Clobbered by Camembert

“Say, did you see that ice sculpture shaped like a hound’s tooth?” Matthew asked.

To lure more tourists to town, my grandmother had cooked up an ice-sculpting contest. Ten artists had signed up for the event. Two days ago, a truck delivered huge blocks of ice, and the artists set to work. The weather, as crisp as always in February, was cooperating and keeping the ice from melting.

“It’s whimsical,” he added.

“That’s an understatement.” The tooth sculpture was ten feet tall. I had a sneaking suspicion that the bubbly hygienist, a vocal advocate for flossing, was the artist. “Did you see the knight on horseback sculpture?”

“My personal favorite is the Great Dane cuddling a litter of kittens.”

“It definitely wins the ‘aw’ factor.”

The sculpture entries didn’t have to be completed until Sunday, when the winner of the contest would be announced. I looked forward to seeing the other designs.

“Shoot.” Matthew swatted the counter. “I left the wine openers in my car. I’ll be right back.”

As he exited through the tent door, Rebecca, my coltish young assistant, hustled in. Her long ponytail flew behind her like a jet stream. “Alert! Alert!” Her pretty face was flushed the color of Edam wax, her sweet forehead crimped with worry. She skidded to a stop on the fake grass.

“What’s wrong?” I braced her slim shoulder.

“She’s … she’s …” Rebecca swallowed hard and caught her breath. “A woman bought the property next to Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm, and she’s … she’s—” Rebecca hiccupped.

I cuffed her on the back. “Calm down.”

“She’s starting a honeybee farm, too.”

I understood her concern. Rebecca had a crush on our local beekeeper. To hear her talk, Ipo Ho had created the moon and the stars.

“She’s going to ruin him.”

“Relax. There’s enough room in Providence for two honeybee farms. Ipo’s honeybees dine on clover. Maybe the new owner will feed her bees wildflowers.” Honey, with all its healing properties, had turned into a big business. Jars of Quail Ridge honey flew off The Cheese Shop’s shelves.

“She’s trouble, you watch.”

Two years ago, Rebecca left her Amish community and moved to Providence with a rosy picture of what the “real world” would be. After a steady dose of Internet news and TV murder mysteries, she admitted that living in the modern world could be a challenge. But she wasn’t leaving. Not any time soon. Because of Ipo Ho.

“Howdy-doo.” A handsome and very tall woman in her fifties, wearing a jeans outfit and turquoise-studded cowboy hat and boots, ducked beneath the scalloped doorframe. Where was her horse? I mused. “Nice place,” the woman said with a drawl as she dusted lacy snow that had fallen from the door’s edge off her shoulders. “I’m Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”

Aha! I stifled a giggle. She was the horse, complete with a cascading mane of straw blonde hair and a square jaw.

Rebecca gasped. “That’s … that’s her.” She slunk back a few paces, as if standing near to the woman would mark her as a traitor.

“You’re Charlotte, aren’t you?” Kaitlyn jutted out a tanned hand.

Instinctively, I shook with her. Strong grip, perceptive eyes. I liked her. At least I thought I did. She radiated energy and enthusiasm.

Kaitlyn Clydesdale released my hand and roamed the tent, fingering the cheese ornaments and wine bottle labels. “Ah, the aromas. Love ’em. Exactly like I remember as a girl.”

“Are you from around here?” I asked. I couldn’t recall having seen her before, and she would be hard to forget.

“Lived here years ago. Moved to Texas in my twenties when I got married.”

She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring now.

Kaitlyn plucked a cheese card from a wheel of Vacherin Fribourg and read: “Nutty. Melts great for soups, raclettes, and gratins. Sounds fab.” Over her shoulder, she said, “Maybe I could entice you to put together a cheese tasting party for my crew when we pass through town in a few months.”

“Your crew?”

“The Do-Gooders.”

I’d heard about the Do-Gooders, a volunteer organization that restored historic buildings in the Midwest. All the women wore turquoise-studded hats and turquoise-studded clothing. Their show of unity reminded me of the fabulous Red Hat Society ladies.

Rebecca whispered, “She’s lying.”

“Shhh.”

Undaunted, she pinched my arm. “Ask her what’s she doing buying the farm next to Ipo’s.”

I shot Rebecca a look. It wasn’t like her to detest someone so out of hand, and truthfully I wasn’t picking up any bad vibes from our visitor.

“Charlotte.” Kaitlyn swiveled and met my gaze. “I knew your—”

“Achoo!” A fine-boned young woman with matted black curls scuttled into the tent. Her classic black wool coat swallowed her up; her five-inch platform-heel boots looked as clumsy as army boots.

“Bless you,” I said.

“Sorry.” Seeming as miserable as a wet poodle, the young woman dabbed her chapped nose with a wadded- up tissue and gripped her coat at her throat.

“I told you not to come inside, Georgia,” Kaitlyn said. “Go back to the car.”

The young woman flinched at the imperious tone but obediently shuffled out. How she balanced on those heels was beyond me.

“Forgive me,” Kaitlyn said. “That was my CFO. She’s under the weather. No need to be spreading germs.”

“You hired a CFO for the Do-Gooders?” I said. Having one sounded pretty formal for a regional organization.

“Oh, no. She works for Clydesdale Enterprises.” Kaitlyn replaced the Vacherin Fribourg cheese information card. “That’s my main business.”

Rebecca elbowed me. “Told you so.”

Kaitlyn eyed Rebecca. “Am I missing something? Why are you upset with me? Who are you?”

“Rebecca Zook.” Rebecca threw back her shoulders with youthful exuberance. “And you—”

I rested my hand on her forearm. “My assistant believes you’ve purchased the cattle farm next to the Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm.”

Kaitlyn smiled shrewdly. “We’re in negotiations.”

Her revelation surprised me. Information about a place for sale should have surfaced in The Cheese Shop, if not from Sylvie, then from any of the dozen other people who liked to congregate at the shop to swap stories.

“‘We’?” I said. “There’s more than one of you at Clydesdale Enterprises?”

“My business partner and I. The seller is rather eager to close, so it should be final soon.”

“You can’t,” Rebecca blurted.

“Young lady, I can do as I please.”

Kaitlyn looked down her nose at Rebecca with a maliciousness that bordered on evil, and in a snap, my opinion of her changed. How rude. Nobody talked to my young friend that way. I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe Rebecca’s concerns were well founded. Maybe Kaitlyn intended to bury Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm. But why, for heaven’s sake?

“Now, where was I?” Kaitlyn shook her head like a horse disgruntled with its rider and drew in a deep breath. “Oh, yes. Charlotte, as I was saying before, when we were interrupted.” She glowered at Rebecca as though she were a gnat. “I knew your parents.”

I fell back a step, shocked. Was that why she had come into our tent? Not to set up a cheese tasting for her crew but to talk about my folks? Most of what I remembered about them, I had learned from my grandparents. I was three when they died. I kept a hope chest filled with memories—my mother’s linens, a copy of Wuthering Heights, my father’s box of fishing lures, LPs of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and Elvis. A therapist had told me that with time the loss would soften, but I could feel my eyes welling with