by Avery Aames
“I’m afraid there’s another offer on the table. And it’s much higher.”
CHAPTER 14
My answer to stress is a tasty meal, an hour of watching the Food Network, and a good night’s sleep. I got the first two but not the third. I lay awake worrying about what I could do to save us from being ousted from our building. Could the anonymous buyer who had outbid me terminate the lease? Before renovating, we had extended it with Ed. Would a sale nullify the extension? Irrationally, I wondered whether the buyer was a he or she. Bozz’s father had been hunting for a restaurant space for months so he could compete with his brother who owned La Bella Ristorante. And Mr. Nakamura was very vocal about wanting to expand his hardware store, whether the space was next door to his current place of business or not. After all we had done to improve The Cheese Shop, I didn’t want to be booted out without a fight.
I rose and took a hot shower. The pelting water did nothing to ease the tension in my head, neck, and shoulders. I dressed in one of my favorite summer dresses—aqua green with ecru piping around the neckline and bodice—donned gold earrings, and surveyed myself in the antique mirror. Sadly, the outfit didn’t improve my mood, either.
Grumbling like Pépère, I shambled downstairs and into the kitchen. I stopped in the doorway and moaned. Sunlight slashed through the double-pane windows over the sink and highlighted the dishes from last night’s meal of individual pizzas, still sitting on the granite counter. The girls had promised to wash the dishes and stow them in the dishwasher before heading up to bed. I decided not to rouse them and complain. There was no way I could enforce house rules today without sounding like a shrew.
Choosing the high road, I cleaned up, then I went outside, gathered the newspaper, and clipped a few sprigs of lilac. I returned to the kitchen, set the newspaper on the red oak mission table, slotted the sprigs of lilac into a vase with water, and put the vase on the windowsill. The scent was heavenly.
I made myself my favorite breakfast—a piece of sourdough toast lathered with Dalmatia fig spread, topped off with a thick slice of Perrin Haute-Savoie—and inhaled. The sweetness and lush aroma of late August grass and clover in the cow’s milk cheese came through distinctly. I poured a cup of coffee, set it and my toast at the table, and nestled into a chair. I took a bite of my ambrosia, savored it for a moment, and opened the newspaper. A picture of Kristine Woodhouse addressing voters greeted me. The article to the right of the picture was an essay about whether my grandmother, guilty or not, could ever earn the voters’ trust again.
I pitched the newspaper on the floor. “Rubbish. Pure rubbish.” My appetite quashed, I covered the rest of my meal in plastic wrap, washed up, and told Matthew through a closed bedroom door to tend to the girls. He mumbled a response, which meant he wasn’t entirely awake, but I couldn’t agonize over that. The girls either made it to school on time or didn’t. It wasn’t my problem.
On the way to the shop, I deliberately walked the long route, circling past my grandparents’ house. While yoga class and moving fifty-pound wheels of cheese from the refrigerator to the cheese counter were my main forms of exercise, I needed a more rigorous regiment. A good walk would help.
I found Grandmère and Pépère in the garden. Grandmère was pulling out weeds with a vengeance, while Pépère trimmed the woody branches off his roses in preparation for the summer’s blooms. Grandmère actually appeared rested. Her face, shaded by a straw hat, looked gently tanned and healthy. Perhaps taking a little time off and not bustling through life was good for her. I thought she might even be happy not being mayor, if she wasn’t under house arrest for murder. Pépère, on the other hand, looked thin, his cheeks drawn. He hadn’t combed his hair, and his buttoned-down shirt, usually tucked in, hung outside his trousers.
Before pushing through the gate, I kicked their morning paper behind a shrub. No need for them to read about Kristine’s latest adventures. Grandmère kissed me on both cheeks, then scuttled into the house to fetch some water for all of us.
“How are things at the shop, chérie?” Pépère asked. His face grew wistful, and I could tell he longed to be helping—not that he didn’t enjoy his time with my grandmother—but he was not designed to languish around the house. With retirement, he had meant to cut his workload in half, not stop completely.
“We’ve been selling out of Morbier and Brie,” I said. “And we’re low on that Dry Jack you ordered. It’s a real hit.” Dry Jack was a California cheese, made by aging Monterey Jack for about seven months, which resulted in a hard cheese with a sharp, nutty flavor. Great for sandwiches.
“Good, good.” Pépère continued to clip branches. “And how is Matthew doing with the wine?”
“We have a tasting scheduled—”
“Morning, Etienne.” Urso rounded the corner, in uniform, on foot. “Charlotte.”
My stomach clenched. What was he doing dropping by so early? He wasn’t known for taking daily constitutions. On the other hand, he wasn’t driving a police vehicle with the siren whirling either, which meant he wasn’t there to cart my grandmother off to jail. Not yet. I said a prayer of thanks for small favors.
“Morning, Chief.” Pépère removed his gardening gloves to shake hands with Urso. He batted the gloves against his leg. Little dirt particles flew off the gloves and swirled in front of my face, and I thought of Felicia. Odd, I know, but flashing on the garden party that she was throwing to raise money for the museum got me to thinking about something else. Felicia’s roses. She tended to over twenty varieties of red and pink tea roses behind her house. She grew even more in the museum gardens.
I cleared my throat, adrenaline pumping like a geyser through my veins, then said, “Uh, Chief.”
“Yes, Charlotte?” Urso tipped back his broad-brimmed hat and appraised me, head to toe. He grinned in a cat’s-got-the-cream manner, and I realized he was thinking about our little encounter by the museum’s Dumpster. Was he getting ready to blab to my grandfather, or was he imagining my skirt bunching up around my creamy thighs?
“Gloves,” I squeaked, and wanted to kick myself for feeling like a ten-year-old caught playing with matches. I had every right to be hunting down clues that would free my grandmother. Every right. I drew my shoulders back. “Gloves,” I repeated.
“You told me about Kristine Woodhouses’s gloves already.”
“Gloves?” Pépère looked perplexed.
“Party gloves,” I said.
“Kristine Woodhouse wore gloves on the night of the murder,” Urso explained.
“So did Felicia, Prudence, and Tyanne.”
Urso folded his arms across his broad chest and raised an eyebrow, clearly at the end of his patience with me. “I figured that out already.”
Of course, he did. He wasn’t a dolt.
“I checked all of them. Spanking clean.”
“Okay, but did you check their garden gloves?” I said with a hint of defiance. “It’s a known fact that Felicia loves to garden.”
“This is true!” Pépère said, jumping into the conversation with a fervor. “And one time, I saw Ed standing in Felicia’s yard while she was gardening. They were discussing museum business.”
“Maybe that isn’t all they were discussing,” I said. “Maybe they switched gears as Pépère approached because they were talking about their clandestine love affair.”
“Clandestine—”
“Maybe she was upset that he was breaking it off, and—”
“Charlotte, stop! You’re starting to sound like Rebecca.” Urso squinted in an amused expression and slung his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers. “You’ve all been watching too much Murder, She Wrote, I’m afraid.”
I stood my ground. “If Felicia, or Kristine for that matter, brought a pair of gardening gloves with her—”
“Whoa!” Urso held up a hand. “Cease and desist! I mean it. Do not go theorizing without some proof, you hear me?”
“But, U-ey—”
“No buts.” He gripped my arm. “Yo
u sling around accusations like that, you could find yourself in a whole lot of trouble. Slander, for instance. And don’t think Kristine Woodhouse wouldn’t sue.”
“Grandmère didn’t do this.”
“And I intend to see that she’s set free the moment I have another viable suspect.” Urso lowered his voice. “Listen to me, I adore your grandmother.” Underlying his tone, I detected a deeper sentiment. Did he adore me? Could I change Grandmère’s fate by going out on a date with him? He hadn’t asked me. Maybe I was getting his signals wrong. I had been known to do that.
I wriggled free of his grasp. “Got it. You’re in charge,” I said, making sure I didn’t bat my eyelashes. I didn’t want to fan flames, especially when I had my eye set on Jordan Pace. “Oh, look at the time,” I said without glancing at my watch. “I have to scoot.”
Minutes later, I hurried into The Cheese Shop, out of breath and hating myself for being a coward with Urso. I had every right to stand up to him and press him harder. He had to find out the truth. ASAP.
I set about preparations for the day, refacing and rewrapping the cheese, tweaking the displays, clearing the register. Matthew strolled in an hour after me, a smile on his face, a spring in his step, and a cup of coffee from the Country Kitchen in his hand.
“Good morning,” he said. “Girls got off on time. Can we talk later, say noon?”
He grinned, and a river of relief washed over me. We would hurdle whatever problems we had.
“How about this afternoon?” I said. “I’m on my way out to do rounds.” Rounds meant visiting all the local farmers from whom we purchased cheeses and accoutrements. I wouldn’t return until at least three.
“Not good for me. How about tonight, after the tasting?”
“Deal.” Afraid to spoil his mood, I didn’t tell him about the bid on our building or Urso’s warning for me to keep my distance in the investigation. We would discuss all of it in private.
The first vendor I needed to see was the beekeeper, Ipo Ho, the naturalist Hawaiian who owned Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm and provided us with the most intense floral micro honey. We spent a good half hour reviewing product. Next, I visited Two Plug Nickels, tasted their latest mascarpone cheese, and then Sugar Maple Farms and Emerald Pastures, each of which let me taste their latest artisanal goat cheeses, one of which was laced with herbs. I saved my trip to Jordan’s for last.
The drive to Pace Hill Farm took me along a series of brilliant green swales and knolls dotted with gigantic oak trees. I passed the Harvest Moon Ranch, where a midweek wedding was in progress in the gazebo on the rise beyond the ranch house. Before long, I found myself humming a silly song from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs: “Some Day My Prince Will Come.” What nonsense. I switched tunes, forcing myself to sing “America, the Beautiful” at full volume. Much better. I was not designed to be a sappy romantic. At least, I didn’t think I was. And America, as seen through the eyes of a native Ohioan, was incredibly beautiful.
A breeze swept through the rolling hills, swatting the tips of grain and making them dance a hula. The leaves of the trees sparkled in the warm sunlight. The sweet smell of grass wafted in through the open windows of my car, and I shivered with revitalized energy. On a day like today, anything was possible.
I parked in the lot beside Pace Hill Farm’s original red barn and bounded from the car. Red rock gravel crunched beneath my feet as I trotted past the thriving greenhouse toward the updated farmhouse that served as Jordan’s home and office. The front door stood open. I slipped in and paused in the archway to the office on the left. Jordan sat bent over at his desk. He was marking up a document. The room was a wide-open space decorated with the simplest Amish natural wood furniture, a pair of leather chairs, and a beautiful redbrick fireplace. Awards for excellence and photographs of Ohio’s rolling hills, abloom with wildflowers, hung on the walls. Afternoon sunshine gleamed through the broad windows. The hardwood floor squeaked as I stepped inside. Jordan looked up, and a thatch of hair fell lazily down his forehead. He brushed it away with a quick swipe of his hand, and something inside me twisted into a knot. A pleasant knot.
He set his pen down. “What a surprise.” He rose from behind the oak desk and wiped his hands on his jeans, then offered his right one.
His skin was warm when we shook hands. I didn’t want to let go. But I did. In a respectably short time, I might add.
“Are you busy?” I asked, every fiber inside me aching to know what his relationship was with Mystery Woman. I didn’t have the guts to ask.
“Just completing loan papers to upgrade the facilities.”
“Oho! So you’re sticking around,” I teased. When he first took over the farm, he confided that he had a five-year plan.
“Indefinitely.” He grinned, and my stomach did a flip-flop. Did he know how much I wanted to hear about his past? About how he came to Providence? About what he had left behind? I urged myself to get a grip.
“So, what’s up?” I said.
“I should be asking you the same thing.” He jammed his right hand into his jeans and gestured with the left toward the comfortable-looking leather chairs on the far side of the room by the fireplace.
I declined, too antsy to sit. “You know me. I like to peek in on the operation every few months.” I cozied up to the window and looked at the view. “It’s so beautiful here.”
Jordan came up behind me, standing close enough that I could feel heat peeling off of him. “Yes, it is.”
I spun around, my heart pounding beneath my skin. I hoped he couldn’t see the fabric of my sheath heaving. Big giveaway, if he could. I drew in a long, calming breath and said, “Why don’t you offer me an up-to-date tour?”
One of the joys of my job was getting an intimate insider’s look into the world of cheese making. I had taken over this particular duty from Pépère a few years ago. Jordan’s farm was the largest in the area and the first to offer an affinage center, a concrete structure buried into the hillside where Jordan and his staff took on the aging process for some of the smaller farms’ premium cheeses. Not every farm had the facilities for the task. It said a lot about Jordan that other Ohio cheese makers entrusted the care of their cheeses to him.
“My pleasure.”
We exited the office’s side door, crossed a covered walkway, and ambled into a new brick and cement building. Inside was a vast aging room, with multiple man-made caves that pushed farther into the hills. I had stood in the aging room before, but this time I looked at it with a different eye. It was large enough for a party to celebrate all the orders we would get once the website was up and running. Maybe I’d throw a yuletide bash with carolers. Their voices would echo off the ceilings and walls. Grandmère could help organize it—if she wasn’t in jail. My heart wrenched at the thought. What could I do to get my investigation cooking?
Jordan fetched two sets of paper booties and two hair-nets from a basket hanging on the wall and handed one set to me.
“For sanitary purposes,” he said.
We put them on, then he pushed through a set of multiple doors, and we tramped into a cave. The floors were slick with water to help keep the area humid. I loved the dank smell of the various caves—the soft-ripened room, the washed rind room, the pressed cheese room. Each was brightly lit, with a new trolley system to help transport large quantities of cheese. Every cheese was labeled. There were aging charts in every room with schedules for maintenance.
“What are those?” I pointed at a trolley of steel shelving, new since my last visit.
“Turning mechanisms.” He grinned. “Yep, that’s the technical term. Anyway, each will help with the flipping of the wheels. Ten can be turned at a time.”
“Wow!” In the past, all the wheels of cheese would have required turning by hand. The rinds looked perfectly dusty yet moist.
“Each batch of Gouda is made by hand daily,” he explained as we continued our tour.
I adored the Gouda that came from Pace Hill Farms. It was earthy and creamy,
with a fudgy texture that melted in your mouth.
“From fresh milk with no growth hormones,” he went on.
I nodded. This was all information that I had heard before, but I listened attentively because many of my customers expected me to educate them about the histories of the cheeses they bought. Pace Hill Farm’s cows were milked twice daily, the milk so fresh that it often came from the cows within the hour. The grass that the cows grazed on was from pastures free of pesticides, herbicides, and chemical fertilizers.
We sauntered into cave after cave, with Jordan enlightening me about each of the cheeses. One, from the neighboring sheep farmer, was new, a yogurty cheese called Kindred Brebis, with hints of caramel, pasture, and clover.
As we returned to the office, Jordan said, “How’s your grandmother doing?”
“She’s hanging in, but the lawyer hasn’t been able to lift the house arrest.”
“And your grandfather?”
“Not well. He’s so stressed. I worry that he’s not eating enough.” I roamed the office, taking in the various awards Pace Hill had won for excellence and the photographs of Jordan shaking hands with a number of Ohio’s celebrities. There were no photographs of him from prior to his move here. For all I knew, he was in a witness protection program and had restarted his life. The thought sent a ripple of excitement as well as fear through me.
“Charlotte,” he said. “I asked you a question.”
I spun around, my cheeks flushed. I had to stop wondering about him. When he was ready to tell me, he would. Jordan perched a hip on his desk and folded his arms across his chest.
“Sorry. What did you—?”
“How’s business?”
“It’s good. It’s—” I sidled toward him. “Actually, it’s not. I met with my Realtor yesterday. I was trying to buy the building that we lease. Anonymously. As a corporation.” I flushed. “Anyway, Ed put the building up for sale before he . . . died, but it seems someone outbid me.”
