“Landon!” I swung him in a circle, his bare legs whirling like a windmill. “My favorite nephew.”
“Your only nephew,” Chiara said, a hint of exhaustion in her wry voice and dark eyes. She’d made clear one perfect child was enough, and Nick—well, my brother was busy dancing with wolves. Or whatever.
“How’s it going, buddy?”
“We got two Hank the Cowdog books.” Landon pointed at the basket his mother carried, crammed with the weekly library haul.
“Aren’t they for older kids?”
He gave me a withering look. “I am an older kid, Auntie. I’m five now. You came to my party.”
“So I did.” I grinned at him, and the memory. My first weekend back in Jewel Bay, we’d celebrated his birthday and my homecoming.
“Mom?” Chiara’s single worried word crushed the air between us.
I shrugged. “She’s not talking.”
My sister would never say, “This is all your fault,” but I felt it anyway. Like the bumbling baby of the family whose ideas are either brilliant or whacko, and who can’t always tell the difference.
“See you tonight?” I asked. She nodded and kissed me. Landon stopped pretending to be the famous cow dog—head of ranch security—long enough for a hug. They sauntered up Front Street, and I stepped onto the one-lane steel truss bridge spanning the Jewel River. Upstream raced the infamous Wild Mile, a stretch of whitewater that drew kayakers from all over the country. Below the bridge, river met bay and they flowed together to Eagle Lake, the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi. The rushing water danced a jig beneath my feet.
Was it possible to feel both deep sadness and overwhelming joy at the same time? Apparently so. Claudette’s murder was tragic, and the rumors about my mother and me upsetting. And yet, Jewel Bay made me so happy. I’d had good times in Seattle—friends, a great job, a terrific city to explore. When the sun shines and the mountains come out of hiding, the Pacific Northwest purely sparkles.
But here—this was where I belonged.
With a spring in my step, I headed home.
* * *
The short walk left me hot and sweaty. I pulled a loose blue-and-white sundress over my bathing suit, packed up crackers, a goat cheese croton, and sweet green grapes, and trekked down to the lake. On the dock, I dropped my bag, slipped out of my dress and flip-flops, and jumped in.
The icy shock crystallized my blood. I shook the water out of my eyes and paddled around a few minutes, then swam to the dock ladder. Halfway up, Liz greeted me with a cackle and a sun-warmed towel.
“How can you stand it? I can’t even stick my feet in till August.” You can take the girl out of New Jersey, but her accent will never change.
“That water’s positively glacial,” Bob said. It flowed straight out of Glacier National Park—called simply “the Park”—not pausing for breath.
“Chicken.” Teeth chattering, I sank onto a chaise and let the sun kiss me.
The Pinskys, both small, dark, and intense, had migrated to the Southwest decades ago, made a fortune in stone coasters, and retired young to become blissful snowbirds. Intrepid travelers and faithful friends.
“To think,” Liz said, brow furrowed, “that all the while you were planning a summer celebration, someone was planning a murder.” Her voice trembled.
“I don’t think it was planned. The killer couldn’t have expected Claudette to be in the alley. She didn’t buy a ticket—she didn’t know about the dinner until I told her.” Where had she gone in between? Who had she seen? Why had she almost changed her mind, when she called me? “It has to have been spur-of-the-moment.”
Bob handed me a frosty bottle of Eagle Lake root beer, made in Montana. An outdoor kitchen, with refrigerator and gas grill, hugged the hillside above the dock. When Bob built a thing, he saw to every detail. “We told Fresca we didn’t think hiring Claudette was a good idea, but we never imagined this.”
“They’d been friends for so long,” Liz said. She and Bob exchanged grim looks. Was she reminding him why Fresca went ahead anyway, or warning him to say no more?
“Such a lost soul,” she added with a shake of her dark head. “Didn’t have her feet on the ground. Not like you and your family.”
I took a sip. The cold drink made my still-frozen core shiver.
“Deputy Caldwell will get to the bottom of it,” she continued, her tone leaving no doubt she considered Kim well grounded, too.
Nothing like a little relaxation to make you realize how tired you are. Everything from my eyelids to my little fingers to the balls of my feet felt overused. I stretched out on the chaise, listening to waves hit the shoreline. In the towering pines, an osprey screamed. Why yell before you kill? Didn’t that warn the prey?
Had Claudette had any warning?
A few minutes later, I awoke with a start. “I’ve got to get to the Playhouse.”
“Plenty of time.” Liz laughed kindly. “Besides, you’re just another guest tonight, remember?”
I wiggled my toes into my sandals. My sun-dried skin felt clean and refreshed, though my head was a little sleep-drunk. “Sure hope it flies. A shame to waste a good idea.”
“The Gala will be a hit—you’ll see. The whole town’s behind the Festa.”
That reminded me. “Liz, the courtyard behind the Merc looks like a haunted house the day after Halloween. Any suggestions?”
“I’ll stop by Monday and take a peek.”
“You know what that means.” Bob winked. “You’ve got yourself a project and a partner.”
“Great. If I’m going to take on another project, I need a partner.”
The hill had gotten steeper during my lakeside sojourn. I wanted to share the Pinskys’ conviction that the killer would be found, and I didn’t doubt Kim’s abilities. But I could not forget—as no one in my family did—that some deaths were never explained. The mystery of my father’s fatal accident—officially a hit-and-run—remained unsolved, even after nearly fifteen years.
One cold case was plenty. I vowed to do whatever Kim needed.
To be her best friend again, if that’s what it took.
The back of my neck prickled, with the sense of being stared at. When I first moved into the cabin, more than one person told me to be careful in the woods and keep an eye on Sandburg, that a mountain lion had been spotted. But a wild cat wouldn’t be out in broad daylight, would it? I peered around. Nothing.
Probably just a chill from the icy water. June in the mountains is deceptive—it only looks like high summer.
Or a shadow overhead. I glanced up at the cloudless sky.
I picked up the pace and hurried home.
• Eight •
The warm fuzzy glow I got from watching people stream to the Playhouse was eclipsed only by my relief at knowing that tonight I was carefree. Wendy Fontaine and Linda Vincent cochaired the Festa’s Saturday Night Gala, a musical evening seasoned with local flavor and a slight Italian accent.
Linda would not have been my first choice, but she’d made herself a mainstay in the community, and every event required volunteers. Just because I disliked her and her candy didn’t mean she couldn’t organize a Gala. Besides, Wendy had charge of the food.
Dozens of folks mingled in the lobby and outside on pavers stamped with donors’ names. Jewel Bay had boasted live theater since the 1960s. Days after graduating from the University of Montana drama school, Wendy’s parents started a summer program here to give college students a place to work. Their three kids practically grew up in the original building—an old movie house called the Bijou. I remembered tagging along after Wendy and Chiara, exploring nooks and crannies, tottering on the catwalk, sneaking into the costume room. The Jewel Bay Repertory Theater drew thousands of visitors every summer and auditioned actors from across the country.
As a teenager, I spent hours ons
tage, in high school plays and drama competitions. I had been here the night my dad died.
Eventually, the Rep outgrew the space, and through a massive fund drive, the community built the current theater. Another fund drive paid for a recent refurbishing, with new seats, an expanded lobby, and most important, more restrooms.
Tonight, the Playhouse sparkled.
“Wendy!” I spotted her white toque and jacket behind the serving tables that lined the lobby’s long back wall. We’d been able to snare an open Saturday for the Festa, before the Rep swung into full production, because her parents and younger brother ran the place.
“Looks great.” I snatched a chicken satay skewer and took a bite. “Tastes great.”
“Thanks.” She surveyed the offerings and I followed her gaze. Platters of chicken skewers and vegetables anchored each table. Metal racks held plates of kabobs made with tortellini, marinated mushrooms, and grape tomatoes, puff pastry cheese straws, brie en croute oozing with cranberry filling, and wild mushrooms on polenta rounds. And everywhere, bruschetta beckoned.
I grabbed a cocktail napkin reading JEWEL BAY FESTA DI PASTA: TASTE THE SPIRIT!—where had these been last night?—and chose a bruschetta with honey, Gorgonzola, and prosciutto. Wendy watched. Waiting for my reaction as I bit in. “Mmm. Love the contrasts—salt and sweet, the smooth texture of the honey and cheese with the toasted bread. Have you served this before?”
Her ponytail swung as she shook her head. “Our baguettes and ciabatta, Chef Angelo’s toppings.”
The last swallow stuck in my throat and my cheeks warmed. Chef James Angelo—he preferred to be called Chef, not James, and never Jim—had offered his services for opening night, but we’d decided to feature the restaurants instead. He’d taken it as a deliberate slight, since he’d begun marketing a line of prepared foods to compete with my mother’s. This evening provided a perfect opportunity to showcase caterers and private chefs, like him. I was glad he got the chance to participate, but his nasty response when I turned him down had left a bad taste.
“It’s really good.” To prove I meant it, I took another—a more traditional combination of anchovies with fresh parsley and mint.
The ticket office had been converted to a wine bar for the evening. I chose Prosecco and let the bubbles tickle my nose before taking a sip. Heavenly.
“Erin, another marvelous evening.” Heidi Hunter air-kissed me. Her sleek black sheath with its jet beaded neckline made me feel underdressed in my wide-legged white linen pants and floral print peasant blouse. And my leather wristband could not compete with her diamond and silver tennis bracelet. “Where’s Fresca? How’s she holding up?”
“She must be here somewhere.” We scanned the crowd, but no sign. “It’s hard. She and Claudette were friends a long time.”
“Claudette was a dear,” Heidi said, “and a pain in the ass.” She touched my arm, the bracelet sparkling. “No one knows better than I do what a great friend Fresca is.”
The lively notes of a jazz guitar duet began, and I craned my neck for a glimpse of the musicians. Sam and Jennifer again. The local music scene had exploded since the Jewel Bay Jazz Workshop and Festival began a few years ago. Instructors and students from around the world gathered the week before Memorial Day at Eagle Lake Lodge. Another idea that ruffled some feathers—“Why do we need something new?”—then wowed everyone with its success. Sam and Jen came to town as workshop students, then moved here to buy a decrepit orchard and revive it as Monte Verde Winery.
The lobby swung with laughter, music, and the chatter of old and new friends. Dean Vincent again sported full Elvis garb, this time a white jacket and pants with gold spangles and epaulets. He had an arm around Linda, who’d tried to outshine him in a shimmery sapphire sequined dress that was both a touch too elegant and a touch too short. The Prosecco eased the irritation she invariably provoked in me.
A table displayed CDs from tonight’s musicians, a trade-off for asking them to volunteer their time and talents. I chose one from Jody Fisher and another from the Krausses, then mingled until the lights dimmed, beckoning us into the house. I snared a strawberry dipped in dark chocolate and found my seat next to Chiara and Heidi. But our fourth seat was empty. My sister gave me a wide-eyed, questioning look, puzzled by Mom’s absence.
“She must be sitting with someone else.” An otherwise full house. I smiled, more than satisfied.
Linda Vincent took center stage to welcome us. A tremble in her voice and a fluttering hand betrayed her nerves. After describing the musical program, she reminded us that tonight’s event was a fund-raiser for the Food Bank. “Finally,” she said, glancing at her notes, “be sure to thank our donors and volunteers,” and rattled off a list of names, including Red’s Bar, Le Panier and Chez Max, the Playhouse and Taylor family, and Chef James Angelo.
But not my mother or me.
Chiara raised her eyebrows and whispered, “What’s up with that?”
“No idea.” Surely Linda hadn’t forgotten the Merc. But even she wouldn’t be so petty on purpose—would she?
The first act, a trio with Sam Krauss on piano, Jen on bass, and Dave the Barber on drums, started us off. Then came the headliner, Jody Fisher, a small energetic man with an engaging grin who loved his reception at the Jazz Festival so much that he came back to Jewel Bay for the weekend. He opened with a lovely, smooth tune called “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most” on his curious headless guitar, his right leg bouncing in time. After another solo, the bass and drums joined him to rev things up a bit. By halftime, we were all grooving.
In the lobby, Wendy’s crew had refreshed the appetizers and arranged desserts on tall round tables. I piled marinated asparagus and mushrooms, cheese straws, and more bruschetta on a small plate, snared another glass of Prosecco, and leaned against a square column adorned with tiny iridescent tiles in colors evoking the water and mountains surrounding town. Our little gem of a town. Juggling glass and plate, I bit into a bruschetta topped with tomato and herbed chèvre. He might be a jerk, but Angelo had created some terrific flavor combinations.
I heard the spit and fire before recognizing the voices.
“The trays are empty. Obviously everyone loves the food. Even your snob of a sister.”
“I grant the man can cook. That’s not the point.” Chiara spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to a misbehaving child.
“So what is the point?” Ten feet away, Linda stood pointy-toe to painted clog with Chiara, the fair skin on Linda’s throat red and splotchy.
“None of this”—Chiara waved her fingers with their paint-stained cuticles—“would have happened without my snob of a sister, but you thanked half the town and didn’t mention her or Glacier Mercantile. And you kept Fresca off the menu tonight on purpose.”
“At least Angelo creates his own recipes,” Linda said, her full red lips curling in a snarl. “He’s worked hard for what he has. No one’s handed him anything.”
“And your husband. His girlfriend’s body isn’t cold yet, and he’s back with you dancing till dawn. Does that make you feel good?”
Linda’s temples bulged, and she looked like she might slap Chiara.
I snapped to life and pushed my way forward. I had to stop them before something terrible happened. Half the crowd had fallen silent, stunned by the spectacle. Including one unexpected witness. At the Merc this afternoon, she hadn’t known about the Gala, and hadn’t hinted that she might come.
But the look on her face made clear that Deputy Caldwell had heard every word.
• Nine •
“Chill,” I said in a low tone, my fingers digging into my sister’s arm. “Linda, thank you for a lovely evening. You and Wendy did a fabulous job.”
Linda turned to Dean, blubbering. “Did you hear what that witch said to me? About you?”
What did I say? Oh, my sister. The other witch.
“I wasn’
t finished,” Chiara said through closed teeth as I led her out the front doors.
“Oh, I think you said enough.” I tightened my grip.
“That woman. First she has the nerve to suggest they didn’t invite Mom to participate because her food isn’t up to snuff. Then she said with all your talk about honoring Claudette, she was surprised you and Mom didn’t propose a toast to Claudette’s death.”
I stopped so fast she practically tripped. “What? She’s devastated.”
“There you are.” Outside on the paved walkway, Heidi pulled a white linen hanky out of her knock-off Prada bag, and handed it to Chiara.
While Chiara explained what happened, I tried my mother’s landline, then her cell. Voice mail on both. Finally, I thumbed a text: Where RU? Trouble!!
Heidi stiffened her spine. “Do not let vicious gossip get to you.”
“But where’s Mom?” Chiara and I said in unison.
“After that little scene,” Heidi said, “I’m glad she’s not here.”
Agreed, but still, it wasn’t like Fresca to let gossip influence her actions. “Act as if you don’t give a fig,” and all that. So where was she?
Time to act as if I wasn’t worried. In all the fuss, I’d abandoned a half-full plate and an untouched glass of wine. Suddenly parched and ravenous, I looped my arms through theirs. “Who needs a drink, besides me?”
We waltzed back in, three musketeers.
Minus Fresca, our usually fearless leader.
* * *
My driveway beckoned, but I skipped the turn and continued south on the narrow, winding highway above the lake. Where it veered lakeward at the next bay, I turned east and headed uphill on an even more familiar road: the road home.
Casa da Murphy had been an ideal place to grow up. Tonight, a week before solstice, the homestead basked in the last rays of pink and gold sunlight reflected off the lake. In the east, the waxing moon rose over Trumpeter Mountain, painting the sky a clear cerulean blue. I spotted my mother’s ancient brown Volvo in the carport, and a soft glow in the living room. Relief washed over me.
Death Al Dente Page 6
