Butter Off Dead

by Leslie Budewitz

She let out a long sigh and gave me back the bottle. One swallow left. I drained it. The cool bubbles slid down my throat, a reminder that sweetness and light live on, even when the night seems so dark.

  “About Zayda, no clue. But about Nick—no one was hiding anything from you, Erin.”

  I leaned forward, gripping the now-empty bottle in both hands. “You thought you were protecting me back then, and I get it. I was a kid. But I haven’t been a kid for a long time. I don’t want protecting. I want honesty.”

  “It’s not that simple, or that complicated.” She hugged herself, the white gardenia bobbing. “After a couple of days, Mom sent you back to school. The three of us were at the house, making funeral plans, when Ike came out. I can still picture him. Fifteen years younger, but Ike never changes. They worked ’round the clock, but they had nothing. No witnesses. All that ice and snow meant no marks on the road and no decent tire tracks. What the ambulance and tow truck didn’t destroy, the weather did.” She traveled back in time, remembering. “All they had to go on was the angle of how he hit the guardrail, and a paint smear on the front left side of his car. They sent it to the state lab for analysis, but they didn’t have any results yet.

  “Ike wondered out loud about other explanations. What if there hadn’t been a second car? Might Dad have lost control and slammed into the guardrail himself? Could the impact have spun him around? Ice and snow are unpredictable.

  “Nick came unglued. Mom and I had to talk him down. But he got over it. At least, I thought he did.”

  But the memory of Nick’s explosion had triggered Ike’s doubts about my brother’s temper.

  “So, no hiding. No covering up. Just no reason to tell you about a brief, embarrassing blowup. The tests on the paint samples came back later, but it was an after-market paint, and they never identified the car. Not as far as I know, anyway.” She wrapped an arm around me and brought her face close to mine. It was like looking in a mirror that reflected a different world. “Maybe we do sometimes forget you’re grown-up now. But you are who you always thought you were, Erin. You’re smart, and determined, and loyal.”

  I sniffed back tears. “You make me sound like Sparky the Border collie.” Our childhood dog. Technically Mom’s—a birthday present, quickly given one of Dad’s many nicknames for her.

  “Well, you are a little bossy, like Sparky. Like all the Murphy women. You are my best friend as well as my favorite sister—”

  “Your only sister. Don’t try to sweet-talk me out of being mad.” I rubbed my left eye.

  “Whatever it takes. Hey, I understand how you feel. Christine’s death has Nick all nervy and on edge, and the past came roaring out of the blue. But now I’m a mother myself, so listen to me: Protecting one another is what family does. We don’t always get it right, but it’s part of the job.”

  I leaned in and held her tight.

  * * *

  Back in the Merc, I plucked an éclair out of the box of leftovers Wendy had given me. Changed my boots, scooped up my bag and iPad, and headed home.

  Nine o’clock. The sky had cleared, and stars pierced the dark chill as if God had flicked on the high beams. I zipped my coat, parked at the cabin, and wrapped the scarf around my neck twice. Grabbed the Maglite from the glove box and strolled down to the shore.

  As caretaker, I’ve got full run of the place. Super-sweet in summer, when the lake sparkles, the gravel beach perfect for swimming, kayaking, or just sitting. Bob and Liz are fabulous hosts and between deck, sloping yard, dock, and beach, their parties rock. The forest is special in summer, too, its many-greened canopy dappling the fragrant duff with sun and shadow.

  But winter casts its own magic spell. On sunny days after a storm, the bluebird sky defies description. Defies any mood, too—it’s nearly impossible not to tilt your head back for the sun’s kiss.

  Avoiding the icy drive, I trod the wooded path, feet snug in my hiking boots. Stood on the shore and gazed up, opening my arms and twirling like Landon in his Superman cape. It’s good to have a five-year-old in your life, for inspiration.

  His mother had given me much to think about. I brushed snow off a stone bench and perched, gloved hands in my pockets.

  What a mess. Despite my caution to Larry, the screen damage did worry me. A string of unrelated crimes seemed unlikely. No question in my mind that the murder and break-in were related. But the evidence—as I knew it, and if I included motive, again as I knew it—appeared to rule out both Sally Grimes and Jack Frost. A week ago, I’d have cheerfully blamed either one of them. And while I was even less fond of Frost after he’d waved a gun in my general direction, I realized that in assuming I knew all about Sally, I had missed the most crucial things about her. What drove her—good and bad.

  And I’d nearly missed her alibi.

  How did the screen damage fit in? Danny Davis’s presence in the alley was odd, but could be an innocent coincidence.

  My breath formed puffy white clouds in the air. Across the lake, a band of lights shimmered where houses huddled near the shore.

  I understood why Ike had zeroed in on Nick. By lying about where he’d been, my brother had made himself easy to doubt. The fingerprint report on the murder weapon raised more questions. And the history—Ike’s perception of him as a hothead—formed a trifecta of suspicion.

  Ike Hoover perceived Nick as a man with a temper, and took that as a sign that he was capable of killing in the heat of the moment. Nick’s theory that the attacker had turned on Christine—with the gun Nick gave her—reinforced Ike’s suspicions: Nick could have been that attacker.

  In reality, Nick was mostly calm and collected. Stubborn. Determined.

  A Murphy.

  But he was also a man capable of sitting long hours in a hollowed-out snow cave, hidden by branches, waiting for four-legged predators to stroll by. If he wanted to kill—if he wanted the inheritance, as Sally had suggested—he’d have planned it.

  How could I get Ike to understand that Nick wasn’t a wild-eyed lunatic, just a man raw with grief? And that Christine’s murder had not been planned. I suspected that the killer had intended a theft, and gotten a shooting. I was beginning to appreciate that a good cop has to be a good psychologist, too. Difference is, he—or she—has to use what they learn to solve crimes, not personal problems.

  These crimes had become mighty personal for my family.

  Icy waters lapped the lakeshore. While some evidence pointed to Nick, other evidence ruled him out. Perplexing as that was, the same could be said for Zayda, the final suspect on my list. She’d been fingerprinted the same time as Nick—the unidentified prints were not hers.

  I closed my eyes, listening to the waves. Instead, images of Christine filled my mind: At the Art Fair in August, laughing as I chose a painting. Last Friday, leaning over the pool table to take a shot, laughing up at Nick when she missed. Plucking a french fry from the basket.

  Glowering at Jack Frost. Bleeding on her studio floor.

  Pain stabbed the back of my throat. I swallowed, with difficulty, but it wouldn’t go away.

  Criminy. What a week. What if I was on the wrong track, thinking the break-in and murder were related? The damaged projection screen suggested that someone wanted to stop the Festival. Which meant that Iggy’s art collection—now Nick’s, via Christine—had nothing to do with anything.

  The screen slashing might be simple vandalism. I just didn’t know yet.

  No. That was too much coincidence.

  With one last look at the night sky, reflected in the waves as if in a broken mirror, I pushed myself up and headed back up the trail.

  Was I on the wrong track in another way, too? Believing I needed to investigate all these events, and believing that the right man—any man fool enough to love me—would go along?

  I reached in my pocket for my phone. Then it rang. I smiled up at the sky, guessing the caller even before
seeing the name.

  Too much coincidence.

  “I’ve been asking too much of you,” I said. “I do stuff that worries the people who care about me, and then I don’t want to hear about it. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Adam said. “I blew it the other night. I got upset by things that had nothing to do with you, and let my protective side go into overdrive.”

  My cabin beckoned. “The stars are gorgeous and I miss you. But Adam, I need you to understand that this—this drive to investigate, to solve the problems that threaten people I care about, that threaten this village—it’s part of who I am.”

  “I know.” The gentleness in his voice enveloped me. “I meant what I said the other night: I love that you use your head to follow your heart. If I’m ever in trouble, I want you on my side.”

  He paused and I wanted so badly to put words in his mouth.

  “I love you, Erin. That means I worry about you, and I want to keep you safe. But more than that, I want you to follow your passions.”

  Took the words right out of my mouth.

  Not until later, after we said good night, after the cats had staked out positions on opposite sides of the living room, glaring at each other and at me, while I sat in the chocolate brown chair, the Spreadsheet of Suspicion open on my lap. Not until then did I remember something he’d said once that might be the push I needed to solve this case.

  “You know us fanatics,” he’d said. “Whether it’s painters or cooks or backcountry skiers. We’ll do nearly anything for that high.”

  The same logic applies to collectors—and investigators.

  • Twenty-eight •

  I marched straight through the Merc and out the front door, greeted by the rumbling engine of the utility truck parked in the alley next to the Playhouse. Few things justify disturbing a peaceful Friday morning in the village, but emergency sewer repairs definitely qualify.

  A man in a heavy tan coverall with a county patch on the breast pocket rewound a thick cable on a spool on the back of the truck. Farther down the hill stood a plumbing company van.

  “Hey, there. What’s the news?” I shouted over the noise.

  “Some idiot stuffed part of a theater curtain down the backstage toilet. In the actors’ restroom, where nobody saw it. Backed up all the plumbing in the building and messed up the sewer lines.”

  “On purpose? So they aren’t frozen after all?” Relief rushed through me. “I’m running the Film Festival this weekend. Will we have working toilets tonight?”

  “If I have anything to say about it.” He pushed a big square button on the side of the truck and the crank rewinding the snake stopped.

  “Thanks.” I waved. He raised a gloved hand in acknowledgment. Silently, I blessed the plumbers, electricians, heavy-equipment operators, and other hardworking men and women who keep some semblance of order in our crazy world.

  I shivered, and not just from the twenty-degree morning air. If the utility operator was right, the sewer line had been damaged intentionally. Sabotage—ugly word.

  Last night I’d made an act of dismissing Larry’s comment about vandalism, to keep Kim off our tail. I’d only said maybe the plugged toilets were a prank because, from where I stood, I could see the blocked-off restroom doors. I’d had no reason to think the sewer lines had been damaged intentionally.

  Apparently, I can think like a criminal when circumstances warrant.

  But not well enough. Try as I might, I could see no connection between the rack and ruin at the Playhouse and the death and destruction at Christine’s.

  Best not to contemplate such things on an empty stomach. I headed up Front Street to the Jewel Inn. Mimi pointed to a table and mouthed “Be right with you.” A waitress brought two steaming mugs and I ordered quiche Lorraine to go.

  “Zayda did a great job last night,” I said a minute or two later. “Both as MC and as narrator of the film.”

  Mimi’s wan smile stopped short of her blue eyes. “The kid’s nuts about movies. She’s been sweating over her film school applications for ages. I just hope this whole fiasco doesn’t throw her off stride.”

  Murder is more than a fiasco. But it’s not an easy word to say.

  “She back in class? Routine helps, but kids can be cruel. Unintentionally, but . . .” As I remembered so well.

  “She went back Wednesday. My day off, so the kids and I had breakfast together at home. She and T.J. argued over who would drive, so I solved the problem by dropping them off myself.”

  I smiled. With a teacher dad, driving to school had rarely been an option, unless one of us had practice or a late rehearsal. Like the night he died.

  “She told me about the damage to the screen. Erin, what is going on?”

  “Don’t know.” The heat from the coffee had not yet thawed my suspicions. When the cats and I had studied the Spreadsheet last night, Sandburg wondered if one of the kids had tried to sabotage the screening, out of resentment or feeling overshadowed by the others. Trying to connect the Playhouse vandalism to Christine’s murder and break-in, Pumpkin favored an outsider theory. Why, none of us had a clue.

  “Mimi, something weird happened yesterday. Besides the damage to the screen and the sewer lines.” I briefed her on my conversation with the utility operator, then told her about running into Zayda—almost literally—out by Jewel Basin.

  She fell back in her chair, both hands to her mouth. “Larry? Did he—do you think he—?”

  “No idea. It’s possible, though I’ve never heard any rumors about him behaving inappropriately toward students. Why would she have gone out there?”

  Mimi shook her head, eyes wide. “This whole thing is so bizarre. She won’t talk about any of it, and that’s not like her. She’s a great kid, so responsible. Yesterday, a couple of kids made shooting gestures at her in the hall, miming the hanging rope. Laughing like it’s all a big joke. Had her in tears. She’s never held a gun in her life.”

  Nick had seen Dylan with a girl at the shooting range, teaching her to shoot. They could corroborate Nick’s testimony about taking Christine to the range. Still not proof, but consistent with his claim that he had given her his gun.

  Did their trip to the range mean anything else?

  “Mmm. If I get a chance, do you want me to ask Larry why she was out at his house? Subtly. Or talk to Deputy Caldwell?”

  She paled, no doubt at the prospect of giving Kim more reasons to look closely at Zayda. “Let me talk to Tony first.” She stood and picked up our mugs. “Merchants’ Association meetings start March first. Breakfast, here. And I talked with another prospect for the teahouse.”

  I knew the man she named, a grocery deli employee. Dorky guy, nice enough, but hard to imagine him rocking the village vibe. “Great. Hey, one more thing. I need a home for Christine’s cat. Cute cat. Great with people and other animals.” Fibber.

  But Mimi was already halfway to the kitchen. “Full house. Two kids, two dogs, a lizard, and a hamster.”

  The waitress emerged carrying my breakfast in a box. As I pulled on my coat, the antelope mount above the hostess stand appeared to be watching me. Ready for Mardi Gras, in his beads and Groucho Marx glasses.

  “You get any brilliant ideas, party boy,” I said, “give me a call.”

  * * *

  “What is all this and where is it going?” Tracy whipped toward me the second I crossed the threshold, her beaded kitty cat earrings swinging madly.

  “Oh, geez. I wasn’t expecting you until next week,” I told the delivery man. He’d already off-loaded one huge packing crate, another strapped to his orange metal hand truck. My fingers flew to my hair as if of their own free will. “We haven’t cleared space—can they go right here for now? Move that display case and the table like so?” I pointed, he nodded, and Tracy’s gaze swung between us.

  “But what are they for?” she s
aid.

  “The antique red hutch is for our tea and drink line. This—see the temperature controls?” I pointed as the delivery man cut down the cardboard box, revealing a sleek commercial glass-front case, slightly used but good as new. “This is for Tracy’s Truffles. You’ve outgrown that countertop display.”

  Tracy stared, mouth open, fingers entwined in her long black skirt.

  “I don’t want you to leave, Trace. If you decide to open your own shop, I’ll be your biggest fan. But you are part of the Merc. I want you to stay, even if it means hiring someone to work the floor so you have more time in the kitchen. Please. Weird truffles and all.”

  Her right earring caught the light from the white ceiling pendants. “You have to admit, those chamomile-bee pollen chocolates are pretty tasty.”

  The delivery man wrinkled his nose. We laughed, and she threw her arms around me. “Erin, this is exactly what I wanted. I knew when I saw how willing you were to help Luci. It will be a big change—huge—but you always say in business, the name of the game is change.”

  “And give the customers what they want.” I gestured toward the artisan truffles in their too-small case. Tracy chimed in, and we recited in unison: “And what they don’t know they want—yet.”

  We spent the next hour juggling inventory and hatching plans for Tracy’s new products. And sharing theories about the vandalism.

  “The Playhouse Affair,” I said. “Sounds like a bad movie from the 1940s. It’s got to be related to what happened at Christine’s. Otherwise, too much coincidence. But I don’t see how.”

  Tracy wiped the last packing dust off the red hutch. “Coincidence is when other people don’t tell you their plans.”

  I paused, mid-sweep. “That’s brilliant.”

  “I read it on a tea bag.”

  The front door opened as I bent over, snorting with laughter.

  “This looks like a fun place,” the customer said.

  Running the credit card on her purchases twenty minutes later—now that was fun.

  “Don’t forget the dog treats,” I reminded Tracy during a burst of enthusiasm over lemongrass ginger truffles and chai sipping chocolate. “Remember that woman who called from Calgary about your gluten-free dog cookies? When the website’s up to speed, those will be best-sellers.”