For Cheddar or Worse (6 page)

“No matter,” Delilah said. “I want it to be as factual as possible.”

“Fast and funny would be better.”

“I don't need a critic. Hand the tools to the actors,” Delilah ordered, “but be careful not to get them caught up in your cute dress. Now, each actor has his or her mission. One will be writing in Egyptian tombs. Another will be reading from Homer's
Odyssey
.”

“Is anyone actually going to use these tools?”

“
Oui
,” Grandmère said. “In the background we have actors miming the action. For example, with this tool—” She wielded the antique cheese grater with clamp and wooden handle and,
snap
, the wrought iron handle broke off in her hand. The grater head dangled. “
Sacre bleu!
I must fix this at once.”

“Grandmère, don't overreact,” I said. “It's just a cheese grater. Heavy and rusted, to boot.”

“You do not understand. It was donated by Prudence Hart.”

“Honestly?” I gawped, the notion beyond my ken. “Why would Prudence own such a thing?”

“She does not
own
. She collects and donates all of her findings to the Historical Society.”

I'd forgotten that Prudence had taken on the responsibility of the museum after the former curator, a flaky woman, fled town.

“Prudence will be furious,” my grandmother went on. “I must . . . I must . . .” She clutched the pieces. “What should I do?”

“Tape it together,” I said.

“No, no.” Her face was flushed, her eyes filled with angst. “I must have this fixed before Prudence finds out. Charlotte, please help Delilah with the rest.” She pressed past the curtain and disappeared.

As the drapes settled down, a shiver swizzled up my back.

Delilah gripped my shoulder. “What's wrong?”

“Is it almost a full moon?”

“Why?”

“Something . . .” Another quiver skittered up my neck.

Delilah scoffed. “Don't tell me you're superstitious.”

“I'm trying not to be, but something is off. Really off. Things are breaking. Trees are falling off stages. People are snapping at each other. And with Meredith needing bed rest . . .”

A third tremor ripped through me, and this time rattled me to my core. What the heck?

CHAPTER

The History of Cheese
was a huge success. The actors didn't play it as seriously as Delilah had expected, thank heaven. Laughter abounded. When the skit ended, I helped Delilah reorganize her props—a reprisal of the play was scheduled for tomorrow night—and then I located Jordan. As predicted, Freckles had insisted on taking Meredith the knitting goodies. She even said she would teach her to knit a stitch or two, if Meredith was up to it.

Later that night, when Jordan and I entered Emerald Pastures Inn, a number of people were sitting in the living room. Victor and Quigley Pressman, a shaggy-haired local reporter who had a penchant for wearing jaunty clothes, were playing chess at the table by the window. Quigley wasn't staying at the inn, but he had been invited to cover the brain trust event and intended to spend all the time he could with the participants. He could be quite a gossipmonger. Shayna was nestled into a chair reading
Ten Little Indians
, one of my all-time favorite Agatha Christie mysteries. A
lively Mozart violin concerto that I knew by the nickname of “Turkish” was playing through a speaker. Erin was stoking the fire in the brick fireplace. It crackled and spit at first, then the flame grew.

Erin caught sight of us and smiled. “Charlotte. Jordan. It's so good to see you. Want anything to drink?”

A few guests were sipping from mugs; others, from snifters.

“We'll pass. We're beat.” I drew near and whispered, “How's Kandice?”

“Resting.”

“How about Ryan?”

Erin's forehead creased. “Ryan?”

I told her about the mini-altercation between Lara and him.

“Ah.” She grinned. “They seem to be hitting it off just fine.” She jutted a finger. “They shared a glass or two of port over there. No harsh words were exchanged. Then Lara went up to bed. Ryan's in the study, reading. He said the ticking of our old clock was driving him crazy.” She tapped her ears. “He's very sensitive.”

“But cute,” I said. “You two performed well together onstage. Maybe when the brain trust is over, you two could date.”

“He lives in Texas, remember?”

“A hop, skip, and a jump from Ohio.”

“Oh, Charlotte.”

“Don't ‘Oh, Charlotte' me,” I said. “He travels all the time, which means he could live anywhere, and he's dedicated to family.”

“Stop!” She swatted my arm, but her eyes glistened with hope.

I bid her good night and followed Jordan upstairs to our room.

Soon after, I slipped beneath the bedcovers and snuggled into his arms.

He kissed my temple, his favorite spot—or so he said. “Have your willies subsided?”

“Yes. Sort of.” I worked my teeth over my upper lip. “Where do you think the word
willies
comes from?”

He thought about it. “There's an Eastern European word
willi
, meaning wood nymph or fairy, which can be sort of eerie.”

“How do you know that?”

“Crosswords, my love. You got me into them. Now sleep tight. I love you.” He kissed me again.

I dreamed of nymphs, satyrs, and all sorts of odd creatures cavorting through the woods. In the dream just before waking, I was clothed in a flowing white gown and dubbed the forest priestess. Some animals were bowing to me; others were making weird gestures. Needless to say, it was all very unsettling.

***

Early Friday morning, a rooster crowed.

I bolted to a sitting position and muttered, “Can't fool him. Sun's up.”

“It is not. He's early.” Jordan ran a hand along my shoulders. “Lie down.”

“Can't sleep. I'm awake.” And the willies, for no good reason, were back. In spades. Drat. “I think I'll take a walk.”

“I'll go with you.”

The two of us washed and dressed for the day ahead—I put on a pair of chinos, a linen button-down shirt, and flats—and minutes later, we headed downstairs. The inn was as quiet as a tomb. No one, other than us, had taken the rooster's advice to rise and shine.

Quietly we opened the door and jogged down the steps. The sun was barely making its way over the hills to the east but offered enough light for a hike. A gentle low emanated from the small herd of cows; chickens skittered in the henhouse. A lone baby goat made its way to the fence that corralled the young ones and
maa
ed. Then it climbed up the fence and put its hooves on the top rung.

“Jordan, look.” I strolled to the fence and scratched the goat's neck. “Hi, fella.” Like a dog, he nudged my hand
with his ear for more . . .
more
. I obliged then said, “See you around.”

Jordan and I took off at a brisk pace. The trails were winding with slow-rising slopes and gentle downhill terrain. The sound of pressed gravel crackled beneath our feet. The scent of dew-kissed grass wafted up. Delightful.

Neither of us said a word for a half hour, not until Jordan's stomach grumbled.

“Hungry?” I asked. My tummy complained as well. The willies had vanished.

“Famished,” he said and growled like a cartoon monster.

“Race you back.” I tore ahead, my shoes smacking the trail.

Jordan won, of course. His legs were longer, his stamina fierce. But I wasn't far behind.

We jogged up the steps of the inn. The aroma of sizzling bacon and fresh-brewed coffee made my mouth water.

“Just in time,” I said.

Many bed-and-breakfast inns in Providence served family-style meals. Everyone ate at the same time, or they didn't eat.

Erin had decorated the cheery breakfast room in blue and yellow gingham and furnished it with six picnic-style tables fitted with benches. On each table, Erin had set a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a bowl of fruit. On a few of the tables stood stacks of Lara Berry's newest book. On other tables sat selections of Ryan Harris's book. Hmm. Had Erin or Kandice placed the books there, or had the authors? I didn't see Ryan in attendance. Maybe he didn't eat breakfast. I knew plenty of people who wouldn't, or couldn't. I nabbed a copy of both books and thumbed through Ryan's first. A family's name headed each chapter, the name representing one of the families he had consulted. Pictures were included throughout. Nice.

Eighteen guests were nestled at the tables; some had come from Lavender and Lace, the B&B next to my house. It wasn't that Lois, the owner, didn't make a superb breakfast, but the brain trust was set to start in less than an hour. The guests were wise to be present.

Kandice spotted me and patted her table. “Charlotte, Jordan. Join us.” She looked rested. She had feathered a few strands of hair—once again highlighted with pink—around her face. How she'd accomplished re-dying her hair with an injured arm amazed me. The peppermint-pink blouse with puffy short sleeves that she was wearing brought out the color in her cheeks. She had donned dangling pink earrings to match.

Lara, who was also seated at the table, reminded me of a haughty princess with her hair wound in a topknot and circled with an amber-and-black beaded headband. She was going over a schedule Kandice had given us and jotting remarks in the columns. Beside Lara sat Victor, who was texting someone on his cell phone. His face glistened, as if he had swathed it with lotion.

Shayna, who nearly matched the room in a blue sack-style dress, had taken a seat at another table. She wasn't conversing with anyone at her table. She seemed captivated by Ryan's book. Her tablemates didn't seem to mind. She glimpsed me as I passed, but she didn't set aside the book. Her eyes appeared puffy, the way mine would be if I'd cried myself to sleep.

I mouthed:
Are you okay?

She nodded:
Fine
.

“Come on, you two,” Kandice said. “Sit.”

I started to slide in beside Victor, but when I caught a whiff of his overpoweringly musky scent, I opted to settle onto the bench beside Kandice instead. Jordan cozied up to me.

“I can't thank you two enough for helping me last night,” Kandice said.

“How is your arm?” I asked.

“Sore, but I slept like a baby thanks to the pill the doctor gave me. Let's hear it for meds!” She leaned forward, fingering the bandage on her arm. “Between you and me, I don't like taking pills, except the pain was unbearable.”

“How'd you manage to change your hair color?” I asked.

“Spray it on, brush it out. Easy-peasy.” She mimed the action. “Hey, did you hear the rooster this morning?”

“Cock-a-doodle-doo,” Victor crowed and continued texting.

“Good imitation, Vic.” Kandice grinned. “Right afterward, something started tap-tapping next door to my room.” She knuckled the table to illustrate. “I think there might be a resident squirrel living in the walls.”

Or a resident autistic brother, I mused. Hadn't Erin mentioned Andrew to Kandice and the others?

Erin, wearing a darling yellow frock with a blue gingham apron, approached the table and offered us menus. Prior to the brain trust, she had sent out a questionnaire asking everyone about dietary issues. Apparently there were a few because the menu offered a choice of eggs cooked any way, ham or bacon, and regular cheeses as well as vegan cheeses like Miyoko's Kitchen Aged English Sharp Farmhouse, a delectable alternative to dairy cheese made with cashews and organic chickpea miso. Erin also offered a selection of muffins—either regular or gluten-free.

After we ordered, Erin pointed out Ryan's and Lara's books, thus settling the mystery of how they had wound up on the tables. She had put them there. Each of us could take one. She added that they were wonderful. She had read both.

Victor rapped his cell phone on the stack of Lara's newest book. “I'm telling you, it's great, Lara. Your best book yet. Very detailed. How did you do all the winery research?”

Lara grinned. “One glass at a time.”

“I mean, alone or with a companion?”

“Why, Victor.” Lara offered a wry look. “Are you hitting on me again? Are you hoping you can be the companion with whom I do my next taste test? Or did someone stand you up?” She wiggled a pinky at his cell phone. “Hand me your cell phone, and let me input my contact information.”

“No.”

“Yes.” She grabbed his cell phone and stared at the screen. “Hmm. Who are you texting, darling?”

Victor snatched back the phone.

“Aw, Victor,” Lara cooed. “Where has your sense of humor gone? You used to be
plein de vie
.”

Victor bridled. “I'm still full of life.”

“You're full of something, all right.”

“Lara, I'm warning you—”

“Say, Victor,” Kandice interrupted. “I hear you're quite a collector.”

“Of . . .” Lara asked leadingly. “Women? Phone numbers? French-made shoes and clothes?”

“Cut it out,” Victor warned.

“French antiques,” Kandice said, perfectly serious. “Tell us about some of them, Victor.”

“Don't.” Lara yawned. “It's so boring.”

Victor shot her a murderous look and through clenched teeth said, “Sure, Kandice, I'd love to.” His cruel gaze revealed he intended to stick it to Lara. He pocketed his cell phone and folded his arms in front of him on the table. “To begin with, I have entire rooms filled with exemplary examples of Louis XIII, XIV, and XV furniture. By the way, identifying the differences between the three can be taxing.”

“Isn't some of the furniture in the inn's living room Louis XIV?” I asked.

Lara rolled her eyes at me as if willing me not to encourage him.

Victor, who seemed to be on surer footing thanks to an audience, ignored her. “Indeed, the stately sofas are. You have a good eye, Charlotte.”

No, I didn't. My grandmother owned a Louis XIV table with cabriole legs. It was a cumbersome piece but so detailed.

“You see,” Victor went on, “Louis XIII is a product of a more conservative time. It was massive and monumental. During Louis XIV's reign, furniture grew more elaborate yet more feminine.” He continued enlightening us until breakfast arrived, then conversation turned toward what the day's activities would be.

I savored every bite of my gluten-free blueberry muffin and asked Erin if she would share the recipe because my niece Clair—actually, Matthew's girls, Clair and her twin sister, Amy, weren't really my nieces, more like my first cousins once removed, but
niece
was so much easier to say—had to eat gluten-free. Erin was quick to comply. She hurried to the kitchen and in a matter of seconds reappeared with a recipe card.

A quarter of an hour later, Erin announced that it was time to head to the facility. The brain trust was about to begin.

Emerald Pastures Farm had two cheese-making facilities. The one where the farm made goat milk cheeses was a holdout from the earlier days of the farm. The other, where Cheddars were made, was state-of-the-art. The
make room
for Cheddar was much like the one at Pace Hill Farm. It measured about thirty-by-twenty feet and was windowless. A stainless steel vat, which was about half the size of the room, stood in the middle of the brick-tiled floor. Long whisk-like prongs were attached to a metal arm above the vat. Behind the vat was a conveyor belt loaded with metal boxes. Paddles, ladles, and other tools hung on the far wall. Unlike the facility at Pace Hill Farm, the far end of the
make room
consisted of a wall of clear glass. Beyond the glass, there was a visitors' room where, usually, the public could view the cheese-making process. Not today.