This is the third in A Cheese Shop Mystery series.

Chapter 1

“I thought I’d seen a ghost, Charlotte,” Matthew said.

“It wasn’t Chip.” I popped off the lid of another Tupperware box of decorations we’d lugged from

The Cheese Shop. “Chip lives in France, not Providence.”

“He was blond, broad-shouldered, and fast.”

“So are you.”

“I’m telling you, the guy could run. What if it was him?”

I blew a stray hair off my face. “My ex-fiancé is not loping through the Winter Wonderland faire in

the middle of February. Last I heard, he hated winter.” And hated me, but that was water over the falls.

“I worry that he’ll hurt—”

“It wasn’t him. We have tourists. Lots and lots of tourists. One looked like him, that’s all.” A fog of

breath wisped out of my mouth. I buttoned my pearl-colored sweater and tightened the gold filigree scarf

around my neck to ward off the morning chill. Wearing corduroys, a turtleneck, and extra socks beneath

my boots wasn’t doing the trick.

Every year, in celebration of Providence’s Founder’s Day, the Village Green transformed itself into a

Winter Wonderland faire. Farmers, vintners, and crafters from all over Holmes County and beyond joined

in the weekend fun that would officially start on Friday evening. It was a tourist draw in a season when

tourists should have been scarce. Overnight, small white tents with picture windows, peaked roofs,

swinging doors, and fake green grass floors appeared. Twinkling white lights outlined each tent.

I stood in the middle of ours and removed glittery wedge-shaped ornaments from the decoration box.

“Let’s change the subject.”

Aames/Clobbered by Camembert

2

“Okay, Miss Touchy.” A grin inched up the right side of my cousin’s handsome face. He could be

such a joker. He plucked another taste of what I called ambrosia—he’d already eaten three—from a small

platter of cheeses that I’d brought to sample while we worked. “Hungry?” He waved it under my nose.

“Mm-mmm. This is a delicious cheese. What is it?”

“Zamorano. A sheep’s cheese from Zamora, Spain. Sort of like Manchego. The milk comes from

Churra sheep.” I’d eaten my fair share as an early morning snack.

“It’s nutty and sort of buttery.”

“Your new favorite,” I teased.

“How’d you guess?” He slipped the cheese into his mouth and hummed his appreciation.

While I decorated the tent with gold and burgundy ribbon looped through crystal wedge-shaped

cheese ornaments, Matthew hoisted a box of wineglasses onto the antique buffet that I’d brought in to

serve as our cheese counter and started to unpack them. We were setting up Fromagerie Bessette, or Le

Petit Fromagerie as we were calling our little enterprise, primarily as a cheese- and wine-tasting venue.

For the first day we would offer Vacherin Fribourg, a yummy cheese that’s perfect for fondue, Haloumi

from Greece, which sort of tastes like a Mozzarella, and the Zamorano. Our wines would include a

creamy Mount Eden chardonnay from Santa Cruz, a peppery Bordeaux, and the boisterous but not overthe-

top Sin Zin zinfandel. Each customer would receive a burgundy souvenir plate embossed in gold with

the words: Say cheese. For larger cheese purchases, we would direct eager customers back to Fromagerie

Bessette. Gift items, crackers, and jams were available.

In between unpacking boxes, Matthew filched another sliver of cheese. “The Zamorano would pair

well with the zinfandel, don’t you think?”

I laughed. “It’s good with all reds and even sherry.”

“Hmph. Showing off?”

“You bet.”

Matthew, a former sommelier and now my business partner, was doing his best to learn about cheese. In exchange, he instructed me about the complexities of wine. Our arrangement was what you

would call a delicious swap.

“Well, it’s killer,” he said. “Truly killer.”

A chill shimmied through the tent. I twisted the knob on the standing heater beneath the buffet table

and cozied up to it. Once we opened the tent to customers, we’d have the heater on all the time.

The front door flew open and a dash of yesterday’s featherlight snow fluttered inside.

Then Sylvie, Matthew’s buxom ex-wife, entered. “Hello, love!” She bolted toward us, waving a

handful of glossy flyers. A cool breeze swirled through the tent until the door swung shut.

“Speaking of exes,” I said dryly as I felt my eyebrows rise.

“What are you . . . ?” Matthew sputtered. “Why . . . ?” He gaped at Sylvie with outright shock.

I didn’t do much better. The lacy purple teddy Sylvie wore barely covered her ample chest and her

you-know-what. I couldn’t imagine that the purple muffler and ankle-high Uggs she was wearing

provided enough warmth to bear the nip in the air. Her shoulders were dimpled with goose bumps.

“Did you forget to put on clothes?” Matthew managed to blurt out.

“I’m advertising, love,” Sylvie announced in her clipped British accent as she waved the flyers.

Advertising what? I pressed my lips together to keep the snarky comment from escaping my lips.

Good business required tact, even with ex-in-laws. view abbreviated excerpt only...

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