• Fifteen •
Senior year of high school, we performed Fiddler on the Roof. I played Hodel, the second daughter, who spars with Perchik the revolutionary, then falls in love with him. I could still sing every song.
Seems to me every culture believes its traditions are the strongest. My parents used to razz each other, my mother insisting the Irish didn’t understand tradition, except on St. Patrick’s Day, but the Italians—now they honor tradition. The teasing had itself become a tradition, and I missed it.
But I rarely missed our Sunday evening gathering with family and friends for food, drink, and conversation. In summer, we sit outside at the edge of the orchard. The gathering—and the playful arguments—were well under way when I arrived. I’d stopped at my cabin long enough for a quick shower—not so easy with your elbow bandaged—and a change of clothes. Everything went straight into the washer. I slipped into a purple cap sleeve dress, a soft knit that didn’t rub any sore spots, and grabbed a fleecy lime green cardigan for later on. In these parts, fleece is a year-round fabric.
“Bill, is it safe for her to drink champagne?” my mother said as I reached for a glass.
“Why?” he said. “Don’t you think we have enough?”
She smacked his shoulder lightly with the back of her hand. “She could have a concussion.”
“Two docs checked her out. We’ll keep an eye on her.” Bill had a mellowing effect on my mother that we all appreciated.
Since so many of us—my mother, Heidi, Chiara, and me—had spent the day in the village, tonight’s offerings were simple. An antipasto platter beckoned. I helped myself to a slice of prosciutto-wrapped melon—sweet, fragrant cantaloupe grown in the hotter, dryer Mission Valley south of us—and eyed the seating options. With my bruised backside, nothing rough or wooden appealed. I made a cushion of my sweater and settled gingerly on an old weathered bench. In the orchard, Landon and Jason were picking up wind-fall apples. Landon had ditched most of his hot cow dog costume, but the tail still pinned to his waistband wiggled and wagged as he scurried between the trees.
“I went by the Lodge to take the doctor a thank-you basket,” I said. “And I popped in on Tara Baker.”
Chiara reached for a slice of salami. “Did you slap her for me?”
The others looked confused, so we explained about Tara’s hissy fit at the playground.
“Is that what prompted Pete and Gib to go after each other?” Fresca said, refilling her glass.
“Maybe,” I said, trying to piece together what we’d heard. “Tara wanted Pete to hire on with EAT-TV. And Gib told me he was considering it. But Tara got upset with Pete at the playground, and Gib changed his mind.” My hand hovered over a carrot but my aching jaw said no. A strip of marinated roasted red pepper would have to be my consolation prize.
“Can you blame him?” Chiara said.
“What I don’t know is whether Tara planned to leave. She seems genuinely torn, but I heard her and Drew arguing over child custody.”
Fresca narrowed her eyes. “Powerful motive.”
“Pete was on the patio, filming, when Gib and the chefs took their break. Tara told me she followed Drew out to the parking lot to talk with him again about Emma, and that’s when she found him.”
“And you believe her?” Clearly, Chiara didn’t.
I nodded slowly. “I do. Her grief seems real. It’s one thing to go wild and break up your marriage. It’s another to kill your ex-husband.”
My mother shuddered visibly and Bill reached out a hand to take hers. They’d both lost spouses tragically. Killing one on purpose was unfathomable.
“Poor Drew,” Liz said. “And that poor little girl.”
“From what I’ve seen,” Fresca said, “I’m half surprised no one’s killed Gib Knox. He is obnoxious, pardon the pun.”
“I can’t decide whether he’s really a hothead, or if it’s all for show. For the drama and effect.”
“Shameful either way.” Fresca rose. “Dinner in ten minutes.”
Chairs were rearranged, bathroom trips made, water poured, and salads set out on the table. Bill had brought his perfect Caesar and Liz had made a beet and radicchio salad, all inspired by the Merc’s produce. Fresca had marinated flank steak in a peppery orange and mint combo that had my mouth watering.
But I couldn’t eat a bite. Even the romaine sent spasms shooting through my face. Bill gave me another homeopathic remedy, which helped, but by that point, I’d lost interest in food. Turns out you can’t work just one side of your jaw.
I closed my eyes and let the last warm rays bathe me. Sunshine heals. Around me, knives and forks clicked on china as the others ate, chatting about this and that between bites and trading compliments.
“Landon, you are a mess,” Jason said. I opened my eyes and laughed. You could identify every dish on the menu by the colors smeared around my nephew’s mouth, traces of the cow dog paint job still visible on his nose and cheeks. “If you’re done eating, let’s go wash up.”
“I see him, and I think about Stacia and her little guy,” Fresca said after they left. “And now Drew and Emma. Such a tragedy.”
“Not to sound callous,” I said, “but the TV angle makes this national news. When word gets out, town could take a hit. We need to be prepared.”
“The usual advice,” Bob Pinsky said, “is to ward off bad news in advance. Be proactive.”
“Right. Like the manufacturers who pull their products off the shelves at the first hint of tampering,” I said, remembering case studies from my business classes. “Showing their concern for safety without waiting for a recall order.”
But none of us could think of an equivalent here. All we could do was urge everyone in town to cooperate with the sheriff, and share every tidbit of information, no matter how small.
I headed home with an empty stomach and a heavy heart.
* * *
Sandburg and I curled up in the cushy brown leather chair with a bowl of ice cream. French vanilla, smothered in chocolate-Cabernet sauce. Yummers—and no chewing required—but it wasn’t Avalanche Crunch or Chocolate Heaven.
Which brought me back to the argument between Pete and Gib. We hadn’t called the sheriff—my injury was obviously an accident, and a fight that ends before it starts hardly warrants calling out the cavalry.
Still, near-blows between two men who’d been close—at least in proximity—to a murder might not be a coincidence.
If Kim were handling the case, I’d call her up right now. I was less willing to disturb Ike Hoover on a Sunday night, especially over an incident hours hold, even if it did demonstrate Gib’s temper.
I licked the last bit of chocolate sauce off my spoon. Why would Gib have attacked Drew? The other way around made more sense: Drew following Gib to complain about the snide remarks, cheap wisecracks that might boost Gib’s ratings but harm the Inn’s reputation. Or to find out if he had actually meant to hire Pete, luring Tara away from Jewel Bay.
Gib was a bully and a blowhard. I’d like to believe him guilty, but could conjure up no reason he’d have followed Drew to the parking lot, let alone picked up a mallet and taken a swing. Even if some past tension had tainted their friendship—as Drew’s comments Friday morning suggested—it was a long road to murder.
I set the empty bowl on the kitchen floor for Sandburg to polish, and spotted the boxes Kim had packed up. Despite my sore parts, sleep seemed unlikely, and organizing can be mindless distraction. I needed to sort the business paperwork from the personal, shipping work stuff to the network and Stacia’s personal papers to her husband. I uncorked a bottle of pinot noir, grabbed a glass, and sat on the living room floor with the first box.
Airplane itineraries. The confirmation receipt from the Lodge. I made a pile for travel docs and another for credit card receipts. The amount of paper astonished me, considering how much Stacia relied on he
r phone. But maybe EAT-TV’s expense policy required hard copies.
Better make an inventory. I grabbed my iPad and started a list.
Next, Kyle’s recipe and e-mail transmittal went into a new pile. Where were the other Grill-off submissions?
Sip, sort, sip, sort. Found the gear list for the Grill-off, and the list of local vendors, growers, and producers to be interviewed. Could have used that today. I set it aside—Gib had said this morning that he wanted to expand that part of the broadcast. Of course, his argument with Pete might have changed all that.
Here was Amber’s e-mail transmitting her recipe, right on the due date, with profuse thanks for being included. And then her second e-mail, saying she hoped it wasn’t too late to substitute a recipe that made better use of local flavors.
Tara may have thought the chefs didn’t take the Grill-off seriously, but Amber did, and no wonder. A good showing on national TV, and bookings at her Inn would skyrocket.
She had a lot riding on Gib’s comments. They had been decidedly mixed—give a little, take a little. Too bad she hadn’t gotten to make the recipe she’d really wanted to make.
Where was it? Not with her e-mail. I flayed out the rest of the papers but no luck. Right in front of me, no doubt. With that mess in Stacia’s cabin, no way to tell.
From the center of my paper island, I searched for the recipe pile. As I stretched to place Amber’s e-mail on top, two tiny specks on the upper left corner caught my eye. I squinted. Staple holes. And a faint penciled circle around the date.
If it were me, that circle would indicate a question. But about what? The similarity of Amber’s recipe to Drew’s? I added a list of questions to my inventory and searched the rest of the papers in earnest. No recipe for filet with huckleberry-morel sauce, and no submission from Drew.
Well, there had to be a logical explanation. Stacia must have set the two recipes aside in some other pile or file, although why she’d detached Amber’s recipe from her e-mail, I couldn’t imagine.
Kim had given me Stacia’s briefcase, stuffed with more papers. And one red Sharpie, two lipsticks, and a comb. Kim still had her wallet, phone, and computer.
But why had Stacia traveled with a copy of Goodnight, Moon? To remind her of Luke? I’d read it to Landon dozens of times.
I sniffed back tears of anger and sadness.
It’s not easy to pace in two hundred square feet, furnished, but it’s easier when the cat isn’t underfoot. I scooped him up and we paced together, his warm body and soft purr a welcome comfort.
Think like Stacia. Obviously, we didn’t share as much OCD DNA as I’d thought, but I felt sure Stacia would have made a list of her questions. Probably on her phone—she didn’t seem to have kept a handwritten journal or planner. But Stacia did have one quirky compulsion: She loved hard copy. She hadn’t brought a portable printer, so no list meant her questions came up after she got to Montana.
Had she shared them with anyone else?
No one had stepped forward yet to admit responsibility for her death, and while it had only been three days, Kim had not tracked anyone down and made an arrest. What if it hadn’t been an accident?
Erin, you’re talking crazy here. Imagining things.
Getting knocked down and half knocked out, eating nothing but ice cream and wine, and staying up past midnight after a too-full weekend will do that.
“Sleep. Sort this out tomorrow. It will all make sense then,” I said out loud.
Sandburg lifted his head off my shoulder and blinked his yellow-green eyes.
“Well, a girl can dream, can’t she?”
• Sixteen •
I love Mondays. Seriously. A whole new week awaits.
Plus we’d oiled the Merc’s front lock and it popped open on my first try.
Another reason to love Mondays: gaps on the shelves. A good weekend in retail should leave the shelves with more holes than a pumpkin patch after the carving contest.
Judging by ours, the weekend had been very good indeed.
I set my coffee on the front counter and danced a little jig on the oak floor, despite my sore parts. My skirt, a black-on-blue Indian print embroidered with silver spangles, swirled around my knees. Grandpa Murphy, look! The Merc is coming back to life!
But no time to rest in retail, especially in a seasonal town. With our new inventory control system, I should be able to punch a few buttons and get a report telling me what had sold and what hadn’t, what extra product we needed to haul up from the basement, and which suppliers to call for more.
My favorite calls. It’s a thrill to tell Sam and Jen their new wine is a hit, to beg Phyl and Jo for more fresh basil, or to let the butcher know customers are raving over his cuts and sausages.
Fresca cooks on Mondays and Tuesdays, though she wasn’t here yet. In a few hours, savory scents would waft out the door and reel ’em in. Diet gurus say “never go shopping hungry,” but no one listens, thank goodness.
Monday is also the day for paperwork. Or rather, screen time. I carried my coffee upstairs, flicked on the laptop, and settled in.
The inventory program icon blinked, uncooperative. My Jell-O spiked and I swore softly. Punched more buttons. Reconsidered my fondness for Mondays and pushed the off button. Gave the machine a time-out.
I checked my phone, returned a few texts, and tried the laptop again a few minutes later. The right lights blinked and the program whirred into action.
“So now you want to play nice? Good choice.” I checked the numbers and made a few vendor calls.
According to my food calendar, next Saturday was National S’mores Day. Only days later, Julia Child’s hundred-and-something birthday. What would Julia Child think of s’mores? Nothing French about ’em, for sure. I bet she’d laugh and call out in that warbly voice for “s’more, s’il vous plaît.”
Both occasions called for displays in the window and in-store. Books by and about Julia were a start. Between us, Fresca and I had a decent collection—including My Life in France, the book Stacia would never get a chance to read.
I leaned back in the secondhand Aeron chair Tracy had scored on one of her thrift shop excursions, sipping Italian roast. Handmade marshmallows? Inspiration struck. I cackled out loud and reached for the phone.
“Marshmallows?” Candy Divine squealed in my ear. “Easy-peasy. Ooh!”
“But Candy,” I said. “White ones. Not pink. Nice white squares to sandwich between cookies with a thin piece of chocolate.”
“Oh, but flavors would be heavenly. Positively ambrosial.” She sounded like she slept on spun sugar. “Strawberry pink and pale green pistachio? Or orange?”
Green marshmallows? Gag me, though orange had possibilities. Another time. “Two varieties: plain white, and chocolate-covered.”
We settled on quantities, price, and a delivery date. And packaging—thank goodness I thought to ask for our signature blue and yellow ribbon instead of Candy’s favorite pink.
Now for graham crackers. The online recipe sites brimmed with instructions for making your own, but our summer shoppers would prefer packages of freshly baked crackers. Why, I wondered, call them crackers rather than cookies? At least the name was more appealing than the British term, “digestives.” I printed out a couple of recipes and headed for Le Panier.
Morning rush had ended. Wendy bounced up from the stool behind her pastry case, cup in hand, when I walked in. “Relax,” I said. “You’ve earned that espresso.”
Her eyes searched my face and focused on my cheek, not as badly bruised as I’d feared. The homeopathic remedies—along with ice cream and a long hot bath—had worked magic.
I handed over the recipes and explained my idea.
“Grahams, no sweat,” she said. “Plain, cinnamon-sugar, chocolate-covered. Unless you want to make your own chocolate bars.”
I shook my head. “Tracy’
s got her hands full making truffles. Chocolate-covered will add a fun twist—not your everyday s’more.” As if there were such a thing.
“Another possibility.” Wendy held up a finger, signaling me to wait, and disappeared into her back room, returning in moments with a thick, batter-spattered recipe binder. “What about”—she paused while she flipped pages—“a chocolate fudge cookie with lightly toasted walnuts, topped with baby marshmallows at the last minute. Or a sandwich—two rolled cookies, a creamy filling, dipped in chocolate. All the s’more flavors in one.”
I could have kissed her. “Aren’t we the luckiest girls? We get to talk food all day, for a living.”
Wendy’s smile is as lovely as it is rare, and she gave me one now. “I’ll bake up some samples this afternoon. The graham crackers will give me a chance to try a blend of your Montana Gold pal’s flours. If it works, you can sell packaged cookies and I’ll sell individual cookies here.”
“Perfect.” But I wished she hadn’t mentioned Rick. All this talk about s’mores had brought back camp thoughts, which brought up Adam thoughts. I liked Adam thoughts. Adding Rick thoughts only stirred up confusion.
I didn’t like confusion.
“Erin, do you think they’ll catch the guy? I mean, whoever killed Drew?” Grief clung to her question.
“You bet. Yes. Soon.” I hope. “Count on it.”
“We didn’t have a clue when we opened the bistro—we wouldn’t have lasted a year without Drew’s help. Who would want to kill him?” She bowed her head, blinking hard. “We only opened the bakery last year. Will this scare people away from Jewel Bay?”
My throat tightened. “Chin up. No salting those cookies with tears.” All our talk had made me hungry, so I snared a pain au chocolat and traipsed back to the Merc, chewing carefully.
Luci the Splash Artist had arrived, toting her wares in a giant vintage double-handled wooden picnic basket. Today’s signature apron was lime green gingham, ruffled around the hem and tied at the waist, worn over a white T-shirt and a brown jersey skirt.
Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) Page 13
