Not God, because Landon was okay.
“He’s collecting license plates,” I said, the heat from the fear and adrenaline rushing through my body as I clutched the boy.
“I got Maine, Auntie,” he whimpered into my chest. At my feet lay his stubby little pencil and the crumpled list of states and provinces he kept in his pocket.
And beside them, on the pavement, lay the crushed pink tulip.
Eight
I delivered my teary nephew to his mother and handed her the pencil and list. Then snatched them back and made a big X next to Maine. It was the Holy Grail of license plates in these parts, second only to Hawaii.
Chiara—a name my mother chose, it’s said with a hard C and rhymes with tiara—carted her only child to the gallery’s back room. I sank onto the stool behind the front counter. People assume the family retail bug bit us both, but while I love business, Chiara loves art. Retail is a means to an end for her—a means to sell her paintings, jewelry, and quirky kids’ hats. She and a handful of artists started Snowberry as a co-op gallery a couple of years ago, and it had quickly become a mainstay on the art trail.
A customer approached carrying half a dozen beeswax candles. This wasn’t my shop, and I had to get back to work, but my sister was still busy with Landon, so I rang up the sale for her. Watching her walk through the gallery a minute or two later was a bit like looking in a mirror. I’m two inches taller and she’s two years older, but we’ve got the same heart-shaped face, brown eyes, and dark bob that falls just below the chin, though after the close encounter on the street, mine was messier.
Truth be told, my hair is always messier than my sister’s.
“He’s napping in the desk chair,” she said. “We’ll have another talk about street safety tonight. And about sneaking out of the shop without telling me.”
“Thank God the driver stopped in time.” I reached out to a coat rack, handmade from a fallen birch, and lifted off a green and blue leather bag. “These are new.”
“Oh, our new artist. April Ng.” Chiara handed me a cross-body satchel in black leather. “Isn’t her work stunning? She repurposes old leather jackets and pants, and buys scraps from a coat factory. We should find you a replacement for that filthy blue thing.”
“My blue bag has history.”
“It shows.”
I resisted the temptation to stick out my tongue. “Hey, I hired Lou Mary Vogel. Mom’s idea.”
“Good. She’ll be great.”
“Yeah.” I bit my lower lip. “But Mom got way pushy about it, which isn’t like her. Why zone in on Lou Mary?”
The door opened and three women entered, shopping bags in hand. Time for us both to get to work. My sis threw her arms around me and kissed my cheek. “I’m so thankful you were there.”
“Me, too.”
∞
But before heading back to the Merc, I wanted to check in with another friend.
The door to Kitchenalia stood open, and jazzy guitar strains floated out. Music by Gerry Martin, unless I missed my guess.
“Those lily pad lids are some of our most popular items,” I heard Heidi tell a fiftyish woman studying a display. “They form the perfect seal for a bowl or a pot. They’re silicone, so they withstand hot and cold, wash beautifully, and last forever.”
“You can even put the small one on top of your water glass to keep the cat from dunking her paw in it,” I said.
“Sold.” The customer dropped two small and two medium lids in her basket, and moved on to the bakeware display.
“She’s stocking her daughter’s first real apartment. Are you investigating, Erin? Digging into what happened to Gerry?”
I glanced around, kept my voice low. “Yes. Because he deserves justice. His death means more than lost tourism dollars.”
Heidi’s lips quivered and her jaw trembled as she swallowed hard. She closed her mouth and swallowed hard. “His music helped me get through a hard time. My interest faded, but not the memories.”
I reached for her hand. “Thank you, Heidi. For reminding me that we’re talking about a real human here, who touched other people’s lives.”
The customer called for help from a display of cake pans, and I slipped out the front door.
Back in the Merc, Lou Mary had arrived for her first shift, and bent over the iPad as Tracy showed her how to e-mail customers their receipts. A weight slipped from my shoulders.
Almost before we knew it, the day was over, and I ran Lou Mary through the closing procedures. Tracy hauled the produce cart inside. The lock on the front door balked. Lou Mary blamed her arthritic hands, but I assured her it gave me fits, too.
“Old buildings have their quirks,” I said.
“So do old ladies,” she replied, pointing a gnarled finger at herself.
She fretted a bit as she watched me count the till, but it came out on the penny, rare even without a new employee. This might work, I thought as I watched Tracy and Lou Mary leave. I packed up a jar of enchilada sauce and a few outdated but yummy truffles. Upstairs, I locked away the till.
That done, I reached under the desk for my bag. As I did, the white paper cup in the wastebasket caught my attention.
Could it be important? I’d found it a few feet from where Gerry Martin had gone over the edge. Had it belonged to him, or to a witness? Or to the killer?
More likely, it had lain there for days. No, it hadn’t, I realized. A hard rain had fallen Thursday night. This cup was stark white. Crisp and clean as it looked, it must have been dropped this morning.
I dashed downstairs and grabbed a plastic bag from our commercial kitchen. Back in the office, I labeled it with the time, date, and place where I’d found the cup and added my initials, as I’d seen Kim do so many times. Holding the outside of the bag, I used it like a glove and plucked the cup out of the trash, then zipped the seal shut.
“Now to keep it safe. Preserve the chain of custody.” In case the cup turned out to be significant. But there was no spare room in the one locking file drawer. “Ah—that’s it.” I opened the ancient wall safe again and tucked the bag inside.
∞
“Thanks for dinner, Erin.” Tanner stretched out one long leg, picked up his wineglass, and leaned back against the couch. “That was terrific.”
He’d pushed away a half-full plate. Adam had said his buddy would eat anything, but apparently not my chicken enchiladas. So much for my plan to fatten him up. At least the outdoor activities Adam had on tap would put a little color in his face.
“I told you she was a great cook,” Adam said.
“Yeah, but you think dumping soy sauce on ramen noodles makes them gourmet.”
Adam opened his mouth to protest, then saw me grinning. “I’ve changed. My tastes have matured.”
Who laughed harder, Tanner or me, I couldn’t say. We were sitting on my living room floor, dining at the coffee table. My cabin is compact. Two can sit at the kitchen island. The tiny deck offers giant views of the lake and mountains, and its café table is perfect for morning coffee, but too small for dinner for three. Besides, the weather was a bit unsettled for dining al fresco.
That had left the living room, ideal for one woman and a pair of cats. Stir in two tall men and it gets a bit cramped, but tonight the coziness made me warm and happy.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” I grabbed Pumpkin around the middle and relocated her to the slate hearth, well away from my plate. “That’s mine.”
“So this other guy owns a restaurant and it’s his recipe, but you can it,” Tanner said. “Jar it, or whatever.”
“Right. We both sell it, and I’m working on developing outlets in other towns.” I finished the last bite, and Adam got to his feet. He loaded the plates, with their tempting tidbits of red sauce, into the dishwasher, away from the full-figured orange tabby’s reach. “Can you believe—a cat who like
s spicy food.”
Tanner topped off my wine, leaving his glass empty. “I can see the ad now. One bite, and you and your cat will be hooked.”
I picked up my glass and twirled the divine red liquid. “On small quantities, shipping costs kill us. It’s not like SavClub, where we shipped pallet loads, mainly in our own trucks.”
“Or like your T-shirts. Flat and light.” Adam set a plate of truffles on the table. Mr. Sandburg raised his head, then returned to his nap. My cats couldn’t have been more different, from their sleeping habits to their taste in human food. They had in common excellent hunting skills, and the fact that each had come to me after the death of their original owner, both good friends.
“I love my hoodie, Tanner, by the way. Thank you.” I stretched out my arms, admiring the black-and-white stripes. “And it’s made from plastic bottles?”
“Some of it. Mainly post-industrial and post-consumer fibers.” He arched his back as if it ached. After today’s events, no surprise.
“Post-consumer—that would be the old T-shirts you take back, right? But what does post-industrial mean?” I looked up at Adam, flipping through my CDs on the shelves next to the fireplace. “Adam, sit.”
“I’m trying to find different music. Your CD collection sucks.”
“Use my iPod.” I couldn’t blame him for feeling restless. He’d dealt with countless tragedies in Search and Rescue, but he always said that if it ever stopped bothering him, he’d know it was time to quit. And finding a body on the rocks when you’re out having fun had to be doubly unnerving.
One more reason for me to help solve the crime. As long as I stayed safe.
“Post-industrial means remnants from other industrial uses. We buy short bolts. Odds and ends. A fifty-yard remnant that’s useless to Champion or Under Armour will last us for ages.”
“Oh, like this cute handbag I saw today, at my sister’s gallery. The artist buys leather scraps and remakes old jackets into bags.”
“Exactly like that.” Tanner explained the process of sourcing and manufacturing while an early Coldplay CD began. He’d dropped out of college to start the business, determined to build a company that made good, lasting products average people could afford, while keeping what would otherwise have become waste out of the landfill.
Doing good while doing well, as the sustainable business gurus say.
Or as Adam had told me, to create something of his own. Important to a guy who’d regularly had to leave everything behind when he got shuffled off to a different foster home.
No sign of Adam. Then I heard him on the floor behind the couch, tossing a cork for Sandburg. “Are we boring you with business blather?” I called.
No answer. Tanner watched me, expressionless.
“Pick a new topic, then. Anything you want.”
Adam popped up, peering over the back of the couch. “I like hearing you two talk business.”
Then why was he hiding out with the cats?
“Hey, Z, you give any more thought to that commercial solar coffee roaster?” Tanner asked.
“Solar? Here? No chance. Anyway, I have enough going on.” Adam flopped over the back of the couch. Sandburg jumped on his leg, crawling up to settle on his chest.
“You don’t need a hundred percent sunny days. You just need somebody who understands accounting better than you do, and I think you found her.” Tanner got to his feet, smacking his buddy on the shoulder on the way to the bathroom.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I said softly after I heard the door close.
Adam’s gaze darted toward me, wide-eyed and worried. He shook his head quickly, then stared over my shoulder at the gas fireplace, the flames burning low. “It was nothing I hadn’t seen. You, either. Tanner’s never stumbled across a dead body before, far as I know. But he did okay. He stayed back while we carried the body down and got it loaded up. Then we brought the kayaks in. Went up to the station and gave Ike Hoover our statements.” Lips tight, he gave a quick that’s all—no big deal shrug.
I didn’t think that was all, and I darn well knew it was a big deal.
“Ike ask you about tracks and signs, what you saw when you climbed up?”
Adam nodded. “Yeah, but that dirt’s too fine and sandy to hold much moisture. You saw how faint the tracks were up top—same thing on the cliff. It was pretty clear where Martin went over and where he landed, but in between all we saw were a few scrapes in the dirt.”
“Ike’s going to investigate like it’s murder until he’s sure it isn’t.”
Adam sat up, Sandburg in his arms. “Erin, I need to tell you—”
I heard the toilet flush. The door opened and footsteps neared.
“Hey, Lundy, they played this in that concert we went to, didn’t they?” Adam called out.
What else had he wanted to say, without Tanner hearing? He shot me a look that could have meant a dozen different things, from let’s not talk about murder in front of my buddy to stay out of it. I knew he trusted me, and I knew he was proud of my success in past investigations, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried.
Some things go without saying.
Nine
We should call you Enchilada, not Pumpkin.” I hoisted the cat, all thirteen pounds of her, out of the sink and set her on the kitchen floor. My restless sweetie had done a great job on cleanup duty. But he’d left the baking dish soaking, and Pumpkin had practically stood upside down to get at the bits of sauce stuck to the edges.
Scrubbie in hand, I set to work removing temptation. It didn’t take long—she’d been thorough.
I laid the baking dish on the drain rack and reached for a smudgy wineglass. Most times, washing dishes relaxes me. But tonight, I’d caught a bit of Adam’s agitation. I’d wanted him to stick around and let me soothe it—Tanner would be here all week—but he’d made no move to stay, and I hadn’t wanted to ask. Instead, I’d been content with a long, sweet kiss after Tanner headed for the car.
I reached for another glass. My internal PowerPoint flipped through a series of images: Gerry Martin’s body lying on the rocks, the roiling river, the short stretch of trail with an unprotected edge, Gerry Martin on stage last night.
The slide show kept playing: Martin bristling at Barber, then barking at Gabby. All they’d wanted was a piece of his spotlight. Oh, and earlier, Martin scowling at Sam for a missed cue.
Who had pushed Martin?
And why?
I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel and spotted Pumpkin, crouched hopefully on the kitchen floor. “That’s the point Holmes was making to Watson, right? About the dog in the night? If two people tangled and one slipped and fell, the ground would have been beat up. The dirt edge would have been broken and shrubbery torn. There should have been signs, at the edge of the trail and the top of the cliff, of Martin slipping and trying to catch himself. Of the other person trying to grab him.”
Was I placing too much importance on signs that should have been plain as day, but weren’t there?
On the page and on screen, Holmes never betrayed a lick of doubt. Oh, for such certainty.
What did I actually know about Gerry Martin? Not much—jazz guitar had never been my thing. I put on his new CD, then settled in the chocolate brown leather chair with a fresh glass of red and two truffle rejects. Pumpkin eyed me from the rug a few feet away. Sandburg was nowhere in sight.
The liner notes gave the air-brushed version of Martin’s life. Born in Pittsburgh to a father who plumbed by day and drummed by night and a mother who taught piano. Child prodigy on the keyboard, until he—like so many kids—discovered the guitar at thirteen. Unlike most, he stuck with it, joining a popular jazz band at sixteen and working regularly in the city’s bars and clubs. He hadn’t bothered with college, getting his musical education on the road and in bands large and small. He was praised for his tone, his rhythm and harmony, a
nd his versatility. Even I’d heard of some of the artists he’d recorded and toured with.
I reached for a truffle. The mark said double chocolate, but with rejects, you never know. Martin had seventeen Grammy nominations, five awards. “Mmm. Raspberry.”
Rebecca had said his career had taken a downturn recently. Ebbs and flows had to be common, but she’d made it sound more serious.
I dug out my laptop and searched his Grammy history. Impressive as the numbers were, the last award had been eight years ago, the last nomination six.
No obits online yet, though a couple of small pieces reported that Martin had “apparently plunged to his death while hiking in a remote Montana valley, where the innovate performer and composer had been scheduled to teach at a music festival before dates in Seattle and Vancouver, and an Asian tour.”
Remote, shmote. Interesting that Ike had not revealed that there was a witness, or that he suspected that old demon, foul play.
I flipped to the website for Dimitriou’s Jazz Alley in Seattle. Next to Martin’s name on the schedule was the ominous word cancelled.
When I lived in Seattle, a boyfriend—using the term loosely—had taken me to Jazz Alley to hear Diane Schuur, the hometown singer and pianist. She’d been fabulous; the guy had been a fail. My dating life in the city had been a cross between Survivor and The Apprentice, with me repeatedly voted off the team as one guy after another climbed corporate ladders leading elsewhere.
Martin, on the other hand, had climbed the ladder of success like a monkey streaking up a palm tree. Surely he’d made a few enemies along the way. Was one of them here for our festival? One of the other artists?
Of course, you can’t find out who hates a guy enough to kill him by checking his website. I dug the program I’d grabbed this afternoon out of my bag.
No clues there, either. I ate another truffle—cherry, as marked, but with an imperfect bottom.
I stood, unkinking a leg, pondering. Glanced into the bedroom. Sandburg lay on the chaise, staring out into the night.
Treble at the Jam Fest Page 7
