Page 13 of Holiday Cheese and Capers
“That reminds me!” Jasper smacked his forehead. “I need to make sure I have all the NDAs gathered from all the guests attending the tour. There’s still one or two that I need to collect. Excuse me?” He looked apologetically at Wren, who waved him off with one hand.
“Go!” she said. “Duty calls!” Then she turned back toward Minerva and Bayard. “I’m very excited about today’s tour. It’s a plum assignment. So few bloggers have been allowed in. Even if I can’t take photos, I’m excited to see it.”
“I just hope nothing else goes wrong.” Minerva sipped her tea, watching Bayard carefully.
He nodded his agreement and then excused himself when they heard the rolling clatter of the anchor dropping to the river. “Oh, my! Look at the time! Looks like we’ve reached the dock. Fred will want his breakfast and I’d best be getting ready for the tour.”
After a quick orientationand a bit more paperwork, their group traveled by tender boat to the pristine dock where a regal-looking man awaited their arrival. Philippe Valmont was perhaps fifty years old. He was impeccably dressed in custom-tailored clothes that bore the Fromagerie Valmont crest in gold embroidery. His salt-and-pepper hair was swept back without a single strand out of place. His mouth was shaped into a rigid smile but the expression seemed forced. It did not quite make it to his eyes. Moreover, there was a look of annoyance and inconvenience in them that suggested he would rather be doing almost anything else besides welcoming them for this tour, on this crisp winter morning. He flipped through the paperwork that Jasper handed him, silently counting the signatures, then the heads in the tender boat.
Only then, when he was satisfied with the numbers, did he step aside so they could all disembark onto his dock.
“Welcome to Fromagerie Valmont,” he said once they were all assembled on the dock. His English was perfect but heavily accented. “I am Philippe Valmont, ninth-generation master of the Roquefort tradition. Before we begin, I must reiterate the ground rules and remind you that you have all signed a contract.” His gaze swept over them like a general inspectingtroops. “No photography. No touching the cheese wheels without permission. No deviation from the tour route. And absolutely no sampling without my explicit approval.”
“He’s a charmer,” Exandra muttered under her breath. The giantess was wearing the same outfit as the day before, minus the beanie. Her hair was blown wild from the wind on the tender boat; tufts of purple and gray stuck out in every direction.
Philippe spun around to face her, and glared up at her with his sharp eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said you’re charming,” Exandra repeated, louder and more confidently, with an equally forced smile. “We’re so lucky to be here today. I’m sure everyone is impressed with your... dedication to tradition.”
He regarded her with the kind of look one might give an interesting but ultimately inferior specimen. “Tradition is what separates true craftsmanship from mere production, mademoiselle.”
“It’s Agent,” Exandra corrected. “Agent Exandra Thorne.” She held out a hand to shake his, but he ignored it, already continuing on with his presentation.
“Now, if you will follow me.” Phillipe Valmont sniffed the air possessively, as if he resented having to share it all with these interlopers.
They entered the fromagerie through a dramatic marble and wrought iron archway carved with the Valmont family crest and descended directly into the caves. Whereas the Swiss fromagerie had been rustic and charming, this place was a temple to controlled perfection. Crystal chandeliers hung from the limestone ceiling, their light reflecting off walls that hadbeen polished smooth and whitewashed. Cheese wheels lined the shelves in absolutely perfect symmetry, each one exactly the same distance from its neighbor.
“It’s like a museum,” Minerva whispered to Zephyr.
“Or a mausoleum,” he whispered back.
Wren’s hand strayed to the camera at her hip almost reflexively, drawn by the dramatic lighting. She’d barely touched it when Philippe whirled around.
“Mademoiselle! What did we just say about photography?”
“I’m sorry, I just… It’s habit. The lighting in here is extraordinary, and usually for my articles?—”
“No. Photographs. No. Exceptions.” Each word was bitten off cleanly. “This is your only warning. A second violation and you will be removed from the tour and our lawyers will be in touch.”
Wren’s jaw tightened, but she tucked the camera away in her bag where she’d be less tempted to touch it. “Understood.”
Jasper shot her a sympathetic look. She gave him a tight smile in return.
As they moved deeper into the caves, past chamber after perfectly arranged chamber, Bayard and Exandra drifted toward each other. Minerva watched as they hovered at the edge of the group, whispering like teenagers. When Phillipe stuck his head into a vat of vaguely floral but still powerfully pungent ripening cheese and inhaled deeply, Exandra struggled to suppress a giggle. She buried her head on Bayard’s shoulder, shaking with the effort of containing her laughter. Minerva saw tears when Bayard stood on tippy toes to whisper something in Exandra’sear. She could just make out what he said, thanks to her mouse-enhanced hearing.
“Do you think he secretly bathes in the vats when nobody is looking, Exxie?”
“What is so funny?” Phillipe asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I was just helping Agent Thorne with…”
“Something in my eye!” Exandra deadpanned, wiping away a tear.
“Hmph!” Phillippe pinched his lips together tightly and continued on with the tour.
Minerva smiled to herself. Perhaps there was hope for Exandra and Bayard yet.
The walking tourconcluded in a presentation chamber where a perfect wheel of Roquefort sat displayed on a rotating marble pedestal. It was topped with a tiny jeweled crown that sparkled in the spotlights. As they all took their seats in the gallery, Phillippe launched into a highly technical lecture aboutPenicillium roqueforticultures, bacterial ratios, and precise humidity requirements. He paused at regular intervals for questions, his tone suggesting that everyone should be taking notes for a final exam. But even Wren had stopped writing things down, both because the subject was so dry and becauseshe feared the legal consequences of paying too close attention as much as she feared getting it wrong.
