Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village)

by Leslie Budewitz

  Happily, in a grocery, that’s not a problem. Tastes and smells are essential ingredients to our success.

  And we were cooking.

  All afternoon, the door swung open, customers oohed, aahed, tasted, and bought. A vintage car club drove into town and I stood on the sidewalk ogling, along with half the village. A stunning royal blue Rolls-Royce parked in front of the Merc, and I stepped out for a better view.

  “This is fabulous.” I circled the gleaming antique and tried not to drool on its silver-plated trim. “Did you drive all the way here?”

  The owner, a gracious man in his early fifties, shook his head. “We shipped the cars to Calgary. Drove over to Banff, then south through Waterton and across the border into Glacier. Next stage, we go to Jackson Hole. Some owners will drive home from there, but this beauty will be shipped back to Atlanta.”

  “What year?” My fingers itched to stroke the red leather interior.

  “It’s a 1910 Silver Ghost.”

  “Really, 1910?” I pointed to the Merc’s cornerstone, where my great-grandfather had carved the year he’d built Murphy’s Mercantile. At that, the owner and I bonded, and we had our pictures taken with car and building. Two classy antiques, chugging into their second century.

  I gave him a jar of jam as a souvenir, and as thanks, he bought half a dozen more. His fellow club members flashed their Platinum and Gold American Express cards equally freely, although no one else drove a 1910 showpiece.

  I love retail.

  After the car club cleared the door, I found myself thinking of Stacia. A tea or wine shop with some imported foods would have been the perfect fit for her. I dried a damp eye.

  Who would want to create a new biz? Heidi maintained that imports were a hassle and she’d rather send people elsewhere. Steph Brooks? Or another corporate worker bee ready to build her own hive? Half a dozen names came to mind. But before reaching out to anyone, I needed to talk to Ray. He kept a few imported jams and cookies on the shelves by the cash register, along with his special sauerkraut, and had briefly considered a line of sauces. We were making the sauerkraut now—to his specs—and he appeared to have lost interest in expansion. The Grille needed every inch of floor space. But plans change and I didn’t want to step on his toes.

  Uh-oh. Sally was holding court on the sidewalk between her shop and the Grille, complaining loudly to a cadre of friends. I willed myself not to look at her, the way a two-year-old first learning to play hide-and-seek thinks that if they can’t see you, you can’t see them.

  No such luck.

  “I suppose you think you’re a real detective, now that they’ve arrested that Gib Knox. Like you deserve a prize.”

  What do you say to that?

  “A prize for bringing a killer to Jewel Bay,” she continued. “All you brought was bad luck and tragedy. Well, you know what they say—tragedy comes in threes.”

  “The third tragedy would be to let the killer get away with murder, and leave a blot on the village that stains the memories of two good people and damages what we’ve all worked so hard to create. I’m not willing to let that happen, Sally. Are you?” I gave her my best cold, hard stare, and marched on.

  “Heard about Gib,” Ray said when I slid onto a stool at the Grille’s well-polished black granite counter. “I sure didn’t think he was too drunk to drive Thursday night, or I’d have stopped him. And killing Drew in cold blood . . .” He shuddered and his voice trailed off.

  “Tell me again when you saw him.”

  “’Bout nine, a few minutes to. Things were slowing down and I stepped out to look around. See if town was busy, get a sense of whether to expect any more tables. On a weeknight, you never know. Gib was coming out of Red’s with a girl—”

  “Stacia?”

  “No. Younger than you. A little taller. Kinda—built.” He drew a shape with his hands. “Works at the Lodge, I think. You’d know her if you saw her. Anyway, they crossed the street to his car and got very friendly, then he drove off. It was a bit much for a public kiss, but he didn’t seem drunk.”

  The deputy sheriff at the makeshift blockade hadn’t thought so, either. “Crossed the street, you said. Where was he parked?”

  “That was funny. His Porsche was parked right in front of Sally’s place. Under the streetlight. That’s how I got such a good view.”

  Not on Red’s side of the street at all. So much for Gib’s explanation of the damage to his car.

  “But then, the girl fished around in her bag and handed him something—musta been her keys. She went back in the bar and he disappeared down the street. I’m guessing he took her car.”

  The Acura that Kyle had seen. “Was the Porsche still here when you left?”

  He nodded. “Now that you mention it, yeah, though I don’t remember seeing it when I came in the next morning, around ten.”

  I glanced over at Puddle Jumpers, betting I knew who would have seen Gib pick up the damaged Porsche on Friday morning. “Change of subject. We’ve all been saying our town needs a wine shop with a few imported foods. The Merc’s mission is local, Heidi’s not interested, you’ve said you don’t have the space. Before I go recruiting, I wanted to double-check with you. That A-frame just west of the Jewel Inn, used to be a law office? Perfect spot.”

  “No, no. Go for it.”

  “Thanks, Ray.” I headed for the Merc. I might be able to squeeze in some calls today if I hurried.

  But in business and investigation, you make your own luck. Through Red’s open door, I spotted Ned behind the bar and made a detour.

  “Hey, girlie,” he said. “Good job, nabbing that son of a gun.”

  “Ain’t over till it’s over,” I said. “Ned, you said Gib Knox was in here briefly last Thursday. Was he alone?”

  Ned’s face darkened. “When he came in, yeah, but that singer girl glommed on to him pretty quick. Her name escapes me.”

  “Music on a Thursday night?” That would be unusual.

  “No. She came in maybe seven, seven thirty. Waiting for him, looked like. They were all over each other, but like I said, he didn’t stay long.”

  Odd. He’d only been here a day and a half. But I guess when you think you’re hot stuff, it doesn’t take long to find someone who agrees. “How’d he seem when he got here? Rattled?” Guilty?

  “In a hurry. Downed one G&T, if I remember right, made the rounds, and walked out with her wrapped around him. Melinda Mayes, that’s her name.” Ned always remembered right when it came to drinks. He scooped ice into a glass and filled it with whiskey and soda. The rattle of ice against glass sounded like puzzle pieces clicking together.

  “Thanks, Ned,” I said with a wave good-bye. I knew the woman he meant. Sultry voice, sultry eyes, and a killer shape. And Ray was right about her day job.

  * * *

  “Who are those masked men?” I called. “The Caped Crusader and his trusty sidekick?”

  The taller of the two superheroes walking in front of me turned his head. “Nice try, Erin, but the Caped Crusader is Batman. We are Supermen.”

  “You certainly are.” What else can you say of a thirty-five-year-old willing to wear a cape in public to please his five-year-old son?

  “Auntie Erin!” Landon’s deputy sheriff’s star glinted on his cape. Mix-and-match costumes are fine by me. The world needs more superheroes, and a two-for-one special is always good for business.

  “Dress-up day at the library,” Jason said, holding the door for me. Landon scooted past us, yelling for his grandmother. “Noni!”

  I helped Tracy close, then Chiara joined us for wine and milk and cookies in the courtyard. S’more sandwich cookies are surprisingly tasty with sauvignon blanc. And Landon loved them, even without the added fun of toasting marshmallows.

  Which we could do in that portable fire pit if I decided to keep it. I made up my mind.

 
“Okay, Mom. You win. I’ll keep the patio heater and the fire pit. In exchange, I need you to agree not to buy anything else for the building or the business without talking to me first.” I raised my glass to her. “I can’t ask you not to buy any more buildings, or even to tell us. Your money is your money, after all. And you’re right. You do deserve some privacy.”

  She lifted her glass and we clinked. “Thank you, darling.”

  “But one question. What was in the envelope Ned gave you Sunday afternoon?”

  “Sunday?” She cocked her head, remembering. “Oh, the signed lease. I needed that before signing the remodel contract. See, honey? Your business lessons are rubbing off.”

  A nice thought.

  “So, dish, little sister. I saw the florist make the delivery. Who sent you roses? Gib Knox?” Chiara said, laughing.

  “Ha, ha.” I felt myself coloring. “Rick.”

  She raised one eyebrow, a talent that had skipped me. “I like Rick. But I really like Adam. I like you and Adam.”

  Me, too. “So many men, so little time.”

  “You complained that all the guys you met in Seattle were too focused on work to get serious, and now you’re doing the same thing,” she said.

  I pulled Landon into my lap and wrapped my arms around him. “Loving what I do doesn’t mean I’m obsessed.”

  “You’re too busy investigating,” Fresca said, her tone disapproving. “You’re not trained for that kind of danger. You may not get so lucky next time.”

  There wasn’t going to be a next time. Peace and quiet would return when the tourists left for the season, and we would all live happily ever after in the fairy-tale village by the bay.

  I’ll drink to that.

  • Twenty-nine •

  “He didn’t want us to see it before it was edited, but I insisted. We paid for it,” Mimi said. It was Friday morning, and she, Ned, and I—and the Mardi Gras moose—huddled over coffee and quiche in the Jewel Inn’s banquet room, an iPad open on the table. “I was afraid EAT-TV would scuttle the show and all the film, or whatever you call it these days, would be stuck on some computer somewhere and we’d never get a chance to see what we could salvage.”

  “Good thinking, girlie,” Ned said.

  We hadn’t actually paid for the filming, at least not in cash. But we’d paid in other ways. And it was our town and our festival. With Gib Knox in nearly every frame, there might not be much usable footage. But we prowled the screen for snippets of vendors displaying their products or showing off their prize garlic. And Pete’s crowd shots and stunning landscapes.

  I cradled my cup and watched the scenes fly by. Pete had captured the essence of the street fair and all its vibrant energy. He was a talented cameraman, no question. But with Stacia dead and Gib charged with two murders, would EAT-TV give him a chance? Not likely.

  Though if Tara was still hesitant to uproot her daughter, he might not mind.

  Saturday evening replayed itself before us. The lake waters sparkled, and beyond, the mountains gave a lesson in visible chemistry, each receding layer a slightly paler shade of mountain blue—that striking gray-blue-black that occurs when steep slopes covered in variegated greens merge with air and distance to create an entirely different, mesmerizing color.

  On the screen, Pete pulled the focus back and panned the Lodge grounds, then the crowd, before zooming in on Gib Knox. My jaw tightened and a hot spot exploded inside my chest. Mimi and Ned didn’t say a word, but I felt their Jell-O rising, too.

  The camera followed Gib as he spoke with each chef, then focused on the cooking, the serving, the cutting, the tasting.

  A loud buzz rattled the blue leather bag at my feet. I fished out my phone. At the name and number, hope caught in my throat.

  “’Scuse me,” I said, shoving my chair back from the table and bustling to the far side of the room. “Hello? Adam?”

  “Hey, Erin.” The signal was a bit scrambled, but no mistaking that voice. Rich yet perky, as my coffee roaster might say. My heart responded before my ears did. “I was afraid I’d miss you.”

  “What—where? Are you here in town? I thought you weren’t coming back till next week.”

  “No. I’m in West Glacier. Pump on the well went out and I had to run in for a part. Pain in the you-know-what, but the upside is cell service. And a chance to call you.”

  I swear, the moose on the wall gave me a wink. “Camp director, fund-raiser, and plumber, too.”

  He laughed. “We hope. I think it’s just a short on the relay switch. If it’s more than that, repairs could be pricey. I’d sure hate to have to send these kids home early. They’re having too much fun.”

  The line crackled and I thought I lost him.

  “What about you?” he was saying. “What kind of trouble you getting up to?”

  I stifled the urge to say “the usual murder and mayhem.” “Jewel Bay in August. Busy, busy, busy.”

  “Great. Hey, I gotta go—the connection’s breaking up. I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

  “Great. See you then.” The line crackled into silence. My fingers tightened around the phone. My heart thudded in my chest. Was Adam Zimmerman The One? Too soon to tell. How did you know anyway? What if Chiara was right and he didn’t understand why I felt compelled to investigate, to stick my nose where it didn’t belong and try to right wrongs and all those things cow dogs and other superheroes do every day?

  If he didn’t understand, then he wasn’t The One.

  * * *

  Tracy and I worked like madwomen the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Cool to see her develop into an astute saleswoman. Phone orders. Customers by the twos and threes buying produce, eggs, meat, sauce, and pasta. Both townies and vacationers had some tasty meals on the menu this weekend. When Tracy finally ran home for a quick lunch and dog break, a reporter from an entertainment magazine called for an interview. I weaseled out, saying the sheriff had asked us not to comment.

  I was sitting behind the front counter nibbling Creamery cheese on Montana Gold crackers when Maggie Bird made her first delivery of jerky and pemmican bars.

  “So glad you decided to sell your products through the Merc,” I said.

  “Been gettin’ calls,” she said in her clipped cadence. “People who heard about us after the weekend. But you were the first person who asked. And you’re from here. Plus you run a family business, too—you understand.”

  We went over the details of our arrangement and signed the vendor agreement. Tracy returned in time to help set up a display and shelve the product.

  “Do you mind?” I asked Tracy after Maggie left. “A short ride would do me wonders. Be back in an hour or so.”

  “Go.” She waved me away. I exchanged my summer green dress and sandals for jeans, a T-shirt, and riding boots. Grabbed a pemmican bar and headed for the trail.

  * * *

  I parked in my usual spot, on the south end of the Lodge grounds. I thought I spotted a familiar loping walk across the lot.

  “Hey, Pete.” I waved, but he didn’t respond. Musta been somebody else.

  Another Friday afternoon with no word from Kim. I could understand if exile and a day spent running down bad guys in the far reaches of the county kept the good deputy from our regular Friday afternoon ride. But she could at least call or text to let me know I was riding solo.

  Give her a break, Erin. After all, Kim had a serious job. Not like selling pasta and truffles. And she didn’t have an employee to cover for her.

  You’re a lucky woman, Erin. Don’t forget it.

  My route took me past the south cabins, where Stacia and Gib had been staying. Not that seeing Gib’s place would shed any light on what he’d done, but it drew me like a magnet anyway.

  Or maybe I just wanted to scout for more scraps of my clothing stuck to the windowsill.

  What I did
not expect was to find Melinda Mayes, housekeeping staff and aspiring country singer, perched on the edge of Gib’s front porch. One hand cupped her face, normally striking but at the moment, pale and splotchy. Strands of heavily highlighted hair had escaped their braid and flitted around her face like a bumblebee. The cabin itself looked unchanged, except for the DO NOT ENTER tape sealed across the lock, the black-on-yellow a strange echo of Melinda’s hair.

  “A real shocker, isn’t it?”

  She glanced up, dark eyes wide and glistening. That old song “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue” drifted through my mind.

  I leaned against the porch rail. “So sorry. Had you known him long?”

  Her face reddened and she gave an almost-imperceptible shake no. “I met him Wednesday, after he checked in. We just talked, flirted. For an older guy, he’s really hot, you know? And he’s in TV . . .”

  Career climbing? “Food TV.”

  “Thursday, I was cleaning his cabin and he came in. We . . .” Her ragged voice trailed off, her features anxious. She looked up as if suddenly remembering I was there. “I swear, I’ve never fooled around with a guest before.”

  Funny how a hint of unexpected sympathy can unlock someone’s tongue. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “I told him I couldn’t be seen with him on the Lodge grounds—I could lose my job—but I’d be in town that night with some of the other girls. He said he’d come after the photo shoot.”

  “And did he?” Did her version of the story mesh with Ray’s and Ned’s?

  “Yeah. I got there before him, I don’t know when. Had a couple of margaritas, danced a bit. Played the poker machine. I was getting kind of antsy, but then he finally showed up. I wanted him to myself, but he had to talk to everybody.” She rolled her eyes. “The price of celebrity.”

  Gib needed to be seen in town. Melinda had been a convenient excuse. He needed a dozen witnesses who could place him in Red’s. Witnesses like her who weren’t paying attention to the clock, so he could safely say he’d gone into town long before Stacia took her walk. Long before some careless idiot killed her. Some other idiot.