse. That’s the one. It seemed a bit out of place.”
Clio nodded. “That’s Mikhail’s exhibit tactic. He’ll often feature the work of a famous and collectible artist in order to lure in the buyers and collectors who might see some of his lesser known artists.” She indicated herself. “Like me.” She continued distributing the paper towels. “It also gives them something expensive to think about, in contrast to the more affordable works.”
“Did Mikhail invite Langston Spaulding too?”
Clio shrugged. “It’s not like he could prevent him from coming. Mikhail says that even bad publicity is still publicity.”
Maris considered that for a moment. There was more to arranging an art exhibit than met the eye. “So this artist, Damien Previs, who provides a contrast or a draw. I’ve never heard of him before. Are you saying his work is famous?”
“Oh yes, very. And highly, highly collectible.”
“Wait,” Maris said, hand on hip, “That large…I don’t know if it was acrylic or oil or…”
“He typically paints in acrylics,” Clio interjected.
“Okay,” Maris said, “that large acrylic painting. It looked like something from the cover of an old paperback novel.”
Clio nodded. “Exactly. That’s precisely what it is—a recreation of a pulp fiction cover.”
Maris’s mouth dropped open. “It’s a recreation? Of someone else’s work?”
The artist chuckled. “Exactly,” she said again.
Maris sputtered. “But…”
Clio finished distributing the paper towels, and began to set up her easel. “The art buying public is sometimes…hard to understand.” She set up a large piece of paper and clipped it in place. “His work sells very well, often for hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
Maris gaped at her. How could a giant copy of someone else’s old paperback cover be worth that much money?
An older woman, presumably a student, appeared in the doorway. “Is this the watercolor class?”
Clio smiled at her and gestured to the room. “You’ve found it. Please have a seat anywhere.” Then she turned to Maris. “Thanks for your help. Looks like we’re ready just in time.”
As the students arrived, Maris found her own seat and took out her supplies. When the chairs were full, Clio took her place at the front of the class. After a few words of welcome, she dove into an explanation of watercolor painting and how it differed from acrylics and oils. Although Maris was fascinated, the discussion was brief.
“But you didn’t come hear to listen to me talk,” the artist said. “And that’s not how art is learned anyway. Let’s begin. We’re going to paint three small triptychs by taping off our paper into three vertical panels.”
The group was quiet, focusing on their work, as Clio led them through the three pieces. As they waited for the first panel to dry—a blazing red and purple sunset—they moved on to the next—a nebula at night—and laid down the water layer and some background color. While the second panel dried, they moved on to the third—a sailboat on the ocean. While that was drying, they returned to the first where the background was dried and ready for them to paint black telephone poles silhouetted against the sky. The water jars were used to rinse brushes, one for the warm colors and one for the cool.
The act of painting was loose and freeform, with an emphasis on movement, not precision, and Maris found herself completely absorbed at times, and quite relaxed. But she couldn’t help but notice that when Clio wasn’t talking to a student, she pressed a tissue to her nose and seemed completely lost in thought.
As her three paintings began to take shape, Maris thought back to the work of Damien Previs. She had to be missing something. Maybe recreating a book cover was harder than it looked. When Clio announced the end of the hour, it surprised her.
“Thank you, everybody,” she said, with what appeared to Maris as a forced smile. “You’ve done wonderful work. Keep it up and practice. Next week, we’ll be painting florals.”
As the other students packed up their supplies and admired the work of their fellow painters, Maris purposely dawdled. Slow to stop painting and slow to pack up, she was the last student in the room. As Clio began to dump and then refill the water jars, Maris joined her.
After a few moments, she asked, “Are you okay?”
Clio plopped down into a nearby chair. “Actually, I’m not.” She gave Maris a rueful look. “As if it wasn’t obvious.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Suddenly Clio’s face screwed up and, as she covered it with her hands, she began to sob. Maris immediately fetched some paper towels, sat next to her, and rubbed her back between the shoulders.
“That awful man,” Clio sobbed.
“Langston Spaulding?” Maris asked.
Clio thrust her hands into her lap. “No,” she said, accepting the paper towels from Maris. “That sheriff. What was his name? McKenna.” Maris’s eyebrows went up. “He all but accused me of the murder.” Her gaze darted to Maris. “I have no idea where that paint knife came from!” She gestured around the room. “I mean, look at what I do. There’s no use for a paint knife in watercolors.”
As the artist wiped her eyes and nose, Maris patted her back. “He has to question everyone. It doesn’t mean you’re a prime suspect.”
To that, Clio could only nod. She took a deep and shaky breath, before releasing it. But she seemed to be on the verge of crying again. Robbie really had been right about the sensitive artist.
“How I miss him,” she whispered.
Maris frowned as her brows drew together. “Um, the sheriff or Langston?”
Clio smiled a little, but just for a second. “No one really understood him,” she said, her tone bitter.
Now Maris was utterly confused. But as she was about to ask Clio what she meant, a young man appeared in the doorway.
“Is this where the watercolor class is?” he asked, carrying a paper bag from Robbie’s Hobbies.
“Yes,” Clio said, quickly wiping her nose. “We’ll start in about ten minutes.” She glanced at Maris. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing her shoulder as she stood. “For everything.”
17
Despite the small-town feel of the village itself, the Cheeseman Village Dairy was a sleekly modern building. Mostly glass, with a rakishly slanted yellow metal roof, it served not only as the dairy’s center, but the village’s as well.
As the glass entry doors slid open, a young woman with a tray of cheese cubes greeted Maris.
“Welcome to the Cheeseman Village Dairy,” she said, wearing blue jeans, the signature bright yellow polo shirt that sported the dairy’s two-cow logo, and a matching ball cap. “Would you care to sample some cheese?”
Cookie’s bagel sandwich had been wonderfully filling, but sampling was a great way to learn new products. Maris paused and gazed down at the young woman’s tray.
The server smiled as she pointed with a gloved hand. “Swiss, provolone, Brie, Parmesan, and our version of Gorgonzola.”
Using the toothpicks from the cow-shaped holder built into the tray, Maris made her selection. “Brie contrasts nicely with the parmesan,” she said, spearing one of each. “And who can resist Gorgonzola?”
The young woman beamed at her. “It’s my favorite. I think I could eat my weight in it.”
Maris smiled at her. “A slim thing like you can get away with that.” She patted her own tummy. “But I think I’ll stop with these.”
“Please let any of the associates on the floor know if you have any questions,” she said cheerily, as Maris turned to head into the store.
“Thank you,” Maris said, and took a bite of the blue-veined Gorgonzola. “Mmm,” she muttered. It was firmer than most but still creamy, with a nice amount of salt and a true bite from the veins. She’d definitely be taking some of that home.
As she fetched a shopping basket, she took in the expansive market. It occupied the entire first floor of the building, with refrigerated cases covering each and every wall. But for once, Maris passed all these up as she made her way to the back. A small crowd was gathering at the base of the stairs that led to an observation deck on the second floor. It looked as though a tour was beginning. Without a pressing appointment or a turnover of guests at the B&B, Maris decided that today would be ideal to spend some time investigating. The dairy tour might be something that guests would be interested in seeing too.
An older man in a yellow polo shirt and cap stood next to the sign that read ‘Tour Begins Here.’ About Maris’s height, he was plump and wore his wispy white hair in a combover. When he smiled, his rosy cheeks nearly hid his eyes.
“Welcome to the Cheeseman Village Dairy tour,” he announced to the assembled group. “I’m Orson, your guide today,” he motioned for them to follow him and headed up the stairs. “This way.” As he climbed he said, “If you have any questions along the way—questions about what you see or what I say—please ask. They say there is no such thing as a dumb question, only dumb answers.” He glanced behind him with a grin. “So I’ve got you covered.”
At the top of the stairs, they were met with an exhibit. Some cases appeared to have antique tools and original catalogs. One display included a life-sized porcelain milk cow in a stall, where a few kids were trying to attach the milking mechanism to its udder. Up above, dozens of plastic orange wedges were suspended from the ceiling, a flying flotilla of cheese. Maris smiled at the whimsical and playful feel of it all.
But Orson passed these up and headed directly to the immense glass windows, with their explanatory signs below them. The tour group fanned out on either side of him and looked down on the busy factory floor below. Giant vats that looked like they could be in a brewery were hooked up to large pipes leading in from the outside.
“Fresh cow’s milk is piped directly into the vats,” he said. “The first step is to separate the curds from the whey. By which I mean, separate the solids from the liquids.” He looked at the group on either side of him. “You might say that all of cheesemaking really amounts to removing water from the milk so that it can be preserved on a shelf.”
A woman near Maris raised her hand. “Orson, if everything is made from fresh cow’s milk, where do the different types of cheeses come from?”
He smiled, his eyes almost disappearing. “Good question. Once the solid cheese is separated from the water, it’s all about the microorganisms that are added. It’s the different bacteria used in each step of the aging process that determines the final flavor and texture.”
“What is that thing?” a young boy asked, pointing to the factory floor below.
“The Big Blue Octopus,” Orson answered.
A line of rollers, with rectangular loafs of newly wrapped cheese rolling along them, fed an enormous contraption that looked more like a blue spider to Maris than an octopus. Big blue tubes arched out from the center, each ending in a metal chamber for its foot. Unlike a spider though, the whole thing spun in a circle.
“That’s our vacuum sealer,” Orson explained. “The blocks of cheese roll in and their packaging is given an airtight seal before they roll out.”
One of the workers, wearing a net over his hair and also his beard, was piling smaller blocks of cheese into stacks two high on a different assembly line. When the young boy waved at him, the young man smiled and waved back. Workers with rubber gloves, ear protection, and hair nets were working everywhere.
For a few moments they watched in silence as the Big Blue Octopus rolled out shrink-wrapped cheese, which was then swept away by a giant rotating arm into a large waiting bin with wheels. As it became full, a woman flipped a large switch, and the arm rotated in the opposite direction, sweeping the cheese blocks into a bin on the opposite side of the conveyor belt. The woman wheeled the full bin through a curtain of hanging plastic strips.
“Orson,” said a man on the other side of him. “Does the dairy make any goat milk?”
The tour guide nodded. “We do. Although we’re mostly a cow farm, we raise some goats for the sake of history.”
“History?” someone else asked. “Is that how the dairy started?”
Orson shook his head. “Not our history, ancient history. In the Bronze age the first cheese was made from goat’s milk.”
The rest of the tour was as interesting as the beginning, with Orson describing the aging process, but Maris had already started considering what wine might go well with goat cheese. At the end, she thanked Orson for his informative and fascinating insights. As she descended the stairs, she was glad she had spent the time. Not only did she have a new recommendation for her guests, she hadn’t known the dairy made goat cheese.
Back in the market, Maris discreetly tapped her temple to call up her photographic memory and checked the fridge. Then she did it again and checked the wine cabinet.
With an eye toward wine pairings, she slowly perused what had to be the longest cheese case in the world. Although it didn’t seem to be organized in any particular way, Maris found that its seeming randomness helped her to let her creativity flow.
Without overthinking it, she selected a nice assortment but made sure to find the Gorgonzola and the goat cheese in particular.
As she made her way to the cash registers, she passed the islands in the middle of the market, where the goods had obviously been grouped. She picked up some spicy mustard full of seeds at one, and a bag of assorted nuts at another. As she finished, she smiled to herself. The next Wine Down was going to be fun.
18
Instead of headin
g straight home, Maris stopped at Flour Power to let Jude know that she and Cookie had decided to sell the truck. A car was just pulling away from the gas pumps when she arrived and pulled up next to him.
“Maris,” he said smiling. “I know you don’t need gas, unless you’ve driven to Oregon and back, that is.”
She laughed as she let the engine idle. “No,” she said. “No gas. But I did want to let you know about the truck.”
“You’ve made a decision,” he said.
“Cookie and I have. Neither of us wants to deal with the big old thing anymore.”
He nodded. “So you’ve decided to get rid of it.”
“Exactly,” she agreed. “If you can get the truck up and running and find a buyer, I’ll be in the market for a used car too.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll have a problem, with the fixing or the finding.” He watched another vehicle pull in. “What time should I pick it up?”
“Any time would be fine,” she said.
“I’ll be by this afternoon, then.” He looked at the vehicle that had pulled up next to Maris. “Good afternoon, Sheriff. You’ll have to get closer if you want gas.”
Maris turned to see Mac smiling at them both. “No gas today, Jude. I’m stopping by for a cup of coffee.” When Maris lowered her passenger window, he said. “What a nice surprise.”
“Likewise,” she said.
He paused for a second and then said, “Care to join me for a cup of coffee?”
Maris felt a little teenage thrill zing down her back. The best looking boy on campus had just asked her out. “I’d be delighted!”
He grinned back at her. “Great.”
He quickly parked his SUV and was at her car door before she’d even turned the engine off. When she did, he opened it for her. This was something she could get used to.
“Thank you,” she said, as he lent her his hand and then closed the door, which she locked. Then he opened the door to the shop.
Inside, they were greeted by Fabiola. “Sheriff, Maris, good afternoon! What can I get for you?”
