First, though, my poor little Subaru needed a bath, so I drove through the car wash. As the sprayers circled, squirting soap and water, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine who might have put a jar of poisoned pesto in Claudette’s refrigerator for her son or ex-husband to find. Poisoning seems like a cowardly crime. A dangerous crime, no matter what the intent.
Why? Who benefitted?
I flashed on the Vincent twins with their parents at the memorial service. Dean was a prime suspect. How could harming the Randalls help him defend himself? Did chiropractors take the oath to “do no harm”?
What would Linda do to deflect suspicion from him—or herself? I didn’t seriously believe she would hurt her daughter’s boyfriend, or his father, on purpose. But Bill had pointed out that different varieties of a single plant might have greater or lesser toxicity. What if she fed them a small dose of something sickening, just to scare them? And point to my mother.
What about Angelo? My theory of a blowup between him and Claudette gave him no reason to go after Jeff or Ian. Unless one of them knew his secret and threatened to expose it. But if that were the case, he’d have left a calling card, to send a clear message of silence.
A few clicks on my iPhone gave me Linda’s address. Just a quick detour before heading home. I drove my sparkling clean buggy to a subdivision up the hill behind the high school, where neat, tidy houses sported white trim and front porches that were smartly decorated but rarely used. The development backed up to the road where Claudette lived. The Vincents and Randalls had practically been neighbors, making it easy for their kids to see each other.
If I had the timeline right, the parents’ affair had begun last fall, just before Ian left home. Maybe their kids’ connection had brought Dean and Claudette together.
I drove by Linda’s house. No cars or other signs of life. No doubt the Randall family gathering had migrated to Claudette’s cottage. Cassie and Jess might be there, but what about Linda and Dean? Other than Claudette’s affair with Dean, I knew little about the two families’ relationship.
I circled the block and pulled over, giving myself a view of Linda’s driveway but staying safely out of sight.
A few minutes later, a dark gray Suburban approached from the other direction and parked in the driveway, next to an older Subaru. Dean headed up the sidewalk and let himself in. Hardly a shock, whether he and Linda were back together or not.
Another car came up the street and the garage doors opened. A red Cadillac sedan, so new it still bore paper tags instead of real license plates, turned in and entered, Linda’s platinum head visible on the driver’s side and a girl in the front passenger seat.
Was the car a “forgive me” present?
Those superclose Montana connections made investigation both easier and more difficult. I ticked off the ties between our murder victim and our—well, my—suspects: Claudette dated Dean. Dean was married to Linda. And their daughter Cassie might be dating Claudette’s son, Ian.
Claudette lived next door to James Angelo. Linda hired Angelo to cater—
A baritone disrupted my accounting and I practically flew out the sunroof.
“Spying on my family?”
* * *
Someone ought to bottle the restorative powers of pinot gris.
Oh, wait. They had. In fact, I was relishing those powers on the back deck, recovering from my encounter with Dean Vincent. I’d parked in front of a house with a FOR SALE sign on it, so I told him I was meeting a friend for a showing, but my pal must have gotten held up, or maybe I had the time wrong, and did the Vincents like the neighborhood? Dean had scowled, then muttered indecipherables and stepped away from my open window. Not wanting to give his suspicions any weight, I made a show of checking my phone for a text or voice mail from my imaginary friend before starting the engine and driving away.
Truth be told, he’d startled the bejeebers out of me. But my bejeebers were returning, thanks to the tart-but-fruity wine, and an appetizer of olive tapenade on Montana Gold herbed crackers. I’d channeled my burst of adrenaline into re-creating my mother’s endive, radicchio, and romaine salad, topped with quarters of hard-boiled egg and slices of lightly pickled roasted golden beets. Sandburg had enjoyed a tasty treat of canned tuna, and fallen asleep in the other chair.
But I could not stop trying to unweave the strands of suspicion that entangled my mother. What was I missing?
* * *
First thing Friday morning, I met my brother-in-law at his office to review options for a security alarm and camera system for the Merc. We could stream a live camera feed to the office computer. He and I could also access it remotely with our phones. I hated the idea, but as he said, you never knew what they’d show—and I wouldn’t have to check it unless there was a problem.
Then time for the Village Merchants Association’s weekly breakfast meeting at the Jewel Inn. Most weeks, the biggest challenge was what to order. I adore their Greek omelet, with a homemade English muffin and potatoes. The Ranch Scramble always hits the spot, and their crepes are to die for. Chiara can be counted on to order the Veggie Benedict: avocado, sliced tomatoes, and two poached eggs on an English muffin topped with killer Hollandaise. Many a customer claims to gain weight thinking of breakfast at the Inn.
As usual in summer, the front of the house overflowed. When Chiara and I entered the banquet room, coffee and juice had been served, and other members compared notes on the first week of tourist season.
Long tables formed a rectangle, a moose rack draped with Mardi Gras beads overseeing one end of the room and an elk mount in Groucho Marx glasses the other. Wendy hadn’t been a regular since opening Le Panier, but she and Linda huddled together in the far corner. Linda shot me a look that said Dean had relayed our little conversation, and neither of them believed a word I’d said. Which, I hated to admit, showed good sense.
“To the Queen of the Festa.” Kathy, the Association chair, raised her cup in a toast.
A creature of good habits, Chiara gave her order, then it was my turn. My eyes popped at the sight of our new young waitress. The Vincent girls weren’t identical, but after seeing them once, I couldn’t be sure who was who.
“The crepes, please. And are you Cass, or Jess?”
“Cassie.” She smiled shyly, looking far more like her mother than her dad.
“I think we all agree,” Kathy said, “that the Festa di Jewel Bay was a rousing success and should be an annual event.”
Cheers of agreement circled the room. I had my doubts, chiefly whether the Festa would be remembered more for murder than for good food, music, and profits.
“The Food Bank director tells me donations were twice what she hoped for,” she continued, “although I think we can attribute some of that to the tragedy.”
Linda reported on Saturday night’s ticket sales, also above expectations. “And Jody Fisher says count him in for next year. He loves playing in Jewel Bay.”
“We did nearly double the business this weekend over last,” Ray reported. “Our Italian specials sold out.”
Is this how a parent feels when her baby brings home the first report card with all A’s, or cracks the first home run? Chiara squeezed my hand. “Good job, little sis.”
“Sunshine always helps,” Ray added with a chuckle. I made a note to track weather along with sales.
“Food lovers not only love to eat out,” Heidi said, “they love to cook. And they love to shop. I’ve reordered glassware, bakeware, and utensils I thought would last all summer.”
“Well, they don’t buy children’s clothing, that’s for sure.”
“Sally,” Kathy said. “That can’t be true. I saw so many Puddle Jumpers bags walking around town, I thought they’d grown legs and escaped.”
Everyone laughed. Sally pursed her lips.
“So it’s not too early to start planning for next year. Especially if
we want to get the highway merchants more involved.”
Good luck with that.
“Erin, this was your brain child,” she continued. “You’ll lead the committee for the Second Annual Festa?”
“Second the nomination,” Old Ned said in his gravelly baritone.
Wendy shoved back her chair and stood, head bowed. Behind her, about to serve a plate of blueberry waffles, Cassie made a quick save. “I nominate Linda Vincent as committee chair. She arranged all the volunteers for Saturday night, and the food contributions and musicians.” Wendy rearranged her coffee cup and water glass. “We need fresh blood.” She sat as abruptly as she’d risen.
Eyes wide, Kathy scanned the room. “Do I hear a second for Linda?” No one spoke. She trained her gray eyes on me. “Erin, will you accept the nomination?”
Criminy. I didn’t want the job, but I sure as heck didn’t want to say no and end up with Linda in charge by default. Especially of something so important to the Merc. If her welcome speech at the Gala indicated things to come, she might leave us out entirely.
Chiara kicked me. “Say yes.”
I cleared my throat. “I’d be delighted. My first act as chair is to ask Linda to reprise her excellent job on the Saturday Night Gala.”
“Hear, hear,” Old Ned said.
“Nice one,” Chiara whispered, but I’d just done the thing I’d been determined not to do. Hate when that happens.
“Sorry we’re late. Busy out front.” Mimi George slid in next to me, breathless, her husband, Tony, beside her. “Cassie, you’re a doll. Coffee when you have a moment. I love summer.”
“Aren’t we going to vote?” Linda said, her voice rising almost to a whine.
“Erin hit a home run her first time at bat. Why change the lineup now?” Tony George had had a cup of coffee or two in the major leagues twenty years ago, and baseball lingo peppered his speech.
“There’s only one valid nomination,” Kathy said. “No second on yours.” Linda scowled and cast a sharp look at Wendy.
“Erin agreed, if Linda would organize Saturday night. Sounds perfect,” Ray said.
Kathy called the question. Like a lot of small groups, we follow Robert’s Rules of Order only if we can’t reach consensus, and even then, we use the short form. Bob’s Rules. Only Linda voted nay. Wendy abstained. She hadn’t touched her waffles and seemed to be trying to slide underneath the table.
Time for other business. Time for food. My crepes were perfect and I told Mimi so. She beamed.
We approved July’s advertising campaign and heard a report from the Chamber director on the 35th Anniversary of Summer Fair, the art festival in early August. The crew from a popular TV show, Food Preneurs, planned to film the main event, a steak cook-off featuring local chefs.
I was beginning to share Mimi George’s excitement.
Except for the little problem of murder and the fingers pointing at my mother.
We dispatched the rest of the agenda to the tune of knives and forks, and the murmurs of satisfied eaters. Cassie handled the room efficiently, and I complimented her to Mimi.
“We’ll miss her when she goes to college in Seattle this fall. Hazard of the business—get ’em trained, and off they go.”
Seattle. Where Ian lived.
A commotion arose across the room. “I don’t know why I bothered to come.” Linda Vincent threw down her napkin. “The same old clique calls the shots. No one else has a chance to do anything different.”
“That’s not true,” the frame shop owner said. “Erin’s new. The Festa’s new.”
“She’s a mouthpiece for her mother. You all blame my husband for Claudette Randall’s death. Give Fresca Murphy a closer look. I guarantee you won’t like what you see.”
“Foul ball,” called Tony George.
“Now hold your bucking horses one minute there, sister,” Old Ned said, voice booming. “I’ve known Francesca Murphy for thirty-five years. She didn’t kill nobody. The slime that did it should hang, but it weren’t her.”
Cassie Vincent stood motionless in the back of the room, eyes big as the tray she carried. She’d come in from the kitchen in time to witness her mother’s tirade.
Across the table, Kathy looked stunned, uncertain how to regain order. Serena Travis, a tall, elegant salon owner, stepped into the void. “Linda, why don’t we get some fresh air?” She gathered up Linda’s purse, took her by the arm, and led her out the side door.
“Adjourned.” Kathy tapped her spoon on her water glass, the tinkling barely audible above the murmured comments.
I crossed the room to where Cassie stood, shocked. “Sit a moment. Mimi won’t mind.” I led her to the chair her mother had vacated, and I sat in Wendy’s still-warm seat. Mimi brought her a glass of water, then took the tray and began clearing the tables. “Take a little drink and a deep breath.”
As she did, her heaving chest slowed and her breath calmed. “I can’t believe she said that. About you, and your mother.”
“She’s upset. Don’t worry.”
I could imagine her confusion: Her father ran away with her boyfriend’s mother, then called it off and came home, and now the mother was dead. Her boyfriend had been poisoned, and her own mother had created a very public ruckus. All this as she and her sister were graduating and heading out into the world themselves. My teenage years seemed placid in comparison.
“How’s Ian?”
“He’s been so angry.” Her eyes watered. “Last Sunday, he was supposed to meet me for breakfast before my shift, but he went racing by and didn’t even stop. I know it’s all so awful, but he’s been so mean and nasty.”
And then the poisoning. That can turn a foul mood downright rotten.
“What happened? How long have you been dating?”
She took a sip of water, then coughed. “Almost two years. Since the start of my junior year, right after his parents got divorced. Last night, at his mom’s house after the memorial service, he said he didn’t want to see me anymore.” Tears rolled down her splotchy cheeks and she sniffed noisily. “I think he thinks one of my parents killed her.”
“Oh, honey.” I touched her shoulder, not willing to tell her I thought so, too, and so did half the town. The other half blamed my mother.
Did the Randalls suspect one of the Vincents of leaving the poisoned jar, too? I could hardly ask.
“My dad’s a jerk,” Cassie said. “My mom’s not bad—she’s just ticked at him. I wish he’d stayed away.”
Time to go in for the kill, so to speak. “Cassie, when your dad left, was it for good—or was he coming back?”
She shook her head. “He told us he had a job lined up as Elvis. But I think he got there, to Las Vegas, and people found out he was scamming them. So now he’s calling it a vacation to cover his sorry butt.”
The peaceful harmonies of home life for a tribute artist. Not even one’s children appreciate the sacrifices made for art.
“Those Elvis outfits of his are—well, form-fitting. I couldn’t help but wonder the other night where he keeps his keys when he goes out in costume.”
“He tucks them in his boot. In a special pocket.”
Ah. A guy could hide a knife in an ankle boot, reach down, whip it out, and stab someone in one swift motion.
“My mom never hated Claudette. People think so, but she did suggest it would be a good time for Claudette to move for good. Make a real break. She had friends in Missoula she thought might hire Claudette.”
Not many women would have helped their husband’s ex-lover find a new job in another town. Linda deserved credit. Of course, if Claudette quickly moved on, that would have helped ease the embarrassment for them both.
I was beginning to wonder why one of them hadn’t offed Dean.
“It’s got to have been hard on her, seeing him with someone else.”
Mo
re sniffing and nodding. “But Mom and Claudette were friends first. We were all friends. And now no one is friends, not even me and Ian.”
I squeezed her hand. “This is a hard time for him. He needs his friends, whether he knows it or not—and whether you stay together or not.”
Mimi approached, looking sympathetic but ready to return to routine. “Let’s get you cleaned up and back to work.” Cassie nodded. I told her again how sorry I was, and what a good job she’d done that morning.
I hurried through the pine-paneled bar, away from the watchful eyes of stuffed wildlife, and out past the Inn’s bustling dining room. After the morning drama, the clear mountain air startled me, and I blinked against the sunshine.
“Hey.” Ted Redaway stepped out of the Inn’s shadowed side.
“Hey yourself. What are you doing here? Everybody else is long gone.” Split like peas, in my father’s phrase.
“Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I started down the steps. When I reached the sidewalk, he fell in beside me.
“Well, she did rip into your mother, and you.”
I’d been so focused on Cassie that I’d almost forgotten her mother’s tantrum. I shrugged. “You can’t let talk bother you. Fresca taught me that long ago.”
“Nice of you to comfort her kid. She all right?”
“You saw that?” His interest was touching.
“I bet she’s pretty upset, with all that’s gone on. Probably talking off the top of her head. I guess the kids are close.”
“Actually, she seemed pretty rational, despite the tears. I thought Claudette intended to start a restaurant here in town, but Cassie says Linda encouraged her to move. If it were me, I’d have wanted to kill her.” Cassie had said the plan was Missoula, safely a hundred miles away. Oh—Angelo had cooked there. Had Claudette been asking him about opportunities? But why would that lead to an argument?
Death Al Dente Page 18
