Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village)

by Leslie Budewitz

  He’d lost a line cook in the early-summer crisis. “How’s the new guy working out?” I asked.

  He grinned and gave the thumbs-up sign.

  The other merchants responded with similar generosity. Everyone who’d met Stacia had liked her.

  Back at the Merc, I spent what was left of the morning helping customers. Fresca was back in the groove, whipping up a storm of basil and pine nut pesto and her classic artichoke dip. Herbal paradise ensued.

  Rather than set up our own street booth this year, we were counting on the new layout to funnel foot traffic inside. Our commercial kitchen schedule had been crammed the last few weeks as vendors took advantage of the summer harvest to make more product. Summer Fair was always a huge draw. But the presence of Food Preneurs promised to multiply the crowds.

  And if my smoked salmon supplier delivered this afternoon, we’d have all the fishes they’d need. For loaves, they’d have to pop next door.

  Upstairs in the office, I made a sign announcing the memorial fund. Downstairs, Tracy and I moved the coffeepot and display to the front counter, then she headed out for lunch. Fresca boiled up some fresh linguine, served with pesto made from basil so fresh it was practically still growing. I was mourning the last bite when the phone rang.

  “Hey, Erin. Adam Zimmerman, back in civilization.”

  I could almost hear his lopsided grin over the line. Kinda like Bozo, Tracy’s dog, but without the black-and-white spots. Or the slobbery drool.

  Adam and I had gone to college together, though he hadn’t stuck in my memory. When I came back to Jewel Bay last spring, he’d started calling for contributions to the kids’ wilderness program he ran at the Athletic Club. But then, his calls had become more personal. After the Festa, we’d taken a terrific hike into the Jewel Basin. The skinny geek who came to Montana for outdoor adventure had morphed into—well, a seriously hot guy. Six feet, slender, with dark curly hair and a playful manner, Adam had created a niche for himself in Jewel Bay. We’d met for coffee or a drink a few times and made a dinner date.

  Then his on-site camp director quit midseason, leaving no time to find a replacement. Adam had been forced to step in. No cell service at the camp—great for the wilderness experience, bad for a fledgling relationship. We’d only managed to talk a couple of times in the last month.

  But summer was almost over.

  “So, I’m at the gas station in West Glacier with a busload of kids, on my way back to town. Any chance you’re free this weekend?”

  Figures. My luck he’d show up just in time for my busiest days.

  “It’s Summer Fair,” I said.

  His laugh rippled like cool water over rocks on a hot afternoon. “Of course. It’s Jewel Bay.”

  “Come out with us for dinner and music tonight. Chiara, Jason, and me.”

  “It’s a date. Another adventure.” Whether he meant the music or me wasn’t clear. And didn’t matter.

  The door chimed as we signed off and a family entered. Regulars this summer, the kids went straight for the huckleberry chocolates while the dad picked out cheese, pesto, and salami. The mother carried a basket of produce gathered from our sidewalk cart. We chatted as I rang up their purchases, still feeling the glow from my phone conversation.

  Like Adam’s campers, this family would head home soon. Meanwhile, they were cramming in summer fun: hikes, river floats, even a trip down a mountain zip line.

  All things I loved. Except for my regular Friday afternoon ride with Kim, I hadn’t done much of anything this summer except work. Maybe, when Adam was back for good, that could change.

  That thought was almost as tasty as a huckleberry truffle.

  But what about Rick Bergstrom? “Farm boy,” as Tracy called him, had made more visits to Jewel Bay this summer than our sales volume justified. We met for lunch at Ray’s—he liked those Reubens, too—or took a walk on the Nature Trail above the Jewel River. Another Montana kid who’d left for a few years, he’d worked for a food importer in L.A. before returning. He loved food and business as much as I did.

  You’re thirty-two, I told myself. You can date two guys at the same time. I bent over to scoop a balled-up napkin off the floor and spiked it into the wastebasket.

  Hah. I barely had time for one guy, let alone two.

  And I didn’t have time to go riding. But this was my last chance for a moment to call my own until Summer Fair faded into memory.

  By quarter to three, the Merc shone, and I felt no guilt about slipping out.

  Two feet into the courtyard, I screeched to a halt. I’d been so focused on the shop that the remodel-in-progress had slipped my mind.

  “Not to worry.” Liz stood at one of the new tables, covered in cardboard and potting soil, a classic red geranium in hand. “It’s a basic principle of organizing and remodeling. Things always look worse before they look better.”

  “Not worse, exactly.” I surveyed the space. The cobblestones had been hosed off and the loose stones replaced. Tables had been assembled and chairs unboxed, but not yet paired and arranged. Half the annuals lay gasping for dirt, their already-potted siblings huddled together, waiting for their assignments. Painstakingly chosen outdoor art was stacked along the north wall. The word was “chaotic.” “Just—unfinished. Oh, my, gosh, the fountain!”

  I stared in awe. It looked exactly as it had in the metalsmith’s sketch. But no water flowed and pieces of pipe lay scattered at the base.

  “Not to worry,” Liz repeated, practically pushing me out the back gate. “It’s just a part. Bob will have it running in no time.”

  Telling me not to worry pretty much guarantees that I will. “Liz, what’s the problem?”

  She smiled as she closed the gate behind me. The Merc’s business had been faltering when I’d taken over last spring, and while we were doing well—extraordinarily well—we had no room in the budget for missteps. Or major parts. There’d been no reason to rush—I didn’t know what the Merc was going to do with the space yet anyway—but Liz had insisted.

  I was starting to feel funny about the whole thing.

  A good hard ride would chase the unease away. Followed by a long, hot shower and an evening with a tall, dark, and handsome guy.

  I really do love August in Jewel Bay.

  * * *

  I learned to ride in junior high, when Kim Caldwell and I became best friends. For years, we spent hours every week at the corrals, on the trails, or in the arena. Back then, she’d intended to become head wrangler, and me her trusty sidekick. Eventually, my parents bought me my own mare, although we’d stabled her with the Caldwells’ herd. Folly was long gone, and I’d found a new ride: a lovely chestnut mare named Ribbons, who came to the split rail fence at the sound of my voice and seemed to enjoy our friendship as much as I did.

  In the tack room, I gathered her saddle, blanket, and other gear. No sign of Kim. She’d canceled once or twice before because of work. She was probably tied up with the investigation. But no one minded if I rode out on my own.

  I was adjusting Ribbons’s bridle when Gib Knox strode into the corral, summoning a tall Appaloosa named Kintla with a whistle. Mostly black with a speckled face and a black-and-white blanket pattern across the hips, the broad-shouldered Appie radiated power, though I knew he was a sweetheart.

  “You ride?” I said.

  “Why else do you think I came to Montana? For the food?”

  Really, when was the man serious and when was he teasing?

  “Saw your mug on the wall,” he continued, stroking the Appaloosa tenderly. “Never figured you for a Rodeo Queen.”

  “It was kind of a fluke.” Senior year, I’d gotten lucky in a few barrel races and outscored Kim by enough to take the title that should have been hers. Since my horse had been stabled here, the head wrangler hung my picture on the wall in the tack room. The constant reminder would have bothered
me if the tables had been turned, but Kim never said a thing.

  “You waiting for someone?” he said. “Or can I tag along? I bet you know these trails by heart.”

  “Saddle up,” I said.

  For a big man, Gib was a surprisingly good rider, flexing easily with Kintla’s moves. And he was surprisingly decent company. The trail took off up a steep slope, switching back and forth through dense woods—pine, fir, larch, and the occasional white paper birch, its golden leaves rippling in the slight breeze we made. Eventually, the trail broke out into a flat-rock vista overlooking the lake. We paused, drinking in the view.

  “This may be the most genuinely beautiful place I’ve ever been,” he said. “You folks don’t know what you have up here.”

  “Sure we do,” I said, turning the mare back to the trail. “Why do you think we live here? There’s fresh water for the horses a little farther on.”

  The stream rolled down the mountain into a perfect pool. We dismounted and let the horses drink. I yanked a water bottle out of my saddle bag and Gib did the same.

  “So you knew Drew and Tara in L.A.?” I perched on a giant boulder.

  He nodded, taking a long draw from his bottle. “We cooked together for Berndt King, in his original restaurant. Before King went corporate and sold his name to frozen food makers and slapped it on overpriced appliances.”

  “Must be nice to reconnect.”

  His harsh laugh startled Ribbons, who gazed around, then lowered her head back to the water.

  “How the mighty have fallen, from the King’s favored son to this charming outpost. God knows why he’s so content here—lost all his ambition. Tara, on the other hand, has drive to spare. She’s pushing me to hire Pete permanently.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “And I just might.”

  Ah. So was that what Tara had been telling Drew this morning, in the parking lot?

  Not my business then or now. I kept one eye on the horses and changed the subject. “Where’d you learn to ride?”

  He crouched, rinsed one hand in the pool, and ran it over his forehead. Even in August, the water was refreshingly cool.

  “My father was a self-made snob. Riding was one of the things he insisted people of our social class should know how to do. About the only one I liked—and the only thing I liked that he ever approved of.”

  That explained his English seat, quite different from our cowboy ways. “But you’re a big success. First as a chef, and then on TV.”

  He stood, giving me a wry smile. “Poor bastard didn’t live to see me on TV. Committed suicide when the banking regulators came after him. But no, he wouldn’t have been impressed. ‘Still in a kitchen,’ he’d have said.”

  When women cook, it’s dismissed as women’s work, but when men cook, the title gets an upgrade to chef and a jump in prestige. Sounded like the elder Knox hadn’t considered cooking a profession fit for a man, no matter what title it was given. Or maybe “Nasty Knox” was a hereditary nickname.

  A long time to nurture such bitterness. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  He jammed the light tan Stetson on his head. “Race you down the mountain, Rodeo Queen.”

  “No. Not on these trails. Not safe for the horses.” Or riders—too many roots and branches, and far too steep. I gathered up the reins and we mounted, but I took the lead to keep Gib in check. Both Ribbons and I felt him nipping at our heels, but Kintla was a seasoned trail horse and never took the head Gib tried to give him.

  Back at the corral, Gib handed his horse to a wrangler, thanked me for the ride, and sauntered off toward the Lodge. That got my Jell-O up. Even President Reagan had groomed his own horse. I groomed Ribbons, put away the tack, and found two green apples, one for her and one for the Appie. Stroked their faces and promised to come back soon.

  I headed for my car, checking my phone. No word from Kim. As I walked by a cluster of cabins, it was obvious which one had been Stacia’s: the one with bright yellow tape screaming DO NOT ENTER stretched in an X across the door.

  Maybe our teenage selves had been right. Maybe we should have stuck to horses.

  • Seven •

  I peered in the window. Stacia’d been given a one-room cabin, maybe twelve by fourteen, in tastefully rustic decor. But there was nothing tasteful about it now. Blouses, skirts, and underwear lay strewn across the peeled log bed, obscuring the red-and-black-plaid quilt. One fringed pillow lay on the floor, a black boot next to it. Books and papers covered the pine nightstand and table, a lacy beige bra hooked over the back of a log chair. Next to the butterscotch leather easy chair, the wrought iron floor lamp’s parchment shade tilted rakishly.

  He-llohhh. Had someone ransacked the place? Hunting for what? Or was this mess the aftershock of an official search?

  Who could do that to Stacia’s things? She’d be rolling over—well, metaphorically speaking.

  I shuddered and glanced around. No sign of Kim or any other deputies. No sign of anyone. A maid sang as she worked in the next cabin, her sweet, strong voice rising and falling as she moved. Her cart stood between the two, keys swinging from the handle. A big no-no, as I well remembered from summers working here.

  Obviously the sheriff had already been to the cabin, so I wouldn’t be disturbing anything. No one would notice if I—

  “Hey, Erin.”

  My fingers retracted instantly at the sound of Kim’s voice.

  “Sorry I missed our ride. I meant to call, but the time got away from me. Glad you went ahead.” Her blue eyes lacked their usual sparkle, and her step its usual determination.

  “Too nice a day to pass it up. Kim, what the heck happened in there?” I gestured at the window.

  “Nothing. Our search and inventory turned up no evidence. We took her phone and laptop—that’s all.”

  “Evidence? She was killed in a hit-and-run.” Some drunk, somebody who panicked and took off. Or never knew what they’d done.

  “Negligent homicide is a felony, and leaving the scene of an accident and failure to report are misdemeanors. So this is a full-on homicide investigation.”

  I closed my eyes, thoroughly confused. “She was killed up by the highway. What does the cabin have to do with it? Did somebody break in and wreak havoc? You guys can’t have done that. I mean, I know you can’t leave everything exactly as you found it, but . . .”

  “We went over every inch of the place. Especially after we saw what a shambles it was. But there were no signs of a break-in, struggle, a fight. Nothing connected with the crime.”

  I sank onto the forest green Adirondack chair by the front door. “This is unbelievable.”

  “You’d be amazed at how some people live,” Kim said.

  The maid stepped on a small lever to unlock the wheels of her cart. I recognized her as an aspiring country singer who sang at local bars. Melinda something. She was striking even in jeans and a T-shirt, but in boots and a short fringed dress with the neckline cut halfway to China, whoa.

  “Like I told you earlier,” she said to Kim, “every day she was here, this cabin looked like a hurricane hit it.”

  The wooden chair was less comfortable than it looked. Stacia had seemed so orderly and organized. Weren’t all compulsive list-makers neat freaks like me? Well, like me mostly. I swear, my boots and shoes jump around in the closet on their own.

  Kim leaned against a porch post. “We’ve got to box it all up and send it to her next of kin.”

  “Just like that? Kind of—cold. Plus the papers are all related to the filming—the crew might need them.”

  “And I hear you are part of the crew now.”

  Before I could say a word, before I could protest that I really had to run to get home and shower and change, Kim had unlocked the cabin door, tossed Stacia’s clothes and toiletries into the suitcase she found in the closet, and stowed it in her patrol car, then thrown all the files and p
iles of paper into cardboard boxes she shoved into the back of my Subaru.

  At least, it seemed to happen that fast.

  Now I sat in the driver’s seat, staring at a slip of paper with Stacia’s husband’s name and number. I had to call him.

  Secret slob or not, Stacia deserved that much.

  * * *

  I cleaned up in a hurry, still picturing the chaos in Stacia’s cabin. It gave me the willies. My own closet looked pretty decent in comparison, but I vowed to reorganize it the minute Summer Fair ended.

  What to wear right now? Normally I plan ahead, but I hadn’t planned on meeting Adam tonight. A white tank, a bandanna print skirt, and a denim jacket. A chunky silver bracelet and belt. And my red boots.

  Sandburg meowed loudly by the front door. I chucked him under the chin. “Sorry, buddy. You’re in for the night. Promise, I’ll make it up to you later.”

  I’d agreed to meet Adam at Red’s, then grab a drink and meet the others. But Liz would be disappointed if I didn’t stop at the Merc to check her progress on the courtyard.

  “I’ll just peek,” I muttered as I opened the Merc’s front door.

  Inside, something felt funny. Not wrong—just different. Like the shadows the shelves and bottles cast were laughing at me.

  The sensation grew as I opened the back door. Brow furrowed, I stepped out into the early evening.

  The courtyard glowed. It sparkled, shone, glimmered, and glistened. Wrought iron candle lanterns flickered on the gleaming tile tables. Rope lights tucked behind metal edges lit up the fountain, the water dancing, the metal fish leaping.

  But the brightest glow came from the jack o’ lantern grins on the faces that greeted me: Liz and Bob. My mother. Chiara and Jason, and five-year-old Landon, in cowboy duds, standing next to his new best friend, Adam.

  “Surprise, Auntie!”

  “Happy courtyard, girlie.” Old Ned raised a beer in a toast. “It don’t look like the same place.”

  It surely did not. It had been transformed. The sketches Liz and I had spent hours tweaking, the art, furniture, and accessories we’d found, had sprung to life.