I sat on the long bench my friend Iggy had painted. Ike joined me.
“So you’re here to listen, to more than the music. To watch, but more than the performance.”
“Bingo, as your friend Ned would say.”
“Your deputy finally caught up with the Carters, so you know about the argument James overheard between Gerry Martin and Dave Barber.” Ike nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I know you have to consider everyone, and you can’t rule out Sam Kraus, especially once you found out that his wife had a private conversation with Martin that upset her. But I think Dave Barber deserves a closer look.”
“We’re looking at everyone. We always do.”
“I know you talked to Ned, but I suspect there are a few things he didn’t tell you.” Things Ned wouldn’t volunteer, and Ike wouldn’t know to ask. I filled him in. “Ned Redaway is a pretty good judge of character. Dave Barber didn’t want Martin to be a permanent part of the festival. That’s why he stepped all over Martin’s performance. I think that’s why he went to the cottages later that night. I can’t work out why Barber would kill Martin the next morning, unless he didn’t know that Martin had decided to leave early. And I don’t know the financial impact of Martin’s presence—or his departure.
“I’m telling you, Ike. Whatever Barber’s up to might not be murder. It might be theft, it might be a frame. It might not be criminal at all.” I could not see past Ike’s inscrutable features, but I knew the wheels were churning. “But he’s after something, and he’s driving hard.”
“Thank you, Erin,” he said a moment later. “I do appreciate your perspective. Now, I have a favor to ask you.”
“Don’t ask me to stay out of this.”
“I know better,” he said wryly. His manner became somber. “I’d like you to talk to Kim about returning to the force. We need her. She’ll listen to you.”
I wasn’t convinced of that. “Are you sure that’s what I’ll tell her? That it’s time to stop playing with horses and get back to work?”
Ike put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. “Ned Redaway’s not the only good judge of character around here.”
Twenty
When you plug numbers into a spreadsheet, they add up. If they don’t, you check your figures and tweak your formulas. But when you plug in people, no such luck.
I stared at the columns and rows. Sandburg batted at one of my red boots, lying beside my brown leather chair.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I muttered.
After leaving Ike, I’d snuck back in to the darkened theater and crawled over knees to my seat between Chiara and Adam. He’d been enthralled by the music—first, Pearl Django’s tribute to the greats of Gypsy jazz, Django Reinhardt and Stéphane Grappelli, and in the second half, brass, brass, brass. It wasn’t the time or place for whispered questions about what shoes Martin had been wearing when he fell, or what Adam’s boss had said. Later, I hadn’t wanted to spoil the mood—Adam had been so happy. Grinning at Tanner, holding me close.
Exactly what a festival night with people you love ought to be.
And though a van from KNUS, its broadcast dish mounted on the roof, had been parked on Front Street, and more uniformed officers stood around than usual, the only damper I’d noticed had been the rain.
The rain had returned while we were inside, and we’d splashed and dashed to our cars, laughing. This time, Tanner had held out his hand for Adam’s keys.
“It’s barely a mile,” Adam said as he folded himself into my passenger seat and reached for the door handle. “Don’t get lost.”
And now here I was, in the middle of the night, the cats in their beds, my sweet honey in mine, while I sat in the living room staring at facts from a case that wasn’t technically my business, but that I couldn’t leave alone.
Plinks and plunks on the metal roof told me the winds were whipping up again. Exactly how I felt inside.
I wanted to believe Dave Barber was the killer. I’d been so sure when James Carter told me about the argument he overheard, until I ran that thought through the analytical side of my brain. Barber was getting what he wanted: Martin was leaving the festival. His early departure created a short-term crisis—juggling the schedule for events long advertised, and explaining the changes to the students and the public.
If Martin was the jerk everyone described, he might have relished that thought.
The clattering on the roof woke Pumpkin. She jumped off the ottoman and crouched by the French doors to the back deck.
I had a hunch the other artists would grouse a bit, for the fun of it, but take the changes in stride. They were pros, and pros know not everyone acts like a pro when they should. Tempers flare, personalities clash, enormous changes happen at the last minute.
C’est la vie.
Pumpkin let out a yowl. “What, girl? Storm scaring you?” She didn’t answer, and I went back to my musing.
But why would Barber kill Martin? If he’d known Martin had decided to leave, I could see no reason for them to have exchanged more than a few words of “good riddance” the next morning, let alone take a walk together.
If Martin hadn’t told him he was leaving early—I had no idea when he’d made that decision—would tempers have flared back up Saturday morning on the trail?
What did Barber have to gain, now or in the future?
I needed to know more about both men.
Sandburg emerged from the bedroom and crouched next to Pumpkin, a rare sight. The tabby let out another yowl.
“What’s up, girl?” The power flickered. “Not again.”
It’s a common joke that if you don’t like the weather in Montana, especially this time of year, wait five minutes.
The wind threw another wave of branches and cones against the cabin. Beneath the wind came a sound I couldn’t identify. Metallic, but not quite. Not natural.
Both cats raised their heads, then craned their necks to look at me. I was leader of the pack. I was supposed to do something.
And as the nominal caretaker, that meant taking care of things. I left my warm, comfy chair and rummaged in the coat closet slash laundry room by the front door.
Behind me, a light went on. I started, one hand still fumbling in the junk drawer.
“What are you doing?” Adam stood in the doorway. He rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand, his dark curls sleep tangled. All he wore were plaid boxers he hadn’t been wearing when I’d last seen him.
My fingers found what I’d been searching for, and I held up a sturdy black metal flashlight. “Looking for this.”
“Why? Come back to bed. It’s all warm in there, and I’m awake again. Sort of.”
And it had been sweet, to let the tensions of the last few days melt away in his arms. But I couldn’t dismiss Pumpkin’s noise-making as a reaction to a wild animal, not after what I’d heard.
I lifted my slicker off the hook on the back of the door. “I heard something. I don’t know if a branch ripped a soffit or damaged the chimney, but I have to check it out.”
He dropped his hand. “In this weather? Don’t be crazy.”
“I’m supposed to be the caretaker.” I thrust one bare foot into a snow boot, good in all kinds of wicked weather. Adam made an exasperated noise and disappeared. I bent to dig the other boot out of the pile of winter gear in the corner. By the time I’d found it and tugged it on, Adam was back, in jeans and sneakers, wrapping a coat over his bare chest.
I raised my hood and stepped outside, lights off so we could see better.
A gust swirled onto the covered deck and slapped me in the face. I blinked and stared into the darkness.
“I don’t see anything,” Adam said. “Or anyone.”
On the front step, I paused. The same noise I’d heard earlier rippled through the woods.
“That,” I replied, the wind whipping my h
air and my words. A car engine? A car door?
We were far enough from the highway that traffic noise was rare. But stormy nights play havoc with sounds and sensations—and emotions.
Another gust sent the heavy boughs of the giant spruce swaying. Another loud crack, this one thunder. Then rain.
“I don’t know what it is,” Adam said, “but I’m sure it’s not coming from the cabin. And it’s too far away to be coming from the big house. Wait till morning.”
He was right. Besides, the Pinskys wouldn’t expect me to go out in this weather on the odd chance that a fallen branch had ripped a shingle off the roof.
Morning would come soon enough.
“Criminy.” I tugged on the cabin door but the wind held it shut. Adam reached past me and pried it open, and we tumbled inside. A gust tore at the edge, and if the door hadn’t been so heavy, it would have whipped out of his fingers.
Inside, we collapsed, catching our breath. Adam’s eyes were wide.
I did what I rarely do: I locked us in.
We shook out our coats and hair, but neither of us was ready to go back to bed. I set the flashlight and a lighter next to the pillar candles on the kitchen island. Liz had chosen them for ambiance, but if I had to use them, I would.
I tossed a fleecy throw at Adam and he sank on to the couch, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.
“I need a drink.” Strong drink, to me, means red wine. Even at two a.m. I scrounged in my wine storage—a crate in the hall closet.
“Do you think—? I mean, it was more than wind. It had to be a car, and close,” I said. “No lights, though.” Either the driver kept them off—gutsy, on a twisty driveway in the woods in the dark, with no stars or moon—or I was imagining things.
Neither option was very appealing.
I popped the cork on a bottle of J. Lohr Cabernet that Kyle Caldwell had given me for my birthday and poured two glasses. Kyle wanted Kim to take a bigger role in running the guest lodge. Ike wanted her to return to the force, and wanted me to give her a push. She would want me to let all this go.
But there are times when you can’t do what other people want. And this was one of them. If someone was out there, if I hadn’t been imagining things, then this was getting personal.
Adam’s head bobbed in a mix of a nod and a shake. “But who—why? There’s no reason for anybody to be prowling around here, not in the middle of a storm.”
Pumpkin’s big eyes watched every move we made, ears back, tail low.
I set the glasses on the coffee table and settled in next to Adam. He tucked half the blanket around me, and we each took a sip. The wine went down easily, full-bodied but smooth. Monte Verde made a decent cab, still young, and their cherry wine had a similar mouth feel, but neither came close to this. Last summer I’d connected Jennifer to a wine buyer at SavClub, to give them a boost. But they might need more help than that to fulfill their ambitions.
Make that her ambitions.
Adam switched off the lamp. He’d shed his wet jeans and his bare leg touched mine. “My guess is a tree fell on the highway, and a driver had to stop and clear the road. You know how the wind throws noises around during the night.”
“Yeah, probably.” I snuggled closer, his arm around me. My eyes drifted shut, and as if the backs of my eyelids were screens, the spreadsheet and its empty boxes jumped into view. I blinked them away, and raised my face to Adam’s, drinking in all the comfort he offered.
∞
The next morning, I stood at the edge of my driveway, staring at the blowdown littering the road. My slash pile would easily rival Sam’s out at the winery.
Adam and I had migrated from the couch back to the bed, tangled up in each other. But I hadn’t been able to sleep. At first light, I’d dressed and come outside to survey the damage. I wanted to believe Adam’s explanation for the odd noises—a downed tree on the highway, the wind playing tricks.
I wrapped my arms around myself against the chill. Against what I might see.
That’s when I noticed the tire tracks. I suppressed a shudder and followed them down the driveway toward the big house. They didn’t go that far. Instead, they turned left on a dirt access road that served the property to the south. It hadn’t been used in years, but it was passable.
Not entirely. About twenty feet in, a fallen white pine blocked the way. I could see where someone had pulled in, then backed out.
If this car had been the one Pumpkin and I heard, why had we seen no headlights? I’d left a light on. Why not stop and ask for directions?
Must have been a man.
Or someone with another plan. This time, I didn’t suppress my shudder.
An object glistened in the long grass between the ruts. I picked it up. A muddy guitar pick, a tiny hole at the base. This one had been an earring.
I wiped off the dirt with my thumb. Black, streaked with coppery-brown. Pretty.
Who had lost it? Guitar pick earrings weren’t uncommon, but I couldn’t remember anyone except Gabby wearing a pair lately. Red, white, and blue, if I remembered right. This one wasn’t hers.
This one was a message.
Red-hot fear gripped my brain. I eyed the pick, my hand shaking. I closed my fingers around it and shoved my fists in my coat pockets.
But what was the message?
And who sent it?
Should I call the sheriff? No, I decided. After a big storm, all the emergency services would have their hands full, dealing with fallen trees, downed power lines, damage to cars and structures. In a wild storm last fall, docks had been ripped off their pilings, boats smashed on the rocks. Every few years, a crashing tree killed a passing driver or a homeowner inspecting his property.
Like I was doing.
I headed back to the cabin. The sheriff’s department had already summoned the reserves to handle traffic and security at the festival while Ike and the detectives talked and retalked to everyone in town, even the weekenders. And it wasn’t like crime or other daily duties stopped in the rest of the county while Jewel Bay had a crisis.
I had no evidence of any wrongdoing, and no idea who the trespasser might have been. The sheriff’s office didn’t need to hear from me.
I circled the big house on foot, spotting no damage. But a larch and a lodge pole pine had both uprooted, and lay across the backyard. Liz’s favorite cherry tree, a rare Rainier, had split in two.
The smell of fresh coffee greeted me when I opened the cabin door, and Adam put a warm mug in my hand.
“So, what’s it like out there?”
“Lots of downed branches. Two old trees came down by the big house. I’ll call a tree trimmer, and Bob Pinsky. The buildings look okay, like you said.”
He wrapped an arm around me and kissed the top of my head.
But the guitar pick in my pocket sang a different tune.
∞
I dropped Adam off at his house, a remodeled bungalow not far from the athletic club where he worked, running outdoor programs and a wilderness camp for kids. In the village, I parked behind the Merc and walked up to Rebecca’s gallery. Rubbed my lucky stars and raised my eyes. Her usual morning perch was empty. I peered in the gallery windows. Dead quiet.
Pooh, and double-pooh. I’d planned to quiz her over coffee about Martin and Barber.
Grant and Ann Drake were sitting at the table in the window of Le Panier. I’d already had coffee, but couldn’t resist the opportunity to chat.
They were dressed for walking, in long pants and light sweaters.
“Shame we can’t lick our plates in public, isn’t it?” I said, seeing an orange plate with a few crumbs and a crumpled napkin on the table. Grant smiled broadly. Ann blinked several times, tightening her fingers around a white espresso cup.
I sat at the next table to wait for my latte and pain au chocolat. “I trust you and Gabby enj
oyed the concert last night.”
“We did, though I think she enjoyed the jam session afterwards at Red’s even more.” Another too-broad salesman’s smile. “We snuck out of the condo so she could sleep in.”
“Glad she’s getting out to play. Did she change her mind about the workshops? I hear some of the other guest artists are terrific teachers, and it would be a shame to miss the opportunity, since you’ve come all the way out here.”
“Under the circumstances,” Grant said, as if I could fill in the blanks.
“Must be a challenge, figuring out who will take Martin’s Master Classes and his performances. And the money—I bet that gets messy. Who handles that on the board? Marv Alden? I hear he’s got a lot of financial experience. Or Dave Barber—I guess he’s the chair. Since you don’t have a director at the moment.”
Ann lifted her cup an inch or two, then set it down again. Grant rose, one hand ready to help with her chair. Cup as unspoken signal.
What I understood, as I watched them walk out to the street, Ann adjusting the sweater draped over her shoulders, was that they were nervous.
About Gabby’s career, now that her mentor had shuffled off this mortal coil?
About me, the village nosy parker?
Or—what?
And were any of the Drakes linked to the tracks on my road, and the broken earring in my pocket?
“What spooked them?” Michelle set a white paper cup and white bag on the table.
“Don’t know. Lots of frayed nerves these days. Lots of rumors.” Outside, my cousin Molly dashed by, an olive green messenger bag over her shoulder, keys in hand. “Michelle, make whatever Molly drinks. Please. To go.”
“Double mocha.” She tamped ground espresso into the filter basket.
“You must know everyone in town by their drinks,” I said, and she flashed me a grin. “Does thinking about it that way remind you who came in Saturday, around the same time as Gerry Martin?”
Her eyes darkened. She turned back to the shiny machine, and pulled the lever, the whoosh and hiss of steam cutting off conversation. No doubt she hated being pestered—I wasn’t the only one asking questions. Or maybe she didn’t want to tell me.
Treble at the Jam Fest Page 16
