The sun came out. Crocuses bloomed under the snow. Kittens were cute again and ice cream tasted sweet once more. “Oh, Erin! That’s so perfect. I worked on websites in art school, and I know I can do exactly what you need. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
She grabbed my shoulders and hugged me, her black mascara forming a tiny teardrop at the outer corner of her left eye.
Perfect ideas twice in one morning. A girl can get used to that.
Luci threw on her Mexican poncho and grabbed her basket. “I’ll go see Jason right now. Erin, thank you so much.”
Which gave me two minutes to call Jason and confess. He’d been after me to ramp up the web biz for a while, but even so, he would appreciate the warning.
I waved good-bye, smiling. And caught Tracy eying me thoughtfully.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.” Her hammered silver hoops swayed.
Upstairs, I called Jason and we agreed on a plan. “Don’t work her too hard. Just enough to keep her afloat, but leave her plenty of time to play with soap.”
I grabbed my jacket and stepped around the corner to Bill’s clinic for a consult about Christine’s will. But the Wizard of Wild Medicine had a full waiting room. Later, darn it.
Back at the Merc, I handled the shop while Tracy took the dog for a quick walk and ate lunch. A foursome of sixtyish women popped in for snacks to take to their weekly bridge game. Outside, a man studied the Valentine’s Day window, then came inside for a basket of wine, cheese, crackers, salami, and artichoke pesto—all locally grown or made. I offered a sample truffle and he bought four mix-and-match boxes.
At twelve thirty, Ginny Washington from Food for Thought, the local bookstore, arrived and we headed downstairs to sort the cookbooks I’d been given last summer by the family of a much-admired chef. I’d plucked out some promising titles, but hadn’t had time to go through every box. After an hour, we called it quits, leaving more than half the boxes unopened. I’d set aside a few books to keep or give to friends—clearly, Tracy needed The Art of the Chocolatier, and a few volumes on baking might interest Wendy. After school, Ginny’s son, Dylan, would cart the boxed rejects across the street to the bookstore for resale.
Back upstairs, I presented the book to Tracy, who was immediately entranced. The door chime rang and Kathy arrived, toting a plastic crate of quilted table runners, place mats, and napkins, all sewn by local women using Dragonfly fabrics. Our pairing is a natural fit—the linens soften our displays and add color, and I’d rather promote a neighboring business than sell cheap imported goods.
“We’ve been sorting Drew Baker’s cookbooks,” I said, gesturing to my dusty apron. “Hundreds. Thousands. No exaggeration.”
“International, modern, baking,” Ginny added. “He shopped with me regularly, but I had no idea he’d built such a collection. Some quite old, even rare.”
“So, why search out, buy, hold on to more of whatever it is than you’ll ever use?” I asked. “More art than you have walls. More books than you can read or cook from—some of these look like they’d never been opened.”
“Stamp collecting,” Tracy said. “What’s the point?”
“Earrings,” I said.
“They’re useful. I wear them.”
“The thrill of the hunt,” Kathy suggested. “Searching high and low for the missing piece. Putting together a complete set, the best examples.”
“My mother-in-law collects dolls.” Ginny sipped a cool Pellegrino. “She grew up poor, and played with a corn husk doll. A classmate had a doll with a porcelain head and real human hair. When my mother-in-law started working after high school, she bought one for herself. And another, and another. Unfortunately, she has three sons and six grandsons. What we’ll do with them when she goes, I have no idea.”
“She has an emotional connection to them. Another woman might have turned that connection into a career as a dollmaker.” Like Larry Abrams’s early passion for movies had led him to a career he loved.
“And they’re pretty. She’s very feminine, and loves the hair and clothing—all that silk and lace.” Ginny wrinkled her nose. “Although some of the faces are almost creepy.”
“Growing up, my best friend’s mom was a hoarder,” Tracy said. “She never let anyone come to their house, except me. A few years ago, her mom tripped over a mess of empty boxes and broke her hip, so while she was in the hospital, we helped her dad clean out. Rented a Dumpster. It took days.” Her face turned grave. “They saw a counselor and my friend hired a cleaning service. Occasionally, her mom decides she needs to save empty pill bottles or wrapping paper tubes and a pile builds up, but it’s manageable now.”
Kathy laid a runner on a display table while Tracy tucked matching napkins and jars of jam in coffee mugs.
“But hoarding isn’t collecting, is it?” I said. “It’s more random and indiscriminate.”
“Collecting can serve an emotional purpose without being obsessive,” Kathy said. “Like the dolls. And some people just love the stuff. God bless the customers who buy far more yarn and fabric than they’ll ever need.”
Ah. A simple explanation for my mother’s love of handblown martini glasses? They remind her of that magical year traveling in Italy—when she met my dad—but she also loves the colors and shapes.
The broken glass shattered not only her memories, but the comfort they’d given her.
Ginny left, and Tracy helped a customer needing fresh eggs and jam.
“Speaking of collecting,” Kathy said as we unpacked the last place mats and napkins. “I don’t want to pester Nick, but the sooner he decides whether to follow through with Christine’s plan to donate Iggy’s collection to the Art Center, the better.”
“I’m working on him. Love this pattern. What’s it called?” I held up a place mat. Four groups of triangles in red, gold, and brown prints on a creamy backdrop, each pointing toward a corner.
“Bear paw.”
Talk about obvious. “Apparently someone tried to buy a piece that Iggy wanted the Art Center to have, but we don’t know what it was. Nick wants to find out, to make sure we honor her intentions.”
She slipped on her coat and picked up the empty tote. “I’ll ask the board if anyone knows. Larry might—he had quite a few conversations with her.”
A Brooklyn boy who made his fortune in Hollywood, but yearned for Montana.
Plenty of room for all kinds under the Big Sky. Which is a good thing, because there are all kinds.
• Nineteen •
First stop: Taylor’s Building Supply. Five minutes with the Paint Yahoo and I had a gallon of Squirrel Tail—a goofy name for a totally delish paint the color of a mocha latte—and all the associated doodah.
“Guess that shooting’s got us all worried,” the cashier said as I approached. Took me a second to realize she was speaking to a man picking out signs from a spinning rack.
Neon green on black, reading NO TRESPASSING.
“Hey, Jack,” I said, and set my shopping basket on the counter. It’s rude to not acknowledge someone. Even if they’ve recently pointed a gun in your general vicinity.
I chose to interpret his grunt as “Hey.”
Though I’d all but ruled Frost out as Christine’s killer, I wondered what he was protecting. What had him worried. He wore his usual grubby coverall, and a cap advertising a car parts dealer.
That, and his crack this morning about guys with fancy cars, reminded me of the kids and their documentary, Kyle Caldwell and his muscle car, and Danny Davis’s offer to buy the GTO after calling it a piece of junk.
Humans. Sometimes there’s no explaining us.
Jack didn’t drive a fancy car. I knew which truck in the lot was his by the cherry red plow on the front and the bumper sticker on the rear: The silhouette of a wolf and the slogan SMOKE A PACK A DAY.
Whether by chance or choi
ce, Nick had found himself in a dangerous line of work.
* * *
Jack Frost aside, I sing the praises of snowplow drivers. I sing them in squalls and blizzards, whiteouts and flurries, in slip, slide, and slush. I sing them too in wet and powder, in blinding pellets, in soft snow drifting from the sky like petals from an apple tree. High above the road the plow drivers sit, in lumbering orange mastodons with chains on their tires and engines that could turn the earth on its axis. Mastodons with blades for tusks, capable of moving mountains, sand and gravel in their bellies. Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of night can stop them, though they pause to refill the gas tank and coffee cup. They march across dale and thunder over hill, cleaning up the messes Mother Nature makes to remind us that she is in charge, not we—we human few who dare cut paths through the wilderness and pave paradise.
I sing the praises of snowplow drivers, even as they hog the roads, ice and sand spitting out from under their massive wheels. Brave men and women who keep the roads clear and all us idiots safe.
Creeping the twenty-two miles into Pondera behind a plow gave me plenty of time to think. About Christine’s house and someone’s search for—what? Had she been killed for this missing item, that none of us, not even Nick, knew existed?
Obviously Iggy, her inventory incomplete, was not a compulsive collector—unlike a stamp dealer with his lists or my mother’s friend the former DJ who’d cataloged his thousands of albums and forty-fives on three-by-five cards.
I passed a driveway marked by a row of birdhouses, each a different style and color. By our collections, you shall know us. If clothing counts, my eight denim jackets. And my heart-shaped objects—rocks, shells, pins, cookie cutters. The entire collection fits on the bathroom windowsill where it brightens the morning. The latest addition: a pink agate heart Adam gave me at Christmas.
But while I love them—and wear my jackets often—they don’t make my heart race. If you’ll pardon the pun. If I come across one that catches my eye, great, but I’ve never spent an afternoon scouting for hearts, or wandering consignment and thrift shops for the jacket to complete my life list. Or whatever.
I’d rather spend that time perfecting a scone or a stew.
We all have our passions.
While the line between enthusiasm and obsession might be fine, there’s no question which side murder falls on.
Finally, we reached a four-lane stretch and I scooted past the plow, waving my thanks.
Like the village, downtown Pondera is long on charm and short on parking. I squeezed the Subaru into a space on a side street and headed for the Main Street gallery and gift shop where Heidi recalled Fresca buying the martini glasses.
The Honeysuckle Glass Gallery building dates from the same era as the Merc. Metal stock tanks flanked the entry, live evergreens poking out of the snow. Inside, exposed brick walls, maple floors, and painted tin tiles set off luminous handblown hanging lights.
I’d met the owner, Trish Flynn, at a state tourism office event on promoting the arts. Her stained glass workshop fills the back of the shop, but she also carries glasswork by artists from across the Northwest.
Soft sax-y jazz drifted around me. Amid the floor lamps, table lamps, night-lights, chandeliers, windows, bowls, plates, jewelry—anything that could be made of glass—would I find what I was searching for?
“You look like you’re on the hunt.” Trish emerged from her office, running a chapped hand through short, dark curls. “We’ve met—remind me your name.”
“Erin Murphy. From the Merc in Jewel Bay. What a magical place.” I pulled Chiara’s sketch out of my blue tote. “I’m hoping to find a glass like this.”
“Mmm, yeah.” She led me to a corner where goblets and martini glasses sparkled in the gallery’s medley of light. “Each one is different. Part of the beauty of handmade.”
I fingered them. Raised one as if to drink—a light but solid feel. “The colors are so clean and pure. And the swirls of color around the bowl and stem. They look like they’re—dancing.”
Like potato chips, it was impossible to pick just one. So I chose three, telling myself they were future gifts. Or I could keep two for myself, replacements for the plain glass jobbies I’d found in a liquor store for two dollars apiece during a martini emergency. With any luck, my mother would see in this gift a shimmer of my love and admiration.
Trish wrapped them carefully in heavy paper. “Every medium has its appeal, but when I started working in glass, I found my soul work. Glass combines all the elements: earth, fire, water, metal, and air. You’re never completely in control of the outcome, no matter how hard you work.”
“Sounds disheartening.”
“It can be,” she admitted. “When a piece you’ve sweated over for hours, sometimes days, breaks. Teaches us detachment. I love the element of surprise, of co-creating with the Divine.”
She’d lost me, but not by the explanation of her artistic process. My eyes were riveted on the corkboard behind her. “Community Baby Shower,” a poster read. “Give young mothers and their babies a warm, fuzzy start. Bring new, unwrapped clothes and baby items, and stay for an afternoon of games, gifts, and baby-whispering.”
The date: Last Saturday, here in Pondera. “Contact: Sally,” followed by a Jewel Bay phone number. I whipped out my phone and checked the number. Puddle Jumpers.
“Forgot to take that down.” Trish tore it off the board and was about to toss it in the recycling when I held out my hand.
“The contact person. Sally Grimes?” I tucked the poster in my bag. “Part of the crew?”
“Worked as hard as the rest of us,” Trish said. “From midmorning coffee and setup to teardown. The mothers arrived at noon for lunch—fifteen of them. Part of a special program the school district runs for girls who’ve decided to keep their babies, to help them stay in school. They left at three p.m. We finished around five.”
A mental slide of the property tax records dropped into view. “Sally’s your landlady.”
Trish nodded, snapping open a sturdy brown paper shopping bag. “She donated a diaper bag for every mother. A few had already had their babies, and she made sure each little one got a plush toy. And I gave the mothers a glass keepsake.”
“How did you two get involved?”
“Because of Sage. We’re related, through my son, Nathan.” The glow on her face had nothing to do with all the lamps shining around us. “And my granddaughter, Princess Olivia. Enjoy your glassware.”
Next door, in another building Sally owns, is a bakery almost as sweet as Le Panier, so I popped in for a latte and a chunky peanut butter cookie. Research, I told myself, silencing the voice of my mother commenting on calories. The potential sources of mother-daughter tension are endless, but at least ours are benign—unlike the struggles between Sally and Sage.
“Because of Sage,” Trish had said. I puzzled over that as I picked my way back to my car, careful of my fragile bounty and the icy sidewalks. Sage had to be thirty, and Sally over fifty. No teenage mothers there, unless I had misjudged Sally’s age along with everything else.
The Google search for the house in Missoula had identified the residents as N. and S. Flynn. Suspicions confirmed: Nathan and Sage lived in the house her mother owned.
My horn beeped and the lights flickered as I clicked the lock open. Very useful in a valley where every fourth vehicle is a Subaru.
Through no fault of my own, I’d established Sally’s alibi for the shooting. Witnesses galore could swear to Sally’s whabouts—witnesses with gifts attesting to her presence and generosity. In the process of buying my mother a gift, I had unintentionally proven the woman I liked least in town innocent of murder. The woman convinced of my own brother’s guilt.
Talk about the law of unintended consequences.
Accompanied by a lesson in mistaken assumptions. The skin on my face warmed with shame. I had wanted to
believe Sally guilty, no matter how unlikely it seemed. When it came to planning—for the village, anyway—she prefers whining to action, and murder is the ultimate action.
I had let my own feelings override my logic. Exactly as I’d accused her of doing when it came to Nick.
The drive home took half the time of my trip to Pondera, thanks to the freshly plowed roads. Winter days here can be gloomy, but not this one. Fresh snow sparkled on the mountains that ring the valley. A little ditty we’d memorized in second or third grade floated into mind: “I’m glad the sky is painted blue, the earth is painted green, with such a lot of nice fresh air all sandwiched in between.”
Substitute white for green, put on your shades, and be glad.
Back in Jewel Bay, I turned off the highway and drove down Hill Street into the village, the frozen bay on my right. Jack Frost had done his work, scraping the streets smooth. They wouldn’t be bare and dry for weeks, but at least they were safe to walk and drive.
I passed the public dock and boat launch—a launch to nowhere, this time of year—then reached the narrow alley that separates the Front Street buildings from the greenbelt surrounding the bay. A whitebelt, today.
A heavyset man in a blue parka puffed up the alley behind the Playhouse, headed my way. Danny Davis?
No time for a closer look, or to stop and chat, as a delivery truck churned up the slope behind me. Ahead, a teal blue van with front-wheel drive and bad tires lost its grip on the road and slid sideways toward me.
Another day in a paradise of tranquility.
• Twenty •
I parked behind the Merc, breathing quickly after my near miss with the van.
It probably speaks ill of me to say I felt greater relief at finding a replacement glass for Fresca’s collection than at proving Sally’s innocence. Not that I’m shallow and petty—or not just that. Proving her innocence left me one less suspect, and dozens of new questions.
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