"When in doubt, have a woman come through the door with a wedge of cheese."

Greetings, Cheese-a-tarians! You're either a connoisseur of the curd, love cats and mystery novels, or Google just sent you to a way-wrong site. In any case, welcome readers!

Love cheese? You're in the right spot. Love comedy mystery novels? Ditto. Love action, adventure, headless corpses, twenty-five pound cats, pleather-wearing mini-bike riders, electricians who are magicians, Dairy Queens, knife fights, Honda del Sols that get blown up, small town justice, crochet, amateur sleuths, kitten overload, and redheads who just can't stay out of trouble? WOW! You've hit the jackpot!

Meet the Cheese Chick, and check out chapter one of On The Queso: The Roquefort Files, which is the first book in the series that explores the humorous aspects of murder from the perspective of a cheese-loving family.

Our amateur sleuth protagonist, Colby Meadows, learned everything that she needs to know about private investigation from binge watching her role model, James Rockford, in The Rockford Files. When she finds herself in a tough spot, which is usually every waking moment of her day, she asks herself, "WWRD? What would Rockford do?"

Here's a Message from Colby to You

Before I tell you about the dead body, I want to clear up this business with the cheese names. If I don't, once we get into the good stuff, your mind is going to wander off, and you'll be asking yourself, "What the hell's wrong with these people?" Maybe you'll wonder that even if I don't explain, but here's the deal anyway.

I'm Colby Meadows. Named so by my twin mothers (I'll explain about them later), Velveeta and Fontina. Credit, or blame, for these noms de fromage goes back to my grandmother who started life with a regular name. If it hadn't been for an illiterate county clerk named Jervis Boner and our family's overwhelming, if not rather unnatural, fondness for cheese, none of us would be walking around like advertisements for products from Swiss Colony.

My great grandparents, the last known sane folks in our family tree, named my granny Lynne Berger Sanders. Now, this was before all that hyphenating stuff started, but they still wanted to honor the female side of the family so they tossed in Berger as a middle name. On the day that Jervis Boner, who had no formal education beyond painting signs for his father's grocery store to advertise specials, recorded my granny's birth, his head was all stopped up from swimming. His ears and his brain weren't exactly communicating at a hundred percent, but I don't think the lake should take the blame for that issue entirely. Under Jervis' hand, Lynne Berger Sanders became "Limburger Sanders." 

Yeah, it was a big joke at first. Everybody laughed, but nobody bothered to walk down to the county clerk's office and change it. Mostly because it wasn't worth the shoe leather and partly because my baby granny didn't seem to mind. Of course, since she couldn't talk yet, she wasn't able to complain much about anything. So, they let it slide, and the name stuck; the misnomer thus sealing the fate of generations to follow. My people have never put much stake in court-related documents, such as car repo forms, restraining orders, or birth certificates. In a small town like Zenith, Illinois, you don't need papers—you have eyewitnesses. If you're there, you're there, and just about everybody in town will vouch for it, unless you owe them money. In which case, they will surely try to screw you over and take your food stamps.