Butter Off Dead

by Leslie Budewitz

  “And get four instead of three, like I did.” Kim cradled one elbow, her other hand clutching her lapel.

  “That’s why you offered to buy the car,” Kyle said.

  “Waaaait a second,” Ike said. “What do you mean, he tried to stop the Film Festival?”

  “Uh, Sheriff.” Dylan cleared his throat. “I—we didn’t report what we saw because we felt like idiots and we thought we’d get in trouble. But he—Danny? He was the guy hanging around here Wednesday afternoon.” Dylan explained that he and Zayda had chatted with Danny in the alley, when they delivered the programs, display boards, and other Festival supplies. Danny offered to help; they declined. He peppered them with questions about their documentary.

  Zayda’s turn. “We tried to be polite and listen and stuff, but it was weird. Like why would this guy who didn’t know any of us care? But he quizzed us about the cars and which ones made the final cut. Said he was an old carhead and the GTO he was trying to buy might be in the movie.”

  “But we screwed up,” Dylan said. “We left a brick—not exactly a brick. What do you call ’em? From the pile by the back door?”

  “Pavers.” Kim and I spoke at the same time.

  “Right. I jammed a paver in the door to hold it open, while we were going in and out, but we got distracted.” He blushed, broadcasting what the distraction had been. “He must have snuck in and slashed the screen.”

  “What time?” I said.

  Zayda punched her phone. “It was right after my mom called. Three forty-seven.”

  “That fits when I saw him in the alley,” I said, remembering the red-faced man in the blue parka puffing up the hill.

  “Back up. Explain what happened to the screen,” Ike said, and Dylan explained. “You messed up the plumbing, too?” Ike asked, and Danny nodded.

  “That’s why you tried to buy my car,” Kyle said to Danny. “So you could get rid of it. And no one would ever know.”

  “But why come back tonight?” I said to Danny, although it probably violated a million rules to interrogate a suspect directly. The rules no longer mattered to me.

  “Like you said. To stop them from showing their film.”

  “But it aired last night.” He’d seen the old schedule taped to the door, not knowing we’d moved the documentary up a night.

  I have never seen one of those giant Snoopy and Superman balloons that fly in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. But if one of them snagged on the Empire State Building and sprung a leak, and deflated all over Fifth Avenue—in my mind’s eye, that’s how Danny Davis looked as he realized the futility of all he had done to save his sorry hide.

  Ike opened the door and called to the deputies. “Take Mr. Davis to Pondera and book him on felony mischief, three counts, and assault on young Mr. Washington. I’ll file the negligent homicide report myself. It will give me great satisfaction. Ask dispatch to send over the crime scene crew.”

  They nodded and hauled their prisoner out.

  Ike turned back to the rest of us, one burden visibly lifted, another descending like night. A serious case of the shivers gripped me.

  Kim looked like a good horse rode hard and put away wet.

  “I expect the crime scene is a mess, with everyone who’s been on and off that stage.” Ike threw a sharp look at the kids and me. “We’ll do the best we can, for the courts. But no reason to alarm the public. As long as nobody goes back stage, we can wait until the movie ends.”

  After all Christine’s work and mine, I’d completely forgotten about the movie.

  • Thirty •

  Ike also wanted to wait until after the movie to share the news of Danny’s arrest and confession with my family.

  “No,” I said. “No more secrets. No more protecting people by holding back the truth, even for an hour.”

  And so I’d crept into the darkened theater and come out with Fresca and Bill, Chiara and Jason, and Nick. And Adam.

  Worry clouded my mother’s lovely features. “Darling, are you all right? Who was that awful man?”

  “Fresca,” Ike said, taking command, “we’ve made an arrest.”

  “In the murder?” Nick said, and Chiara wrapped an arm around him. “Justice for Christine?”

  “No.” Ike’s low, gravelly voice broke. “In Tom’s death. Justice for Tom, finally.”

  All eyes focused on Fresca. Not until I sensed the warmth of Adam’s presence behind me did I realize I’d been holding my breath. We all had. For fifteen years.

  Ike relayed the sordid tale. How Danny Davis had snuck Kyle’s beloved sports car out for a spin, lost control on the ice, and struck my father’s car. Sent it careening into the bridge, the impact slamming the driver’s side into the rail, killing a good man all but instantly. “He was driving too fast, of course. It was negligence, not deliberate, but still homicide.”

  His words sank in. Fresca extended her arms and enveloped the three of us.

  “I never knew, Fresca,” Kyle said. “I swear. He told me he’d taken the car earlier in the day. Not that night, or I might have guessed. He said he’d hit a tree and offered to help me fix the damage, but boot camp started two days after the funeral . . .”

  “It’s all right, Kyle.” Her soft, firm voice filled the silence between us all. “I don’t blame you.”

  “Blame me, Fresca,” Kim said. “I heard the crash. I saw the car speeding away. I didn’t see the driver. I—I assumed it was Kyle. If I’d only spoken up, the truth might have come out years ago.”

  Fresca extended a long, manicured hand and Kim gripped it like a lifeline, until Kyle drew her to him and held her tight. I had never seen my old friend cry, not even at my father’s funeral. I touched her shoulder and kissed her damp cheek.

  At the sounds of moviegoers outside the ticket office, I sprung to life. Acting “as if,” I summoned the strength and mustered the muscle to go thank the villagers, my friends and neighbors, for coming out.

  “Wonderful. Just wonderful,” said a villager. “I adore Paris!”

  “When are we making Julia Child’s boeuf bourguignon?” Rob Burns asked his wife, the former Bunny Easter.

  “Sunday,” Bunny replied, “if you’re chopping onions.”

  “This was perfect.” Donna Lawson clapped her hands together in front of her chin, her dark eyes shining behind her glasses. “I can hardly wait for next year.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it,” Heidi said, extending a hand. Behind her, Reg beamed. “I’ve seen Julie and Julia half a dozen times, and it always makes me happy. Such fun to go out to the movies for a change. But where did you all disappear to?”

  A long sigh, my “acting as if” smile slipping slightly. “Long story. We’ll fill you in later.”

  But not until the lobby was empty and the deputies toting black cases of crime scene gear had commandeered the stage did I remember that for all the revelations, for all the relief, we were no closer to the truth about Christine.

  * * *

  Thank the stars for Wendy, pain au chocolat, and double espresso. I could not have powered through Saturday morning at the Merc without them.

  I love hearing “good job,” “can’t wait for tonight,” and “what a great idea” as much as anyone, but after last night’s emotional reeling, my eyes stung and my feet dragged, weighted down as if by lead.

  Or feedbags full of popcorn.

  Turned out our little “just for us townies” celebration had tempted visitors from all around the valley and beyond to venture out, despite the weather. “Oh, we just love Jewel Bay,” went the refrain. “You throw the best parties.”

  Killer parties.

  The door chime rang all morning, keeping Tracy and me hopping. We boxed chocolates, bagged soaps and lotions, offered tastes of wild chokecherry jelly. Sold oodles of linguine, tomato sauce, and artichoke pesto. More than a few customers brought in e
mpty baskets and left with them full of carrots, onions, and squash from Rainbow Lake Garden, buffalo jerky, and creamy goat cheese. And popcorn and seasonings.

  At noon, Rick brought Tracy lunch and a Bozo report. He offered to get a bite for me, but a break would do me good. “You stay. Serve popcorn, chat up your products,” I said. Tracy shone in his presence and he shimmered like wheat ripening in an August sunset breeze.

  I grabbed the festival notebook, planning to take one last gander at Christine’s notes, flipping the pages as I walked.

  Criminy.

  Outside, my thick sky blue fleece was not quite warm enough. Hard to believe that a few short months ago, it had been summer. Christine and Iggy had shared a booth at the Art Fair, right in front of our store. Christine’s painting hung upstairs in my office, a forever memento.

  How would I remember Iggy?

  Eyes closed, I raised my face to the sun. “Auntie,” I heard and opened my eyes. Landon stood on top of the snow berm in front of the gallery, Superman cape flung over his winter jacket.

  I crossed the street and scooped him up, his breath as sweet as the feel of his arms around my neck.

  “You’re sad, too,” he said, with the perceptiveness of the very old and the very young.

  I set him on the sidewalk and crouched in front of him.

  “Mommy’s sad,” he said, voice and face solemn. “She and Daddy talked all night. She cried. They don’t know I saw them. Is it because of Christine?”

  I swallowed hard. How to balance honesty with my sister’s right to determine how much he knew? “Partly. But mostly, it’s about your grandpa. Your mommy’s dad, and mine, whom you never knew.”

  Round eyes stared at me. “He died. A long time ago.”

  “Yes. And we got some news last night about it, and it made us sad, for now. But we’ll feel better because we know.” How much he understood, I could only guess.

  “Let’s get a cookie,” he said. “And we’ll feel better now.”

  No contesting that logic. I poked my head in the gallery to tell Chiara where we were going. In Le Panier, we ordered cookies and a glass of milk, and a portobello panino. We ate at a mosaic-topped café table, Landon’s legs swinging as he told me all the goings-on at kindergarten.

  “And Mommy says she’s going to keep my painting forever, as part of her collection, so when I’m a famous artist, she can sell it and retire on the profits. Auntie, what are profits?”

  Two teenagers, deep in conversation, charged up the sidewalk across the street.

  “Landon, we need to go.” I hastily rewrapped the uneaten half of the sandwich.

  “But I wasn’t done telling you about school.”

  “Sorry, little guy. Make it up to you later.” I deposited him at the gallery, and took off for the Playhouse.

  * * *

  “The first movie starts in an hour,” I told Zayda. “We can get out there and back and he won’t know a thing. Tell him your mom had an emergency at the Inn and you had to go help.”

  “If we get caught—”

  “Then we have to make sure we don’t.” Brave words. But I finally knew what had happened to Christine, and I couldn’t prove it without Zayda.

  “Your mom says competition for film school is stiff. You need a reference from him. But he wouldn’t give you a good one unless you helped him, would he?” I steered the Subaru onto the highway. My young passenger’s cheeks flushed and she squeezed one hand with the other. Bingo. “Unless you let him into Christine’s studio.”

  “He said he needed to talk to her, that he would just go in with me. But then he made me leave, shoved me out. Locked me out. I swear, I never thought he’d hurt her. Or steal anything.”

  So that was how she’d lost the telltale eyebrow ring. And that was “the job” Larry had referred to last week, when I’d overheard her talking to him.

  “He said he’d make sure every application I made got scuttled. That I wouldn’t get a janitor’s job at a film studio if I didn’t help him. What will happen when he finds out I double-crossed him?”

  I turned up the Jewel Basin Road. “He’s a killer, Zayda. And you can make sure he’s punished.”

  Her jaw quivered and she bit her lower lip, stilling it.

  “Look in the notebook. In the very back,” I told her. At an old lady’s handwritten partial inventory. Had Christine put it there so she could talk to Larry about the items he wanted? The items he’d hounded Iggy for.

  Had killed Christine for.

  “Ohmygod,” Zayda said, bent over the pages. “Hey, you missed the driveway.”

  Another long drive ran parallel to Larry’s. It hadn’t been plowed in weeks, the owners no doubt sipping gin and tonics in a golf course condo on Kauai. I parked the Subaru heading out, for a quick getaway. We’d slip over the property line, in and out like thieves in the night.

  Or like what we were: thieves in the broad daylight.

  Zayda punched in the security code. Squinting, clenching my teeth, I waited for the alarm to blare in our ears. But all was silent. You’d think a smart guy would know better than to let a smart kid watch when he disarmed his fancy system.

  “Downstairs,” she said, and I followed, gloved hand on the rail, feet slow, as I took in the splendor of what Larry called his “little log home.”

  “Hurry,” she urged. But how could I hurry past this glory? An oil painting of two young Indian men, one holding a pipe, the other a drum. J. H. Sharp. Seriously? Joseph Henry Sharp?

  “C’mon,” Zayda said, rushing past glass-front cabinets chock-full of railroad china, antique firearms, beaded moccasins, and more. I didn’t dare dawdle.

  Zayda charged down a hallway lined with 1950s Great Northern Railroad calendars and stopped in front of a wood-paneled door, an electronic keypad beside the frame. “In here. I saw them Thursday, when I came out to beg him for the reference.” She punched in a code and nothing happened.

  Tried a second time. Nothing.

  The oxygen seemed to have gone out of the air. “Breathe,” I told her. “Three times, slowly.”

  Charmed on the third try, the lock clicked and the brass doorknob turned. We stepped into another world.

  The past is a foreign country, the saying goes. And so, apparently, is the heart of the rabid collector.

  In pride of place on the nearest wall hung a beaded cradleboard, an object I’d only seen in museums. Next to it, a beaded sash, more moccasins, a knife sheath. Quillwork? A glass-front bookcase held antique pistols. In another, I recognized two Russell bronzes. On the other shelves, more bronzes depicted Blackfeet Indians and rodeo cowboys.

  In the corner, a well-worn brown leather chair, brass trimmed, sat next to a brass floor lamp, the paper-thin hide shade painted with red and yellow primitive figures. Behind it hung the brass gong Adam had mentioned.

  Ah. Another Asian piece from the Russell house? Was that the piece Iggy had sold, to her regret?

  Larry Abrams’s private office. The one where he kept his finest treasures.

  Zayda stood before an oak rolltop desk. Slowly, she breathed in and out three times, then slid open the tambour top—an S-curve, the rarest kind—exposing tiny drawers with brass pulls, open cubbies, and letter slots, even a pair of pencil rests. Wearing her gloves—good girl—she slid open a drawer and withdrew a chop with a lion’s head and a packet of letters, yellowed by age and tied with a thin scarlet ribbon.

  “Letters Charlie Russell wrote to David Ring when he was a boy,” she said. “And Christmas cards from his protégé to David and Iggy. She wouldn’t sell them, and neither would Christine.”

  I scanned the room, one wall, then the next, and the next. “Is it all stolen? Is this—ohmygod. Is this why he sits on the boards of all those little museums and historical centers all across the state? He donates minor items and everyone praises him as a great patron of smal
l-town culture, but he’s using them to get access—”

  “Hush!” Zayda whispered. “He’s here. We have to get out.”

  We scurried back down the hallway, pausing every few feet to listen. “We’ll sneak through the main gallery and out the back,” she said. “What if he’s reset the alarm?”

  “Then run like stallions.”

  We almost made it. If antique rugs lay flat, we would have flown out the back door, across the snow-covered lawn, and into the woods. But Zayda’s clunky boots were no match for the Persian rug on the gallery’s smooth floor. She tripped and fell, face down, with a sickening thud, clutching the packet and the chop. The copy of Nick’s original, valuable in its own right.

  “Stop right there.”

  My fingers grazing the door handle, I froze at Larry’s command. Turned slowly at the snick of the hammer being drawn back on the ancient black pistol in his hand. Single shot? How good was his aim? Dare I chance it?

  The heavy boots on his feet caught my eye, and I knew they’d match the treads found in the cottage and the woods.

  On the floor, Zayda groaned. Rolled over, clutching her leg. “My ankle. It’s broken.” She tried to sit, touched her heel to the floor, and screamed.

  Larry let his gun arm drop as he focused on the girl, writhing in pain. I grabbed a framed piece from an easel near the door. Barbara Stanwyck gripped Ronald Reagan’s arm as I brought the poster for The Cattle Queen of Montana down on Larry Abrams’s skull.

  • Thirty-one •

  “Not that I don’t appreciate you solving crimes for us, Erin,” Ike said dryly after his deputies hauled Larry off to jail, “but I do wish you’d call me before following up on your brilliant ideas.”

  “Would you have believed me? Or Zayda? That a respected member of the community—big shot, Art Center board member, Hollywood zillionaire—was a killer and a thief? That he blackmailed a teenager into doing his dirty work and nearly got away with it?”