Butter Off Dead (18 page)

I stared, openmouthed, unaware Sally had any connection to the Beckman Timber Company. Long gone, it once owned thousands of acres of western Montana forest, two or three mills, and a plant across the lake that made railroad ties. The timberlands were sold off ages ago, for residential development or to other timber companies.

“Sally's mother and aunt split the fortune. It's an old story—one prospered, the other gambled. Actually, it was Sally's father, Bing Marler, who lost most of the money, in one get-richer scheme after another. Or so I understand. I never knew the man. He abandoned his wife and children when Sally was twelve or thirteen, her brother a year or two older.”

“That must have been forty years ago,” Chiara said, careful to keep the conversation to the female end of the table. “And she's still livid.”

“Runs in the family. Her mother died angry, and broken. Sally's brother, also called Bing, had drug problems. Froze to death under a highway bridge in Denver. I do remember that. Tom and I had just moved back to Montana. Nick was a baby.”

“Okay, so she's had a rough life, but why such a poor-mouth?” I took another bite.

“Habit, most likely. Her grandfather diversified nicely, and his grandchildren inherited commercial property all over western Montana. I'm sure Sally doesn't need to work. Her husband left when Sage was little—another long, sad story. There were no places to buy cute things for children around here, so she opened her own shop. I know it's hard to tell sometimes, but she does love the village.”

So much for the idea that everyone knows everything about everyone in a small town. Sally was twenty-plus years older than I, her daughter a few years younger. Our
families had never been close. There was no reason I should have known her family history, ancient or modern. Except that I felt like I should. Because I'd judged Sally based on my perceptions, and not on reality.

“Noni, may I be excused?”

Landon's question broke into my wonderings. I was surprised to see that the menfolk had already cleaned their plates.

“Dessert?” Fresca mouthed to Chiara, who mouthed back “no.” They aren't the sugar police, but they do try to watch Landon's treats. Good idea, since his aunt hands out handmade truffles and marshmallows like they're, well, candy.

At my mother's nod, Landon bounced up and Nick began clearing the table. “I'll take him home,” Jason told Chiara. “You take your girl-time.”

“We need to talk,” I said. “About the website. I have ideas.” They all burst out laughing and my cheeks got hot. “I'm a businesswoman. I'm supposed to have ideas.”

“And we love you for it, little sister,” Chiara said. “I'll start coffee.”

Nick put on his coat and I reached up to kiss him. “Think about it overnight, and we can go see Ike in the morning.”

The look on his face signaled that Fresca was listening.

“What was that about?” she said the moment we were alone.

“The chop,” I said, telling her half the truth. It was gone. Good. Let him be responsible for it. And for figuring out how to explain to the sheriff why he withheld alibi evidence and stole from a crime scene.

In the kitchen, decaf brewed, its steam perfuming the air. I washed the glasses and pots and pans while Chiara dried.

“The success of Sally's children's shop is ironic, considering what a mess her own family is,” she said.

“Some kind of feud with her daughter? There's a grandbaby, right?” I rinsed out the spaghetti pot.

Fresca set out mugs, cream, and spoons—and a jar of her new spice blend. “Sage got pregnant in high school and kept the baby, a boy. The father refused to accept any responsibility. To her credit, she finished school and started college. Living in a house Sally bought her, but still, not an easy road.”

And without a program like the one Sally championed. I dried my hands while Fresca poured, and we carried our mugs to the living room.

“But Sage is married. She has a baby girl,” I said, tucking one foot under me in the wing-back chair. The picture I'd seen on Facebook. “Not a young boy.”

“Such a shame. When the little guy was three or four, he developed one of those nasty brain tumors children sometimes get. Glioblastoma. Fatal.”

“Criminy. No wonder Sally is . . .”
No judging, Erin
. My biggest fault. I felt a blow to my chest as if I'd been kicked by a horse, and it wasn't even my family. “So Sage finished college, got married, had another baby?”

Fresca rubbed her throat. “She's a preschool teacher. Sally dislikes the husband, but I think she distrusts men on principle. Hard to blame her.”

The Murphy girls sat in rare silence, sipping decaf Cowboy Roast with pumpkin pie spices. In the house my grandparents built, where my parents had raised us. The Orchard and the Merc weren't what held us together, but our love for those shared spaces certainly helped.

My sister leaned down to pet the dog, dark hair swinging forward over the face so like my own. Next to her on the couch, my mother sipped her coffee and met my gaze. Love and loyalty radiated from every bone in her body, and every corner, every nook and cranny in this house.

You're a lucky girl, Erin Murphy. Don't you forget it.

I rubbed my stars, and prayed that I never would.

T
iny, furious flakes eddied in my headlights as I turned off the highway. The dashboard thermometer read ten above. Our plow driver—not Jack Frost, thanks be—had cleared the long driveway on Tuesday, but you couldn't tell. A good six inches of snow had fallen in the last twenty-four hours, and by the looks of things, that count would double overnight.

Which meant a slippery trek down the hill to check the Big House, aka Bob and Liz Pinsky's place.

I crept down the drive. You'd think the deer would be home in bed, but no. The start of a storm, especially right after darkfall, draws them like mice draw cats.

I circled through the driveway. A bulb had gone out on the front porch. I hit the garage door clicker—making tracks is another trick to making the place look occupied.

“Dang it.” Too cold. I climbed out and trudged to the stuck door, easing it up the metal rails. Trudged back to my car and drove into the garage.

The key trembled in my hand. Locks and I have never
gotten along, and the cold made it worse. Truth be told, after what happened at Christine's, I had a serious case of the creepies.

Inside, I slipped off my boots and listened. Quiet. Too quiet? And too cold.

One hand gripping the stair rail, phone in the other, I headed downstairs, all senses alert. The lights had gone on as planned and nothing looked out of place. Paused outside the furnace room door. No hum. Nothing.

I turned the knob and stepped inside. Spotted the problem right away. The pilot had blown out. I found the long-handled lighter and relit it, as Bob had showed me. After a long, breathless moment, the flame appeared with a small, satisfying poof, and the big gray box blazed back to life.

And I let out a noisy sound of relief.

Until I remembered the pipes. The heat couldn't have been off long, but I worried anyway. Detoured into a bathroom and tried first one faucet then another. Running water—music to my ears.

Boots in hand, I padded around the house, my heart beating a little faster and louder than normal. All was well. But it's
weird
, walking around an empty house in the dead of winter.

Gad—another one
. Why do so many phrases we use every day evoke death and murder?

I reprogrammed the automatic lights. Replaced the burned-out bulb. Slipped my boots on and shoveled the front walk.

Job done, I perched on the steps and gazed upward. Hard to see the stars through all the snow, but they were there. They are always there. (As my mother says when people grouse about gray skies, it's the clouds that are gray. The sky is always blue.)

I leaned the shovel next to the front door and picked up the old bulb. As if it had flashed back to life, a thought
occurred to me. Back inside, I peeled off my boots and traipsed across the warm hickory floors to the library. Bent my knees and ran my fingers over the spines.

Bingo!
to quote Ned.

The road had gotten slicker in the few minutes I'd been at the Big House. I tucked the Subaru safely into my carport and carried my bag and my treasure into my cozy haven.

And stopped dead in my tracks.

“What the—?” A white feather floated in front of me. They filled the air, like giant snowflakes. A fine white trail led to the bedroom. Pumpkin crouched in the doorway, tail wrapped around her, the picture of innocence.

Except for the feathers on top of her head.

“Did you two pluck a chicken or kill an angel?” Sandburg sat in the middle of my bed, eyes blazing. When he saw the tabby following me, he started hissing.

“Ahhh. Pillow fight.” A deflated down pillow lay on the floor, free of its case and wrung out like a dirty dish rag. I breathed a sigh of relief that the comforter was safe—protected by its cover and an old quilt my Gran had made, tossed on top for extra warmth.

I separated the cats and got out a broom. Quickly realized the folly in that, though the vacuum cleaner didn't do much better.

“Oh, no.” A quarter-sized shard of iridescent blue-green glass lay on the rug. Under the bed lay the remains of a small vase I'd bought at the Chihuly Garden at Seattle Center. Not expensive or irreplaceable—not the work of the one-eyed glass master himself—but a sweet souvenir of my city life.

Totally busted.

After the unplanned cleaning spree, I ran a hot bath, scented with Luci's Lavender Valley bath gel, then pulled on my warmest flannel jammies and fuzzy socks. Settled into my favorite chair with a bowl of vanilla ice cream swimming in warm chocolate-Cabernet sauce. I'd left
Pumpkin in the bedroom, but instead of climbing into my lap, Sandburg eyed me from a distance. Apparently I had betrayed him, by tolerating the interloper.

“We'll find her another home, I promise. But we're nice to guests, remember?”

I clicked on my iPad and scrolled through e-mail. Clicked open a note from Kendra, the tea shop prospect, saying she had “decided to pursue other options.” In other words, we'd given her a great idea to take to a bigger, hipper town. No surprise. But what spiked my Jell-O was taking the chicken's way out of telling us. I hit reply, thanked her for her interest, and wished her well, then sent a note to my co-conspirators, suggesting they follow up on the remaining leads.

I can be a chicken, too.

Pulled up the Spreadsheet of Suspicion. Added the break-in, and the alibi info for Nick and Sally.

Which reminded me of the crochet lady. I texted Chiara for her contact info. She texted back. I started an e-mail, then decided that a good investigator should not hide behind technology and it wasn't too late to call Crochet Lady.

After reminding her who I was and complimenting her on the cute hats, I got down to business. “Hey, it's hard to imagine summer when it's this cold, but your hats got me thinking. We'll need part-time help May to September, two or three days a week. I hear you're teaching at Dragonfly, and that's great, but if you're available, I'd love to hire you.”

“Oh, pooh. Wish I could, but I've already told Sally Grimes I'd work weekends for her. And with the teaching, that's plenty. I'm so sorry.”

Sally would try to convince her she'd sell more crocheted hats at Puddle Jumpers than at Snowberry. Probably true, but you can't beat Landon for advertisement. “Fun store. You'll have a great time.”

“I subbed for her last Saturday. Helped her open, then
she had an event in Pondera, so I ran the shop myself the rest of the day. Quiet, but that's good when you're getting started.”

“If anything changes, let me know. Employees get free truffles.” That got a laugh. Nice lady. I wondered if she needed a cat.

In the bedroom, Pumpkin seemed content. At least she hadn't eaten any more pillows. Back in the living room, I poured a glass of Cabernet and picked up the purloined book.

C.M. Russell had been an unlikely looking artist—wild of eye and hair, in hat and high-heeled riding boots, wearing a white shirt with a red sash given to him by the Métis people. His wealthy Saint Louis manufacturing family had sent the teenage Charlie west in 1880, in hopes of taming him and derailing his artistic ambitions.

No such luck—luckily for us. As a young cowhand, he worked clay in his pockets. Left the open range as it was vanishing, to paint the land and life he loved. We make artists work awfully hard to prove their passion and talent. A fortunate few make a living at it. CMR, as people still call him, did—though never easily, and his wife Nancy was responsible for much of his commercial success.

What would they think of the prices his pieces—oils, watercolors, bronzes, even illustrated letters and Christmas cards—brought now? He'd think people had gone plumb loco. She'd think people had come to their senses.

I flipped through the color plates. Lotsa ridin' and ropin,' cowboys and Indians, camp scenes. Stunning vistas in colors folks who've never been out West can't imagine truly exist. They do, especially in the wide-open central Montana plains, where weird and magical sights are everywhere.

In high school, our Montana history class state tour had stopped at the Russell Museum in Great Falls, including the artist's home and cabin studio. Set up as though he'd stepped out for a smoke, an unfinished canvas on an easel and tubes of paint open on a wooden bench, the cabin held
a treasure trove of artifacts CMR used as references: guns and arrows, beaded moccasins, sun-bleached skulls, a buffalo robe, and a mounted buffalo head as massive as the one in the Jewel Inn. (The one that I'd refused to sit by when we were kids and went out to breakfast, convinced that its huge golden-brown eyes were following me.)

Much as I love e-mail, wouldn't it be a thrill to receive a letter illustrated by hand? Addressed “Friend Erin,” in his customary style, and signed “CMR,” with a pen-and-ink drawing of a buffalo skull similar to the one on our license plates.

I sipped my wine, imagining it a cowboy's whiskey.

The last chapters covered Russell's home life and his summers at Bull Head Lodge on Lake McDonald, in Glacier Park. The cabin long gone, the black-and-white pictures conveyed colorful times. When the railroad was new. The Park was new. The stone and timber Lake McDonald Lodge, built by the legendary Northwest architect Kirtland Cutter, was new. CMR carved pictographs in the dining room hearth—destroyed fifty years later in the floods of 1964 that old-timers still talk about.

An epic time.

The pictures of the Russell home in Great Falls matched my teenage recollection: a simple two-story house typical of the early twentieth-century West. No gingerbread, no extravagance. Minimally comfortable by modern standards, with staunchly upright chairs and horsehair couches. No doubt modest compared to his upbringing, but an improvement over bunkhouses and camps. Or maybe not—CMR seemed to have genuinely loved the life of a working cowboy.

Wait. Go back
. A photo of the sitting room caught my eye. On the wall, a large black-and-gold tapestry of a pair of cranes.

Where had I seen it before? Not on my high school tour.

And then I remembered: in the church, hanging on the wall opposite the altar, near the rear entry we'd used. Eyes
closed, I pictured Zayda huddled beneath it and Nick arguing with a deputy who refused to let him near Christine.

I laid the book aside. Pacing isn't easy in cramped quarters. Behind the door to the bedroom addition, Pumpkin yowled for early release.

The same piece? A copy? Or just similar—tough to compare a black-and-white photo to a tapestry glimpsed briefly. Nick had said the chop was an Asian piece from Iggy's family. Was the tapestry one, too—and had it also come from the Russell home? He'd said she regretted selling another piece. To whom? Had the buyer come back for more?

Well, the tapestry was safe. But it gave me a clue: What else in Iggy's collection might have lured a killer and a thief?

My pacing took me past the microwave, green numbers telling me it was later than I'd thought. So much for my plan to spend the evening browsing for poems and essays the Speech and Drama Club could dramatize, but I did remember to dig out the essay on pie.

Sandburg jumped off the couch where he'd been guarding the living room from invaders and rubbed against my leg. “I'm not sure you deserve treats,” I said. “I liked that pillow.” Call me a softie, but I tipped a few into his bowl anyway, then did the same for Pumpkin.

“Poor little girl. First you lose your person, then you have to spend all day with that old meanie, and it's winter and you can't go outside. Promise, we'll find you a new owner. This week.” It doesn't matter what you say to a cat, as long as you use the right tone.

In the living room, my phone rang. I opened the door and Pumpkin raced past me. “Whoa, girl. Didn't know you had a high gear.”

“Sorry to call so late.” Adam sounded both tired and keyed-up, a little anxious. “Bunch of us walked downtown for dinner and a beer. Big storm blew in while we were eating and when we came out, we pushed stuck cars for an hour. We were crossing Higgins when a Suburban
slammed into a Prius. One of the guys is an EMT and we helped until the ambulance came.”

“Ohmygosh. Is everybody okay?”

“Doubtful.” His voice shook. “It's a stinking mess down here. I-90's closed.”

I consider myself an independent woman. I do fine on my own. But an avalanche of emotion swept down off the hillside and nearly knocked me off my feet. Metaphorically speaking.

My sister was snug at home with her husband and her son. But I heard her anyway:
It's called love, little sister. And you've got it bad
.

“Yikes. Will class be canceled? Can you get home safely?” I settled onto a barstool.

“We're all in the same hotel, teachers and students, so class is on.” He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a bark. “Besides, we're all wilderness geeks with rigs full of gear. If we need to go anywhere, we've got snowshoes and skis, avalanche beacons, and a week's worth of protein bars.”

He'd be in heaven, kicking and gliding down the trail beside the Clark Fork River on his touring skis.

“Class ends noon Friday,” he continued. “Long as I can get out of Missoula, I can get home to you. We can catch a movie.”

Was it my imagination, or did his voice hold the same longing as my heart?

I filled him in on the latest developments for the Film Festival. I hesitated before sharing my suspicions about the burglary and the artwork—too vague. Too much like I was thick in the middle of danger, yet again.

Silence on the end of the line when I finished sharing my speculations. He'd sworn he didn't mind my investigating. Encouraged me to use my talents. Had I just given him a chance to change his mind?

“Erin, this is getting scary. Somebody wants something pretty bad. Don't you think—”

“That I should leave this to the professionals? That I don't know how to take care of myself?” Had I misread him that badly?