Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village)

by Leslie Budewitz

  “The fountain arrives tomorrow,” Liz reminded me, late-afternoon sun glinting off her diamond studs. “Be prepared for an energetic transformation.”

  Bob rolled his eyes. Both Pinskys were small, dark, and intense, and I adored them.

  The social clusters changed shape, as they always do, and I found myself standing across from Mimi and Tony George, with Gib Knox holding court. We were close to the bar, and when Ned offered a refill, I gladly accepted.

  “That’s why I think the contestants need to prepare at least three courses,” Gib was saying. “A meat dish alone is not a true test of a chef’s abilities. Steak is too bland—you need sauces to get any flavor. And outdoor grilling . . .” His expression clearly placed the favored summer cooking method in the rookie category.

  Gad. Talk about blasphemy.

  “The Grill-off wasn’t designed to crown the best overall chef,” Mimi said, exhibiting the deliberate patience of a mother of two teenagers. “It was designed to give home cooks new ideas for grilling good Montana beef.”

  “What about Wagyu beef?” a man I didn’t recognize said.

  “Wagyu-shmagyu. It’s nothing special. Wagyu is Japanese for beef.” Gib cackled.

  “Besides,” Mimi said, “it’s a little late to criticize the premise of a show you agreed to host months ago.” She turned and stalked into the Lodge.

  I muttered “excuse me” and darted after her.

  “Mim.” I grabbed the sleeve of her turquoise linen tunic outside the women’s room. “What’s all that about?”

  “Mr. Big Shot and his snide comments about our one-stoplight town and cute little backward ways. Not to mention our low-brow food. He actually called sweet potato chips quaint.”

  I had other words for them. But now wasn’t the time to share that opinion.

  “This is a disaster,” she said, running her hand through her short pale hair and giving it a tug.

  “Don’t worry. He may be an ass in person, but he’ll be fine on camera.” I’d encountered people like that in the corporate world. Secret pot-stirrers whose egos kept them from misbehaving when they thought it really mattered. But as my mother would say, it always matters.

  “I wish I could believe you.” Throwing me a skeptical look, Mimi pushed open the door labeled COWGIRLS and slipped inside.

  “Humans,” I muttered, and headed for the corrals.

  Half an hour of horse-whispering later, I wound my way back to the Lodge. Stroking a horse’s well-muscled neck and scratching behind its ears always put things in perspective. Temporarily, at least.

  Show time would be over by now. Maybe I could score a few leftovers to nibble on back at the Merc while I rechecked the inventory control software.

  “One peep and I’ll make sure your career is finished. Count on it.” The voice was male, confident of his demands. I froze, a tall green thicket between me and the argument.

  “You have no hold over me,” came the disdainful reply. But from whom, or even what gender, I couldn’t tell. A hundred horses on the move will drown out all but the loudest voices. I turned to watch as the herd made its nightly procession to the upper pasture, and forgot everything else, lost in joy.

  When the horses had passed, I strolled back to the Lodge with the crowd that had gathered to watch the parade. I replayed the overheard snippets in my mind’s ear. But they had been tense, colored by rage, beyond recognition.

  What had I actually heard?

  Sound and fury. But what, if anything, did it signify?

  * * *

  Two hours later, I finally felt sure that the software was working properly and that we did in fact have all the jam, flour, eggs, and pasta the bits and bytes reported.

  One last chocolate mousse cup in hand—portable paradise—I descended the half flight of stairs from the Merc’s office. I double-checked the front door—just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean stuff won’t happen, and the locks on this pile of bricks are original. In the kitchen, a light glowed over the six-burner gas stove, and when I stepped inside to flick it off, I spotted Fresca’s copy of My Life in France by Julia Child on the counter. Astonished that Stacia had never read it, she’d insisted Stacia borrow her own dog-eared copy. But there it lay, forgotten.

  Easier to drop it off tonight than try to find the time—and Stacia—later in the week. I was driving by the road to the Lodge anyway. My own place was just a short hop south of the Lodge. I tucked the book in my bag—a bright blue leather hold-all I’d bought in a teeny-tiny shop on East Pike in Seattle—and strode out the back door.

  A stream of light from Red’s courtyard shone into our space, highlighting the empty corners, picking out the spaces between the worn cobblestones. I may not understand Liz’s talk about using the five elements—fire, wood, earth, water, and metal—to enhance the flow of energy, but she had a way of making me want to believe.

  That’s why I’d hung a red metal star on the back gate earlier this summer, to burnish the Merc’s fame and reputation. I adjusted it now.

  Several weeks past solstice, the sky had already begun darkening sooner than I would like. This time of year, it becomes impossible to deny that the seasons will change.

  I turned my sage green Subaru off the highway onto a long, narrow road leading to the turnoff for the Lodge, keeping my eye peeled for deer. The pesky critters have a straight shot down the mountain, across the highway, through the dark woods and deserted fields to the water. And they rarely travel alone.

  My headlights glinted off something on the right. I slowed. Not roadkill—something shiny. A black trash bag? Something that had fallen off the top of a car or flown out the back of a pickup?

  No shoulder on this road, so I pulled over as far as I could and stopped the car, beams shining on the asphalt and the dense brush beside it. I grabbed the Maglite from my glove box and flicked it on. Stepped out.

  Stepped closer. No.

  No. I knelt beside Stacia’s crumpled body, the lights picking up those highlights in her hair, and felt for a pulse.

  From the opposite direction, more lights approached. Too fast. Too close.

  No.

  • Four •

  I punched 911 on my cell and forced myself to keep a steady voice as I told the dispatcher who, what, and where.

  But why? Why?

  I’d gone thirty-two years without finding a dead body. Then, two in two months. In mysteries, the person who finds the body is always the obvious suspect.

  Criminy.

  Kyle had stopped his car twenty feet from where I stood next to Stacia, waving my flashlight. Turned out when he saw the lights, he thought someone had hit a deer and needed help. After checking the body—a phrase that made me shiver—he’d backed his car up and angled it across the road to block all traffic coming from the Lodge. Now, as I huddled on the edge of the road, he asked for my keys so he could move my Subaru to block access from the highway and town.

  “How do you know to do that?”

  He shrugged, his narrow face placid. He still wore chef’s duds, the black not showing the day’s work like the usual whites. “From over there,” he said. Iraq. In the Army, a cook wasn’t just a cook. He was a soldier first and last. What had Kyle experienced over there?

  In three minutes that might have been thirty, flashing lights pierced the night as the sheriff’s deputies and ambulance crew arrived. I heard Detective Kim Caldwell, Jewel Bay’s resident deputy, barking orders. Heard her footsteps approach and stop. Almost heard her thinking, What is it about the Murphys and hit-and-runs? Squeezed my eyes and opened them to meet her gaze.

  She’d crouched in front of me, and now she touched my bare arm. “Erin? It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

  Like heck it would. I’d only come down here to give Stacia a book. And now—I closed my eyes again, hoping that would stop the tears.

  Heavy steps ap
proached. “Check her for shock.” Kim’s voice seemed a long way off.

  “No. No, I’m okay.” I tried to stand. It didn’t work. “I’m just stiff. It’s cold out here.” That sounded stupid. It had to be seventy-five degrees. The EMT knelt and shone one of those medical light-thingies in my eyes. I blinked and tried to pull away, but he was a burly man and he kept a firm grip on my upper arm.

  Kim and another EMT crouched by Stacia’s body. The EMT shook her head. Kim bowed hers. As they rose, Kim waved to a uniformed deputy carrying a big camera with a flash.

  My EMT insisted on helping me stand. Kyle was explaining to Kim what he’d done, what I’d said. She eyed her cousin warily. The benefits to a cop of living in a small town can also be a detriment. Especially for a cop living in the town she grew up in.

  “Good thinking,” she finally told him. “We’ll let the ME say for certain, but a hit-and-run is a good probability. Sure wish one of you had seen the vehicle.” I noticed then that several cars had stopped behind Kyle’s makeshift blockade. It would be hours before the scene was cleared. I suddenly had an overpowering urge to be home. On my couch, with my cat and a blankie. And a bottle of something strong.

  The EMTs popped a gurney open and loaded Stacia’s body, in the tucked position in which she’d fallen. They barely had to lift a finger—small in life, she’d gotten even smaller in death.

  Kim turned to Kyle, who’d perched next to me on the back of the second ambulance. The one without a dead woman inside. “Tell me again what you were doing here this time of night,” she demanded.

  “I told you, Kim. I worked late and was headed home. This is a busy week. The Lodge is full, plus the Grill-off.” Impatience edged his words.

  My vision was coming back into focus. I’d rarely seen Kim in anything other than detective garb—dark jackets and pants, usually matching—or jeans and riding boots. She must have been hanging out at home, a cottage by the bay about half a mile north of here. Her short blond hair was tousled. Black leggings left several inches of skin showing above sockless feet stuffed into silver and purple running shoes. The effect emphasized her long legs and slender build—and demolished the image of professional cool she worked so hard at.

  At least she’d grabbed her gun belt before she ran out the door. It peeked out beneath the hem of her purple fleece hoodie.

  “If you say so,” she said curtly. “We need to get you home, Erin. A deputy will drive you. We’ll get your car to you later.”

  After they checked it over for any damage and ruled me out. I’d learned a few things about hit-and-run accidents, all those years ago when my father was killed. The deputies had already hauled out portable floodlights. They’d be searching for skid marks, gouges in the road, broken glass, chips of paint.

  Before I could respond, Kim pivoted, instantly ready, at the sound of a scuffle. A harsh voice broke the reverent air.

  “I’m a Lodge guest. You have to let me through.” Gib Knox stood by the side of his dark car, engine idling. He’d stopped inches behind a sheriff’s vehicle. He’d come from the direction of town, and if his tone were any indication, from its bars.

  “Sir.” The deputy made a single polite word into a command.

  “Nice rig,” Kyle whispered to me. He’d always had an eye for cars, unlike me. What was that slick speedy thing he’d been so proud of in high school?

  “You’ll have to drive around,” Kim said. “The deputies will redirect you. That is, if you’re able.”

  “Of course I’m able,” he snapped. He’d ditched the dude getup in favor of dark slacks, loafers, and a chocolate brown leather bomber jacket that looked more natural on him.

  The deputy stepped closer to Gib, sniffed, then gave Kim a quick nod. He circled the car, shining his flashlight. “Looks clean.”

  “Get his statement. All the usual whens and wheres,” Kim said. “Then show him the back entrance and start making the rounds, checking every car in the lots. Tell the desk clerk we’ll need a complete guest list. It’ll be a late night, kids—we’re knocking on every door.”

  Made sense. The driver might have come from the Lodge or been going to it. They needed to know if any cars had been stolen or damaged, and whether anyone had seen anything remotely relevant.

  “Not so fast,” Gib said. The EMTs had closed the doors to the other ambulance and climbed back inside, ready to clear the scene. No sirens, no flashing lights. “I want to know what happened.”

  “There’s been an accident.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.” He may have passed the smell test, but he wouldn’t get good marks for behavior. He spotted Kyle and me. “What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

  “It’s Stacia,” I said. “She went out for a walk. Someone hit her. She—didn’t make it.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, his face pale in the harsh floodlights, then sank against the car. Head down, he breathed heavily, then raised his eyes to mine.

  “I told you. This town is cursed.”

  * * *

  By the time I handed Kim my car keys and she handed me off to a deputy, dark had fully fallen.

  As my chauffeur wound the patrol car south above the lakeshore, I pictured all the roads our unknown driver could have taken. Highways, arterials, residential roads. Driveways and cul-de-sacs leading to houses and more houses, some dark, some lit up in welcome. Or in warning. Rutted back roads that split, twisted, split again, then petered out into abandoned logging roads.

  All the places a guilty driver could have vanished.

  Assuming he knew what he’d done. It might have been a glancing blow that didn’t even register. Or he might have thought he’d hit a small animal and not bothered to stop. Heartless, yes, but it happened all the time.

  In high school, weeks after I got my driver’s license, I hit a cat on the highway. I’d parked my old beater—handed down from my father to my brother, my sister, then me—and carried the limp gray tabby to the nearest house. The owner opened the door and gently took the tiny load. Her expression said she didn’t blame me, but that hadn’t kept me from sobbing for days.

  I thought again of Stacia. Her plans for the future and the friendship we’d just begun. The pictures she’d proudly shared of her young son.

  She’d had spark, ambition, and urban smarts. They’d taken her far, in a cutthroat field. She’d been wearing black, walking on a narrow, country road at night with no flashlight.

  Living in the country took a different kind of smarts.

  That didn’t mean she should have died.

  He—she, whoever—should have stopped.

  * * *

  The deputy raised one eyebrow when I told him where to take me. My first impulse had been to go to my cabin. Restored by Bob, decorated by Liz, it’s as sweet as any place on earth.

  But I needed to go where I always go in times of trouble. The orchard. Where Murphys have lived for a hundred years, on the downslope of Trumpeter Mountain, high above the lake. Where the gentle winds make life—and the cherries—sweeter.

  Where my mother still holds court.

  Gravel crunched under the deputy’s tires as he followed my directions and pulled into the carport next to the house. I did not want her to see an official sheriff’s rig before she saw me, safe.

  But there’s no fooling Francesca Conti Murphy. Or her faithful companion, Pepé, the only Italian Scottie dog. (Biscotti, my brother Nick calls her.) Alerted by the unexpected sound—not many drop-in visitors after 10 p.m. in these parts—my mother dashed out the front door, barefoot, her long silk kimono flapping as she ran.

  I flew to her. No matter how old you are, there is nothing so comforting as your mother’s arms. Pepé circled us, barking, her stubby black tail upright.

  Outside, in the warm breeze and underneath the stars, I gave my mother the news. “Oh, darling.” She cupped my face in her hands, her long fi
ngers cradling my damp cheeks. I held her trembling shoulders, the familiar scent of her washing over me.

  Inside, I slipped out of my dress, now speckled with dirt and bits of pine needles, and found an old pair of my brother Nick’s gray-and-black-checked flannel pajama bottoms and a faded gray-and-maroon UM sweatshirt. No doubt I’d shed them both during the night, but right now, Comfort R Us.

  “What about her family?” my mother said when I’d curled up on the couch, Pepé beside me. She handed me a steaming mug.

  “Kim will call the police where the husband lives. They’ll send a team to make a visit.” I inhaled the velvety scent of cocoa spiked with a dash of Bailey’s, and took a sip.

  Fresca gestured with her Chianti. “Petty question at a time like this, but what about the filming?”

  “They’ll have to cancel. They need someone to manage all the details. Especially since they’ve already lost their regular cameraman.”

  Stacia’s death wouldn’t have any effect on Summer Fair itself. In thirty-five years, the Fair had seen plenty of major and minor disruptions. Rain. Forest fires. One early year, a fugitive in a stolen red Mustang convertible led sheriff’s deputies on a chase and got caught when he detoured into the village. The Fair goers thought he was part of the entertainment.

  “We’ll start a memorial fund for her son,” Fresca said. “It’s the least we can do.”

  I spent that night in the rocket-shaped twin bed my mother had built for Landon. The room had come a long way from the Strawberry Shortcake and Blueberry Muffin decor it had endured in my childhood. Lego spaceships and Hank the Cowdog books had bumped my Little House collection off the shelves, and a Star Wars mural covered the wall where posters of The New Kids on the Block had once hung.

  But sleep eluded me. A mental slide show—PowerPoint brain—looped over and over: pictures of Landon; of Stacia’s son, Luke; and of his namesake, Luke Skywalker. Images of Stacia crumpled by the side of the road, the gray tabby I’d run over, my own father. Losing a parent at seventeen was one thing, at three another.