A muenster among us, p.1
A Muenster Among Us, page 1
A Muenster Among Us
Ally Roberts
A Muenster Among Us
By Ally Roberts
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Muenster Among Us
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2022
Cover design by Mariah Sinclair | www.mariahsinclair.com
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.
Created with Vellum
Books by Ally Roberts
The Cheese Shop Mysteries
AN AXE TO RIND
IN GRATE DANGER
GOUDA RIDDANCE
A MUENSTER AMONG US
THE WOOF PACK MYSTERIES
ASKING FUR TROUBLE
CAUSE FUR ALARM
WAGS TO RICHES
HOUNDED OUT
BAD TO THE BONE
DOG DAYS OF MURDER
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
“Those leaves look good enough to eat,” I told Olivia Gunderson.
This was not something I’d normally say about leaves. I liked some lettuces well enough, but not the kind that looked like leaves. Romaine and iceberg, sure. Arugula? Not so much.
“Well, that’s good,” she said with a chuckle. “Since we sort of want people to eat them.”
We were standing in the Cheddar Haus on a Saturday morning in early November, and Olivia was busy arranging platters of specialty cheeses she’d somehow managed to mold into the shapes of leaves.
“This one looks like it would be delicious,” she said, pointing to a white cheese flecked with bits of burgundy.
I nodded. “It’s a Wensleydale cheese, a white cheddar from the U.K. infused with cranberries. The cheese is creamy, with just enough sweet acidity to really complement the tartness of the berries.”
Olivia arched her eyebrows. “Quite the cheese connoisseur, aren’t you? Who knew you had it in you?”
“Oh, please,” I told her, rolling my eyes for emphasis. “I sort of have to know what we’re selling. And buying. Especially for these types of events.”
This ‘type of event’ was a holiday open house, an invitation for customers to come in and see what specialty cheeses we had in stock for Thanksgiving and the coming holiday season.
I hadn’t known what size crowd to prepare for, or if we’d have anyone at all. Planning something like this was a first for me, and I sort of felt like I was flying blind.
Seeing as how we would be opening in just a few minutes, we’d find out soon enough if anyone would be coming.
“Well, I think you’ve done a fantastic job,” Olivia said, looking around the store.
“What are you talking about? You’re the one who did all the platters and decorating. Not to mention that all of the gorgeous artwork on the walls is there courtesy of you.”
She beamed. “You think they’re gorgeous?”
I nodded. “Anyone with two functioning eyes would think the same thing.”
Olivia really did have a knack for all things artistic. Over the past couple of weeks, she’d brought in several pieces of artwork, and not just the fiber art she’d originally planned to display at Phoebe’s gallery. No, apparently Olivia was good at literally everything in the art world: drawing, painting, mixed media. She’d lugged in a massive artist portfolio right after we’d gotten the fiber pieces up on the walls and pulled out all kinds of sketches and paintings. I’d wanted to hang every last one of them but we settled on ones that evoked more of a fall/harvest theme. Soon after, we’d found cheap frames and tacked them up in every available open space on the walls of the store.
And it had paid off.
Olivia had sold her first piece on Thursday.
“Speaking of your art,” I said as I fished out an apron, “isn’t your buyer coming by today to pick it up?”
She nodded. “First thing this morning, I think. At least that’s what he said.”
“And which one did he buy?”
She pointed. “The oak tree.”
I glanced at it admiringly. It was a mixed media piece, with the trunk of the tree made of brown paper, crumpled and shellacked onto the canvas. She’d then used either oil or acrylics—I couldn’t tell the difference—to paint an assortment of colorful leaves. A milky blue watercolor to tint the sky was the finishing touch.
“He’s a lucky guy,” I said, and I meant it. I would have loved to display it in my own little cottage.
I went to unlock the door just as Lyle Donovan and Molly Perkins were walking up the sidewalk. I greeted them with a wave and a hello.
“I can’t stay,” Lyle apologized as soon as he stepped into the shop. “I have to go and get the bookstore open, but I just wanted to pop in and take a look.” He gazed appreciatively around the store. “It looks great!”
Molly nodded in agreement. “Look at those cheese boards,” she exclaimed. “Are those cut in the shape of leaves?” Her eyes were already locked on the food trays. “And, oh my goodness, a cornucopia!”
It had been Olivia’s idea to buy some wicker cornucopias and wrap small rounds and blocks of cheese in red, orange and yellow cellophane. She’d insisted they would make terrific centerpieces for people to buy for their Thanksgiving gatherings, especially on the appetizer table for folks to snack on before their big meal.
And she was right. We’d already received orders from a few of our regular customers.
I’d pretty much decided that Olivia could do no wrong when it came to anything creative.
“I think we need one of those,” Molly told Lyle, pointing to one of the cornucopias. “For our Thanksgiving dinner.”
Olivia gave me a triumphant look. I smiled and nodded.
“But it will just be the two of us,” Lyle said.
“So?” She turned to me, her springy red curls bouncing. “Can we special order one? I’d love all of the cheeses in our cornucopia to be smoked gouda.”
Molly definitely loved her smoked gouda. I wondered if and how that factored into her bodybuilding diet. Did she have days where all she ate was her favorite smoked gouda?
“You sure can,” I told her. “But I would recommend trying the Muenster cheese we have out to sample. It’s nice and smooth, very mild, and it would be great for turkey sandwiches. It’s also a terrific melting cheese if macaroni and cheese is on your Thanksgiving menu.”
Her eyes lit up.
Olivia’s lips quirked into an amused smile. “Expert,” she mouthed.
I did my best to ignore her.
“I’m going to head back,” Lyle told Molly, but his girlfriend was already making a beeline for the sample tray. He smiled and shrugged, and headed toward the door.
“Colby, dear, this is all so lovely,” a voice said from behind me.
I would know that voice anywhere. “Diana.”
My half-sister’s gorgeous best friend leaned toward me and air-kissed both cheeks, wisps of her perfectly straightened hair brushing against my skin.
“Hello, Boris,” I said to her husband. He was wearing a rather wrinkled pair of dress slacks and a threadbare gray cardigan. A tweed ivy cap—I always thought of them as Newsies hats—hid most of his salt-and-pepper hair.
He grunted a distracted hello, his eyes already searching out the samples.
I smiled at two more customers entering the store. The turnout in the first few minutes of being open was better than I’d hoped for…even if more than half the people who’d managed to stop by were friends of mine.
“You know, Colby, I know the holidays are coming up and things are bound to get ever so busy,” Diana said, running her hand through her long locks. “But I do hope you’ll be able to make some time for us to get together.”
I gave her a distracted look. “Get together?”
“Yes.” Diana’s face lit with a smile. “So you can teach me your meditation secrets.”
“Oh. Right.” I suddenly remembered the tiny little lie I’d told her about being a meditation guru…and how she’d insisted I teach her my ways so that she, too, could extend her m
editation times to several-hour stretches. I thought fast. “Um, I’ll check my calendar and see what I might have free.”
“That would be wonderful.” Her smile widened, showcasing a mouthful of perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. “You know, my horoscope told me today would be a good day to ask for the things I wanted. This is working out just perfectly! Isn’t it, Boris?”
Her husband absentmindedly patted her hand and then wandered off toward the samples. She turned expectantly to me. “Maybe we can compare calendars now?”
Deputy Graham Lipman walked through the door, and I’d never been so happy to see him. The time I usually spent with him mostly consisted of either suffering through baseball talk or wondering if he was hitting on me, but I was desperate to end my conversation with Diana.
“Excuse me, I should go greet Graham. We’ll talk later!” I said to Diana, and rushed to greet him. “Graham, so nice to see you. Are you here for the open house or on official business?” I asked, taking in the uniform he was wearing.
He hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his khaki pants. “Little bit of both, actually,” he said. “Just finished providing traffic control and assistance for the Turkey Trot 5K in Clairmont. Thought I’d swing by here and see if you need any crowd control for your event.”
I chuckled. “I doubt it. It’s not that kind of event. I’m hoping we’ll be busy, but not that busy.”
He glanced around the store with a critical eye. “Well, you don’t want to go over fire code. I can keep an eye on your numbers here, if you want. People coming in and out. Maybe put up some stanchions out front just in case. I always keep a few in the trunk.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I said quickly. “But thank you.”
It seemed like I’d dodged my conversation with Diana only to want to run away from the one I was having with Graham, too.
Two more people came into the shop.
“I’m going to start counting,” he told me, his brow furrowing. He pulled a counter from his pocket. “Just in case.”
Chelsea Stiles, the owner of Yule Be Back, the new Christmas shop in town, approached, a man by her side. She was in her mid-thirties, a brunette with a wide and easy smile and a love of Christmas that I was pretty sure was unrivaled in Bayfield, if not the world.
I waved hello.
“I just had to stop by,” Chelsea said. “Especially after that nice article you wrote for the paper.”
Holly McKnight, my editor at the Bayfield Star News, had given me the assignment to do a profile of Chelsea’s store.
I had to admit, I’d initially questioned the logic in opening a year-round Christmas shop, especially in a town as small as Bayfield. Sure, we had our share of tourists who might love to shop for holiday trinkets while on vacation, but we didn’t get nearly the number of visitors as other coastal communities, and our town’s population didn’t seem big enough to support a specialty shop like hers during the off-season.
But then again, I’d reminded myself, I worked at a specialty cheese shop and we seemed to be doing just fine.
At any rate, after talking to Chelsea and seeing her passion for all things Christmas, I was convinced that if anyone could make that store work, it was her. She had big plans to put a lot of her catalog online, and she had already secured a couple of product lines that weren’t sold anywhere else in Maine.
“I’m glad you liked it,” I said. “It was a fun piece to write.”
And it was. Although I’d balked at doing the story, Chelsea had made it fun, and hearing her ideas for the store and seeing the progress she was already making in the old clock shop had me counting down the days until the holiday shopping season kicked into full gear to see just how successful she would be.
“How was the grand opening?” I asked. “I’m sorry I missed it.”
“It was good,” she said, but she didn’t look or sound as excited as I thought she might be. Maybe it was just the stress of the opening. “I’m still waiting on some merchandise, and there are a few small things that need to be done to the place, repair-wise. Danny here is doing a bunch of that stuff for me.” She motioned a beautifully manicured hand at the guy standing next to her. “This is my brother.”
Danny held out a hand and gave mine a firm shake. “That was a nice article.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and it was then that I saw the resemblance between the two siblings. “Much appreciate you writing that up for Chelsea.”
“My pleasure,” I told him. I nodded toward the counter and motioned at some of the small tables we’d set up around the store. “Feel free to browse and help yourself to some samples.”
Danny was already halfway across the store. Chelsea hesitated.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
She bit her lip. “Yes,” she finally said. “I’m just exhausted. This has all been…a lot.”
I nodded sympathetically. I was tired from getting this event ready, and I’d had Olivia’s help. I couldn’t imagine the amount of time and energy Chelsea had put into getting an entire store up and running from scratch, especially considering the state of the physical space she’d taken over.
“Hopefully you’ll have some time soon to relax,” I told her.
Chelsea gave a slight nod, but she didn’t look too convinced. She followed after her brother, who was already plucking an orange maple leaf-shaped slice of cheese from one of the platters.
“Excuse me,” a deep voice said from behind me.
I turned.
An older man was scanning the walls of the shop. He had to be pushing fifty, with dark, thinning hair and a moustache flecked with gray. “I’m here to pick up some artwork I purchased,” he said.
“You must be Lars,” I said, hoping I’d remembered the name of Olivia’s buyer.
The man nodded. Another man was with him, several years older, wearing a bucket hat and waders that came almost up to his knees. His eyes raked over me, his expression appreciative as they settled on my chest.
My insides curdled and I turned away from him. He was literally old enough to be my dad.
“Lars!” Graham was suddenly by my side. “Bob! What are you guys doing here?”
I looked at him, puzzled. How did he know Olivia’s buyer? And who the heck was Bob?
It was as if Graham could read my mind. Which was slightly terrifying. “Bob French here owns the Bayfield Fishers,” Graham explained, nodding toward the man who had just tried to undress me with his eyes. “And Lars…well, he’s like Bob’s right-hand man. Right, Lars?”
Lars gave a reluctant nod.
“I’ve been meaning to get in touch,” Graham said, turning his attention to the two men. “About Isaac’s passing.” He shook his head. “It’s been tough, knowing he’s gone.”
I immediately sobered. Isaac Parnham, a teammate of Graham’s on the Bayfield Fishers, had died in a car crash a couple of weeks earlier. I’d only seen him twice—once, when he was playing darts with Leslie Luntz, and then the night Graham and I had gone to the batting cages and Leslie had tried to kill me—but I knew he had been a pretty important member of the team, and I imagined he’d made a lot of friends during his time there.
Lars nodded. “Yes, a tough situation indeed.”
“I know it’s the off season, but have you given any thought to the lineup for spring, especially with Isaac gone?” Graham looked hopefully between the two men.
“Uh, not really,” Lars said, glancing down at the floor.
“I just want you both to know that I’ve been working hard these last few days,” Graham said. “Lots of lifting, lots of endurance-type stuff. And I’ve been playing with this knuckleball grip that I really think is gonna turn out to be something tough to hit. If I can get it over the plate.”
