Butter Off Dead

by Leslie Budewitz

  Pulled up the Spreadsheet of Suspicion. Added the break-in, and the alibi info for Nick and Sally.

  Which reminded me of the crochet lady. I texted Chiara for her contact info. She texted back. I started an e-mail, then decided that a good investigator should not hide behind technology and it wasn’t too late to call Crochet Lady.

  After reminding her who I was and complimenting her on the cute hats, I got down to business. “Hey, it’s hard to imagine summer when it’s this cold, but your hats got me thinking. We’ll need part-time help May to September, two or three days a week. I hear you’re teaching at Dragonfly, and that’s great, but if you’re available, I’d love to hire you.”

  “Oh, pooh. Wish I could, but I’ve already told Sally Grimes I’d work weekends for her. And with the teaching, that’s plenty. I’m so sorry.”

  Sally would try to convince her she’d sell more crocheted hats at Puddle Jumpers than at Snowberry. Probably true, but you can’t beat Landon for advertisement. “Fun store. You’ll have a great time.”

  “I subbed for her last Saturday. Helped her open, then she had an event in Pondera, so I ran the shop myself the rest of the day. Quiet, but that’s good when you’re getting started.”

  “If anything changes, let me know. Employees get free truffles.” That got a laugh. Nice lady. I wondered if she needed a cat.

  In the bedroom, Pumpkin seemed content. At least she hadn’t eaten any more pillows. Back in the living room, I poured a glass of Cabernet and picked up the purloined book.

  C.M. Russell had been an unlikely looking artist—wild of eye and hair, in hat and high-heeled riding boots, wearing a white shirt with a red sash given to him by the Métis people. His wealthy Saint Louis manufacturing family had sent the teenage Charlie west in 1880, in hopes of taming him and derailing his artistic ambitions.

  No such luck—luckily for us. As a young cowhand, he worked clay in his pockets. Left the open range as it was vanishing, to paint the land and life he loved. We make artists work awfully hard to prove their passion and talent. A fortunate few make a living at it. CMR, as people still call him, did—though never easily, and his wife Nancy was responsible for much of his commercial success.

  What would they think of the prices his pieces—oils, watercolors, bronzes, even illustrated letters and Christmas cards—brought now? He’d think people had gone plumb loco. She’d think people had come to their senses.

  I flipped through the color plates. Lotsa ridin’ and ropin,’ cowboys and Indians, camp scenes. Stunning vistas in colors folks who’ve never been out West can’t imagine truly exist. They do, especially in the wide-open central Montana plains, where weird and magical sights are everywhere.

  In high school, our Montana history class state tour had stopped at the Russell Museum in Great Falls, including the artist’s home and cabin studio. Set up as though he’d stepped out for a smoke, an unfinished canvas on an easel and tubes of paint open on a wooden bench, the cabin held a treasure trove of artifacts CMR used as references: guns and arrows, beaded moccasins, sun-bleached skulls, a buffalo robe, and a mounted buffalo head as massive as the one in the Jewel Inn. (The one that I’d refused to sit by when we were kids and went out to breakfast, convinced that its huge golden-brown eyes were following me.)

  Much as I love e-mail, wouldn’t it be a thrill to receive a letter illustrated by hand? Addressed “Friend Erin,” in his customary style, and signed “CMR,” with a pen-and-ink drawing of a buffalo skull similar to the one on our license plates.

  I sipped my wine, imagining it a cowboy’s whiskey.

  The last chapters covered Russell’s home life and his summers at Bull Head Lodge on Lake McDonald, in Glacier Park. The cabin long gone, the black-and-white pictures conveyed colorful times. When the railroad was new. The Park was new. The stone and timber Lake McDonald Lodge, built by the legendary Northwest architect Kirtland Cutter, was new. CMR carved pictographs in the dining room hearth—destroyed fifty years later in the floods of 1964 that old-timers still talk about.

  An epic time.

  The pictures of the Russell home in Great Falls matched my teenage recollection: a simple two-story house typical of the early twentieth-century West. No gingerbread, no extravagance. Minimally comfortable by modern standards, with staunchly upright chairs and horsehair couches. No doubt modest compared to his upbringing, but an improvement over bunkhouses and camps. Or maybe not—CMR seemed to have genuinely loved the life of a working cowboy.

  Wait. Go back. A photo of the sitting room caught my eye. On the wall, a large black-and-gold tapestry of a pair of cranes.

  Where had I seen it before? Not on my high school tour.

  And then I remembered: in the church, hanging on the wall opposite the altar, near the rear entry we’d used. Eyes closed, I pictured Zayda huddled beneath it and Nick arguing with a deputy who refused to let him near Christine.

  I laid the book aside. Pacing isn’t easy in cramped quarters. Behind the door to the bedroom addition, Pumpkin yowled for early release.

  The same piece? A copy? Or just similar—tough to compare a black-and-white photo to a tapestry glimpsed briefly. Nick had said the chop was an Asian piece from Iggy’s family. Was the tapestry one, too—and had it also come from the Russell home? He’d said she regretted selling another piece. To whom? Had the buyer come back for more?

  Well, the tapestry was safe. But it gave me a clue: What else in Iggy’s collection might have lured a killer and a thief?

  My pacing took me past the microwave, green numbers telling me it was later than I’d thought. So much for my plan to spend the evening browsing for poems and essays the Speech and Drama Club could dramatize, but I did remember to dig out the essay on pie.

  Sandburg jumped off the couch where he’d been guarding the living room from invaders and rubbed against my leg. “I’m not sure you deserve treats,” I said. “I liked that pillow.” Call me a softie, but I tipped a few into his bowl anyway, then did the same for Pumpkin.

  “Poor little girl. First you lose your person, then you have to spend all day with that old meanie, and it’s winter and you can’t go outside. Promise, we’ll find you a new owner. This week.” It doesn’t matter what you say to a cat, as long as you use the right tone.

  In the living room, my phone rang. I opened the door and Pumpkin raced past me. “Whoa, girl. Didn’t know you had a high gear.”

  “Sorry to call so late.” Adam sounded both tired and keyed-up, a little anxious. “Bunch of us walked downtown for dinner and a beer. Big storm blew in while we were eating and when we came out, we pushed stuck cars for an hour. We were crossing Higgins when a Suburban slammed into a Prius. One of the guys is an EMT and we helped until the ambulance came.”

  “Ohmygosh. Is everybody okay?”

  “Doubtful.” His voice shook. “It’s a stinking mess down here. I-90’s closed.”

  I consider myself an independent woman. I do fine on my own. But an avalanche of emotion swept down off the hillside and nearly knocked me off my feet. Metaphorically speaking.

  My sister was snug at home with her husband and her son. But I heard her anyway: It’s called love, little sister. And you’ve got it bad.

  “Yikes. Will class be canceled? Can you get home safely?” I settled onto a barstool.

  “We’re all in the same hotel, teachers and students, so class is on.” He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a bark. “Besides, we’re all wilderness geeks with rigs full of gear. If we need to go anywhere, we’ve got snowshoes and skis, avalanche beacons, and a week’s worth of protein bars.”

  He’d be in heaven, kicking and gliding down the trail beside the Clark Fork River on his touring skis.

  “Class ends noon Friday,” he continued. “Long as I can get out of Missoula, I can get home to you. We can catch a movie.”

  Was it my imagination, or did his voice hold the same longin
g as my heart?

  I filled him in on the latest developments for the Film Festival. I hesitated before sharing my suspicions about the burglary and the artwork—too vague. Too much like I was thick in the middle of danger, yet again.

  Silence on the end of the line when I finished sharing my speculations. He’d sworn he didn’t mind my investigating. Encouraged me to use my talents. Had I just given him a chance to change his mind?

  “Erin, this is getting scary. Somebody wants something pretty bad. Don’t you think—”

  “That I should leave this to the professionals? That I don’t know how to take care of myself?” Had I misread him that badly?

  “I didn’t say that. But maybe you’re not as prepared for this kind of trouble as you think. Maybe you—”

  “Maybe three people wouldn’t be behind bars if not for me. Maybe Kim and Ike would have solved those other crimes without me, and without anyone else getting hurt.” Maybe I’m not the woman you think I am. Maybe the girl you crushed on from afar back in college went out into the big bad world and learned a thing or two.

  “Maybe we should talk tomorrow,” he said. “When we’re not so beat.”

  “Adam,” I said, but the phone in my hand had gone silent.

  The stool next to mine gave a soft groan as Pumpkin landed on the burgundy leather seat.

  “Oh, girl,” I said. “Did I blow it?”

  Light glinted off the copper highlights in her green eyes.

  From nowhere, a white feather floated into view. It swirled above my wineglass, and danced around the rim. It flirted with diving into the silky red pool, then brushed my fingertips and settled onto the black granite.

  Mesmerized, we stared at the feather. “A sign,” I told her. “But of what?”

  • Twenty-three •

  I stomped my feet and opened the pine green door to Le Panier, the aromas of caffeine and fresh, yeasty bread warming my toes. While Wendy helped another customer, I drooled on the pastry case, as if there were any doubt what I’d order.

  “Double shot, pain au chocolat,” I said when it was my turn. “Any interest in a cat? I’ve got Christine’s tabby, and she and my guy don’t get along.”

  Wendy shot me a look like I’d suggested she chop off a finger, then rammed the coffee holder thingy into place and reached for the milk. Black gold—espresso—dripped into the shot glass.

  “Can you ask your staff? She’s quite sweet.”

  The door flew open and Sally barged in. The bakery was the one place where I’d never heard her complain about the cost of things. We all have our priorities.

  “It’s been a week and they haven’t arrested anyone.” She barked at Wendy as if I weren’t there. As if she hadn’t been pointing a finger at my own brother. “I don’t know what that Kim Caldwell does all day, up in that office of hers. The office we pay for. And Ike Hoover’s no better.”

  “Four days, Sally. Four and a half. And I can assure you Kim’s been hard at work, interviewing witnesses, gathering forensics reports. Checking alibis.” I was frustrated, too—with people who whine about things and refuse to help change them. Who whine, whine, and never lift a finger. Okay, so Sally has a secret charitable side, but don’t stop me on a roll. “And if you don’t quit complaining, and suggesting that my brother had the most to gain, I won’t tell her what I know about your alibi. Because you hoped to gain a few things from Christine’s death, too.”

  Though I hadn’t worked out exactly what that might be, if not Iggy’s money or real estate.

  “My—what? I don’t need an alibi. I didn’t have anything to do with that girl’s death.”

  “Oh, come on, Sally,” Wendy said. “Everyone in town knows how ticked off you were when Iggy left her estate to Christine. You griped for weeks. Stood right there and threatened to sue her, to her face, for undue—what’s it called?”

  “Undue influence,” I said. “Taking advantage of someone to get their money.”

  “I just wanted . . . That little tramp wormed her way into that old lady’s life just to get—” Red splotches welled up on Sally’s face and throat, and she sputtered like a tractor on the first day of spring.

  “She did no such thing,” Wendy said, matching Sally’s indignation. “Christine was more shocked than anyone at her inheritance. She loved Iggy. You thought everything ought to come to you because you’re a shirttail relative. You talk big on family but you don’t walk the talk.”

  Sally had gone as white as bread dough. I helped her sit before she fell down, and drew up another black metal chair.

  “You started to say, ‘I just wanted.’ What did you want?” I spoke gently.

  “Why should I tell you?” She wiped the side of her nose with a knuckle.

  “Because the more you complain, the more it looks like you’re hiding something.” Sally’s mouth fell open and she clawed the front of her sweater. I pushed on. “But I know you were in Pondera at the baby shower when Christine was attacked. Trish Flynn told me.”

  She looked as if I’d shot her. “You didn’t seriously think I—”

  “About as seriously as you think Nick’s a killer,” I said. “But talk isn’t cheap, Sally. It hurts people. Nick lost the woman he loved, and he’s had to defend himself to half the town. Prove every step he took on Saturday, be fingerprinted, turn over his phone and his boots and I don’t know what else.” Of course, he hadn’t made things easier with his own blackout on the truth.

  “You don’t know what it’s like. You Murphys, you work together, eat together, practically live together.”

  My heart nearly stopped. Wendy froze, then came to my rescue. “Sally, are you forgetting the hit-and-run that killed Erin’s father? No one ever paid for that, and let me assure you, they suffer for it every day.”

  I dug in my blue bag for a packet of tissues. “Thank you,” Sally said, her voice high and wobbly, and blew her nose. Eight-point-oh on the Richter scale, as my sister says of my sneezes.

  “You asked what I wanted from Iggy. What I wanted was”—another honk into the tissues—“what she couldn’t give me. I wanted my own family back. My parents and my brother. My daughter and my grandchildren, both of them. We were the only family she had left. She should have wanted me to have her things.”

  I scooted my chair closer and leaned forward, elbows on my knees.

  “Isn’t the point of family to help one another pursue our dreams? She knew you’re fine. You have a thriving shop, a lovely home, and most important, your daughter and granddaughter. And the memory of your grandson. Iggy made a life of art, and of helping other artists. She wanted to help Christine fulfill her dreams, giving her a home and financial security. And Christine was planning to continue that legacy.”

  “But then she left it all to Nick.”

  Who felt the burden. “If there are any special pieces—furniture that was in the family, knickknacks you want, I can talk to him.”

  The door opened and two couples dressed for a day of outdoor fun came in. I stood, realizing I’d abandoned a latte somewhere. Wendy handed me a white bag and a hot paper cup. “I made you a fresh one. Scat before she revs up again.”

  * * *

  “I can see the headlines, now,” I said. “MURDER SUSPECT KIDNAPS SISTER, FEEDS HER TO WOLVES.”

  A smile played at the corner of Nick’s mouth, a tiny dimple creasing his cheek. I had a good view of the right side of his face from the passenger seat of his Jeep. To be fair, when he dragged me out to the parking lot behind the Merc, he stopped long enough to grab my boots and snowshoes from my car. And he let me bring my breakfast.

  “I want you to see what I’ve been working on. What I’m protecting.” He turned at Mountain View and a muscle in his jaw twitched and his throat swelled, skin pale under his winter wind-tan, as we drove past the church and cottage. “So you know what’s at stake before you decide to blurt out m
y secrets to Ike Hoover.”

  “You don’t think Ike can keep the wolf pack confidential? That he won’t think it matters?”

  His knuckles whitened on the wheel. “I don’t know what matters to Ike Hoover.”

  The anniversary was approaching, and I wasn’t the only Murphy feeling it. Feeling Ike Hoover’s fifteen-year-old failure hanging over us.

  We drove south in silence, then east onto Rainbow Lake Road. Past Phyl and Jo’s place. Left at the swimming hole, onto a snow-covered logging trail that made me glad I’d stopped when I did Tuesday. Kathy’s Honda would have high-centered fifty feet in. Above the road, on a snow-covered ridge, stood a weathered log cabin, smoke rising from its stone chimney, a pickup beside it. I craned my neck to peer past Nick at a hand-painted sign, barely visible above a snow drift: REDAWAY LANE.

  “Why keep it a secret?” My tone sounded childish, pouty, even to my ears.

  “You need to understand what’s going on here, Erin.”

  “Oh, I understand. I understand that you’re more worried about a pair of wolves than you are about yourself. That after everything your mother has been through, including being accused of murder and losing her husband to a killer who’s still on the loose, you’d rather be accused yourself than breathe a word about wolves in the neighborhood. You weren’t around last summer when the fingers were pointing at her, but let me tell you, it was no romp in the woods. I understand that for all your talk about scientific integrity, you’re willing to ignore your obligation under the law—you told me yourself that reporting wolf sightings is mandatory. Why? So you can write a journal article ten people will read, and promote your pet theories about—what do you call it? Trophic cascades and how wolves bring back the willows and warblers? I don’t care about trophic cascades, Nick. I care about you.”

  The shoulder belt locked against my chest and flung me backward as Nick stomped on the brake. My head bounced off the neck rest and my shin struck a sharp edge beneath the dashboard. I managed to hold on to my latte, but cold coffee trickled down my bare hand.