Death Al Dente

by Leslie Budewitz

  After all our prep? “Don’t worry.” I took the arrangement and wound through the courtyard, pausing to exchange a few greetings. The high wooden gate opening on Red’s courtyard was closed, to my surprise, and I muttered as I unlatched it with one hand. Finally, it gave and opened with a loud creak. I stepped into the alley, also called Back Street, passed the communal garbage and recycling bins we’d convinced the Village Merchants Association to install, and turned to look for a good spot to hang the cones and flags.

  And screamed. Beside the black garbage bin lay a bird of paradise. Claudette, in her bright sundress, sprawled on the ground.

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel as guests emerged from the courtyard. I knelt and reached for her neck, my fingers trembling. But the streak of red running down her dress and the blood pooling on the ground made clear that this hothouse flower would never bloom again.

  • Four •

  No matter how prepared you think you are, there’s no preparing for murder.

  Nothing natural about Claudette’s death. Had someone planned to kill her—or seized an opportunity?

  The eyes of town bore down on us. My scream seemed to have punched a button prompting everyone at the Festa to pull out a phone and bombard county dispatch.

  Gordon Springer, the tall, balding pharmacist, knelt beside me and checked Claudette’s wrist and neck. His pursed lips and gray complexion confirmed my diagnosis.

  Funny how the mind makes the shift from seeing a woman—a friend—to seeing “a body.” “Oh, Claudette,” I whispered, resisting the urge to stroke her arm or soft caramel hair, so absurdly out of place against the dusty gray gravel. Beside her, Tracy’s pinecone arrangement lay where I’d dropped it, flags flying at broken angles.

  “Let me through.” A strained baritone pierced my bubble of grief.

  “No.” I rose to confront Dean Vincent. “Don’t you come near her.”

  “Erin, I’m a doctor. Let me help.”

  “You’re a chiropractor. Who just dumped her.”

  If he transformed onstage the way he did in Back Street, he’d convince Priscilla herself. It was Elvis himself who stepped within inches of me, shoulders stiff as he leaned in, rage deepening his electric tan. “I—didn’t—touch—her.”

  “Let the EMTs handle this,” I said. “They’re almost here.” With the sheriff right behind, judging from the multiple sirens. The fewer people who touched a crime scene, the better. I knew that much from Law and Order reruns.

  Not so easy, in the middle of a party in the middle of town.

  Dean hovered, but kept a respectable—if not respectful—distance. I heard Gordy tell Ned and my brother-in-law to usher everyone back in and make sure no one left. I stayed put. The minister, a tall, heavyset man with rounded shoulders and a neck that seemed permanently bowed, began a prayer. My mother slipped her shawl around my shoulders, then led Dean inside.

  We kept vigil, the minister and I. The sirens’ whirl and wail grew louder, almost louder than my heart. How was it that my chest did not explode?

  What had happened? Who had done this?

  Who had ruined the Festa—and killed my friend?

  Erin, for shame. How can you think of the Festa first?

  But I did. All our plans and work—for what? So people could remember the Festa and think of murder? Laugh and call it a killer party?

  And a flame-out wouldn’t harm just me and the Merc. I’d convinced the village merchants—the ruling powers of Jewel Bay—to start a new festival in a town full of festivals. Restaurant owners and retail shopkeepers alike had committed time and money to the idea. Would they blame me for its failure?

  Tires on gravel. Doors opening. Footsteps and voices, urgent and solemn.

  A hand on my shoulder.

  My gaze met that of my old friend Kim Caldwell, now a sheriff’s detective. All business, her short blond hair and dark outfit accentuated her slim build and made her look taller than five-eight. She nodded, and I rose, wordless, brushing the dirt from my bare knees. Her turf now.

  More vehicles, more footsteps, more voices. EMTs took charge of the body while uniformed deputies took charge of the alley and parking lot, fanning out, searching, eyes watchful, gun hands ready.

  Head still bowed, the minister opened the gate, and he and I stepped into the courtyard. Chairs stopped scraping, ice stopped clinking, eighty bodies stopped moving, their faces turned toward me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “She’s gone.” My throat felt brittle and dry, full of tumbleweed. “This is such a—a shock. A tragedy. We all loved Claudette.” Murmurs of agreement, but obviously someone had not loved her. Was the killer here, among us? I stumbled through an abbreviated version of the speech I’d planned about the Festa, the other weekend activities, and the Food Bank benefit. “We’re here, the food’s ready. Claudette loved a party, so . . .” I opened my arms in welcome, unable to say more.

  “To Claudette,” someone said, raising a glass. My hand was empty, my eyes full, but I joined the gesture.

  And just like that, the courtyard snapped back to life. Lids came off serving dishes and corks slid out of bottles. Talk fired up as guests migrated to the buffet.

  I collapsed into the nearest chair. There were a million things I should be checking, but none of them seemed to matter. Or more accurately, to need me. The apron-clad caterers and bartenders knew what they were doing. Let them.

  If only I hadn’t gone out to the alley, maybe Claudette would be alive.

  Foolish thought, and I knew it.

  “What about the music?”

  “What?” My mother’s question broke my trance.

  “The music, darling. The quartet should keep playing, don’t you think? Soothing tunes.”

  At my nod, she beelined for Sam, on lead guitar, her hair fanning out over her shoulders.

  Ray from the Bayside Grille slid a small plate in front of me, disappearing before I could speak. Mushrooms stuffed with herbed bread crumbs, shallots, and chopped mushrooms, grilled fennel and shrimp wrapped with prosciutto, olive tapenade on crisp bruschetta.

  Ohmyohmyohmy.

  Old Ned put a sweating glass of white wine on the table. It looked fragile in his meaty hand.

  “Such service. Thanks. Aren’t you on guard duty?”

  He grunted. “Delegated to Ted. Serves him right, showing up late.”

  I stood and wrapped my arms around him—or part of him. I’d never hugged a bear but imagined this came close. He wiped away a tear.

  Behind him, Dean glared, drops of sweat curling his Elvis sideburns. I felt a twinge of sympathy for Linda, one of those women learning too late that looks weren’t enough.

  “I didn’t kill her.” His words, slow and deliberate, held a hint of Memphis that no longer rang true.

  Being callous and conceited didn’t make him a killer. Or rule him out. Too many people within earshot, so to save myself from saying something I might regret, I picked up a shrimp by the tail and took a bite.

  “I told you it was pointless,” Linda said. The large diamond on her left ring finger flashed as she grabbed Dean’s hand and jerked him away.

  I sat and sipped my wine. Pinot grigio, nectar of the gods.

  An electronic thump caught my ear. The music had stopped. So did the chatter as we all directed our attention to the bandstand, where Kim tapped the mic. “I’m Detective Kim Caldwell. The sheriff, deputies, and I are sorry for your loss. I assure you we’ll do everything we can to get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible.”

  A pair of deputies in tan-and-brown uniforms emerged from the Merc’s courtyard. One gave Kim a swift nod. Our space, it seemed, had been searched and found satisfactory.

  “I’d like everyone who saw or spoke to Claudette Randall at any time today to go over there”—she gestured toward the Merc’s courtyard—“for brief questioning. If
you didn’t see her, but you have information you think we should know, that includes you. The rest of you”—she scanned the crowd—“are free to mingle. The alley is blocked, so you’ll need to leave through the bar. Make sure you give your name to the officers at the front door. We appreciate your cooperation.” She popped the microphone back in its stand and nodded to Sam, who took that as permission to start a soft melody.

  A uniformed deputy, who looked like he held black belts in half a dozen martial arts, stood before the back gate, now firmly latched.

  “Where can we talk?” Kim asked me, her tone not unfriendly.

  I led her to a café table in the corner, on the Merc side. “Can I get you anything?” I said, surprised to hear my voice shake.

  “No.” We’d met in sixth grade, after her parents moved home to help her grandparents run Caldwells’ Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch south of town. Her extended family was as close as mine, maybe closer. She and I had been best friends all through junior high and high school. Until my father died, winter of senior year. That had been too much for her, and the night of his accident, I lost my best friend, too. Since my return, we’d run into each other a few times, but exchanged only small talk. Why she’d chosen law enforcement remained a mystery. When we were kids, all she wanted to do was ride. She even talked me into competitive barrel racing. She’d dreamed of becoming head wrangler—leading guests on trail rides, taking care of the stock, wearing jeans and plaid flannel, smelling of fresh horse manure.

  Now she wore a charcoal linen jacket over a soft gray tee and black knit pants, and I caught a whiff of gun oil.

  Something slid down her left wrist and she shoved it back up her sleeve. A bracelet? A memory flashed across my mental screen and vanished.

  “I’m sorry to have to put you through this,” she said, her voice low, her blue eyes neutral. “Your family means a lot to me.”

  Right. My family meant so much she dropped me like a rock when my father died. Like it might be contagious. Like I had done something to her.

  I nodded. Until I knew what was going on, I needed to be very careful.

  She laid a small recorder on the table between us. “Mind?” I shook my head and tucked a strand of hair behind my left ear. “Tell me what happened.”

  I described the encounter outside the drugstore, then finding Claudette this evening. “I didn’t hear anything in the alley. With all the noise in here . . .” My voice trailed off. An argument, a cry for help—could I have saved her? “I wish I’d noticed who came in the back gate. Maybe someone saw something important.”

  As I spoke, Kim made a few notes with a silver ballpoint pen. She’d developed a great poker face. “I’ll need the guest list.”

  “There isn’t one. We didn’t keep track of who bought tickets.”

  “Who sold them?”

  “The Merc. Le Panier. The kitchen shop. Chiara’s gallery.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Oh, and the Chamber.” As an unincorporated town, Jewel Bay had no mayor or city hall. The Chamber of Commerce and village merchants ran the show.

  “No ticket taker at the back gate?”

  “No. We kept an eye on the front, to keep regular bar traffic out, but we didn’t worry about the back.” Party crashing hadn’t seemed like a big risk. But then, neither had murder.

  “Quite the shindig.” She stood. Her jacket fell into place, but not before I spotted her gun. “Stick around. I’ll need to talk with you again before I leave.”

  Which meant my questions for her would have to wait.

  A few feet away, she stopped. “Erin, I’m sorry. Crappy way to welcome you back to town.”

  The murder, or her own distance?

  “Crappy” did not begin to describe either one.

  Notes from the double bass drifted by. Forks clinked, voices rose and fell. A laugh skittered on the air. Normal party sounds, or nervous reaction to tragedy?

  All our hard work.

  I slipped into the Merc to use the restroom. Closed now, the shop stood quietly, a testament to the sweat and tears that had built it. Mine and Fresca’s, yes, but also Claudette’s.

  A muffled sound. I cocked my head. Took a step forward, then another. “Who’s there?”

  No response. Then, a sniffle? I hit the kitchen lights. Tracy huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees, head bowed, chestnut hair grazing the floor, her gauzy floral skirt barely visible. A checkered paper napkin lay balled on the floor. She raised her head and blinked, eyes red and puffy, mascara streaked.

  “Oh, Trace.” I crouched and hugged her.

  She hesitated, then relaxed against my shoulder. “Who? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t imagine who hated Claudette enough to kill her.”

  “Dean.” She spat it out.

  “He’s slime. But that doesn’t make him a killer.”

  Her expression said she didn’t agree. She straightened and I sat back, the tender moment gone.

  “I told her not to go,” she said. “But Claudette was convinced this was their chance to make a life together, that if they stayed, he’d always be caught in Linda’s web.”

  The Vincents had come to Jewel Bay during my years away, and I didn’t know them well. Linda had tried to persuade me to carry her chocolates, but I’d found them barely edible.

  “She reminded me of my ex that way,” Tracy continued, her soft voice heavy with memory. “Always looking for the next best thing. Couldn’t see that she might already have it.”

  “Did you tell Kim—Deputy Caldwell?”

  Her earrings swung as she shook her head. “I won’t speak ill of the dead.”

  “If it helps find the killer . . .” My own wariness aside, I knew Kim needed every useful tidbit. Claudette deserved our honesty.

  Tracy looked skeptical. “Maybe.” She wiped her swollen eyes. “No matter what happens, Erin, the Festa was a great idea.”

  “Is a great idea.” I stood and extended my hand. “C’mon. There’s a party going on.”

  For the next half hour, I mingled and chatted. Now that the major interviews had been completed, the guests were free to roam. Though everyone expressed shock and sadness, no one seemed to blame the Festa for the murder—or their temporary captivity. No doubt the food and wine helped.

  “Terrific lasagna, Erin,” the minister said, his fork full.

  “And everyone’s very generous to the Food Bank,” his wife said, patting her sparkly beaded bag. “Even Deputy Caldwell contributed.”

  The price of getting people to talk, no doubt.

  My mother always says when you don’t feel the way you want to, act as if you do, and before you know it, your mood will shift. So I kept moving, smiling, exchanging a few words with each guest.

  The party must go on, and all that.

  “There you are, darling. Come sit.” Looking only a little less fresh than when the evening began, my mother beckoned me to the table she shared with the Pinskys and Heidi and her date. The crowd began to thin. Murder may have made them hungry and generous, but it also made many of them head home early.

  My mother motioned to Wendy Fontaine, silent and watchful in her white chef’s jacket and bright pants. Her thick black brows and tight ponytail emphasized the severity of her plain features. She brought each of us a balsamic-drizzled peach garnished with a spoonful of honey-vanilla mascarpone and a palmier. My idea, and a tasty one. Wendy could play nicely with others when she chose.

  My mother spotted Kim and called her over. “I have to admit,” Kim said, her face carefully neutral as she took the extra chair, “I’m surprised you went ahead and served dinner after such a tragedy. Especially considering your history with the victim.”

  Victim. A chilling word. And what history? Who had she talked to? Well, everyone, obviously.

  “We loved Claudette,” I said. “And wasting food meant
for a Food Bank benefit would be seriously bad karma.”

  “I’d like to speak with the two of you alone.”

  “We’ll be off then,” Liz said as Wendy slid a dessert plate in front of Kim. “See you tomorrow night.” She kissed the air around us. Bob waved, and they left, Heidi and her guy behind them.

  “What’s tomorrow night?” Kim held up the palmier. “And what’s this?”

  “A concert at the Playhouse, with drinks and hors d’oeuvres in the lobby. That’s a palmier—a puff pastry sugar cookie.”

  “Honestly, Kim,” my mother said, wrapping her shoulders in the shawl I’d returned, “Jewel Bay’s not such a hotbed of crime that you can’t pay a little attention. Maybe get involved with community activities.”

  Kim reddened slightly, tightening her narrow jaw in a familiar sign of stubbornness.

  “Are you in charge of the investigation?” I asked. “What do you think happened?”

  “I report directly to the undersheriff. But I can’t reveal any details.”

  “Why not? It happened here. Don’t we have a right to know?”

  My mother spoke at the same time. “Don’t treat us like suspects. We have a right to know.”

  “You have rights,” Kim said. “But that’s not one of them.” She bit into the palmier and the crunch filled the silence.

  I pushed my plate away. “You’ve still got people working in the alley.”

  “A thorough crime scene investigation can take hours.”

  “What about Claudette?” I said. The body.

  “Hospital morgue overnight. State crime lab in the morning.”

  The thought of lively, energetic, confused Claudette lying on a refrigerated slab, riding to Missoula in the back of an ambulance, kept in cold storage until the ME could get to her, turned the twinkling summer night into a dull day in November. Kim said it wouldn’t take long, though. Not a lot of murder in Montana.

  Not a lot of consolation.

  “How was she killed? Or are you keeping that from us, too?” my mother said.