Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery) (3 page)

“I haven’t.”

The barb struck home; the man flinched, but he quickly regrouped and moved toward her. “This is a small town.”

“So?”

“You’re not a small-town girl.”

“Boyd . . .” Noelle set the cheese on the counter and gripped the wine bottle by the throat. I was impressed with her response. A whack with a wine bottle would have a ton more impact than a cylinder of salami. “You should go.”

“What’ve you got up your sleeve?” he snarled.

“I’m warning you.” She shot a finger at him with her left hand while raising the bottle over her shoulder with her right. “Stop harassing me. Get out of town, or else.”

Needless to say, Noelle’s ex was not happy about her mandate. He stomped out of the shop and practically threw himself into the driver’s seat of a metallic green Chevy Malibu parked in front of the diner. He sat there awhile, his fingers strangling the steering wheel, his smoldering gaze fixed on Fromagerie Bessette, but ultimately he started his engine and sped off.

An hour later, Noelle, who was perched on a stool behind the cheese counter, yawned. Who could blame her? She had been observing Rebecca and me tending to dozens of customers at The Cheese Shop. We had sliced and wrapped more than fifty pounds of cheese. If she had been a gossip hound, she might have found the chatter interesting.

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll browse the stores,” she said. She added that she wanted to commemorate her big career decision by buying mementos.

I mentioned the ex-boyfriend, but she assured me she knew Boyd well enough to know that he was gone for good.

At the end of the day when I arrived home, I was surprised to find Noelle had arrived before me. For a tall woman, she looked petite sitting cross-legged on the bed, her back to the entrance, her right arm moving as if she were scribbling notes on something. Her computer sat propped on the bed in front of her. A shopping bag nestled beside the desk. Only the reading lamp on the desk was illuminated.

I rapped on the opened door. “Hi. What are you writing?”

“Oh, nothing. Journals, notes, the usual.” She closed the computer and, like a yoga pro, twisted at the waist as she set two leather-bound books and a pen on the bedspread. “Did you have a good day?”

“Fruitful. Plenty of customers, lots of sales. I wasn’t expecting to see you until much later.” She had made plans to have dinner at Matthew’s house. “Have you eaten?”

“Grilled pork chops smothered in onions, roasted potatoes topped with Roquefort, and a crisp autumn salad. Delicious. But the twins have exams tomorrow,” she explained, “so I left before dessert. They miss you by the way.”

A lump formed in my throat. I missed them, too. I missed drilling them on multiplication tables and teaching them new recipes and reading in the attic and . . .

Buck up, Charlotte.

“That French Briard is something else,” Noelle said.

“Isn’t he?” I adored the way Rocket begged for treats and how, on our walks, he would bop his head against my thigh so I would take his favored route. But life marched on, like troops to war. He was the twins’ dog; he belonged with them. I blinked back tears.

“What are you going to eat?” she asked.

“I’m skipping dinner and going right for dessert. I made a batch of Roquefort honey ice cream last week that will be perfect served with some honeyed pears and raisins. Add a glass of sauterne and I’ll be good to go. What did you buy at the shops?” I indicated the gift bag.

“Oodles of goodies. Some hand-embroidered kitchen towels, decorative wine stoppers, and yarn. I was thinking of taking up crocheting.”

“Good luck. I can’t figure it out for the life of me, though the shop owner next door to Fromagerie Bessette is a whiz.” I stepped a little closer. “Hey, have you been crying?” Streaks of mascara trailed down Noelle’s face. I hoped my tears weren’t catching. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” She swiped a forefinger across each cheek. “I’m a little overwhelmed.”

“No more Boyd encounters?”

“I told you. Don’t worry about him. He’s harmless.”

Her innocent dismissal made me shudder. Boyfriends weren’t always harmless. I knew from personal experience. “Want to join me for ice cream?”

“I’ll pass. I’ve got to hit the hay. Tomorrow’s the tour. The day after that, it’s down to business.” Noelle slid off the bed and toted the computer and journals to the desk. As she pulled a shiny blue thumb drive from the USB port of the computer and hit enter to trigger the screen saver, the topmost journal flipped opened.

Inside the journal were glossy squares that she had pasted on the pages like scrapbook art. Intrigued, I moved closer. “What are those?”

Noelle glanced from me to the opened book. “Wine labels. I’m a collecting fiend. Do you know how hard they are to remove from bottles? Labels from old bottles are the easiest; modern labels have better glue. I adore the intricacies.” She stretched her arms over her head, yawned, and then slapped the book closed. “You’re coming with Matthew and me to the winery, right? You promised.”

I nodded. I hadn’t visited the Shelton Nelson Winery in ages. I looked forward to the tour.

• • •

“Welcome, ladies.” With his leathery skin and guy-who’s-sat-in-a-saddle-all-his-life gait, Shelton Nelson reminded me of old-time westerns.
Happy trails, to you.
He unbuttoned his sheepskin jacket, then removed his cowboy hat and ruffled his dirty blond hair. “This way.” He led Noelle, Matthew, and me around the rustic winery’s visitor room. Afternoon sun blazed through the west-facing windows. A few tourists tagged behind us, ears craned to glean some juicy tidbit of the vineyard’s history.

“I started with a modest twelve acres,” Shelton said. He hitched a thumb toward the first of a series of chronological photographs—this one of a small, lush plot of land with a modest home at the top of the bluff. “I thought I only wanted a retreat from my law practice in Cleveland, but then my passion grew and so did my holdings.”

If Noelle hadn’t divulged on the drive over that Shelton had been a litigation lawyer, I never would have guessed. He didn’t seem to have the flair or doggedness, though she claimed he had been very good at it. He had won a number of hefty environmental class action lawsuits and made millions from them.

“Now, I own over five hundred acres,” he went on. The next photograph depicted the growth of the estate. “Half of the acres are planted. We grow four different grapes. Only the finest, mind you. And we take no shortcuts. Making fine wine takes time.”

Like a good cheese, I mused.

“I care more about the process of making wine and preserving the land than about how the wine tastes.”

“Ha! Don’t let him fool you,” Noelle said. “His wines appear in many of the top restaurants in the U.S. He cares about taste.”

“We make them without SO2,” Shelton said.

“That means no sulfur dioxide,” Noelle translated. “They’re all natural.”

“Shelton only uses horses to till the soil,” Matthew added. “He believes that tractors smother the roots.”

“It’s all about the roots and how they search”—Shelton demonstrated by twisting his hand downward—“digging deep, as if they are on—”

“A quest,” Noelle said.

“Exactly, darlin’. A quest to drink in the earth’s flavor.” Shelton paused in front of a landscape oil painting that could have hung in the Louvre. Blue skies and fluffy white clouds set the backdrop for deep green rolling hills tinged with the first golds of autumn. “
Home Sweet Home
is my flagship vineyard.”

The door to the visitors’ gallery swept open. A young woman, whom I recognized as Liberty Nelson, with heavily lined oval eyes and a catlike gait, strode in. Dust clung to her black denim outfit and riding boots. While removing her cowboy hat and shaking out her sleek black hair, she said, “
Home Sweet Home
produces our best grape.”

A bookish-faced man with longish hair followed her inside while saying, “We have two other fine vineyards:
Sweet Darlin’
and
The Good Life
.”

“But
Home Sweet Home
is our best, Harold,” Liberty countered while shooting him a feral look that would have made the most stalwart man cringe. Harold didn’t appear very stalwart. In fact, he looked emaciated. His tweed jacket and slacks hung on him as if he had lost quite a bit of weight. “By the way, Daddy.” Liberty crossed to her father and pecked his cheek. “The workmen are doing a good job. I made the rounds.”

“You mean,
we
made the rounds,” Harold said. “Liberty insisted on riding the mare.” His ropy neck muscles ticked with tension. It appeared he didn’t like Shelton Nelson’s daughter.

Missing the clash or choosing to ignore it, Shelton looped an arm around his daughter’s back. “Noelle, you remember my daughter.”

“Yes, we met on a previous visit. You’re getting married soon. Congratulations.” Noelle thrust a hand in Liberty’s direction first. A wise decision. I suspected Liberty had her father wrapped around her little finger.

Liberty didn’t reciprocate. Instead, she assessed Noelle, who had dressed in a chic silk sweater and matching skirt, pearl stud earrings, and a simple pearl necklace. Self-consciously, Noelle’s hand moved to the collar of her sweater and then her throat.

Shelton continued, “And this is Harold Warfield, the vineyard’s manager.”

“Overseer,” Harold said.

“I don’t pay more for the title,” Shelton joked.

Harold grinned. I was pretty sure he liked his boss. “We met, too, Miss Adams.” He extended his hand to Noelle. His grasp appeared weak, not an I’ll-show-you-who-is-in-power grip. In fact, he didn’t seem to want to touch her. Was he a germaphobe? Perhaps an illness had caused the apparent weight loss. “Welcome,” he said, though his tone held an edge, whether for Liberty or Noelle, I wasn’t sure. “Matthew, good to see you. And you’re Charlotte.” He acknowledged me. “I’ve heard so much about Fromagerie Bessette. Sorry I haven’t stopped in. My wife keeps me on a strict diet.”

Aha. That explained the weight loss. I had met his wife on a number of occasions. She was nice, although somewhat timid. I remembered her saying that her husband and his college buddies were real foodies. She adored double-cream cheeses. The
men
, as she called them, preferred hard cheeses like Parmigiano.

“You shouldn’t pass up the opportunity for a visit, Harold,” Shelton said. “Charlotte and Matthew have done wonders with the place. There’s a fabulous cheese counter, all the trimmings, and a wine annex that will knock your socks off. When you go, see if Matthew will give you a tour of the cellar, although”—he winked—“his cellar doesn’t hold a candle to mine.”

Matthew chuckled. “Not many can.”

“Charlotte,” Shelton continued. “I swear that Golden Glen Creamery River Cheddar with the pineapple finish you offer is going to be the death of me. I buy a pound every time I stop in the shop and devour it inside of two days.”

In my head I heard my grandmother’s voice whisper:
Everything in moderation
, but I kept mum. Shelton Nelson was probably stretching the truth. He didn’t look like a glutton, unless he overindulged by taking in too much sun and fun. “Now, how about that tour?” he said.

“Mr. Nelson, wait.” A striking dark-haired man, with a prominent widow’s peak and a cocky swagger, burst into the room and jogged to Shelton. He pulled a tape recorder from the inside pocket of his natty plaid blazer and, in a British accent that bordered on Cockney, said, “Could you spare a moment? Ashley Yeats,
The Brit Speaks
.” He tapped the butt of his pen against his lapel. “I would like to do an article on the winery.” He paused. “That’s not entirely truthful. I want to do a piece on you, actually.
From Sic ’em Lawyer to Kick ’em Winemaker
.” He swept the air to display the imaginary title. “Catchy, don’t you think? But I haven’t been able to get through to you for approval. Your girl”—he paused—“your
assistant
is like the bloody Wall of Jericho. I think I need a trumpet.”

Shelton cast an indulgent glance at his daughter. “My daughter can be stubborn.”

“Oh, it’s you?” The journalist offered Liberty a smirk. “Beg our apologies.”

I didn’t believe he was sorry in the least. Neither did Liberty, it appeared. She puckered her mouth like she had downed a handful of sour grapes.

“What’s your name again, son?” Shelton said.

“Yeats. Ashley Yeats. Call me Ashley.
The Brit Speaks.
I heard about your renowned wine collection. I thought I’d come to town to check you out.”

“When did you arrive?”

“Yesterday. I’m getting used to the time change.” Ashley pocketed the recorder and whipped out a leather business card holder. Like a deft card dealer, he offered a white linen card to Shelton and Harold but shunned Liberty, who arched her back and wrinkled her nose with displeasure. To Noelle he said, “You’re the new hire, aren’t you? Sommelier extraordinaire. What was that wine you touted a month or so ago in
Bon Appétit
?” He twirled the pen in his fingers. “Testa Winery Meritage, wasn’t that it? I believe you wrote, ‘It opens with notes of blackberry and anise. With a little more air, you’ll detect hints of crème brûlée.’” He added, “Great legs,” though I didn’t think he was referring to the wine. His eyes grazed Noelle from her calves to her face. “After interviewing Mr. Nelson, I would love to get your take on the health of the wine industry.”