Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery) by Avery Aames Read Free Book Online

to get this baby on its feet.”
    “I told you—”
    “I know, I know. I don’t owe you a thing, but I want to do this, and the music is nice.” She sang along.
    I joined her. When the song ended, I said, “Hungry?”
    “Absolutely.” Noelle set aside the table leg and scrambled to her feet while wiping her fingers on her black jeans.
    From a platter of cheese that I had brought to the garage, I slipped a morsel of Beaufort into my mouth, savoring the moist, sticky rind and flavors of alpine flowers. Noelle opted for a slice of No Woman cheese, which was made by Beecher’s Handmade Cheese in Seattle. The Cheddar-style goodness was a spicy tribute to the island of Jamaica and the Bob Marley song “No Woman, No Cry.”
    “After I finish up,” Noelle said, “I think I’ll take a hike.”
    “At night?”
    “I like exploring in the dark. It’s peaceful. I’ve got a flashlight in the glove compartment of my BMW. I could use the break. My official job starts tomorrow. After that I’ll be so busy that I won’t have time to investigate.” She grinned. “Hey, wipe those worry lines off your forehead. I’ll be fine. Really. A girl raised in an orphanage knows how to navigate in the dark. It’ll be like I’m on a quest.”
    Beside the cheese platter sat a couple of glasses of Mendoza Malbec, a red wine with violet aromas and raspberry and currant flavors. Noelle picked up a glass and swirled the wine while assessing it at an angle. “Great legs.”
    “That’s what that journalist said about you earlier,” I teased.
    “Ew, ick, bad memory.” Noelle wrinkled her nose. “That put me off taking another sip. Probably better to keep a clear head. Instead, if it’s okay with you, I’ll throw together a grilled cheese.” She took another bite of the No Woman cheese. “Mmm, how I love the aromas of allspice and cloves.”
    “Have at it,” I said.
    In less than five minutes, I showered and dressed in a sweater and comfy trousers. As I was exiting through the kitchen, I found Noelle crouched beside Rags in his wicker bed. She cooed a lullaby to him.
    “You’re getting spoiled, Ragsie,” I said.
    He gave me a look that said,
I deserve it
,
and he was right. He did. He missed the twins and Rocket as much as I did.
    • • •
     
    When I arrived at the Providence Playhouse, the place was buzzing with energy. A dress rehearsal always generated excitement. While crewmen strung twinkling lights around the backdrop of the
Mayflower
and Plymouth Rock, my good pal Delilah—owner of the Country Kitchen Diner and current director of the Thanksgiving Extravaganza—was positioning twenty-plus children, each dressed in either a Pilgrim or a Wampanoag Indian costume, at specific places onstage.
    When she was done, Delilah brushed her long, dark curls over her shoulders and planted her hands on her ample hips. “Perfect. Now, stand there and don’t move.” Her instructions came across loud and clear.
    “
Chérie. Bonsoir.
” My grandfather beckoned me to the right wing of the stage where he had set up a buffet to feed the group. Savory aromas wafted from the fixings: turkey pizza, turkey-cranberry sliders, and turkey meatballs. My grandfather was a firm believer that turkey was not only for Thanksgiving dinner.
    “You look
superbe
,” he said and kissed me,
la bise
—the French tradition of a peck to one cheek and then the other.
    “So does your meal, Pépère
. Vous étes un chef merveilleux.
” I pinched his cheek. He enjoyed when I complimented him about being a good cook.
“What have you put on the pizza?”
    “Turkey, chèvre, shallots, and my special seasonings. Simple but tasty.” He patted his generous stomach, which protruded over a well-stocked tool belt. “I will eat only one slice.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said, disbelieving. He loved to nibble and was forever trying to control his weight.
    “I have promised your
grandmère
. Oh”—he tapped his head and gestured to the far end of the