Butter Off Dead

by Leslie Budewitz

  He stared into space, eyes hooded, lips thin. “She came back today. She’s okay, I guess, but . . .” He met my gaze. “People are butt-heads sometimes, you know? Whispering, staring at her. Pretending she has a gun. One girl grabbed her stomach and fell down, acting like she was shot.”

  “People are butt-heads,” I agreed.

  “She wouldn’t hurt anybody.” He’d recovered his confidence, or at least, his ability to fake it. “Zayda admired Christine. She was excited about the Film Festival. She’s got plans. The big film schools are interested in her.”

  “Dylan, it would help me a lot, to deal with things, you know”—let him think I meant my own emotions, not that I was poking around—“to know why she went out there early.”

  “She was meeting you. If she was early, she was just excited.”

  I didn’t buy that, but didn’t let on. “Did she argue with Christine? We know she went inside—she lost her eyebrow stud—so I’m puzzled why she decided to wait for me outside.”

  “She—she wasn’t thinking.” The words came slowly at first, then burst out as his certainty faded. He licked his lips, reminding me of Pumpkin as she gauged her chances of sneaking past Sandburg and beating him to the ottoman. He grabbed another box and started up the stairs. “Gotta get these books across the street before the snow starts.”

  Nick flattened himself against the sandstone wall as Dylan brushed by. He gave me a questioning look and hoisted a box. I shrugged and picked up another carton, the logbook in my sweater pocket. “We’re not done talking, brother.”

  “I gotta go, Erin. Soon as we get these boxes outta here. Mom made me promise to stop in for dinner, and you know that means showing up early for a drink and a nibble before the main event.”

  When Fresca frets, she cooks.

  “Then let’s make it a family affair,” I said.

  * * *

  “Explain again why you took it,” Fresca said. She gestured toward the gray-veined white chop on the coffee table next to her new martini glass—the one with grass green and royal blue rods twisted together to form the stem. She’d been speechless at the gift—a rare blip for a Murphy girl—and promptly mixed lemon drop martinis. After the other night, I was surprised she didn’t pour mine into a plastic cup.

  Nick rubbed the magic spot between Pepé’s ears, her eyes closed in canine ecstasy. “I told you. It should have been in the church, where there was a security system. So when I saw it in the cottage, I took it for safekeeping.”

  I wondered. Was this the reason for insisting we meet out there this morning? Had my presence to clean out the place been a cover, so he could search for this?

  “I never knew Iggy had any Asian artifacts,” Fresca said. “She was famous for loving Western art.”

  “It belonged to the family. I don’t know the history, but Christine said Iggy had let herself be talked into selling one family piece and regretted it, so I took it.” He reached for the relic. Unhappy that he’d stopped petting her, Pepé nosed his hand. “Sorry, girl.”

  My mother glowered. “That was a stupendously, ridiculously, utterly and completely idiotic thing to do.”

  He flushed. “It made sense at the time.”

  “Why was it in the house?” I said. “You think that whoever shot her was looking for it?”

  “Who got shot?” Landon bounced into the room.

  “Uh, nobody,” I said. “We were talking about this. It’s called a chop. Chinese scholars used them to sign their work.”

  “’Cause if somebody got shot, sic Hank the Cowdog on ’em.” Head of ranch security, and one of Landon’s heroes.

  “Because,” Nick said, “she didn’t want visitors to know she had it. Or a visitor in particular. But who?”

  Had Zayda been searching for it? Or had the shooter? Who may or may not have been the burglar.

  “Noni, see my dinosaur hat? It’s got armored plates like stegosaurs.” Landon climbed over Pepé to show my mother his olive green hat, a spine of bright blue fins running front to back.

  “Ever since that trip to the Museum of the Rockies, he can’t stop talking dinosaurs.” Chiara dropped onto the couch next to Fresca and poured herself a martini. “So when the crochet lady brought this in, he had to have it. At this rate, we won’t sell any hats. I’ll buy them all myself instead.”

  “Crochet lady?” I said. “The woman who teaches at Dragonfly? Is she working at Puddle Jumpers, too? I thought you made the hat.” Double-check Sally’s alibi, like a real investigator.

  “I made the turtle hat, in class. She made this one. She fills in all over town.” Chiara took a sip. “Killer drink.”

  As one, the Murphy girls’ eyes strayed to Nick, who was listening intently to Landon’s report on the dinosaurs that once roamed Montana’s plains and didn’t seem to have heard her.

  Dodged a bullet, I thought, and cringed.

  “Mama,” Landon told his mother as we migrated to the dining room. “I’m going to sit between Uncle and Auntie. Will you be okay sitting by yourself?”

  “Thank you, darling. I’ll sit next to Noni. And your father will be here shortly.”

  Jason arrived in time for salad. “Weeknight family dinner. This is unusual.” He circled the table, exchanging kisses and fist bumps.

  “When Nick called to say Erin was coming, I seized the chance,” Fresca said. “That’s the beauty of pasta. Just add more to the pot.”

  “I’ve started a new series of paintings,” my sister said. “Winter whites. Inspired by the snow.”

  “Blank canvases? I could paint those.” If she could have reached Nick to smack him, she would have.

  “First, I painted a stack of white linens on that cane-bottom chair of Gran’s,” she said. In our half-Irish, half-Italian family, Gran and Granda were the Murphys, and Noni and Papi the Contis. All long gone and much missed. “Next, I’m thinking of the white Haviland plates Jason’s Nana left us, or that ratty old bear of Landon’s. And Erin, your Milky.”

  I twirled fettuccine on my fork and smiled. A white-painted cow on wheels Granda made for me. Her teeth hide a drawer, her red leather tongue the pull, and a door in her side opens on a secret cabinet.

  “You’re getting old, little sister,” Nick said. “Your childhood toys are folk art.”

  I stuck out my tongue. “Paint a plate of fettuccine Alfredo. In Pondera today, I saw evergreens planted in a galvanized stock tank partly covered by snow. You’re always after interesting patterns and shadows and contrasts. Outside Honeysuckle, the glass gallery. Paint that.”

  “Oh, that building of Sally’s,” my mother said.

  I reached for my Pinot Grigio, my own winter white. “So, how did Sally get all this property? I thought she was half broke.”

  “Wherever did you get that idea?” Fresca said.

  “She whines about every festival and how much it will cost her. All last summer, she complained that business was terrible, but half the women who came in my shop carried bags from Puddle Jumpers. She’s downright nasty about fund-raisers. Never contributes.” Hence my shock at discovering she was the patron saint of the program for teen moms.

  My mother glanced at Landon, regaling Nick with tales of what T. rex ate, prehistoric birds, and other dino trivia. “That’s just talk. Sally and her cousins are the heirs to the Beckman Timber Company fortune.”

  I stared, openmouthed, unaware Sally had any connection to the Beckman Timber Company. Long gone, it once owned thousands of acres of western Montana forest, two or three mills, and a plant across the lake that made railroad ties. The timberlands were sold off ages ago, for residential development or to other timber companies.

  “Sally’s mother and aunt split the fortune. It’s an old story—one prospered, the other gambled. Actually, it was Sally’s father, Bing Marler, who lost most of the money, in one get-richer scheme after another. Or so I
understand. I never knew the man. He abandoned his wife and children when Sally was twelve or thirteen, her brother a year or two older.”

  “That must have been forty years ago,” Chiara said, careful to keep the conversation to the female end of the table. “And she’s still livid.”

  “Runs in the family. Her mother died angry, and broken. Sally’s brother, also called Bing, had drug problems. Froze to death under a highway bridge in Denver. I do remember that. Tom and I had just moved back to Montana. Nick was a baby.”

  “Okay, so she’s had a rough life, but why such a poor-mouth?” I took another bite.

  “Habit, most likely. Her grandfather diversified nicely, and his grandchildren inherited commercial property all over western Montana. I’m sure Sally doesn’t need to work. Her husband left when Sage was little—another long, sad story. There were no places to buy cute things for children around here, so she opened her own shop. I know it’s hard to tell sometimes, but she does love the village.”

  So much for the idea that everyone knows everything about everyone in a small town. Sally was twenty-plus years older than I, her daughter a few years younger. Our families had never been close. There was no reason I should have known her family history, ancient or modern. Except that I felt like I should. Because I’d judged Sally based on my perceptions, and not on reality.

  “Noni, may I be excused?”

  Landon’s question broke into my wonderings. I was surprised to see that the menfolk had already cleaned their plates.

  “Dessert?” Fresca mouthed to Chiara, who mouthed back “no.” They aren’t the sugar police, but they do try to watch Landon’s treats. Good idea, since his aunt hands out handmade truffles and marshmallows like they’re, well, candy.

  At my mother’s nod, Landon bounced up and Nick began clearing the table. “I’ll take him home,” Jason told Chiara. “You take your girl-time.”

  “We need to talk,” I said. “About the website. I have ideas.” They all burst out laughing and my cheeks got hot. “I’m a businesswoman. I’m supposed to have ideas.”

  “And we love you for it, little sister,” Chiara said. “I’ll start coffee.”

  Nick put on his coat and I reached up to kiss him. “Think about it overnight, and we can go see Ike in the morning.”

  The look on his face signaled that Fresca was listening.

  “What was that about?” she said the moment we were alone.

  “The chop,” I said, telling her half the truth. It was gone. Good. Let him be responsible for it. And for figuring out how to explain to the sheriff why he withheld alibi evidence and stole from a crime scene.

  In the kitchen, decaf brewed, its steam perfuming the air. I washed the glasses and pots and pans while Chiara dried.

  “The success of Sally’s children’s shop is ironic, considering what a mess her own family is,” she said.

  “Some kind of feud with her daughter? There’s a grandbaby, right?” I rinsed out the spaghetti pot.

  Fresca set out mugs, cream, and spoons—and a jar of her new spice blend. “Sage got pregnant in high school and kept the baby, a boy. The father refused to accept any responsibility. To her credit, she finished school and started college. Living in a house Sally bought her, but still, not an easy road.”

  And without a program like the one Sally championed. I dried my hands while Fresca poured, and we carried our mugs to the living room.

  “But Sage is married. She has a baby girl,” I said, tucking one foot under me in the wing-back chair. The picture I’d seen on Facebook. “Not a young boy.”

  “Such a shame. When the little guy was three or four, he developed one of those nasty brain tumors children sometimes get. Glioblastoma. Fatal.”

  “Criminy. No wonder Sally is . . .” No judging, Erin. My biggest fault. I felt a blow to my chest as if I’d been kicked by a horse, and it wasn’t even my family. “So Sage finished college, got married, had another baby?”

  Fresca rubbed her throat. “She’s a preschool teacher. Sally dislikes the husband, but I think she distrusts men on principle. Hard to blame her.”

  The Murphy girls sat in rare silence, sipping decaf Cowboy Roast with pumpkin pie spices. In the house my grandparents built, where my parents had raised us. The Orchard and the Merc weren’t what held us together, but our love for those shared spaces certainly helped.

  My sister leaned down to pet the dog, dark hair swinging forward over the face so like my own. Next to her on the couch, my mother sipped her coffee and met my gaze. Love and loyalty radiated from every bone in her body, and every corner, every nook and cranny in this house.

  You’re a lucky girl, Erin Murphy. Don’t you forget it.

  I rubbed my stars, and prayed that I never would.

  • Twenty-two •

  Tiny, furious flakes eddied in my headlights as I turned off the highway. The dashboard thermometer read ten above. Our plow driver—not Jack Frost, thanks be—had cleared the long driveway on Tuesday, but you couldn’t tell. A good six inches of snow had fallen in the last twenty-four hours, and by the looks of things, that count would double overnight.

  Which meant a slippery trek down the hill to check the Big House, aka Bob and Liz Pinsky’s place.

  I crept down the drive. You’d think the deer would be home in bed, but no. The start of a storm, especially right after darkfall, draws them like mice draw cats.

  I circled through the driveway. A bulb had gone out on the front porch. I hit the garage door clicker—making tracks is another trick to making the place look occupied.

  “Dang it.” Too cold. I climbed out and trudged to the stuck door, easing it up the metal rails. Trudged back to my car and drove into the garage.

  The key trembled in my hand. Locks and I have never gotten along, and the cold made it worse. Truth be told, after what happened at Christine’s, I had a serious case of the creepies.

  Inside, I slipped off my boots and listened. Quiet. Too quiet? And too cold.

  One hand gripping the stair rail, phone in the other, I headed downstairs, all senses alert. The lights had gone on as planned and nothing looked out of place. Paused outside the furnace room door. No hum. Nothing.

  I turned the knob and stepped inside. Spotted the problem right away. The pilot had blown out. I found the long-handled lighter and relit it, as Bob had showed me. After a long, breathless moment, the flame appeared with a small, satisfying poof, and the big gray box blazed back to life.

  And I let out a noisy sound of relief.

  Until I remembered the pipes. The heat couldn’t have been off long, but I worried anyway. Detoured into a bathroom and tried first one faucet then another. Running water—music to my ears.

  Boots in hand, I padded around the house, my heart beating a little faster and louder than normal. All was well. But it’s weird, walking around an empty house in the dead of winter.

  Gad—another one. Why do so many phrases we use every day evoke death and murder?

  I reprogrammed the automatic lights. Replaced the burned-out bulb. Slipped my boots on and shoveled the front walk.

  Job done, I perched on the steps and gazed upward. Hard to see the stars through all the snow, but they were there. They are always there. (As my mother says when people grouse about gray skies, it’s the clouds that are gray. The sky is always blue.)

  I leaned the shovel next to the front door and picked up the old bulb. As if it had flashed back to life, a thought occurred to me. Back inside, I peeled off my boots and traipsed across the warm hickory floors to the library. Bent my knees and ran my fingers over the spines.

  Bingo! to quote Ned.

  The road had gotten slicker in the few minutes I’d been at the Big House. I tucked the Subaru safely into my carport and carried my bag and my treasure into my cozy haven.

  And stopped dead in my tracks.

  “What t
he—?” A white feather floated in front of me. They filled the air, like giant snowflakes. A fine white trail led to the bedroom. Pumpkin crouched in the doorway, tail wrapped around her, the picture of innocence.

  Except for the feathers on top of her head.

  “Did you two pluck a chicken or kill an angel?” Sandburg sat in the middle of my bed, eyes blazing. When he saw the tabby following me, he started hissing.

  “Ahhh. Pillow fight.” A deflated down pillow lay on the floor, free of its case and wrung out like a dirty dish rag. I breathed a sigh of relief that the comforter was safe—protected by its cover and an old quilt my Gran had made, tossed on top for extra warmth.

  I separated the cats and got out a broom. Quickly realized the folly in that, though the vacuum cleaner didn’t do much better.

  “Oh, no.” A quarter-sized shard of iridescent blue-green glass lay on the rug. Under the bed lay the remains of a small vase I’d bought at the Chihuly Garden at Seattle Center. Not expensive or irreplaceable—not the work of the one-eyed glass master himself—but a sweet souvenir of my city life.

  Totally busted.

  After the unplanned cleaning spree, I ran a hot bath, scented with Luci’s Lavender Valley bath gel, then pulled on my warmest flannel jammies and fuzzy socks. Settled into my favorite chair with a bowl of vanilla ice cream swimming in warm chocolate-Cabernet sauce. I’d left Pumpkin in the bedroom, but instead of climbing into my lap, Sandburg eyed me from a distance. Apparently I had betrayed him, by tolerating the interloper.

  “We’ll find her another home, I promise. But we’re nice to guests, remember?”

  I clicked on my iPad and scrolled through e-mail. Clicked open a note from Kendra, the tea shop prospect, saying she had “decided to pursue other options.” In other words, we’d given her a great idea to take to a bigger, hipper town. No surprise. But what spiked my Jell-O was taking the chicken’s way out of telling us. I hit reply, thanked her for her interest, and wished her well, then sent a note to my co-conspirators, suggesting they follow up on the remaining leads.

  I can be a chicken, too.