Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery)

PRAISE FOR
THE CHEESE SHOP MYSTERIES

To Brie or Not to Brie

“A mouthwatering mystery with characters as colorful as its autumn setting and a plot that twists and turns, keeping the reader guessing right up until the end. Enticing and intriguing, I was thoroughly engaged from the very first page.”

—Jenn McKinlay,
New York Times
bestselling author

“An engaging murder mystery starring a courageous amateur sleuth.”

—
Genre Go Round Reviews

“Entertaining and informative . . . [An] education in all things cheese. Deserves a spot on your To-Be-Read list.”

—
Gumshoe Review

Clobbered by Camembert

“For those who are unfamiliar [with The Cheese Shop Mysteries], we strongly recommend that you give these books a read.”

—
Culture: the word on cheese
magazine

“The setting may be winter but that makes this is a perfect cozy to curl up in front of the fire to read.”

—
Escape with Dollycas

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. Take an engaging, sassy protagonist willing to do anything for friends and family, add a delicious yet mysterious hero, mix in a yummy setting, top it all with a scrumptious plot with enough twists and turns to keep you guessing to the very end—and voilà! A tasty morsel of a mystery that will leave you hungry for more.”

—Kate Carlisle,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Bibliophile Mysteries

“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
The Other Woman

“The charm of the story is greatly enhanced by a very rich cast of characters.”

—
Booklist

“Avery Aames delivers another deliciously fast-paced, twisty mystery filled with lovable, quirky characters and Charlotte’s delightful attempts at amateur sleuthing. Come sample what Fromagerie Bessette has to offer. I guarantee you’ll be back for more.”

—Julie Hyzy,
New York Times
bestselling author of the White House Chef Mysteries and the Manor House Mysteries

“Fans of Aames’s
The Long Quiche Goodbye
will be just as pleased with the latest mystery . . . Settle in with a nice cheese, a glass of wine, and enjoy
Lost and Fondue
.”

—
Lesa’s Book Critiques

The Long Quiche Goodbye

Agatha Award Winner for Best First Novel

“Avery Aames’s delightful debut novel . . . is a lovely Tour de Fromage. It’s not just Gouda, it’s great!”

—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,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Coffeehouse Mysteries

“Rich characters, decadent cheeses, and a scrumptious mystery. A bold new series to be savored like a seductive Brie.”

—Krista Davis, national bestselling 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
Death of a Dowager

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Avery Aames

THE LONG QUICHE GOODBYE

LOST AND FONDUE

CLOBBERED BY CAMEMBERT

TO BRIE OR NOT TO BRIE

DAYS OF WINE AND ROQUEFORT

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

DAYS OF WINE AND ROQUEFORT

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

Excerpt from
Inherit the Word
by Daryl Wood Gerber copyright © 2014 by Daryl Wood Gerber.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY
®
PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-13813-1

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2014

Cover illustration by Teresa Fasolino.

Cover design by Jason Gill.

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.

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.

To every single person in my family. You fill my heart with joy.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Your success and happiness lies in you. Resolve to keep happy, and your joy and you shall form an invincible host against difficulties.

—
H
ELEN
K
ELLER

First and foremost, thank you to my family and friends for loving me and understanding the hours and focus it takes for me to write a book. I’m nuts, yes, but you all knew that. Thank you to my sweet lifelong friends, Jori and Carol, for your support. Thanks to my talented author friends, Krista Davis, Janet Bolin, Kate Carlisle, and Hannah Dennison, for your insight and words of wisdom. Thanks to my brainstormers at PlotHatchers. Thanks to my blog mates on Mystery Lovers’ Kitchen and Killer Characters. And thanks to the Sisters in Crime Guppies, a superb online writers’ group.

Thanks to those who have helped make the Cheese Shop Mysteries a success: my fabulous editor, Kate Seaver; Katherine Pelz; Marianne Grace; Kayleigh Clark; and my cover artist, Teresa Fasolino. I am so blessed.

Thank you to my business team. You know who you are!

Thank you librarians, teachers, fans, and readers for sharing the world of a cheese shop owner in a quaint, fictional town in Ohio
with your friends.

And last but not least, thanks to my cheese consultant Marcella Wright and my wine consultant Keith Mabry. I love research; you guys make it that much more fun!

Anything worth having is worth suffering for, isn’t it?

—
DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES,
J. P. M
ILLER

“Get a move on, Charlotte Bessette,” I muttered. Time and I were not fast friends. On any given day, I felt like I was behind. Rags, my sweet Ragdoll cat, twitched his tail and meowed, the little taskmaster. When my cousin Matthew and his twins moved out a few weeks ago, I made a pact with myself to refurbish each of the rooms in my Victorian home, one at a time, after work at Fromagerie Bessette and on weekends. I had a to-do list so long that it would make an obsessive person nuts. Me? Okay, I was nuts.

Seeing as many tasks were going to be messy, I had decided to convert my rarely used garage into a workshop. But before tackling the job, I needed sustenance. I stood in my kitchen preparing an appetizer that was fast becoming one of my favorites: Charlotte’s Nirvana. To make the appetizer, I chose a sliver of an heirloom tomato, a hearty slice of San Joaquin Gold, which was a buttery, Cheddar-like cheese, and a portion of prosciutto. I stacked the trio on top of sourdough slathered with homemade pesto and cut it into bite-sized pieces. I popped one into my mouth, set the rest on a platter, covered them with a checkered napkin, poured a glass of water, and with Rags trailing me, traipsed to the garage . . . workshop.

The space teemed with books and boxes filled with discarded clothing bound for the homeless shelter. My mountain bike and cross-country skis—neither used in well over a year—hung on the wall. A sizable wine cooler that contained nearly sixty bottles of wine, all recommended by my savvy cousin, stood in the far corner and hummed with energy. I set the snack on a red metal cart that held my tools, then pushed everything from the center of the garage to the sides and laid out a tarp. Cool air whistled through the opened windows and the pedestrian door to the garage, but I was too revved up to care.

I moved the Tiffany desk lamp, Chippendale side tables, and antique desk from the office to the workshop with a dolly. Matthew had promised to help me repaint the office; meanwhile, I intended to repair the furniture. Rags paraded beside me. He tilted his chin with curiosity. I said, “Relax, buddy, I’m not going anywhere.”

The secretary desk was first on my makeover agenda. My great-grandfather on my mother’s side had purchased the desk in the early 1900s. Sometime between then and now, someone had given the desk a coat or two of murky brown paint—why was beyond me.

Intent on restoring the desk to its original beauty, I set a can of stripper and a stack of sanding paper on the tarp. Next, I donned a pair of gauntlet gloves to keep my hands from becoming shoe leather, and I strapped on a pair of goggles. Using a power screwdriver, I disassembled the desk. I placed the organizer cubby, carved legs, and dovetail drawers on the tarp, and then eyed the desktop.

“I’ll sand the belly first,” I said to Rags. He mewed his assent.

Carefully balancing the desktop against my legs, I flipped it on its edge and lowered it to the tarp. As it landed, dust poofed into the air. When the dust settled, I spied a hidden compartment on the underside of the desk. I pushed up my goggles and wiggled open the drawer, expecting to find nothing more than a nest of spiders. Excitement rushed through me when I caught sight of a stack of letters tied with gold ribbon. Whose were they?

The single overhead garage light was not enough illumination to do the letters justice. I plugged in the Tiffany desk lamp and switched it on.

Rags nuzzled his head beneath the hem of my tattered jeans and purred:
Tell me. What did I help you discover?

I removed my gloves and lifted the stack of letters. I plucked the topmost and unfolded it, mindful that the stationery was delicate. My heart snagged in my chest as I scanned the words:
missing you . . . adore you . . . be together soon.

Rags yowled.

“It’s a love letter from my father to my mother,” I explained. “When Dad had to go to an education convention.” As a school principal, my father had traveled often to keep up with the trends. He had given my mother the same assurances that Jordan, the love of my life, had given me weeks ago. Jordan was involved in a WITSEC trial in New York, giving his testimony to put criminals away, and he might be away for a long time, but he promised we would be together soon.

Not soon enough.

Rags flicked me with his bushy tail.

“You’re right. If I take the time to read all the letters, I’ll fall behind on my project, not to mention I’ll wind up a mess of tears.”

Reluctantly, I inserted the love letter back into the stack with the others, but I didn’t return the packet to the drawer. I grabbed a pair of Tupperware boxes, emptied them of nails and screws, dusted them with a clean rag, and deposited the letters into them. I sealed the containers and set them high on the shelves that held the rest of my tools and rags. I would read the letters another day, when I was stronger and not aching with loneliness.

“It’s back to work we go,” I sang while lifting Rags with both hands, my thumbs tucked beneath his forearms. I kissed him on his nose and mismatched ears. Then I hooked him over my shoulders. He loved being carried like a rag doll, as many of his breed did, hence the name. He chugged with contentment.

Better a cat’s love than no love, I mused.

For a half hour, I applied stripping fluid with a paintbrush, scraping occasionally with a curved-edge scraper when necessary. The spindles would be the hardest to clean. I shaped a wooden dowel into a sharp tool to work the grooves. I had purchased a sanding cord for the tightest turnings. When my fingers ached from cleaning the main body of the desk, I took a break. I plucked an appetizer from the plate atop the tool cart and downed it in one bite. After savoring the salty goodness, I quickly ate a second. Heaven. Rags begged for a taste of cheese. I obliged, although I never let him have more than a fingernail-sized portion. Then I re-covered the platter with the napkin, hoisted the sander, and returned to work.

I was lost in a world of my own when I felt Rags grumble. Glancing up, I noticed the silhouette of a man on the shelving; his arm was raised. I whirled around, brandishing the sander like a shield. Rags leaped to the floor.

“Whoa, cuz.” Matthew backed up, arms raised, a goofy grin on his handsome face. “It’s just me bearing gifts.” He offered the bottle of wine he carried. “Bozzuto chenin blanc.” Bozzuto was a local winery north of the town of Providence. “It’s a lively wine, offering fine concentration and balance.”

“Sounds delish.”

“And the sweetness of the wine won’t be overcome by the pungent flavor of any cheese.”

I took the wine, admired the artistic label, and set the bottle on a side table. “To what do I owe—” I glanced at my watch. Nearly seven thirty. “Oh my. Time got away from me.”

“You and your projects.” Matthew grinned as he ran his fingers through his tawny hair, which was in dire need of a trim.

“Is she here?”

“Right outside.” He leaned out of the garage and beckoned.

Seconds later, Noelle Adams entered. “Hello, Charlotte.”

I had met Noelle last month at Matthew’s wedding. Willowy, with classic features, she reminded me of a French movie star, the kind that could make the hardest-hearted man swoon. She was certainly working her charms on my Ragdoll cat. He rubbed Noelle’s calfskin boots with fervor.

“Hi, Noelle.” I fingered the scarf I had tied around my head to prevent sawdust from sticking to my hair. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Forget it. Matthew warned me. And don’t fuss. You look great.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You do. Fresh and natural, the all-American girl. Don’t forget, I know what you look like in a fabulous gown.” Noelle hoisted the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder and bent to scratch Rags’s ears. “Hello, gorgeous. Marry me?” Rags rumbled with motorboat intensity, the traitor. After a second, Noelle stood and tugged at the ecru wool serape she had draped dramatically over her shoulders. “What a great place you have, Charlotte.” Even her voice was deeply sensual, like fine wine rolling over the tongue. “It’s so nice of you to let me stay with you.”

A contemporary of Matthew’s, Noelle used to be a sommelier that offered her expertise to famous restaurants in Cleveland, Chicago, and New York. Recently, she had been hired by the local Shelton Nelson Winery to help them create buzz about their business. I had offered her the guest room because the inns were full up with pre-Thanksgiving events in town, and Matthew’s place was jammed with the twins, the dog, and mounds of unpacked boxes. The cottage Noelle had rented wouldn’t be ready for a couple of weeks.

“Matthew said you were tweaking a few things around the house.” Noelle’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Perhaps I could help. I see you mean business.” She lifted the pencil-sharp dowel and sanding cord. “I’ve done some refinishing before. My paps was a master builder.”

“You don’t have to—”

“But I’d love to. I’m willing to work for my bed and board, and it’ll help me stay grounded. You know what they say about busy hands.” Noelle smiled with warmth that would melt icebergs. “I feel like my feet haven’t touched earth for days. I’ve been flying around the Northeast meeting all my former contacts in person to tell them about the career change.”

To snag her, the Shelton Nelson Winery must have offered her the stars.

“However, I should unpack and change before tackling this project.” Noelle fingered her sheath. “These aren’t exactly my furniture-stripping togs.”

“I’d help, too,” Matthew said, “but I’ve got to split. PTA meeting. I put her suitcases in the kitchen.” He kissed Noelle and me good-bye.

I led Noelle back to the house, hoisted her two small suitcases, and guided her up the winding mahogany staircase. The wood creaked beneath our weight. I sighed. The steps, too, were on my to-do list.

“Love the chandelier,” she said about the grape motif fixture hanging in the foyer.

I adored everything about my home, from the Necco candy–style tiles surrounding the dormer windows on the exterior to the bay windows, quaint kitchen, and built-in shelves inside. I swung back the door to the guest room. “This will be your room.”

“Mm-m-m.” Noelle inhaled. “It smells good in here.”

My throat clogged with emotion. Even though I had turned the twins’ bedroom into an adult space, and I had decorated for Thanksgiving with gourds, colorful fall foliage, and homemade pumpkin-scented candles, I could detect the girls’ youthful fragrance.

“The room is so pretty and quaint,” Noelle continued. I had added a patchwork quilt, lace runners, brocade drapes, and a gold-based lamp with gold shade, which sat on a turn-of-the-century writing desk. “It’s just like”—she hesitated—“when I was a girl growing up in Cleveland. I . . .” She let the sentence hang. I didn’t press.

I set Noelle’s overnight-style suitcase on the bed and the other on a luggage rack, and then opened the doors to the closets. “Make yourself at home. There are lots of hangers. And the drawers in the bureau are empty.”

“I only brought the basics—movers are hauling the rest.” She placed her cell phone and a bright pink iMac computer on the desk, and emptied her overnighter onto the bed. As the contents spilled out, she giggled. “Who am I kidding? Maybe I did bring all of my worldly goods.” The items were varied—a chic leather briefcase, a silver corkscrew with a sweetheart handle that had been given as a table favor at Matthew’s wedding, a book of wine references, two personal leather-bound booklets, a Montblanc pen, a Nikon camera with multiple lenses, and toiletries.

“Are you nervous about starting the job?” I asked as Noelle unzipped her other suitcase and removed clothes draped in plastic dry cleaner bags.

“Absolutely. I want to make a good impression.”

I didn’t think she would have to work too hard. Miss America would have a tough time competing with her.

“So much is at stake.” Noelle pressed her lips together; her face clouded over.

“What exactly will you be doing for Shelton Nelson?”

“Hmmm?” She looked in my direction. “My job. Right. He wants me to get the word out about his white Burgundies. An interview piece in
Wine Spectator
wouldn’t hurt.”

“Can you do that?”

“I’m sure going to try. White Burgundies are unusual to find in this climate, but Shelton’s done a lot of prep work to the soil, and he keeps the vineyards heated to prevent frost. He also ships in grapes from a few California vineyards. No shortcuts for him, he says.” Her mouth quirked up. “If I can get some of my former clients to start touting the Burgundies, word of mouth plus a dose of passion will sell them to the general public.” She removed elegant suits from her suitcase and hung each carefully in the closet. “I’ll be hosting an auction to start the buzz. Among my other duties, I’ll be guiding personal tours for collectors and throwing some fabulous multicourse dinners.”