Butter Off Dead

by Leslie Budewitz

  While the uninjured Zayda—her theater talents were not all behind the scenes—trained Larry’s gun on him, I’d called 911. Then I’d quizzed our would-be captor as he sobbed, not for killing Christine, but for the loss of his movie poster. The poster from the sole movie he could recall his father ever taking him to see.

  “His Rosebud,” Zayda now explained. “Like Orson Welles’s character in Citizen Kane.” Larry’s entire career—all the movies he had helped make, in more than forty years in the industry—and all his collections circled back to that childhood love of Westerns, spurred by the memory of a single afternoon in a Brooklyn theater called the Bijou.

  He hadn’t meant to kill her. But when he slipped the stolen bounty into his pocket, she’d caught the movement reflected in the glass on a painting. She’d pulled out the gun Nick had given her. They’d struggled. It had gone off. The smeared prints told the story.

  “Rosebud. Now I guess I’ve heard everything.” Ike was obviously not as keen on movies as the teenager sitting next to me in Larry’s living room.

  The casual visitor would have been mightily impressed by the collected works of modern Western artists and twentieth-century masters. But only those few—fortunate or not—who visited the inner sanctum saw the real treasures. Like Adam and Zayda, they were awed but largely unaware of what they’d seen.

  Unable to brag about his stolen treasures, yet unable to keep them to himself, Larry couldn’t resist showing off. And, I realized, it was his fancy car—that big white Cadillac—that Jack Frost had seen at Christine’s.

  “You’ll need experts,” I told Ike. “To make a complete inventory, then compare it to lists of stolen objects from around the West. Some museums may not even know their items are missing, their own inventories and security systems are so inadequate.”

  “Why steal from Christine?” a detective new to the case asked. After Danny’s arrest last night, Ike had ordered Kim to take a few days off.

  “He knew she planned to give the bulk of Iggy’s collection to the Art Center, where he could see it, but not get his own hands on it,” I said. “If he took what he wanted before she knew what she had, there would be no trail. He didn’t know Iggy had left a partial inventory that listed the letters. After she died, he saw another opportunity. He ransacked the cottage to see what else he could find, but I scared him off.”

  “With no inventory, Christine could not have proven what he’d done,” Ike said. “Clever. Since she didn’t trust him, he used you, Ms. George, to worm his way into the church.”

  “He promised me no one would get hurt. He was my advisor. I trusted him. It was a mistake I will always regret.” The anxiety that had enveloped Zayda for the last week had vanished.

  She had, as the saying goes, collected herself.

  * * *

  Red-and-white bag of popcorn in hand—classic butter-and-salt flavoring, thank you very much—I dropped into the seat next to Kim. In the back row of the Playhouse, on the aisle, where we’d sat the other night during the documentary. Where we’d sat as kids, when we worked as ushers in the summer and watched aspiring professionals perform.

  “Saturday night at the movies.” I offered her popcorn. “I am not getting up until this Festival ends.”

  Even in the dim light, I could see Kim smile. She wore jeans and boots, and a classic cowgirl shirt with pearl snaps. She’d lost the pastiness brought on by last night’s shock, but she needed a good dose of sunshine.

  By mid-February, most northwest Montana denizens resemble ghosts. And this had been a particularly brutal winter.

  “Can you believe I’ve never seen Chocolat?” she said. “I work too much.”

  “Ten-four.”

  But before the movie came the last-minute high school production. The perky teacher-coach took the stage to cheers from the young in the crowd. Coaches. My chest tightened. The good ones linger long after they’re gone.

  First up, a girl I didn’t know read my piece on pie. “Pie, we love pie,” went the refrain and the audience repeated it with singsong delight. I felt myself grinning widely, a hand on my rumbling tummy. Then the red-haired girl gave a dramatic reading of a poem called “Making Tortillas.” I could almost feel the wet corn between my hands as she clapped, pressing grainy meal into “thin yellow moons . . . finding their shape.” Could almost feel the heat of the griddle, hear the grease sizzle, smell the tortilla cooking.

  As promised, the hit of the night was the coach’s surprise. Dana, the tall, skinny Film Club member I knew as Dylan and Zayda’s sidekick, had us splitting a gut as he re-created Dan Aykroyd’s famous Saturday Night Live skit, impersonating Julia Child.

  Laughter never felt so good.

  Also as promised, I stayed put during the brief intermission before the second feature. So did Kim. I spotted Adam with a friend on the other side of the theater and waved.

  When the crowd in the aisle thinned, Kim spoke, facing forward. “As a cop, I ought to lecture you on not telling me what you knew—or suspected—when Larry suggested that the damage to the screen had been deliberate vandalism. You deliberately steered me away. But as your friend, I get that you didn’t trust me. You haven’t trusted me for a long time. I hope someday, you’ll trust me again.”

  Not a promise I could make yet. Soon. I reached across the armrest and squeezed her hand. And noticed she wore the silver and black onyx bracelet I’d given her in high school.

  Long about the moment when Alfred Molina playing le Comte, the mayor determined to drive the passionate, sensuous Vianne out of town, breaks into her shop and falls asleep after gorging himself on forbidden chocolate, understanding struck. For most collectors—obsessives like Larry excepted—collecting grows out of passion. Whether sparked by love and memory, like my mother’s fondness for handmade martini glasses or Kyle’s fervor for the GTO, it touches something deep inside. Something good—beauty, excellence, devotion.

  Even preservation, as Larry had so fervently argued Thursday night before the documentary aired.

  I lack the drive to collect. But my own passions—for food and family, retail, and this village—fill the same yearning.

  And they never need dusting.

  * * *

  I did leave my seat at the end of the movie, to pass out chocolate hearts wrapped in red foil for all and red roses for the women—valentines, courtesy of Tracy and the florist. Kim lent a hand, in what seemed like a genuine show of community spirit.

  Afterward, she told me the rest of the story. “In our neighborhood canvass around Christine’s place, we finally developed enough evidence to establish what we’ve long suspected: Jack Frost was running a major grow operation on his property. The Northwest Montana Drug Task Force executed a raid this afternoon and took Jack into custody. His wife’s away, but they’ll get her, too.”

  I let out a low whistle. “The tension between him and Christine?”

  Kim nodded. “She reported her concerns to us several weeks ago. She and a few neighbors started jotting down license plate numbers. We got those notes and ran down the owners. Put together a good case.”

  She hadn’t been free to tell me. The world can be so simple, and so complicated.

  “We also confirmed regular sightings of wolves down at the lake and of your brother driving by. J. D. Beckstead corroborated Nick’s story, as did others.

  “But we didn’t have a clue about Larry Abrams’s role in Christine’s death until you called us. We’d wondered about the art angle—the murder occurred in a painter and collector’s studio, after all—and your information about Russell made the connection a real possibility. But if you hadn’t figured out Zayda George’s role, and earned her trust . . .”

  “Earned it? I kidnapped her and cajoled her into breaking and entering. But thanks.” We embraced, awkwardly, and headed for the lobby. “Hey, do I get an honorary badge now?”

  “Maybe Landon w
ill lend you his Hank the Cowdog star.”

  * * *

  “Ohmygod. I can’t believe it. Did the earth stop spinning?”

  Adam peered over my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  I pointed. Sandburg and Pumpkin lay on the ottoman by the fireplace, curled around each other like a Halloween version of the yin and yang symbol.

  Sandburg opened an eye. Pumpkin mewed. Then both cats went back to sleep.

  Adam slid a small black box out of his pocket.

  “I didn’t get you anything,” I said. For years now, Valentine’s Day had been little more than a time to sell chocolates and Champagne so other people could celebrate.

  His dark curls danced. “Doesn’t matter. Open it.”

  Inside lay a fused-glass heart in shades of red on a black cord necklace.

  I raised my face for a kiss, sending a silent “thank you” to the plow crews who’d brought Mr. Right safely home to me.

  * * *

  Sunday afternoon. The Playhouse was packed for the final movie, Ratatouille, chosen for its family suitability. And because it’s one of my favorite movies ever, foodie or otherwise, and what’s the point of running a film festival if you can’t share your faves?

  Sunday dinner at the Orchard may be a family tradition, but we’re flexible when it comes to food and celebrations. After the final credits, the Murphys and friends joined the Georges, Washingtons, and other Film Club families for an Oscar dinner at the Jewel Inn. Their new chef wasn’t scheduled to arrive until April first—fingers crossed for that one—so Tony did the kitchen honors.

  And they were magnificent.

  Mimi handed me a huckleberry martini. One sip sold me. “To die for,” I said, then flushed purple as the berry.

  “I guess I’m glad you missed my call yesterday,” she said, “or we wouldn’t know who killed Christine, and my daughter might still be under suspicion.”

  “Sorry about that. I was too busy chasing down crime to check my messages.” I sipped, and snared a mushroom-goat cheese appetizer from Zayda’s tray as she made the rounds.

  “We met with the final tea shop prospect,” Mimi said. “The one from the grocery store.”

  The one I’d thought a waste of time to consider.

  “He’s perfect,” she continued. “He brought samples to the interview. Sweet and savory scones. Scrumptious sandwiches. Jewel-studded iced petit fours. The most gorgeous fruit plate. And of course, tea. He’s the one, Erin. He understands the village and he says he can open in the old tavern by May fifteenth.”

  After he power-washes the place with industrial-strength cleaners.

  The Inn’s front door opened, and my heart sped up as if it had just been injected directly with Italian roast.

  Sally Grimes, smiling tentatively. I had sent her sweetheart to jail, and she smiled at me. Behind her came Sage, and Nathan holding Olivia. The toddler’s calm eyes embraced everything, and her pink-and-purple dress had come straight from Puddle Jumpers.

  Sally extended a hand. “Erin, thanks to you and Zayda for putting an end to this nightmare. And thank you and your brother for showing me what family really means.”

  After a week that had me questioning at times how much I knew about family, her words left me speechless.

  “I understand now that Larry was using me to get at Iggy’s collection. I won’t pretend his betrayal didn’t hurt me, deeply. I’ve had a lot of betrayal in my life, and I let it blind me. I didn’t see that he was using my own anger—my anger with Iggy—to manipulate me.” Her eyes glistened, but her gaze didn’t waver.

  I opened my mouth but she held up a hand. “Nick came by last night. He brought—” She put her hand on her chest. “He brought the antique bassinet he found in the church basement. My great-great-grandfather made it. Olivia’s too big, but it’s perfect for her dolls and stuffed animals. Until there’s another baby in the family.”

  “The walnut secretary is yours whenever you want it,” Nick said, coming up beside me. “And you and Sage can come out and choose whatever you’d like from the family things.”

  Color me stunned.

  Sally took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s a wake-up call, is what it is. A chance to break the cycle of anger and betrayal that’s gripped my family for too long. I understand now that my daughter’s life is her own, not a chance for me to get a do-over. And I want to be in their lives. More than just sending cute baby clothes at Christmas and on Olivia’s birthday.”

  Careful not to spill my martini, I hugged her.

  I actually hugged Sally Grimes.

  Zayda and her brother T.J. circulated with trays of crab salad on cucumber slices and eggplant-tomato meatballs. We ate, sipped, mingled, and chatted—the perfect end to the Festival.

  That and knowing two men were in jail for a very long time. I glanced at my mother, still pale from the shock of finally learning who had killed my father. But she radiated a peacefulness that reached out and embraced us all. The peace of finally knowing.

  “That was generous,” I told Nick.

  “I don’t need those things, and they matter to her. The Russell items will go to the museum in Great Falls. I’m keeping the copy of the chop. The rest of Iggy’s collection will go to the Art Center. I’m counting on you to throw the party you promised. Sally agreed to fund the security upgrade. All she wanted was a little acknowledgment that she was part of the family.”

  That’s all most of us want. And when we’re kept in the dark—intentionally or not—we feel excluded. I’d learned to trust my heart on that one.

  “And she’ll support Christine’s plan to endow a scholarship for high school art, film, and drama students,” he continued. “Turning pain into a positive.”

  “What about the property?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. But if you want the cottage—” He glanced across the room at Adam, listening intently to Landon. “Your cabin’s pretty small.”

  The warmth crept up my throat. “Long as I don’t have to live next door to Jack Frost.”

  “Jack feared change.”

  “And that the cops would find out what he’s been growing back there.”

  “That, they have.” Nick’s grin reminded me of Adam’s. In some ways similar and in others very different, these two men of mine.

  “So you don’t think he hates wolves as much as he feared discovery?”

  “No, he hates them. They represent destruction of an old way of life, a life of being left alone, and flaunting society’s rules. Our laws.”

  “People are going to find out about your fledgling Rainbow Lake pack.”

  He nodded. “I’ve talked with the wildlife managers. Since it’s a breeding pair, they’re prepared to move them, if necessary.”

  “Good work. If I move in to the cottage, brother, I think I’ll find me an artist to sculpt a wolf out of salvaged auto parts.”

  He howled.

  Tony, in his white apron, emerged from the kitchen and tapped a glass with a spoon. Mimi whipped off the baseball cap he always wears while cooking, exposing his bald head. “Dinner in two shakes,” he said. “But first, a toast to the First Annual Jewel Bay Food Lovers’ Film Festival!”

  Cries of “hear, hear” and “cheers!” rose to the timbers.

  “‘First annual’ has a nice ring,” Bill said.

  I threw up my hands. “Don’t look at me. Besides, the Festival depends on the Film Club. Shouldn’t a decision wait for a new advisor?”

  “We’ve already talked to the drama coach,” Dylan said. “She’s in.”

  Before I took my seat, Landon asked me a question. “Auntie, what’s a poor mouse?”

  For the second time in a week, I sloshed my martini, and I swear, it was my first. But it’s hard to take seriously a question about mice from a five-year-old dressed like the Cat in the Hat. In honor of D
r. Seuss’s approaching birthday, Chiara had made him a tall red-and-white hat and an oversized bow tie, and drawn whiskers on his little cheeks.

  “At dinner at Noni’s,” he went on, “you said somebody was a poor mouse.”

  The light went on. He’d misheard my description of Sally as a poor-mouth. “That is what Sandburg and Pumpkin have been dreaming of all winter: A poor mouse to chase.”

  Satisfied, he ran off to sit between his father and his noni.

  “Good save,” Chiara said.

  “That outfit is adorable. You should make a line of children’s costumes.”

  “I’m learning from you, little sister. No products that aren’t consistent with the gallery’s mission.”

  “Sell them at Puddle Jumpers,” my inner imp said. “Sally would be thrilled.”

  My sister rolled her eyes. “You are incorrigible.”

  I looked up at the antelope in his beads and Groucho glasses and winked. “I hope so.”

  The Food Lovers’ Film Festival Guide to Food and Drink

  • • • • •

  COCKTAILS WITH THE MURPHY GIRLS

  Huckleberry Martinis

  HUCKLEBERRY VODKA:

  Commercial huckleberry-flavored vodkas are available. Erin prefers to make her own. This drink is similar to a Cosmopolitan.

  3 ounces vodka

  3 ounces huckleberries, fresh or frozen

  Pour vodka over berries in a mason jar or mortar; mash the berries with a fork or a pestle and let sit at least one hour. (The berries can be steeped up to a week.) Strain before using. Makes 3 ounces huckleberry vodka.

  3 ounces huckleberry vodka

  2 ounces triple sec

  1 ounce lime juice

  1 cup ice cubes

  Combine ingredients in a cocktail shaker. Shake until the outside of the shaker is frosty or your hands are cold. Strain into two chilled martini glasses. If you prefer a sweeter drink, add 1/2 teaspoon simple syrup to each drink.