Butter Off Dead (17 page)

A
mini run hit the Merc mid-afternoon.

“Storm coming?” I asked Tracy, both of us nearly breathless after a surge of customers wiped us out of eggs, cheese, and meat. Not to mention we'd gotten requests for twice as many freshly butchered chickens as our poultry supplier had delivered.

She rolled her eyes and blew out a breath. “They're saying another six inches of snow tonight, blustery winds, gusts up to forty miles an hour. Ten below.”

I thanked my stars for good insulation and a gas fireplace. Most days, being caretaker requires little of me, but I'd have to check the Pinskys' house tonight. “The winter that won't quit.”

But the late afternoon trade we owed to Valentine's Day. Some poor woman out there hoping for a diamond bracelet might be disappointed with a pasta sampler or a pound of organic Montana popcorn and a trio of seasonings. Not my fault. I tried mightily to steer all the men toward wine and chocolates, or suggest adding wild rose bath gel to
their purchases, but even my persuasive powers have their limits.

“Erin, a moment?”

Nick watched me intently, the skin around his eyes dark and pinched. Look up
anguish
and
grief
in the dictionary and you'd see my brother's face at that moment.

“Go. I got this.” Voice low, Tracy angled her head toward the sole customer, a woman browsing the pastas and sauces.

In the back hall, Nick handed me a compact notebook with a black binding and thick, dark green cardboard covers. It felt like the weight of a life.

“Go on,” he said. “I'll wait.” He sank onto my office steps, one knee bent, one long leg outstretched.

Silently, I carried his logbook upstairs. Did I really want to know Nick's secrets?

I steadied myself and opened the field notes. On the upper left of each page, he'd written “N. Murphy” and the year in clear block printing. Saturday's entry, dates and times noted in the left margin, began with the location, underlined: “Three-eighths mile west of Rainbow Lake Road and Redaway Lane, Timberlake County, Montana.” I heard myself gasp.

“Presence of young adult male and female gray wolf confirmed by tracking and visual observation. Digital photos taken, images 00204—224. Pre-denning activity observed. Will attempt to locate tracks safely away from suspected den site for possible impressions, and obtain sign for further analysis.” Sign, aka poop. The notes gave GPS coordinates and a detailed description of each wolf, including estimated size, and its travels.

I flipped back to earlier entries. For ten days, he'd been tracking, observing, searching for the den site. Two entries stood out: “Informant/observer reports howling potentially indicative of mating, midnight to two a.m. Advised him to record.” And the next: “Listened to informant's recording; copied to my phone. Confirmed as suspected.”

Biologist speak, but I knew what it meant. Following a tip from a resident, Nick had discovered a previously unknown wolf pair near Rainbow Lake, hot for each other and setting up house. New in the neighborhood, after leaving an established pack. Critical as it is to confirm and document all packs, it's equally critical to not alarm the public or announce a discovery prematurely. While most people have a healthy respect for the majestic carnivore, Jack Frost was not alone in his venom, and the wolves' presence so close by could trigger itchy fingers.

Over and over, I had asked myself why my brother would lie. Now I knew.

Nick always insists that humans have little to fear from wolves, but they do attack livestock and wild game. I wasn't sure whether hunting and trapping were in season, but no matter: Poachers driven by irrational fears could wipe out a pack before it became established. Or kill a pregnant female, or orphan helpless pups.

I pored back over the notes. The informant/observer was not named or otherwise identified. No contact information. Nick was protecting someone.

And I knew who. Ned Redaway lives along the river close to town, but he owns a large parcel out that direction—forty acres and a homestead-era cabin. Perfect for a grandson in his mid-twenties, who wouldn't mind the isolation. Might even appreciate it, after all the hub and bub of tending bar.

That isolation explained why the young wolves' appearance hadn't sparked rumors—and might protect them. But wasn't Nick required to report the sightings at some point?

The notes went on to say “Confirmed informant has no domestic animals or livestock, and advised on avoiding contact. Nearest year-round residence roughly one mile from suspected den site.”

I closed the logbook and held it in my lap. Had Nick contacted the informant in person on Saturday, he would
have a human witness. But the notes didn't indicate any conversation—I imagined J.D. had worked late Friday, slept in, and spent all his waking hours Saturday in the village.

Nick sat up quickly at the sound of my feet on the creaky floorboards.

“You have to share this, Nick. It's your alibi.”

“I won't put the wolves in danger, Erin. Who's going to speak for them, if not me?”

“You can't speak for anyone from a jail cell.”

Despite my harsh tone, he was unconvinced. “They'll make it public. They'll have to. The wolves will be sitting ducks.”

I resisted smiling at the metaphor. “They must have a procedure for keeping an investigation confidential. Once they see this evidence”—I held up the logbook—“and talk to J.D., they'll understand you're innocent.”

He glanced up sharply. “I promised him anonymity.”

“Before the wolves he spotted became your alibi for murder.” But even then, would the nightmare end? Ike Hoover might swear from the top of Mount Aeneas that Nick was no longer a suspect, but people would demand to know why. The whispers would continue until the prison doors clanged shut on the real killer.

Who that might be, I had no idea.

And Christine would still be dead.

“Stay.” I headed out front. “Put that down and no one will get hurt,” I told Tracy, who'd been about to empty the coffee. She held up her hands in mock surrender. I sprinkled Fresca's spice mix into two mugs and poured hot coffee. “Call me if you need help closing up.”

The front door chimed and in walked Dylan Washington, dragging an orange dolly. Its hard black wheels left two narrow white trails of snow.

“The cookbooks,” I said. “I completely forgot.”

“No worries.” But his face said otherwise.

I led the way downstairs and Nick carried the first load
up. Dylan bent for a box and I stopped him. “How's Zayda? She back at school yet?”

He stared into space, eyes hooded, lips thin. “She came back today. She's okay, I guess, but . . .” He met my gaze. “People are butt-heads sometimes, you know? Whispering, staring at her. Pretending she has a gun. One girl grabbed her stomach and fell down, acting like she was shot.”

“People are butt-heads,” I agreed.

“She wouldn't hurt anybody.” He'd recovered his confidence, or at least, his ability to fake it. “Zayda admired Christine. She was excited about the Film Festival. She's got plans. The big film schools are interested in her.”

“Dylan, it would help me a lot, to deal with things, you know”—let him think I meant my own emotions, not that I was poking around—“to know why she went out there early.”

“She was meeting you. If she was early, she was just excited.”

I didn't buy that, but didn't let on. “Did she argue with Christine? We know she went inside—she lost her eyebrow stud—so I'm puzzled why she decided to wait for me outside.”

“She—she wasn't thinking.” The words came slowly at first, then burst out as his certainty faded. He licked his lips, reminding me of Pumpkin as she gauged her chances of sneaking past Sandburg and beating him to the ottoman. He grabbed another box and started up the stairs. “Gotta get these books across the street before the snow starts.”

Nick flattened himself against the sandstone wall as Dylan brushed by. He gave me a questioning look and hoisted a box. I shrugged and picked up another carton, the logbook in my sweater pocket. “We're not done talking, brother.”

“I gotta go, Erin. Soon as we get these boxes outta here. Mom made me promise to stop in for dinner, and you know that means showing up early for a drink and a nibble before the main event.”

When Fresca frets, she cooks.

“Then let's make it a family affair,” I said.

*   *   *

“E
xplain again why you took it,” Fresca said. She gestured toward the gray-veined white chop on the coffee table next to her new martini glass—the one with grass green and royal blue rods twisted together to form the stem. She'd been speechless at the gift—a rare blip for a Murphy girl—and promptly mixed lemon drop martinis. After the other night, I was surprised she didn't pour mine into a plastic cup.

Nick rubbed the magic spot between Pepé's ears, her eyes closed in canine ecstasy. “I told you. It should have been in the church, where there was a security system. So when I saw it in the cottage, I took it for safekeeping.”

I wondered. Was this the reason for insisting we meet out there this morning? Had my presence to clean out the place been a cover, so he could search for this?

“I never knew Iggy had any Asian artifacts,” Fresca said. “She was famous for loving Western art.”

“It belonged to the family. I don't know the history, but Christine said Iggy had let herself be talked into selling one family piece and regretted it, so I took it.” He reached for the relic. Unhappy that he'd stopped petting her, Pepé nosed his hand. “Sorry, girl.”

My mother glowered. “That was a stupendously, ridiculously, utterly and completely idiotic thing to do.”

He flushed. “It made sense at the time.”

“Why was it in the house?” I said. “You think that whoever shot her was looking for it?”

“Who got shot?” Landon bounced into the room.

“Uh, nobody,” I said. “We were talking about this. It's called a chop. Chinese scholars used them to sign their work.”

“'Cause if somebody got shot, sic Hank the Cowdog
on 'em.” Head of ranch security, and one of Landon's heroes.

“Because,” Nick said, “she didn't want visitors to know she had it. Or a visitor in particular. But who?”

Had Zayda been searching for it? Or had the shooter? Who may or may not have been the burglar.

“Noni, see my dinosaur hat? It's got armored plates like stegosaurs.” Landon climbed over Pepé to show my mother his olive green hat, a spine of bright blue fins running front to back.

“Ever since that trip to the Museum of the Rockies, he can't stop talking dinosaurs.” Chiara dropped onto the couch next to Fresca and poured herself a martini. “So when the crochet lady brought this in, he had to have it. At this rate, we won't sell any hats. I'll buy them all myself instead.”

“Crochet lady?” I said. “The woman who teaches at Dragonfly? Is she working at Puddle Jumpers, too? I thought you made the hat.” Double-check Sally's alibi, like a real investigator.

“I made the turtle hat, in class. She made this one. She fills in all over town.” Chiara took a sip. “Killer drink.”

As one, the Murphy girls' eyes strayed to Nick, who was listening intently to Landon's report on the dinosaurs that once roamed Montana's plains and didn't seem to have heard her.

Dodged a bullet
, I thought, and cringed.

“Mama,” Landon told his mother as we migrated to the dining room. “I'm going to sit between Uncle and Auntie. Will you be okay sitting by yourself?”

“Thank you, darling. I'll sit next to Noni. And your father will be here shortly.”

Jason arrived in time for salad. “Weeknight family dinner. This is unusual.” He circled the table, exchanging kisses and fist bumps.

“When Nick called to say Erin was coming, I seized
the chance,” Fresca said. “That's the beauty of pasta. Just add more to the pot.”

“I've started a new series of paintings,” my sister said. “Winter whites. Inspired by the snow.”

“Blank canvases? I could paint those.” If she could have reached Nick to smack him, she would have.

“First, I painted a stack of white linens on that cane-bottom chair of Gran's,” she said. In our half-Irish, half-Italian family, Gran and Granda were the Murphys, and Noni and Papi the Contis. All long gone and much missed. “Next, I'm thinking of the white Haviland plates Jason's Nana left us, or that ratty old bear of Landon's. And Erin, your Milky.”

I twirled fettuccine on my fork and smiled. A white-painted cow on wheels Granda made for me. Her teeth hide a drawer, her red leather tongue the pull, and a door in her side opens on a secret cabinet.

“You're getting old, little sister,” Nick said. “Your childhood toys are folk art.”

I stuck out my tongue. “Paint a plate of fettuccine Alfredo. In Pondera today, I saw evergreens planted in a galvanized stock tank partly covered by snow. You're always after interesting patterns and shadows and contrasts. Outside Honeysuckle, the glass gallery. Paint that.”

“Oh, that building of Sally's,” my mother said.

I reached for my Pinot Grigio, my own winter white. “So, how did Sally get all this property? I thought she was half broke.”

“Wherever did you get that idea?” Fresca said.

“She whines about every festival and how much it will cost her. All last summer, she complained that business was terrible, but half the women who came in my shop carried bags from Puddle Jumpers. She's downright nasty about fund-raisers. Never contributes.” Hence my shock at discovering she was the patron saint of the program for teen moms.

My mother glanced at Landon, regaling Nick with tales
of what T. rex ate, prehistoric birds, and other dino trivia. “That's just talk. Sally and her cousins are the heirs to the Beckman Timber Company fortune.”