Butter Off Dead (23 page)

T
he screening ended and applause began. I popped up and headed for the lobby. Pushed through the double doors and Kim helped me latch them open. No time to ask what she thought of the movie.

“Thanks for coming. So glad you came,” I said over and over, smiling and shaking hands with donors and guests.

“Great job those kids did,” the minister said.

“Makes me want to find an old Hudson to restore,” her husband said.

“Don't you dare!” She smacked him playfully on the shoulder.

And so it went—compliments for the kids, the food, and the festival, and wisecracks about frozen pipes and backed-up toilets.

“You called the sheriff?” Larry's attention shifted from me to Kim in disbelief. Club members stood behind him in the nearly empty lobby. “But we don't even know—”

“Oh, no. Deputy Caldwell came to see the film.”

“Don't know what?” In a flash, Kim was back on the job. That quick switch officers constantly do has got to be killer on the nervous system.

Larry opened his mouth but I cut him off. “Nothing. Speculation about somebody plugging up the sewer lines on purpose. Pranking us. Odds are, it's a frozen line. Fingers crossed that it doesn't affect other buildings.”

Kim glanced from Larry to me. “Okay. Which one of you kids is collecting donations?”

Zayda produced the jar, and Kim tucked in a twenty. She gave us all one more appraisal, then left the theater.

“Why didn't you want her to know the screen was cut?” Larry said when the door closed behind her.

“Do you want her to shut us down on opening night? If one more Jewel Bay festival is tainted by murder, this whole town might as well pack it in. No more tourists. No more vacationers. No more village.” I waved my hand, sweeping them all away. “I don't know what happened to the screen, and we all need to keep our eyes open. But let's not jump the gun.”

Dylan and Zayda exchanged nervous glances. “What about that guy?” she whispered.

“What guy?” I said. “When?”

“It was nothing,” Zayda said quickly. Worry—or fear—darted across her face, her topknot wobbling. “Just this guy walking through the alley Wednesday after school. He asked a bunch of questions about what we were doing. Then he left.”

My forehead wrinkled. “Short guy, chubby, my age or a little older? Bright blue parka?”

Dylan shoved his hands in his pockets. “It was nothing. Just ‘hey' and ‘what's going on?'”

I had wondered when I spotted him what brought Danny Davis to Jewel Bay—and the alley behind the Playhouse—in the middle of the afternoon. Had he gotten inside somehow and damaged the screen?

He had no connection to the Film Club kids or Larry Abrams. At least, not that I knew.

But what if I'd been wrong about Christine being killed for a piece of art? What if the real reason was to stop the Festival? Jack Frost had pointed at “the guy with the fancy car.” Danny rented fancy cars—Porsches and BMWs—and coveted them. What did he drive?

Don't be silly, Erin
. Why on earth would he want to disrupt the Festival?

“I guess we're set then,” Larry said. “Now all we need is that last movie.”

I raised two crossed fingers.

Twenty minutes later, the last plastic plates and glasses stuffed into trash bags, the lobby swept, Chiara and I sank onto a painted bench. “Oh,” I said, recognizing the abstract dashes and swirls. “Did Iggy paint this one?”

Chiara nodded and handed me a bottle of Prosecco that still held a few swallows, her eyes twinkling in the downlight. “Hieroglyphics on drugs. I always wondered what she was smoking out in that church.”

“There are rumors about her neighbor, Jack Frost.” I took a swig and passed the bottle back. In sync with her new paintings, my sister was a vision of winter white in creamy white leggings, a cable-knit fisherman's sweater that hit her mid-thigh, and a cordovan leather belt that matched her boots, an off-white silk gardenia in her dark bob. “Loved Iggy dearly, miss her like crazy. Never did quite understand the art.”

“Ditto. Great job tonight, little sister. I'm not loving the outfit, but your cat scratch has healed nicely.”

“Bad enough that Mom's chief of the fashion police. Now you, too?” I leaned back, eyes closed.
To tell or not to tell?
I blew out a breath and made a decision. “I took some incomplete thoughts for a drive this afternoon. Ended up rescuing Zayda George from I'm not exactly sure what, then ran into Nick at the sheriff's office.”

Chiara listened without comment as I relayed the Zayda incident and Nick's anger at Ike. My voice got hotter as I said I'd never heard the speculation that our dad's fatal accident might have been his own fault, not a hit-and-run. How much it hurt—in my chest, my stomach, my jaw—to know that my family had hidden the truth, in the guise of protecting me. How I thought we were so close—Sally thought we were so close, everyone did—but I'd been wrong. If my family wasn't the safe haven I'd always believed, just the masters of acting “as if,” then who was I?

She let out a long sigh and gave me back the bottle. One swallow left. I drained it. The cool bubbles slid down my throat, a reminder that sweetness and light live on, even when the night seems so dark.

“About Zayda, no clue. But about Nick—no one was hiding anything from you, Erin.”

I leaned forward, gripping the now-empty bottle in both hands. “You thought you were protecting me back then, and I get it. I was a kid. But I haven't been a kid for a long time. I don't want protecting. I want honesty.”

“It's not that simple, or that complicated.” She hugged herself, the white gardenia bobbing. “After a couple of days, Mom sent you back to school. The three of us were at the house, making funeral plans, when Ike came out. I can still picture him. Fifteen years younger, but Ike never changes. They worked 'round the clock, but they had nothing. No witnesses. All that ice and snow meant no marks on the road and no decent tire tracks. What the ambulance and tow truck didn't destroy, the weather did.” She traveled back in time, remembering. “All they had to go on was the angle of how he hit the guardrail, and a paint smear on the front left side of his car. They sent it to the state lab for analysis, but they didn't have any results yet.

“Ike wondered out loud about other explanations. What if there hadn't been a second car? Might Dad have lost control and slammed into the guardrail himself? Could
the impact have spun him around? Ice and snow are unpredictable.

“Nick came unglued. Mom and I had to talk him down. But he got over it. At least, I thought he did.”

But the memory of Nick's explosion had triggered Ike's doubts about my brother's temper.

“So, no hiding. No covering up. Just no reason to tell you about a brief, embarrassing blowup. The tests on the paint samples came back later, but it was an after-market paint, and they never identified the car. Not as far as I know, anyway.” She wrapped an arm around me and brought her face close to mine. It was like looking in a mirror that reflected a different world. “Maybe we do sometimes forget you're grown-up now. But you are who you always thought you were, Erin. You're smart, and determined, and loyal.”

I sniffed back tears. “You make me sound like Sparky the Border collie.” Our childhood dog. Technically Mom's—a birthday present, quickly given one of Dad's many nicknames for her.

“Well, you are a little bossy, like Sparky. Like all the Murphy women. You are my best friend as well as my favorite sister—”

“Your only sister. Don't try to sweet-talk me out of being mad.” I rubbed my left eye.

“Whatever it takes. Hey, I understand how you feel. Christine's death has Nick all nervy and on edge, and the past came roaring out of the blue. But now I'm a mother myself, so listen to me: Protecting one another is what family does. We don't always get it right, but it's part of the job.”

I leaned in and held her tight.

*   *   *

B
ack in the Merc, I plucked an éclair out of the box of leftovers Wendy had given me. Changed my boots, scooped up my bag and iPad, and headed home.

Nine o'clock. The sky had cleared, and stars pierced the dark chill as if God had flicked on the high beams. I zipped my coat, parked at the cabin, and wrapped the scarf around my neck twice. Grabbed the Maglite from the glove box and strolled down to the shore.

As caretaker, I've got full run of the place. Super-sweet in summer, when the lake sparkles, the gravel beach perfect for swimming, kayaking, or just sitting. Bob and Liz are fabulous hosts and between deck, sloping yard, dock, and beach, their parties rock. The forest is special in summer, too, its many-greened canopy dappling the fragrant duff with sun and shadow.

But winter casts its own magic spell. On sunny days after a storm, the bluebird sky defies description. Defies any mood, too—it's nearly impossible not to tilt your head back for the sun's kiss.

Avoiding the icy drive, I trod the wooded path, feet snug in my hiking boots. Stood on the shore and gazed up, opening my arms and twirling like Landon in his Superman cape. It's good to have a five-year-old in your life, for inspiration.

His mother had given me much to think about. I brushed snow off a stone bench and perched, gloved hands in my pockets.

What a mess. Despite my caution to Larry, the screen damage did worry me. A string of unrelated crimes seemed unlikely. No question in my mind that the murder and break-in were related. But the evidence—as I knew it, and if I included motive, again as I knew it—appeared to rule out both Sally Grimes and Jack Frost. A week ago, I'd have cheerfully blamed either one of them. And while I was even less fond of Frost after he'd waved a gun in my general direction, I realized that in assuming I knew all about Sally, I had missed the most crucial things about her. What drove her—good and bad.

And I'd nearly missed her alibi.

How did the screen damage fit in? Danny Davis's presence in the alley was odd, but could be an innocent coincidence.

My breath formed puffy white clouds in the air. Across the lake, a band of lights shimmered where houses huddled near the shore.

I understood why Ike had zeroed in on Nick. By lying about where he'd been, my brother had made himself easy to doubt. The fingerprint report on the murder weapon raised more questions. And the history—Ike's perception of him as a hothead—formed a trifecta of suspicion.

Ike Hoover perceived Nick as a man with a temper, and took that as a sign that he was capable of killing in the heat of the moment. Nick's theory that the attacker had turned on Christine—with the gun Nick gave her—reinforced Ike's suspicions: Nick could have been that attacker.

In reality, Nick was mostly calm and collected. Stubborn. Determined.

A Murphy.

But he was also a man capable of sitting long hours in a hollowed-out snow cave, hidden by branches, waiting for four-legged predators to stroll by. If he wanted to kill—if he wanted the inheritance, as Sally had suggested—he'd have planned it.

How could I get Ike to understand that Nick wasn't a wild-eyed lunatic, just a man raw with grief? And that Christine's murder had not been planned. I suspected that the killer had intended a theft, and gotten a shooting. I was beginning to appreciate that a good cop has to be a good psychologist, too. Difference is, he—or she—has to use what they learn to solve crimes, not personal problems.

These crimes had become mighty personal for my family.

Icy waters lapped the lakeshore. While some evidence pointed to Nick, other evidence ruled him out. Perplexing as that was, the same could be said for Zayda, the final
suspect on my list. She'd been fingerprinted the same time as Nick—the unidentified prints were not hers.

I closed my eyes, listening to the waves. Instead, images of Christine filled my mind: At the Art Fair in August, laughing as I chose a painting. Last Friday, leaning over the pool table to take a shot, laughing up at Nick when she missed. Plucking a french fry from the basket.

Glowering at Jack Frost. Bleeding on her studio floor.

Pain stabbed the back of my throat. I swallowed, with difficulty, but it wouldn't go away.

Criminy
. What a week. What if I was on the wrong track, thinking the break-in and murder were related? The damaged projection screen suggested that someone wanted to stop the Festival. Which meant that Iggy's art collection—now Nick's, via Christine—had nothing to do with anything.

The screen slashing might be simple vandalism. I just didn't know yet.

No
. That was too much coincidence.

With one last look at the night sky, reflected in the waves as if in a broken mirror, I pushed myself up and headed back up the trail.

Was I on the wrong track in another way, too? Believing I needed to investigate all these events, and believing that the right man—any man fool enough to love me—would go along?

I reached in my pocket for my phone. Then it rang. I smiled up at the sky, guessing the caller even before seeing the name.

Too much coincidence
.

“I've been asking too much of you,” I said. “I do stuff that worries the people who care about me, and then I don't want to hear about it. I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry, too,” Adam said. “I blew it the other night. I got upset by things that had nothing to do with you, and let my protective side go into overdrive.”

My cabin beckoned. “The stars are gorgeous and I miss
you. But Adam, I need you to understand that this—this drive to investigate, to solve the problems that threaten people I care about, that threaten this village—it's part of who I am.”

“I know.” The gentleness in his voice enveloped me. “I meant what I said the other night: I love that you use your head to follow your heart. If I'm ever in trouble, I want you on my side.”