Clobbered by Camembert csm-3 Read online

  “Not yet.”

  Business at Fromagerie Bessette—or The Cheese Shop, as the locals call it—was increasing at a steady clip, thanks to our burgeoning Internet business, multiple orders for gift baskets, and thriving wine sales. Taking off days to run Le Petit Fromagerie at the faire was making it nearly impossible for us to swing vacation time, 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.” The tooth sculpture 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?”

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

  “It definitely wins the ‘aw’ factor.”

  The sculpture entries didn’t have to be completed until Sunday, when the winner of the contest would be announced. I looked forward to seeing the other designs.

  “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 coltish 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, her sweet forehead crimped with worry. 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.

  I cuffed her on the 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.”

  “Relax. There’s enough room in Providence for two honeybee farms. Ipo’s honeybees dine on clover. Maybe the new owner will feed her bees 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 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 modern world could be a challenge. But she wasn’t leaving. Not any time soon. Because of Ipo Ho.

  “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 doorframe. Where was her horse? I mused. “Nice place,” the woman said with a drawl as she dusted lacy snow that had fallen from the door’s edge off 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 standing near to the woman would mark her as a traitor.

  “You’re Charlotte, aren’t you?” Kaitlyn 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. Exactly like I remember as a girl.”

  “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 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.”

  “Shhh.”

  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—”

  “Achoo!” A fine-boned young woman with matted black curls scuttled into the tent. Her classic black wool coat swallowed her up; her five-inch platform-heel boots looked as clumsy as army boots.

  “Bless you,” I said.

  “Sorry.” Seeming as miserable as a wet poodle, the young woman dabbed her chapped nose with a wadded-up tissue and gripped her 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 balanced on those heels was beyond me.

  “Forgive me,” Kaitlyn said. “That was my CFO. She’s 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 Vacherin Fribourg 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 cattle farm next to the Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm.”

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

  Her revelation surprised me. Information about a place for sale should have surfaced in The Cheese Shop, if not from Sylvie, then from any of the dozen other people 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 maliciousness that bordered on evil, and in a snap, my opinion of her changed. How rude. Nobody talked to my young friend that way. I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe Rebecca’s concerns were well founded. Maybe Kaitlyn intended to bury Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm. But why, for heaven’s sake?

  “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 we were interrupted.” She glowered at Rebecca as though she were a gnat. “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 t
o talk about my folks? Most of what I remembered about them, I had learned from my grandparents. I was three when they died. I kept 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, including your grandmother, 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. We’d owned a cat. Until now, I’d blocked the memory from my mind. Images flickered before my eyes. I was sitting in the backseat 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 the car, yes, but she was clutched in my arms.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I willed away tears threatening to fall. 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 Sherbet 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 kitty. I’d whined until my parents had caved. Oh, Sherbet. What happened to you?

  “Your mother was a darling friend,” Kaitlyn went on glibly, as if she hadn’t thrown an emotional boomerang into my life, and once again I grew uneasy. Who was she, anyway? Was Rebecca right to mistrust her? “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 Kaitlyn’s purse. She pulled out her cell phone. “Sorry, I must go. I have an appointment.”

  “Wait,” I called, eager—even if I was put off by the woman—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’s plans 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 went on.

  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 take over Providence.”

  “‘They’ who?” Rebecca said.

  Sylvie kept mute. Obviously she wanted me to be the one to beg for the answer. Well, she could choke on her gossip, for all I cared. She didn’t give a whit about Providence. 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 for cash to buy the property so she could make a name for herself in a town that had snubbed her. Except, thanks to reckless business judgment, her parents were broke. La-di-dah.

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

  CHAPTER

  Sylvie, the witch, didn’t blab. Before scurrying out of the tent, she smiled a wicked grin and cackled. Give her a broom and she could celebrate Halloween three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

  “Good riddance,” I muttered. What I wouldn’t do for a bucket of water.

  For the next hour, I remained at Le Petit Fromagerie and photographed a variety of cheese platters—a square slate one, a raw-edged granite one, and a round teak one—each laid out with a different selection of cheeses. While I worked, I started to make a list of possible business partners for Kaitlyn Clydesdale. According to Sylvie, I wasn’t going to like whoever it was. Prudence Hart, the town’s self-righteous, style-challenged society goddess came to mind. She would do anything to make waves. I wouldn’t put it past her to want to own a number of competitive businesses. She’d threatened to open her own cheese shop, except she wasn’t fond of cheese. Arlo MacMillan, a curmudgeon of the highest degree, dreamed of expanding his chicken farm, which lay to the west of Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm.

  “Move the wedge of Triple Crème Brie to the left, Meredith.” I steadied my camera while Meredith, my best friend and schoolteacher extraordinaire, fiddled with the slate platter of cheeses.

  With mid-morning light filtering through the tent’s windows, I focused on the center of the platter, which I’d adorned with goat, sheep, and cow’s milk cheeses, as well as crackers and a mound of luscious dates.

  “How’s that?” Meredith asked.

  “A bit more to the left.”

  “You’re as much of a sneak as you were in grammar school.” Meredith whisked her shoulder-length hair off her freckled face. “How dare you wrangle me into a job with the promise of tasty tidbits and then renege. And I’m not talking about gossip. I was expecting f-o-o-d.”

  I chuckled. “Don’t worry. You’ll get some cheese. But I need to takes these photos in just the right light. Updated photographs on a website draw customers. And Rebecca is more than occupied on her break.”

  I glanced at Rebecca, who was supposed to be arranging jars of honey on the pair of baker’s racks that we’d brought to the tent, but she was flirting with Ipo. She twirled a lock of hair around a finger and twisted the toe of her right ballerina slipper in the fake green grass. I couldn’t fault her. The honeybee farmer, a transplanted Hawaiian and a former fire dancer at luaus, was not only handsome but a sweetheart. I gazed at my own heartthrob, Jordan, a local cheese farmer who had offered to help Matthew lug in boxes of wine. Muscles rippled beneath his work shirt. Perspiration beaded on his chiseled face. He must have felt me looking, because he turned his head and gazed at me with such passion that heat swizzled to my toes. Over the past few months, we’d spent a lot more time together. And not only on dates. Fromagerie Bessette was in the process of adding a cheese and wine cellar beneath the shop—we wanted to offer the freshest cheese selections around as well as preserve all our shipments of wine—and Jordan was helping us design it. As the owner of the building, he had even offered to foot half of the expense. He called it an investment.

  “Yoo-hoo, where’d you go?” Meredith said. “As if I didn’t know.”

  I yanked myself back to the photo shoot and clicked off a few more pictures using a wide-angle lens. “So, have you set a wedding date?”

  Meredith and my cousin Matthew were engaged.

  She said, “We’re thinking that autumn would be—”

  “Charlotte,” Rebecca called. “What’s that cheese you said Ipo would like?”

  “That little round of Emerald Isles goat cheese. You know the one, from Emerald Pastures Farm.” A charming artisanal cheese maker north of town owned Emerald Pastures Farm. She put her heart into her work. “It’s got a luscious mushroom flavor. Very earthy. I’ve stored some in the refrigerator.�
�� In addition to the wine and cheese tastings we were offering in the tent, we planned to sell a modest selection of other cheeses and wines. I’d had a glass-fronted refrigerator delivered for the occasion. It stood between the baker’s racks.

  Rebecca pulled a hatbox-style cheese container from the refrigerator and plopped it into one of our pretty gold gift bags. “And what about the Brie?”

  “I’d suggest using the same one I’m photographing. Rouge et Noir Triple Crème.” It was a fabulously creamy Brie made by the Marin French Company, the oldest cheese manufacturer in the US. “And don’t forget the Chevrot I told you about. It’s young, so it’s sweet.”

  “Like you,” I heard Rebecca say to Ipo.

  Warm breath caressed my neck. Jordan brushed my back with his fingertips, then kissed my cheek. “Ah, true love.”

  Desire crackled through me.

  “I’ve got to return to the farm,” he whispered. “Catch you later.” He disappeared out the rear door.

  Matthew followed him, saying he had business calls to make back at the shop.

  “Earth to Charlotte.” Meredith waved a hand in front of my eyes. “Are you ever going to tell me about your trip with Jordan? You’ve been pretty mum since you got home.”

  “It was wonderful, exotic, enticing.” Jordan and I had spent a week in Switzerland, tasting cheese, sipping wine, and chatting. Well, doing more than chatting. Seven glorious days, six romantic nights. “I showed you pictures.”

  “Yes, you told me you listened to Alphorns and rode the funicular to Plan-Francey, and you toured the village of Gruyères and Chateau de Gruyères. But who is Jordan? Really?”

  Jordan had lived in Providence for five-plus years, yet he had a mysterious past that I hadn’t tapped. On our trip when I asked how he had learned to make cheese and, more particularly, how he had learned the art of affinage—the craft of aging cheeses, which he did in his huge caves for many of the smaller farms in the area—he told me a British cheese maker named Jeremy Montgomery had tutored him.