Lost and Fondue

by Avery Aames

  Advertising what? I pressed my lips together to keep the snarky comment from escaping my lips. Good business required tact, even with ex-in-laws.

  Sylvie owned a women’s boutique called Under Wraps. Many of the items in the store’s window would make the sultriest vixen blush. A few years back, Sylvie abandoned Matthew and their twins to return to Mumsie and Dad in merry old England. A couple of months ago, she returned to Providence. Much to Matthew’s vexation, she’d wheedled her way back into their nine-year-old twins’ lives.

  “I’ve rented the tent next to yours.” Sylvie ruffled her acid-white hair. “What better lure than the scent of cinnamon and hot spun sugar, right, love?”

  During winter months to increase business, Igloo’s Ice Cream Parlor made all sorts of delectable treats. Igloo’s had rented a tent near ours and, though the faire wasn’t officially open, the shop was already selling their spicy winter version of cotton candy. Other scents like pine trees, cocoa, and brandy-laced crepes stirred the senses, as well.

  “C’mon, Mattie-Matt, sales are down,” Sylvie said. “I’ve got to do something to make customers flock to my tent.” She sidled up to Matthew and ran a chocolate-colored fingernail down his sleeve. “You always liked how I could coax a cow to croon.”

  Matthew’s eyes turned as dark as lava. “Stop it.” He batted her away.

  Coming to his rescue, I gripped Sylvie by the elbow and steered her toward the exit. “Sylvie, give me some of those flyers. I’ll be glad to post these.”

  Some place. Maybe in Timbuktu.

  “Thanks, Charlotte. Oh, did you hear—?”

  “No time to gossip.” I prodded her forward.

  Sylvie frowned. She prided herself on being Providence’s gossipmonger extraordinaire. Gossip, according to her, flew rampant around a women’s boutique.

  “But—”

  “We’ve got to get back to decorating. Bye-bye!”

  Before she could protest, I propelled her into the cold, not thinking twice about how she’d keep warm. She was an adult—or at least she liked to think so.

  The door lingered before closing, and I caught the strains of Kenny G’s melodic clarinet playing a jazzy rendition of “My Funny Valentine.” Our mayor—my darling, eclectic grandmother—insisted that easy-listening music play nonstop during the Winter Wonderland celebration.

  Matthew returned to the task of unpacking glasses and muttered, “Can you believe it? She rented the tent next to ours.” On a normal day, my cousin was the most laid-back, generous man on the planet. But when it came to Sylvie, he turned sour. “Next to ours!” he repeated.

  “Intimate but not horrible.”

  “She’s nuts. Certifiable. It’s supposed to snow again.”

  “Not heavily.” A gentle storm was due, the kind that would make children walk around with chins upturned, mouths open, and make our white tents glisten with frost.

  Matthew mumbled, “Looney Toons,” and I couldn’t disagree. When Sylvie ran out on Matthew, he and the twins moved into my Victorian with me. Matthew and I had spent many nights discussing the repercussions of Sylvie’s return. He worried that his children, by association, would start acting as crazy as she did. I assured him they wouldn’t.

  “C’mon, Cuz.” I nudged him on the shoulder. “No negativity, remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Matthew swooped a thatch of tawny hair off his forehead and grumbled his dismay. Our new Briard pup—a surprise gift to the twins from their capricious mother—couldn’t have looked more chastised. “Found anybody to hire?” Matthew asked as he inspected stemware for smudges.

  “Not yet.”

  The Cheese Shop’s business was increasing at a steady clip, thanks to our burgeoning Internet business, multiple orders for gift baskets, and thriving wine sales. Taking three days to run Le Petit Fromagerie was making it nearly impossible for us to swing a little time off, even with the temporary help of my industrious grandfather. A few people had applied for the sales job, but none seemed like a good fit. I don’t consider myself particular, but I do want whoever works for me to feel like family. Call me crazy.

  “Say, did you see that ice sculpture shaped like a hound’s tooth?” Matthew asked.

  To lure more tourists to town, my grandmother had cooked up an ice-sculpting contest. Ten artists had signed up for the event. Two days ago, a truck delivered huge blocks of ice, and the artists set to work. The weather, as crisp as always in February, was cooperating and keeping the ice from melting.

  “It’s whimsical,” he added.

  “That’s an understatement.” It was ten feet tall. I had a sneaking suspicion that the bubbly hygienist, a vocal advocate for flossing, was the artist. “Did you see the knight on horseback sculpture?”

  Matthew nodded. “My personal favorite is the Great Dane cuddling a litter of kittens.”

  “It definitely wins the ‘aw’ factor.”

  Some sculptures were much more detailed than others. The entries didn’t have to be completed until Sunday, when the winner of the contest would be announced.

  “Shoot.” Matthew swatted the counter. “I left the wine openers in my car. I’ll be right back.”

  As he exited through the tent door, Rebecca, my young assistant, hustled in. Her long ponytail flew behind her like a jet stream. “Alert! Alert!” Her pretty face was flushed the color of Edam wax. She skidded to a stop on the fake grass.

  “What’s wrong?” I braced her slim shoulder.

  “She’s ... she’s ...” Rebecca swallowed hard and caught her breath. “A woman bought the property next to Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm, and she’s ... she’s ...” Rebecca hiccupped once ... twice.

  I cuffed her on her slim back. “Calm down.”

  “She’s starting a honeybee farm, too.”

  I understood her concern. Rebecca had a crush on our local beekeeper. To hear her talk, Ipo Ho had created the moon and the stars.

  “She’s going to ruin him.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s enough room in Providence for two honeybee farms. Ipo’s honeybees dine on clover. Maybe the new owner will feed hers wildflowers.” Honey, with all its healing properties, had turned into a big business. Jars of Quail Ridge honey flew off The Cheese Shop’s shelves.

  “She’s trouble, you just watch.”

  Two years ago, Rebecca left her Amish community and moved to Providence with a rosy picture of what the “real world” would be. After a steady dose of Internet news and TV murder mysteries, she admitted that living in the real world could be a challenge. But she wasn’t leaving. Not any time soon. Because of Ipo.

  “Howdy-doo.” A handsome and very tall woman in her fifties, wearing a jeans outfit and turquoise-studded cowboy hat and boots, ducked beneath the scalloped door frame.

  Where was her horse? I wondered.

  “Nice place,” the woman said with a drawl as she dusted off lacy snow that had fallen onto her shoulders. “I’m Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”

  Aha! I stifled a giggle. She was the horse, complete with a cascading mane of straw-blonde hair and a square jaw.

  Rebecca gasped. “That’s ... that’s her.” She slunk back a few paces, as if nearness to the woman would mark her as a traitor.

  “You’re Charlotte, aren’t you?” She jutted out a tanned hand.

  Instinctively, I shook with her. Strong grip, perceptive eyes. I liked her. At least I thought I did. She radiated energy and enthusiasm.

  Kaitlyn Clydesdale released my hand and roamed the tent, fingering the cheese ornaments and wine bottle labels. “Ah, the aromas. Love ’em. Just like I remember at Fromagerie Bessette.”

  “Are you from around here?” I asked. I couldn’t recall having seen her before, and she would be hard to forget.

  “Lived here years ago. Moved to Texas in my twenties when I got married.”

  She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring now.

  Kaitlyn plucked a cheese card from a wheel of Vacherin Fribourg and read: “Nutty. Melts great for soups, raclettes, and gratins
. Sounds fab.” Over her shoulder, she said, “Maybe I could entice you to put together a little cheese-tasting party for my crew when we pass through town in a few months.”

  “Your crew?”

  “The Do-Gooders.”

  I’d heard about the Do-Gooders, a volunteer organization that restored historic buildings in the Midwest. All the women wore turquoise-studded hats and turquoise-studded clothing. Their show of unity reminded me of the fabulous Red Hat Society ladies.

  Rebecca whispered, “She’s lying.”

  I swatted her to hush.

  Undaunted, she pinched my arm. “Ask her what’s she doing buying the farm next to Ipo’s.”

  I shot Rebecca a look. It wasn’t like her to detest someone so out of hand, and truthfully I wasn’t picking up any bad vibes from our visitor.

  “Charlotte.” Kaitlyn swiveled and met my gaze. “I knew your—”

  “Achoooo!” A young woman with matted black curls scuttled into the tent.

  “Bless you,” I said.

  “Sorry.” Looking as miserable as a wet poodle, the young woman dabbed her chapped nose with a wadded-up tissue and gripped her classic wool coat at her throat.

  “I told you not to come inside, Georgia,” Kaitlyn said. “Go back to the car.”

  The young woman flinched at the imperious tone but obediently shuffled out. How she could balance on what had to be five-inch platform-heeled boots was beyond me.

  “Forgive me. That was my CFO. She’s a little under the weather. No need to be spreading germs.”

  “You hired a CFO for the Do-Gooders?” I said. Having one sounded pretty formal for a regional organization.

  “Oh, no. She works for Clydesdale Enterprises.” Kaitlyn replaced the cheese information card. “That’s my main business.”

  Rebecca elbowed me. “Told you so.”

  Kaitlyn eyed Rebecca. “Am I missing something? Why are you upset with me? Who are you?”

  “Rebecca Zook.” Rebecca threw back her shoulders with youthful exuberance. “And you—”

  I rested my hand on her forearm. “My assistant believes you’ve purchased the farm next to the Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm.”

  Kaitlyn smiled shrewdly. “We’re in negotiations.”

  Her revelation surprised me. Information about a farm for sale should have surfaced in The Cheese Shop. If not from Sylvie, then from any of the other dozens who liked to congregate at the shop to swap stories.

  “We?” I said. “There’s more than one of you at Clydesdale Enterprises?”

  “My business partner and I. The seller is rather eager to close, so it should be final soon.”

  “You can’t,” Rebecca blurted.

  “Young lady, I can do as I please.”

  Kaitlyn looked down her nose at Rebecca with a malicious smile that bordered on mean, and in a snap, my opinion of her changed. Was Rebecca right? Did the woman intend to bury Quail Ridge Honeyee Farm? Why, for heaven’s sake? I’m a big believer in living peaceably among one’s neighbors.

  “Now, where was I?” Kaitlyn shook her head like a horse disgruntled with its rider and drew in a deep breath. “Oh, yes, Charlotte, as I was saying before, when Georgia interrupted.” She stressed Georgia, not Rebecca. Kaitlyn had flicked away thoughts of Rebecca, the pest. “I knew your parents.”

  I fell back a step, shocked. Was that why she had come into our tent? Not to set up a cheese tasting for her crew, but to talk about my folks? Most of what I remembered about them, I’d learned from my grandparents. I was three when they died. I had a hope chest filled with memories—my mother’s linens, a copy of Wuthering Heights, my father’s box of fishing lures, LPs of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and Elvis. A therapist had told me that with time, the loss would soften, but I could feel my eyes welling with moisture.

  “Such a tragedy.” Kaitlyn strolled to me and patted my upper arm. “That darned cat.”

  I stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

  Kaitlyn placed her hand on her chest; her mouth drew into a thin line. “Didn’t you know?

  “Know what?”

  “People said your cat was roaming around the car and distracted your father.”

  My stomach clenched as a streak of orange and white zipped across my mind. Sherbet. My cat. I’d owned a cat. Until now, I’d blocked the memory from my mind. Images flickered before my eyes. I was sitting in the back seat of our Chevrolet. Sherbet was nestled in my lap. My father was driving fast and laughing. My mother laughed, too. Wind blasted through the car. We took one of the hills like a roller coaster, and my mother said, “Whee!” I whispered to Sherbet not to be scared. My father looked over the seat and winked at me. His face was full of lightness and joy. When he turned back to face the road, there was a blur. “Horses,” my mother screamed. My father swerved.

  I glowered at Kaitlyn Clydesdale. “No, that’s not what happened. Sherbet was in my arms, yes, but she was clutched in my arms.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I willed away the tears threatening. Could I be sure? Had I forged my own memory? Had I blanked out the possibility that Sherbet had bolted from my arms and made my father swerve? Any reminder of my kitty had been removed from my grandparents’ photograph albums. Had my grandmother believed Sherbet was to blame? It was my fault that we’d had a cat at all. For months, I’d begged for a cat. Kitty, kitty, kitty, I’d whined until my parents had caved. Oh, Sherbet. What happened to you?

  “Your mother was a darling friend,” Kaitlyn went on as if she hadn’t just thrown an emotional boomerang into my life. “We had such romps, she and I. She was a gifted singer, did you know? She would have been very proud of you and your accomplishments. Fromagerie Bessette is renowned.” An alarm sounded from inside her purse. She pulled out her cell phone and glanced at some message. “Oooh, I must go. I have an appointment.”

  “Wait,” I called, eager to know more about my mother, but Kaitlyn strode through the tent door without a look back.

  No sooner had the door clicked shut than it reopened, and Sylvie sashayed in. At least this time she had the sense to wear a robe.

  “I know something you don’t know,” Sylvie sang.

  Refusing to rise to the bait and eager not to dwell on the event that led to my parents’ deaths until I could talk to my grandmother and glean the truth, I said, “Rebecca, go back to the shop and get those platters I need for the photography shoot. We’ll figure out what’s up with Kaitlyn Clydesdale later.”

  “You bet you will,” Sylvie said, triumph in her tone.

  At times I wished I could pull out her wispy hair, strand by strand.

  “You’re not going to like who her business partner is,” she said.

  I strode to the buffet table cheese counter, removed everything from it, and polished it to a gleam.

  Sylvie trailed me like a hard-to-lose shadow. “I heard they want to buy up lots of property. I heard they want to take over Providence.”

  “They who?” Rebecca said.

  Sylvie kept mute. Obviously she wanted me to beg for the answer. Well, she could choke on her gossip for all I cared. She didn’t give a whit about Providence, Ohio. Her main thrill in life was to upset Matthew and her twins’ lives. Selfish, that’s what she was. Maybe she was the partner. I could see her begging her doting mother and father to buy up all the property so their darling daughter could reign supreme over the town that had snubbed her, except thanks to poor business judgment, they were broke. La-di-dah.

  “Who?” Rebecca demanded. “Tell us who.”

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Avery Aames

  THE LONG QUICHE GOODBYE

  LOST AND FONDUE

 

 

 
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