Death Al Dente

by Leslie Budewitz

  “And what’s up with her and Dean?” Heidi asked. “My head’s spinning, trying to keep track.”

  “Don’t bother,” Fresca said. “You know what dating after forty is like in this town. Musical chairs.” The shallow pool of eligible males in a small town had been one point I’d raised against coming home. “But you’re doing fine.”

  “You, too,” Heidi said with a Mona Lisa smile. Before I could probe that remark, I sneezed.

  “Seven point two on the Richter scale.” My sister’s old joke. “No more for you. You’re obviously allergic to champagne.”

  “Bubbles in my nose.” I sneezed again.

  “Do you think he killed her?” Fresca asked.

  “He’s a no-good, lying, son of a—whatever,” Heidi said. “I never understood what Claudette saw in him. I mean, jumpsuits and bell bottoms?”

  I pictured the headline: ELVIS LIVES—AND KILLS—IN PICTURESQUE MONTANA VILLAGE. Not good for business.

  Fresca’s brow furrowed. “He flattered her when she was vulnerable, and that’s all it took.”

  Landon zoomed through the trees into the picnic area, then dropped to all fours, barking. Jason stopped behind him, obviously unsure what his son was up to. “Daddy, you have to use four legs around humans. They don’t know we can walk on two legs.”

  “Right.” Jason obeyed.

  “I’m Hank the Cowdog, head of ranch security,” Landon told us. “This is my trusty deputy, Drover. What seems to be the trouble, ladies?”

  How did he know? I glanced at my sister.

  She rolled her eyes. “He’s just playing. We’ve been reading the books together every night.”

  “Drover needs a break.” Jason got up and reached for a beer from the ice-filled washtub.

  “Hey, Landon. Let’s go visit my special place. On two legs.” He ran ahead of me into the orchard. In the far back, an old McIntosh had escaped pruning for a few years and grown too tall to be reclaimed. It wasn’t sturdy enough to support a tree house, so my father had erected stilts under a platform built around the trunk. A roof of silver-gray cedar shakes covered the structure, and leafy branches provided a living curtain. We scaled the old orchard ladder and scrambled inside.

  From here, we could survey our domain: Murphy Orchards below us, acres of forest on two sides, and to the west, Eagle Lake.

  “Auntie, this is my favorite place in the whole world.”

  “Mine, too.” I’d spent countless hours here, with my dolls or a book, or hiding from Nick’s teasing. Even as teenagers, Kim and I had snuck up here when we craved the comforts of childhood. “And sharing it with you is the best.”

  The groans of an engine accelerating up the hill invaded our little kingdom. Nick back from the field? My wildlife biologist brother rarely gave much notice of his comings and goings.

  Not Nick. A black-and-white Explorer with a county shield.

  “Gotta go, buddy.” Landon protested—I didn’t blame him—but he followed me down the ladder and back to the house.

  “I see tradition continues.” Still in her jeans and jacket, Kim surveyed our small gathering—Mom, me, Chiara and her family, Liz and Bob, Heidi. If I hadn’t known Kim so well, I might have missed the wistful look before she switched it off. She’d often spent Sunday afternoon and evening here when we were kids, except in high summer when the Caldwell clan joined Lodge guests for the weekly barbecue and sing-along. “Sorry to disturb you. May I have a word, Fresca? In private?”

  “Certainly.” My mother set her glass on the table and led Kim inside.

  I tugged my sister toward the corner of the house and the open living room window. If we stood in the right spot, we’d be out of sight but not out of earshot.

  “What’s going on?” Chiara whispered. I held a finger to my lips.

  “You can’t honestly believe that,” we heard Fresca say, her voice rising. “You know I would never hurt anyone.”

  “I’m not accusing you, Fresca. But the evidence strongly suggests—”

  “Evidence, pevidence. Kimberly Caldwell, you know better.”

  Chiara’s eyes widened. We knew that tone. But what evidence?

  “I’ve studied the statements. I’ve matched the timelines. You were in the courtyard earlier, but you left, and no one saw you again until after Erin found the victim.”

  I scanned my mental image of the crowd for my mother in her distinctive coral dress. Was Kim right? Had she disappeared? For how long?

  “And that means I snuck out back and stabbed Claudette?”

  How could she have known Claudette would come through the back? Unless Claudette had called my mother, too . . .

  “You had motive, means, and opportunity. I watched you in the kitchen, Fresca. You know your way around a knife, and I saw your knife drawer. Are you missing any?”

  My jaw cramped and I felt my sister spasm beside me. What was she talking about?

  “I don’t count them,” my mother said. “But none are missing.”

  “How do you know if you don’t know how many you have?”

  “Because a trained chef always knows where her tools are, and never loses track of a knife. And kitchen knife skills don’t mean I stabbed anyone. Seriously, Kim, do you think I could kill anyone, let alone Claudette?” My mother’s disbelief turned to impatience.

  If Kim replied, I didn’t hear her over the pounding in my heart and the buzz in my ears.

  “They’re leaving. Go!” Chiara shoved me away from the window and we scrambled to join the others and act normal.

  Out front, Kim stood on the rockway looking back at my mother on the porch. “I’m so sorry, Fresca. But please understand. If the evidence bears out our suspicions, you’ll be arrested and charged with deliberate homicide.”

  • Eleven •

  Once again, I slept badly, and once again, I stood at the Merc’s front door well before business hours. This time, though, I wasn’t so sure the village would rally around us.

  Normally I love the shop early in the day, especially on Mondays. Clean and quiet, the shelves full of tasty Montana treats waiting for customers to discover them. Morning speaks of possibilities.

  I did not like the possibilities running through my mind today.

  Both Chiara and I had insisted Fresca needed to hire a lawyer first thing. Liz and Bob agreed. But Fresca refused. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she’d said, “and I won’t act like I did.”

  I’d never considered my mother naive, until now. Or maybe I was jaded, by city life and too much late-night TV.

  Only a couple of Jewel Bay lawyers still had active practices, and both declined to represent her. They’d known Claudette, and one had been at the Festa Friday night, which they termed a conflict of interest. So I phoned a criminal lawyer in Pondera who’d been in the store a few times. She sounded sympathetic and interested, so I made an afternoon appointment.

  Then I called a man my father had known—not a close friend, but he’d always seemed smart, and I’d read newspaper accounts of his victories. Yes, he could see Fresca this afternoon as well.

  That taken care of, I sipped coffee from my travel mug and nibbled on one of Sunday’s abandoned scones. Time to review our accounts. We were nearly making a profit, sooner than I’d projected—and that made the weekly book work a lot more fun.

  Give Claudette credit for trying to systematize the Merc’s records, but she hadn’t been able to break down Fresca’s resistance. I had a daughter’s leverage. We’d computerized inventory and sales, using software designed for startups, plus the iPad credit card reader. I also insisted that everyone who rented our certified kitchen keep production records, with a copy to me, so we could track usage and keep the Health Department happy. The younger vendors used a spreadsheet program, but Fresca disliked the computer, so for her, I’d created paper charts she filled in by hand, recording e
very batch of every product. I made her count how many jars she gave away and how many she took home. Before, she’d whip up a batch of red pepper and garlic tomato sauce and shelve it without knowing how many cases she’d made or what it cost. I’d shown her how record-keeping would help her watch expenses and trace which products turned a profit.

  “I track that in my head,” she’d said.

  “How’s that working out?” I’d replied. She’d rolled her eyes, but gone along.

  Last week’s sales had been good. Very good. Best weekend ever. Most customers bought several items, always a good sign. Added incentive to get cracking on plans for the Jam Club, a rewards program. I made a list of suppliers to call for more product. Posted a Facebook status update thanking folks for the Festa’s success, with a reminder about Food Underfoot, the wild food and herb walk and demo coming up. Retweeted Festa updates from Dragonfly and the Bayside Grille.

  Except for the plywood window, the dead ex-employee, and the deputy sheriff’s threats to arrest my mother, life was good.

  * * *

  My coffee had gone cold, so I ran next door for a double latte. Returned with two, plus a pain au chocolat for me and a plain croissant for Fresca. She sat at the counter, recipe binder open and a note pad in front of her. She cooks on Monday and Tuesday, and her first step is always making a list of ingredients. But the pad was blank, and she stared into space. I gave her breakfast and a printout showing our inventory of her sauces and pastas, and pointed out where we were low.

  “Exactly what I thought, without your fancy programs and ana—what do you call it?”

  “Analytics.” Pretty basic, actually, but who could blame her for being in a sour mood? I didn’t think Kim’s evidence amounted to much, but Fresca didn’t know Chiara and I had eavesdropped on a private conversation, and she hadn’t revealed the particulars, so I kept my lips zipped.

  But when I told her about the appointments with the lawyers, she was firm. “No.”

  “Mom, don’t you think you should be prepared?”

  Clearly, she did not.

  I tried again. “Is there somebody you’d rather call? Someone in Pondera?” Pronounced “Pon-duh-ray” by locals. “Or Missoula—that guy from Chiara’s class is a big-shot lawyer down there.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer. You may be manager of the Merc, but I am still your mother, and it is my life, and I said no.”

  Why so stunningly vehement? Simple denial? Was she hiding something? Protecting someone?

  None of that made any sense.

  “Gotcha, loud and clear.” I couldn’t say more without admitting we’d spied on her. Still, we had time. If Kim turned up the heat, we could call the lawyers then.

  When I told my boss at SavClub why I was leaving, she’d given me her blessing, along with a warning about going into business with family. “All your buttons will get pushed, regularly. You’ll need to set firm boundaries.”

  That goes both ways. But when someone you love won’t do what you’re certain is right—well, sometimes you have to push back.

  * * *

  Tracy arrived, dressed appropriately today in a long navy skirt and a cream loose-weave sweater that suited her stocky build. First task: restocking shelves. We had gaps from goods sold and gaps from goods damaged. We were low on several kinds of jam, gnocchi, and pumpkin ravioli. The fresh mozzarella was gone and, of course, the olive tapenade.

  Goody, goody.

  Fresca hadn’t gotten very far on her list of supplies. My heart ached, seeing her dejection. But if an angel with a platinum American Express card came hunting locally sourced groceries for the clan’s family reunion, I was not going to let her walk out thinking we couldn’t deliver the goods.

  “I’m off to the bank,” I called, waving the zippered vinyl deposit bag. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.” After the last few days, a little humor seemed in order. Alas, no one else thought so.

  I strolled up Front Street past Le Panier and Chez Max. Past the Playhouse, which reminded me of the paver. At the corner, I waved at Kathy, out sweeping the Dragonfly’s sidewalk, and headed up Hill Street.

  So great to be part of this little town, despite its unimaginative street names. At SavClub—like any corporate conglomerate—I rarely got to see my plans come to life. You line them out and hand them off to other people, and go on to the next project, hoping someone tells you what worked and what didn’t. Here, you’re idea person and trash picker—I scooped up a stray plastic water bottle—rolled into one. And as the Festa demonstrated, the risks might be higher, but so were the rewards.

  Jewel Bay Bank and Trust had opened in 1910, the same year as Murphy’s Mercantile. It had long outgrown the original sandstone structure, but managed to keep functioning with a tasteful addition and a branch up on the highway.

  While the teller checked my deposit, I checked my phone. I hadn’t told Kim about Claudette’s message, and I hadn’t returned Adam Zimmerman’s call. Both made me feel a little guilty. Before I could decide who to call first, I felt someone watching me, and turned.

  Linda Vincent. If looks could kill . . . No crime lab could detect that.

  She stalked past me to the next teller, the spiky heels of her black pumps clattering on the slate floor. I admired her ability to walk in them. But her heel caught in a gap between tiles and she nearly went down, catching hold of the counter to steady herself. She turned and glared, as if her fall were my fault.

  “Here you go, Erin.” The teller handed me my deposit bag. “What a great weekend. Loved the jazz, and all the kids’ stuff. We’re seeing lots of happy merchants this morning, too.”

  “Thanks.” I gestured toward the other woman, who stood on one foot, clutching her twisted ankle. “Thank Linda, too. She organized the concerts and recruited the volunteers.”

  Linda’s burning stare followed me out the heavy doors. No doubt she thought I was being facetious, after her spat with Chiara on Saturday night. Or did her aggravation stem from something else?

  In a small town, it seems like everything has something to do with everything else.

  * * *

  I was on the phone with Jen at the vineyard, cadging for more Viognier, when the front door chimed. Not many men shop alone at the Merc, and never on Monday mornings. Early thirties, blond, clean-shaven, about six-two. Built like he might have played college football. The Grizzlies won back-to-back national titles while I was at UM, and I’d never gone to a game. Maybe I should have. Our eyes met, and though I was sure I had never seen him before, a flash of recognition shot through me. He stepped forward, a question on his face, then spotted the phone in my hand. I gestured to Tracy, who offered him help. On the other end of the line, Jen dithered over whether she could make a delivery or maybe she could spare two cases if I could pick them up and didn’t I want more Chardonnay and what about cherry, wasn’t that always a hit with the tourists?

  Maybe the inventory issues had stemmed from Jen’s indecision, not Claudette’s mistakes. While I listened to Jen, Tracy showed our visitor the shop and answered questions I couldn’t hear. Her animated gestures and expression made her appreciation for him clear.

  “So, that’s a case of dry cherry, one of Chardonnay, and two Viognier. And a case of elderberry, to replace the bottles that got broken. I’ll pay you full retail for the broken bottles.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t have to do that.” Her tone said she really hoped I would, despite her protests.

  “It’s only fair,” I said. “I’ll run down later in the week.”

  “Looks like you had some trouble.” The visitor gestured at the plywood.

  “Expect the unexpected. My new mantra.” I held out my hand. “Erin Murphy. How can I help you?”

  He held my gaze as we shook hands. Nice gaze he had, and I felt it take me in—with interest, not intrusion. “Rick Bergstrom, Montana Gold Grain. Sorry to
hear about your loss. That must have been a shock.” We both glanced at the countertop memorial. The flowers needed water. “This may be a bad time for a sales call, but you requested information through our website, and I was in the area.”

  “Thanks. And the timing’s fine. We’re always looking for new products, and we’d love to carry organic, Montana-grown flours and grains. My mother, Francesca Conti Murphy, makes our pastas, and she’s interested in your semolina. Maybe the spelt and amaranth flours, too.”

  “Semolina straight or blended?”

  “On the rocks,” I said with a laugh. “You’re gonna have to have that conversation with her.”

  A blue button-down may be favored by salesmen to project sincerity, but it also complemented his Big Sky blue eyes.

  “I brought samples,” he said, indicating a sturdy carton labeled MONTANA GOLD. “We’ve also got baking and cereal mixes, and we just launched a line of ready-made breads and crackers. All grown and milled in Montana, mostly in the Golden Triangle.”

  The north-central part of the state, fine farming country. No wonder he looked so—well, wholesome, though that is not a word I often use to describe an attractive man.

  “Let’s finish that tour.” I showed him some of my favorite products, described our philosophy, and explained the certified kitchen. He paid attention, asked questions, watched me closely.

  Tracy interrupted with a customer’s question about sulfites in the wine. While I talked to them, Rick continued scanning our shelves, reading labels.

  “It’s the only place like it in the state,” I told him a few minutes later. “We’re giving small producers a chance to break into the market, without breaking the bank. At the same time, we’re helping customers find the real Montana food they want.”

  “It’s got potential.”

  That word again. I felt my guard go up, unsure of his meaning.

  “So here’s a sample of what we’ve got,” he said, unpacking on the kitchen counter bags and boxes that bore the company’s simple but uninspired logo.

  I looked it over. “I’ll have to say no to the bread, with a bakery next door. And flour won’t be a big seller, with so many of our customers tourists, but I’d like to give it a try. The mixes will be popular.”