Death Al Dente

by Leslie Budewitz

  Besides, as my mother said last night about restaurants, Jewel Bay hardly needed another coffee shop, especially off-season.

  Ah, last night. I’d pushed my mother to tell Kim about the phone call—the irony after my own snooping not escaping me—and she’d finally agreed to think about it. If Kim had discovered it already, Fresca’s silence would have raised more suspicions. But who else had she seen?

  “That’s my own business,” my mother had insisted, “and no one else’s.”

  But when murder’s involved, the rules change.

  I consider myself a creature of good habits when it comes to food, but variety is the spice and all that—and a change in habit might shift my perspective. So I chose a pain au raisin instead of my usual. Just as I started to push the door with my elbow, it swung open and I stopped before dousing Jeff Randall, Claudette’s ex-husband, with hot coffee.

  “Sorry.” We spoke at the same time.

  “It’s so awful,” I said. “We’re so sorry.” Behind him, Ian radiated pain and loneliness.

  He nodded. “Must have been hard on you, finding her. We’ve heard the gossip, and we don’t for a moment think Fresca had anything to do with it. She would never hurt anyone. They were friends, and friendship matters.”

  As his father spoke, a shadow crossed Ian’s face, so like his mother’s. His jaw clenched, and below his close-cropped hairline, his neck pulsed. Oh, the mix of emotions: shock, anger, grief, betrayal. I well remembered.

  “The memorial service is scheduled now. Thursday afternoon,” Jeff said. “I hope you both will come.”

  “Of course. Thank you for not believing the rumors.” If Claudette’s own family refused to suspect my mother, surely Kim would look elsewhere.

  They ordered, and we chatted about life in Seattle, traveling in Asia—small nothings to fill the gap Claudette’s death left. I asked Ian about school—still thinking drama at UM, or in Seattle? I’d left my own theatric ambitions behind, but was genuinely curious about his. Had he seen any Kabuki theater or Chinese opera in their travels? Though we were about the same size—Jeff was not a big man, and Claudette had been tiny—Ian seemed to stare past me, arms crossed, uninterested in chitchat. At nineteen, he was barely older than I’d been when my father died. A hit-and-run was traumatic, but it wasn’t murder. No comparison, really.

  Or was there? I wasn’t an only child like Ian, but my brother and sister had already flown the coop. The family—both Murphys and Contis—had rallied around us, but when they went back home, whether to California or five miles down the lake, it had been my mother and me, alone together, in the house that suddenly seemed far too big. That seemed empty without my father’s steadiness.

  The fresh grief in Ian’s eyes made my heart ache, though whether for his loss or mine, I couldn’t say.

  “Here you go,” Wendy called, and Ian stepped to the counter. I started to tell Jeff what a great kid he had, but the exhaustion on his face silenced me. Too much sympathy can be as difficult as too little.

  Ian handed Jeff a cup and paper bag. “Do either of you know what Claudette was planning to do next? When she came back from Vegas?”

  “No idea.” Jeff sounded baffled. But Ian looked like there’d been a goldfish in his cappuccino and he wasn’t sure whether to swallow or spit it out.

  It isn’t squealing if someone guesses. “Was she planning to start a restaurant?”

  He looked like he didn’t want to respond, but saw that his father was waiting for the answer, too.

  “Not start. Take over.” He stared at his feet.

  “Which place?” Nothing in the village was publicly for sale, but I didn’t know about the rest of town. And the right offer could always be persuasive.

  But he didn’t know. “Where are you staying?” I asked.

  Jeff answered. “At Claudette’s house. It’s Ian’s now, until we figure out what to do with it.”

  Of course. “Good, good. I’m sure it’s nice to be home. I bet the neighbors are glad it isn’t sitting empty.”

  “Mrs. Taylor is nice, but her other neighbor’s a creep,” Ian said. Wendy’s grandmother—I’d forgotten. And James Angelo. “He gave Mom a hard time.”

  “About what?” But Ian’s tongue had loosened all it would. He shrugged, and said no more.

  “We’ll see you Thursday. I’m sure Fresca would be glad to help with lunch after the service.”

  “We’d like that,” Jeff said. “Claudette would like that.”

  I blinked back a tear.

  * * *

  What restaurant had Claudette been eyeing? I carried my coffee and bun up to the office and mentally ticked them off. In the village, Chez Max, the Inn, Applause!, and the Bayside Grille were all chef-owned and set for the long haul. The others all appeared to be in safe hands. None of the cafés and casinos on the highway were a likely option, either.

  I sipped my latte. What about that shuttered place north of town? It had undergone half a dozen incarnations, none successful. Bad feng shui, Liz said. Bad food, Fresca said.

  Tracy arrived a few minutes later, Diet Coke and white grocery store bakery bag in hand. Time for me to go a-snooping.

  First stop, kitchen shop. Heidi kept her bejeweled fingers on the hidden pulse of the village.

  “Heidi, can you get real estate info from your hunky pal?” She answered with a slow, sly smile. “Say a person wanted to buy a restaurant in town. What’s available?”

  “You are not buying a restaurant.” A statement, not a question.

  “Not me. Claudette. When she was alive.”

  “No way. No money. Unless she had a partner. Who would have to be crazy,” she said. “Claudette Randall was a delightful woman and as flaky as a box of Wheaties.”

  “And you told my mother so.”

  “Francesca makes her own decisions. I take no pleasure in having been right.”

  So why had Fresca been blind to Claudette’s faults? Or hired her despite them?

  On the sidewalk outside, I debated my next move. I needed to know Claudette’s plans, her movements Friday afternoon, and who’d been repeating the stories about Claudette, Fresca, and me.

  A restaurant owner might know who was buying and selling. Much as I love Max, it wouldn’t be fair to pepper him with questions given Wendy’s reticence. But Ray Ramirez at the Bayside Grille—like half the town, I thought of it as “the Grillie”—was a straight shooter, and friendly.

  The Grille mixed modern with Western decor for a look both warm and breezy: birch tables, driftwood hanging from the ceiling, abstracts and landscapes in bold colors on the walls. It felt handcrafted, and so did the food.

  The breakfast rush had ended, though the dawdlers still nursed their coffee. Ray’s huevos rancheros are killer, but I couldn’t let food deter me from my mission. A pass-through separated the kitchen from the front counter, where I took a seat and caught Ray’s attention.

  “Rock and roll all weekend,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We don’t usually do so well this early in summer—thanks.”

  “Great. Quick question. A chef friend from Seattle’s thinking about a move, opening his own restaurant. Any possibilities around here?”

  “That place north of town is empty again.” He squinted, thinking. “I bet the guy at the golf course would sublease in a heartbeat—great room, tough location. Oh, and the old marina, but that kitchen needs a serious overhaul.”

  “Heard talk of anyone interested? My friend might like a partner.” If my friend existed.

  He shook his head. Behind him, in the kitchen, my eye lit on someone I totally did not expect to see. “Angelo’s working for you?”

  “Yeah. You know, the guy’s not a half-bad cook. I needed help, and he’s still got evenings free for catering.”

  “Did he help you Friday night?”

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p; “Don’t think so.” His brow creased as he thought. “Yeah, yeah, he did, but prep only. He was gone by four, four thirty.”

  And stopped at the drugstore on his way—where? The swing gate opened and Angelo zipped out. “Ray, got a moment? I was thinking . . .” And then he spotted me. “What are you doing here? Tailing me all over town?”

  “Just checking in after the weekend,” I said. “Finding out what worked about the Festa, what didn’t.” Other than murder. “Congrats on the new job.”

  Angelo glowered, turned, and flew back into the kitchen. Ray shrugged, brown eyes placid. “Temperamental. Goes with the territory sometimes.”

  I murmured agreement. Did that signal a violent streak?

  Next stop, Puddle Jumpers. Every town has an owner like Sally. Or two, if the karma’s bad. Nothing’s ever right. No one listens to her. A clique calls the shots and plays favorites. When the Merchants Association hangs flower baskets on the lampposts, she complains that the one by her shop is ugly.

  Blah, blah, blah.

  But if I remembered right, Claudette had worked there once. What better launching pad for rumors?

  “Oh, how cute.” I fingered a hot pink sundress with white straps and green-and-white polka dots. “Makes me wish I were five again.”

  “It hung there all weekend and I only sold three.”

  Leaving one on the rack. Ohhh-kay. You can’t please some people. “Hey, just wanted to check on you. I know you were friends with Claudette, and it’s all so sad.”

  Sally was carefully dressed and made up, the oversized diamonds in her ears complementing her short, moussed, and frosted curls. But her features and her eyes had turned bitter long ago. “Well, it’s convenient for you.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Sally was defiant, her glare hard as steel. “With her gone, no one can prove what your mother did to her.”

  One wheel in the rumor mill identified. “Which was what, exactly?”

  “You know. Took advantage of her talent, her ideas, her hard work. Ran her off with no warning.”

  “Claudette left on her own, to chase Elvis dreams with Dean.”

  Her eyes darkened and she pursed her lips before speaking. “And you don’t think your mother encouraged her?”

  First I’d heard of that. “Fat chance. Fresca trusted Dean about as far as she could throw him.”

  A trio of well-heeled grandmothers entered, chattering over the cute clothes and toys. Sally’s bread-and-butter, and I didn’t dare stand between her and a sale. But her parting look as I walked out said I’d learn no more from her, no matter how many questions I asked.

  A sign of the temperature in the village, or Sally’s usual malcontent?

  I sighed and pushed open the florist’s door. The oversized worktable in the back screamed bad idea. It was deep with gladioluses in white, coral, and deep red. Funeral flowers. The very sight of them sent me back to the high school gym where my father’s memorial service had been held. The death of a popular teacher in a hit-and-run was a tragedy for the town, not just my own family. He’d belonged to every kid who’d ever been in his classroom or on one of his sports teams, to their parents, to our friends and their parents, to every one who’d grown up going into Murphy’s Mercantile for groceries or to buy a quarter’s worth of double-chocolate malted milk balls from the glass canister on the front counter. But the very public grief had seemed to rob my family of our own time to mourn.

  Shake it off, Erin. It’s not like no one else is ever going to die in your life.

  I’d handled my father’s death well for years. But now, back in my hometown, with my mother and my former best friend caught up in another death, my defenses slipped.

  At the sight of the box filled with birds of paradise, I fled.

  • Sixteen •

  The knit and sew bug has never bitten me. But who doesn’t love wandering through quilt and yarn shops, filling your eyes with color, twining your way through magic? And though Jewel Bay calls itself The Food Lovers’ Village, Dragonfly Dry Goods is a key ingredient in the town’s appeal.

  For me, it was respite after my confrontations with Angelo and Sally. As always, I drooled mentally over the quilt hanging behind the cutting table: a kaleidoscopic dragonfly hovering above garden green foliage, all made more vibrant by the black background and red-and-gold fabric frame. While Kathy cut yardage and chatted with her customer about a quilt project, I stroked lustrous mohair from Angora goats raised at the foot of Jewel Basin, in the mountains east of town, and touched a skein of kid mohair to my cheek. Softer than Sandburg, though I wouldn’t tell him.

  Her customer left, and her gray eyes turned sympathetic. “That bad, huh?”

  “I need to solve this crime before the whole town turns against Fresca.”

  She rewrapped and pinned the bolts she’d just cut. “Strong women aren’t always popular.”

  “Claudette worked here before she went to Red’s, right? What happened?”

  “Too many mistakes. Measuring fabric was like rocket science to her.”

  I smiled. “I mean, at Red’s.”

  She cocked her head. “My impression was she wanted to work more closely with your mother and Tracy. And restaurant work is hard.”

  “She said that? So why would she want to go back to it?” I told her what I knew.

  “Sounds crazy to me. I never heard Claudette express any entrepreneurial ambition.” Neither had anyone else. But there were those Facebook posts. “Wish I could help you more, Erin. But I don’t listen to talk. Rumor doesn’t sell yarn.”

  If the killer were local, and not random—as Kim seemed convinced—maybe the key question was not who would benefit from killing Claudette, but who would benefit from casting suspicion on my mother.

  At that thought, a firecracker exploded in my chest.

  A pair of full-figured middle-aged women entered and beelined for a yummy display of yarn. Hand-spun, hand-painted colorways inspired by the West, according to the sign.

  “Thanks, Kath.” I left Dragonfly and trudged back to the Merc, mulling over the various threads and threats. My mother hired Claudette to manage the Merc against the advice of her friends, all successful business owners. Claudette was gathering info on restaurant management and told her son she planned to take over an existing operation, but she had minimal experience and no cash—and no local joints were for sale. With Ian out of high school, she had few ties to Jewel Bay—but I’d uncovered nothing to suggest she had her eyes on another town.

  The aroma of fresh bread brought me back to the present. Despite her closed mouth—or because of it—Wendy did hear a lot about the goings-on in town. Getting her to talk could crack things open. I popped in, but the young woman at the counter—a member of the summer Playhouse stage crew at night—said she was elbow-deep in dough. Later.

  In deference to her grief, I hadn’t quizzed Tracy about the rumors or Claudette’s plans. Might be time. Buttonhole her now, or query Old Ned?

  Before I could decide, a white truck outfitted with racks and huge sheets of glass pulled up in front of the Merc.

  “This would be the place,” the driver said, eyeing my plywood window.

  “This would be the place,” I agreed.

  The crew had obviously done this before, but it was all new to me, so I watched the painstaking—or panes-taking—process from a safe distance. First, they carefully removed the plywood and broken glass. The sight of those sharp edges pricked my skin. They fitted the replacement window onto a roller, glided it across the sidewalk, then lifted it into place using powerful suction cups. Two men kept their grip on the bottom, and I held my breath while the third tipped the glass up against the back frame, using heavy tape to hold it secure. Next, he reinstalled the wooden stops. I couldn’t help noticing that the old wooden trim needed a touch-up. One more project for the list.
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br />   One man cleaned the glass while the others packed their gear. Finally, they popped open frosty water bottles and leaned against their truck to catch their breath and admire their work.

  I fetched them each a jar of jam as thanks. Nobody ever refuses.

  Talk about an instant mood lift. Light poured in and the gloom that had clung to the Merc the last few days vanished.

  So, unfortunately, had my opportunity to chat up Old Ned before his lunch rush. He’d be flipping burgers and boiling waffle-cut potatoes in oil for at least another hour. And I couldn’t talk to Tracy, either. With no one else to watch the shop, any probing conversation would have to wait.

  Tuesdays aren’t hot for tourist traffic. Last week’s visitors are on the road to elsewhere, and the new crop hasn’t arrived yet. But inside the Merc, Tracy held a picnic basket for a woman in white crops and a royal purple sweatshirt. Their conversation mirrored our talk about helping customers create a meal with our products—not pick out odd ingredients they didn’t have a use for. She might not be committed yet to the Mission, but I sensed progress.

  And maybe she was getting over her resentment of me.

  In the kitchen, I found Fresca organizing for a sauce-making stint. “Erin, darling, where have you been? Go out to Rainbow Lake Garden for me and pick up tomatoes and basil. And eggs. I’ve already called Johanna and told her you’re on your way.”

  We’d agreed she would let me make the orders, but I didn’t have the heart to chide her. Better to see the Fresca we all knew and loved back—at least for a while.

  “And no one would even know we carry cheese—we’re wiped out,” she continued, deep into command mode. “Swing by the Creamery on your way back.”

  Summertime, and the living is busy. I slid Jody Fisher’s CD into the player and cranked up the volume. Good stuff. On the dirt road that led to Rainbow Lake—not much more than a swimming hole—I closed my windows to keep out the dust, then turned at the rustic sign marking the farm lane. A movement on the right caught my eye and I braked. In the meadow, a tiny spotted fawn wobbled next to her mother. Behind her, a larger doe sized me up. Grandma, or an aunt, on guard duty.