by Avery Aames
When I returned home, I felt happy and calm and very, very full. Fear of the incident the night before on the staircase vanished. Urso had repaired the banister. Vivian was behind bars. No one wanted to harm me or my family.
Like a newshound eager for the story, Rags did a cha-cha around me as I let the kitchen door swing shut. “Yes, she won, you silly cat,” I said. “I’m sure she would appreciate a good nuzzle of congratulations next time you see her.”
The doorbell rang out.
“Amy or Clair, can you get that?” I yelled.
At my order, they had scuttled upstairs to get ready for bed. So much excitement had made them wired beyond belief.
The doorbell chimed again.
“Girls?” They didn’t answer, and Matthew was driving Meredith home.
I gave Rags a good nuzzle behind the ears, then sauntered to the foyer. I turned on the porch light and peeked through the cut-glass window to the right of the door. Kristine Woodhouse stood with her daughter, both in matching patriotic dresses, their hands intertwined. Willamina stared overhead, like she was assessing the light fixtures. Kristine gazed stone-faced at the door.
I heaved a sigh. What now? I shook off the tension zipping through me and swung the door open. “It’s late,” I snapped.
“May I come in for a moment?” Typical Kristine, she didn’t bother to wait for an invitation. She pushed past me, dragging Willamina with her.
The twins hurried to the landing above us and peered over the railing.
“What the heck are you doing here?” I said through tight teeth.
Kristine glanced at her daughter.
I sighed, in for the long haul. “Amy, Clair. Please take Willamina into the study and show her your dad’s photographs of trees.”
Eager to stave off bedtime, the twins raced down the stairs and gripped Willamina’s hands as if she were their new best friend. “C’mon!” As the threesome disappeared into the study and closed the doors, their energetic chatter rose to a crescendo.
“Quietly!” I shouted.
Their chatter turned into giggles.
Kristine almost smiled. Finally she said, “I’m here to say I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For thinking your grandmother could ever be a . . . For taking potshots at . . . For . . .” She opened her hands. “For everything. I haven’t been very nice. So much went on behind closed doors. I . . .” She dropped her arms to her sides. “Ed made our lives miserable.”
“He made everybody’s life miserable.”
Her face pinched with pain. “Please give your grandmother my congratulations.”
“You should tell her yourself.”
“Yes, of course. I will. It’s late and I . . .” Kristine squeezed her lips tightly.
“What?”
“You’ve done a nice job with Fromagerie Bessette. I’m sorry I didn’t let you buy the building.”
“Me, too.” More than I would ever give her the satisfaction of knowing.
“Willamina!” Kristine said in a singsong tone. “Time to go.”
“Do I have to?” Willamina shouted from behind the study’s doors.
“Yes. Now.”
Willamina slinked into the foyer. The twins followed.
Amy said, “See you at school tomorrow,” and Willamina beamed.
I smiled. Kids. They could put their differences behind them so quickly. I glanced at Kristine and forced myself to be gracious. She had, after all, gone out of her way to come to me and apologize. “Stop by the shop soon. I’ll introduce you to some new cheeses.”
I closed the door after they left, switched off the porch light, and clapped my hands. “Okay, back upstairs, girls. I want you in bed by the time your father gets home or he’ll give me what-for.”
Sniggering, they sprinted up the stairs and disappeared into their room. I returned to the kitchen to turn off the lights, and the doorbell rang out again. What more could Kristine possibly need to say? I tramped to the door, snapped on the porch light and peered through the cut glass window. Jordan Pace stared back at me and grinned, a downright twinkle in his eyes.
I ran to the mirror hanging in the foyer, checked to make sure my eyes, nose, and mouth were in the right place, as if I could do anything in a split second if they weren’t. I finger-combed my hair, then returned to the door and whipped it open.
“You’re a little early for our date, aren’t you?” I teased.
Jordan kissed my cheek, then slung his thumbs through the loops of his jeans. A warm tingle of excitement suffused my chest and neck.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you something all week,” he said.
That he loved me madly and passionately? I had to rein myself in. I did not live in a fairy tale.
I said, “Did you want to tell me that you like my cute button nose?”
“I bought your building.”
“What?” My voice soared an octave. So much for being the epitome of charming and casual. “You’re the Providence Creative Arts corporation that Octavia told me about?”
“Actually, the name is Providence Arts and Creative Enterprises.”
I bit back a groan. Take the first letters and it was an acronym for his name—Pace. I felt liked I’d been blind-sided by a delivery truck. I forced a smile, the wheels of my mind spinning as if generated by speed-happy hamsters, trying to figure out a way to make something positive out of the news. I couldn’t.
Jordan stood straight and held his hands open, as if that would help him explain. “We bought it because we knew Kristine wasn’t going to sell to you, and we didn’t want to see you get booted out by some big developer with no sensibility about our community. You know the kind I mean, someone from Columbus and Cleveland.”
“Then, how about you sell it back to me?”
“Uh, I can’t.”
“What do you mean? Of course, you can.” I paused. He had used the word we. “Who else is in your partnership?”
“Jacky, and she really needs this, Charlotte.”
“I need it, too.” I hated that I sounded desperate, but Matthew and I had worked so hard to make the shop our own. Pépère and Grandmère had dedicated their lives to it. Owning the building would make the whole business that much sweeter.
“Jacky needs to hide her money.”
“Hide?”
“We’ve buried all her assets in the corporation.” He licked his lips. “Her husband isn’t a nice guy.”
Octavia had guessed right.
“Jacky ran out with all the cash she could find. She changed her name—”
“Peterson isn’t her last name?”
“No.”
“But won’t he be able to track her down through you?” I only paused a nanosecond before I answered my own question. “Of course, he won’t. Pace isn’t your real last name either, is it?”
Jordan offered a half-grin and a shrug. “I’ve been setting up this identity for her for a while. A move here, a move there.”
“I see.” I didn’t. Not at all. “Are you Mafia?”
“Nothing like that.”
“A cop?”
He remained silent.
“Are you ever going to tell me? Why did you move here? Why are you into cheese? How did you get the expertise? I mean, that alone would be a clue for whoever Jacky’s husband is, right? Have you really thought this through?”
Jordan laughed, that husky, wonderful laugh that I liked so well.
Of course he’d thought this through.
After a moment, he said, “Do you still want to go on our date?”
He ran a finger along my cheekbone, and I shivered. The good kind of shiver.
“Yes,” I whispered, flashing on something Rebecca had said.
Perhaps danger was not only becoming her middle name but mine, as well.
RECIPES
Smoked Salmon and Mascarpone Risotto
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 medium shallot, chopped
¼ cu
p yellow onion, chopped
1½ cups Arborio rice
1 cup dry white wine
2¾ cups chicken stock
1½ cups spinach, julienned
¼ cup fresh chives, minced
4 ounces smoked salmon, chopped into bites
1 cup mascarpone cheese
Salt and pepper
Heat 1 tablespoon of butter in 6 quart saucepan.
Add shallot and onion and cook until wilted, approximately 3 minutes.
Add rice and stir for 30 seconds.
Add wine; stir to sizzling.
Add 1 cup stock and bring to boil.
Turn heat down immediately and simmer.
When rice absorbs liquid, add 1 more cup stock.
Repeat until all stock absorbed, approximately 10 minutes. Add water if needed (up to ½ cup) to keep rice moist.
Add spinach, chives, and salmon.
Mix and cook 3-4 minutes.
Remove from heat. Add cheese and rest of butter.
Set on warm plates, garnish with chives.
Serve IMMEDIATELY.
Ham and Pineapple Quiche
1 pie shell (home baked or frozen)
Dash of white pepper
4 slices thin ham (Charlotte uses Applegate Farms Black Forest Ham), diced
2 slices pineapple, fresh, diced
1 tablespoon brown sugar
2 ounces milk
2 ounces sour cream
2 ounces light cream or whipping cream
2 eggs
2 ounces shredded Edam and Cheddar and Monterey Jack cheese
Dash of cinnamon
Sprinkle white pepper on pie shell.
Arrange meat in pie shell. Arrange pineapple on top. Sprinkle with sugar.
Mix milk, creams, and eggs.
Pour into pie crust.
Sprinkle with cheese. Dash with cinnamon.
Bake 35 minutes at 375 F until quiche is firm and lightly brown on top.
Polenta with Taleggio and Basil
6-8 PORTIONS
4 cups water
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup polenta cornmeal
1 cup fresh basil leaves, separated
2 to 4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
8 ounces Taleggio cheese, thinly sliced
Bring water and salt to a boil.
Add polenta cornmeal in a thin stream. Keep stirring until cornmeal pulls away from sides of pan (no lumps). Turn down heat to simmer for 25 minutes, stirring every 5 minutes or so.
While the cornmeal is cooking, stir-fry the basil in olive oil until crispy, then drain on paper towels.
Spoon hot polenta onto each plate. Lay a couple of slices of Taleggio cheese on each portion and finish with the fried basil.
Peanut Butter Apple Pie Sandwich
2 slices of your favorite bread
2 tablespoons creamy peanut butter
10-20 raisins
2 slices sharp Cheddar or Edam cheese (Charlotte uses a delicious Edam made at Mississippi State)
2 slices of your favorite apple (Charlotte prefers a Pippin, skin on)
Spread peanut butter on one slice of bread.
Dot with raisins.
Layer on the apples and cheese.
Add the other piece of bread, slice and enjoy.
Turn the page for a preview of
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.