Charlotte Bessette of Providence, Ohio is the proprietor of
The Cheese Shop. As a favor to her best friend Meredith,
she takes on a catering job for a fund-raiser. Meredith has
been campaigning to turn the abandoned Ziegler winery into a
college. The city has agreed, but now the hard part begins
- raising the necessary funds to get the project off the ground.
For years, after the last Ziegler abandoned the winery,
rumors of a treasure have swirled in the small town. Other
people dismiss these rumors as nonsense, but some
people believe that the winery holds buried bodies (or even
ghosts),
as well as treasure. The mystique surrounding the winery
enhances the atmosphere of Meredith's fund-raiser, which
includes a scavenger hunt covering the entire premises of
the winery.
During the scavenger hunt, however, several quarrels break
out amongst a group of young artists who were in town for
the event. Among them are Meredith's niece Quinn and Quinn's
boyfriend Harker. Unfortunately, during the scavenger hunt,
Harker turns up dead in the wine cellar and Quinn quickly
becomes the primary suspect.
At Meredith's request, Charlotte begins investigating who
may have had a motive for murdering Harker. The chief of
police isn't very happy to have Charlotte's assistance, but
Charlotte can't stand idly by while someone could be wrongly
charged with a murder. Soon, it seems that her
investigation turns up as many suspects as there are
varieties of cheese!
The various subplots were interesting, especially the one
involving Sylvie, the mother of the twins that Charlotte
helps care for. However, the way that this subplot ended
was frustrating to me. As someone who hasn't
spoken French since grade seven, it was mildly annoying that
Charlotte's family occasionally spoke French, especially
since there was seldom anything to confirm
my hunch about what was being said. I don't find
Charlotte's boyfriend particularly likeable, and I find the
mystery surrounding his background to be just a bit
heavy-handed.
This book was especially fun for me, as a cheese lover. I
enjoyed the descriptions of every cheese, and it was easy to
imagine the tastes and textures that were depicted. I did
feel that it was a little bit confusing to keep all of the
art group members straight. They were all introduced at
once in a quick scene in which everyone was interacting, and
it made it difficult to keep them all sorted. That being
said, the characters were very relatable, and the dialogue
was realistic.
Overall, I enjoyed the book, and I
was kept guessing throughout the book as to the identity of
the killer. The author is witty and intelligent, and this
shows throughout the book.
When a body is found in a long abandoned winery, cheese shop
owner Charlotte Bessette trades in her fondue fork for a
flashlight to clear a friend’s niece of suspicion. But as
Charlotte starts to turn up the truth, the killer starts
turning up the heat.
Excerpt
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 Honey Bee 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 Players, 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 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
on stage, 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'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?"
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 knee-
high 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.
As if reading my mind, Rebecca said, "How are the twins?"
"Super."
In the course of the past year, I had fallen head over
heels for my young nieces—who weren't really my
nieces, if the truth be told. Matthew was my cousin, which
would make the girls my cousins once removed, or something
convoluted like that. But Matthew was like a brother to
me, so I'd settled on calling the twins my nieces the day
they were born, and no one seemed unhappy with the
arrangement. At the insistence of my grandparents, I had
taken Matthew and the twins 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
twins from sliding down the white oak banister of my old
Victorian home. Even beneath their frail weight, the
banister creaked. I worried for their safety but pushed the
angst aside. In many ways, children are like cheese. 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 request to
change the fund-raiser menu as well as her plan to add
mariachis for entertainment.
"Do you know what I heard?" Rebecca began facing 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 at the winery."
"Rumors." I blew a loose strand of hair off my face.
"Have you ever been inside?"
"Not on your life." Back in high school a group of
daring souls, led by Meredith's brother Freddy, stole in. I
chickened out. I had no desire to skulk through cobwebbed
rooms or socialize with the rodents that had to have taken
over the place.
Rebecca said, "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
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 junkie,
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, chérie. The
playwright is focusing 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.
She was right. My grandfather loved spending time in the
shop. He may have retired, but he needed to breathe the
pungent air inside Fromagerie Bessette on a daily basis or
he'd die.
"He's hiding, non?" Grandmère returned to my side and
peered cynically into my eyes, like a snake charmer who was
being conned by the snake.
"Oh, please," I sniffed. "You think I'm abetting him?
Maybe he's taking a little stroll. You know how self-
conscious he's become about the few pounds he's gained
since his retirement." My grandfather loved to sneak slices
of cheese from the tasting platters we set on the marble
countertop. "Look, there he is." I pointed. Pépère was
exiting the Country Kitchen across the street. "And you'll
notice he's not headed this way."
Grandmère muttered something in French, chastising
herself for not believing the love of her life, and I
smiled. Theirs was the kind of relationship I craved, aged
like a fine cheese.
"Charlotte," Rebecca said. "Did you tell your
grandmother that Meredith wants local actors to be
mariachis at the fund-raiser?"
I cocked my head. Exactly when in the last few minutes
did she think I'd had time to do that?
Color drained from my grandmother's face. "No, no, no!"
I flinched at the panic in her tone. "Why not?" I asked,
unable to mask my concern.
She didn't answer.
A shiver coursed through me. When Meredith first
suggested the idea of converting the college, my
grandmother suffered the same reaction, but she'd never
explained why. Not one to buy into rumors, I had let the
matter drop. "Is it the music?"
"It matters not. It..." Her voice trailed off. She
petted my cheek. "I must fly. Au revoir."
As she scurried out, I turned the sign in the front
window to Open. Customers bustled inside. Many sampled
cheeses, while others came to hang out and chat. With the
flurry of activity, the feeling of foreboding vanished. An
hour later, I believed nothing in the world could go wrong.
Was I ever mistaken.
The door burst open, a gust of cool air invaded the
shop, and in bounded Sylvie, Matthew's ex-wife.
With her you-owe-me attitude, enhanced lips, and
augmented breasts, Sylvie, as Grandmère would say, was all
huff and fluff. She adjusted a gargantuan leather tote over
the shoulder of her faux ocelot coat—at least I hoped
it was faux—flipped her acid-white hair off her
shoulders, and in a shrill English accent that would make
Anglophiles cringe, shouted, "Where are my babies?"
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