Butter Off Dead

by Leslie Budewitz

  No wonder Christine had wanted to clean up the neighborhood.

  Freeing more branches as I went, I worked my way back to the road, a load of snow shivering down my neck as thanks.

  I was still shaking it out of my hair when I reached my car. Two middle-aged women stood by the cluster of mailboxes, each clutching a stack of envelopes and catalogs.

  “Sweet neighborhood,” I said.

  “Except for that one,” the short, round woman said, glancing toward Frost’s place.

  “You’re mad that his dog mistook your rosebush for a fire hydrant and killed it,” the taller one said.

  “My Mr. Lincoln tea rose,” the first woman said. She turned to me, cheeks pink. “Christine invited the neighbors over last fall. For a potluck, to get to know one another. Shocked everybody that Frost and his wife came. When he heard Christine was thinking of starting an art school in the church basement, he blew a gasket, yelling about noise and traffic. From after-school art classes for kids, for Pete’s sake. Probably thought she’d call the county and they’d make him clean up his property. Might find more than they bargained for, if you know what I mean.”

  Local legend tells of a lightning strike that started a fire on an old homestead out this way. Crews saved the house, but they all got high off the smoke from the burning pot. “How many acres does he own?”

  “About twenty. From the pasture by the road, past the house and shop, into the woods.” She gestured. Frost’s land formed an L around Christine’s much smaller acreage.

  Her neighbor cocked her head. “Iggy fretted about his junk heap for years, but Christine had more oomph. I do recall seeing him out there one summer, shirtless. Walking through his pasture carrying a bottle of Roundup in one hand and a .22 in the other, shooting voles.” She rolled her eyes.

  “That’s one way to clean up the neighborhood,” I said. We waved good-bye, and I drove south on Mountain View, then turned on Rainbow Lake Road.

  A little red hen scurried across the lane as I drove into Phyl and Jo’s place. The garden beds lay dormant under a thick layer of straw mulch and a snowy white blanket.

  “Gotchyer eggs,” Phyl said. “Come in and warm up a bit. Talk about spring.”

  Rainbow Lake Garden is a bite of heaven, year-round. In summer, fruit and veg—as New Zealand–born Phyl calls it—sprout everywhere, accented by edible flowers and others grown for joy. Chickens, goats, and the occasional orphaned fawn grow here, too.

  In the off season, human life revolves around yarn. Tall, blond, and Danish, Jo spins like a woman possessed, and Phyl, her freckles fading, dyes the skeins. Most of her colors draw on the garden or the surrounding woods: orange from onion skins, a golden-yellow from St. John’s wort, lavender from elderberries. The customers at Dragonfly Dry Goods gobble them up.

  “Seed orders,” Phyl said. Catalogs and scribbled lists littered the round oak table. “Let me pour ya a cup of a blend we’ve been tinkering with.”

  “Erin.” Jo rose from the table and embraced me, ponytail swinging. She manages to look like sunshine all year round. Her hand-knit scarlet sweater bore a band of gold and orange flowers. “Such a loss, our Christine.”

  But even these earth mothers shied away from mournful talk. Much more pleasant to sit by the fire and chat about herbs over cups of a spritely mint, red clover, and lemon balm blend. To debate how much produce the Merc could sell next summer, how early they would have spinach and other hardy greens, and how many pounds of tomatoes Fresca would transform into her best-selling sauces.

  Phyl tipped the last drops of tea into my mug. “Saw your brother drive by Saturday afternoon, heading north. Back toward town. We see him out this way quite a bit, though I suppose no more, not with Christine gone.”

  “Out here? On Rainbow Lake Road?” I squinted, tilting my head. “Saturday?”

  She nodded. “I remember, ’cause you’d called for eggs, and I tried to wave him down, spare you the trip. But he was eyes on the road and moving fast.”

  Nick had lied, to me and to a deputy sheriff.

  Why, Nick, why?

  They say red clover tea settles the stomach. I downed the last swallow, hopeful, and studied the bits of leaves and twigs in the bottom of my mug, searching for an answer.

  * * *

  Eggs safely tucked into the Subaru, I crept north on icy Rainbow Lake Road, pondering Phyl’s comment. When I’d called Nick, desperate to find the spare key, hadn’t he’d said he was in the Jewel, checking his packs? Miles away, in the opposite direction.

  I’d thought myself lucky to reach him, cell reception being iffy on the mountainside.

  Had I misunderstood? Had he gone up early, come back down this direction, and returned to the Basin later?

  No. He’d been adamant, repeating the lie to Kim: He’d left the Orchard before daybreak and spent all day in the woods. He’d snowshoed into a blind he’d made of cut evergreens, then watched the wolves casing the area. On his way back to his Jeep, he’d noted a small elk herd and paused to assess their behavior.

  Some folks in Montana are convinced that wolves have decimated the elk population and ruined hunting. They worry that elk calves are easy prey, fret over drops in elk and deer counts, and complain that families in need of meat can’t compete with the far-ranging carnivores.

  Others say wolves are a necessary part of the ecosystem, that without the pressure of their presence, elk stay in one place too long and browse too deeply, stunting tree growth and leading to a loss of habitat critical for everything from mountain bluebirds to grizzlies. The trophic cascade, Nick calls it. The loss of any one element—from wolves to aspen to sparrows—disrupts the entire chain of life.

  “What about the hunters?” Nick is often asked. “They need to go where the elk go,” he replies. “That’s why it’s called hunting.”

  I pulled over in front of Christine’s cottage. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the scene when we’d emerged from the fire hall late Saturday afternoon.

  Pewter gray clouds had moved in, darkening the sky. Swirling snow had whipped my cheeks. The ambulance had left. Zayda’s parents had arrived. Sheriff’s rigs had been scattered everywhere.

  The Jeep had been right here, I realized, the red clover tea not enough, never enough, to settle the fear that followed. Pointing north. As though he had in fact driven north from Rainbow Lake, past Phyl and Jo’s corner of paradise, turned onto Mountain View, and screeched to a halt in front of the cottage. Run to the church, seen me, seen Christine, told his lies.

  Why, Nick? Why?

  • Ten •

  Too many questions. I wanted answers, but the prospects terrified me.

  Kim would have preliminary forensics and autopsy reports by now, and maybe ballistics analysis, but I hesitated to stop by her office. She has a sharp eye, and a keen nose for scenting trouble. And she knows me too well. If she sensed my fear and anxiety, it wouldn’t be much of a leap to focus on Nick and question his alibi.

  But I needed Christine’s Festival notebook. Ticket sales counts, volunteer assignments, the draft program, the all-important list of donors to thank. How could I step into her Uggs without it?

  Nothing wrong with giving in to one’s inner chicken. Before pulling away from the cottage, I sent Kim a text. The nearly instant reply: “Waiting for fingerprints.”

  Great. I’ll get it back covered in black powder that turns to ink when you touch it.

  I forced myself to breathe calmly as I drove back to town. Lousy place to get distracted, especially in winter. One wrong move at the wheel and a driver could plunge into the icy river.

  I crossed the one-lane bridge into the village and drove up Front Street. In dragon-lady mode, Kathy had put the fear into Frost—a freshly plowed ribbon wove down our main street and side streets. I parked behind the Merc and unloaded the eggs and cheese. Waved to Tracy and headed for the Playhouse.


  In front of the theater, flower beds slept under the snow, but the sidewalks—the square pavers engraved with names of donors and patrons—had been shoveled clean.

  In the lobby, the kids sat on hand-painted benches and sprawled on the floor, eyes trained on Larry, who stood beside an easel holding a whiteboard, pointing at numbers and terms I couldn’t decipher. Christine’s sign hung overhead, a sparkling, poignant reminder of plans gone astray.

  “Hey, there. Looks like you’ve got it all worked out.”

  Heads swiveled and voices called to me. “Hi, Erin.”

  Zayda and Dylan slouched on a bench against the far wall. You could have driven a Mack truck between them.

  “So glad to see you all here. Christine’s death”—the word stuck in my throat—“is inexplicable. A tragedy. It delighted her to see all of you working so hard on the Festival. She reveled in your energy and enthusiasm. Your love of movies and of Jewel Bay. Thanks to you, the show is going on.” I clapped my hands together, my fingertips to my lips, momentarily overcome. Eager faces turned sad, eyes damp. A few feet away, on the floor in front of a pillar covered in a mosaic of iridescent glass tiles, Dana slid his arm around the red-haired girl and she sniffed back a sob.

  “Gold in that there saddle bag,” Larry said, nodding at my blue leather bag. I handed him the envelope.

  “Julie and Julia. Big Night. Tampopo—a noodle Western. Love it. Chocolat. And Ratatouille. Perfect,” Larry said, sliding out one case at a time. “Great choices. We’ll run through them, make sure there’s no problems. Let’s get started.” The kids pushed themselves up. A girl clapped and started a cheer: “MOO-vies. MOO-vies.”

  “Zayda,” I called as she stood to follow Larry and the others out of the lobby. “Got a sec?”

  Head bowed, eyes on the toe of one Doc Marten—back in style, thanks to Dr. Who—her jaw twitched but she didn’t answer.

  “Why did you go out there early?” I’d been right on time. To beat me there, go inside, struggle—or find Christine injured—and come back out to sit on the cottage steps would have taken a good ten minutes.

  “I was just early, okay? No reason.”

  “How did you lose your eyebrow ring?”

  She snorted. Frustrated with me? The situation? Finally, she met my gaze. “I didn’t kill her, and nothing else I did is any of your business.”

  She stomped away. So much for thinking teenagers would talk to me because I’m younger than their parents. Or because I’m cool.

  The sign Christine had labored over and been so proud of hung above me. “What happened?” I asked her spirit. “Who killed you?”

  The fake jewels caught the light, and I swear, they winked.

  * * *

  Love love love the Merc’s tin ceiling tiles. But over the years, a leaky roof had rusted one corner, and a few got bent by who knows what. I’d managed to take down the damaged tiles and repaint them, but reattaching them had defeated me. The tricky part is holding the panel, holding the hammer and nail, and leaving an edge to tuck the next one in, while standing on a ladder, arms lifted, neck bent.

  Nick was obviously more talented than I. And taller.

  “You’re almost done.”

  “No sweat,” he said, but it wasn’t true. A thin bead crawled down the back of his neck. “Take this.” He handed me the pneumatic nail gun. They look innocent enough, but feel like ninety tons of dynamite. A co-worker at SavClub nailed his foot to the floor of the West Seattle bungalow he was restoring and limped for ages. I set it down quickly.

  “Looks great,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “No sweat,” he repeated, then folded the ladder and carted it out the back door.

  I glanced at Tracy, who shrugged. Fresca had gone for the day, but the place still smelled like olives and garlic, and a whiff of sawdust. I got out a broom and swept up. A few minutes later, Nick’s steps echoed in the back hallway and pounded down to the basement. Veteran little sister that I am, I trailed behind him.

  “Hey, you got all the shelves together and put in place.”

  “Yep.” He picked a small dark notebook off the tiny corner desk and slipped it into his pocket.

  “The paint samples are in the hallway. Come take a look.”

  “Later,” he said.

  When we were kids and Nick didn’t want to come inside for dinner, or leave his room, my mother often sent me to get him, and out he’d trot, as if no one else had asked. No such luck today. “Okay. Find out anything more about the will?”

  A shadow crossed his eyes, and he sank into the chair, covering his face with his hands.

  “Nick.” I knelt beside him, a hand on his back. After a long moment, he buried his head in my shoulder. I held my big brother while his shoulders shook in waves of soundless sobs. He’d been away at school when my father died, and if he’d cried, it had been in private. By the time he got home a day later, he’d become the man of the family, shepherding the womenfolk, protecting us, eyes dry, face grim.

  But who takes care of the shepherd when the wolf strikes?

  “Nick,” I said again. “It’s not your fault. She knew you loved her.”

  “If I’d been there . . .” he said, straightening.

  “Then you’d have been shot, too.” Maybe. If Zayda had been the shooter, Nick could have overpowered her. Heck, Christine ought to have been able to overpower Zayda. They were about the same height, and Zayda was faster—track star—but Christine was stronger.

  What the heck had happened in there?

  Nick raised his head, not meeting my eyes. So many questions I wanted to ask. The most important one was the hardest. I angled my way in. “How are your wolves? Seen them since Saturday?”

  He gave me a sideways glance. “Since when do you care about my wolves?”

  Tell him the truth, Erin. “Since they became your alibi.”

  He turned to stone.

  “Sally’s gonna talk, big brother. And she’s going to tell everyone in town that Christine pressured Iggy to leave her the money, and you killed Christine to get it. In Sally’s version, she’ll be the victim—the wronged relative deprived of what she deserved by the big bad Wolf Man.”

  “Erin, I appreciate you wanting to help. But I have already said I was in the Jewel Basin all day, until you called me, and nothing is going to change that.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Let me know when you’re ready for me to paint.”

  And he was gone.

  I slid into his still-warm chair. On the wall hung a short list of due dates for grant applications. On the desk—a countertop remnant I got cheap at the Building Supply—lay pens, copies of articles and scientific journals. His laptop. Nothing that told me where he’d really been last Saturday, and why he wouldn’t tell me.

  Think, Erin. Why would Nick lie?

  Despite all Sally had said and would say, I never for a nanosecond imagined he’d killed Christine. They’d been the best exes I’d ever seen—friends, never bad-mouthing, treating each other with love and respect. I believed him when he said they were working out their problems and getting back together.

  And I believed him when he said he hadn’t known about the will. Had she made it while they were engaged and simply never changed it, or written it after inheriting a sizable fortune?

  But anybody who knew my brother—including Kim Caldwell and Ike Hoover—knew he didn’t care about things. He only cared about his work.

  Sally didn’t know that. And she obviously hadn’t known about Christine’s will until the lawyer called.

  But much as I dislike Sally and could readily believe her guilty of all variety of venal sins, from spreading malicious rumors to failing to shovel her sidewalk, it’s a giant leap from gossip to murder. Besides, she’d been in her shop Saturday morning. I’d seen her myself.

  I had bearded Wolf Man in his den and he had gott
en away.

  What was my brother up to?

  • Eleven •

  “Here, Pumpkin. C’mon, kitty.”

  Mr. Sandburg greeted me at the door with his all-purpose yowl, the one that can mean anything from “You left me alone all day, witch” to “A new squirrel moved into the neighborhood and we’re going to be great friends.”

  Pumpkin, on the other hand, did not show her face. She was not in her crate or under the bed. She was not behind my one potted plant, a ficus trimmed in tiny white lights, or hiding in the shower. Sandburg had never managed to open a fully closed cabinet or closet door, but I was beginning to think either I’d left one ajar or she had superpowers.

  And then I spotted the wicker laundry basket in my bedroom, lid askew. “Ah, Pumpkin. Nice and soft in there, isn’t?” I lifted her out, hoping I wouldn’t regret it, but after wriggling for a moment, she relaxed against me. I took advantage of her shift in mood and perched on the chaise, cradling her in my arms. “I know. It’s hard. I miss her, too.”

  Sandburg hopped onto the bed, watching in sympathy—or jealousy. The three of us sat that way for several minutes, until the siren song of Cabernet lured me to the kitchen. Both cats followed and took up posts on opposite ends of the couch.

  I’d picked up a few winter vegetables from Phyl and Jo’s storage bin. The fennel would pair nicely with blood oranges snared from my mother’s latest fruit-of-the-month delivery, from her brother’s California orchard. I poured a glass of wine and popped a pan of hazelnuts in the oven to toast.

  “Awful quiet in here,” I told the cats. They had both fallen asleep. Adam usually takes charge of the music when he joins me for dinner. I plugged my iPod into its speakers and spun the dial. Bruno Mars? Too sweet. Adele? Too emotional. Neko Case? Yes.

  I shaved fennel while Neko’s voice filled the room, updating Perry Como by reminding us that you can catch a falling star, but then what? It will never be yours. Sang along as I peeled oranges, added shallots, olive oil, and the warm fragrant nuts. Snipped a few mint leaves off the plant in the window sill.