Who Moved My Goat Cheese? Read online

  Cover Copy

  Angie Turner hopes her new farm-to-table restaurant can be a fresh start in her old hometown in rural Idaho. But when a goat dairy farmer is murdered, Angie must turn the tables on a bleating black sheep . . .

  With three weeks until opening night for their restaurant, the County Seat, Angie and her best friend and business partner Felicia are scrambling to line up local vendors—from the farmer’s market to the goat dairy farm of Old Man Moss. Fortunately, the cantankerous Moss takes a shine to Angie, as does his kid goat Precious. So when Angie hears the bloodcurdling news of foul play at the dairy farm, she jumps in to mind the man’s livestock and help solve the murder. One thing’s for sure, there’s no whey Angie’s going to let some killer get her goat . . .

  Also by Lynn Cahoon

  The Cat Latimer Mysteries

  A Story to Kill

  Fatality by Firelight

  Of Murder and Men

  The Tourist Trap Mysteries

  Guidebook to Murder

  Mission to Murder

  If the Shoe Kills

  Dressed to Kill

  Killer Run

  Murder on Wheels

  Tea Cups and Carnage

  Hospitality and Homicide

  Killer Party

  Who Moved My Goat Cheese?

  A FARM-TO-FORK MYSTERY

  Lynn Cahoon

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Lyrical Underground books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Lynn Cahoon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

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  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: March 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0381-2

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0381-5

  First Print Edition: March 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0382-9

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0382-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To the little girl who turned into the writer. Who knew all the bits and pieces we picked up along the way would be useful someday?

  Acknowledgements

  Farm to Fork came out of a need to write about the place where I grew up, the Treasure Valley in Idaho. I lived most of my life within 40 miles of the place I was born. They say you only have so many memories you can keep in your brain before you write over them with new experiences. This is one way of downloading the love I feel for this rural farm area. Big thanks to my Mom and Dad (Viola and Robert Gardner) for moving their growing family in true pioneering spirit out of South Dakota to Idaho. If not for that one move, this book might have been completely different.

  Thanks to Esi Sogah and the Kensington crew for taking a chance on a new cozy concept. And thank you to Jill Marsal, my agent. Welcome to the family.

  CHAPTER 1

  Angie Turner knelt in the grass beside Nona’s herb garden, loosening the soil around the rosemary plant and cutting back the chives, the beat of June sun on her back reminding her of childhood summer days. Back then, she’d loved visiting her grandmother. On warm mornings, Angie would lie in the tall grass, listening to the bird songs in the trees and the cattle wandering around the pasture near the house. Later in the afternoon, her dad always saddled the horses and took her riding after lunch. Growing up in rural Idaho had reminded her of the stories from those Little House books.

  Dom, her newly adopted St. Bernard puppy, sat nearby, watching Mabel, the lone surviving white and black hen from her grandmother’s flock. She was inching closer to the garden, probably looking for the worms Angie disturbed while she turned the soil. She stood and brushed the dirt off her hands.

  “Time to make dinner.” Angie held the back door open for the dog and he trotted inside. Then she loaded her arms up with russet potatoes and a large onion from her storeroom. River Vista farmers’ market had just started carrying the sweet Vidalias, so last visit she’d bought several and had been playing with different recipes all week. She would have to refill her stock soon. The star of today’s menu was her version of Nona’s potato soup. She’d take that and a fresh onion sandwich over to Mrs. Potter’s house, her only neighbor on the mile road.

  The recipe for the onion sandwich consisted of thickly sliced sweet Vidalias, the last of the herb bread she’d baked on Sunday, and Miracle Whip. The only upgrades she’d made from her grandmother’s recipe had been to change the white bread to whatever homemade loaf she had on hand and adding sea salt.

  While she cooked, she was serenaded with snores that came from Dom’s puppy bed in the corner of the kitchen. Right now, the world made sense. Buying a St. Bernard puppy might not have been the smartest idea, especially if she ever had to go back to apartment living. Yet, as she worked in Nona’s newly remodeled kitchen, Angie didn’t think staying here in River Vista would be a problem at all. Especially if her new restaurant became successful.

  The previously agriculture-based town of River Vista had become a bedroom community for Boise. As a small town filled with corporate working couples who didn’t have time to cook dinner, it was just the right time and place to open The County Seat. While the soup simmered on the stove, she checked her tablet. Since that morning, she’d received ten new emails from Felicia Williams, her best friend and now, business partner.

  This wasn’t the first time they’d opened a restaurant. The trio of friends from culinary school, Felicia, Todd Young, and herself had opened their first place, el pescado, five years ago, after working for some of the best restaurants in the San Francisco area. When the lease on their location expired, the landlord wanted more than what the restaurant could afford so they’d closed the establishment. Todd had gone back to Jersey and the two women had moved north to Idaho and the farmhouse Angie had inherited.

  She sent Felicia a quick text telling her to come over for dinner and that soup was ready. Then Angie finished packing her basket and took it across the road to Mrs. Potter. When Angie returned to her own kitchen after a few minutes of idle gossip, Felicia had arrived. Her business partner was the light to her dark. Blonde and thin, she looked like the typical California valley girl. Angie had her grandmother’s Italian features and thick black hair. Felicia already sat at the table, a bowl of soup in front of her and Dom at her feet, watching her take each bite.

  Holding out the spoon, she pointed it at Angie. “This is good.”

  Angie went over to the counter and m
ade a couple of tuna fish sandwiches since neither of them loved the onion sandwiches like Mrs. Potter did. After pouring her own bowl of soup, she finally sat. Blowing on the too hot soup, she studied her friend. “You’ve been burning up my email today. Tell me what’s got you all worked up. We have three weeks before opening, everything is on track, and we’re meeting with the city council for our liquor license next week. Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

  Felicia set her sandwich down on her plate. “That’s where you’re wrong. Something already has. The guy that runs the farmers’ market is refusing to work with us. He says we’re too ‘corporate’ for his liking.”

  Angie almost spit out the spoonful bit of the soup she’d just put in her mouth. She grabbed a napkin. “What do you mean we’re too corporate? He realizes the ‘company’ is me and you, right?”

  “Apparently, he has a strong no-corporation policy, so when he found out you’d filed papers to incorporate the restaurant, he got nervous.” Felicia fed the crusts off the bread to Dom, who swallowed the bite without tasting it. “It’s an easy fix. All you have to do is sweet talk him into changing his mind. No harm, no foul.”

  Angie pulled out her phone and made another notation on her already growing list for tomorrow. “Who did you talk to? The owner or the manager?”

  “One and the same.” Felicia took a business card out of her oversized designer purse. “Here’s his deets.”

  Angie looked over the formal business card. Ian McNeal was listed as the owner/manager of River Vista Farmers’ Market. He’d made the market a 503(c) nonprofit for the local farmers. She’d have to remind him that it was almost the same thing for little businesses. If she had to build her own vendor process, opening day needed to be pushed out at least a week. She could use a local produce supplier, except it was hard to claim farm-to-table when the tomatoes for the caprese salad came from California.

  Felicia stood, taking her empty bowl to the sink and put a hand on Angie’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. You can talk the devil into serving ice cream as an afternoon snack in hell. You’ll be able to handle this guy, no problem.”

  “When I was talking to Mrs. Potter just now, she mentioned I also need to charm Old Man Moss. He has a goat dairy up on the river canyon and only sells to people he likes. She said told me not to mention her name, because he doesn’t like her. Some old argument that’s festered for years.” Angie laughed at the memory of the woman’s chatter. “What was I thinking when I agreed to a farm-to-table concept? I’m going to spend all my time chatting up every farmer in the Treasure Valley.”

  Felicia paused at the kitchen door. “That’s what the executive chef does. I’m just front of the house. Which reminds me I still need to find a local craft beer or two to add to our bar stock. Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight.”

  “You mean with the beer, right?” Angie motioned Dom to come sit next to her.

  Felicia shot her a wicked smile. “Whatever do you mean? Anyway, thanks for dinner. I’m going into Emmett for the Cherry Festival. Do you want me to pick up samples?”

  Felicia had already been on more dates in the last month than Angie had since high school. “Get business cards from some of the local farm stands. I might need to reach out directly.”

  Felicia threw her a cockeyed salute as she opened the screen door, keeping her gaze on Dom who had left Angie’s side to find his food bowl, deciding it was his dinnertime as well. The dog had a habit of thinking he needed out every time the door opened. She paused briefly. “You could come along.”

  “I don’t want to be part of some blind date setup. You go have fun and be careful. This may not be California, but it doesn’t mean bad things don’t happen here.” Angie opened the business plan for The County Seat and started scanning for things she’d have to change if she couldn’t talk the farmers’ market guy into being reasonable. Besides opening day.

  She’d taken a loan to start the restaurant, buying the small building where she’d be cooking four nights a week for the rest of her life, hopefully. Her projections were all based on opening in three weeks. They’d already been taking reservations and had bookings for at least two weeks after opening night. If she had to push it back, she shook her head, not wanting to go down that road. Dom had cleaned out his dinner bowl and was looking at her unfinished dinner.

  “Sorry guy, I’m not as much of a soft sell as Felicia.” She took her dishes to the sink, putting a cover over the soup pan. Even though she’d fed only four people tonight, she still cooked as if she was in el pescado’s kitchen. She’d freeze the leftovers as soon as they cooled.

  The evening light had softened the kitchen. Angie picked up the blue leash hanging on the corner. “What do you say, want to go walking?”

  He sat in front of her, motionless except the constant wag of his tail.

  “I should rent out your talents as a floor cleaner.” As Angie locked the door and tucked her key into her capris pocket, Dom strained on the leash. Mabel was still clucking around the front of the coop. “You’re in charge,” she called to the hen, who looked up at her like, “Aren’t I always?”

  The evening was still warm and the light that pulsed in the valley appeared soft and inviting. June had always been her favorite month. Not deep summer, but out of the chill of the spring. The good thing about River Vista is they got all four seasons. Winter, spring, summer, and fall. And the area residents celebrated each one. If Felicia liked the small local festivals, she’d have her choice year-round. Since high school, the Cherry Festival in nearby Emmett had been one of Angie’s favorites. She’d met her first love there, had her first kiss, and it had been the first festival her grandmother had let her go to with friends rather than as a family. Of course, nothing got past the woman and at the breakfast table the next morning, her grandmother asked her about the new friend she’d met. Grandma’s spies had been everywhere.

  As they crossed the empty highway to the next mile of their walk, Angie considered the field to her right. Whatever was growing wasn’t corn. Instead, the plants were more bean like, but didn’t seem to be green beans. She took out her phone and snapped a picture of the field and one close up of the plant. The crunch of tires on the gravel side of the road made her freeze as a vehicle rolled to a stop behind her.

  “Can I help you, miss?” The southern twang in his voice told Angie the man wasn’t a local. She turned and a well-used red Chevy Silverado with a pile of silver siphon tubes piled in the bed sat parked on the side of the road. The man’s appearance screamed farmer, from his worn Levi’s to his flannel over shirt unbuttoned to show a sweat-covered tank underneath. Worn cowboy boots and an old Chevy baseball cap finished the look. He could be a model for Rural Farmers Quarterly, if there was such a magazine. “It’s not safe for a pretty little thing like you to be out alone after dark.”

  “Not quite dark yet. We’re just out for a walk.” As to emphasize the point, Dom wiggled by her side, wanting her to release his leash. The puppy thought everyone was his friend, and wanted to get a whiff of the guy to add to his catalogue of humans. “Sit,” Angie said, the command in her I’m-serious-voice and for once, Dom listened.

  “Beautiful pup. My friend Cindy’s girl just had a litter a few months ago. This guy’s not from her litter, is he?” The guy stood still, leaning on the hood of his truck, watching Dom. He squatted down to the dog’s level. “You mind if we meet?”

  Angie could feel the shiver going through her dog. Dom seemed to like the guy, but what good was getting a dog for protection if he liked the entire human race. She released the leash and Dom bounded over to meet his new friend.

  “I’m Kirk Hanley.” He looked up from one of Dom’s full body hugs. “Local vet so I would have met you guys sooner or later.” He glanced at Dom’s tags. “I guess I must have met this guy before since this is one of my tags. You are one of Cindy’s boys, aren’t you?”

  Dom wiggled in agreement, appar
ently overjoyed that the guy who’d done his puppy shots for the breeder remembered him. Her dog did know everyone.

  “I’m Angie Turner. We have an appointment in a couple of weeks for his boosters.” She stepped closer and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Well, welcome to the neighborhood Miss Angie. I’m sure you’ll love it here. But you might want to be careful walking out here alone. I’m not sure your pup’s much protection.” He rubbed Dom’s tummy.

  “We’ll be fine.” She looked around the too empty space, finally settling her gaze on the bed of the pickup filled with silver irrigation tubes. “Don’t tell me you farm too?”

  “Guilty as charged. This whole eighty acres is mine, although since it didn’t come with a house, I’m living in town over the vet clinic.” He stood and Dom sat by his foot, leaning into his new friend’s leg. “Someday I’ll build a place out here, but student loans are a blessing and a curse.”

  Angie nodded. “I just paid mine off, now I’m back in debt for the new restaurant I’m opening, The County Seat, next month.”

  “You’re the one opening the new restaurant in town? I’ve heard good things.” He glanced at the setting sun and put out his hand. “Nice to meet you and Dom. I need to get water set before it gets too dark to see.”

  She shook his hand. “I’m sure we’ll see a lot of each other.”

  “Why?” He looked down at Dom, “Is he okay?”

  Open mouth, insert foot. “No, I mean, yes, he’s fine. I just meant since River Vista is so small…” She shook her head and changed the conversation. “Before you go, I don’t recognize this plant. What are you growing?”

  He paused before he got into the cab of his truck. River Vista Vet Clinic had been stenciled on the side of the door, but the paint had faded over the years. She wondered how long Kirk had been the local vet. “Soybeans. According to the grange guys, I’m growing the new cash crop of southern Idaho. You be careful now, you hear?”