Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village)

by Leslie Budewitz

  “King? He did some business with the company I worked for, but we never met. A Wolfgang Puck wanna-be.”

  “Managing an empire like Puck’s compared to running a restaurant like this—well, it’s the difference between SavClub and the Merc. I can hardly imagine.”

  The salad flavors made a delightful combination. “How do you get the blue cheese to curl so nicely?” I asked the waitress when she checked on us. “Mine always crumbles.”

  “They freeze it,” she said, looking relieved to know the answer.

  “Brilliant.”

  “I hear King’s kind of difficult,” Rick said after she left. “Goes through chefs and managers like a combine through ripe wheat.”

  The analogy made me smile. “I imagine the testosterone level in those kitchens can run pretty high. Turns out there was bad blood between Gib Knox and Drew Baker, from their days with King.” I summarized what Tara had said that afternoon. “In Gib’s mind, Drew was the favored son and he was the black sheep. Thing is, Tara doubts Drew ever even imagined that Gib resented him for that, or he wouldn’t have invited him to Jewel Bay.”

  “Ah. Lifting his leg.”

  “What?” I said, fork midair.

  Rick sipped his wine. “It’s a guy thing. Marking your territory. Pissing on somebody because you can.”

  Tara had implied as much, in girlier words.

  We left all talk of murder and motive behind as our entrées came.

  “You have to try this.” Rick cut a small piece of steak and set it on the edge of my plate.

  I chewed slowly, savoring the flavors. Thank goodness my bruised jaw had recovered. Max was a darn fine chef. But Jewel Bay needed high-level competition if fine dining were to remain a high-level draw. Could Tony and Mimi find a worthy replacement?

  Erin, be here now. “Tell me about the trip to Spokane. Do you do much business out of state?” I slid a bite-sized sample of halibut onto his plate.

  “Working on it. Montana’s a hot brand. I’d like to get Montana Gold grains in every restaurant in the Northwest that claims a regional focus.”

  “Have you tried Ted Turner’s Montana Grill? He’s pushing the name all over the country with our beef and buffalo. And we grow the best wheat.”

  Rick gave me an admiring gaze. “Now that is a heck of an idea.”

  “No charge.”

  He grinned. “And I meant to tell you earlier, you look fantastic.”

  A warm flush rose up my throat. “Thanks. Speaking of Montana grains, are you talking to the craft brewers about using local barley, or whatever? I’m clueless about beer making. But my friend Bunny—”

  “I’ve met Bunny and Rob. They’re interested. Farmers around Great Falls have contracted with the major corporate brewers for years, but I’m with you. You want to call a beer local, the water shouldn’t be the only local ingredient. Barley, wheat, rye—they all make great malt. It’s a whole process.” Which he described in detail as we finished our entrées and the waitress cleared our plates.

  I liked him. He was solid and friendly, with a great smile and dancing eyes. His compliments stirred me. But my mind wandered a bit when he talked about malting houses, the distinctive flavors weather and soil conditions gave each grain, and yadda yadda. Beer terroir wasn’t all that exciting. Or maybe we were business buddies, not destined for more.

  “But ultimately, local can’t just mean high-priced,” he said. “Same challenge you face.”

  “Hmm? Right. Local runs roughly twenty percent more. We need customers for whom price isn’t the only value.”

  Rick’s hand warm on the small of my back, we strolled out front to the stone patio Chez Max shared with Le Panier for an after-dinner drink. The Playhouse crowd emerged and both restaurant and patio filled up. Rick scooted his chair closer to mine.

  He leaned in, brow creased, voice low. “Not sure how to say this, or if I’m speaking out of turn. But I get the distinct impression you’re poking around in Drew Baker’s murder.”

  My jaw tightened and a cloud of adrenaline burst in my chest.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” he continued, his tone a little too proprietary for my taste. “The last time . . .”

  I wouldn’t have minded hearing concern. Would have liked it. But this sounded like doubt and disapproval. “I am, and you are. And I’m sorry you see it that way.”

  “Erin, you can’t keep interfering with criminal investigations just because—”

  “This was a lovely evening. But I make my own decisions.” I scooted back my chair and walked away, my skirt not quite so bouncy, my red boots not quite so magical.

  And hoped this was one decision I wouldn’t regret.

  • Twenty-three •

  “My usual, and my sister’s.”

  Wendy cocked an eyebrow. “Good time last night? Max said you were here with Bergstrom.”

  “The halibut was terrific,” I said.

  She glanced up as she reached into the pastry case for my pain au chocolat and Chiara’s cranberry orange scone, clearly reading between the lines. “There’s other fish in the sea.”

  So why did I feel like such a tuna head?

  “Hey, thanks.” Chiara greeted me at the door of the gallery, still closed, and accepted my offerings. “How was the date? And how did you get that belt?”

  “Fresca. And great, until he tried to tell me what to do. What is it about guys? They buy you dinner one time and they think they can tell you to stop investigating murder?”

  Her eyes widened and she bent over, laughing. Okay, so that wasn’t the way dinner dates usually went.

  “Everybody’s telling you to stop, Erin.” She hung the belt on the rack on her way to the back room, me trailing behind. “Why should Rick be any different?”

  “You and Mom, okay. But he barely knows me.”

  “Good men get protective. It’s in their DNA.”

  “We haven’t even exchanged DNA.” I felt myself go as red as my favorite boots. The boots I’d tossed in the back of the closet the moment I got home. “Well, a kiss or two.”

  More howling. “Don’t expect anything different from Adam, little sister. Or any guy worth his salt. You can’t go throwing yourself in the path of danger and expect people to applaud.”

  I knew. Maybe I’d overreacted. But something about Rick’s words—and his gestures—had felt possessive, and pushed my buttons hard.

  Ah, what price love? Or, even, like?

  I got to the Merc just in time to open for the day. Not every village merchant bothered to keep regular hours, but to me, dependability is sacrosanct. Tracy showed up a few minutes later lugging a full tin of truffles and a Tupperware box of bone-shaped dog biscuits. She restocked the chocolates while I refilled the dog treat canister. I wrapped up a few for Pepé and tucked them in my bag.

  “There.” She slapped her hands together, then slid a maple bar out of a white paper sack. She opened a Diet Coke, using the pop top to hold her straw in place. I suppressed a shudder. Why drinking pop in the morning bugged me, I didn’t know—it wasn’t much different from coffee or tea. But some things just don’t feel right.

  Like last night with Rick.

  Shake it off, Erin. I headed upstairs and scanned our Monday and Tuesday sales. No change from last week. Good. That meant the murder hadn’t hurt our business—yet. I rubbed my stars.

  Back in the shop, I was surprised to see Tracy still sitting at the stainless steel counter. She squeezed her pop can, and the ping ran up my spine like fingernails on a chalkboard. When she saw me, her concentrated frown turned to a deliberate smile.

  “So how was dinner?”

  “Uh, great. I had the halibut and he had the steak frites. They’ve got some great new French wines.”

  “Some girls have all the luck.” She forced another smile and stood, brushing crumbs off her long deep
blue skirt. Today’s earrings featured yellow and purple flowers on an enameled blue background.

  Careful, a tiny voice in the back of my mind said. Tracy had been divorced about a year now, if I remembered right. Was she emerging from her cocoon? I never thought of her dating—I pictured her home cuddled up with Bozo the dog.

  Was she interested in Rick? And he in her? I ran back over the signs. Better watch my step—and my mouth.

  The front door opened and swirls of sugar wafted in. Candy Divine. No Minnie Mouse costume today, thank goodness. She wore tight black leggings with a pink-and-black zebra-striped skirt, and a low-cut scoop neck pale pink top, sugar dust glistening on her exposed flesh. Her fuchsia-streaked black hair was tied back with a bow of pale pink netting, and her feet were clad in pale pink ballet slippers.

  “Marshmallows!” she called in her squeaky voice. We followed her like children shadowing the Pied Piper as she crossed the shop floor and hoisted her giant pink-trimmed basket onto the counter. “Got it this time. You’re going to love them. Promise!”

  The question marks that usually punctuated her speech had transformed into exclamation marks. She was starting to grow on me.

  “I know you didn’t want green ones, Erin, but I tried a batch anyway. They’re mint!”

  They were sweet. She’d brought three varieties: plain, mint, and chocolate-covered. Slightly firm on the outside, pillow-soft inside, and sweet. Tracy dealt graham crackers like playing cards and we each sandwiched a chocolate-covered square inside.

  “Oh, my. Perfect.” Did I mention they were sweet? I bet they’d toast nicely.

  “Oh, goody!” Candy clapped her hands and bounced on her toes. Bet she’d been a handful as a five-year-old.

  Speaking of five-year-olds. “I’m going to put a bag aside for my nephew.” My sister might curse me for the sugar, but I’d be in with Landon.

  “I was so afraid you’d want huckleberries in them. I just really don’t like huckleberries.” She made a face like she’d bitten into a lemon.

  I laughed. “It’s okay, Candy. I’ll eat your share of the huckleberries in the world.”

  The door opened and Iggy wobbled in for her morning truffle.

  “Hey, Iggy. You’re looking spiff.” Lime green narrow-legged pants, skimming the ankle, jeweled flats, and a lime green suede jacket trimmed in leather, circa 1970. “A special guy?”

  “My doctor. Christine’s taking me.” She waved a hand. “Nothing serious. But I like to look my best, so I fool ’em into thinking I’m not a day over seventy. The usual, dear,” she said to Tracy.

  “Try one of these.” I held out the bag of marshmallows. Her deeply veined hand rose, hovered, and chose a pale green concoction.

  “Oh, my.” Her eyelids flickered and she smiled at the three of us beatifically. “Divine.”

  Indeed.

  * * *

  If I was torching my love life for the sake of investigating, then it was time to get out and snoop and spy. Or whatever. But first, a quick session with the Spreadsheet of Suspicion, updating what I knew and what I didn’t.

  The “didn’t,” alas, outweighed the “did.” Well, duh. That’s why I needed to get out there and probe the wicked underbelly of Jewel Bay. Although, as the Food Lovers’ Village, that underbelly was probably soft and cream-filled.

  With the festival and Grill-off now past tense, I decided to walk through town and check for any stray flyers not yet taken down—and not incidentally, find out if the bad news had put a damper on business. If I could scrounge a little intel on my chief suspects, even better. As cover went, it might be thin, but an investigator has to get creative with her excuses.

  One glance at Wendy’s pastry case told me her sales weren’t suffering.

  Ginny at the bookstore said it was too early in the week to judge sales, and wondered what I knew about plans to update the farm guide listing local producers. Customers had been asking. I suggested she call Phyl, and went next-door to Kitchenalia.

  “Hopping like bunnies all weekend,” Heidi said. “But it’s slowed a bit since then. Still, it’s early.”

  Not the retail confidence I’d been hoping for. I headed north on Front Street to Dragonfly Dry Goods, our super fabuloso fabric and yarn shop. Like Kitchenalia, it brought in customers by the busloads. Literally—sewing and knitting clubs from Calgary to Missoula and Billings to Spokane made regular field trips to stock up on locally raised mohair and the latest quilt patterns. A petting zoo for yarn addicts.

  The quilted dragonfly banner flying out front told me Kathy Jensen, proprietor and chair of the Village Merchants’ Association, was open for business. Three women with loaded shopping bags emerged, chatting happily. I held the door, smiled, and popped in.

  Kathy stood at a yarn display, restocking skeins in stunning colors. A medium-tall ash blonde who moved efficiently and brooked no nonsense, she turned a welcoming face to me. As usual, a small silver and gold dragonfly pendant hung at her throat.

  “Looks like you’re starting the day well.”

  “I heart Canadian tourists. Especially golf widows.”

  Gotta keep busy while the men are on the links. “Don’t we all? So, the bad news hasn’t hurt business?”

  “Hard to tell. A slow day or two doesn’t make a trend, especially early in the week.” She tilted her head, her quick gray eyes serious. “But we may see a downturn later, as word spreads. When the folks who are already here on vacation go home, will the next wave go to Sandpoint or Jackson Hole instead?”

  “Cross your fingers,” I said, and waved good-bye.

  Kathy’s comments brought to mind Mimi, the Lodge, and Amber at Bear Grass. I stood in front of Dragonfly, near the foot of the 1930s WPA stone steps that led up the hill to the high school. I hated to disturb Mimi—she’d been disturbed enough last time I saw her. Keith and Kyle Caldwell would tell me what I wanted to know, but it might be hard to disguise my questioning as professional curiosity.

  And Amber Stone had told me quite clearly where to go.

  A dark green Porsche SUV cruised by, taking the corner from Hill Street to Front with a skoosh more velocity than strictly necessary. Gib Knox had not yet left town.

  My forehead crinkled. The unformed thought I’d had Monday afternoon when I spotted Gib leaving the sheriff’s office finally took shape. Hadn’t he been driving a black Porsche last Thursday morning, when Ned and I came out of the Inn after the meeting and saw him fly by?

  And Thursday night? I’d been rattled, and was no car geek at the best of times, but I knew who would know for sure.

  “Black, yes,” Kyle Caldwell said over the phone. “But not a Porsche Cayenne. That’s their SUV. Thursday night, when he stopped at the roadblock, he was driving an Acura MDX. Similar shape, but the front ends are completely different. Google it.”

  I did. So whose car had that been?

  I felt a cold, sharp jab like an icicle in my chest. Now I knew for sure: That green car had passed me two days ago at the Lodge, minutes before I committed B&E. I hadn’t seen the driver, but it had been Gib. My close call in the closet had been closer than I’d realized.

  I tucked my phone in my bag and trotted the block and a half to my Subaru. Opened the passenger door. No sign.

  “Where is it?” I shoved my hand between the seat cushion and the back, and peered into the narrow space between seat and console. It couldn’t have vanished. I groped under the seat. Not there, either. Finally, I yanked out the floor mat and there it lay, smudged and dented by those little rubber pokey-outey things on the back of the mat.

  The stub from Pondera Auto Rental.

  • Twenty-four •

  “Miss Erin!”

  One foot poised at my open car door, I turned at the sound of my name. A short Asian man in faded olive green fatigues slammed shut the rear doors of his battered blue van and picked up a five-gallon bucket.
It was obviously heavy and I was instantly curious.

  “Hey, Jimmy. Huckleberries? For me?” The Garden of Eden, in a village parking lot. Investigation could wait.

  Jimmy Vang followed me through the courtyard into the kitchen, where I poured the hucks slowly into another bucket, inspecting them under his steady gaze. Like many of the Hmong refugees in northwestern Montana, Jimmy made his living off the land. He foraged, bringing me fiddleheads in May, morels in June, and hucks in August. Picking huckleberries isn’t easy. A wild and distant relative of the blueberry, they grow on steep mountainsides. Only the surefooted and nimble-fingered can pick enough to sell commercially while staying ahead of the competition—grizzlies and black bears. The shrubs wither in cultivation, adding to their scarcity. Even good friends sometimes balk at sharing a fruitful location.

  He’d obviously found the mother lode.

  As I wrote out a receipt and check, a thought occurred to me. “Jimmy, you sell hucks and morels to quite a few restaurants, don’t you?”

  He nodded, thick black hair bobbing.

  “Did you sell to Drew Baker, at the Jewel Inn?”

  His broad face turned sad. “Oh, yes, Miss Erin. Huckleberry cheesecake. Very popular. Very good.”

  “What about steak with a huckleberry-mushroom glaze?”

  “When Chef Drew first come to Jewel Inn, he serve a filet”—he pronounced it fill-it—“with huckleberries and morels and bought them all from me.”

  “He hasn’t served it in a while, has he?” Past tense is a buzzard.

  “No. He tell me, good to change the menu. But then, this summer, he say he want to bring it back, could I find him berries, when they ripen? I say yes, for Chef Drew, I will climb the mountain and get extra berries.” Jimmy’s eyes filled and he lowered his head. I put my hand on his arm.

  A moment later, he lifted his gaze to mine and I withdrew my hand. “Did you sell to Chef Amber Stone at Bear Grass?” I asked.

  Jimmy’s eyes sharpened. “When she open, I offer. But no, she want a more—what’s the word? A more fancy menu.”