For Cheddar or Worse Page 5

  “Hey, Ryan,” Erin said. “That’s what I’m doing, too. They help out by eating what the other animals won’t eat.”

  “Exactly.” Ryan bobbed his head. “They keep weeds in check, and they—”

  “Enough shop talk.” Kandice patted Ryan on the arm. “We’re here for fun, right? By the way, terrific job onstage. You should—”

  “Watch out!” Ryan yelled.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Ryan reached for Kandice. Not in time. A ficus tree in a ceramic pot hurtled offstage toward her. Luckily only the tree branches struck her. The pot smacked the cement with a loud crack, just short of her feet. Kandice stumbled sideways and careened to the ground; her right arm took the brunt of the fall.

  The musicians stopped playing. Audience members gasped.

  “Kandice!” I shrieked. Heart pounding, I crouched to help. “Are you okay?”

  Erin kicked pieces of the ceramic and dirt away. Jordan dragged the ficus off of Kandice then knelt beside her.

  “I . . . Ugh,” she murmured.

  Jordan said, “Can you wiggle your toes?”

  “Half of them. I won’t be doing a two-step anytime soon,” she joked. “Am I bleeding?”

  “Only your arm,” I said and stroked her shoulder. “Don’t move.”

  But Kandice didn’t obey. She struggled to sit while tugging down the hem of her skirt and smoothing her stockings.

  Erin moaned as if the effort were hurting her. “Kandice, didn’t you hear Charlotte? Don’t budge.”

  “I’m okay,” Kandice assured her, though her wincing face told me otherwise. “Mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it won’t matter.” She forced out a laugh. “Get it?”

  Erin said, “Got it. Ha-ha. Sit still.”

  Gently Jordan manipulated Kandice’s arm. “I don’t think anything is broken.”

  I yelled to the crowd, “Is there a doctor around?”

  A woman emerged from the pack. “I’ve called my husband. He’s nearby.”

  Another woman said, “My son went to alert your grandmother.” Grandmère, as the Street Scene coordinator, needed to know of any incidents.

  I turned back to Kandice, who was running her fingers through her short hair. “Did you hit your head, too?”

  “No, but I must look a mess.”

  “You look fine.”

  Kandice swiveled her head and took in the stage. “What happened?”

  I shook my head and gazed at Erin.

  “I’m not sure,” Erin replied.

  Jordan didn’t seem to have any idea, either.

  Ryan. He had yelled for Kandice to duck. Maybe he could tell us what happened. I spied him standing close to the apron. Lara Berry was with him. She had changed into pinstriped trousers and a cashmere sweater that hugged every curve. Where had she come from? Why was she jabbing a finger into his chest? Her mouth was moving; her gaze, filled with fury.

  A cluster of people inched toward them. Others craned an ear.

  For goodness sake, what was wrong with the woman? Was she determined to alienate everyone? Hadn’t she noticed the commotion and seen Kandice fall to the ground?

  I bounded to my feet. “Erin, Jordan. I’ll be right back.” I approached Lara and Ryan. The crowd was whispering her name.

  Ryan’s voice rose above the din. “Ma’am, I told you twice already, I have no clue who you are.”

  “Oh, yes, you do. Yes. You. Do.” Lara spit out the words.

  “Only by bad reputation.”

  “Why you . . . hack,” Lara hissed. “Just wait. The press will have a field day. I’m going to out you.”

  “Excuse me. You’re going to out me? For what?”

  “For borrowing some of my phrases.”

  Ryan scowled. “I borrowed? Are you implying I stole from you?” He exhaled forcefully.

  “You did. I know it.” Lara raised a hand to slap him.

  He blocked the blow and seized her wrist. “Don’t,” he said through tight teeth.

  Lara winced and pulled free. “You have no credentials, no right to—”

  “Hey, Ryan.” I beckoned him. “Can you help with Kandice?”

  “What’s wrong with Kandice?” Lara blurted. She glanced from me to where I was pointing. “Oh no.” She dashed through the crowd to Kandice and knelt down. “Honey, what happened?”

  Honestly? Hadn’t Lara noticed the hullabaloo? Her warm-and-fuzzy triage-nurse act pleased me, although it surprised me, given how upset she had been with Kandice earlier. She ran a hand along Kandice’s arm and whispered something to her. I thought I heard the words: Got it. Was she warning Kandice?

  Kandice shivered. Did she think Lara had something to do with the accident? Was it an accident? I whirled around and studied the stage. What if someone had pushed that ficus onto Kandice? Someone like Lara, who had come out of nowhere.

  “Kandice.” Lara continued to stroke Kandice’s arm. “You poor darling.”

  “I’m so poor,” Kandice said, “I can’t afford not to pay attention.” She thumbed toward the tree and yukked loudly. “Get it? Poor . . . pay.”

  Lara didn’t crack a smile.

  Get real, Charlotte. Lara did not shove the ficus at Kandice. It was an accident, pure and simple. No one wanted to hurt her. She was the weekend’s event coordinator. Without her, the brain trust would fold.

  And yet . . .

  I studied the stage again. It looked wobbly; even more so with the musicians stomping their feet. The tree must have fallen of its own accord. Whichever numbskull had put those top-heavy ficus trees on the stage ought to be fired, except he couldn’t be; everyone working at the Street Scene was a volunteer.

  “Let me through,” a man yelled. The local livestock specialist. He was tall and slender and carrying a black medical kit. He introduced himself and asked Erin, Jordan, and Lara to move aside—Erin and Jordan did; Lara didn’t budge. After quickly assessing the situation, he started to apply goo and bandages to Kandice’s bruised arm.

  Knowing she was in competent hands, I focused on Ryan, who was shifting from foot to foot. Of course he should be acting edgy. Out of the blue, Lara had assailed him. She had called him a hack; I think she’d used the word improperly. In writer speak, a hack meant someone who was hired to write low-quality material on a short deadline. She had accused him of stealing her words. Were words or phrases copyrightable? I was of the belief that in order for material to be considered plagiaristic entire passages had to be copied or go uncredited to the author. Ryan had seemed astonished that Lara had accused him of such a thing.

  I drew near. “Ryan, is everything okay between you and Lara?”

  He shrugged. “I’d heard about her temper, but seeing as I’ve never met her, I hadn’t encountered it one-on-one. My opinion? I think she needs meds. My mother, rest her soul, would say, ‘Take it in stride.’”

  “And your father? What would he say?”

  “Dad . . .” He hesitated. “I don’t remember anything he said. He passed away years before Mom did. I was fourteen.” A muscle in Ryan’s jaw twitched. He dropped his chin and studied his fingernails.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I totally understand. My parents died when I was three.”

  Ryan slowly met my gaze. “Then you know. You might not recall word for word what they said, but you know what they stood for.”

  I hitched my head at Lara Berry. “You and she haven’t crossed paths before?”

  “Nope. Isn’t that astounding, seeing as we’ve been on parallel tracks? Even if we had, she and I are worlds apart. I like to bolster folks instead of insult them.”

  Clearly he held a bad opinion of her. I said, “It sounded like she was accusing you of plagiarism.”

  “I know, right? Where does she get off?” He shook his head. “Not a chance. Not me. Besides, we write
with completely different styles. She’s highbrow; I’m not. And in my book”—he winked—“I tell positive stories about people who succeed. She only talks about the folks she buried.”

  “Buried?”

  “You know, ruined. With her reviews. She has given a lot of farms a bad rap.” He scrubbed the top of his hair with vigor. “Jeez, I’ll bet she’s never read a word I’ve written. Provocative, that’s what she is. Look at her and Kandice.” Lara was hovering close and cooing over Kandice, petting her as if she were a delicate, injured bird. “They look like best buds now, don’t they? Bullpuckey. It’s a façade. You heard Lara back at the inn. She was ready to rip Kandice to shreds.”

  Lara’s concern for Kandice should have set my fears to rest, so why didn’t it? The accident wasn’t anything more than that, right?

  Ryan batted the air. “It’s in the past. For Kandice. For me. History. Let bygones be, my mom would say.”

  “She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

  “She was kind to a fault, with the patience of Job when it came to us kids.” He ground his teeth back and forth while staring at Lara.

  “Do you see your sisters much?” I asked, trying to put him at ease. Being verbally accosted in front of a crowd could make anyone tense.

  “I see the girls in Texas a bunch. They run a sheep farm called Udderly Delicious. They make a fabulous American-style Manchego; it’s a really smooth cheese. The sheep they use are like family.” He chuckled. “The three in Wisconsin own a delicatessen and work pretty much twenty-four-seven. Each, if you can believe it, has three kids. Count ’em. That makes eighteen. All boys. Enough for two baseball teams.” He chortled. “Serves my sisters right, the way they ganged up on me.” He pivoted. “I’d better join the lovefest.”

  He left me and knelt near Kandice. He offered his condolences. She murmured a response. Lara eyed Ryan warily, but she didn’t lash out again.

  Soon Kandice asked if she could rise to her feet. The doctor consented. Kandice offered to pay him for his services, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Take care of yourself, young lady,” he advised.

  “Young? Ha!” she said. “I’m so old, they only put one candle on my cake.”

  The doctor offered a wry smile and disappeared into the crowd. Lara offered to escort Kandice back to the inn. Erin wanted to tag along, too. She encouraged Ryan to join them. Safety in numbers, she said. Ryan agreed and wrapped an arm around Kandice to support her. I noted that she was leaning on him a tad more than necessary. After all, she had injured her arm, not her leg.

  They trooped away, and I joined Jordan. I wanted his input on what had just gone down. But we didn’t get a chance to chat, because at the same time, my grandmother showed up. She was carrying a trio of cheese tools: a wood and metal hoop cheese cutter, a green-handled cheese slicer, and a box-shaped antique cheese grater that reminded me of a sledgehammer.

  “Chérie, I am so sorry. I just heard,” Grandmère said. “The brain trust lady. Kandice. She is all right?”

  “Oui.”

  “You look rattled. Come. Take your mind off the moment. Help me with The History of Cheese.”

  “I can’t.” In all the commotion, I’d nearly forgotten our reason for coming into town. “Jordan and I have to get Meredith some knitting things and head back to the inn.”

  “All of that will wait, chérie. Meredith is not going to knit this evening, and there are no more functions tonight for your party, are there?”

  I shook my head. “We have an early wake-up call.”

  Grandmère clucked her tongue. “Like you will fall asleep after all that has occurred. Come.” She wouldn’t accept no for an answer. She ushered me forward.

  Jordan offered a consoling grin. “I’ll go to Sew Inspired.”

  “But—”

  “Freckles will be able to put together what Meredith needs,” he assured me. Freckles, an adorable pixie of a woman, owned Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe. “She’ll offer to deliver it in person, too. You know her. Go.” He shooed me away.

  Oh, how I loved him.

  My grandmother escorted me behind the premier stage. “Delilah, she is here!” She passed me the tools she was carrying. “As players step offstage, hand them the tools, one at a time.”

  “Is there any order?”

  “Non. We are improvising. There are more props over there.” She indicated a black-draped table.

  “Didn’t Delilah write a skit?”

  “Are you kidding? She thought it would be more fun to keep the actors on their toes.” Grandmère winked.

  I laughed out loud. “Admit it. Delilah couldn’t figure out what to write.”

  “Oui, you are correct.” Grandmère tapped her temple. “Delilah is clever, but this time, she had too many ideas.”

  “I heard that!” Delilah scurried toward us. “Look, the history of cheese is not easy to pin down. It predates recorded history. I wrote an outline. As you are aware, cheese was first made while transporting milk in bladders made out of ruminants’ stomachs. No one truly knows whether the trend started in Europe or Asia or the Middle East, so I versed all my actors in the history, and I want them to wing it.”

  “Do you think your audience cares about the details?” I asked.

  “The devil is in the details. Isn’t that what Sherlock Holmes says?”

  “Actually, it’s ‘God is in the details,’ and Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, the architect, said it.” I didn’t mean to sound like a know-it-all, but some of my college education, particularly art history, had actually stuck in my brain.

  “No matter,” Delilah said. “I want it to be as factual as possible.”

  “Fast and funny would be better.”

  “I don’t need a critic. Hand the tools to the actors,” Delilah ordered, “but be careful not to get them caught up in your cute dress. Now, each actor has his or her mission. One will be writing in Egyptian tombs. Another will be reading from Homer’s Odyssey.”

  “Is anyone actually going to use these tools?”

  “Oui,” Grandmère said. “In the background we have actors miming the action. For example, with this tool—” She wielded the antique cheese grater with clamp and wooden handle and, snap, the wrought iron handle broke off in her hand. The grater head dangled. “Sacre bleu! I must fix this at once.”

  “Grandmère, don’t overreact,” I said. “It’s just a cheese grater. Heavy and rusted, to boot.”

  “You do not understand. It was donated by Prudence Hart.”

  “Honestly?” I gawped, the notion beyond my ken. “Why would Prudence own such a thing?”

  “She does not own. She collects and donates all of her findings to the Historical Society.”

  I’d forgotten that Prudence had taken on the responsibility of the museum after the former curator, a flaky woman, fled town.

  “Prudence will be furious,” my grandmother went on. “I must . . . I must . . .” She clutched the pieces. “What should I do?”

  “Tape it together,” I said.

  “No, no.” Her face was flushed, her eyes filled with angst. “I must have this fixed before Prudence finds out. Charlotte, please help Delilah with the rest.” She pressed past the curtain and disappeared.

  As the drapes settled down, a shiver swizzled up my back.

  Delilah gripped my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  “Is it almost a full moon?”

  “Why?”

  “Something . . .” Another quiver skittered up my neck.

  Delilah scoffed. “Don’t tell me you’re superstitious.”

  “I’m trying not to be, but something is off. Really off. Things are breaking. Trees are falling off stages. People are snapping at each other. And with Meredith needing bed rest . . .”

  A third tremor ripped through me, and this time rattled me to my core. What the hec
k?

  CHAPTER

  6

  The History of Cheese was a huge success. The actors didn’t play it as seriously as Delilah had expected, thank heaven. Laughter abounded. When the skit ended, I helped Delilah reorganize her props—a reprisal of the play was scheduled for tomorrow night—and then I located Jordan. As predicted, Freckles had insisted on taking Meredith the knitting goodies. She even said she would teach her to knit a stitch or two, if Meredith was up to it.

  Later that night, when Jordan and I entered Emerald Pastures Inn, a number of people were sitting in the living room. Victor and Quigley Pressman, a shaggy-haired local reporter who had a penchant for wearing jaunty clothes, were playing chess at the table by the window. Quigley wasn’t staying at the inn, but he had been invited to cover the brain trust event and intended to spend all the time he could with the participants. He could be quite a gossipmonger. Shayna was nestled into a chair reading Ten Little Indians, one of my all-time favorite Agatha Christie mysteries. A lively Mozart violin concerto that I knew by the nickname of “Turkish” was playing through a speaker. Erin was stoking the fire in the brick fireplace. It crackled and spit at first, then the flame grew.

  Erin caught sight of us and smiled. “Charlotte. Jordan. It’s so good to see you. Want anything to drink?”

  A few guests were sipping from mugs; others, from snifters.

  “We’ll pass. We’re beat.” I drew near and whispered, “How’s Kandice?”

  “Resting.”

  “How about Ryan?”

  Erin’s forehead creased. “Ryan?”

  I told her about the mini-altercation between Lara and him.

  “Ah.” She grinned. “They seem to be hitting it off just fine.” She jutted a finger. “They shared a glass or two of port over there. No harsh words were exchanged. Then Lara went up to bed. Ryan’s in the study, reading. He said the ticking of our old clock was driving him crazy.” She tapped her ears. “He’s very sensitive.”

  “But cute,” I said. “You two performed well together onstage. Maybe when the brain trust is over, you two could date.”