Meanwhile, I had questions. If Angelo’s name wasn’t really Angelo, what else about him wasn’t right? “Trace, do you remember when James Angelo came to town?”
She poked a straw into her Diet Coke, twisting the tab over the opening so the holes lined up and held the straw in place. “I met him when he rented that little house next to Claudette’s. He started at Chez Max as a sous-chef, but it didn’t work out.”
“Didn’t I hear he cooked at the golf course, then started his Italian line and catering?”
“Yeah. After Max fired him. Claudette said he tried to persuade Max and Applause! to drop Fresca’s products and let him make some of their stuff, but no chance.”
The tomato and pepper sauces, pastas, and other items Fresca made for our commercial accounts were critical to the bottom line. Local sourcing allowed restaurants to cut prep time and boost their “brag factor.” Angelo’s interference was relevant history I hadn’t known. “Which set him on a collision course with Fresca. Anyone go with him?”
“No. Seems crazy to launch a business, then behave so badly you alienate the movers and shakers.”
“My impression is you have to be a real jerk not to get along with Max, but you also have to be a real cook. His menu’s more demanding than Ray’s.” I started a pot of Rick Bergstrom’s Wheat Coffee and got out the sample-sized paper cups. Spotted a purple wrapper from the huckleberry chocolates in the wastebasket. Tracy was right—we needed a replacement soon.
I added a mental note about Angelo to my list of things to discuss with Fresca.
Had that misstep sparked his fight with Claudette? Seemed unlikely—she’d left the Merc months ago, so why would she care now? With Dean’s deception, she’d had plenty of new problems on her mind.
Or had she known his secret, whatever it was? What would he have done to protect it?
“Wonder if Dean and Linda will show their smarmy faces at the memorial service,” Tracy said, twisting a lock of hair.
“They have to, if they don’t want everyone in town talking about his affair.” Or suspecting them of murder. “Sometimes you have to show up, to shut people up.”
“I told her not to go to Las Vegas.”
“Must have sounded like an adventure. Claudette loved to have fun.”
She teared up and I fetched a box of tissue. “I told her,” she said, “never move for a man just because you’re afraid of being alone. She said don’t assume she was making a mistake just because I had, that Dean wasn’t like Mitch. She said not to begrudge her happiness and now she’s dead. And she came back and she didn’t tell me or call me and I never saw her alive again.”
At least Tracy’d had reason to be angry with Claudette. I’d been ticked at my dad over some teenage tantrum, some “no” I hadn’t wanted to hear.
I hugged her and handed her the tissue box. Anger plus sudden death equals longtime guilt.
* * *
Tracy opened the shop, and Fresca came in to prepare the funeral food we’d promised. First, though, she read me the riot act for not telling her about the spaghetti sauce incident, and made me promise to install a security system at the Merc. I didn’t bother pointing out that it would not have detected vandalism in the parking lot.
I snuck upstairs to see if any of Claudette’s friends had responded to my message. Several had. No surprise—they’d all loved her, couldn’t believe the news. None expressed any fondness for Dean. One called meeting Claudette the highlight of the class. I printed that message to share at the service.
How is it, wrote a man whose profile picture bore an uncanny resemblance to the King, that a dud of a dude winds up with such a dandy girlfriend?
I’d never thought of it quite that way. Apparently as undistinguished an aspiring Elvis as he was a healer, Dean had attracted two fun-loving, sparkly women. Who had little else in common, besides being foodies who couldn’t cook. Claudette had been sweet, if unreliable, and Linda was a harpy. Of course, Linda’s husband had run off with another woman in a very public way. That would mess up anyone’s mood.
She must really love him, to take him back and to defend him. In protecting him, she was also protecting their daughters. Linda Vincent as noble protector was a hard one to swallow. Keeping “Dr. Dean” off the stage and in the chiropractic office benefitted her financially as well.
The final message snagged my eye. So sad. Hanging out with Claudette by the pool, it was obvious things weren’t going the way she hoped. Too bad Dean couldn’t appreciate her—but what else could you expect?!!?
Meaning what? I replied, saying Dean had resumed his practice while waiting for a job offer.
A call to the College of Impersonation got me nowhere. “We don’t discuss our students with anyone except potential employers, and then only with a release. Privacy concerns,” said a woman who sounded eerily like Bette Midler.
I understood, but we were talking about how well a guy swiveled his hips and mimicked classic rock and roll, not state secrets. And whether the school had observed any trouble “at home.” This was murder, after all.
“We’re sorry. We simply can’t comment. And we already told the detective—what was her name?”
Ah. Kim and I may not be sharing pages, but at least we were on the same one.
I flipped back to FB before shutting down. Dean’s classmate had replied to my message: Delusions of grandeur. Hound dog.
Enough said.
• Twenty-two •
We were twenty minutes early, but Pine Meadow Lodge was already two-thirds full. Rows of chairs filled the middle of the large room, ringed by tables. French doors stood open to the glorious afternoon.
Fresca and Chiara delivered the fruit skewers and tortellini salad to the serving area, while Tracy and I found seats. Up front, Jeff sat with an older couple—probably his parents—and a petite woman with hair like Claudette’s. Her sister? Ian sat at the end of the row. Thank God his grandparents hadn’t come for a double funeral.
The minister who’d knelt with me in Back Street stood before us. He had the gift of making people comfortable even before he spoke.
“Claudette would want us to celebrate,” he said. “To laugh and play. To throw a party she’d hate to miss.” Jeff’s father told a side-splitting story about meeting her the first time. Her sister, who shared her size and fashion taste, described shopping together in the juniors department and Claudette’s response to the clerks who assumed they were shopping for their daughters. Some stories were poignant, and few eyes stayed dry when Jeff spoke about their years together and their love for Ian.
The minister invited the rest of us to share a few words. I glanced at Fresca, but she gave a quick, decisive shake “no.” This part of a service always unbalances me. Like I was sixteen again, with every weepy high school girl who’d ever had a crush on my dad acting like she’d be marked forever by his death, and every teenage boy whom he’d coached shuffling his feet, having no words for what he felt.
There had been no room for my words.
Which meant I needed to speak now. I rubbed my tattooed stars and cleared my throat. “Claudette was a friend to my family in more ways than I ever knew when she was alive.” I told a story about going to dinner at Claudette’s with Fresca once on a visit home. The power had gone out, so she tried to bake the lasagna on the grill, with results anyone else would have predicted, and everyone laughed. “One of her new friends, from Las Vegas, told me that meeting her was the highlight of the trip. I’m sure we all know exactly how he felt.”
The service closed with a prayer, and friends of Ian’s played a guitar and flute duet that reminded me of the first songbirds of spring. Fresca gripped my hand and I reached for my sister’s.
Jeff’s father invited everyone to stay for lunch, to celebrate life as Claudette had, with friends, food, and laughter. And with color: Each table held clusters of potted pansies for us to take home.
“I don’t need to,” she whispered back, “and neither do you. That’s why Kim’s here.”
I followed her gaze to Kim. Today’s ensemble—black slacks and a black-and-white houndstooth jacket—complemented her short blond hair. Coincidence that she was watching us at that moment? Yeah, right. I waved.
If the killer were here, he’d blend in well—half the village had come. I spotted Heidi and Kathy standing together, Sally standing alone, the owners of Applause! chatting with Mimi and Tony from the Jewel Inn, Serena from the salon, and almost every other shop and restaurant owner. The Taylor and Fontaine families were all accounted for, including Wendy’s itty-bitty half-blind grandmother.
Linda and Dean Vincent stood at a tall table in the corner. He’d dressed doctor-casual today, and Linda wore a surprisingly appropriate peach linen dress, though her Roman sandals with four-inch wedge heels marred the effect. They seemed to be watching everyone else the way we were watching them. Was he wondering which classmate I’d talked to? Let him.
As I watched, two slender girls with long blond hair joined them. Linda slid an arm around one girl and kissed her on the cheek. “Their daughters?”
“Cassandra in the green dress, Jessica in blue. They just graduated. Jess is going to the same art school I went to,” Chiara said. “I don’t know Cassie’s plans.”
As I reached the round table where Fresca sat with Ted and Old Ned, Heidi stopped me, hand on my arm. “No restaurants are listed,” she said. “I asked around, but no one, not even my broker friend, knows of any for sale on the QT. Sorry.”
“Thanks,” I said, and pulled out a chair next to the Redaways. I’d always viewed Ned as a straightforward guy, and his encouragement of the Merc’s new direction seemed genuine. So why did they want our building? Not the time to ask.
“Girlie, your little car okay?” Ned said as I sat. “What is going on in this town?”
“The fingerprint powder was worse than the tomato sauce. But nothing soap and water couldn’t fix.”
Ted seemed a shadow of his hearty self. I smiled in sympathy. Claudette had been his friend and coworker, too.
“Ned, Friday night, you were out front greeting people, right?” He nodded, fork halfway to his mouth. “Did you see Dean and Linda Vincent arrive?”
He thought a moment, then shook his head. “Couldn’t say, girlie. Too many folks milling around—they all run together.”
“No crashers? No strangers?”
“They wouldn’t dare.”
“True.”
The gathering almost felt like any other party in a town full of parties. To my relief, no one seemed worried about eating Fresca’s food—meaning no one suspected her in Ian’s illness.
Angelo stood alone, cradling a cup of coffee. Like most of the men here, he wore khakis and a sport coat that would probably hide any sign of a knife on his belt or pocket, even if I were close enough to check.
Fresca gave me the signal to leave. At the door, Jeff and Ian accepted hugs and condolences. Cassie Vincent stood behind Ian, one nail-bitten hand on his shoulder. Were they dating?
“Sweetie, you had us all so scared.” Fresca kissed Ian tenderly. Eyes wide, skin damp and flushed in all the wrong places, he avoided her look and said nothing. Cassie’s grip on his shoulder tightened. Aside to Jeff, Fresca asked, “Any word yet on what it was?”
“All I can say is, thank God the dose was too small to kill us. Either he didn’t know what he was doing, or he just meant to scare us.”
“He?” I said.
Jeff shrugged. “Or whoever. Thanks so much for coming.”
* * *
We got back to the Merc too late to bother opening. I sent Tracy home and got a wet rag to wipe a few stray tomato splatters off my car. When I came inside, Fresca had donned her cooking clothes and begun transforming the kitchen into Production Central. She handed me a large stainless steel bowl.
“Put those eggs in here to come to room temperature, then set up the drying racks.” She snapped the dough hook into the mixer with a satisfying thunk.
“You’re making pasta now? I was hoping to show you Liz’s sketches for the courtyard.” And find out more about your history with Claudette, and that box of recipes in the basement, and what on earth you’ve been doing the last few days, besides avoiding me and my questions.
She crouched to retrieve the pasta roller from its cabinet. “Later, darling. It’s time I got back to work.”
“But you could be here all night.”
“Better than staying home and throwing myself another pity party. The shelves are empty, and Max wants fettuccine for his weekend specials.”
Had Claudette’s service triggered a change in mood, or was Fresca taking her own advice to act as if she felt like whipping up a storm of spaghetti? Didn’t matter. I did as directed.
But then I pushed my luck. “So now will you hire a lawyer?”
“No reason, darling. Get out of here. I have herbs to chop.”
The first batch would be ready before long, and there’s nothing like brand-new fettuccine boiled briefly and drizzled with freshly grated Parmesan and butter or olive oil. But I’d been dismissed.
On the side street, around the corner from the Merc, is a tiny hole-in-the-wall where Jewel Bay’s resident herbalist keeps a treasure trove of natural remedies. Sixty-fivish, with neatly trimmed gray hair and the slight stoop of a tall man who’s been leaning in to listen to shorter folk all his life, Bill Schmidt was not your typical hippy herbalist. A world-renowned authority on wild foods and medicinal plants of the Northern Rockies, he often closes shop to spend the day foraging, regardless of weather, if some plant or another is ripe for the picking. I’d been thrilled when he agreed to share his expertise at the Merc.
The smells of earth and spice enveloped me the moment I stepped inside. Bill emerged from the back room, a bundle of moxa sticks in hand. “Ah, Erin.” His voice held gentleness, as though his hours in the woods had worn off the edges. He gripped my hand and met my gaze with clear, patient blue eyes. “I trust you’re well.”
“Just here to confirm our plans for Friday afternoon’s walk and demonstration, and find out what supplies you need.”
“Depends what nature’s grocery and pharmacy is offering this week. Let’s go check out my other office.” He gestured toward the door.
One of Jewel Bay’s many glories is the Nature Trail, aka the River Road, above the Jewel River. Originally the homesteaders’ road into town, it had long ago been replaced by the Cutoff, the narrow highway on the other side of the river, and fell into disuse. In my kidhood, volunteers—including my dad and his brothers—worked out an easement with the power company and reclaimed the unpaved trail for a foot and bike path. Bill had permission to harvest there for educational purposes.
“How’s your mother today?” he asked on our way up the hill behind Dragonfly Dry Goods.
“She’s been in a funk since Claudette’s death, but she seems to be coming out of it.”
“She’s a good, strong woman. Let her feel what she feels, and she’ll be fine.”
Was there something more to his comment than neighborly concern?
He pointed. “Lomatium dissectum, or desert parsley. A tincture is nature’s best antiviral. Belongs in every flu kit.” It grew in a sunny spot among the rocks, below a shaded hillside covered in lupine.
I fingered the lacy fronds and remembered spotting wild roses last night while searching for Sandburg. “We’re mainly after edibles. How about wild roses? We could make rose petal jelly. And rose water.” Candy Divine had mentioned using rose water in her Turkish delight. I imagined a class, in August when the apples and apricots ripened.
We found a bank of deep pink blossom
s, and I drank in their soft, fresh scent. Plenty for a demo—everyone could take home a small jar of jelly. I whipped out my phone and made a note.
Bill took out his knife and sliced off a quarter-sized piece of birch bark. “Too dry. Too bad. In spring, when the sap is running, this is nature’s energy drink.”
Again with the knife. Did every man in town carry one?
Several wild mints and sages were ready to pick, and so were sorrel, watercress, and wild lettuces. We picked our way down the steep bank to the river and, in a swamp stinky with decay, found a patch of wild onions.
Back on the trail, I saw plenty of dandelion greens. We’d steam those, and sauté a few of Jimmy Vang’s morels.
As we retraced our steps, I borrowed Bill’s knife to cut some wild lupine.
“Careful with that Lupinis,” Bill said. “The wild form is a natural insecticide, and useful for treating vertigo, but it can be toxic. There are some edible varieties, though, and the garden hybrid’s safe.” As we walked, he stressed that even toxic plants had medicinal qualities and could be consumed, if the right parts were used and prepared properly.
At his shop, Bill waved me to his consultation area. Two oak armchairs burnished dark from age and use flanked an ancient black lacquered desk accented with red and gold. I pulled one out and sat while he wrote out a list of things we needed.
I decided to pop the question that had been bugging me. “Bill, what would cause headache and nausea, with blurred vision and a slow, irregular pulse?” I summarized Ian Randall’s symptoms, without naming him, but the wariness that crept into Bill’s eyes told me he knew.
He looked at me intently as he handed me the supply list. “Be careful, Erin.”
I didn’t point out that he hadn’t answered my question, or ask, “Careful of what?” I got distracted. On the shelf behind him, next to a copy of his text, The Field Guide to Mountain Medicinals, was Deputy Kim Caldwell’s card.
Screaming “danger.”
• Twenty-three •
On my way home, I stopped at the grocery store for canning jars and ingredients for the jelly, and a few other supplies Bill requested. I rounded the end of the baking aisle and saw Adam Zimmerman, swinging a basket, on his way to the checkout lanes. Intriguing as he was, I didn’t have the heart for any conversation that might trigger my emotions. I stepped back, letting him clear the door without spotting me. The day had been too full—I needed to retreat to my cabin, away from all demands and suspicions.
Death Al Dente Page 17
