by Avery Aames
“Don’t pull,” I said. “Twist. It’s a game about not resisting.”
She did as I suggested and tossed the braid aside. “Why aren’t you answering us?”
“Don’t snap at me,” I said calmly, knowing they wanted little-girl answers for big-girl problems.
“I’m sorry.” Amy tucked her lower lip under her teeth. A single tear trickled down her face. Clair handed her a napkin.
I said, “Your parents aren’t happy with each other.”
“Were they ever?” Clair asked.
I smiled. “Once upon a time.” I didn’t offer anything more.
With a heavy heart, I sent them off to school and took a moment for myself. I sat in a chair on the wraparound porch of my Victorian home. Rain was not in the forecast, but the temperature—a brisk thirty-six degrees—wasn’t quite up to spring standards. Dressed in a down parka, sweatpants, and a snuggly pair of Ugg boots, I sipped a cup of mint tea and stared at the B&B next door.
Yet again, the news of a murder in our fair town was drawing a curious selection of tourists. A dozen or more newshounds hunkered in vans along the street. Tourists dressed in winter clothing roamed past the inn with to-go cups of coffee in their hands. Some snapped photographs. Others plucked purple tulips from the Lavender and Lace garden as mementoes. I imagined there were lookie-loos lurking about the Ziegler Winery, too. The notion made me recall a quote by Oscar Wilde: “The public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything, except what is worth knowing.”
Around seven fifteen, Freddy trotted out of the B&B. He was wearing jogging clothes and a bright orange ski cap.
Reporters descended on him like locusts to honey.
“Was Mr. Fontanne a gambler?”
“Were the jewels real?”
“What’s the deal with the brick wall?”
I wondered where they had come upon their information. Last night, Urso had cautioned everyone at the winery not to talk about the investigation, but gossip was like a wildfire—hard to control.
Freddy didn’t open his mouth. Didn’t wave. Didn’t stop. He bounded along the sidewalk and passed in front of my house looking rested and buoyant. I itched to know what he was hiding in his larger-than-necessary suitcase, but I didn’t have time to snoop. I had a business to run. I tried to convince myself he was hiding something as innocent as underwear, but in my heart of hearts, I knew better.
When I opened The Cheese Shop doors to customers, more curious reporters and tourists appeared. I didn’t mind the extra business—many purchased cheeses and breads and cups of mulled cider that Rebecca had insisted we serve on cold days. But I did mind that many were looking for Bozz. It didn’t matter that Rebecca and I professed his innocence or that Bozz wouldn’t arrive until he was out of school for the day. The reporters were dogged. At one point the noise level rose so high that Rebecca clanged a metal spatula against a baking pan and ordered them to hush. Occasionally Rags peeked out from the office, as if on alert so he could give Bozz extra emotional support the instant he arrived. Whenever I shook my head indicating we’d had no sign of Bozz, Rags retreated to his favorite spot on the desk chair and nestled down to wait a little longer.
Around noon, Pépère waved to me from behind the cheese counter. “Charlotte, your opinion, please.” He was helping out while Matthew met with Mr. Nakamura over at Nuts for Nails. I hoped Mr. Nakamura, who used to have a big law practice in Cleveland, could make Matthew’s custody battle problem go away. Pépère held up a wedge of Appenzeller and a wedge of Vella Dry Monterey Jack. “Which cheese do you want me to set out on the tasting counter?”
“The Appenzeller,” Rebecca said. She was busy behind the counter finishing off a cheese basket, which she had filled with three artisanal cheeses, a chalkboard serving tray, an olive-wood-handled cheese knife, and a few of my favorite recipes. It was the prize for our first Internet contest. Anyone who signed up for our monthly online newsletter was eligible to win.
“I agree, Pépère. Appenzeller.” Most people aren’t familiar with the cheese, but I adored it. Appenzeller is a semihard Alpine cow’s milk that looks a little like Gruyère but has a more pungent, farmlike aroma. The Swiss keep the recipe a mystery, though it’s no secret that the recipe requires the cheese maker to continually brush the cheese with a special mixture of herbs, wine, and salt.
As Pépère started to cut the cheese into cubes and set them on a decorative platter, the grape-leaf-shaped chimes over the front door jingled.
Jordan sauntered in, carrying a nine-pound wheel of Pace Hill’s Double Cream Gouda wrapped in yellow wax. He smiled his devilishly charming smile, and my heart did a little hippety-hop. “Brought my wares, Cheese Lady. Where do you want me to put the wheel?”
I took the cheese from him and stored it in the walk-in refrigerator. He followed.
As I was closing the door, he snuggled close and whispered, “Can you spend a few minutes in the garden?”
Could I ever.
I said, “Pépère and Rebecca, I’m taking a lunch break.”
Pépère gave my spirited assistant a knowing wink. She giggled.
Let ’em giggle. I had a very handsome suitor wanting my attention.
“Are you hungry?” I asked Jordan.
“You bet.”
I put together a small plate of sliced cheeses, flavorful crackers, and gherkins. Then I whipped off my apron, hung it on one of the hooks near the rear entrance, and slung on my parka.
The town owned a co-op vegetable garden and hothouse in the alley that ran behind the southernmost shops on Hope Street. Fromagerie Bessette took full advantage of both. We planted herbs, tomatoes, and assorted vegetables. The outside garden wasn’t in bloom yet. The ground was still soggy from rain. But in a month or so, the scent would be heavenly.
After we settled onto the meditation bench at the far end of the garden, I put the plate of appetizers on a wrought-iron table to the right of the bench and slipped my hand into Jordan’s. The touch of his skin warmed me to my bones.
“You look beautiful.” He released my hand, wove his fingers through my hair, and pulled my face close. He brushed my lips with his, and a hunger rose within me.
A minute later, I came up for air, but I didn’t move away. “Oooh, boy.” My voice sounded husky with lust. He grinned. I playfully whacked his chest. “What are you doing later? I could use more of this kissing.”
“Staff business dinner.”
Pace Hill Farm took on the aging process for some of the smaller farms’ premium cheeses. A couple of times a year, Jordan wined and dined his employees to show his appreciation for their hard work.
“Rats,” I said. “I was hoping I could fix you dinner at my house. Fettucini Alfredo with a pear and blue cheese salad.”
“Soon.” He cuffed my chin.
“Is Jacky going to be at your dinner?” I asked.
“It’s Girls’ Night Out, isn’t it?”
I snapped my fingers. “I almost forgot.” Once a week, my girlfriends and I went to Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub for drinks and gossip. “Can you tell me what’s going on with her? I mean, why was she crying last night? I know you said she was under the weather, but I get the feeling it’s something to do with being estranged from her husband.” Last year, Jacky fled from an abusive relationship. Thanks to Jordan, she had a new identity in Providence. I didn’t have a clue what her real name was. Didn’t know what the ex did or even if he was an ex. For all I knew, Jacky could still be legally married. “I realize I don’t have the right to pry. I just worry, that’s all.”
Jordan smiled and tapped my nose with his fingertip. “You are one of the best worriers I know.” He stacked a piece of cheese onto a cracker, ate it whole, and licked his lips. “Love this cheese. Sheep’s milk?”
“Kindred Brebis.” It was a yogurty cheese with lovely flavors of caramel and clover from one of our local farmers.
Silence fell between us. So much for prying, I thought, as frustration swelled inside me. I wanted
... needed to know more about Jacky. About Jordan. Why was he so closed off to me? Why was he so protective of her? How could I get him to trust me and open up? I didn’t bite. Heck, I didn’t even nibble.
After what seemed like an eon, he said, “Let’s plan our getaway.”
I was so surprised by the switch in topics that I worried I might fall off the bench.
“I bought two round-trip tickets,” he went on.
“You did?”
“You said yes.”
“For what date?”
“I was thinking we’d leave a week from Monday.”
“A week from Monday!”
“Is your passport in order?”
A spate of emotions rose within me. When we’d first started dating, we had agreed to take our relationship slowly. We’d gone on picnics and to the movies—all very demure. Jane Austen would have been proud. Our romantic getaway was going to take us to the next steamy step. I couldn’t wait, and yet I was scared half to death. I hadn’t been with anyone since Creep Chef. Not a soul.
“You look like I’ve suggested you eat spoiled cheese,” Jordan teased.
I laughed but my laughter sounded brittle.
“Don’t you want to go?”
I gripped his hands. “Yes, I want to go, and yes, my passport is in order.”
He looked like I’d given him the best Christmas present a boy could ever have. “Then Gruyère it is! We’ll eat fondue to our hearts’ content.” He hugged me and kissed me hard on the mouth. When I melted into him, I could feel the pounding of his heart against my chest and knew, at the core of my being, that this man was the right man for me.
So what was keeping me from leaping with joy? Grandmère’s reservation? Did she know something about Jordan that I didn’t?
I broke free and lasered Jordan with my gaze. “Listen up, mister. I’ve said yes, but do not presume for a second that you can take me on a romantic getaway without me getting to know you better. I want to know what you used to do, why you moved here, and, well, everything. Got me? Full disclosure.”
“Ruffles.”
“Who’s Ruffles?”
Jordan laughed a wholehearted hoot that made me hunger for him even more. “He was my first pet. You’d want to know that, wouldn’t you?”
He was right. I would.
“Ruffles was a Wirehaired Terrier mutt. I was four when I met him at the creek. He was covered with mud. Didn’t have a collar. Attached himself to me like glue. He lived a hearty fourteen years.”
Jordan’s eyes moistened. Mine did, too. Who couldn’t love a man who took in a stray dog? However, I couldn’t very well Google the name Ruffles and come up with clues about Jordan’s past, could I? I’d need more.
“Go on,” I said.
Jordan raised an eyebrow. “If I tell you everything now, you might be disappointed and back out of our vacation.”
“Why would I be disappointed?”
“Because my life is so mundane.”
“I doubt that.” Nothing about Jordan was mundane.
“You’re shivering.” He brushed my arms to warm them. “Let’s get you inside before you freeze.”
I gathered the cheese plate, and we walked back into The Cheese Shop, hand in hand.
After I shrugged out of my parka, he pecked me on the cheek and whispered, “I can’t wait.” When he left, I felt a void so deep that I realized I loved him hopelessly, answers or no answers.
Although I wanted to reside on cloud nine for hours, I had work to do. I returned to my spot behind the cheese counter and told Pépère to take a break. “Do a little blogging. Boost our Internet presence.” My grandfather may have been retired, but he couldn’t stay idle. A social being, Pépère loved to leave comments on cheese makers’, chefs’, and foodies’ blogs. “And give Rags some love, too,” I added.
A little while later, as the newshounds and tourist crowd thinned, Prudence Hart flounced into the shop with Tyanne Taylor. Prudence was dressed in a spring frock hemmed with strips of chiffon that dangled around her bony ankles. I secretly reveled in the fact that her shawl-covered arms were pimply with goose bumps and her fancy shoes were soaking wet. More in keeping with the weather, Tyanne wore snugfitting yoga pants, a long-sleeved sweater, and colorful tennis shoes. She’d worked hard to lose weight over the past few months. I was surprised to see her. I thought she had ended her rocky friendship with Prudence. Tyanne was bright and should have known better than to rekindle an association with someone as prickly as Prudence, but she was also easily swayed. Her encounter with Hurricane Katrina and ultimate retreat to Ohio had left her emotionally vulnerable.
I said, “Hello, Tyanne. Prudence.”
Tyanne looked like she wanted to say something. Instead, she wiggled her fingers about waist-high, as if she didn’t want Prudence to notice. Was it a signal of some kind? A hint to get her away from Prudence? I had the urge to pull her aside and encourage her to link up with some of the nicer people in town. Maybe talk her into participating in one of the cooking classes that I had planned for the fall. My pal Freckles, who owned the Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe, had registered. I was pretty certain Prudence wouldn’t deign to join. Or maybe Tyanne would be interested in attending a class at A Wheel Good Time, Jacky’s pottery place.
“What’s the specialty today?” Prudence asked. She didn’t truly care for cheese. I’d bet she had ventured in to keep current with the gossip.
“Sweet Grass Green Hill. It’s a goat cheese.” Rebecca plucked a round of cheese from the display case and waved her hand over it like a model. “Notice the fluffy white rind. Want a taste?”
“Sugar, don’t mind if I do,” Tyanne said, her sweet Southern accent drawing out the vowels. She split from Prudence and took the sample Rebecca offered. “Hmmm, I don’t detect a scent.”
“That’s because the cheese is thin, like Brie,” Rebecca said. “The mold that covers the cheese breaks down the fat and protein more quickly. It can also mute the aroma.”
Tyanne ate the slice of cheese in one bite and let out a satisfied purr.
“It’s from Georgia,” I added.
“They make cheese in Georgia?” Tyanne giggled. “Who knew?”
“Hmph.” Prudence sauntered to the cheese counter, her polished fingertips touching boxes of crackers and jars of jam as she moved. She wasn’t a tactile person. She just liked having ownership over everything. Begrudgingly, she accepted a sample of the cheese from Rebecca and nibbled. I couldn’t tell whether she enjoyed it or not. “Have you been to Georgia, Charlotte?” Prudence leveled me with a gotcha glare. “Oh, silly me, of course not. You don’t travel much, do you?”
“Actually, I do, and I have been to Georgia. Atlanta, to be specific. We’ve been focusing on American cheeses this past year,” I said. Matthew, Pépère, and I had taken a tour of the farms in the Northeast, too. Urso’s mother, who owned Two Plug Nickels Farm, had joined us. I had asked Jordan if he’d wanted to tag along, but he’d had other plans.
Prudence sniffed. “American cheeses are all mass-produced.”
“Actually, there are some fabulous artisanal cheese makers in America. In Wisconsin, Vermont, Oregon, California. You name it. Did you know that the United States is ranked number one in world cheese production?”
“I thought France—”
“Number two, followed by Germany in third place.”
Rebecca rapped a cheese knife on the counter. “Ohio is gaining notoriety in artisanal cheese making, too. Amish milk is the difference.”
“Your cheeses here are very expensive.” Prudence took a second slice of the free cheese and downed it. As she chewed, she said, “How dare you charge so much?”
Rebecca gasped. Her fingers balled into a fist.
I grabbed her wrist while holding my breath to compose myself. Prudence really knew how to push our buttons. The B word came to mind.
When I felt I could answer calmly, I said, “Prudence, artisanal cheeses take time. The cheese makers have to accommodate for
the availability of milk and—”
“Argh!” Prudence clutched her throat. Without warning, her eyes went wide and her face turned a funky shade of purple. She clawed at her bodice then gagged. She crumpled to her knees on the hardwood floor. Her purse toppled to one side.
I darted around the end of the cheese counter and knelt beside her, and all the panic I’d felt as a little girl rushed back to me. My mother ripping me out of the car. Blood dripping down her forehead. Fire flaming behind her. The smell of gasoline. Her arms clutching me so hard that I couldn’t breathe.
“Prudence!” I yelled. “Are you choking?”
“Pills,” she rasped. “In my purse.”
Energy crackled through me. “Tyanne, call Doc Holloway. Rebecca, towels!” I rummaged through Prudence’s expensive leather tote and found a vial of pills: Lorazepam. I’d heard of the medicine. It was for anxiety, not for a heart attack. Why was she taking it? Granted, she’d been through a lot in the past year. Her best friend had left town, she’d purchased the friend’s clothing boutique, and just recently the manager of the boutique—which Prudence had renamed Le Chic Boutique—had quit. The woman had stomached enough of Prudence’s rude behavior. But was that why Prudence was on the medicine? She gagged again.
“Oh, my, my, my,” Tyanne muttered as she stabbed at the numbers on her cell phone.
I scooped out a pill and tucked it under Prudence’s tongue. From what I understood, the medicine wouldn’t work like a miracle drug. It would take time to calm her.
“Breathe, Prudence. Long, slow breaths.” I gazed at her ashen face and wondered if something more sinister was troubling her. Guilt, perhaps? She was at the winery the night Harker Fontanne was murdered. Had she had a hand in it? What would her motive have been?
“Breathe,” I said.
“Can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Breathe.” I stroked her upper arm. “Rebecca, bring me a paper bag, too.” My niece Clair often got overwrought and needed to breathe with a paper bag pressed to her mouth to calm her. “Breathe.”
