I glanced up at Ted. Beneath his Harley ball cap, his forehead was creased and his heavy reddish eyebrows tightly knit. “Why so worried?”
He startled. “Oh, nothing. ’Cept maybe Dad’s right and town’s going to—whatever.”
That’s when I noticed. “You’re not wearing your knife anymore. You’ve worn a knife since eighth grade. What happened?” His recent weapon of choice had been a six-inch blade in a tooled leather sheath snapped on his belt.
“Only an idiot would walk around wearing a knife in a town where a woman’s just been stabbed.”
“How do you know she was stabbed? Kim wouldn’t tell us, and the paper didn’t say.”
Something across the street caught his eye. “She told my dad.”
Odd. Or maybe not. Maybe standard operating procedure to be close-mouthed with suspects and their families. But very little seemed standard around here anymore.
Suspicious minds.
• Twenty-four •
In between working with customers, Tracy and I double-spiffed the Merc for the wild food demo and the weekend ahead. We brewed up pots of both our standby Cowboy Roast and the surprisingly drinkable Wheat Coffee.
Early afternoon, I slipped out for a trip down the lake to the vineyard. In other regions, April showers bring May flowers, but here, we get about six weeks of spring sunshine, followed by three weeks of heavy rain. Then, in the second or third week of June, all glory bursts forth. We were right on schedule. I drove past old homesteads guarded by lilacs, their blooms fading, and rows of iris, peonies, and poppies. You can tell what’s safe to plant by what’s withstood decades of browsing deer.
A few miles south of town, a single light sped toward me. It zigged and zagged across the center line as though the object were to weave in between the slashes, not stay to the right of them.
“Criminy.” This motorcycle rider acted like he had a death wish. I slowed and hugged the fog line, eyes peeled, not wanting to be the driver who helped him get it. He used the full lane and then some—not smart on these roads, with their slim shoulders, fallen rocks, and darting wildlife. As the bike careened closer, the driver leaned forward so far he seemed to grow out of the handlebars, a cloud of road dust behind him. I closed my window. When he passed me, going at least ninety, I sighed in relief and accelerated to highway speed. Bad as our roads can be in winter, summer is worse.
Wine making in Montana had long been limited to cherry and other fruit wines. But new short-season hybrids sprouted several vineyards along the lake, where soils, slopes, and warm winds combined with the other essential ingredient: gutsy people willing to work hard and pour everything they had into a dream.
Love those people.
I parked in front of the main building, a vintage Quonset hut that Sam and Jen had cleaned and dressed up by adding a facade of aged yellow stucco, red roof tiles, and a bell tower topped with a cross. From the outside, a visitor would never know it wasn’t an old Spanish mission. Spanish explorers never reached Montana, but who’s quibbling?
Smiling and sun-burnished, Sam emerged from between rows of vines and spread his arms. “Another day in Paradise.”
“Heavenly spot, for sure. Glad you could spare some wine for us. It’s selling well.” He opened the arched wooden doors and I followed him inside. The giant fermenting tanks stood empty now, but yeasty smells blended with oak permeated the air year-round.
“You need it, you name it. The Merc’s a godsend. Making wine in country that can frost twelve months a year’s easy compared to selling it.” He wriggled a dolly under a stack of cartons emblazoned with the Monte Verde name and logo—the pseudo-mission outlined against the mountains, the rising sun behind them.
“I don’t mean to pry, Sam”—or maybe I did—“but how’s business?”
“Lots of interest, and everyone who tours the place buys at least one bottle. But we need more retail outlets.” I popped the hatchback and he began sliding boxes in. “We fell into that trap, you know? Sold a nice place in California, plunked the profits into our dream, and here we are, treading water. Shoulda bought a buffalo ranch—you can always eat ’em. You can’t live on Viognier alone.”
I flashed a quick grin. “Might be fun to try.”
He brushed back a stray lock, brown flecked with gray. “Yeah, well, the bankers won’t take wine and CDs in lieu of cash.”
“Folks are skeptical of products they don’t associate with Montana. But I can give you a list of potential outlets. And connect you with the wine buyer at SavClub.” A small outfit like this might not meet the production minimums, but it was worth a shot.
His eyes lit up. “Fantastic. Hey, I don’t see an invoice—let’s check in the office.”
No luck, so Sam called Jen down at the main house. We chatted while we waited.
“Sam, you and Jen were at the Festa on Friday night. Did you see Dean and Linda arrive?”
“Oh, yeah. Linda came over to say hi, made sure we were set for playing Saturday night, too.”
Made sense. “What about Dean?”
Sam cocked his head, remembering. “He said hi, grabbed her, and they headed for the bar. I picture him coming from my left—must have come in the back gate. Like he’d dropped her off and gone to park.”
But he’d insisted they parked out front and come in together. Why lie?
“Seemed like you two were in and out quite a bit. Setup always such a pain?”
His brows furrowed and he glanced at his watch. “Where is she?” He riffled back through the stacks of papers he’d already checked.
A few minutes later, Jen arrived, face flushed, her wavy brown hair coming loose from its braid. She found the invoice, in the file drawer in a folder labeled MERC.
“Why would you file it, when it goes with the order?”
“I just got ahead of myself, okay?”
I hate hearing couples squabble. “Thanks, guys.” I headed out. Behind me, I heard Sam say, “What took you so long?”
“Sorry,” Jen replied. “The bank called again. That guy from California who called Friday afternoon.”
Friday afternoon, when the Krausses were prepping for a gig. Sounded like a lender who forgot the rule against giving bad news just before the weekend—or who wanted to make his borrowers sweat. The reason Jen looked rattled on Friday?
“They want to see the books. They want proof of a turnaround.” That could be good, or bad, depending on the size of the loan and how delinquent they were. If the hole was too deep, even a SavClub promotion might be too little, too late.
“Erin, wait,” Jen called, and I stopped. “We’ve got something we want you to try.” She led the way to the tasting room and uncorked a bottle, hiding the label with her hand, and poured three short glasses.
I raised the glass to the light and swirled the deep red liquid, watching it slide down the sides of the glass. “Good color.” Sniffed it. Blackberry and spice, with a hint of leather. Took a sip and let it move around my mouth. “Cabernet. A nice one.”
“First bottling from the experimental plot. It won’t be ready to sell for a year or so, but I think it’s got potential.”
Could they hang on that long? “Me, too, if the price is right. As Sam and I said earlier, people don’t expect a fine local wine, so they aren’t willing to spend a lot on that first bottle. I call it ‘adventure pricing’—high enough to seem competitive in quality and to give you a profit, but low enough for buyers to take a gamble.”
She poured us each another couple of fingers. “See, that’s what I like about you, Erin. You work with vendors, you give us advice, but you don’t treat us like idiots. And you don’t keep changing your mind, like Claudette. She drove me nuts.”
A shaky business could not afford an unreliable retailer. But a retailer could not afford a disorganized vendor in financial trouble. I’d have to step carefully.
; “Thanks. Claudette did great with the artistic side and with customers, but as you know, there’s a lot more to running a successful business.” In truth, she blew like the wind and had been a disaster as a manager—more than Fresca had realized.
A few minutes later, I reached over the counter to set my empty glass by the sink. A case of wine stood on the floor, a knife on top. I closed my eyes briefly and pictured Sam: He carried a Leatherman on his belt, at least when he worked the vines. This must be Jen’s. Everyone, everywhere, seemed to keep a blade close at hand. Except me, the lone woman out.
As I drove home, the afternoon sun dappling the road, I remembered Sam’s certainty that Dean came in Red’s back gate. No doubt Dean lied to divert attention from himself, thinking no one would know when he’d come in, or where, except maybe Linda. Who had plenty of reason to protect him.
That meant he either beat Claudette and her killer to the gate, or he met her there and killed her. Could I pin down the time of his arrival more precisely?
A third scenario: He’d seen Claudette meet her killer, and kept his mouth shut. Out of character, but not impossible.
The musicians had been in and out that back gate, hauling in their equipment. Had Jennifer dashed out for a forgotten cord, run into Claudette, had words, and let loose?
Or worse?
Was Jen’s stress from financial fear—or criminal guilt?
A whitetail buck jumped out of the borrow pit onto the road. I braked hard and he dashed into the woods. My heart thudded against my rib cage.
Easy, girl. Eyes on the road. People are counting on you—and that load of wine.
• Twenty-five •
At three thirty, eighteen people gathered at the entrance to the Nature Trail, not counting Bill, Fresca, and me.
“Welcome. I’m delighted to see so much interest in gathering and cooking with native foods. I’m Erin Murphy, manager of the Glacier Mercantile. Many of you know my mother, Fresca.” She smiled and waved, crisp and summery in tan crops and a coral tank with a white visor. Only my mother would go for a walk in the woods in white Keds, though they were scrubbable leather.
“Bill Schmidt is our fearless leader today. Bill’s been a working herbalist for I don’t know long.”
“For so long,” he said, “that I was in the first class to graduate from Hogwarts.” Laughter rippled the aspen leaves above us.
We hadn’t expected so many people, but I’d learned at SavClub to never cringe at a good turnout. Just make sure people get what they came for. “With the size of the group and the roar of the river, it may be a little hard to hear at times. But don’t worry.” I held up my pocket recorder. “I’ll record Bill’s comments and your questions, and upload the audio to the Merc’s website.”
Bill gave a short introduction on the value of knowing our edible and medicinal neighbors. Recorder in hand, I watched the rapt audience. Funny to see the relentlessly stylish Heidi wearing hiking sandals with her black jungle print dress, scribbling notes. I recognized two women who’d come in the shop this morning and seen the poster.
“A few principles of wild crafting,” Bill said, scanning the crowd and projecting his voice, “then we’ll take a walk.”
I turned my attention from Bill back to the gathering in time to see three stragglers join us. What on earth were Jeff, Ian, and Cassie doing here? Jeff joined the group, clearly listening, but Ian held back a few steps. Cassie glanced from one to the other, uncertain what to do. She spotted me and gave me a shy wave.
“Never eat or use anything you’re not sure of. You’ve heard that about mushrooms and berries, but be aware that many safe plants have toxic look-alikes. A hybrid in your herbaceous border may be perfectly safe for you and your children to touch, and even for a canine nibble or two, while its wild counterpart may be quite dangerous.”
The “record” light seemed to flash like strobes on top of a speeding sheriff’s car. I couldn’t pull Bill over and pelt him with questions. Was I right in thinking that whatever the poison was, and whoever had put it there, Claudette had grown it herself? At the edge of the circle, Fresca gave Jeff a hug and kissed Ian’s cheek.
We retraced the route Bill and I had taken the day before. I handed out paper bags, and we plucked rose petals and picked dandelion greens. “Before you curse the dandelions in your yard, remember your pioneer grandmothers saved the seeds and carried them out here,” Bill said. “In drought years, they may have been the only greens some homesteaders had, and they’re a rich source of vitamins. Too many medicinal uses to mention. And the roots make an excellent coffee substitute.”
Could we create our own? Something earthy and unexpected, with a bit of spice. What about a traditional roasted barley drink—gluten-free? I envisioned The Glacier Mercantile’s line of locally prepared beverages: a dandelion root mix, herbal teas, and of course, a signature coffee, blended and roasted to our specifications.
“It’s not the seeds’ fault that the plant is so well suited for every kind of soil, or that it’s fallen out of favor,” he said lightly.
“Dandelion wine is always in favor, and we’ve got an easy recipe for you,” Fresca added.
About halfway, Ian and Cassie stopped to rest on a rock ledge. Jeff left the group as well, wandering down a deer-and-dog trail toward the water. I handed my mother the recorder and followed. “Good to see you,” I said. “Ian’s looking much better.”
“He’s on the mend. I thought he could use a little fresh air—we didn’t know about the herb walk, but it’s always good to see Bill.”
“How do you know him?”
“He helped Claudette lay out her herb garden, and gave her advice on medicinal plants.” Bill, that sly fox, hadn’t said a thing. “She treated all of Ian’s childhood illnesses herself.”
Which made it even more likely that something she grew had both beneficial and harmful properties. “Surprised to see Cassie. She told me this morning that Ian broke up with her last night.”
Jeff tossed a small river rock from hand to hand. “He’s pretty mixed up right now. She brought him lemon custard from the Inn, his favorite. They’re good kids, and good together, but they’re so young.”
That they were. “I’m sure you tried to keep your nose out of Claudette’s romantic life, but any idea why she got involved with Dean?”
He scratched his head. “That puzzled me, too. It wasn’t like her to break up a friend’s marriage, so I’m guessing he made the first move. She could be gullible. If he said he and Linda were kaput, she’d have believed him.” Consistent with my mother’s theory that she’d succumbed to his flattery.
We caught up with the group a few hundred yards down the trail. Bill pointed out the wild asparagus and fiddlehead patches, past their prime. Those of us with waterproof shoes dug wild onions.
Bags and notebooks full, we worked our way back to the trailhead, pausing as Bill pointed out other useful plants and answered questions.
Cassie, Ian, and Jeff lagged, the two kids a few steps behind, deep in conversation. I waited for Jeff. “You’re all welcome to come to the Merc and watch weeds turn into food and wine.”
“Thanks,” Jeff said with a shake of his head. “The Merc meant a lot to Claudette. But I think we need to get Ian home for a rest.”
“You bet.” I gave him a quick hug, waved at the kids, and zipped down the hill.
Back at the Merc, Tracy and Fresca served iced wild mint sun tea we’d made earlier. A student trimmed wild onions at Bill’s direction, while two others rinsed the greens and rose petals. Love those deep sinks. Love our commercial kitchen. Love watching other people cook while I sit back and salivate.
Fresca set the rose petals to steep for ten minutes. “I like to freeze a few in ice cube trays, then add them to lemonade. Or use them to garnish a fruit salad or vanilla ice cream.”
“The petals and hips are both excellent sources of
Vitamin C,” Bill added.
“I get my vitamins at SavClub,” a student said.
“Better to get them from food,” the woman next to her said, “than from synthetic chemicals. And it’s prettier.”
“Color is a good guide,” Bill said. “The more colors on your plate, the more vitamins and minerals you’ll get.”
The first woman picked up a pottery plate showing a long-eared red rabbit romping through green grasses dotted with pink, yellow, and orange flowers, a rainbow in the background. “So if I eat chocolate cake off this plate, it will be good for me?”
So nice to hear laughter fill the Merc, after all the tears.
The front door chimed and I turned to greet the customer. My smile stiffened. Impossible to tell, from Kim Caldwell’s dress or demeanor, whether this was a personal or professional call. Betting on the latter, I met her at the front counter.
“For a woman who never eats, you have an amazing talent for showing up when we’re cooking,” I said in a teasing tone.
“You’re always cooking up something, Erin.”
I ignored that. “Any developments?” Meaning, don’t arrest my mother in the middle of a demonstration.
“I have some questions for your mother.”
No phalanx of deputies outside, no passel of patrol cars. She’d come alone, so no arrest. Not yet anyway.
I gestured at the crowd gathered around the kitchen counters. “Can they wait? She and Bill Schmidt are in medias demo.”
Kim nodded and followed me to the kitchen. I poured iced tea for her, and we watched Fresca strain the rose petal tea and start it to boil, adding lemon juice, pectin, and sugar. Two students sterilized jelly jars and lids. Bill prepared the morels, discoursing about mushroom hunting, safety, respect for the land, and vitamins as he chopped. He managed to make it all sound so appealing that I half convinced myself I’d get up early in the morning and traipse up to a swampy area up behind the orchard and search out—
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