I dug out the phone number Kim had given me, rubbed the stars on my wrist, and called Stacia’s husband. Buzz Duval—perfect name for a rock band sound engineer—accepted my condolences. But the memorial fund astounded him.
“It won’t be much—maybe a thousand dollars. For Luke, for the future. It’s the least we could do—we enjoyed her company.”
A brief silence. “And she yours. When she called Thursday night, she couldn’t stop raving about Jewel Bay. You say you have some of her things. Did you happen to find—” His voice faltered.
“She called Thursday night? What time?”
“Eight, on the nose. Stacia’s never late. She calls—called—every night to wish our son good night and read him a story.” He paused. “Did you find the book? It’s all I really want back.”
Ah. That explained the copy of Goodnight, Moon. Now my own throat tightened.
“I’ll get it back to you, safe and sound,” I said. “Before you go, one thing’s been bugging me. Why would Stacia take a walk, on a country road, when it was nearly dark?”
“I keep asking that myself,” Buzz said. “She was a city girl. She loved it up there, but she worried about bears.”
A common tourist terror, rarely a real problem.
“Even at home, she didn’t go walking at night,” he continued, “unless we’d had a fight. I doubt she even packed a pair of sneakers.”
She hadn’t. “Did she sound upset? Had something happened?”
“Heck, working with Gib, anything could happen. She knew how to handle him, most of the time. Give him enough of what he demanded to think he’d won, then do what she thought was best for the show.”
Ah. Like with the recipe snafu. Appease the little boy cowering inside the big bully.
“But this time, he really pushed her. I don’t know the details, but it made the possibility of moving to Jewel Bay even more enticing.”
Possibilities lost to all of us. Dang it. Reality sucks sometimes.
“Buzz, thanks. I’ll take care of the papers, and the bank will be in touch about the memorial fund.”
In the bathroom, I washed my face, holding my cool wet hands over my hot red eyes. In the mirror, they looked swollen, my complexion both pale and flushed. Had I been running around all afternoon, and helping customers, with my hair like something the Lake Monster had shed? A simple combing wouldn’t fully smooth my hair, but I did my best. I straightened my button-front soft black tunic and adjusted my belt.
Uh-oh. My fingers snagged in my skirt. More precisely, in a rip in my skirt. The torn edge hung raggedly, and one of the black threads that held the silver spangles to the black and blue fabric lay loose. If I didn’t go a little easier on my clothing, I’d be begging Tracy to help me scrounge a new wardrobe.
Criminy. Had I torn it scrambling over Gib’s windowsill? So much for luck.
Back out front, all was quiet. I locked the front door and flipped the sign to CLOSED. Turned off the lights, grabbed my gear, and walked out the back.
I paused in the courtyard, considering the space. This fall, I’d talk to the owner of the nursery north of town. Next summer we could showcase potted plants and sponsor classes for folks to create their own hanging baskets and unique arrangements.
New product launch parties were another option—starting with Luci’s soaps and Maggie Bird’s Blackfeet Naturals.
And wine tastings in the evenings. Sam and Jen from Monte Verde would jump at the chance, and so would the other vineyards. The new distillery might be interested in a cocktail sampling. If we partnered with Red’s, we wouldn’t need a liquor license. That outdoor heater might come in handy, especially in the shoulder seasons.
I unlocked the gate and slipped into Red’s courtyard. Inside, I ordered a pepperjack cheeseburger—my stop at the Brewery had whetted my taste buds—and waffle fries. Red’s burgers are my go-to comfort food. Along with ice cream, chocolate, spaghetti Bolognese, and linguine with basil pesto, but Red’s doesn’t serve those.
I carried my Eagle Lake IPA outside to a table in the corner, shaded from the last of the afternoon sun by a tall pine. Summer would be winding down soon. This time of year, Montanans start storing up the heat in our bones, so we won’t go freezing mad in mid-January.
At the picnic table where Mimi, Ned, and I had sat last Friday morning to reconsider the weekend’s festivities, Ned now sat, back to me, deep in conversation with a local builder. Blueprints covered the table. Weird. Red’s never changes.
Not exactly true. Events last June had triggered major changes at Red’s. Hadn’t Ned said a relative—a nephew or a grandson—might join the business? But no sign yet of new blood.
Ned stood and shuffled inside for something. The builder waved.
“Hey, Chuck. Project time?”
“Some updates. New kitchen equipment, redo the restrooms. New windows. A new floor if we can swing it. Keep the charm, improve the function.”
Charm? Not the first word Red’s decor brought to mind. “I’m all for that.” The kitchen guy brought out my food, Ned behind him carrying a pair of draft beers. “Dinnertime. Catch you later. Hey, Ned. You never said you were classing up the place.”
He grunted and handed Chuck a glass of stout.
“Ned, you here most evenings now?”
“Purt’ near. Got hung up at the Lodge on Saturday night, after the tragedy, but I been here every other night for going on two weeks.”
“You were at the Lodge on Thursday, too, when we filmed the appetizer and dessert party.”
“Early, yeah. Came up here after, stayed till closing.”
“So were you here when Gib Knox came in?”
Ned’s broad face darkened. “Him? He waltzed in, glad-handing like he were lord and king, downed one G&T, and took off. Barely stayed long enough to wet his whistle.”
Now that was food for thought. Ten minutes, maybe—not the hour or more he’d claimed. Where else had he been? Getting friendly with Tara? Getting angry with Drew?
More data for my spreadsheet. I picked up a thick perfectly done waffle fry and promptly dropped it. I slid off my stool to pick it up—wouldn’t want someone to step in it—but couldn’t see where it had gone.
Fry, fry, wherefore art thou, fry?
The “wherefore” in Juliet’s speech meant “why,” not “where.” “Why?” was definitely the question of the day.
Ike Hoover was wrong when he said I was messing in things that weren’t my business. But he might have been right when he said I needed more sleep.
* * *
Cabin, sweet cabin. I’m sure that’s what the first person to utter “Home, sweet home” really meant. Aside from the Orchard, which would always be home to me, the cabin beat out every other place I’d lived by a country mile.
Fresca did have a point: It was small. Cozy. Perfect for one woman and one cat, but add even a mouse and it would be cramped. (Another reason I don’t let Sandburg invite his mice friends in to play.)
When I moved in and Liz did her woo-woo thing—burning sweetgrass to clear the space and orienting me to the baguas—I’d said we could take out the second nightstand, that I’d rather have the extra room.
“Bad feng shui,” she’d replied, “if you ever want to have a serious relationship.”
The nightstand stayed. But I’d drawn the line at leaving half the closet empty for some future Prince Charming. After years of dorm rooms, studio apartments, and tight-but-pricey one-bedrooms in the city, with storage designed for another era, a whole closet to myself felt positively lavish. Plus I needed it—I still had the city wardrobe, bought with the city salary. Though I was thinning it out this week.
I hung the swirly Indian print skirt in the far back with a sigh. Needle and thread were strangers to my hands, but if anyone could fix it, Chiara could. (Of course, she’d also try to wheedle out of me how it got
ripped.)
The piles of papers lay on the living room floor. I swathed Goodnight, Moon in bubble wrap and placed the package in a box, tucking in the flaps for extra cat protection. I needed to scour the papers again, check my inventory, and double-check for evidence before packing up the lot and shipping any personal items to Buzz and the work stuff to EAT-TV.
Tomorrow. Tonight, my Prince Charming was a sable Burmese cat and the Royal Ball was back-to-back episodes of Pie in the Sky, a classic BBC series about a homicide detective who opens his dream restaurant.
Even without glass slippers, I felt like Cinderella.
• Twenty-one •
Tuesday morning dawned clear and sunny. If I sat up in bed, I could glimpse the lake. Smooth as glass today. No monsters.
Just the monster rattling my cage—the one who’d killed Drew Baker and driven me halfway to distraction.
I took an extra-long, extra-hot shower, letting Luci’s lavender shower gel perfume the place. Nothing like starting the day with a personal spa moment. Today promised to be busy, so I dressed for comfort in gray leggings and a hot pink cotton tunic with three-quarter sleeves that covered my still-raw elbow without chafing. The tunic matched my pink Tom’s shoes, amazingly comfy considering the fabric was made from hemp and recycled plastic bottles. At the last minute, I twisted a long aqua scarf around my neck.
“Sandburg, earn your keep today. Sort those papers, find what we’re after, and give me a ring. Or text.” From his perch on the back of the couch, he stared, comprehending all too well, then turned away and rested his head on his paws.
What animals get away with, not having thumbs.
* * *
“Ooh, hot.” I shifted my double latte from one hand to the other, then used the tail of my scarf as a cup sleeve.
“Careful,” Max said, the rolling r and accented second syllable so very French.
“Too late,” I said with a smile, thinking of more than coffee. My mother liked to call me her cautious kid, her planner and plotter, who always knew what came next and never did anything reckless. In contrast to my sister, who might show up for dinner with an emerald green streak in her hair, or my brother, who tracks predators through the woods on skis and studies deer kills while wolves look on. Either she doesn’t know me as well as she thinks, or I’ve learned from watching them when to hide my wild side.
Tuesdays bring a bit more tourist traffic, so I spent the morning in the shop. We unloaded deliveries and placed our cookie order. Fresca whipped up tapenade and artichoke pesto, scenting the air with garlic and olives. But I had orders to pick up, so when Tracy came back from lunch, I headed out.
Rainbow Lake Garden is a taste of heaven on earth. A country life magazine in the flesh and flora. A fawn, still wearing spots, cavorted in a daisy-speckled meadow beside the curving farm lane. I parked by the main gate, behind a white van, and hopped out.
“Hello, Henny Penny,” I said to the fat red chicken staring up at me. “I’ve come to steal your eggs.”
“She’s taken to greeting every car that pulls in,” Phyl said, her Kiwi accent strong as the midday sun. “Peculiar, eh? I reckon a visitor gave her a treat, and now she’s expecting it.”
The hen waddled off, clucking, as if she didn’t like being talked about.
“Your order’s all packed,” Phyl said, gesturing with one bare, freckled arm. “In the cooling room.”
I followed her into the lower level of the two-story earth berm house. Tucked into a hillside, only the glassed south wall exposed, it stayed pleasantly cool even on hot days. Three large crates held veggies for the Merc’s produce cart, heavy on salad greens, tomatoes, and ears of corn, while two smaller boxes brimmed with tomatoes, peppers, and herbs for Fresca. A canvas bag held my personal cache. We checked each one, iPads in hand, comparing the contents to her invoice and my order sheets.
“The Lemon Boy tomatoes are coming on.” Jo’s lilting voice carried as she led another visitor into the cooling room. “They’d make a lovely salad with arugula and goat cheese.”
“Mmm. And a tangy dressing,” the other woman said.
“Tarragon, maybe?” Jo replied.
Jo—Johanna, from Denmark—and Phyl—Phyllis, from New Zealand—proved the old saying that opposites attract. A willowy five-ten-ish, Jo wore her long blond hair in a high ponytail that swayed across her tan shoulders as she approached, dressed in a stretchy pink, yellow, and orange print top resembling 1970s pop art, and a charcoal gray skort. Did long, dark winters give Scandinavians an affinity for bright colors? Phyl was four or five inches shorter, solid but not fat. Today, as usual, she grubbed around the garden in a loose cotton tank faded from dark blue to an off-purple and dirt-streaked black shorts that looked like cast-off men’s swim trunks. They wore identical red rubber clogs—easy to hose off before going upstairs to the living quarters.
Before summer ended, I intended to bring out a Merc picnic basket and a couple of bottles of wine as thanks for their support and excellent produce. And if I primed the pump, maybe they’d tell me how they met and how they got to Jewel Bay—one of town’s unsolved mysteries.
Jo started checking produce boxes with her customer and I realized who it was.
“Glad to know Bear Grass serves the best produce in the valley,” I said, stepping into view.
Chef Amber Stone blanched like beans in boiling water, then flushed like peaches in red wine. Scrutinized her spinach in silence.
Her attitude was my fault, I supposed. “Amber, I upset you the other day. I’m sorry.”
She gripped the greens. Jo looked like she wanted to rescue them. “You’re interfering with things you don’t understand.”
“So why don’t you tell me?”
Her face darkened. She grabbed a box and practically ran out of the room. Jo glanced at me and Phyl, shrugged, picked up a crate, and followed her.
Phyl let out a long, slow whistle. “What’s she done, to not look yeh in the eye?”
“Not a clue.”
“She’s a skittish one, all right. Let’s cut your flowers, then we’ll get your eggs from the chilly bin.”
When I came out a few minutes later, Amber had taken off—no doubt in a rush to escape me. Phyl and I loaded my Subaru while Jo leaned on the gate, nibbling a sprig of mint.
“You spooked her good,” Jo said.
“Wish I knew why. How’d the filming go? You two TV stars?”
Phyl rolled her eyes. “Thinks he’s God’s gift to women, that one.”
“Yah,” Jo said. “One taste of his charms, we’d run off to La-La Land with him and leave the good life behind.” They doubled over, howling.
And that was all they would say about Gib Knox.
But that said it all.
* * *
I swung by the Creamery to pick up the Merc’s order. Drove home nibbling fresh cheese curds. Talk about God’s gifts.
Back at the Merc, I unloaded, and Tracy helped me restock the coolers and our produce cart. Never underestimate the value to the Universe of fresh eggs. And they’re pretty darned important to a grocer sweating her backside off to develop a market for natural, local, sustainable foods in a seasonal town.
While I was out, Candy had dropped off her samples. “Did you try them?” I asked Tracy, reaching for the cellophane bag.
Tracy nodded, wincing. “Not quite ready for prime time, if you want my opinion.”
I studied one of the white squares. It looked fine. I nibbled a corner. Considered. Took another bite and shook my head. Fail. “The inside’s fine, but the texture outside isn’t right.”
“Exactly. Too much cornstarch, not enough confectioners’ sugar. In my opinion.”
Imagine me wanting a sweeter taste than Candy. And she’d sounded so confident. But I had no backup plan.
I went upstairs to make The Call. This part of retail I hate, and it’s f
ar worse when you have a personal relationship with the vendor. No matter whether you’re a SavClub buyer talking to a major corporate sales rep, or a small-town merchant talking with a one-woman shop: If you’ve gotten friendly, it stinks to bear bad news.
“I’m so sorry, Erin. I wanted to please you so much.” Candy’s high voice had lost some of its sweetness. “I’d never made them before and they seemed okay. Let me try again? I’ve been tinkering with the recipe, and I promise, I’ll just keep making them until I get it right? And meet your deadline?”
What can you say when a vendor begs for another chance? “Yes, of course,” I said, my chest tightening, and hoped she’d make good on round two.
“Almost forgot. Reg returned your call,” Tracy said when I came back down and we perched on the red stools with cool drinks, the shop momentarily quiet. “He’s got more of the pieces you wanted, but he can’t get away. Want me to swing by his studio on my way home?”
Reg Robbins had been a star in the NFL before an injury sent him to early retirement. He’d turned to pottery and made a new name for himself. His serving bowls and platters were stars at the Merc.
And if I remembered right, he rented his guest house to Drew Baker.
So my trusty Subaru and I hit the trail again, searching for who knows what. Secret passages. Buried treasure.
Intelligent life.
For the second time today, I drove into a virtual magazine spread. Jewel Bay had been featured in a few travel and lifestyle glossies over the years and we were due for another shiny spotlight. After Drew’s murder was solved, when we needed to polish our tarnished image.
And honor his memory.
With its giant rolling doors, red siding, and cupola, Reg’s studio could have been a barn. All it lacked were bales of hay and a few hogs. On one side, a deliberately faded “ghost sign” bore the name of his grandfather’s North Carolina farm, Gene’s Promised Land, with a backdrop of cornstalks and cotton. The far end sported his NFL team logo. “Catches some eyes,” he liked to say. “And some grief. But hey, it paid for all this, and I’m a grateful man.”
Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) Page 18
