Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village)

by Leslie Budewitz

  “This won’t take long, I promise. Saturday, after Gib tasted the steaks, you all came inside. You went into the kitchen. Drew, we know, went to the parking lot. Do you know where Gib and Amber went?”

  He laid down his pen. “Gib, no. I remember seeing Amber walk out with her cooler in one hand, pulling one of those milk crates with the wheels and handles, like a luggage cart. Going to her car, I guess. I mean, obviously.”

  “Any idea where she’d parked?”

  He started to say no, then stopped himself. “When she got here, she stopped that old Dodge van of hers out front to unload—I helped her haul things in—then she drove off to park. That way, I think.” He pointed south, the opposite direction from where Drew and I had parked. “She may not have known the north lot’s closer to the kitchen. Why? What’s this about?”

  Which only meant her van wasn’t parked in the same area as Drew’s. It didn’t mean she hadn’t followed him—maybe to talk about the recipe mix-up. She was short. Had she been angry, picked up his mallet, and clobbered him while he leaned over?

  Or had she seen what happened?

  “Just trying to figure a few things out. For myself, is all. Thanks. How’s Tara holding up?”

  Reddening, he picked up the pen and fiddled with it, prying the cap off and on with one hand. “I haven’t seen her since yesterday, when I ran into you. I swear, Erin, there’s nothing going on between us. No matter what Pete thinks.”

  My eyes widened and I waited.

  “She’s been itching to leave Jewel Bay for ages. This Food Preneurs gig was his shot at the big time, and she pushed him to parlay it into a job offer. Now he’s rarin’ to go, and she’s backing down. He accused me of trying to get her to stay, but heck, no. It’d be a lot more comfortable around here without her.”

  That I could believe.

  My hand on the door, I turned back with one last question. “Kyle, Saturday night. What was the secret ingredient Gib couldn’t guess?”

  He grinned. “Cocoa powder. And don’t tell a soul.”

  Oh, yum. I made a zipping motion across my lips and ducked inside.

  I found Keith Caldwell, aka the GM and Kim’s dad, in the office. Tall and spare like all the Caldwells, he’d always been kind to me. Like every merchant in town, I’d already been hit up for charity more times than I could count. Had to be ten times worse at the Lodge, but Keith didn’t hesitate when I asked for a contribution to Stacia’s memorial fund. He printed out a computerized check and signed it, then pulled out his own checkbook. “This one’s from me and Patsy. And town needn’t worry about Drew. We’ll take care of that.”

  “Thanks. The Georges will help. Sure wish I knew who hit Stacia. And what happened Saturday night.”

  “Sad business.” He shook his head. “I came in as Drew was carting his stuff out to his van. I didn’t see anyone else.” He thought a moment. “Oh, that little blond chef—what’s her name?”

  “Amber Stone.”

  “That’s it. I spotted her struggling with the main door and her gear. I held the door and offered to help, but she said her van was parked down by the South Lodge, so she didn’t have far to go.”

  That matched Kyle’s recollection, and put her in the opposite direction from Drew’s van.

  Dang. This wasn’t helping. Everyone was where they should have been.

  “Quiet around here today. I was hoping to catch Gib Knox.”

  “New crop of guests came in yesterday. Some are out riding, some went sailing or fishing.” He leaned back in his chair, long fingers laced behind his head. “We put Gib and the producer in adjacent cabins. Lucky for him, we were able to let him stay on a few days.”

  “Thanks.” If Gib had dashed back to his cabin after the tasting, he, too, would have gone the opposite direction from Drew. But nothing said that was what he’d done. “My heart breaks for Tara and Emma.”

  “Drew had no family, but Tara’s sister flew in from back East to lend a hand. Haven’t seen them today. But we’ll help her all we can.”

  I nodded. That was the Caldwell way. They’d helped my family when my father died, hosting a reception after the service and letting me keep my horse here, rent-free. Of course, Keith hadn’t been able to control his daughter’s reaction to my sudden half orphandom, but I never blamed him for that.

  He gave me a quick half hug—also the Caldwell way—and I headed back outside. The conversation with Amber had made me uneasy, but why? What was she holding back?

  That recipe had to be the key.

  Had Kim and I overlooked the missing pages when we packed Stacia’s cabin? I didn’t think so, and odds were that it had been thoroughly cleaned by now. Might even be occupied by new guests. Still, wouldn’t hurt to take another look.

  Thinking while walking is always treacherous, but hey, gotta live on the wild side sometimes. What was I hoping to find? Stacia’s copy of Amber’s recipe—identified by tiny staple holes in the upper left where it had been detached from the e-mail—and her copies of Drew’s e-mail and recipe. I was only guessing that she’d gotten them and printed them out. But us OCD types stick pretty close to our habits.

  If we found Stacia’s copies, we might get a better idea why the duplication occurred, and why it had been so distressing.

  Thinking without my spreadsheet was equally dangerous. But one question remained unanswered: Who benefited from Drew’s death, and how?

  And where had each of those people been when he was killed?

  Tara—that was obvious. Well, maybe not so obvious. She’d be able to leave Jewel Bay, but she’d be fully responsible for Emma, financially and otherwise. She’d lose Drew’s child support payments, but if he’d had assets and life insurance, those would go to Emma. Would she be the trustee or guardian or whatever it was called? How could I check?

  Questions beget more questions. My spreadsheets might seem silly to some—organized guesswork. My version of the murder boards the homicide detectives use on TV. And in real life—like the large white board I’d glimpsed in Kim’s office earlier this summer. But my spreadsheet had worked just as well. Or better.

  A car rolled up behind me and I stepped onto the grass, still thinking, to let it pass. Green, expensive looking. It turned left and disappeared.

  A hundred feet farther, I crossed the lawn to Stacia’s cabin, glanced around to make sure the coast was clear, and peered in the front window. A black suitcase lay open on the luggage rack, a small green daypack on the floor. The closet door was closed. Two coffee cups sat on the table next to the butterscotch easy chair, flanking a copy of Montana magazine and a pair of reading glasses. I slid over to the bathroom window and spotted two small toiletry bags—his and hers in red and blue—and one hairbrush, a pair of toothbrushes, and a capped tube of paste. If cabins intuited the habits and personalities of their occupants, this one must be breathing sighs of relief over the current tenants’ tidy ways.

  No stray papers in sight. I hadn’t expected to find them, but hope springs eternal for serious snoops.

  I relaxed against the west wall, the logs a sort of massage therapy for my upper back. Gib’s cabin stood ten feet away. The maid had been working there last Friday. Gib and Pete were out on their field trip.

  Fortune favors the bold, goes the old proverb.

  Boldly, I walked across Gib’s porch and knocked on his door. No answer. Peered in the front window—fortune also favors those who risk being rude. Not a soul in sight. Gib was not as neat as his neighbors, but a far cry from the cyclone Stacia had been. On the bedside table, a small stack of magazines, a travel clock, and a pair of reading glasses. While the closet door stood ajar, the shirts and pants inside hung nice and straight. A denim jacket lay draped across the back of the reading chair, Gib’s black leather messenger bag slash briefcase open next to it.

  A briefcase. A computer? Papers?

  Answers to my
questions?

  I peeked in the bathroom—unoccupied—then hopped down and rounded the corner to the double window on the cabin’s long side wall. Luck! One window stood open a few inches. The screen was loose at the corner, as if the aluminum frame had sprung and wouldn’t quite settle back in place.

  More luck—no one in sight out front, and a tall hedge behind the two cabins screened me from that direction. The only windows with a view of this wall were in Stacia’s cabin, the current occupants still away.

  The screen creaked slightly as I pried it free. Thankful for my sturdy rubber-soled sandals, I stuck one toe in between two logs and swung up and over the sill.

  Now what? The briefcase. No laptop or iPad—Gib must rely on his phone. And he didn’t share Stacia’s habit of printing everything for a shoot, either. The main compartment held three food and drink magazines and a week-old copy of the Life section from USA Today—no doubt picked up flying. I laid them back in the case and plucked a short stack of papers from the outside pocket. Fanned through them. Copies of Stacia’s lists of equipment to bring, vendors to visit, sites to see.

  Were the recipes and transmittal e-mails here? I flipped back to the beginning and thumbed more carefully, one page at a time.

  A heavy step outside. Criminy. The steps crossed the porch slowly, as if their owner was fumbling in his pockets for the key. I couldn’t scramble out the window in time.

  Under the log bed? Too low.

  The closet, my sole option. I darted inside as the cabin door opened, pulling the bifold doors shut with my fingertips, and made myself small. Rubbed my lucky stars and forced myself to breathe quietly.

  Slow and deliberate, the footsteps entered the room. I peered out through the door slats. Gib was pushing buttons on his phone. Saved by Ma Bell.

  I prayed I wouldn’t sneeze. Or that Gib wouldn’t decide on a fresh shirt for the evening.

  He sat in the reading chair, twin to the one in Stacia’s cabin, and set the phone aside while he tugged off his boots. The left boot went flying and hit the closet door nearest me with a thud. My heart stopped ever so briefly. He leaned back in the chair and picked up the phone again. Frowned at a message. “Nitwit,” he said. “Your word against mine.”

  Gib dropped the phone on the table, stood, and stepped into the bathroom. I strained my ears. Could I make a getaway? The water started in the shower. Yes!

  No. He came out of the bathroom, unbuttoning his blue checked shirt, and tossed it on the bed. Off came the socks, then the jeans and skivvies. Not that I pined for a sight of Gib Knox in the altogether, but I didn’t dare look away—I only needed a minute or two to escape.

  Gib turned toward the closet. I held my breath as the other door opened and he reached inside for one of the Lodge’s white terry cloth bathrobes. He pulled it off roughly and the wooden hanger rocked, then fell as he closed the door. It hit my bruised arm and I bit my tongue.

  He tossed the robe onto the bed and sauntered back into the bathroom. Ears, don’t fail me now. The shower door opened, the sound of the water changed—no doubt as he stepped into the stream—and the door closed.

  Still crouching, still quiet, I pushed the closet door. Dang. The boot he’d thrown was wedged against it, and I couldn’t easily get out the other side. I reached out, dislodged the boot, and pushed again. A piece of paper—a ticket or a business card—snagged on the bottom. I snatched it up and crept out. Stole a glance at Gib’s phone—no time to check it. Slipped out the cabin door, closing it ever so gently behind me. I stepped lightly across the porch and down the steps to the grassy lawn.

  And ran like the wind.

  • Nineteen •

  I sat in the driver’s seat, breathless, rubbing the new bruise on my arm. My grimy fingers still clutched the small, stiff paper that had caught in the door mechanism. I’d grabbed it instinctively, not wanting to drop something that would give me away.

  But the pale gold stub with red numbers hadn’t come from me. I turned it over. Pondera Auto Rental. One of those paper tickets rental agencies and service departments attach to keys with the thin metal rings I can never open. Happily, Gib wouldn’t need it. I tossed it on the passenger seat. I itched for a long, tall iced tea or lemonade, but the smarter plan was to get out of Dodge pronto, before I did anything stupid.

  Too late for that.

  I was too hot, and too bothered, to show my face at the sheriff’s office right now, despite the summons. Better to cool down first, so I didn’t accidentally give myself away.

  I love to drive. Love the feel of the road beneath my tires, the car responding to the slightest touch of my foot on the pedals. Love the sound of the engine and the gears shifting, the wheel sliding through my fingers on the curves. Love the sense of the miles slipping behind me, taking my worries with them.

  In Seattle, driving had been a hassle—all those people and stoplights, all that rain—and I’d switched to walking for stress relief. Long walks are great, sure, but there is nothing like a drive to sooth the inner beast.

  A Subaru may not be a Porsche, but mine hugged the curves as I sped south. A few miles from Jewel Bay, the highway breaks out of the woods and skims above the shoreline. Today on Eagle Lake, the water danced like a crystal bride and groom, swinging to the music of the celestial spheres underneath their lucky, shining stars.

  And completely unaware of the monster lurking in the cold, dark depths. Every big lake has one. The story of ours goes like this: It’s long—twenty or thirty feet—eel-like, with humps that echo the surrounding hills and mountains. Its head is large and round, its eyes dark and piercing. Most sightings occur in summer, when more people ply the waters and the small fish the monster eats are plentiful. The year I was twelve, more sightings were reported in a single season than in the twenty years before or since. One sunny afternoon in August, on a day much like today, my father and brother went fishing in a friend’s boat. Halfway down the lake, near Blue Bay, Nick saw something large and dark dip in and out of the water. Too big to be a fish—one theory is that the monster is a giant lake sturgeon, explaining its primitive appearance. Too bumpy to be an ancient submerged log, dark and heavy with creosote from the old tie plant on the west shore—another theory—that surfaces when heavy winds roil the waters and toss tree roots ten feet wide onto lawns and docks as easily as a ten-year-old tosses a soccer ball.

  Too weird to be anything but a figment of the imagination—the most popular theory. Like its cousin, the Loch Ness Monster. But even at sixteen, my brother had the mind of a scientist. (He’s a wolf biologist, putting him smack in the crosshairs of a hugely contentious debate. Which he hates.) Like the astronauts who see UFOs, he’s not the kind of guy to mistake a trick of the light for a living, breathing creature. Or to speak up unless he’s sure of what he’s seen.

  I craned my neck for a glimpse of the lake, but driving and monster watching are not compatible.

  Technically, Nick would point out, the monster is classified as a cryptid—meaning a creature whose existence has not been proven.

  Cryptid, schmyptid. Unproven doesn’t mean untrue. It’s out there somewhere.

  Like the truth about Drew’s killer and Stacia’s fatal accident.

  Ah, perfect timing. I swung the Subaru into the Eagle Lake Brewery’s nearly empty parking lot.

  “Hey, Bun. How ’bout an ice-cold Eagle Lake Monster Root Beer?”

  “As cold as the lake itself.” Bunny Burns—née Bernadette Easter, twin to Polly Easter Paulson, both classmates of mine from K through 12—reached into the cooler behind her for a frosty bottle of nectar, popped the top, and slid it across the shiny wooden bar cut from a single ponderosa pine. Mom, Landon, and I had stopped here once, and he and I counted the rings: one hundred thirty-seven, give or take.

  “Glass?” she said, and I shook my head.

  The Brewery had been on the list of must-stops that Stacia and I had draw
n up. Besides Monster Root Beer, Bunny and her hunny, Rob, brewed up a tasty amber, a spritely IPA, and a killer stout. They also served juicy burgers, spicy wings, and deliciously messy ribs. I wasn’t hungry enough for my personal favorite, the 4B Burger—bacon, bleu cheese, and brie on beef or buffalo. So I chose my second favorite, beer-battered onion rings. The perfect accompaniment to a round of questioning.

  “You heard about the hit-and-run that killed the TV producer? And about Drew Baker?” I said. Bunny nodded solemnly. “So I ended up filling in for the producer, shepherding Gib Knox and the cameraman, Pete Lloyd, when they were filming over the weekend. They were on their own today. They make it in here?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “What?” I took a long swig of root beer. As kids, Bunny had left most of the talking to Polly, but she had very expressive eyes.

  “Point is to film us making beer and serving lunch, right? So the camera guy—that’s Pete, right?—gets here first and he films Rob fiddling with the tanks and stuff, and it’s all fine. Then that Gib drives up in his fancy car and stands out front admiring it. Sticks his head in and demands a bar towel. No ‘hello’ or ‘could I please?’ Just ‘bar towel’ like I’m only here to heed some stranger’s beck and call. Then he skulks around the thing, squinting, swiping at motes of dust that dared settle on his chrome. ’Course, it’s a rental, right? It isn’t actually his car or chrome. So he polishes it all shiny-like, comes inside, flings the towel at me, asks Pete if he’s got what he needs, and they leave. Never even says ‘boo’ to me.”

  “Whoa.” That might have been the longest speech I’d ever heard Bunny Easter Burns make. And the most peevish. Both sisters were patient and even-tempered—a useful trait against the grade school name teasing, as well as in their occupations.

  My onion rings appeared in the kitchen window and she set them in front of me. “Help yourself,” I said.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” She untangled a fat golden ring from the heaping pile and bit in with an audible crunch. “Love that ale in the batter.”