Death Al Dente

by Leslie Budewitz

  “What’s wrong with it? Candace DeVernero. Good Italian name.”

  I howled. Poor, sweet Candy Divine.

  • Nineteen •

  When I emerged from the bathroom, after washing away tears of laughter, Rick Bergstrom stood by the front counter, holding a small carton. He looked as much like a sunny day on a farm as he had on Monday, but wore a sheepish expression.

  “Pasta flour. Two strains of semolina, and a bag of our semolina-durum blend. Plus a sample of our new spinach flour. Love to have your mother test it.”

  I took the box. “Thanks. She’ll be delighted.”

  “Hey, uh.” He glanced at the floor, then back at me. “I stepped in it the other day. Rode in on my high horse, and came off like a self-righteous pig.” Three farm animal metaphors in five seconds—impressive, even for a Montanan.

  “Yeah. You kinda did.” I smiled.

  “Can I buy you lunch and start over? I’d like to have your business, and well, maybe your friendship, too. If that’s possible.” The tip of his nose turned pink.

  Talk about unexpected. “I was a little prickly myself. Lunch would be great, but I’m alone in the shop.”

  Saved by the back door. Fresca and Tracy, looking relieved, reported visiting with both Jeff and Ian, who’d turned the corner toward full recovery. I introduced Fresca to Rick, and he gave her the rundown on the Montana Gold samples.

  “Bayside Grille?” Rick said as we headed out, leaving Tracy in charge. “They make their own bread and buns, and I promised Ray I’d drop in for a chat.”

  A few minutes later, we were sitting on the deck drinking minted iced tea, waiting for a Reuben and a sesame-seared ahi tuna salad with wasabi vinaigrette. Another gorgeous day, with three months of gorgeous days ahead. I could almost forget the cloud of trouble hovering over my family.

  Like me, Rick had angled his chair toward the bay and the stunning views beyond. No eligible men in sight since I had come home, and now two? Hold on, Erin. This is a business lunch, not a date. We talked flour and grains, and I gave him my thoughts on the samples. “Tracy loved the bagels—not too soft, but not too chewy. What’s the secret?”

  “In New York and L.A., the bagel shops and delis boil their bagels before baking. Traditional method, love it, but it creates a chewier texture than some people like. But if you steam them . . .” He grinned and spread his hands in a “voilà!” gesture.

  Lunch came, both my salad and Rick’s sandwich picture-perfect.

  “I couldn’t see myself living in California forever. The family business had grown to the point of needing an outside sales rep, so here I am.”

  “Did you go to college there?”

  “Bozeman,” he said around a bite of juicy-crisp pickle.

  “You’re a Bobcat?” I said in mock horror. “But you seemed like such a nice guy.”

  He grinned. “I take it you went to Missoula.”

  I drizzled tangy-sweet dressing over my salad, then speared a chunk of avocado. “Yes, but I left Montana after college, too. It’s a different world out there.”

  “Sure is. Terrific sauerkraut on this sandwich.”

  “They soak it in beer.”

  “No wonder I like it. They should bottle and sell it.” Our eyes met. Obviously, neither of our minds strayed very far from food or business.

  On our way out, Rick told Ray he’d be back in a few minutes with flour samples.

  “Hey, Jay. How you doing?” Rick called to someone in the kitchen. I turned reflexively, but all I saw was Angelo. I still needed to figure out why he’d called my mother. Later—I needed a plan first.

  “Wasn’t that Jay Walker?” Rick said on our way out.

  “What? That’s James Angelo. Or Chef Angelo, as he prefers.”

  “No way. He was in my sister’s class.” In a Hi-Line farm town a couple hundred miles away, not some urban Italian restaurant community, as he’d implied. “I’d swear it was him.”

  “Jay Walker? Really?” I suppressed a giggle.

  Rick shrugged. “Seven boys, one girl, he’s the youngest. I guess they ran out of names. Actually, his dad was the town drunk—probably his idea of a joke. The whole family seemed to pick on Jay. So did the kids at school.”

  “Takes the right personality to carry a goofy name.” Like a girl I grew up with, Polly Easter.

  “The name was the least of it. Some kids seem to invite bullying.”

  There’s one in every class. “Jay cooked in the Prairie Winds Café for a while, after high school, but what he did or where he went after that, I have no idea.”

  Knowing his real name, though, might give my research a boost.

  Outside Le Panier, Max and Wendy stood on the sidewalk, gesturing at their windows, discussing the display. As we approached, Rick spoke in a low voice. “She’s the baker, right? Can you introduce me?”

  Max greeted Rick warmly, always happy to meet someone new. When Rick extended his hand to Wendy, she paused before holding out her own, barely touching his fingers.

  “What’s eating her?” Rick said a minute later at the door of the Merc.

  I shrugged. “Who knows? Thanks for lunch. It’s been great. Should I make my order online, or call it in?”

  “You bet. Great. And I’ll call you for the order.” He took my right hand with his left and squeezed it slightly. Like a promise. But of what?

  As he turned back to his truck, his sport coat parted slightly and a glint of steel caught my eye. Another man, another knife clip.

  They were everywhere.

  * * *

  Rick’s apology set a good example. I certainly owed Tracy one.

  I fetched a Diet Coke from the private stash Tracy kept in our kitchen, and handed her the peace offering. “I come on a little strong sometimes. I apologize. But when you squeeze the can”—I cringed at the thought—“it’s like nails on a chalkboard. Stupid, I know, but you know how some sounds just send you through the roof?”

  Her stubborn expression turned to relief. “Is that all? I thought you were telling me not to drink it, and what a snob you are, and I was afraid I’d have to find a new job.” She reddened.

  “No! No, don’t quit. Don’t even think about it. We need you. But could you maybe buy your pop in plastic bottles instead?”

  “Piece of cake,” she said.

  “And I owe you some time off, but that might have to wait—early next week?”

  “I’ll probably spend it here, baking dog biscuits. They’re selling like crazy. And a new product I’m working on.”

  “Great.” We hugged.

  No sign of Fresca, which wasn’t all bad. I wasn’t sure I could take any more apologizing. Plus she owed me one for keeping secrets. But I did wonder where she’d gone to, and not just because we were almost out of egg pappardelle and spinach linguine, and the tapenade jars needed labeling.

  Tracy had found Candy Divine’s nougat and fruit jellies, washing them down with Diet Coke. I preferred a different treat and headed next door.

  Wendy stood behind the bakery counter. Her nostrils flared and her eyes flashed. “I thought you of all people would be more loyal to local producers and shop owners.”

  “What do you mean? I’m in here every day. We send you customers by the dozens.”

  “Our bread and rolls are a darned sight better than anything shipped in from halfway across the state, even if they send a slick salesman to wine and dine you.”

  For Pete’s sake. “Wendy, are you talking about Montana Gold? I’ll carry some of his products, but I’m not buying his bread. Yours is better. I told him I wouldn’t compete with you.”

  She raised her chin, jaws tight, eyes wary.

  “Wendy, you know we all prosper when we support each other.” I grinned. “So could I get a couple of hazelnut sablés?” I’d grown fond of a similar cookie at Pike Pla
ce Market in Seattle, and ate as many as my waistband allowed.

  She tucked two into a small white bag.

  “Thanks. Hey, you keep your ear on comings and goings, don’t you?” I explained about Claudette’s plans. “So if we knew what restaurant or building she had her sights on, and who her business partner was, that might give us some clues to who killed her, and why.”

  She crossed her arms and glowered. “I heard you talking to Jeff and Ian in here the other day. She fooled everyone. You all think Claudette was so sweet and innocent, duped by Dean.”

  I waited. As kids, of course, we’d called her Wendy the Witch—conveniently forgetting that cartoon Wendy was a Good Little Witch. But when had she actually become one?

  “She runs off with my friend’s husband, and everybody thinks it’s funny.”

  Wendy and Linda had cochaired the Saturday Night Gala. I hadn’t known they were friends, too.

  “And she was screaming up a storm last Friday, disturbing my grandmother, who’s ninety and not well. Well, you don’t care.”

  “Claudette yelled at your grandmother?” I was shocked.

  “No. At James, her other neighbor.” She tilted her head slightly. “If she was scouting for a restaurant, he might know which ones are changing hands. He’d like to run his own kitchen.”

  “Is that what they were arguing about?”

  She shook her head. “No idea. I just told them to shut up so Nana could rest.”

  I thanked her and took my cookies for a walk. Had Claudette and Angelo been planning to open a restaurant together? He as chef, she as manager? She knew the town well; he was fresh blood. They were neighbors—it would be natural for the subject to come up.

  But then, something went wrong. A million things could go wrong starting a business, or taking one over, as I well knew. Probably two million with a restaurant. They fought. And Angelo followed Claudette to the Festa.

  I’d reached the bridge at the south end of the village, and stood on the walking lane looking upstream at the Wild Mile. A kayaker in a red boat shot through the last rapid and raised his arms in victory before paddling to the takeout. Angelo—aka Jay Walker—had said he was on the river Friday night. What if he’d been right here and seen her drive into town? Then followed her—to talk, or to finish their argument—and they fought and he stabbed her.

  And he fled.

  It made perfect sense, except that I hadn’t a shred of evidence.

  Two things I still couldn’t figure out: If Claudette had gone to Vegas with Dean thinking the move was permanent, why not rent out her house or put it on the market? If the move had been an impulse, as everyone seemed to think, she may not have had time. Planning ahead was not her strong suit. That puzzle I could put aside.

  Everybody also thought she wouldn’t have left town if she hadn’t believed Dean was offering her a chance for a new life. Had she hatched the restaurant plan, getting business info from Ted, when she realized Dean was bailing on Elvis and coming home?

  No place for a knife on a kayaker in his wetsuit. Not until he was back in street clothes. No way to find out if Angelo carried one without a close-up look—after hours, when he wasn’t in chef garb.

  What else could I dig up about Jay Walker? Poor guy—no wonder he’d shed the past and adopted a nom de frying pan.

  Maybe I could ask Rick Bergstrom to tap into his own small-town roots and help me research.

  And the most important question: Would Kim Caldwell believe any of it? I’d have to move fast, before she closed in on Fresca.

  * * *

  First, I needed to confirm my suspicion that Claudette had been stabbed. I sat on a bench overlooking the river and fired up my phone. Not my usual field of research, but surely my friend Google knew all. I typed in “Lethal wound knife.”

  The most promising option was a doctor’s site with medical and forensic info for writers. Apparently most knife attacks came from behind, which made sense. But Claudette had been stabbed on the left side, which probably meant from the front. “A thrusting stab wound to the heart is lethal most of the time, and fairly quickly.” I read on, shivering despite the eighty-degree temp. Not much blood, unless an artery was severed. Which would explain the small stain I’d seen, and the lack of splatter on her dress and the ground.

  And on her killer.

  To get from her car to Red’s gate, Claudette would have either crossed the parking lot weaving between cars, or looped around the end of the lot, then come up the alley. I followed that route now. As I’d expected, it led directly past the garbage and recycling bins where I’d found her.

  How would she have been standing, to fall and land as she had? I lay on the ground and positioned myself as she’d lain, then tried to reverse-choreograph her movements.

  She’d been barely five feet tall. Even a small man towered over her. I pantomimed the possibilities, playing both victim and killer. I thrust an imaginary knife upward and got a chill. If anyone saw me, I’d pretend I was practicing Tai Chi. Wound on her left side meant a right-handed killer, which didn’t exactly narrow it down. An underhand thrust would slide in between the ribs. Bingo.

  I rose on my toes, imagining various height differences. A killer carrying a knife in his pocket, or on his belt, could slip it out, flick it open, and hit the target in seconds—whether he was practiced, or lucky.

  Had he watched in horror while she fell? Had he tried to help, run like a coward, or vanished into the crowd?

  Or she. Because my reenactment had proven that the killer could be almost anyone.

  Which didn’t help at all.

  • Twenty •

  The red geranium on our back gate drooped pitifully. I brought it into the courtyard for a drink, and pictured Liz’s ideas come to life. I still hadn’t had a chance to show my mother the sketches. We had a lot to talk about.

  A tour bus of visitors headed for Glacier Park for the annual opening of the Going-to-the-Sun Highway stopped in town, and we did a brisk business the rest of the afternoon.

  As the last group was leaving, the door opened and Landon sashayed in, wearing shorts, a Superman T-shirt, and a straw cowboy hat and scuffed brown boots.

  “Hey, bud,” a balding elderly man said, “I didn’t know Superman was a cowboy.”

  Landon gave him a withering look. “He wasn’t. But all cowboys are supermen.”

  The customer was either an accomplished actor or an experienced grandfather, judging by the micromovements in his face as he kept from bursting out laughing. “Got a point there, pardner.” The man tipped an imaginary hat at Landon and winked at me. I handed his wife a bag with her considerable purchases and they left, sharing a smile.

  “Do cowboys hug their aunties?” I said, crouching. “And where’s your mom?”

  He hugged me quickly, then remembered his errand. He pulled a green wad out of his pocket. “She needs ones.”

  I made the change, then walked outside with him. Chiara stepped out of her shop. I held Landon’s hand until it was safe to cross—he knew our routine—and blew him a kiss when he reached the other side.

  Tracy offered to stay late and help me finish restocking and rearranging, but I sent her home with the leftover candy samples and a bottle of cherry wine, and locked the doors.

  The jars of pesto still sat on the kitchen counter. We tossed empty boxes in the basement, so I headed down to find one. Tracy was right—a first-class creep hole. Despite the low ceilings, hand-hewn rock walls, and lack of windows, it hadn’t felt scary when I was a kid. I remembered coming down here with my dad many times. But then, his presence had always made me feel brave.

  I brushed a giant cobweb out of my hair, then shook the sticky mess off my fingers. Maybe we had something red down here to hang on the back gate. I found a box for the pesto and set it on the landing, then plunged farther into cobweb world.

  Our Friday
school colors displays, now on summer vacation, were primarily pennants and pom-poms, and not weatherproof. The Christmas decorations seemed like a better bet. A bell, or a lantern? Liz said human or animal shapes were best—did reindeer count? Snowmen and angels? I hadn’t worked Christmas at the Merc yet, so our organization scheme escaped me. No luck on the first two tries: silver and gold garland in one crate, ornaments and packages of holiday-themed napkins in the second. Decorations and store merchandise intermingled—what a mess.

  In the third carton, I found a vaguely familiar wooden box. Inside were four-by-six note cards covered with fading type. I flipped through them, pulling out a few. Recipe cards, mostly for sauces, pestos, and pastas much like the ones we sold upstairs. Others were for dishes based on those ingredients.

  But Fresca had never typed. Even now, she e-mailed and texted reluctantly. Her recipes had always been scribbles and notes no one else could decipher. Out of impatience, not fear of plagiarism. She’d worked out complete recipes years ago when she began catering and needed to replicate results from one large batch to the next. Handwritten, but at least they listed all the amounts and ingredients and could be followed by anyone. The binders upstairs brimmed with them.

  So what were these? Precursors, apparently, but who’d typed them?

  A spark of fear flashed in my brain. Did these cards prove the rumors true? I held the box shut and flipped it over. Hard to make out the initials in the dusty light. No doubt shop students still turned out similar projects, but the carving looked a lot closer to NM than IR.

  I carried the box upstairs and set it on the kitchen counter. Stared at it. Claudette had denied telling anyone Fresca had stolen her recipes when I’d confronted her, but would she have admitted it to me? But if they were hers, how had they gotten into Nick’s box?

  Oh, man, did my mother and I have a lot to talk about.

  * * *

  But first, finish my research.

  I made a quick salad, grabbed a minibaguette and artichoke pesto, and carried my tray to the office. Fired up Google and began stalking Jay Walker. A surprising number of men bore that name, often a nickname. Adding “Jewel Bay” didn’t help. Hadn’t Angelo cooked for a fancy joint in Missoula before moving here? No luck. I repeated it all on Facebook, and again got zippo.