Butter Off Dead

by Leslie Budewitz

  Dangerous thinking, Erin. You know you never know.

  Adam leaned over the back of the couch and whispered in my ear. “Relax. Let Ike and Kim do their job.”

  Across the room, my sister watched us. Her heart-shaped face so much like my own, her dark eyes framed in straight dark hair that brushed her collarbone, said the same thing.

  But I wasn’t sure my acting skills were up to it.

  • Seven •

  My family’s big on tradition. On food, talk, and the Sunday gathering at the Orchard.

  Call it the training ground for acting “as if.”

  “You don’t have to go to your mother’s house every Sunday, you know,” Adam said as we pulled up next to my cabin.

  “You know my mother.”

  “Maybe it’s time she realizes she’s not always going to be the center of your universe.”

  “It’s not like that.” Or was it? My mother and sister seemed to have reached an agreement: Chiara participated willingly in family traditions, and Fresca left her room to create her own. Nick’s travels earned him a pass, but short of a crisis at the shop or a virus in the contagious stage, I felt an obligation to appear every Sunday. Close friends popped in when they were around. “Christine was practically a member of the family. I want to go to the Orchard tonight. But you don’t have to come.”

  “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. Besides, it’s my last chance to see you this week.” Time for his recertification course in wilderness medicine. The field had grown far beyond splinting a broken arm with tree branches, and as camp director, he was responsible for training counselors as well as treating sick and injured kids.

  Forty-five minutes later, we joined the gathering in my mother’s living room. The Persian rug smelled of spot remover where Chiara and I had worked on the huckleberry spill, now a faint lavender.

  “That’s your favorite soppressata on the antipasto platter,” Fresca told Adam as we hung up our coats and slipped off our boots. “Dig in. The lasagna’s in the oven.”

  Beside me, Adam groaned. He adores Fresca’s cooking. I’d never seriously imagined that he’d stay home tonight, if for no other reason.

  Nick stood by the fireplace, nursing a glass of Chianti. It’s impossible not to think of my father when I see my brother. The three of us mix and match our parents’ genes. Other than our eyes—a blue-eyed boy and two brown-eyed girls—we’re clearly peas in a pod, with Dad’s fair Irish skin and Mom’s straight hair, so dark brown it’s nearly black. Nick puts Dad’s height and athleticism to work in the wilderness, though, instead of in the orchard or with a ball.

  The familiar blue eyes were downcast now, the strong shoulders sagging. A man in mourning, for a woman and possibilities.

  Chiara sat on the couch, listening to Heidi’s tales of the winter gift show in Las Vegas. I poured myself Chianti from the bottle on the side table, extra careful of the glass—a clear bowl above a stem of stacked colored marbles. Adam, who’d detoured to the kitchen for a beer, whispered in my ear. “Bill made Caesar salad and Chiara brought chocolate mousse.”

  Such a romantic.

  From the back of the house came sounds of Landon and Jason rattling lightsabers.

  My mother slid her arm around my waist and kissed my cheek. A sign that my transgression with the martini glass was forgiven?

  “Nick, darling,” she said. “We should plan a service for Christine.”

  “She hated funerals. She’d rather celebrate life.”

  “A party, then. To celebrate her life.”

  “What’s happening to the Film Festival?” Heidi asked. “Her big deal, wasn’t it?”

  I smiled wryly and raised a hand.

  My mother frowned. “You wanted to focus on the Merc this winter. And take time for yourself.”

  Nothing changes plans quite like murder.

  “And the property?” Heidi continued.

  We all looked at Nick. “Her cousin, I guess. Back in Vermont.”

  “Odd that Iggy left everything to Christine, instead of her own relatives.” Heidi twirled her Prosecco, the diamonds wrapped around her left wrist sparkling. She is a Sunday regular at the Orchard, except when the boyfriend of the day has other plans. The last guy had taken off to sail the Caribbean the day after Thanksgiving and had not returned to Jewel Bay.

  Fresca settled into a bentwood maple chair, her Chianti complementing the deep red florals in the upholstery. “Well, what would you do if Sally Grimes were your only living relative?”

  “Sally? Is related to Iggy?” I said. Petite, stylish, ancient Iggy, oil painter, art collector, chocolate truffle connoisseur. And Sally, sour, peevish protester of progress.

  “Iggy’s late husband was Sally’s first cousin, twice removed,” Fresca said. Before I could ask what that removal stuff means, Chiara said, “That’s Greek, Mom,” and Bill, lawyer-turned-herbalist, explained. “It’s not complicated,” he said. “It simply means two generations further removed from the common ancestor. David Ring and Sally’s grandmother were first cousins. Twice removed means Sally is two generations younger.”

  “Wouldn’t that make them third cousins?” I asked.

  “No. If David and Iggy had grandchildren, they would be Sally’s third cousins. Same generation of descent, even if they weren’t the same age.”

  “Wonder why they never had children,” Chiara said.

  “They had a son,” Fresca said, and my sister and I stared in astonishment. “He was killed in Vietnam. David never got over it. He’d been a strong man, a forester. But he lost the will to live. He died a few years later.”

  “But she soldiered on,” I said.

  Fresca glanced at Nick, who was listening with sorrowful eyes. “You don’t believe it yet, darling. But the world goes on.”

  I’d known Iggy Ring all my life, but had never given any thought to her family or her heartache. Nor, I realized, to Sally’s. Shame on me.

  “Wasn’t Christine some kind of relative of Iggy’s, too?” Chiara said.

  “No,” Nick said. “Iggy—Louise was her real name—and Christine’s grandmother grew up together, back east. David was a Montana boy. They met when he went to forestry school at Yale. Christine’s parents were killed when she was eight, and her grandmother raised her. She grew up hearing stories about Montana, so after college, she came out to work in Glacier for a summer. She and Iggy hit it off, and sort of adopted each other.”

  “What about Sally?” Time to make up for lost curiosity.

  “She’s local,” Fresca said. “Married a man from Pondera. Sad case.”

  Nick interrupted, his words rushed, his tone raw. “They’ve got her place all roped off. They wouldn’t let me in. I know it’s a crime scene, but . . .”

  Fresca’s fingertips brushed his arm.

  “Why would Zayda George shoot her?” Chiara said. “Bad blood?”

  Nick swallowed hard, regaining composure. “More likely, it was Jack Frost. He hates progress. Foamed at the mouth over her talk about cleaning up the neighborhood.”

  “You’d think a guy who’s got all those hubcaps and fenders lying around would love a neighbor who puts a welded horse sculpture in her backyard. He’s sitting on an artist’s gold mine.” Trust Chiara, artist and art dealer, to think of that.

  “Protecting his crops,” Adam said. Heads turned and he spread his hands innocently. “Hey, I hear things.”

  Frost certainly hadn’t liked seeing all those deputies yesterday afternoon. A cash crop would be one good reason.

  “I got you, Auntie!” Landon leaped into view, brandishing a duct tape and cardboard tube lightsaber. I sank to my knees, clutching my chest with one hand, raising the wineglass above the fray. Chiara plucked it deftly from my fingers. “Noni, the Jedi win!”

  “Jedi should wash their hands for dinner,” my mother said, r
ising and leading her grandson out of the living room.

  “Strangest thing last night,” Chiara said as I reclaimed my wine. “We were testing martinis in those handblown glasses. I clinked too hard on the toast and Erin’s glass broke. Mom flipped her lid. Did she and Dad buy those in Italy?”

  Heidi shook her head. “We found them in a shop in Pondera. I was scouting the competition, and Fresca was my cover. They reminded her of her first date with your dad, and she had to have them.”

  I sat back on my heels and sipped. So the glasses were recent acquisitions, not souvenirs from her Grand Tour of Europe. The tour that ended in Florence where my California-born mother met my Montana-born father, then a student at Gonzaga University’s Italian campus. That made her reaction all the more curious.

  “Noni says time for dinner,” Landon called from the doorway. “Uncle, you can sit by me. You’ll feel better.”

  Nick scooped up Landon, who raised a hand to brush the ceiling. “I feel better already.”

  We wouldn’t truly feel better until the killer was caught. You’re not investigating, I told myself. Not this time. Tragic as it was, Christine’s death had nothing to do with my shop. Too soon to tell if it might harm the reputation of our village, so dependent on showing tourists a good time.

  But it gave me every reason to worry about my family.

  Halfway into my lasagna, I hit on a solution to the problem nagging me. “Big brother, time to collect on my Christmas present. If the wolves will let you.”

  He squinted, obviously having forgotten his offer to work on the building.

  “Loose ceiling tiles. Basement shelving to assemble. And the back hall hasn’t been painted since Richard Nixon was president.” My mother shot me a glance that said she grasped my dual purpose: Keep him busy, where we could keep an eye on him, while checking a few projects off the list.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said absently. “Whatever you need.”

  “Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock.” My brother would be my handyman, and I would be his keeper.

  • Eight •

  “You don’t have to like each other,” I told the cats Monday morning. “Just don’t kill each other.” They’d made a temporary peace overnight, Pumpkin cowering in the open crate, Sandburg supreme on the foot of my bed, one green eye vigilant.

  My urban-chic wardrobe had included winter-in-Seattle necessities like a black umbrella, a red trench, and scarves to muffle the damp breeze that blows in off Puget Sound from September to May. It did not include winter-in-Montana necessities like long-sleeved tees and turtlenecks that look good layered or worn alone, wind-stopper pants that don’t scream “ski slopes,” and knee-high boots with nonskid soles.

  I pulled on the black pants I’d been living in the last few weeks, a willow-green thermal top with a subtle burnout, and a fleecy sweater sporting ribbed cuffs and collar. But while fleece wards off the winter chill in Seattle, it’s a year-round fabric here.

  A few village shops close after Christmas and reopen in spring; others take a short sun break. I’m glad Wendy and Max are workaholics like me who never take a vacation.

  “Hey, Wendy. The usual, please.” Double tall skinny, and a pain au chocolat. Nonfat milk balances out the chocolate calories. I rubbed my hands both for heat and in anticipation, glancing into the backroom full of worktables and industrial ovens. Love a bakery that lets you watch your breads and treats spring to life, from scratch, by hand.

  A hank of long brown hair had worked loose from Wendy’s ponytail and she shoved it behind her ear. Wendy is not what you call warm and fuzzy. The problem isn’t her plain features, but her moodiness. One look and you know how she feels.

  In her hands, even the steamer sounded angry this morning.

  “I don’t know if I can do it, Erin.” She set my latte on the counter and reached into the pastry case. “Pretend we’re all friends having fun at the movies while a murder investigation is going on.”

  Wendy came from a theater family, but acting “as if” wasn’t in her blood.

  I took the white bag she held out and squeezed her hand. Some hurts even chocolate and caffeine can’t heal.

  We’d had to upgrade the Merc’s furnace last fall, putting a sizable dent in the year’s profits, but when I punched the thermostat and it roared to life, I thanked my lucky stars. Dumped my stuff on the front counter—the cash-wrap, in retail parlance—and grabbed the snow shovel. Once last night’s dusting was gone, I found a bucket of salt mixed with sand and scattered a handful on an icy patch. Must keep the customers upright.

  “Dang, it’s cold.” In the back hall, Tracy made a show of shivering. Her glass-bead earrings shook like chandeliers in an earthquake. She shrugged out of her coat—a decidedly un-chic powder blue imitation of a sleeping bag—and snared it on an iron hook original to the building. Vintage is not always tasteful. “Every time I say we’re in for a slow day, something happens to prove me wrong.”

  “So say it,” I said. “Work a little reverse psychology.”

  “You see the forecast? Snow every day this week. So much for a film festival.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Christine. Ohmygod. I can’t believe it.”

  I slid off my stool and hugged her.

  A few minutes later, the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the shop and a bowl of Candy Divine’s saltwater taffy sat on the stainless steel counter next to the coffeepot. Bring ’em on!

  Fresca charged in, eyes blazing. “I can’t believe you’re taking on the Film Festival.”

  “Hey, you always say the object is to die with a full in-box.” In other words, keep busy. “Christine cared about this, Mom. I want to see it through for her. Besides, it’s too late to cancel. The Playhouse bought the gear, and the kids are premiering their documentary.”

  Although if Zayda was arrested, we’d lose our chief technical officer as well as our chief organizer. I perished the thought.

  “Darling.” Fresca cradled my face in angora-gloved hands, the same deep teal as her wool coat. “I don’t know where you get your determination, but I’m glad for it.”

  Look in the mirror, Mom.

  “I’m going across the street to give Sally my sympathies,” she said. “If I’m not back in half an hour, send in the troops.”

  Typical Fresca. Sally and Christine were connected through Iggy, and the murder reopened the wound that was Iggy’s loss. I couldn’t bring myself to tag along.

  Almost ten. Where was my brother?

  The front door opened and a pink cloud swirled in. Not colored snow, but Candy Divine herself. “Oooh,” she squealed. “I’m so cold I could eat an elephant.”

  She slipped off her black hooded cape, lined in pink satin, to reveal an astonishing pink-and-white striped sweaterdress and sparkly pink Moon Boots. Some ice cream shop has lost its awning.

  “I’m so sorry about Christine,” she said, in the voice that always sounds like she swallowed helium. “It seems heartless to talk about candy—the treats, not me—after what happened, but . . .”

  “Thanks. And no worries. Wendy’s got the festival menu all planned, but Tracy and I thought it would be fun to offer handmade movie candy in the shop.”

  She spread a collection of recipes on the stainless steel counter for our perusal.

  “Green tea truffles? Dark chocolate bark with candied mint and citrus peel?” I said. “Sounds yummy, but let’s stick with the classics. Peppermint patties and snowcaps.”

  “Snowcaps? You mean oversized chocolate kisses covered in sprinkles?” Candy wrinkled her nose.

  “I thought you love everything sweet and pink.”

  Tracy laughed. “Erin, you’re the one who always says, ‘Try new things. Get out of the food rut.’”

  “There’s a time for adventure, and a time for the tried-and-true.” Unfortunately, the difference isn’t always clear.

  “Hey, l
ittle sister. Hi, Trace.” Nick gave us each a hug, then extended his hand to Candy. I made introductions. A minute later, he headed downstairs.

  “Oo-ooh.” Candy’s pitch rose to the roof. “He’s dreamy.”

  “Christine’s fiancé,” I fudged, suppressing a twinge of guilt as the petal pink bow in her hair drooped.

  I traipsed downstairs. Nick’s cabin had never been intended for four-season living, let alone a home office, so rather than freeze—or half rebuild it—he’d taken over the basement workspace we’d created for Fresca. Plus, he gets free coffee and Wi-Fi.

  He stood there now, staring at the piles of papers and books on his makeshift desk. “Wow,” he said, looking up. “She’s pink.”

  Good to laugh, if only for a moment.

  We debated where to put the chrome shelf units I’d bought for the canning area. The producers who use our commercial kitchen would be able to cook, bottle, label, and store their products all in one location. I promised to pick out the hall paint this afternoon.

  Back upstairs, Fresca had returned from her condolence call in one piece and started a batch of olive tapenade, a bestseller in all seasons. Its salty-tangy-garlicky aroma filled the air. My next snack.

  All quiet on the shop floor, so I headed upstairs. Our POS—point of sale—inventory control system is a royal pain at times, and the crown jewel at others. Right now, the figures for Fresca’s fresh pasta were off, but I spotted the problem, jiggered the software, and whipped them back in line.

  As expected, sales had limped through January and stumbled into February. We’d changed our business model and product mix when I took over last May—tossing the gimmicky gift items and focusing on the local and regional, the whole and natural—so we had no basis for an annual comparison. But summer and fall had been strong enough to convince me that we’d found the right combo. Real food, sustainably grown, and a few ancillary items that mesh with our mission: Reg Robbins’s earthenware, hand-sewn linens from Dragonfly Dry Goods, glasses crafted from recycled wine bottles paired with lovely vintages from Monte Verde.