Butter Off Dead (19 page)

“I didn't say that. But maybe you're not as prepared for this kind of trouble as you think. Maybe you—”

“Maybe three people wouldn't be behind bars if not for me. Maybe Kim and Ike would have solved those other crimes without me, and without anyone else getting hurt.”
Maybe I'm not the woman you think I am. Maybe the girl you crushed on from afar back in college went out into the big bad world and learned a thing or two.

“Maybe we should talk tomorrow,” he said. “When we're not so beat.”

“Adam,” I said, but the phone in my hand had gone silent.

The stool next to mine gave a soft groan as Pumpkin landed on the burgundy leather seat.

“Oh, girl,” I said. “Did I blow it?”

Light glinted off the copper highlights in her green eyes.

From nowhere, a white feather floated into view. It swirled above my wineglass, and danced around the rim. It flirted with diving into the silky red pool, then brushed my fingertips and settled onto the black granite.

Mesmerized, we stared at the feather. “A sign,” I told her. “But of what?”

I
stomped my feet and opened the pine green door to Le Panier, the aromas of caffeine and fresh, yeasty bread warming my toes. While Wendy helped another customer, I drooled on the pastry case, as if there were any doubt what I'd order.

“Double shot,
pain au chocolat
,” I said when it was my turn. “Any interest in a cat? I've got Christine's tabby, and she and my guy don't get along.”

Wendy shot me a look like I'd suggested she chop off a finger, then rammed the coffee holder thingy into place and reached for the milk. Black gold—espresso—dripped into the shot glass.

“Can you ask your staff? She's quite sweet.”

The door flew open and Sally barged in. The bakery was the one place where I'd never heard her complain about the cost of things. We all have our priorities.

“It's been a week and they haven't arrested anyone.” She barked at Wendy as if I weren't there. As if she hadn't been pointing a finger at my own brother. “I don't know
what that Kim Caldwell does all day, up in that office of hers. The office we pay for. And Ike Hoover's no better.”

“Four days, Sally. Four and a half. And I can assure you Kim's been hard at work, interviewing witnesses, gathering forensics reports. Checking alibis.” I was frustrated, too—with people who whine about things and refuse to help change them. Who whine, whine, and never lift a finger. Okay, so Sally has a secret charitable side, but don't stop me on a roll. “And if you don't quit complaining, and suggesting that my brother had the most to gain, I won't tell her what I know about your alibi. Because you hoped to gain a few things from Christine's death, too.”

Though I hadn't worked out exactly what that might be, if not Iggy's money or real estate.

“My—what? I don't need an alibi. I didn't have anything to do with that girl's death.”

“Oh, come on, Sally,” Wendy said. “Everyone in town knows how ticked off you were when Iggy left her estate to Christine. You griped for weeks. Stood right there and threatened to sue her, to her face, for undue—what's it called?”

“Undue influence,” I said. “Taking advantage of someone to get their money.”

“I just wanted . . . That little tramp wormed her way into that old lady's life just to get—” Red splotches welled up on Sally's face and throat, and she sputtered like a tractor on the first day of spring.

“She did no such thing,” Wendy said, matching Sally's indignation. “Christine was more shocked than anyone at her inheritance. She loved Iggy. You thought everything ought to come to you because you're a shirttail relative. You talk big on family but you don't walk the talk.”

Sally had gone as white as bread dough. I helped her sit before she fell down, and drew up another black metal chair.

“You started to say, ‘I just wanted.' What did you want?” I spoke gently.

“Why should I tell you?” She wiped the side of her nose with a knuckle.

“Because the more you complain, the more it looks like you're hiding something.” Sally's mouth fell open and she clawed the front of her sweater. I pushed on. “But I know you were in Pondera at the baby shower when Christine was attacked. Trish Flynn told me.”

She looked as if I'd shot her. “You didn't seriously think I—”

“About as seriously as you think Nick's a killer,” I said. “But talk isn't cheap, Sally. It hurts people. Nick lost the woman he loved, and he's had to defend himself to half the town. Prove every step he took on Saturday, be fingerprinted, turn over his phone and his boots and I don't know what else.” Of course, he hadn't made things easier with his own blackout on the truth.

“You don't know what it's like. You Murphys, you work together, eat together, practically live together.”

My heart nearly stopped. Wendy froze, then came to my rescue. “Sally, are you forgetting the hit-and-run that killed Erin's father? No one ever paid for that, and let me assure you, they suffer for it every day.”

I dug in my blue bag for a packet of tissues. “Thank you,” Sally said, her voice high and wobbly, and blew her nose. Eight-point-oh on the Richter scale, as my sister says of my sneezes.

“You asked what I wanted from Iggy. What I wanted was”—another honk into the tissues—“what she couldn't give me. I wanted my own family back. My parents and my brother. My daughter and my grandchildren, both of them. We were the only family she had left. She should have wanted me to have her things.”

I scooted my chair closer and leaned forward, elbows on my knees.

“Isn't the point of family to help one another pursue our dreams? She knew you're fine. You have a thriving shop,
a lovely home, and most important, your daughter and granddaughter. And the memory of your grandson. Iggy made a life of art, and of helping other artists. She wanted to help Christine fulfill her dreams, giving her a home and financial security. And Christine was planning to continue that legacy.”

“But then she left it all to Nick.”

Who felt the burden. “If there are any special pieces—furniture that was in the family, knickknacks you want, I can talk to him.”

The door opened and two couples dressed for a day of outdoor fun came in. I stood, realizing I'd abandoned a latte somewhere. Wendy handed me a white bag and a hot paper cup. “I made you a fresh one. Scat before she revs up again.”

*   *   *

“I
can see the headlines, now,” I said. “
MURDER
SUSPECT
KIDNAPS
SISTER
,
FEEDS
HER
TO
WOLVES
.”

A smile played at the corner of Nick's mouth, a tiny dimple creasing his cheek. I had a good view of the right side of his face from the passenger seat of his Jeep. To be fair, when he dragged me out to the parking lot behind the Merc, he stopped long enough to grab my boots and snowshoes from my car. And he let me bring my breakfast.

“I want you to see what I've been working on. What I'm protecting.” He turned at Mountain View and a muscle in his jaw twitched and his throat swelled, skin pale under his winter wind-tan, as we drove past the church and cottage. “So you know what's at stake before you decide to blurt out my secrets to Ike Hoover.”

“You don't think Ike can keep the wolf pack confidential? That he won't think it matters?”

His knuckles whitened on the wheel. “I don't know what matters to Ike Hoover.”

The anniversary was approaching, and I wasn't the only
Murphy feeling it. Feeling Ike Hoover's fifteen-year-old failure hanging over us.

We drove south in silence, then east onto Rainbow Lake Road. Past Phyl and Jo's place. Left at the swimming hole, onto a snow-covered logging trail that made me glad I'd stopped when I did Tuesday. Kathy's Honda would have high-centered fifty feet in. Above the road, on a snow-covered ridge, stood a weathered log cabin, smoke rising from its stone chimney, a pickup beside it. I craned my neck to peer past Nick at a hand-painted sign, barely visible above a snow drift:
REDAWAY LANE
.

“Why keep it a secret?” My tone sounded childish, pouty, even to my ears.

“You need to understand what's going on here, Erin.”

“Oh, I understand. I understand that you're more worried about a pair of wolves than you are about yourself. That after everything your mother has been through, including being accused of murder and losing her husband to a killer who's still on the loose, you'd rather be accused yourself than breathe a word about wolves in the neighborhood. You weren't around last summer when the fingers were pointing at her, but let me tell you, it was no romp in the woods. I understand that for all your talk about scientific integrity, you're willing to ignore your obligation under the law—you told me yourself that reporting wolf sightings is mandatory. Why? So you can write a journal article ten people will read, and promote your pet theories about—what do you call it? Trophic cascades and how wolves bring back the willows and warblers? I don't care about trophic cascades, Nick. I care about you.”

The shoulder belt locked against my chest and flung me backward as Nick stomped on the brake. My head bounced off the neck rest and my shin struck a sharp edge beneath the dashboard. I managed to hold on to my latte, but cold coffee trickled down my bare hand.

Nick slammed the Jeep into neutral and turned on me,
blue eyes dark but blazing. Like the bottom of an alpine lake, or the base of a gas flame. Cold fire.

“You don't understand. These wolves haven't done anything except do what they were born to do. To roam and breed and establish new territory. To play their part in the ecosystem. If one part fails, the whole thing fails.
We
fail.
We
suffer. Every species suffers.” He punched out the words. “Jack Frost is harmless compared to some of these—I can't even call them hunters. Real hunters are humane. These people think nothing of taking target practice on a new mother, leaving the pups to starve. They're born blind and deaf, you know, and this is a new pack, with no other females to feed them. These”—he fumbled for a word he was willing to say in front of me—“sons of blockheads think it's fun to wipe out a pack and nail the carcasses to the fence. To set a trap that will kill a dog, strong enough to break a man's leg, and when a wolf trips it, leave him there to die, howling in pain.”

I shivered. State authorities prosecute poachers and slob hunters who kill for the sake of killing, leaving the meat to spoil. And everyone in these parts has heard the ravings—drunken or sober—of the rabid wolf haters. But what Nick described made me want to puke.

“Two more weeks, Erin. That's all I need. When hunting season's over, and the den is established, then I can make my report. Any luck, it will fly under the radar long enough for the pups to be born, or even weaned. Then they have a real chance for survival.”

He didn't trust Ike Hoover. But he had to share his logs and prove where he'd been—and he couldn't wait two weeks.

“So why is J.D. so worried about confidentiality? Does he think business at the bar will suffer if he's a known wolf-lover? Ned never cares if his opinions scare customers away. Good riddance, he says.”

“Ned's got fifty years in the business. J.D.'s only been
here six weeks. He understands the stakes and he's not real keen on getting caught up in controversy until he has to. And he doesn't want crazed men with high-powered guns running all over these woods. But I'm pretty sure that once the pack gets established and I've reported my findings, he'll be a staunch supporter.”

I let that sink in. Nick slipped the Jeep back into gear and we drove on in silence. The road narrowed as it looped away from the lake and traversed the ridge. Finally, it ended in a tight turnaround. He told me to shut off my phone, and I remembered that the sheriff still had his.

“Is this where you were when I called, last Saturday?”

He nodded and bent to buckle his snowshoe. We traipsed through the woods, Nick in the lead, scouting for tracks. Not just wolf tracks—the movements of deer, elk, and other wildlife are clues to the wolves' location as well. Every so often, Nick aimed his binoculars on the sky.

We settled into a blind he'd created at the base of a tree, pine and fir boughs our camouflage. Nick made a few notes. I huddled inside my coat, not daring to tell him I was freezing and had to pee.

After spotting two ravens and a golden eagle, Nick crept out of the blind and I followed. He handed the glasses to me. “The scavenger birds are leading us to the wolf kill. I'm going closer. You stay put.” He held out his pistol, butt end toward me.

I shook “no.” Our dad had taught us all to shoot, but I hadn't held a gun in years. This was not the time to test my reflexes.

Nick abandoned all pretense of stealth, marching into the clearing as gracefully as possible on snowshoes. The idea was to get in and out quickly, using the birds as a gauge of how close the wolves were. As he approached, the ravens flew up into the trees, squawking madly at the intruder. The golden eagle, huge, its face red from feeding, gave him the evil eye, his—or was it her?—only concession to sidestep
a few feet away from the fallen deer. Wisely, Nick kept his distance but I knew he was watching the winged predator as he photographed tracks, birds, and carcass, and took a few quick measurements.

Minutes later, he knelt beside me, the ravens swooping back to their find before he'd left the clearing.

“Whitetail. Found the kill Saturday morning,” he whispered. “It's still got its nose, so the wolves aren't finished. That's why the birds are so alert.”

“The nose? Is that like dessert?”

He signed to shush me as first one wolf then the second entered the clearing. The ravens returned to their roosts, the eagle standing its ground as long as possible before taking flight. “The male,” he said of the lead wolf, a majestic long-legged creature, his thick coat a mix of golden brown and gray. His size and the rounded tips of his ears distinguished him from the more commonly seen coyotes. I held my breath in awe.

Behind him came the female, mottled gray on her head and back, her sides and legs white, the straight heavy tail salt-and-pepper. My fingers itched for the phone in my pocket, to take a picture for Chiara's
Winter White
series, but I didn't dare.

We watched as the wolves fed, then ambled back into the woods. If they sensed our presence—and I suspected they did—they didn't let on. They had no interest in us, unless we threatened them. I held myself rock-still, an image in my brain of tagging along with my grandfather Murphy to a farm auction and getting a lecture on not moving a muscle while the auctioneer worked the crowd, lest we accidentally buy a truck or a hay baler.