Butter Off Dead (11 page)

My phone rang again as Google spit up the goods on Sally Grimes.

“Hey, there. So the cats haven't clawed you to death yet?” Adam asked.

“They've actually spent most of the evening in the same room.” I set my laptop aside. “Turns out Pumpkin adores ice cream. How's the class?”

He gave me the rundown. “Every time I think,
I already know this stuff
, we learn a new technique, or hear about a tragedy avoided. So, I hate being away, but it's good.”

I filled him in on the film snafu and he laughed and assured me I'd work it out. Then I told him what I'd uncovered about Nick not being where he'd said he was on Saturday, and Adam did not laugh. He did not respond. I felt my throat tighten and my hackles—whatever hackles are—rise. I'd ended one relationship before it got rolling when a guy tried to keep me from investigating. Maybe I had overreacted, but when Chiara had said Mr. Right might not like my habit of sticking my nose in other people's business, I'd told her if that's what he thinks, he isn't Mr. Right.

And I still feel that way. I want to call my own shots. But even more, I want a partner who supports my choices. Who trusts that I'm not going to jump off the deep end just because it's there, that I look before I leap, and land on my feet more times than I fall. Who will help me, with love and respect, to work my way through life's challenges and come out stronger, and expect me to do the same for him.

High hopes. But not impossible ones.

“So why would Nick lie?” Adam said after a long silence, and tension I hadn't realized was gripping me drained out of every cell.

“That's what I can't figure,” I said, the words rushing
out. “It may not have anything to do with what happened to Christine, but . . . I thought you were going to tell me to stop asking questions.”

“Would you?”

Truth or dare. “No.”

“Right. So, why bother?” Though he was a hundred miles away, I pictured his crooked smile. “Hey, I wish we were having this conversation in person. I won't pretend not to worry. You're trying to expose a secret that somebody killed to protect.”

For a microsecond, I stopped breathing. Blunt way to put it, but true.

“But that's one of the things I love about you,” he continued. “You follow your heart. You may jump when you see a mouse, but when it comes to the people you care about, you have more courage than anyone I've ever met. Why would I want to interfere with that?”

“That class better be a good one,” I said, and the warmth in his laughter carried me all the way to sleepy time.

Good night, Adam. Good night, Mr. Maybe Right.

I
slept like a rock.

Like a rock tossed by waves on the shore, or kicked by giants who'd lost their soccer ball. Like a rock tumbling down an avalanche chute.

Alas, I was a stone gathering moss in the morning, stumbling around my cabin bleary-eyed and foul of mood. Even an extra-strong dose of Cowboy Roast barely boosted me out of low gear.

And that was before Pumpkin decided to sit on the chocolate leather chair and Sandberg decided she was an interloping Ferengi to be chased under the bed.

“Truce, you two.” I waded through the snarling, hauled Sandburg back to the living room, and shut the bedroom door. Pumpkin hopped onto the chaise and buried her head in her paws, less from embarrassment than irritation at having her fight broken up. My interpretation, anyway. I may not be fluent in cat, but I get by, with a strong human accent.

Tuesday had dawned bright and clear, which meant too
cold and too dry to snow. Dressing as if it were spring wouldn't make it so, so I pulled on my favorite black pants, then pulled them off and grabbed black fleece-lined tights and a purple corduroy skirt. A long-sleeved T-shirt in a red-and-orange print similar to Jo's Nordic knits, and a fleecy plum vest whose texture reminded me of my grandmother's Persian lamb coat.

And because winter's ice keeps my red cowboy boots tucked away for special occasions, comfy black boots that fit like a sweater but don't make my feet sweat in the shop.

I studied myself in the mirror. The eyes gave it away. “Desperate nights call for desperate measures,” I said, and reached for the makeup.

The problem, I realized on the drive into the village, was that helping my big brother meant taking him off his pedestal. The one where I'd put him to keep him safe.

In the Merc's back hall, I flicked on the heat and lights. Paused to study the paint chips taped to the wall and realign them in order of this morning's preference. Started coffee. Grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter—seventy-five-cent bananas are a big hit among shoppers and my downtown neighbors.

Lacking Christine's magic notebook with our customer ID info, I slogged my way through the film distributor's multiple-choice voice mail system till a human answered.

A human who had not had enough coffee.

“Yes, that's the code number on the box and the disc,” I told the customer service rep, struggling to keep my tone snark-free. “But that's not what you sent.”

She repeated, as if to a preschooler, that they'd sent us a disc with the code number of the film we'd ordered and that was all they were obligated to do.

“Listen, I don't give a fig about your code numbers. We didn't order a code number. We ordered a copy of
Chocolat
, and that's not what we got.”

Round and round she went, until I asked for a supervisor.
Two and a half, maybe three seconds later, I had the promise of a new disc, and profuse apologies.

“I'll watch the first few minutes myself to make sure it's right,” she assured me. “We'll expedite it, at our expense, and we won't charge you for this film. We're delighted to be part of a new festival, and so sorry about the mix-up.”

That's how customer service ought to work. But I'd fret until I had the right film in hand.

Nick walked in as I refilled my coffee mug. “Smells good.”

My chance to demand he let me help him. But what if he wouldn't talk? What if he kept stonewalling? What if I couldn't persuade him to tell me the truth, that if he didn't, he risked being caught in a web of lies that made him look guilty. And if people think you're guilty of something, it's not hard for them to make the leap and believe you guilty of something worse. “Ceiling looks great,” I said. “Shelves, too.”

He reached for the coffeepot.

“I'll get paint this week,” I continued. The courage Adam had praised vaporized like profit in February.

“No rush. I'll be around till April or so. Only fair that I do my share. Got plenty of my own work, though. Stats to collate, grants to write. Field assistants to recruit.”

“And a will to probate, property to manage, and decisions to make.”

His fingers twitched as he dropped two sugar cubes into his cup.

“When you're ready, I'll help you clean out Christine's cottage, and the studio. So will Chiara and Mom.” I hadn't asked, but knew they'd agree. Of course, it was turning out that I didn't know my family quite as well as I thought. “But Nick, you have to talk to us. You have to tell me . . .”

He stared at his coffee, jaw muscles working. Then, as if he hadn't surprised me enough already this week, he leaned down and kissed my cheek before striding off to the basement.

I was still staring after him when Tracy chugged in, Diet Coke in one hand, a paper bag in the other. Bagel and cream cheese, or a maple bar? She looked as bedraggled as I felt.

“Erin, I need the afternoon off. Bozo's sick. His vet's in Hawaii, and I don't want to cart him all the way to a new vet in Pondera, but . . .”

“Trace, of course. Poor guy.” Minor brainstorm. “Talk to Bill. He treated Pepé when she got that tick bite last spring. She recovered beautifully—no problems.”

Tracy pursed her lips and tilted her head, her black-and-white puppy dog earrings wagging.

“Talk to Bill about what?” Fresca said, slipping out of her coat. She kissed me on the cheek, and I left Tracy to explain. On my way upstairs, I heard my mother say, “I'll call him right now.”

Time to focus on our drink line. I called the winners of our chai contest and made plans to carry both blends. Then I pulled up price quotes for metal tea canisters and my sales projections, and started working up cost estimates. The landline rang. Figuring Fresca and Tracy were preoccupied with canine care, I picked it up myself.

Moments later, I walked down to the basement slowly, the caller's message burning in my gut.

Nick frowned at the interruption, then shifted to a hard smile of expectation. I was ten again, sent to summon him, dinner cooling on the table, my father waiting. Little sister invading big brother's den.

But this was as much my den as his. And the message I relayed far more serious, the consequences of obeying and disobeying equally harsh.

Like the wolves he studies, Nick is strong and sure of himself. But for a moment, for a flash of an instant, he was neither. And then, like the wolf, master of its domain, so swift that the animal seems like a figment of an overwrought imagination, the fear vanished.

“A few questions, she said. I'm sure it's no big deal.” My attempt at reassurance fooled neither of us.

He thanked me and picked up his coat by the collar, flinging it over one shoulder. I surveyed the transformation that signaled a new life for this old sandstone edifice. Both building and business were part of our family legacy. I'd come home and taken over to preserve it, to rebuild it, to keep the Merc and the Murphys a vital part of Jewel Bay.

It was the Murphys—one in particular—who mattered more to me right now than the Merc. But I'd done all I could. It was up to Nick to decide what to tell Undersheriff Hoover and Detective Caldwell.

“What was that about?” my mother said when I reached the main floor.

But I didn't have the heart to tell her Nick had been summoned for more questioning. “Just somebody trying to reach him. Cops still have his cell.”

I forced myself to focus on the numbers for the drink line, figuring and refiguring. Finally occurred to me to skip the pricy tea and coffee suppliers and call the company that provides the jars and labels for our bottling machine.
Bingo
, as Old Ned would say. Yes, they carried what we needed, and they'd send samples out today. Plus a tin and label order would push us to the next level of discounts for all our orders.

Nothing like the sound of discounts on the horizon.

We were getting closer to a new product line. Closer to making the Merc a player in the regional foods market, beyond the doors of our little shop.

Big dreams can bring big headaches, but we'd be ready.
Bring it on
.

*   *   *

R
ecruiting a tea shop to town had not been my idea, but with Mimi focused on Zayda and the chamber president under the weather, chatting up the next prospect fell to me.

I'd begun to sense a theme.

About my age and likewise bundled in boots, tights, and layers, Kendra Cox bubbled about the food biz. Ray Ramirez of Ray's Bayside Grill, aka the Grillie, ushered us into a booth, along with the real estate agent who'd showed Kendra spaces suitable for a fun and funky tea shop. What a kick it would be to bring another energetic, creative young business owner to town. She'd worked in a SavClub deli for a year, giving her experience in mid-level production and packaged foods—and us something else in common.

But while she loved baking in a casual-chic French bakery and café in Spokane, she had an urge to run her own shop, and the food and atmosphere we had in mind suited her.

The three of us chatted about decor, marketing ideas, and food, food, food.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” she said when the real estate agent headed to the restroom. “What do you do for fun here? The population seems to skew older, with all the retirees, and that's good for business. They have more disposable income, and eat out more. But what about having a life?”

I'd never thought of Jewel Bay that way. “There's plenty of young people here, single and with families. My brother and sister. Tracy, whom you met. Heck, even Ray's young by some standards.”

Ray cackled as he set our Reubens with beer-soaked sauerkraut and fries on the table, the tail of his scorpion tattoo peeking out from the open collar of his chef's jacket. The agent slid in beside me, and talk turned back to food and business.

“I'm not convinced I can do enough business to make it through the winter,” Kendra said.

“It's a challenge,” I admitted, “to figure out how to scale up for summer and down for winter, while treating your staff fairly. Things change every day. But that's true in any business, anywhere. Hey, Ray, got a minute?”

Ray pulled up a chair and answered Kendra's questions. His cooks handle breakfast and lunch, while he takes charge of the stove for dinner. Today, he was filling in for the front-of-house manager—demonstrating the flexibility required in running your own op.

But his flashing dark eyes and wide smile didn't sway her. I stifled my disappointment in losing a potential kindred spirit.

It takes a certain kind of risk-taker to make it in a seasonal town.

Even a jewel like this one.

W
e said our good-byes and I'll-get-back-to-yous, but it was clear as the cloudless, cerulean sky above the drowsy village that we were seeing the last of Kendra Cox.

If she didn't feel the vibe, nothing we could do.

As I climbed over the snow berm, a shiny white Cadillac SUV parked in front of Puddle Jumpers and the driver hopped out, his fleece-topped rubber boots smashing through the snow.

“Hey, Larry!” I caught him as he opened the shop door. He stepped aside, giving me no choice but to go in.

Into a grandmother's heaven and a new mother's dream. From the red satin hearts hanging in the zebra-striped doorframe to the piles of red and pink baby caps, heart-splashed onesies, and more Valentine's Day decor than you could shake a heart-print pencil at, Puddle Jumpers was ready for the big day. All year round, Sally stocks the cutest children's clothing and toys in western Montana. Or so I'm told, having no reason to study such things. Yet. But I had kept my promise to buy Landon one of the stick horses with a stuffed
calico head and a Crayola-bright yarn mane, as penance for my part in the chaos that occurred last summer when an imposter chef tried to make a getaway by leading sheriff's deputies on a chase through Sally's shop.

The frost in her pale blue eyes said she hadn't forgiven me.

“The distributor is expediting a new copy of the DVD. They promise delivery tomorrow,” I told Larry.

“Meaning you'll be lucky to get it by Thursday. If they can manage to send the right one this time.” Sally crossed her arms, the V-neck of her navy knit tunic revealing a white lace-trimmed top beneath. She'd obviously heard about the snafu.

I forced a pleasant expression, remembering Fresca's caution.

Some people make it hard to be nice.

“Thanks, Erin. I'm sure they'll make it right.” Larry turned to Sally. “You look great today.”

The polar ice melted. Larry was obviously a better person than I.

I angled across the street to Red's, hoping to jog J.D.'s memory about Friday night. A long shot, that a bartender might remember what one patron said to another days ago.

Behind the bar, Old Ned polished glasses, a clean white apron around his middle. His spark had brightened since his grandson came to town, right after Christmas. On one giant TV screen, race cars screamed around a track. On the other, women in bikinis played beach volleyball. The sole customer nursed a whiskey-colored drink, gaze darting between the two screens.

“Hey, girlie.” Ned's customary greeting. “How's tricks?”

I slid onto a barstool, its unripped upholstery another sign of the building's new ownership, though the business itself still belonged to the Redaways. Impossible to think of this ancient watering hole in anyone else's hands.

“Good. J.D. around? Got a question for him.”

“He'll be in later. He had to meet a guy out at—at his cabin.” Ned unscrewed the cap on a bottle of Pellegrino and poured me a glass, a sure sign he wanted to talk. “You left a good thing in the city to come back to the family business. How'd you know that was what you wanted to do?”

The bubbles tickled my nose and throat. “I didn't, at first. Fresca had been dropping hints for a while, but I loved my job and I loved Seattle. But bit by bit, the stars lined up and pointed home.”

The logjam above me on the corporate ladder. The guys who chose their careers over me. The friend who died and left me her cat. The landlord who threatened eviction over the lease prohibiting pets. One too many dark gray days.

He grunted. “Boy's got something on his mind he ain't telling me.”

I reached across the bar and touched Ned's beefy paw. “You're worried that J.D.'s having second thoughts about the move. I don't think you need to be concerned. But I'll talk to him, if you want.”

He reached for a clean towel, an excuse to hide his damp eyes. “I always say, you Murphy girls make this town what it is.”

If there hadn't been a bar between us, I'd have kissed him.

*   *   *

N
ick walked in the Merc's rear door as I walked in the front, and we met by the coat hooks in the back hall.

“From Kim.” He bit off the words and thrust the white Festival notebook at me.

Old Ned had cheered me out of my bad mood. What would fix Nick's?

Nick disappeared into the basement. I headed next door.

Wendy angled a pan of cookies to give me a better view. Cookies shaped like Oscars and painted with scenes from movies. “For the contest at Cookie Con.”

“Wow. You are a shoo-in.”

She beamed and took my order.

Loot in hand, I trod down to Nick's lair. He sprawled in his chair, legs outstretched, arms and ankles crossed, his boots dripping melted snow on the rag rug.

His posture said, “Leave me alone,” but I pushed my little-sister advantage. “Milk, sugar, and caffeine. The trifecta of comfort food.”

He grunted and warmed his hands on the paper cup.

“Kim and Ike leaning on you?”

After a long moment and a tentative sip, he spoke. “They wanted to know more about the will, and whether I knew about it. I didn't. But there's no way I can prove that.”

“Don't blame Kim. She takes her job seriously.”

He jerked his head up and glared at me. “So do I and I don't care to have my commitment to it questioned.”

I leaned against the labeling machine. “Nick, I know you weren't in the Jewel Saturday. Sounds like Kim knows it, too. They're talking to everyone who might have seen you, to Christine's neighbors, anyone who—”

He stood abruptly, cup in hand. “I need to check a report of an elk kill by Lake Kokanee.” He reached back and snatched up the bag of cookies.

We're not kids anymore, Nick
, I thought, watching him bound up the steps two at a time.
You can't hide in the woods until dinner and hope your mother's spaghetti makes all the bad things disappear
.

*   *   *

“T
hanks, Kathy. Back before five, promise.”

I tugged my stocking cap low, fired up Kathy Jensen's silver Honda, and followed Nick's green Jeep Cherokee out of the village. He did not turn north on the highway toward Lake Kokanee.

No. He drove south to Cutoff, then east. Toward Christine's.

Why, Nick, why?

The unfamiliar car sped up too easily and I took my foot off the accelerator, swallowing the burst of fire in my chest. My knee struck the steering wheel and I winced, groping for the lever that would slide the seat back. Kept my eyes steeled on the road.

And why can't you tell me?

Mid-aft, mid-Feb, our highways don't get much traffic. I fell back, terrified that he'd recognize the borrowed car.

“Criminy.” I'd left too much distance—he'd vanished. The road looked bare and dry, but where it winds above the river, mist can form black ice, even midday. I mentally rubbed my lucky stars and eased the Honda forward.

As I rounded the big curve by the Old Steel Bridge, I spotted taillights. Prayed Nick was too focused on his own plans to recognize me in his rearview mirror. Hoped the car ahead was Nick's.

Yes
.

I kept that distance, my breath short and shallow, for another mile. The Jeep slowed as we neared Mountain View Road, in front of the church. “What are you up to?” I said out loud. If he turned, and I followed, he'd see me for sure.

He turned. I slowed, debating. An oncoming red Chevy pickup turned in front of me without signaling—a stupid driving trick that normally gets me boiling. Not this time.

Our unholy caravan, the unsuspecting truck driver my hero and shield, paraded past the church and cottage. The truck was hard to see around from my low seat. I leaned forward, peering through the fine mist of snow. The silver dragonfly pendant looped over the rearview mirror thwacked my forehead.

“Oww.” I slowed involuntarily, hand to my hairline. Glanced in the mirror. No blood. Glanced back at the road. The truck had zoomed way ahead and I hoped hoped hoped that in my split-second distraction, I hadn't lost Nick. I edged across the center line—or my estimate of it,
buried beneath hard-packed snow, and sighed in relief. The Jeep still led the way.

After another mile, the truck turned off. “Son of a buzzard.” I dropped back and hunched low in the seat.

The road grew narrower, the ruts deeper. My shoulders tensed. I blasted the heater on full but my fingers still felt like frozen sausages. And if my jaw hadn't been clenched, my teeth would have rattled like a snake.

The dark green Jeep blended in with the trees as we wound past a dozen icy, rutted roads. No other traffic met us. Not even the mail carrier ventures out this way, the roads officially private, me officially trespassing. If I got too close, he'd spot me. But if I lost him, I'd never find him.

Not sure which was worse.

The rear wheels slipped as we rounded the corner near Phyl and Jo's. Maybe he'd think that's where I was going. If he even noticed the car behind him.

Not far beyond their place, the road forks. I muttered, peering over the dash to spot the freshest tire tracks.

The left fork. The end of the road for me—I didn't dare follow. Not in a borrowed car with front-wheel drive and without studded tires. I pulled into the wide spot at the end of the road, where swimmers and kayakers park. Rainbow Lake is small, just up from a pond. Shallow and warm in the summer, it rarely freezes over. But this was a rare winter.

I climbed out and picked my way over icy ruts to the water's edge. Along the shoreline, frozen cattails stood like wary sentinels.

Could I follow Nick on foot? I stretched one boot forward, testing the ice. It felt solid. But I suspected he'd taken an old logging road to the far side of the lake, where a few cabins stood on land leased from the state. Too far for me to go on foot, on ice.

A creaky branch broke the silence. I shielded my eyes, peering across the frozen water. A raven made slow, swooping circles above the far shore.

Why, Nick? Why?

I wrapped my arms around myself, finding no comfort.

Back in the Honda, I fed the engine gas. The rear wheels spun and went nowhere. I closed my eyes, conjuring up lessons from driver's ed. It had nearly been that long since I'd driven a front-wheel car in snow.
Backward, forward, rock it, slowly—sloooowly
.

Nothing.

Again. Twice more. Finally, the tires started to catch. I tossed a prayer to the goddesses who watch over snoopy little sisters and depressed the accelerator.

Whoosh
. With a spit and sputter of frozen mud and snow loud enough to hear with the windows shut tight, the car rose and fell and shot out of its ruts, bouncing with a heavy metal thud. I braked quickly but carefully, to avoid the big spruce behind me.

And got the heck out of there.

I drove north, breathing deeply, shaking my head to clear the mental fog from my close call. Slowed at the sight of a woman crossing the road on foot. A stocky woman about my height in a bulky black coat and a green-and-orange knit hat, a multicolored pom-pom on top.

Phyl, cradling a critter that did not want to be held. I crept closer. A bony claw-foot poked out between her arms, and half a dozen reddish-brown feathers floated up and drifted off.

I rolled down the passenger-side window. The chicken's head popped up, her eyes dark and angry, and she let out a string of clucks.

“
Fowl
-mouthed thing,” I said.

“She tried to cross the road,” Phyl replied, and we both half died from laughing. Phyl hopped in the car. At the garden gate, she released the hen to the company of her friends and we clomped inside.

“What brings you out this way?” Jo put a plate of Scottish shortbread cookies on the table.

I warmed my hands on a cup of wild herb tea. No cover story in my pocket, and none sprouted to mind. We'd been so busy laughing on the short drive in that I hadn't thought to invent one.

But apparently the color on my cheeks wasn't all from the cold, and revealed me. An old boss of mine at SavClub had taken EST training in the early 1980s and often spoke of “enrolling” others to get them to help you solve a problem.

I made a quick decision. “You don't get into town much in the winter—”

“Or in summer,” Jo said. “We let town come to us.”

“But there's talk. Unpleasant talk. Iggy left almost everything to Christine, who left most of it to Nick. And there are people—some carrying badges—who think that smells funny. They—Nick and Christine—were engaged a while back, until she broke it off. But they were giving it another go.”

Phyl and Jo watched me in silence, expressions somber.

“It makes no sense to think he killed her. He loved her. He didn't know about the money, and he wouldn't have cared anyway. And he just wouldn't do that.” A giant balloon of anxiety seemed to fill my chest and choke off my oxygen supply. The women's faces gave away nothing. “What worries me is . . . when I realized something was wrong at Christine's, I called him to find out where she kept her spare key. He said he was in the Jewel, checking on wolves. There's no way to confirm that—it was snowing like crazy and his tracks would have filled in before nightfall. But you saw him down here Saturday morning. Miles from the Jewel.”

I paused, my breath ragged. “And he's down here again today, out at Rainbow Lake. Which is not where he said he was going when he left the shop.”

“So you followed him,” Phyl said. “Wondered why you had Kathy's car.”

“It's one thing to not tell me the truth. But it's another
to lie to law enforcement. How can he not know the trouble that could cause?” Phyl and Jo make a habit of respecting privacy. If you've got a secret you really need to keep, but you really want to get it off your chest, tell one of them. They might tell each other, but beyond that, only the goats and chickens would ever catch wind.