The tilt of her head and the “oh, c’mon” look in her eyes conveyed her disbelief.
“Okay,” I continued. “Say it was Gib. You knew they’d worked together in L.A., and that’s why you asked Drew to see if Gib would bring the show to Jewel Bay, right?”
She nodded, her expression grim.
“Did he say anything? Suggest any bad blood?” But if there’d been any history, why would Drew have agreed to invite the man and participate in the show?
“No. Drew was so even-tempered, so steady. Anything past was past to him. But the moment Gib got here, trouble started.”
True enough, though Gib hadn’t singled Drew out. His comments at the Grill-off had dripped with that sarcastic, snipey tone some people confuse with sophistication.
But the recipe thing nagged me.
“Mimi, Drew did his ordering and menu planning on the Inn’s computer, right? Did he submit his recipe for the Grill-off from here, too? Can I take a peek?”
“If you think it will help.” She led me to a cramped office behind the kitchen where an ancient PC hummed sleepily. I brought it to life, then found the e-mail program. Drew had set up his own account. Password-protected. I plugged in “Emma” and the year of her birth, and presto! (I still hadn’t told Chiara I’d hacked her Facebook account last June. Somebody ought to warn parents not to use such obvious passwords.)
Mimi glanced at her watch. “Lunch time—I need to head out front. You okay here?”
Perfectly okay. Blissfully okay, scrolling through a dead man’s in-box. If Ike Hoover caught me, he’d throw a fit. Or throw me in jail. I typed faster.
Routine e-mails from suppliers. Notes from friends. Someone would have to notify his contacts and close this account. Later. Drew had set up folders for vendor correspondence, employees, and recipes, broken down further by main ingredient. Nothing relevant under BEEF. No folder for the Grill-off, darn it.
Nothing anywhere: not in the in-box, the sent box, the Recycle Bin. I opened Word and found a few recipes, but not this one.
Dag-nabbit.
Before letting the computer go back to sleep—they work hard, they need their rest—I scrolled through Drew’s in-box again, scanning for other potential connections. Jumped on Facebook, but found nothing unusual.
When I left the Inn, I took the donations to the bank, then strolled back to the Merc. Half a dozen customers eyed the kitchen activity from the shop side of the stainless steel counter. A couple perched on the red-topped stools Fresca had snared from an old soda fountain, watching as Pete filmed Fresca laying freshly cut pasta on drying racks and chatting with Gib about the necessity of a vine-ripened tomato for a good, hearty sauce. I’d completely forgotten that we—or rather Fresca and Tracy—were on the schedule for today.
Martha Stewart and Ina Garten make cooking on camera look easy. Well, so did Francesca Conti Murphy. Her natural calm and enthusiasm for all things tasty and Italian made you want to make whatever she was making. And more important, to eat it.
Then Tracy demonstrated truffle making. Her voice betrayed her nervousness, and I rubbed my lucky stars, hoping she could control her shaky hands as she melted chocolate and talked about couverture, ganache, and tempering.
“Breathe, Tracy,” I said softly, watching the action from the shop. Beside me, Fresca whispered, “Smile.” She seemed to hear us both, calming visibly as she demonstrated holding a ball of soft, creamy raspberry filling with her index and middle fingers and swirling it through the lush dark chocolate, finishing with a quick twist before settling the concoction onto a parchment-lined tray.
Tracy reached for another tray and angled it toward the camera, speaking directly to the lens as Fresca had done. “If you’re going to dip chocolates in the summer, do it in the morning, while the air is still cool. Otherwise your chocolates may develop a white bloom or cloud. That won’t affect the taste, but it isn’t attractive. It’s getting a little warm in here, so I’m going to stop now.”
Gib’s jaw dropped, but I cheered her for taking control—especially in pursuit of perfect chocolate.
“So now you’ve seen how two of Jewel Bay’s most creative cooks have made a niche for themselves, sharing their passion with us. For Food Preneurs, on location at the Glacier Mercantile in Jewel Bay, Montana, I’m Gib Knox.” Camera still rolling, he glanced aside, mock horror on his face. “Hey, save one of those for me.” Then he turned back to the camera and gave his future audience a smile and a wink, his signature sign-off.
I stepped around Pete and his pile of gear to grab a Diet Coke. I slipped the cold can into one of the foam thermal sleeves Tracy had made and handed it to her. “Good job.”
“Thanks.” Flushed but happy, she took a swig, then carried the sample tray out to the shop floor to share.
“Mom, you’re a natural,” I told Fresca. “You should have your own cooking show.”
“Erin.” Gib Knox broke in. “Glad to see you still among the living.”
Ouch. “I’m fine, thanks. But you owe me ice cream.” Which reminded me to call the owner of the ice cream truck. Scoops and cones were out of the question, but we could do decent traffic in prepacked pints. We’d need a small freezer—a better investment than a deluxe outdoor grill. Or at least one with a more obvious business purpose.
Pete tittered, wrapping a cord. A customer was waiting at the front counter. “I’ll get her,” Fresca said.
“In lieu of a waffle cone, how about telling me what happened?”
Gib’s jaw twitched and his face settled into a “don’t worry your pretty little head” look. Behind him, I saw Pete stiffen, and his brief glance shot daggers into Gib’s back.
“Okay, fine,” I said, shrugging one shoulder. “Don’t tell me. Just makes it hard to keep pretending it was an accident.”
Gib cleared his throat. “Stress. First, Stacia, then Drew. We got impatient with each other. That’s all.”
Pete looked from me to Gib and back, wide-eyed, and nodded quickly. Too quickly, as if he hadn’t expected that explanation but was happy to go along.
“Makes sense,” I said, though I didn’t buy it. Even the worst stress won’t make a fight break out of thin air. “Poor Stacia. What was she doing out on the road at nine o’clock?”
Another shrug. “She liked to walk.”
“At night? In those shoes?” I wasn’t buying that, either.
“We’ll never know, will we? But the best way to honor her is to keep on working.” Gib gave me a long, steady gaze, then turned to Pete. “Where to next?”
Pete pulled a small notebook out of the pocket of his overshirt. “Bear Grass, check. The Merc, check. Looks like Rainbow Lake Garden, and the Creamery after that.”
A few minutes later, I had the shop to myself. Tracy had gone home to walk Bozo, and Fresca had left to meet Bill for a quick lunch. Our talk about the courtyard would have to wait. I perched on the stool behind the front counter with my iPad and fired up my spreadsheet. Jotted a note to ask if Drew dated, and who. Added Mimi to the suspect roster so I could cross her off.
I stared at the columns and rows. No obvious patterns emerging. Sometimes you have to move the data around.
Or add to it. I created a new column labeled STACIA and noted her connections to each of the others. After Drew’s death, the recipe snafu might not matter, but I still had questions—and she’d had them, too.
I closed my eyes, trying to think like her, picturing her papers spread out on my living room floor—minus Drew’s e-mail and recipe and Amber’s recipe. Identical recipes, according to Gib, or at least oddly similar. Where had Stacia’s copies gone? She’d had them with her at the meeting last Thursday morning, hadn’t she?
No surprise that she and Gib had discussed the problem and how to solve it before informing the committee. But she had seemed surprised when Gib accused Drew of copying Amber’s recipe.
&
nbsp; Why? Because she’d seen the e-mails and knew it was an innocent coincidence? Or because she knew it wasn’t?
Well, I didn’t know Maria von Trapp’s view of coincidences, but I knew what Poirot and Holmes and the TV cops thought. And I didn’t believe in them, either.
• Eighteen •
I still hadn’t called Stacia’s husband. Tonight. And I hadn’t called Chef Amber. I picked up my phone, then decided a visit might be smarter. When Tracy returned, I congratulated her again on a terrific demo, then headed to Le Panier for a cheese-and-spinach-filled croissant. Eating in the car might be a sin in France, but in my book, letting your tummy go growling when there’s a great bakery next door is an even bigger sin.
I slid the Subaru’s moon roof open and welcomed the sun and sky. Fresca and I had driven up to Bear Grass late last spring, shortly after my return, to meet Amber and see the transformation she and her sister had made. Once an outfitter’s fishing and hunting camp—Gib’s jab at “Bear Poop Lodge” had not been far off—it was now a picture-perfect retreat. New roof and furnishings for restaurant and cabins, a new septic system, and a dee-luxe kitchen with every shiny tool and toy a chef could want. And no doubt the debt to match, unless Amber was a trust fund baby in disguise.
“Rustic” need not be a synonym for “run-down.”
Gib hadn’t been up here until today. How had he known about its history? Lucky guess, or he’d done a little research after all.
Wonders never cease.
Two Honda Gold Wings with Alberta plates stood in the small parking area, alongside a white van sporting the B&B’s name and logo—a grizzly crouched in front of a clump of bear grass. A fly rod leaned against the peeled pine porch rail, next to a net and a pair of dripping waders.
A full-figured Golden Retriever lay on the porch and lifted his large head at my approach. Not guarding the place so much as mooching for a scratch behind the ears. I obliged. An old guy, judging from the patches of white around the eyes and muzzle, the rest of his long, wavy fur a lush red-gold. “Good boy.”
“That’s Duke,” Amber said from behind the screen door. “Old and arthritic, but he still runs the place.”
“Nice to have a good supervisor.” I straightened. “After the, uh, eventful weekend, I wanted to drop in and see how you are.”
“Still in shock, I guess.” She was around thirty-five, five-four, wiry and athletic-looking. I didn’t know who took the guests hiking and fishing, but her tan face and arms said she got out at every chance.
“Were you and Drew close?” I asked.
“When we bought this place, he came up for dinner, invited us to his restaurant. People think chefs are all cutthroat and competitive, but not Drew. He wanted everyone to succeed.”
“I’ve been hearing that. Makes his death even more of a loss. The village won’t be the same without him.”
She folded her arms and tightened her jaw.
I came for information and she wasn’t in a chatty mood. Dig in. “So it must have stung when he submitted your huckleberry-morel steak recipe.”
Her mouth opened and shut like a fish blowing bubbles, but she didn’t speak.
“And no doubt Gib’s comments about your dish at the Grill-off felt doubly unfair, when you’d had to come up with something new at the last minute.”
Her eyes darkened and she twisted the dish towel in her hands. “Drew didn’t—is that what Gib said? What are you implying, Erin?”
At the sound of her rising voice, old Duke struggled to his feet. I reached for his ears, and he pushed my hand with his nose. “Good boy,” I said, and he pushed my hand again. Not asking for a scratch this time. He barked.
I held up my hands and backed down the wooden steps. “Catch you later,” I told woman and dog.
Far be it from me to come between a woman and her dog.
* * *
What had I had said or done to spook Amber Stone? When I first mentioned Drew, she was sad, almost wistful.
But when I brought up the recipes, her entire demeanor had changed. I still didn’t believe Drew had stolen her recipe. I’d hoped she’d tell me there had been an innocent coincidence—that she had created a similar recipe after a casual conversation with him, or after tasting a special at his restaurant, and hadn’t remembered the source until Gib Knox raised a red flag.
Instead, she’d gotten angry. Frightened. Why? It almost sounded like she didn’t know Gib had accused Drew of theft.
On the drive back out to the highway, I swerved to miss a young turkey sitting in the road and the Subaru hit a pothole. “Yeow!” Pain shot up my arm as the wheel jerked out of my hands.
This investigating was turning out to be a real pain in the backside—and other places.
As I drove back to Jewel Bay, I visualized the spreadsheet and my list of suspects. I hadn’t seriously considered Amber as a murder suspect—not enough tension between her and Drew. Or was there?
I wished I’d asked if she’d seen him after the tasting. She’d have been busy reloading her gear, like he was.
Where had she parked? I tried to picture the lot, but couldn’t recall seeing her white van.
She may not have killed him, but she knew something. Did she, like Mimi and probably half the town, think Gib had done it?
He could be aggravating, for sure. But a blow to the back of the head seemed like a cheap shot, and he seemed like a guy who’d prefer a real battle to swinging a meat tenderizer. Honor among thieves, nobility among killers.
Plus, no one had even suggested a credible motive.
Remind me why I’m sticking my nose in this?
If Drew’s killer wasn’t Gib, then it had to be someone local. I’d just come back to Jewel Bay. The town was booming. Now we made national news and not in a good way. Foodies everywhere would hear “Jewel Bay” and roll their eyes. “Oh, yeah, that town.” It could destroy us.
I wanted to go back to the Merc and stick my nose in my own business. Sell more handmade pasta and truffles. Spark a run on pemmican bars. Eat a pint of Avalanche Crunch ice cream every day if I felt like it.
But I couldn’t do it. No one else seemed to really care that Drew and Stacia were dead. That they were killed trying to do good things for our town—a sweet, innocent town where a killer was walking free. I liked to think that people who chose the quiet life of a mountain village were decent and kind. That people who love good food were good to the core. But relishing the flavor of a prime cut of beef and appreciating the texture of a well-made piecrust don’t actually make you a better person, do they?
Drew and Stacia had loved those things. Drew had dedicated his life to creating them for others. Stacia had worked so hard to make everything go smoothly. And they’d left young children. They deserved a better legacy than a resentful town and a food show forever marred by murder.
They deserved every bit of effort I had. And if it got tiresome, if it made people mad—as it obviously had irked Amber Stone—tough. Murphy girls are tough. We get things done.
We solve problems.
My phone lay on the passenger seat. The message light glowed and I picked it up. A message from Ike Hoover—would I come in and review and sign my statement this afternoon, if it was convenient?
If Ike Hoover had any evidence implicating Gib, he’d be hot on the man’s trail. He must know Gib was scheduled to leave midweek. Actually, Gib’s plan had been to leave Monday, but after the murder, he decided to stay longer for more interviews. Did that mean he wasn’t guilty—no reason to flee—or that he was as guilty as double-fudge truffles but stuck around to avoid suspicion?
For all I knew, Ike might be bearing down on Gib right now.
Argghh. This was all too confusing.
I wasn’t ready to talk to Ike. I drove past Jewel Bay and headed for Caldwell’s Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch. I had questions. I needed cookies.
Plus, the dogs at the Lodge liked me.
* * *
I slipped in the side door of the main Lodge, into the wide passage between the kitchen and the dining hall. An aproned young woman emerged from the kitchen, double doors swinging behind her and a giant tray of peanut butter cookies in her hands.
“Ooh, perfect timing.”
“Always time for cookies,” she said.
“Hey, got a sec? I was helping with the Grill-off Saturday night—you were here, weren’t you? Horrible.” She hesitated, mid-turn, and I rushed on. “After Gib tasted each chef’s meal, he came inside—”
“Right in that door.” She gestured to the door opening from the patio into the passage, which also served as a semiprivate dining area for the Lodge staff. Then she pointed at the door I’d come in. “And right back out.”
I cocked my head. From there, he could have gone north, after Drew. Or almost anywhere, for that matter, including to his own cabin.
“Did you see the chefs?”
“Kyle, is all. I’d just refilled the iced tea dispenser, which I need to do right now. He came in the kitchen to make sure we were on track with the guest dinners. Seems like only a minute or two later, everything was in an uproar. People running, sirens, EMTs, the sheriff.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Everybody was pretty upset. I gotta get that tea.”
“Thanks.” I poured myself a glass of lemonade, grabbed another cookie, and strolled outside.
Kyle sat at a picnic table, camo ball cap on backward, scribbling on a yellow notepad. I perched on the bench across from him, gesturing with my cookie at the glassy lake and the mountains beyond. “Why turn your back on a view like that?”
“To avoid distractions,” he said, eyes on his notepad. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Double-checking my head counts and inventory for the week.”
“On paper?”
“A notepad doesn’t break when I drop it,” he said. “Or melt if I splash hot gravy on it.”
Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) Page 15
