The Hen of the Baskervilles(14)

And no, there weren’t any other incidents. By the time I reached the last building, I realized it was getting close to opening time. I stopped by a food stand that was already cooking Italian sausages, one of my favorites. I wolfed one down, and made a mental note to come back and have another when I had the time to really enjoy it. Then I headed for the front gate.

I had a little time left, so I decided to run a personal errand. I strolled into the farmers’ market, a huge barn with booths for farmers and craftspeople who wanted to sell their goods as well as enter them into competition.

I threaded my way through aisles where the vendors were scrambling to set out the last of their merchandise before the first customers arrived. Fresh-baked bread, rolls, cookies, and pies. Fruit and vegetable stalls heaped with corn, pumpkins, squash, beets, string beans, apples, pears, peaches, grapes, tomatoes, onions, potatoes, leeks, and who knows how many other fruits and vegetables. Fresh and dried spices. Freshly made jams, jellies, and preserves. Organic meats. Farm-made sausages. Farm-cured bacon and ham. Saltwater taffy. Homemade fudge. I waved in passing to my cousin Rose Noire, who was setting up her stall with organic herbs, potpourris, gourmet herbal vinegars, and essential oils. She was dressed today in a tie-dyed dress that would not have looked out of place at Woodstock, and her frizzy mane was topped with a wreath of dried herbs and flowers. On me it would have looked as if I’d stuck my head into a jar of potpourri, but on her it looked curiously elegant. I stopped for a cup of locally roasted fair-trade coffee, but resisted all the other temptations. I’d save my calories for later, when I came back with the boys in tow.

My destination was a booth decorated with a large sign that said LEAPING GOAT FARM—ARTISAN CHEESES. My friend Molly Riordan had started her creamery business ten years ago, and was finally seeing some success—winning medals at fairs, getting good reviews in foodie magazines, and most important, selling her cheeses as fast as she could make them. Always good to see someone as nice and as hardworking as Molly making good.

But I could see that she was frowning as she arranged a selection of crackers and sample dishes of cheese spread on the counter.

“Why so glum?” I asked. “If it’s about the thefts, our police are on the case.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t leave anything valuable here overnight. Just a little preoccupied.”

She was smiling now, but in the rather determined way people smile when they really don’t feel like it. And while she hadn’t answered my question, maybe this wasn’t the time or place to pry.

“I came to get some of my favorite cheeses before you run out,” I said. “I brought a list.”

“Always the organized one.” Her smile became a little more believable. “Yes, I have all these. You might want to double the quantities. Could be your last chance.”

“Last chance? No! Why?”

“You heard Brett left me, right?”

I nodded. I suspected I wasn’t the only one of her friends who considered this good news, although I couldn’t just come out and say so.

“Well, there you have it.” She was slicing thin slices of a huntsman-style cheese that made my mouth water and almost distracted me.

“What do you mean, there you have it?” I gave in to temptation and snagged a small slice. “What does Brett have to do with your continuing to make cheese? I thought he never did a lick of work around the farm.”

“No,” she said. “But his name’s on the deed with mine. And he’s filed for divorce already, and demanding his half of the farm. I can’t afford to buy him out. I could try to give him half the income, although I’m not sure I could live on half of almost nothing, but he won’t even consider it.”

“Have you pointed out to him that he’ll get a lot more in the long run if he waits?” I asked. “And that maybe without the income from the farm, he might have to get an actual job?”

“He doesn’t care,” she said. “His new girlfriend is supporting him. Paying for his high-powered divorce lawyer, too.”

“Do you have a lawyer?” I asked.

She shook her head, and pretended that the cheddar she was slicing took all her concentration.

“You need one.” I was already taking out my notebook. “One who’s even better than his. Let me talk to Mother.”

She looked puzzled.

“I didn’t know your mother was a lawyer,” she said. “Does she handle divorces?”

“She handles her family,” I said. “She’s not a lawyer, but we must have several dozen in the family. And most of them are very, very good at what they do, and I’m sure a few of them do divorce. I will explain to Mother that if she wants to continue serving your cheeses at her parties, she will need to find you a lawyer who can take on Brett’s lawyer. And do it on terms you can afford.”