Death Al Dente

by Leslie Budewitz

  I inhaled the scent of orchard in late spring, still my favorite perfume. An unexpected deep freeze had wiped out many of the famous lakeside cherry orchards one April years ago, but my parents had replanted, and my childhood saplings now produced tons of fruit each summer. My father had tended the cherries, apricots, and heirloom apples himself, with help from us, but like the Pinskys and many others, my mother contracted with a manager. My sister and her family lived one place over, on the original Murphy farmstead. And my brother, Nick, used a haphazard cabin at the top of the orchard as home base. Me, I was partial to the main house, and at the far edge of the orchard, where a lilac hedge grew fifteen feet tall, I felt closer to heaven than anywhere else.

  “If you come in peace, come on in.” My mother’s clear voice pierced my reverie. She leaned against the doorframe, clad in one of her many vintage silk kimono-style robes. Mom’s Scottie dog, Pepé—Italian for pepper—wagged her tongue and stubby black tail. “But if you’ve come to read me the riot act, go away. I just couldn’t face all those people.”

  “You couldn’t let us know?”

  “You’d have argued and insisted I come.”

  Probably true. Inside, I slipped off my sandals and relaxed in a bentwood maple chair, reupholstered in a black-and-green jungle print with a splash of scarlet flowers. My mother loved to play up the house’s 1950s modern style. I stretched my legs and put my feet on the matching ottoman, noticing that my toenail polish needed a redo. Pepé jumped in my lap and let me rub the magic spot between her eyes. “Since when do you care what people say?”

  “Since my friend was murdered and people are staring at me just a little too hard.”

  Pepé whined in protest at my sudden move. “They’re saying you copied her recipes and forced her to quit. They’re not saying you killed her.”

  “They’re too polite—or cowardly—for that. But I see it on their faces.” She settled on the couch, slender legs folded beneath her. On the coffee table, a hand-blown martini glass held a lush coral red liquid garnished with a sprig of fresh mint. “And it’s all a little too much.”

  They say women respond to fear with tears and men with anger. They’re wrong—I was furious. I set Pepé on the floor—gently, since my crankiness wasn’t her fault—and paced, phone in hand. Texted Chiara: At Mom’s. OK. Tell HH.

  When I could speak, I said, “Mom, did it occur to you that maybe . . .”

  “Maybe what?”

  Blurt it out. “That when you didn’t show up, or answer your phone, we pictured you dead in an alley somewhere. Like Claudette.”

  “Oh, honey.” She stood and wrapped her arms around me. My heart beat slowed to normal.

  A few minutes later, she asked the 64,000-dollar question. “Why would anyone want to kill me?”

  And my equally weighty reply: “Why would anyone want to kill Claudette?”

  She’d hear about the fight at the Gala sooner or later, so I gave her all the gory details. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror.

  “Thank goodness her girls didn’t witness that. Hard enough to have a harpy for a mother, without watching her in action in public.”

  My phone buzzed. Chiara, no doubt. I stepped outside to answer. Even in full leaf, the orchard looked ghostly in the moonlight.

  “Hey, Erin. Kim Caldwell here.”

  Uh-oh. “You’re working late.”

  “Just routine follow-up. I couldn’t help overhearing that little disagreement tonight.” So why call me, instead of the women directly involved? The perks of old friendship? “What can you tell me about the history between your mother and Linda Vincent?”

  I sat on the low front step. “Nothing, really. Linda fancies herself a candy maker and she’d like to sell through the Merc, but that hasn’t worked out.”

  “Why not?”

  “Her samples aren’t up to snuff.”

  “She angry with Fresca for that?”

  “No reason she should be.” Pepé poked my free hand with her nose. “It was my decision, though Claudette had already turned her down last fall.” The connection dawned on me. “You don’t think—that couldn’t have anything to do with Claudette’s death, could it? It was months ago.” But whether Claudette had already started seeing Dean, I didn’t know. Or whether he and Linda had separated first.

  Kim made a noncommittal sound. “Everything’s on the table at this point. Thanks again. We’ll talk soon.”

  A promise or a threat?

  “She’ll get to the bottom of things,” my mother said from the doorway. “She always does.”

  I wanted to believe her. The Kim I knew never cared about rumors and gossip. Besides, she would hardly expect me to rat on my mother and spill the details of some imaginary catfight with Linda. But a detective had to listen to everything, and use her judgment.

  “I’m glad you two are friends again, honey. You need more friends.” She handed me a drink twin to hers and sat.

  “Don’t worry about my social life, Mom. I don’t.” I took a sip. “This is great.”

  “Rum punch. I’m experimenting with the hibiscus coconut rum from the new distillery.”

  “We should host a tasting.”

  We sat in silence, enjoying our drinks and watching Pepé chase moths.

  “Makes you think, doesn’t it?” my mother said a few minutes later. “People say ‘I could have killed her’ all the time, but they don’t mean it. Claudette could be aggravating, but I can’t imagine . . .” Fresca shuddered and her voice trailed off. “Go home, darling. Get some rest.” She rose and kissed the top of my head. “Things will look brighter tomorrow.”

  I watched the moonlight dancing through the cherry trees. What did it take to do what the rest of us could never imagine?

  And what did doing the unimaginable do to you?

  * * *

  I woke early, with an urge to bake. Cinnamon whole wheat scones with Creamery butter and apricot preserves. The jam maker bought fruit from Fresca, and I like eating food I’ve watched grow.

  One thing I miss about city life is a fat, inky Sunday paper. On the other hand, sitting on my deck overlooking woods and lake with a plate of hot scones, a mug of Italian roast, and a book feels sinfully decadent. I’ve been working my way through the essays in last year’s Best Food Writing. Hard to say which is more delish—the food or the writing.

  The phone rang. I slid Mr. Sandburg off my lap and padded inside to answer.

  My mother had promised today would be brighter, and watching the world awaken from my own back door, I’d believed her.

  We’d been wrong.

  • Ten •

  I threw on jeans and a T-shirt and zipped into town. Parked on Front Street, right behind the patrol car idling in front of the Merc.

  My shop. My building. That gorgeous, maddening, demanding mausoleum.

  The plate glass windows where Tracy and I had spent hours arranging the perfect display.

  Smashed.

  I gaped at the wreckage, unable to take it in. Who would do this? Why? Why not break the glass door instead? Less visible to a passerby, and easier access. An intruder would have had to climb through a window two feet above the ground, maneuver past the shards—most of which hadn’t fallen out—and risk skin and blood.

  For what? A case of huckleberry creamed honey?

  But on closer look, I saw no sign that anyone had entered at all.

  Which really ticked me off. If you’re going to mess with my shop—a piece of my family’s history—you better have a darn good reason.

  The uniformed deputy finished taking photos just as Kim rounded the corner, on full alert in the still-sleepy town. She wore boots and jeans—Sunday was probably her day off—with the ever-present jacket hiding the ever-present gun.

  “Erin, what a mess. I’m so sorry. Nothing out back, thank goodness.”

 
As if on cue, we stared at the ruined facade. They’d broken only one window. Even so, it felt like a violation. “Why?” I turned my anger on her. “Why?”

  Her expression mixed sympathy with determination. In short, totally professional. She gestured toward the door, inset to protect it from the weather, and when my hands trembled with the key, she reached around me to work the lock. It opened with a soft snick.

  Inside, shattered glass covered everything within ten feet of the window. A broken wine bottle gave off a heady odor, while busted jelly jars oozed red and purple goo on the plank floor.

  “Don’t,” Kim said sharply as I reached to pick up a pebbled gray block, a stonelike brick. She poked it with a gloved finger and gave me a questioning look.

  I shook my head. “Seems familiar, but I couldn’t say why.”

  For the next half hour, I trailed Kim and her deputy as they searched for anything unusual. My grandfather’s brass cash register sat untouched, as was the small wall vault in the office where I locked up the cash drawer and iPad we actually used for sales. All the damage had been done by the brick and the cascade of crashing displays it had triggered. “They might have tried the door,” the deputy said and printed the handle, leaving a sift of fine black powder. Good luck with that. This is retail. When I asked about the brick, his face said, “You’ve got to be kidding,” but at Kim’s nod, he dusted, tagged, and bagged it. Humoring me, but I didn’t care, if there was a chance it might help catch the culprit and spare someone else this ordeal.

  Why? kept bouncing through my head. Someone had wanted to wreak havoc, not gain entry. Why?

  “If he—whoever he is—wasn’t after cash or products, then this is just vandalism, right? I mean, vandalism happens. But—two days after murder?”

  Kim wasn’t any more revealing about this incident than she had been about the murder. Infuriating. Still, coincidence makes me uneasy. And I suspected she agreed.

  I called Fresca and Tracy for cleanup duty, then took pictures with my phone for the insurance claim and vendors. Readying the Merc for the day would be a challenge, but closing was out of the question. Festa volunteers were already setting up for today’s events: sidewalk tasting booths, a kids’ carnival, and live music outside the Jewel Inn. A rollicking Sunday.

  “Good luck getting cleaned up,” Kim said, extending her hand.

  I took it, though the gesture felt oddly formal, like we were casual acquaintances, not childhood confidantes. “Thanks. We’ll need it.”

  But you don’t need luck in a small town. When you need help, others know it. The moment Kim left, brooms appeared. Someone found leather gloves so we could handle the glass safely. Burly Ted rolled a big trash barrel through the bar and muscled it into place on the sidewalk. Sweet, though the memory of finding Claudette near one like it made me cringe.

  My brother-in-law, Jason, pulled up in his big white truck, Fresca riding shotgun. She hopped out and burst into tears. “Erin, why? Who? What’s missing?”

  In reverse order, I answered: “Nothing, as far as I can tell. Vandals. And I have no idea.”

  “We can’t get glass today,” Jason said, adjusting his specs as he scanned the damage. “I’ll call Greg Taylor for plywood.” Wendy’s brother, who’d expanded his in-laws’ lumberyard into a full-service building supply.

  And here came Max and Wendy, in chef dress, bearing trays of coffee and croissants. My mother started bawling again. If I didn’t get busy, I’d morph into a blubbering wreck myself, so I grabbed a croissant and a roll of trash bags.

  “What a shame, girlie.” Old Ned wielded broom and dust pan like the experienced barkeeper he was. “Don’t you worry none. We’ll have you cleaned up in no time, by jingo.”

  “Where would we be without our neighbors?” I said.

  Tracy came in the back way. “Holy cow.”

  “Help me separate the damaged inventory from the good stuff, and put what’s salvageable back on the shelves.” I handed her gloves and fired up the iPad. “We need to account for every torn package, every broken jar.”

  “Holy cow,” she repeated, eyes wide.

  Minutes before noon, our Sunday opening time, the building supply truck rolled up, and Greg Taylor and Jason nailed plywood to the window frame. “I’ll call that glass order in first thing Monday,” Greg assured me. “We’ll fix your panes.”

  “Here—thanks.” I handed him one of the picnic baskets we’d assembled the day before, with pepperjack cheese and buffalo Thuringer. “Just watch for shards.”

  One window intact and the other boarded up, the Merc looked like it was winking.

  If all this was some sort of cosmic joke, I wasn’t laughing.

  As I wrestled the trash barrel away from the door, Kim emerged from Puddle Jumpers, the children’s clothing and toy shop, and strode toward the Bayside Grille. Trolling for lunch or information? Vandalism hardly warranted footwork by a detective on Sunday, did it? Not a high priority, unless there were a string of related incidents, which there hadn’t been.

  Probably just taking advantage of being downtown to ask if anyone had seen anything out of the ordinary—this morning or Friday night. I’d forgotten to tell her about Claudette’s phone message. Later.

  Chiara came in just as Tracy and I finished cleaning up the jam display. She handed me a knapsack. “A change of clothes.”

  I was forgiven for butting in last night.

  We did a brisk business over the next several hours. Strains of live music wafted in the open door. Nearly every customer commented on the window, and several noted my makeshift memorial to Claudette. The shop reeked of spilled fruit, and we found a few more damaged items, but all in all, the afternoon went smoothly.

  About three thirty, I snuck out to see the party for myself and catch a bit of gypsy jazz. A quintet called The Hot Club of Montana had driven up from Missoula to give a concert outside, and entertain diners at the Inn later.

  My progress was slowed by shopkeepers calling out to me. To a person, they raved about booming sales, and thanked me for dreaming up this crazy idea of a new festival to kick off summer. And they expressed amazement at how quickly we’d reopened.

  “Couldn’t miss out on all the fun,” I said. The weekend’s success wasn’t all due to me, of course—dozens of volunteers had played a part, along with the shopkeepers themselves. But the praise sure hit the spot.

  The Inn’s front deck and lawn overflowed with jazz fans. I perched on a low rock wall outside Dragonfly Dry Goods, the quilt and yarn shop next to the Inn, mesmerized by the guitarist’s percussive strum and the bopping tenor sax. Dragonfly’s owner, Kathy Jensen, raked a hand through her thick ash-blond hair and dropped down next to me. A sympathetic look filled her quick gray eyes. A silver-and-gold dragonfly pendant nestled in the hollow of her throat. A few couples danced in the Inn’s circular driveway, and three tiny girls in pink sundresses bounced and twirled on the lawn. I had little doubt that the village merchants, when we met on Friday, would clamor for a repeat performance next year.

  But it would be hard for me to agree until Claudette’s killer was found.

  When the musicians took a break, I gave Kathy a hug and moved on. At Le Panier, I thanked Max for the coffee and pastries.

  “Stupid keeds,” Max said. “Why do they think breaking things and making work for other people ees fun?”

  No answer for that. Luckily, no one had been hurt.

  In a booth outside, Wendy and her crew served Italian sodas, gelato, and other treats. With a vanilla soda and a chocolate hazelnut biscotti in hand, I strolled down to the bay, where a greenbelt separated shop-lined Front Street from the water. From a wrought-iron bench, I watched the waves sparkle and ripple gently in the late-afternoon breeze. Perfect. I glanced at my lucky stars. My first big splash back in town had gone just about perfectly.

  Except for murder and mayhem. My eyes grew hot and the
tears brimmed over.

  A few minutes later, I dried my eyes and scouted for a place to toss my empty cup. Seeing a trash can behind the Playhouse, I headed up the gentle slope. As I neared the building, something caught my eye.

  I took a closer look at the foot-high stacks of pavers, just like the stamped ones on the walkway out front but blank.

  Just like the one some creep had hurled through my shop window.

  * * *

  Throughout my childhood, Sunday afternoon and evening had been sacred. My mother insisted every good Italian family gathered then for food, games, and togetherness. What, my father would tease, like only Italians eat, drink, and argue? They tossed the debate back and forth playfully. My grandparents always joined us, along with my father’s brothers and their families, and a smattering of friends and neighbors—proving that some good Italian families are Irish.

  But my father was gone, and so were his parents. My uncles had developed traditions of their own. And now my sister and I ran retail shops and, during tourist season, worked Sundays. So by the time Chiara and I made it to the homestead, a bright cloth covered the picnic table at the edge of the orchard, anchored by a heavy glass vase of homegrown Dutch iris.

  Liz and Heidi relaxed in the shade in a pair of vintage metal lawn chairs.

  “There you are,” my mother called as she emerged from the house with a bottle of Prosecco and a handful of flutes. She seemed to have recovered from the morning shock, looking casually elegant in white crops and a teal linen tunic with a Nehru collar.

  “Good show, little sis.” Chiara raised a toast. “You pulled it off.”

  “Cheers!” Liz and Heidi chorused.

  “Salute!” Fresca called out.

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said, “but I couldn’t have done it without a lot of help.”

  “Speaking of,” Fresca said, her tone puzzled. “What got into Linda Vincent?”

  “Let’s not spoil the afternoon,” Chiara said.