Butter Off Dead

by Leslie Budewitz

  Not that I would know. I’d only been in the cottage a time or two, including Saturday afternoon when my focus had been on subduing a feisty ball of fur long enough to get her to safety. Which reminded me, I still needed to find her a home. Kim?

  Yeah, right. But, maybe.

  You never know how people live. As I’d discovered last summer, women who organize their business lives to a T can create complete chaos in their living space and never blink. People whose kitchens would give Martha Stewart pantry envy don’t know what a car wash is. My cabin stays picked up most of the time, but my closet won’t win any ribbons.

  But I’d seen enough during my cat hunt to know that while Christine’s closets were no better than mine, her cottage had not looked like this. In the kitchen, a box of Special K lay dumped on the counter, and hand-thrown pottery canisters had come to rest on mounds of the flour and sugar they’d once held.

  We passed into the dining area, separated from the living room by the front door. An oversized red willow basket of gloves and hats lay upside down, its contents a wooly, fleecy heap.

  From there, we followed Kim through an arch into a windowless hall. Ahead lay the bathroom; to the left, a guest room and stairs to the attic, to the right, Christine’s bedroom. Socks spilled out of half-opened dresser drawers, the laundry basket empty on the bed, the mattress partway off the frame.

  Nick’s wind-chapped cheeks had gone pale, and I didn’t feel too hot, either. “Who would do this?”

  “And why in such a hurry?” Kim scanned the mess. “If you’d scared them off, I’d expect a more methodical search, ending abruptly. But this is almost random.”

  “Or desperate.”

  Nick moved silently through the cottage, expressionless—except for his eyes. They saw everything, and I guessed, understood nothing. He turned back to the living room while Kim and I went upstairs. More of the same. On a second tour through the main floor, I followed his gaze as he focused on the walls and shelves. Christine’s own playful work brightened the kitchen and bathroom. An acrylic painting of an old black rotary phone occupied an arched phone nook in the back hall.

  In the living room, a huge framed dye-on-silk portrait of a psychedelic moose sat on the shelf above the fireplace. No need to read the signature to recognize Nancy Cawdrey’s work. Hand-built pottery occupied the windowsills on either side of the fireplace, above the glass-front bookshelves. I did not need to turn them over to identify the potters. Like many artists, Christine had built an impressive collection of work she admired.

  A Dan Doak lidded tureen lay shattered on the oak floor. But I spotted no empty hooks on the walls, no gaps in displays, no telltale rings of dust. Most of these pieces had not been touched.

  “Anything missing, Nick?” Kim asked.

  He squinted. “Hard to tell, but I don’t think so.” He crossed the room to an antique secretary in the corner, a lovely walnut piece, and ran his hand over the drop-down writing surface. “She kept her papers here. The valuable artwork was all in the church.”

  I closed my eyes and pulled up a mental slide of the Spreadsheet of Suspicion. If the break-in was related to the murder, was the suspect already on my list? Break-ins during funerals are common enough that neighbors often sit on the front porch while the family’s away holding a service. Was this another despicable trend, looting a murder victim’s home? A ripe target—if the victim lived alone, who would know?

  Tricky timing. You’d have to wait until the sheriff stopped watching the place, but strike before the family started cleaning out.

  I gripped the back of a chair to steady myself.

  This was no random burglary. The intruder had been searching for something of less obvious value. Christine’s jewelry box stood open but tidy. Her grandmother’s pearls lay on top of her dresser, in a velvet-lined clamshell. A carved wooden hand held her rings in its palm: a pearl in a gold setting, an amethyst I knew had been her mother’s, the diamond solitaire she’d tried to give back but that Nick had insisted she keep.

  The ring they wouldn’t be using after all.

  I followed my brother outside, Kim behind us. She signaled us to hang tight while she spoke to two officers waiting to complete the investigation inside. A uniformed officer finished photographing the footprints in the snow, and set up a frame for casting impressions. The flat light and lack of wind would help, though it couldn’t be comfortable working in twenty degrees.

  It could have been worse.

  A cluster of reserve deputies stood nearby, comparing notes. The crew leader broke away and trotted over.

  “We followed the footprints north.” He pointed to the heavily wooded properties across the highway. “I’m bettin’ he hid his rig in the driveway of a house closed up for winter. We photographed the tire tracks and took impressions. State lab can identify the tread, but we’ll need the vehicle to make a match.”

  Kim clenched her jaw. “Thanks. Finish the perimeter search and let me know what else you find.”

  Sounds from near the garden drew our attention. “You got no right to go snooping around my property,” Jack Frost shouted at a uniformed deputy.

  “Sir, we did not—”

  “What’s going on?” Kim broke in, and Frost flung his anger at her. “Your deputies trespassed on my private property, is what’s going on.”

  “The tracks go right along the fence line, then veer north through the woods and over the highway,” the deputy told Kim. “I don’t think we crossed over, but . . .”

  “Sir,” she told Frost, “this is an active investigation into criminal trespass and felony burglary, and possible felony theft, related to an ongoing murder investigation. Deputies in active pursuit of a suspect may follow that suspect, or his tracks, wherever they lead, private property or not. My deputy was only doing his job. Now, if he caused any damage . . .”

  “No, he din’t. What’s happened now?”

  “I was hoping you could help us figure that out. In fact, I was on my way over to interview you and your wife.”

  “Sherry ain’t home. She’s been in Spokane all week, babysitting our grandkids. She heard about this murder, she wanted me to come over, too, till he’s caught. Thinks it’s ain’t safe here. But I’m not being scared out of my home, no sirree. No, ma’am.” A shock of steel gray hair flopped over one eye.

  His boots. Kim noticed them, too. “No match,” her deputy mouthed.

  “You didn’t get along with Ms. Vandeberg,” Kim said, and at his look of confusion, clarified. “The victim. Or with Mrs. Ring, who lived here for decades.”

  “Hey, I didn’t like the old bag, or the redhead, but I didn’t kill nobody. Check out that guy what drives the fancy car. Or Wolf Man.” He sneered in Nick’s direction. “He inherits the whole shebang, right?”

  I couldn’t stop myself. “That’s ridiculous. Nick had no reason to break in to his own house and trash it. He’s got a key. And he knew I’d be here.” Kim had seen for herself that he’d been genuinely shocked by the wreckage inside.

  Nick put a warning hand on my arm. But I wasn’t finished. “Doesn’t this break-in prove Nick had nothing to do with Christine’s death? The two are obviously connected.”

  “Nothing’s obvious,” Kim said, her eyes trained on Frost.

  But while he makes a lot of people mad and is easy to blame, the break-in pretty much eliminated Frost, too. Far as we knew, his conflict with Christine had nothing to do with her possessions. It centered on her plans for the future.

  What’s more, he had no reason to flee north or hide a truck in the woods. His own woods offered plenty of close cover.

  I pictured my list of suspects. Zayda? If her parents had kept her out of school another day, they’d be at the restaurant, not home keeping an eye on her. But why would she break in? Nothing hinted at a conflict between her and Christine.

  Sally? She might break in and take
what she thought rightfully hers. But a ransacking? Impossible. If the murder and break-in were related, Sally was an unlikely culprit.

  “Mr. Frost, may we talk inside somewhere? At your home, or the fire station?” Kim gestured across the highway. “I’ll meet you and the deputy in a moment and you can tell me what you know.”

  Frost nodded and he and the deputy started walking. Kim turned back to us. “Why were you here, anyway?”

  “Nick wanted to start cleaning and sorting,” I said. “Oh, criminy. Now we’ve got a major mess. The fridge is gonna start stinking pretty soon.”

  “We should be finished in a few hours. I’ll let you know.”

  Nick and I walked to our cars in silence.

  “I almost forgot. I brought breakfast.” I tossed Nick the bag of squished croissants. As he reached out to grab it, his unzipped coat flew open and I saw the gun on his hip.

  Though I’ve never had a reason to own a gun, they don’t scare me. But seeing my brother packin’ heat at the scene of his girlfriend’s murder was alarming. “Nick, the gun. You don’t think you’re in danger, too?”

  “I always carry when I go out to check the packs,” he said.

  “Your packs are up north. I watched you drive up. From the south.”

  He stared at me, wheels churning. Deciding. “Leave it alone, Erin. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “You’re making things worse, Nick. Kim and Ike know you weren’t in the Jewel last Saturday. If they think you had role in Christine’s death—”

  Shooting me one last long frosty look, Nick climbed in his Jeep and started the ignition. Left me standing there watching him drive away, my throat cramping, tears hot in my eyes.

  Nobody can hurt you like the ones you love.

  • Eighteen •

  “Hey, Bozo. How you doin’, boy?” The Great Dane raised his big head and I rubbed behind one ear. Contentment filled his dark eyes, and I wished every male was so easy to read—and to please.

  “Thanks for letting me bring him to work,” Tracy said from the door between the shop floor and the hall.

  “Long as he stays back here, we’ll be fine.” I tugged off my gloves and shucked my coat. If the health inspector dropped in unannounced, I’d take my lumps. Worth it to keep a good employee happy.

  “I didn’t expect you for hours,” Tracy said. I followed her into the shop and poured a cup of strong coffee. Explained what we’d found. She clapped a hand to her mouth. “His footprints were still melting? What was he after? Thank God you didn’t get there earlier.”

  I grimaced and headed to my office.

  Outside the church and cottage, Nick had sped off without a backward glance, and when he reached the highway, drove east. Away. Maybe he did have a pack in the Jewel. I wasn’t sure I cared. His refusal to talk—to let me help him—spiked my Jell-O.

  But I knew myself. If Kim wasn’t convinced that Nick had nothing to do with the murder or the break-in, then I couldn’t stop searching for the killer.

  Though it was harder and harder to justify pointing a finger at Frost. Easy targets aren’t always the right ones.

  Tracy had asked the right question: What did he want? But was that the right pronoun, I wondered, toeing off my boots. Mine leave a distinctly female footprint, but Kim had worn a pair of slip-on snow boots as bulky as Frost’s and her deputies’ boots. As big as Nick’s.

  Zayda’s clunky Doc Martens popped into my mind’s eye. A lot of kids wear oversized boots these days. I closed my eyes and tried to remember whether she’d worn a pair last Saturday. No luck. I replayed finding Christine’s bloody body every night in my sleep, but when I rolled the mental tape now, I couldn’t see Zayda’s feet.

  No doubt the footwear examiner at the state crime lab would use the casts and photos to identify brand, model, and shoe size from the measurements and tread patterns. No doubt it would take a day or two, at least—unlike CSI on TV. And no doubt they wouldn’t tell me.

  But how could they track down the owner, especially now that so many people shop online? I had visions of deputies setting up watch outside the grocery store and post office, or the Building Supply, scouting for a one-hundred-and-sixty-pound man with a slight left limp and a pronated heel, wearing a size-twelve Sorel, rubber shell, leather upper, and a fleecy frost cuff, sold in brown with a red stripe or black with a yellow stripe.

  No. Sherlock Holmes and Lieutenant Columbo may pick up on all those clues, but they’re fictional.

  Back to real life. Back to Zayda. Her behavior baffled me: Nothing suspicious about her going inside the church as soon as she arrived, but why leave and wait outside? And why lie, until the found eyebrow ring proved her presence?

  If she’d shot Christine, would she have stayed? Again, why? And if she had been the intruder this morning, what was she searching for?

  The impasse made my insides hurt. That kind of post-adrenaline-surge hangover that tightens your chest and makes you feel like the blood and oxygen aren’t circulating the way they ought to.

  Coffee. I took a big gulp and forced myself to attend to business. I returned a few e-mails and texts. But still no tracking info for Chocolat.

  I’d told Larry we couldn’t adjust the film schedule, but it’s always good to have a backup plan.

  When we cleaned up the basement, we’d moved Fresca’s cookbooks and magazines downstairs, leaving a few of my favorites on the office shelves. They gave me an idea. What about a staged reading of foodie fiction and essays? I caught the high school speech and drama coach between classes and pitched my idea. “If you think the kids can do this, let’s schedule it as a special performance between movies on Saturday. If the second movie doesn’t arrive, then the kids can wrap up the evening. Give them a chance to show off their talents to the community.”

  “Oh, that’s perfect. The state tournament’s over, so this will be a fun new challenge.” She had a naturally infectious voice, the kind that makes you think she thinks you’re brilliant. A great quality in a teacher. “Any pieces to suggest?”

  “Yeah. A juicy poem about pie, if I can find it.”

  “This will be a treat. Thanks for thinking of us.”

  Oh, no, thank YOU.

  I trotted down to the shop in time to help Luci the Splash Artist, one of my favorite vendors, haul in new stock. The platinum-haired pixie sported another vintage apron, this one bib style, knee length, in a black-and-white Greek key print with a solid black sash, worn over black pants and a black turtleneck.

  We unpacked soaps and lotions and Tracy rearranged the displays. Luci’s products had quickly garnered repeat customers, always a positive sign. Plus she is cheery and easy to work with.

  Most of the time.

  “Erin, can we talk?” Her dark blue eyes were serious, and her dimples had disappeared. I gestured to the red-topped stools.

  She set a basket on the counter. “Samples. A new soap—olive oil castile. Super pure and natural. Nontoxic, eco-friendly. It’s even biodegradable—for people with septic tanks.”

  Tracy sniffed a small square. “Mmm. Olive oil soap is great for dry skin.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Well, it’s . . .” She sighed heavily. “It’s winter, and sales . . . aren’t so great.”

  “Your products sold beautifully over the holidays. Some of the highest sales per square foot in the store.” After truffles. “We’re featuring your rose-scented soap and lotion for Valentine’s Day. Listen, this is a tough time of year. But you’re growing sales. And you’re working on new products, which is crucial.”

  We’d talked about this last summer, when Luci decided to turn her hobby into a business. But sometimes reality bites.

  “What about goat’s milk soap?” Tracy said. “Or baby shampoo.”

  “You could create a line of cleaning supplies. Try soap in shapes, b
esides rectangles. The state of Montana.” My left hand cupped an imaginary bar, fingers gripping the Canadian line, my thumb poking up through Idaho.

  “I like those ideas,” Luci said, her tone hesitant.

  But they would take time to develop, and cash for supplies. Think fast, Erin. As Project Tea Shop was proving, the challenge in seasonal retail is bringing in enough summer income to carry the business through the off-season. Without a ski area close by, winter traffic would never close the gap. And a rainy June or a smoky August can be fatal. That, as the Againsters could never grasp, is why I love special events. Festival fatigue is a danger, but not if we mix it up and stay creative. The stakes are too high.

  As the somber face of the normally perky young blonde in front of me demonstrated.

  A customer arrived and Tracy went off to greet her.

  “We may need part-time help this summer,” I said. But Luci’s face made clear that might be too late.

  Another possibility waved from the recesses of my mind. We did a decent mail-order business, mainly tourists and snowbirds who got home to Georgia or Arizona and realized no spinach fettuccine holds a tomato to Fresca’s, and they honestly did feel friskier all day after a nice cuppa Cowboy Roast in the a.m. But I’d been reluctant to pursue web sales whole-hog, at least until we had more products under our own label. Adding that expense on top of the sixty percent of each sale that goes to the vendor made my head swim.

  And I kinda like keeping things small and manageable. Of course, my sister says I have control issues.

  But in business, you gotta grow, you gotta change, to stay alive.

  I made up the plan as I talked. “So you’d work for Jason, setting up an e-commerce site. Take pictures, write copy, input product details. Say, twenty hours a week during the design and construction phase, and five or ten after it gets going, adding new products, taking down old ones. You’d have plenty of time for soap making, and to develop new items for summer.”