Death Al Dente

by Leslie Budewitz

  No way. I love the woods, but I also love snuggling with Mr. Sandburg, and coming to work clean.

  Bill sautéed the morels and set them aside, then sautéed the boiled dandelion greens, wild onions, and seasoning. The mouthwatering aromas did their trick, and when Tracy and Fresca handed out small plates of wild veggies, sprinkled with a touch of grated Parmesan, we all fell on them. “Mmm,” they said, or “I never imagined,” and “if I don’t tell my kids what it is, they’ll love it.”

  Even Kim ate up. Whether that foretold good news or bad, I couldn’t guess.

  Finally, the jelly was in its jars and the herbs in their bags. Tracy distributed the bounty, along with packs of recipe cards. The Food Underfoot wild food and herb walk and demo was an official success. Unlike most demos, we weren’t promoting our own products, so we didn’t sell much—although the women who’d razzed each other about vitamins each bought a rainbow rabbit plate. But immediate sales aren’t the main measure of success. The event brought in several newcomers, and I was sure they’d all be back for more Montana-made food and drink. And the things that go with it.

  If seeing Kim bothered Fresca, she’d done a good job hiding it. When I locked the door behind the last customer and Kim hadn’t left, we had to face the music. Fresca retreated momentarily into her own personal yoga class, releasing a long breath, relaxing her shoulders, and standing tall. Even I couldn’t tell whether she really felt steady, or was just acting “as if.”

  “Bill, you’ll stay a moment?” Kim asked. He wiped his hands on the Merc’s apron and nodded. “Tracy, you can go.” Tracy’s head—and her beaded earrings—bobbed in relief.

  Once she left, I refilled our iced teas. Bill and Fresca stood in the kitchen, and I took a stool at the counter, facing Kim. I sipped my tea and tried to absorb my mother’s calm by osmosis.

  “Fresca, you harvest herbs and vegetables from Claudette’s garden for your cooking, don’t you?” Fresca nodded slowly. “Have you ever harvested foxglove?”

  “No. It’s toxic. I take cut flowers home occasionally, but that’s it.” Her knuckles were white as she gripped the iced tea glass.

  “Have you been out there in the last week?”

  “To the house, yes. I told you I dropped off a basket. But not in the garden, not since she left.” She tilted her head, chin lowered. “I’ll admit, after the way she left, I wasn’t sure we were still friends.”

  “So that’s when you started buying herbs and flowers from Jo and Phyl instead?” I asked.

  “I’ve confirmed that. Ms. Eriksen and Ms. Williams are great fans of yours. Both of you.” Kim included me in her gaze. “We got the lab tests back on the artichoke pesto. It was contaminated with digitalis.”

  “Purpurea, then,” Bill said. “Because it didn’t kill him.”

  Kim nodded.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, but their expressions made clear they were not going to tell me. “Okay. So, we know Fresca put a jar in her sympathy basket. If she didn’t poison it—”

  “I didn’t,” Fresca said.

  “She was upset with Claudette,” I continued, “but she had no reason to harm Jeff or Ian. Which means someone else must have poisoned a jar and left it open in the refrigerator for someone—anyone—to find.”

  “Why?” Fresca asked. “What would anyone hope to gain from that?”

  “I think,” I said, “someone planted that jar to divert suspicion from someone else by casting suspicion on you. Maybe Linda did it, to protect Dean. Or one of the girls—Cassie’s in and out of that house regularly.”

  “Using a plant from Claudette’s own garden. Oh, that’s vile.” My mother’s face darkened. “To make it look like I did it.”

  “Who knew you picked Claudette’s herbs and flowers?”

  “Lots of people,” Fresca said. “I never hid it.”

  Kim turned to Bill. “Have you talked with anyone recently about digitalis?”

  A frown creased Bill’s forehead. “I treat all consultations as confidential.”

  “You’re not a doctor. The privilege doesn’t apply.”

  “And if you get a court order requiring me to testify, I will. But until then, I owe it to my patients to preserve their trust.” His tone was firm and clear.

  “Bill, are you saying you know who might have poisoned that jar, but you won’t tell us who?” I didn’t understand his logic.

  “I’m saying I treat all consultations as confidential, until a court tells me otherwise.”

  “But if you know something that will help us—help Kim—find the poisoner, or the killer—”

  “The killer? What does the poisoning have to do with Claudette’s murder?” Fresca asked.

  “It’s a double frame, Mom. Someone wants us to think you killed Claudette, then poisoned Ian.” Kim’s poker face irked me. Was she betting on an ace in the hole? “The killer tried to shift Kim’s attention to you, but when she didn’t make an arrest, he or she had to act again. To force her to focus on you.”

  Fresca blanched. Bill didn’t move, but something unspoken passed between them.

  “And if we don’t find the person soon, he could strike again. Please, Bill,” I said.

  “Darling, if Bill says he has a good reason, we need to trust him.”

  Was he protecting her? From what?

  It was looking more and more like the killer had gone after Claudette to set up my mother. The rumors in town assured that Fresca would be blamed. Then, when she wasn’t arrested, the killer had to up the stakes. First, scare her by smashing the Merc’s front window. Then, leave the poison for Ian or Jeff to find.

  The only thing that didn’t fit was the spaghetti sauce on my car. The note made that personal.

  Who harbored so much hatred or resentment of my mother? Even if my theory was wrong, there was a killer in town, who might not be finished with us.

  • Twenty-six •

  “You still on duty?” I asked Kim after Fresca and Bill left. “Burger and a beer, my treat?”

  She eyed me warily. “Promise no fishing for info?”

  I nodded, fingers crossed behind my back.

  A row of Harleys parked outside Red’s drew lusty whistles from passersby. “Nearly collided with a crazy-man biker on the Eastshore today. Surprised you weren’t called to the scene of a major wipeout.”

  “Road pizza,” Kim said. I made a face. “Cop humor. Keeps us from going nuts.”

  As usual in summer, music spilled out Red’s open front door, the air heavy with grease, beer, and Friday night sweat. The satellite radio mix tipped heavily toward the 1970s and 1980s, as Bob Seger wrapped up “Fire Lake” and Pat What-was-her-name sang “Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” Seemed a little early for that tune, but what I know about the bar business wouldn’t fill a shot glass.

  We ordered burgers and fries at the kitchen window, then elbowed our way to the courtyard bar. Ted reddened when we approached. I love odd couples, but could not picture the polished detective hooking up with the big lug bartender.

  He snapped his bar towel. “Ladies, what’ll it be?”

  We carried our beers to a table near the stage, quiet tonight. My glass was a touch full, so I sipped as I walked. At that odd angle, I couldn’t help noticing all eyes on Kim. She noticed, too, and called out, “Carry on—I’m off duty.”

  The stage reminded me of Sam’s comments. I told her Sam had seen Dean and Linda arrive separately, and presumed Dean came in the back gate.

  “The musicians all said they hadn’t seen anything unusual. I need to interview them again, and get more specific.”

  “But it makes sense, doesn’t it? If Dean was the last person to come in the back gate, then either he didn’t see her—so he wouldn’t have had any reason to lie about where he parked—or he killed her. They had words, he pulled a knife out of his boot. She was stabbed, wasn’t s
he?”

  “You said you wouldn’t fish.”

  I shrugged.

  Kim sighed, resigned. “Yeah, she was. But we haven’t found a weapon.”

  “He’d have ditched it by now, for sure.”

  Our food came. Kim squirted her fries with mayonnaise, a disgusting habit she’d picked up in high school to keep other kids from stealing them.

  How easily we’d slipped back into our old roles: stubborn Erin; calm, cool Kim. We’d stayed friends despite being competitors because each of us cared more about different things. Like barrel racing. In a fluke, I won the last race senior year with enough points to snare the title. “How nice after the tragedy,” everyone said, like being crowned Miss Teen Rodeo made up for my dad dying. It was like we had switched roles; Kim had lost interest despite being far the better rider, and I had gone for broke.

  “Kim, you have no evidence against Fresca. First”—I gestured with a fry—“Claudette didn’t know about the dinner Friday night until I invited her. She hadn’t been back in town long enough to catch up. She was genuinely surprised. Second, she insisted she didn’t spread any rumors. You should have seen how furious she was. And no matter what else people say about Claudette, no one calls her a gossip or a liar.”

  Kim raised one eyebrow. “So what’s your point?”

  “The point is, that disproves any theory that she was coming to the Merc to confront Fresca.” I whetted my whistle with a long swig of Scapegoat Pale Ale. “Yeah, she called Mom, and me, so she had something on her mind. Who knows what? Maybe she wanted to apologize. Or get her job back. Or ask for help in her quest for a restaurant—Fresca always knows what’s going on in town.” Even if I couldn’t convince Kim of Mom’s innocence, I hoped she’d at least start questioning her own theories.

  “Third, you say Fresca disappeared for a few minutes right before I found Claudette. Not being able to pinpoint exactly where she was exactly when isn’t exactly disappearing. But nobody puts her in the alley, right? No one says they saw Fresca leave and go around back.”

  “Hey, Erin. Hi, Kim.” Polly Paulson danced up to our table. “Girls’ night out?”

  “Hey, Polly, the other day you said you saw me talking to Claudette outside the drugstore, right?” She nodded and I looked at Kim, as if to say, See, I was there—I didn’t make it up.

  “Something I thought of later, after you interviewed me,” Polly said. “I closed up at five thirty, and on my way home, I drove through the village to drop off my daughter’s library books. And I saw that fellow who was talking with Claudette at the drugstore—what’s his name?”

  “James Angelo,” I said. “Yeah, he said he went kayaking Friday evening.”

  “Not likely, not in those stupid chili pepper pants and a white cook’s jacket. Stomping up Front Street like he meant to kill somebody.” Polly’s husband called her name. “Ooh, nachos. Gotta go—I’m starving. You girls ever want to go dancing, call me.”

  “Tell me you haven’t been going around town interviewing everyone,” Kim said.

  “Not everyone. Not yet.” I recapped what I’d learned from Polly and Wendy, and what I’d uncovered about James Angelo, aka Jay Walker. Though Dean seemed like the guy, I told her my alternate theory about Angelo, arguing with Claudette at her house and again in the alley. Wendy witnessed the first argument; the second was speculation, but it fit.

  “You keep telling me somebody else could get hurt, but if you keep sticking your nose into this investigation, it could be you.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  The old song “Sad Eyes” came on. Perfect reminder of the Dean-Claudette-Linda love triangle. “Both Angelo and Dean lied to you, about where they were and their relationship to the victim.”

  “Lying doesn’t make them guilty of murder.”

  “Agreed. But I wish I knew what Angelo is hiding.”

  “Everybody has secrets, Erin.”

  I’d promised not to dig, but her refusal to share any info irritated the heck out of me. “So what’s yours?”

  She pushed back her chair and threw a tip on the table. “Thanks for the burger and beer.” She wasn’t wearing her usual bracelet. The handmade silver and onyx bracelet I gave her for Christmas senior year. When we were still friends. The one she’d been wearing earlier in the week.

  “Why did you come to the Merc today? You didn’t come to arrest Fresca. You wanted information.” Digging.

  “Look, Erin, I don’t want the killer to be your mother any more than you do, but I have to find the truth. And she and Bill aren’t helping. Ask yourself why, and see if you like the answer.”

  I sat alone, finishing my beer. Ted cleared our table and offered me another, but one was enough. “Kim leave?” he asked.

  “Yeah. She’s hot on the trail of a killer.”

  His eyes widened. “Not Fresca?” I nodded. “No. No.” His worried tone touched me. “You’re smart, Erin. You show her, it was Dean Vincent. Or his wife—they could have been in it together. Or Jeff.”

  “He and Ian were in Seattle, just back from China.”

  Ted’s face fell. Someone called his name. He opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it and left me alone.

  Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. Not Shakespeare, as my high school English teacher insisted, but Sir Walter Scott. She hadn’t liked my proving her wrong. Nobody did. Including Kim.

  What had she said as she left? To ask myself why Fresca and Bill weren’t helping her. On the one hand, Bill believed he needed to preserve his clients’ trust. On the other, shouldn’t he voluntarily speak up, to help find a poisoner—who might also be a killer?

  That’s the kind of philosophical dilemma best left to lawyers. Meanwhile, what did Bill know? It had something to do with the poison. Had someone consulted him about it? Obviously, they wouldn’t have told him what they intended to do with it. But if someone asked him about medicinal uses and potential side effects, they could have used that info any way they wanted. Or misused it.

  Claudette had been knowledgeable about medicinal plants. My mother knew very little—her approach to all but the severest childhood illnesses had been chicken soup and rest. Linda didn’t seem the type, either. A woman willing to sprinkle iodized salt on chocolate-covered almonds from SavClub and call them handmade wasn’t likely to delve deeply into herbal remedies.

  Was Kim suggesting that Bill’s secret might implicate Fresca? There might be more between them than simple friendship, but I didn’t believe for one minute that they shared evidence of crime. No matter what Kim thought.

  The crowd had gotten beerier. Polly Paulson belted out “Born in the USA” along with Springsteen. I waved good night as the Rod Stewart song “Do You Think I’m Sexy?” came on. I crossed the alley, turning to face the row of businesses. Some, like Red’s and the Merc, had courtyards with fences. Others, like Le Panier and Chez Max, and the liquor store, had back doors that opened directly onto the alley. I searched for cameras. No doubt Kim and her deputies had checked any security video. But if no cameras captured the altercation between Claudette and her killer, or showed the killer arriving, then the killer must have come from a direction outside the cameras’ scope.

  Polly put Angelo coming from the south. Where had Dean parked? Like he’d tell me. He’d already caught me scoping out Linda’s house—no reason to confront him until I had more evidence.

  “Ned,” I called to my neighbor as he zigzagged between cars. “What are you doing here?”

  “Weekend nights, I come in to check on things. I’m Red, after all.” He grinned and rubbed the remains of his faded hair.

  “Ted seems to have the place under control.” Except maybe for Polly’s singing.

  Ned peered over the top of his glasses. “Not all chips fall far from the block.”

  I squinted until his meaning came into
focus: Ted lacked his touch. Fair enough. But his comment raised questions. “Ned, are you saying Ted isn’t taking over the bar? So why do you want to buy our building?”

  “What the bleep you talking about, girlie?”

  I explained that Ted had made an offer to buy the Mercantile building, and I assumed Old Ned approved. Intended to bankroll it. Naturally, I did not tell him how I knew.

  “That is plum crazy, by jingo. Even if we had any notion of putting you out of business—and don’t you think that for a moment—why would we want more space? Red’s is purt’ near perfect the way it is.”

  Yup. Sticky floors, sticky plumbing, and all.

  “I’m going in there and give that boy a piece of my mind.”

  I grabbed his arm. “Ned, wait. Don’t. Don’t collar him when you’re upset, and not in front of customers. It’ll become gossip, and we’ve all seen this week how damaging that can be.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Right you are, girlie. ’Sides, with what you got going on in that old Merc, you’d be better off taking over our space than t’other way around.”

  “Thanks.” I kissed his cheek. “But no thanks. I’ve got my hands full enough.”

  And that, by jingo, was the truth, and nothing but the truth. But I still hadn’t discovered the whole truth.

  • Twenty-seven •

  When nothing is as it seems, then what? Take another look from another angle. Stand on your head if you have to.

  Or go home.

  An older maroon Subaru had parked in my driveway. I pulled in next to it. Ian Randall leaned against a front porch post, while Cassie Vincent sat on the steps, petting my little cat.

  “Hey. What brings you guys out here?”

  Ian straightened and Cassie stood, giving Sandburg a last quick ear tug.

  “I—uh. Umm,” Ian said, blinking hard, then staring off into the trees above my head.