Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery) (5 page)

“Only when I die.” They must have drawn near the door because the conversation started to link together.

Liberty said, “Noelle—”

“—is here to stay,” Shelton finished. “Live with it.”

“You’re blind, Daddy.”

Something ceramic crashed within the office. Seconds later, the door whipped open.

Liberty stomped past us without so much as a glance and strode down the hall. She disappeared in the direction of the tasting room.

Worried about Shelton, I peered into the office. He balanced on one knee as he picked up the pieces of the vase his ex-wife had commissioned.

Noelle covered her mouth with her fingertips. “They were arguing about me.”

“C’mon,” I tugged her elbow. “Handling family dramas is not in your job description.”

Moments later, as I climbed into Matthew’s Jeep, movement caught my eye.

Ashley Yeats was sneaking toward the secret entrance to Shelton’s hideout. How had he figured out where it was? Had he followed us even though Liberty had told him he wasn’t invited? Would he skip the interview with Shelton for a covert peek inside? I pitied the sap when Liberty caught him snooping. And she would. She was on the warpath. I was only sad that I couldn’t stick around and watch.

For the remainder of the afternoon, I kept busy at The Cheese Shop. There was plenty to do on a daily basis: inventory, refacing cheeses, sweeping floors, cleaning up displays, Internet PR, and so much more. On certain unglamorous days, like today, I could barely breathe. I dreamed of returning home and tuning out work by tinkering on the secretary desk—maybe even taking a private moment to read more of my parents’ love letters. How I wished I had known my folks better. My grandparents had been wonderful caretakers, but what I wouldn’t have given to have special memories with my parents carved in my mind: vacations, games, stories that were repeated year after year.

At six
P.M.
, Noelle and I tucked into the renovation project with a vengeance. We sanded the top of the secretary desk for an hour. As I had hoped, the original wood was stunning.

At seven, I rose from the tarp to stretch my legs and back, then turned up the sound on the radio that I had brought out to serenade us. The rock group O.A.R., whose initials stood for Of a Revolution, was singing its popular single, “Heaven.” While at Ohio State University, I became a fan of the emerging rock group. They played the frat and sorority parties and became a cult hit. I knew the words to all of their songs.

“Are you certain you don’t want to go to the theater with me?” I asked.

“I’m sure.” Balanced on her knees, Noelle examined the screw attachment on the legs, which were still unattached. “I want to get this baby on its feet.”

“I told you—”

“I know, I know. I don’t owe you a thing, but I want to do this, and the music is nice.” She sang along.

I joined her. When the song ended, I said, “Hungry?”

“Absolutely.” Noelle set aside the table leg and scrambled to her feet while wiping her fingers on her black jeans.

From a platter of cheese that I had brought to the garage, I slipped a morsel of Beaufort into my mouth, savoring the moist, sticky rind and flavors of alpine flowers. Noelle opted for a slice of No Woman cheese, which was made by Beecher’s Handmade Cheese in Seattle. The Cheddar-style goodness was a spicy tribute to the island of Jamaica and the Bob Marley song “No Woman, No Cry.”

“After I finish up,” Noelle said, “I think I’ll take a hike.”

“At night?”

“I like exploring in the dark. It’s peaceful. I’ve got a flashlight in the glove compartment of my BMW. I could use the break. My official job starts tomorrow. After that I’ll be so busy that I won’t have time to investigate.” She grinned. “Hey, wipe those worry lines off your forehead. I’ll be fine. Really. A girl raised in an orphanage knows how to navigate in the dark. It’ll be like I’m on a quest.”

Beside the cheese platter sat a couple of glasses of Mendoza Malbec, a red wine with violet aromas and raspberry and currant flavors. Noelle picked up a glass and swirled the wine while assessing it at an angle. “Great legs.”

“That’s what that journalist said about you earlier,” I teased.

“Ew, ick, bad memory.” Noelle wrinkled her nose. “That put me off taking another sip. Probably better to keep a clear head. Instead, if it’s okay with you, I’ll throw together a grilled cheese.” She took another bite of the No Woman cheese. “Mmm, how I love the aromas of allspice and cloves.”

“Have at it,” I said.

In less than five minutes, I showered and dressed in a sweater and comfy trousers. As I was exiting through the kitchen, I found Noelle crouched beside Rags in his wicker bed. She cooed a lullaby to him.

“You’re getting spoiled, Ragsie,” I said.

He gave me a look that said,
I deserve it
,
and he was right. He did. He missed the twins and Rocket as much as I did.

• • •

When I arrived at the Providence Playhouse, the place was buzzing with energy. A dress rehearsal always generated excitement. While crewmen strung twinkling lights around the backdrop of the
Mayflower
and Plymouth Rock, my good pal Delilah—owner of the Country Kitchen Diner and current director of the Thanksgiving Extravaganza—was positioning twenty-plus children, each dressed in either a Pilgrim or a Wampanoag Indian costume, at specific places onstage.

When she was done, Delilah brushed her long, dark curls over her shoulders and planted her hands on her ample hips. “Perfect. Now, stand there and don’t move.” Her instructions came across loud and clear.

“
Chérie. Bonsoir.
” My grandfather beckoned me to the right wing of the stage where he had set up a buffet to feed the group. Savory aromas wafted from the fixings: turkey pizza, turkey-cranberry sliders, and turkey meatballs. My grandfather was a firm believer that turkey was not only for Thanksgiving dinner.

“You look
superbe
,” he said and kissed me,
la bise
—the French tradition of a peck to one cheek and then the other.

“So does your meal, Pépère
. Vous étes un chef merveilleux.
” I pinched his cheek. He enjoyed when I complimented him about being a good cook.
“What have you put on the pizza?”

“Turkey, chèvre, shallots, and my special seasonings. Simple but tasty.” He patted his generous stomach, which protruded over a well-stocked tool belt. “I will eat only one slice.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, disbelieving. He loved to nibble and was forever trying to control his weight.

“I have promised your
grandmère
. Oh”—he tapped his head and gestured to the far end of the table—“I made a gluten-free Italian herb pizza for Clair, and Rebecca brought two pear and Roquefort quiches from the shop.”

I glanced around. “Where is Rebecca?”

“She left.”

“Left?”

“She has a date.”

“A date?” I repeated like a parrot.

“She and her boyfriend are no longer engaged.”

“What?” Did my voice do a glissando?

“They wish to make sure they are well suited, so I am told.” Pépère petted my arm.

“Whose choice was it to break up?”

“I would gather it was Rebecca’s decision. She seems fine with the arrangement. Young love, it is sweet,
non
?”

I nodded. “Sometimes it can be bittersweet.” Poor Ipo, the former fiancé. I would bet he was heartsick. He adored Rebecca.

“Speaking of love, your
grandmère
is in love with the new theater equipment.” He jutted a finger. “Look.”

On the left side of the stage, my irrepressible grandmother, dressed in black turtleneck, trousers, and tennis shoes, was slinging on a Peter Pan–style flying harness. A crewman tightened the straps.

“
Attention.
” Grandmère, who seemed more than frazzled—her spiky gray coif was a little hairy-scary—clapped her hands sharply. “Gather round,
mes amis
. We will have a demonstration.”

The children—which included my preteen nieces who weren’t really my nieces; they were cousins once removed—broke from their spots onstage, all chattering with anticipation.

“Quiet, everyone.” Delilah formed a T for
time-out
with her hands. The children mimicked her. “Let’s pay attention to what Mrs. Bessette is going to show us.”

Grandmère, who was finally accepting that she, as mayor of our fair city as well as theater manager and full-time fund-raiser, wore too many hats, had ceded her director’s hat to Delilah.

“Where is the duck?” Grandmère asked.

“Thanksgiving duck, step forward,” Delilah said.

Pépère said, “Do you know turkey was not served for the original Thanksgiving dinner? The feast consisted of duck and venison and probably corn, onions, and squash.”

I adored how much he knew about our culture. When he and my grandmother migrated from France to the United States, they adopted everything American. The history as well as the idioms.

“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Duck,” Delilah called. “Where are you?”

“Here I am.” A preteen boy in a mallard costume with green head and black and white tail feathers emerged from the rear of the pack of children. Tentatively he raised his hand.

“Don’t look so scared. You’ll be safe in this getup,” Delilah said. “Did you see all the safety latches our talented crewman secured? Now, we’ll raise you up like this. Watch.” She gestured to a second crewman in the wings. The guy pulled on a rope that had a sizable sandbag attached to one end, and my grandmother rose slowly off the ground. “With a push, you’ll sweep to one side and return.” Delilah gave Grandmère a nudge.

“Whee-e-e-e!” Grandmère crooned.

All of the children cheered except the gawky boy, who looked pea green with fear and doubt.

My niece Amy, a spitfire of a tomboy, elbowed the kid. “If you don’t want to do it, I will.” She had been given the role of warrior counselor to the lead Indian, Massasoit. According to her, any role would be better than a warrior counselor—no lines. Like my grandmother, Amy was a ham at heart.

Delilah said, “All right, that’s all the time we have for the demonstration. Let’s take a dinner break so the crew can get back to work on the stage. Remove your costumes and wash your hands. We’ll rehearse in street clothes afterward.”

“I must return to the set.” Pépère pulled a mini power drill from his tool belt and revved it.

“Aunt Charlotte.” Clair, the younger of the twins by minutes, raced to me and threw her arms around my waist. Her Pilgrim hat fell to the stage. She looked up at me with the eyes of an old soul.

I stroked her silky blond hair. “I’ve missed you, too.”

Amy scurried to join the group hug and then whipped off her Indian headdress and said, “Clair, I saw Daddy and Meredith by the food table. They’ve brought ice cream for everyone.”

“Yay!” Clair clapped her hands.

“Dinner first.” I wagged a finger as if I had control over them.

They scampered away, giggling, and Delilah joined me. Her skin glistened with perspiration; her eyes sparkled with delight. A former Broadway actress, Delilah had returned home to Providence when New York proved too tough. She took over her father’s diner and found great pleasure there, but she yearned for a creative outlet. Directing, acting, and writing local plays had turned out to be just what she had needed.

“Your houseguest stopped in to the diner at lunchtime,” Delilah said. “Nice gal. Good little journal writer. I enticed her with a grilled Swiss, bacon, fig jam, and scallions sandwich.”

“You could entice me with that,” I joked.

“Like you would come in on your own.” Her mouth turned down in a frown. “You never call, you never write. With Jordan out of town, you’ve turned into a hermit.”

I gave her the evil eye. “I work for a living. I’m tired at night. And I made it to girls’ night out this week while you didn’t. What were you doing on Monday anyway?”

“Taking a class.”

“In what? Anatomy?” I teased.

“As if. I attended a writing workshop in Columbus. A four-week course. My love life is dormant.”

“What about—”

“We broke up.”

Was something in the air? First Rebecca and her beau, and now Delilah and hers? I vowed to be extra vigilant of my relationship with Jordan, except I was certain that absence made the heart grow fonder. I missed him so much.

“We weren’t in sync,” Delilah went on. “The age difference was a little weird. You were right.”

“Me?” I gulped. “You didn’t end it because of something I said, did you?” I would hate it if I were responsible for inserting a wedge into the relationship.

“No. It’s . . .” She ran her fingers down her long neck. “Another time, okay?” She tilted her head. “Have you heard from Jordan?”

“Briefly.”

“I’m worried about you.”

And I was worried about her, but Delilah was one of those people that kept a tight rein on her emotions. I wouldn’t pry. Not tonight, anyway. “Speaking of worried, Pépère was concerned about my grandmother flying across the stage.”

“She begged me.” Delilah held her palms out. “What was I to do? You know your grandmother. As stubborn as an ox. It wasn’t like she was on a zip line sailing across a canyon.”

“Hello-o-o.” Meredith, my best-best friend, a sun-kissed beauty who appeared even younger since her honeymoon with my cousin, joined us. “You two are gossiping, aren’t you? Don’t leave me out.” The three of us had been buddies since grade school. More often than not, Meredith had been the instigator in our wild childhood escapades, though no one would suspect that now. A schoolteacher and advocate for higher education, she followed rules to the letter.