Page 12 of Holiday Cheese and Capers
“Youguess you’re gladI’m here?” Her voice was sharp. “You didn’tthinkthey’d sendme? What exactly are you trying to say, Bayard?”
“I just meant—” He floundered. “I didn’t expect the Society to take it so seriously. To pull you away from?—”
“From what?” She stepped closer, and he could see the hurt beneath her defensive anger. “From my very important, very full life? From all the better places I should be spending my holidays?”
“No! That’s not?—”
“Itisserious,” she said, her voice tight. “And I intend to get to the bottom of it. Whether you think I’m needed here or not.”
“Exandra, I didn’t mean?—”
But she was already walking away, her tall frame rigid with wounded pride, disappearing into the ship’s interior.
Bayard stood frozen, replaying the conversation, trying to understand how his gratitude and guilt and relief had come out so terribly wrong. In his carrier, Fred stirred and quacked softly—a sound of sympathy.
“I’ve totally mucked that up haven’t I, Fred?” Bayard whispered.
Fred didn’t quack back. He just tucked his head under his wing.
Below deck later that evening,Minerva watched Zephyr standing at their porthole, watching the Alps recede into the distance as the ship rose gracefully into the clear night sky. He was deep in thought, brow furrowed as he stroked his lush silver beard.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked.
“I was just thinking about Bayard and Exandra,” he said. “This should be a happy time for Bayard. But I don’t think Exandra’s happy about us all moving on to other things and leaving her behind. Especially Bay. Those two care a lot for each other. Always have. But they’ve always been completely unable to express their feelings and say what they actually mean. Things have never been quite the same since Bayard had his accident.” Zephyr signed. “It happened toward the end of our training. We’d always assumed we’d end up working in the field together. But when Bayard got injured, it radically altered his trajectory, and ours, too. He never returned to the field.” Zephyr tugged at his beard thoughtfully. “Who knows what would have blossomed between him and Exandra if they hadn’t been split up like that. I just hate seeing them so twisted up and miserable.”
“Mmm.” Minerva slipped her arm through his. “The unable-to-express-their-feelings part reminds me of two people I usedto know. Spent decades circling each other, never quite brave enough to speak the truth...”
He pulled her close. “Thank goodness we eventually figured it out. Now we get to do all the fun stuff together and make up for lost time.”
“Thank goodness, indeed.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Though I’m starting to fear that all the excitement on this cruise might pull you out of retirement.”
“You’re seriously worried about the Culture Vulture?” Zephyr smirked.
“Amongst other things.” She thought of Bayard’s guilty expression, Exandra’s too-perfect discovery of the break-in, the way both of them seemed more confused than truly alarmed. “Something about it doesn’t quite add up, Zippy.”
“Your mouse nose tingling?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m so glad you said so, Minnie.” He held her closer and kissed the top of her head. “Something’s not adding up for me, either. But one thing I’m sure of. Your instincts are sharp as any Society agent’s that I’ve worked with to date. We’ll get to the bottom of this mystery, together.”
THE ROQUEFORT RIGAMAROLE
The French countryside unfolded beneathThe Celestine Queenlike a pastoral painting in muted wintry tones. They floated past rolling hills striped with vineyards and stone villages clustered around church spires, and in the distance, Minerva spied the dramatic limestone cliffs that housed some of the world’s most storied cheese caves.
As the ship slowly descended toward a private, sheltered landing near the village of Roquefort-sur-Soulzon, Minerva carried her mug of morning tea to the railing. She almost gasped with delight when she first spotted the flock. A small group of sheep grazed on a hillside, their cotton candy-like wool reflecting the morning light in impossible colors. One ewe’s coat shimmered with an opalescent blue, another with soft, pale lavender rose, a third glowed bright with hints of the honey gold tones of whipped nougat.
“Ah! You’ve spied the famous magical sheep,” Bayard said, following her gaze. He stood a few feet from her at the railing with his travel journal, making notes. “You should see them in August. Their coats reach peak saturation in late summer.”
“Wow! They’re still so beautiful now,” Wren said, rushing to join them at the railing. Her camera was already in hand but then she lowered it with a frustrated sigh. “Though we’re not supposed to take any photos. Ratty bats! I suppose I’ll have to enjoy everything with just my eyes today.”
“I was just about to mention that.” Jasper wasn’t far behind. He came over to stand beside her.
Minerva wrinkled her brow. “What’s that about?”
“Fromagerie Valmont has a strict no-photography policy on their grounds,” Bayard explained. “We were lucky to even get a tour there. I had to pull strings. Philippe Valmont is very protective of his methods and presentation.”
“Protective is putting it mildly.” Wren nodded. “I read he once tried to sue a journalist for describing the atmosphere in his caves in too much detail. He claimed she violated his NDA by painting too vivid of a picture.”
