The Long Quiche Goodbye (29 page)

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Avery Aames’s next book
in the Cheese Shop Mysteries . . .

Lost and Fondue

Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!

“The Ziegler Winery will be the perfect site, Charlotte. So historic!” Meredith, my best friend since grade school, twirled in the middle of The Cheese Shop, arms spread wide, the flaps of her hot orange raincoat fluting outward. Moisture from today’s rainfall sprayed off of her like a sprinkler. “With just a pinch of
mystère
.”

I shuddered. “More than just a pinch.”

“Fiddle-dee-dee!” Meredith spun again, bubbling with the kind of excitement I expected from a kid on Christmas, not a thirtysomething elementary schoolteacher.

“Whoa, whirling dervish.” I leashed her in before the zippered corners of the jacket could slaughter every display I had set out. April was the best time of year to add fresh touches to Fromagerie Bessette, before tourist season kicked into high gear. I’d added amber-colored tablecloths embroidered with spring motifs to all the display barrels, and mounded them with wheels of tasty Gruyère and decorative containers of pesto, mustards, and jams. I’d stacked them with tasty crackers like my favorites made of goji berries and pistachios. My grandfather, Pépère, said I was inviting disaster, putting the jars out where little children could accidentally whack them in passing. But children weren’t what I was worried about at the moment—Meredith and her unbridled enthusiasm were. I steered her to a safe place.

“Just think what turning the abandoned winery into a liberal arts college will do for our town,” Meredith went on.

Bring an odd assortment of lookie-loos, that’s what.

Back in the late eighteen hundreds, Zacharia Ziegler, one of Providence, Ohio’s, first mayors, landed on the idea to build a winery. Not just an ordinary winery. A mock-castle with spires and towers. Its sprawling grounds, befitting a king, dwarfed the nearby Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm. But then Ziegler’s wife and son went insane, and Ziegler shut down the operation. In 1950, upon her father’s death, Ziegler’s kooky daughter deeded the winery to the town of Providence and hightailed it to New York. The town council suggested the winery be boarded up.

“Oh, did I tell you?” Meredith glanced over both shoulders, as if expecting to be overheard. She couldn’t be. It was only seven A.M. I didn’t open the shop until nine. “
Vintage Today
has been at the winery all week giving it a facelift. But, shhhh, it’s a secret.”

Vintage Today
is a home makeover show that doesn’t know the word:
understatement
. I could only imagine what they’d do with the winery’s oak-paneled tasting rooms and the musty cellars.

Meredith removed her hot orange, paperboy-style hat and fluffed her tawny hair. “Isn’t it exciting? We’ll have so many new faces. Professors and administrators and—” She cut a sharp look toward the kitchen. “What’s that?”

“What?” My heart did a jig.

“That incredible smell.”

I chuckled at my overreaction. Talking about Ziegler’s had put me on edge. “Honey-onion quiche.” In addition to selling cheese, I offered homemade quiches. I tried to come up with a new recipe every week. Today’s was made with honey from Quail Ridge, applewood-smoked bacon, sweet Vidalia onions, and Emmental cheese to give it a nice bite. The first batch was minutes from coming out of the oven.

“I have to buy one before I leave.”

“I’ll give it to you, compliments of the house.”

“You’re the best. Anyway, where was I?” Meredith tapped her lower lip with her index finger. “Right. The big bash to celebrate. It’s tomorrow. I’ve invited potential donors. Colleges need a constant flow of cash, you know. I thought we’d have mariachis at the entrance.”

“I adore Latin music, but why mariachis?”

“They’re festive. Maybe some of your grandmother’s actors will dress up in serapes and sombreros and carry guitars.”

Something this avant garde would be right up Grandmère’s alley. In addition to being town mayor, she ran the Providence Playhouse, which puts on a mixed bag of productions, to say the least.

“They won’t have to play the guitars, of course,” Meredith went on. “They’ll pretend. Karaoke style, you know. Piped through speakers. I’ll have the gals at Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe help me decorate. Doesn’t it sound fun?” She painted the air with her fingers. “And we’ll have a scavenger hunt to look for the buried treasure.”

“That’s a rumor.”

“Old Man Ziegler swore on his deathbed that there was treasure.”

I let out a mini exasperated sigh. If something valuable was buried beneath the winery, I’d bet dimes to dollars Ziegler’s daughter had unearthed it before she skipped town. Unless, of course, she’d found something else buried there, and that’s why she really left.

“Let me show you what else I have planned.” Meredith pulled a piece of purple haze paper with frayed edges from her tote and waved it.

The timer in the kitchen tweeted.

“Give me a sec.” I hurried to the rear of the shop, pulled the quiches from the oven to cool, grabbed the quickie breakfast I’d intended to eat in the silence of my office, two floral napkins, a knife, and a bottle of Kindred Creek spring water, and led my friend through the stone arches into the wine annex that abutted the main store. I set the breakfast on one of the mosaic café tables, poured the water into two of our big-bowled wineglasses, and offered Meredith half a croissant swathed with soft Taleggio cheese and homemade raspberry jam. Melt-in-your-mouth goodness.

As I took my seat, Meredith handed me the list. In addition to the scavenger hunt, she’d written down sack races, tag football, and Frisbee contests. Over fifty people had been invited.

“Oh, I almost forgot the main reason I came to see you,” Meredith said, her mouth half-full. A tiny moan of gourmet delight followed her words. “I want you to serve fondue at the party.”

I gulped. Fondue is not your typical buffet item. It’s lovely for an intimate group of six or eight, but fifty or more? On a day’s notice? Oh, my.

“I want lots of different kinds of fondues.” Meredith ticked her fingers. “A cow’s milk, a goat’s milk, and a sheep’s milk.”

“Sheep’s milk cheese doesn’t really melt well.”

“Sure, you know best. Anyway, it’ll fit into the party’s theme.
Lost and Fondue
. Get it? We’re
finding
a new college.” She giggled, tickled with her cleverness. “And I want Matthew to put on a wine tasting.”

My cousin, a former sommelier, was my partner in The Cheese Shop and Meredith’s flame.

“I know it’s last minute, but please say yes. Please?”

How could I say no in the face of her excitement? I nodded.

Meredith leaped to her feet. “Yippee. Let’s have platters of cheese, too. You have to include that Humboldt Fog and, hmmm, that rosemary-crusted sheep’s cheese.”

“Mitica Romao?”

“That’s it. And that Red Hawk from the Cowgirl Creamery. I made an open-faced salmon melt, like you suggested. Major yum!”

Red Hawk cheese was one of my all-time favorites. It had a buttery flavor and the smoothness of a Camembert. The closer to room temperature it was served, the better. That was true for any cheese.

“Did I tell you that I’ve invited my niece and her art class from Ohio State University to commemorate the event?”

The last time I’d seen Quinn, I was her babysitter.

“I told you she’s studying fine arts, didn’t I? She’s part of this tight-knit group that hopes to go on to the Sorbonne or to the Pasadena Art College of Design or the Pratt Institute. They’re coming to paint pictures of the winery before it becomes a college. Sort of like a Degas gathering. I’ve gotten them some press. Isn’t that cool?” Meredith polished off her breakfast, swigged some water, then rose from her chair. “I can’t wait to tell my brother you said yes. You remember Freddy, don’t you?”

I warmed all over, remembering my first kiss with Freddy on stage, behind the curtain, in the Providence Elementary auditorium. He was eight, I was seven. He lips had tasted like peanut butter.

“I always thought the two of you would have hooked up.”

When Freddy was a senior, he had asked some other junior to the prom. I’d cried for days.

“You and he would have been terrific. You both have so much energy, and you’re kindhearted, and—” Meredith’s voice caught ever so slightly. “Did I tell you he adores the Food Network and classic films and juicy mysteries, just like you?”

She had. Many times.

“But now you’re with Jordan, and I’m so happy for you.”

Over the past few months, I’d been dating Jordan Pace, one of our local cheese makers, a man with the good looks of a movie star, the voice of a crooner, and the edginess of a gambler. Except in his case, he liked to keep his past—not his cards—close to his chest.

Meredith glanced at her watch. “Gotta go. Quiche?”

I packaged a pie in a gold box, tied it with strands of raffia, and handed it to her.

Seconds after she departed, Rebecca, my twenty-two-year-old assistant, trotted in dressed in a yellow raincoat and matching knee-high boots. She smacked the heels of her boots on the rug by the front door to rid them of water, then hurried to the back of the shop.

“Morning, boss.” She whipped off her coat and hung it on a peg at the rear of the shop. Beneath, she wore a yellow crocheted sweaterdress that fit her coltish frame perfectly and looked suspiciously new. I kept myself from commenting on her spending habits. She didn’t need a mother hen. She set straight to work, unwrapping cheeses and laying them on the cutting board. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Lovely,” I lied. An inch of rain in less than twenty-four hours wasn’t my idea of beautiful, just sloppy. A foot of snow and a snowball fight with Matthew’s twin girls—now, that would be fun.

As if reading my mind, she said, “How are the twins?”

“Super.”

In the course of the past year, I had fallen head over heels for my preteen nieces. At the insistence of my grandparents, I had taken my cousin and his girls into my home when Matthew’s wife abandoned him for a cushier life with Mumsie and dear old Dad back in their cottage in England. Cottage, ha! A twelve-acre estate complete with a bowling alley and a dressage ring. So far, having the four of us live under one roof was working out just fine. If only I could stop the girls from sliding down the white oak banister of my old Victorian. Even beneath their frail weight, it creaked. I worried for their safety but pushed the angst aside. In many ways, children are like cheese, I reminded myself. Wrap them too tightly with protective wrap, and they’ll suffocate.

I tied a brown apron over my chinos and gold-striped sweater and joined Rebecca at the cheese counter.

“Did I see Meredith leaving the shop?” she asked.

I brought her up to speed about Meredith’s plan to convert the winery into a college.

“Ooooh.” Rebecca began refacing the surfaces of the cheeses with a fine-edged knife while I arranged the prepared cheeses in the display case. “I heard there’s buried treasure there.”

“Rumors.” I blew a loose strand of hair off my face.

“Have you ever been inside?”

“Not on your life.” Back in high school, Meredith and a group of daring souls had stolen in, but I’d chickened out. I’d had no desire to skulk through cobwebbed rooms or socialize with the rodents that had to have taken over the place.

“You know, on
CSI: New York
, there was this story about—”

The grape-leaf-shaped chimes over the front door jingled, and Grandmère chugged inside, wagging her gnarled finger. “Where is your grandfather?”

She strode to the back of the shop, the flaps of her raincoat furling open and revealing a bright pink sweater and patchwork skirt. I smiled. My grandmother might be in her seventies, but she still had the style of a hip gypsy and the energy of a locomotive going downhill with no brakes.

She peeked into the kitchen and into the walk-in refrigerator. “I need him at the theater.”

“What’s the play you’re doing this spring, Mrs. Bessette?” Rebecca asked.

“A new playwright’s work:
No Exit with Poe.
” My grandmother gave a dramatic flourish of her hand. “Edgar Allan Poe’s poetry, as interpreted by the characters of Garcin, Estelle, and Inez.”

“That makes no sense,” I said.

“Why?” Rebecca asked. Before leaving her Amish community and moving to Providence, Rebecca had never been to the theater. Now, she was an empty vessel eager to be filled with knowledge. In addition to being a TV mystery junky, she read a play a week.

I said, “Because
No Exit
is an absurdist play about three people in hell who probe each other’s painful memories. It has nothing to do with Poe.”

Grandmère sidled up to me and tapped my nose with her fingertip. “That is where you’re wrong. I intend to focus on Sartre’s main theme, the suffering of being, as seen through the poetry of Poe. We’ll get rave reviews, mark my words.” She scuttled to the wine annex and looked inside. “Where is your grandfather?”

“Not here.”

“He said he was going for a cup of coffee at the diner, but I know him. He can’t resist coming to The Cheese Shop. Oh, Etienne!” she called in a singsong manner.