Butter Off Dead (2 page)

“Once upon a time there was a quiet village in the countryside whose people believed in tranquility.”

—
CHOCOLAT
, SCREENPLAY BY ROBERT NELSON JACOBS

“It's a good thing it takes all kinds—because there are all kinds.”

—ALICE BUDEWITZ

T
HE
M
URPHY
C
LAN
:

Erin Murphy,
manager of Glacier Mercantile, aka the Merc

Francesca “Fresca” Conti Murphy,
Erin's mother and the Merc's manager emeritus

Tracy McCann,
salesclerk and budding chocolatier

Chiara Murphy Phillips,
Erin's sister and co-owner of Snowberry Gallery

Landon Phillips,
age five, Chiara's superhero son

Nick Murphy,
aka Wolf Man, Erin's brother and a wolf biologist

F
ESTIVAL
C
REW
:

Christine Vandeberg,
painter and chief organizer of the Food Lovers' Film Festival

Larry Abrams,
retired Hollywood lighting director, Film Club advisor

Zayda George,
president of the Jewel Bay High School Film Club

Dylan Washington,
future filmmaker

V
ILLAGERS
AND
F
RIENDS
:

Kyle Caldwell,
head chef at Caldwell's Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch, and car nut

Sally Grimes,
owner of Puddle Jumpers Children's Clothing and Toys

Danny Davis
,
Kyle's high school buddy and fellow car nut

Rick Bergstrom,
aka Farm Boy, hunky grain salesman

Adam Zimmerman,
hunky Wilderness Camp director and Erin's college classmate

Jack Frost,
aka the Junkman, Christine's feisty neighbor

Ned Redaway,
longtime owner of Red's Bar

J.D. Beckstead,
Ned's grandson and a sign of change at Red's

Wendy Taylor Fontaine,
baker extraordinaire

Mimi and Tony George,
Zayda's parents and proprietors of the Jewel Inn

T
HE
L
AW
:

Kim Caldwell,
sheriff's detective and Jewel Bay's resident deputy

Ike Hoover,
undersheriff

F
OUR
-F
OOTED
F
RIENDS
:

Mr. Sandburg,
Erin's sleek, sable Burmese cat

Pepé,
Fresca's lively Scottish terrier

Pumpkin,
Christine's full-figured orange tabby

Bozo,
Tracy's Harlequin Great Dane, a rescue dog

“I
need to talk to you.”

One hand on the aluminum stepladder, I peered out the broom closet door, wondering who needed me and why she whispered about it so urgently.

A blond teenager in gray leggings and purple running shoes, hair in a ponytail, stood at the open door to the Playhouse control room, her fleece-clad back to me.

“Later,” came the reply. Older, male, firm.

“Now,” she demanded, and I recognized Zayda George—high school senior, track star, president of the student Film Club.

“Coming through,” I called, and wriggled my way out the door and into the wide passage leading to the lobby, both hands gripping the six-foot ladder. In the shadows, Zayda froze. I didn't need bright lights to know she'd been pleading with Larry Abrams.

Half a dozen kids from the Film Club who were running the projectors, lights, and sound for the weekend mingled in the Playhouse lobby. Christine Vandeberg pointed to a
spot on the tile floor and I set up the ladder. She whipped a plastic bag off a five-foot-long hand-painted sign leaning against the wall.

“Like it?” Christine clasped her hands, squeezing her fingers as she waited for my opinion.

“Perfect.” For our first Food Lovers' Film Festival, we'd rechristened the Playhouse in Jewel Bay, Montana, taking it back to its roots. You can't go back again, not really. Times change. The places you love change. You change.

But the right sign can transport you anywhere.

“Perfect,” I repeated. “Like an old-time theater marquee.” Flamingo pink stripes emulating neon tubes ran across the top and bottom. On each end, faux diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires sparkled. And in the center, three-dimensional gold script read
THE BIJOU
. Literally, the jewel. Figuratively, the Jewel Box.

“You're too young to talk about old-time, Erin.” I hadn't seen Larry Abrams approach. Not quite movie-star handsome but close, with white hair and chiseled features just beginning to soften. “It's Brooklyn, 1955, decades before you were born. I went to the movies every Saturday afternoon, sometimes twice.”

The red hair coiled on top of Christine's head in a tribute to Marge Simpson bobbed like a buoy in a windstorm. “I used Larry's movie poster collection and a picture of our original theater as inspiration. Larry, hold the ladder while we hang this.”

The longtime Hollywood lighting director forced a helpful expression. In his post-retirement volunteer work, he enjoyed being in charge.

I could relate. But this Festival was Christine's baby, and to tell the truth, being the gofer made for a welcome break.

Larry steadied the ladder and Christine clambered up the rungs. I handed her the chain attached to the sign. She slipped the top link over a hook barely visible in the shiny tin ceiling and climbed back down. As I juggled the weight
of the sign and Larry scooted the ladder over, I caught sight of Zayda a few feet away, one arm folded across her torso, absently biting the tip of her little finger.

Moments later, I stepped back. “What do you think, Zayda? Right height?”

“Um, it's good. Sparkly.” Her voice lacked its usual zip, and she blinked rapidly as she glanced at Larry. His own eyes lit on her briefly before refocusing on the sign.

“Seriously, old man. You kept the posters from when you were a kid?” Zayda's boyfriend, Dylan, ran a hand through his dark blond hair. I'd spent enough time with the kids to realize that while she adored the movies, it was the technology that fired him up.

“They came later,” Larry said. “Took me years to build that collection.”

“What's the deal about collecting?” Dana Grant, another Film Club member, tilted his head. “I don't get it.”

“Think of Barbies or Legos you're too old for, but you still love,” a girl with hair in shades of red from strawberry blond to cranberry replied. Her parents ran the pizza joint. “Or tickets from a concert. You keep them to remind you how you felt.”

“Zayda's got her number bibs from every race,” Dylan said. “Plus all her ribbons. They cover the back of her bedroom door.”

“'Cause she always wins,” the redhead said.

“Yeah, but buying stuff just to hang on to it . . .” Dana's voice trailed off. Clearly, he was not in possession of the collector gene.

“Enough jabbering. Gotta make sure all this new gear runs like it's supposed to.” Larry pointed toward the control room.

“Yessir.” Dylan gave a mock salute, and the kids swarmed out of the lobby.

Zayda trailed behind. “Larry, you promised . . .” she said in a low voice.

“Soon as the job is finished,” he said. Zayda bit her lower lip and followed the other kids. Larry headed for the men's room.

“What was that all about?” I asked Christine.

Face raised, her gaze darted from one end of the sign to the other, measuring whether it hung straight and level. Years as a professional framer gave her a sharp eye for details.

The sign sparkled. Which was the point: To bring a little color and light to a village mired in the deep midwinter. Let other towns break the monotony of February with hearts and flowers. But a town that calls itself the Food Lovers' Village and boasts first-class summer stock plus a vibrant community theater? Food and film, a natural combination.

“What? Something happen?”

I reached for the ladder. “No. But Larry may be a little too directorial.” Zayda was a good kid, eager to prove herself. Eager, too, to get on a pro's good side and make contacts in the industry. Her mother, Mimi, had told me she had her heart set on film school in L.A. She'd work lights and sound, almost any job, biding time for a chance to get behind the camera. Let other girls crave the spotlight. Zayda George wanted to be the one telling them what to do.

Christine squinted at the sign through turquoise glasses frames. “Yeah. But without the money he raised for the screening equipment, we wouldn't be having a film festival, so . . .”

“Did you convince him to display his poster collection in the lobby?”

“Your sister figured out some kind of insurance thing, so he finally agreed.” She scooped up the bag from the sign.

“Are all his posters for movies about Montana?”

“Just the ones he's lending us—Jane Russell in
Montana Belle
, Gene Autry in
Blue Montana Skies
, a dozen others. I guess some are pretty valuable.”

“Speaking of collections,” I said. “Have you decided
what to do with Iggy's? I still can't believe she had all that amazing art.” Iggy Ring, painter, collector, teacher, mentor, and a fixture in Jewel Bay, had died over the past winter. A tiny woman who'd left a huge hole in the community, and in my heart.

The red-haired buoy wobbled dangerously. “A few legal details to work out, but most of it's going to the Art Center. What they can't keep, we'll sell to fund education programs. Art classes for teens, I'm thinking, and a business training course for artists. I've got to finish Iggy's inventory, then get an appraisal.”

“Good work, ladies.” Larry crossed the lobby to join the kids.

“Thanks,” I called to Larry. To Christine, “good choice.” More than a century ago, settlers began floating logs cut from the surrounding mountains down the Jewel River to a mill beside the bay. Around 1900, construction of a small dam and power plant, and a new road for lumber wagons and trucks, spurred more growth. By the 1970s, the mill had closed, lights had dimmed, and the town needed a new spark. Locals—including Old Ned Redaway and my family—fashioned Jewel Bay into an arts village, and in recent years, cooked up a reputation as a food lovers' haven. Others built up the area's recreational assets.

Now those passions bloom side by side, making Jewel Bay, Montana, a most unexpected place. It melds mouth-watering food, eye-watering art, a golf course designed by Jack Nicklaus, tummy-churning whitewater, and the most dedicated volunteer force on the planet. The result? A village chock-full of charm. Not to mention that it sits on a bay of the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi, with a backyard wilderness stretching more than a million acres, and Glacier National Park half an hour's drive away.

Since moving back home nine—nearly ten—months ago to take over the Merc, my family's hundred-year-old grocery, I'd come to understand the power of local in a whole
new light. My mother and I converted the Merc into a market specializing in foods grown or produced in the region. Wine to wash them down, pottery to serve them, and soap to wash up, all of it locally made, too. We also created a commercial kitchen in the back of the shop, so vendors can cook and pack their products in a facility that meets health department specs.

But while I love my vendors dearly, it took about ten seconds to realize that knowing how to make fabulous pasta and pesto, cure award-winning salami, or cook huckleberry jam that makes grown cowboys tear up is a far cry from knowing how to market those skills. A whole 'nother kettle, as my grandfather Murphy would have said.

So I'd put my decade of experience as a grocery buyer for SavClub, the international warehouse chain based in Seattle, to work mentoring my vendors in the fine arts of inventory control and cost management, giving an occasional lesson in sales and marketing.

And after watching my sister, Chiara, launch a successful co-op gallery while other artists struggled to pay the bills, I firmly believe every working artist needs a crash course in business savvy.

As a painter and framer, Christine had seen plenty of artists fight that same battle. She gave the sign a long, loving gaze. “This weekend is going to be a hit, isn't it?”

I folded the ladder and hoisted it onto my hip. “Everything's falling into place perfectly.”

Famous last words.

*   *   *

T
he first Friday in February and the Merc was quiet as a cloud. I minded—cash flow trickles this time of year—but it's kinda nice to catch your breath once in a while.

Happily, Tracy McCann, my shop clerk and sole employee,
is a display whiz. The plate glass windows on either side of our front door boast deep bays that present a constant challenge. To me, anyway. To Tracy, changing the product mix and finding the right theme and accent pieces is the best part of her job.

Second best, after a seriously fine talent for making truffles.

One window celebrated Valentine's Day: wine and roses, chocolates, scented soaps and lotions, red-and-white dishes. A picnic basket—one of our year-round specialties—brimming with ingredients for a romantic dinner for two.

In the other window, the movies held center stage. The Festival poster. Popcorn poppers in the newest, grooviest styles, from Kitchenalia, across the street. Saltshakers in two simple designs: clear quilted glass with a metal screw top, and an aluminum canister with a curved handle. And from my favorite NFL player-turned-potter: a serving bowl in a poppy red glaze and four small bowls, each bearing a distinctive red-and-white pattern. Red-and-white popcorn cartons and boxes of Junior Mints and Dots continued the theme.

Not to mention the bags of organic white popcorn, grown in Montana and sourced for us by Montana Gold, a family-owned wheat and grain farm and distributor headquartered on the Hi-Line, the state breadbasket.

“Now for the pièce de résistance, or whatever it's called.”

“Great find.” I picked up one end of the antique movie projector. “Woof. Heavy.”

The red enamel hearts that hung from Tracy's earlobes swung drunkenly as we hoisted the projector carefully into place. She stepped back to catch her breath. “Borrowed it from the tuna tycoons.”

Jewel Bay is home, at least part-time, to all kinds of folks who made all kinds of fortunes in all kinds of ways. We've got our coaster king and queen—Bob and Liz Pinsky, the family friends who own the property I take care
of in exchange for rent. We've got our mattress millionaires, our software squillionaires, our baby-wipe barons.

And our tuna tycoons. Tracy and Mrs. Tuna bonded over their love of rescue Great Danes—Tracy's baby is a black-and-white Harlequin called Bozo. Major movie lovers, the Tunas had joined forces with a dozen other businesses and individuals as Festival co-sponsors. Winter events are for fun and friendship, not profit, though we seriously heart any and all mid-winter vacationers who stray our way.

“And the final touch.” She cleared a space on the front counter for a red-and-white popper, a replica of a theater-style machine.

“It even smells like popcorn. Plus it's the perfect color.” Like other businesses—both in the village, aka downtown, and on the highway—we fly red and white on weekends, in a show of school spirit.

“The big popper they salvaged from an old theater is going in the Playhouse for the weekend,” she said. “We can use this one to get people in the movie mood.”

“Mood, I like; the mess, I don't like, but it's all for a good cause.” During my SavClub years, I worked a day or two a month in a Seattle warehouse to stay current and get real-time customer response to our products. That meant an occasional stint cloaked in white, my dark above-the-shoulder bob in a hairnet, serving hummus on chips or chicken cacciatore. Those little white pleated paper cups and napkins end up
every
where.

We have a similar problem here whenever we offer samples—one of the few similarities between slaving for an international food giant and sweating over a small-town specialty shop.

“What are we waiting for?” I said. We plugged in the popper and poured in the corn. Suddenly, we were ten again, going to the movies.

Tracy glowed, and not from the light sweat we'd worked
up. Or from the mouth-watering smell of the kernels popping.

No, I suspected her glow came from thoughts of Rick Bergstrom, the Montana Gold sales rep. He and I dated briefly last summer, but quickly discovered that a shared passion for the food biz was not enough to overcome a clash of temperaments. “Farm Boy,” as Tracy dubbed him when he first came calling on the Merc, is a great guy. Just not the right guy for me. I'd been delighted to see him and Tracy get together.