by Avery Aames
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
RECIPES
Teaser chapter
PRAISE FOR
Lost and Fondue
“Avery Aames has cooked up a delectable culinary mystery with a juicy plot and a tasty twist. Lost and Fondue is fun, flirty, and full of local flavor . . . A tasty morsel of a mystery that will leave you hungry for more.”
—Kate Carlisle, national bestselling author of
the Bibliophile Mysteries
The Long Quiche Goodbye
“[A] delightful debut novel.”
—Lorna Barrett, New York Times bestselling author
“A delicious read. Charlotte Bessette is a winning new sleuth, and her gorgeously drawn world is one you’ll want to revisit again and again. More please.”
—Cleo Coyle, national bestselling author of
the Coffeehouse Mysteries
“Rich characters, decadent cheeses, and a scrumptious mystery.”
—Krista Davis, author of the Domestic Diva Mysteries
“Avery Aames serves up a yummy mystery featuring cheese purveyor Charlotte Bessette, an adorable new character whose love of family rivals her love of good food. Fans of amateur sleuths, prepare to be charmed.”
—Joanna Campbell Slan, author of
the Agatha Award–nominated Paper, Scissors, Death
“Absolutely delicious! This is the triple cream of the crop: a charming heroine, a deceptively cozy little town, and a clever cast of characters. This is more than a fresh and original mystery—Aames’s compassion for family and friends shines through, bringing intelligence and depth to this warm and richly rewarding adventure.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha Award–winning author of
Drive Time
“The charm of the story is greatly enhanced by a very rich cast of characters.”
—Booklist
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Avery Aames
THE LONG QUICHE GOODBYE
LOST AND FONDUE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
LOST AND FONDUE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2011
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-51450-4
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Jackson. This One’s for you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks are owed to so many who have helped me on this journey.
First, thank you to my husband, my port in the storm. You keep me on course. To my sister and the rest of my family for your love. To my critique partners Krista and Janet for your honesty and creativity. To my blog pals at Mystery Lovers Kitchen and Killer Characters for making me think outside the recipe box. To my Cozy Promo pals for a great forum where new ideas are welcomed. To my Sisters in Crime Guppies and subgroups for your endless enthusiasm. To Kim Lionetti and the Bookends Literary Agency team for your counsel and friendship. To the Berkley Prime Crime team of Kate Seaver, Katherine Pelz, Kaitlyn Kennedy, Teresa Fasolino, and Annette Fiore Defex for your vision and your artistic talents. To Dana Kaye and your publicity team for such attention to detail.
Thank you to bookstore owners everywhere, but most particularly to those who have welcomed me on this journey. Thank you to librarians. Over the years, you have inspired me to read and to share my love of reading with others.
And last but not least, thank you to all my readers. Thank you for your emails and comments on my blogs or social networking posts. You make me smile on a daily basis.
CHAPTER 1
“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 red raincoat fluting outward. Moisture from today’s rainfall sprayed off 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 school teacher.
“Whoa, whirling dervish.” I reined her in before the zippered corners of her 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, as well as tasty crackers 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. A few months ago, a handful of Providence teachers and a band of concerned parents decided that Providence needed a college. They invited potential donors to join the quest. Meredith not only suggested that they convert the Ziegler Winery into the college, but that they hold a fund-raiser there.
Back in the late eighteen hundreds, Zachariah Ziegler, one of Providence’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. Then Ziegler’s wife went insane. She killed her son and committed suicide. Soon thereafter, Ziegler shut down the operation. In 1950, upon her father’s death, Ziegler’s 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 leaned in close, 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 was a home makeover show that didn’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 newsboy-style cap 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 Winery had put me on edge. “Honey-onion quiche,” I said. In addition to selling cheese, The Cheese Shop 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. I know it’s short notice, since it’s tomorrow, but I thought we’d add 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 put 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 an 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 found a body buried there—another rumor—and that was why she’d 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 kitchen at 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. More than 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. She’d hired me at the onset to provide cheese platters and finger food for the event. Fondue was not your typical buffet item. It was lovely for an intimate group of six or eight, but fifty or more? On a day’s notice? Oh, my.
“You can do it, right? Of course you can. You’re so incredible. Nothing fazes you. 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 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 add champagne to the wine tasting.”
My cousin, a former sommelier, was my partner in The Cheese Shop and Meredith’s flame.
“I know the additions are last-minute, but please say you can do it all. Please?”
How could I say no in the face of her excitement? I nodded.
Meredith leaped to her feet. “Yippee. Oooh, on the platters of cheese, you’ve simply got 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?” Meredith said.
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 the Pratt Institute or the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena. 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 older brother you said yes. You remember Freddy, don’t you?”
I warmed all over, remembering my first kiss with Freddy onstage, behind the curtain, in the Providence Elementary auditorium. He was ten, I was seven. His lips had tasted like peanut butter.
“I always thought the two of you would have hooked up,” Meredith said.
When Freddy was a senior in high school, he had asked a junior to the prom and not me, a lowly freshman. I’d cried for days.
“You and he would have been terrific together.”
Except he married the junior the summer following graduation and had a child—Quinn—five months later. Freddy was charming but impulsive.
“You both have so much energy, and you’r
e 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?”
While I packaged a pie in a gold box and tied it with strands of raffia, she kept talking about Freddy and her niece and the other talented artists.
Seconds after she departed, Rebecca, my young assistant, trotted in dressed in a yellow raincoat and matching kneehigh boots. She smacked the heels of her boots on the rug by the front door to rid them of water.
“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 sweater dress that fit her coltish frame perfectly and looked suspiciously new. I kept myself from commenting on her spending habits. She didn’t need me to mother her. 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 fresh snow and a snowball fight with Matthew’s twin girls—now, that would be fun. We hadn’t had snowfall in weeks and probably wouldn’t until next year.