Butter Off Dead (24 page)

He paused and I wanted so badly to put words in his mouth.

“I love you, Erin. That means I worry about you, and I want to keep you safe. But more than that, I want you to follow your passions.”

Took the words right out of my mouth.

Not until later, after we said good night, after the cats had staked out positions on opposite sides of the living room, glaring at each other and at me, while I sat in the chocolate brown chair, the Spreadsheet of Suspicion open on my lap. Not until then did I remember something he'd said once that might be the push I needed to solve this case.

“You know us fanatics,” he'd said. “Whether it's painters or cooks or backcountry skiers. We'll do nearly anything for that high.”

The same logic applies to collectors—and investigators.

I
marched straight through the Merc and out the front door, greeted by the rumbling engine of the utility truck parked in the alley next to the Playhouse. Few things justify disturbing a peaceful Friday morning in the village, but emergency sewer repairs definitely qualify.

A man in a heavy tan coverall with a county patch on the breast pocket rewound a thick cable on a spool on the back of the truck. Farther down the hill stood a plumbing company van.

“Hey, there. What's the news?” I shouted over the noise.

“Some idiot stuffed part of a theater curtain down the backstage toilet. In the actors' restroom, where nobody saw it. Backed up all the plumbing in the building and messed up the sewer lines.”

“On purpose? So they aren't frozen after all?” Relief rushed through me. “I'm running the Film Festival this weekend. Will we have working toilets tonight?”

“If I have anything to say about it.” He pushed a big
square button on the side of the truck and the crank rewinding the snake stopped.

“Thanks.” I waved. He raised a gloved hand in acknowledgment. Silently, I blessed the plumbers, electricians, heavy-equipment operators, and other hardworking men and women who keep some semblance of order in our crazy world.

I shivered, and not just from the twenty-degree morning air. If the utility operator was right, the sewer line had been damaged intentionally. Sabotage—ugly word.

Last night I'd made an act of dismissing Larry's comment about vandalism, to keep Kim off our tail. I'd only said maybe the plugged toilets were a prank because, from where I stood, I could see the blocked-off restroom doors. I'd had no reason to think the sewer lines had been damaged intentionally.

Apparently, I can think like a criminal when circumstances warrant.

But not well enough. Try as I might, I could see no connection between the rack and ruin at the Playhouse and the death and destruction at Christine's.

Best not to contemplate such things on an empty stomach. I headed up Front Street to the Jewel Inn. Mimi pointed to a table and mouthed “Be right with you.” A waitress brought two steaming mugs and I ordered quiche Lorraine to go.

“Zayda did a great job last night,” I said a minute or two later. “Both as MC and as narrator of the film.”

Mimi's wan smile stopped short of her blue eyes. “The kid's nuts about movies. She's been sweating over her film school applications for ages. I just hope this whole fiasco doesn't throw her off stride.”

Murder is more than a fiasco. But it's not an easy word to say.

“She back in class? Routine helps, but kids can be cruel. Unintentionally, but . . .” As I remembered so well.

“She went back Wednesday. My day off, so the kids and I had breakfast together at home. She and T.J. argued
over who would drive, so I solved the problem by dropping them off myself.”

I smiled. With a teacher dad, driving to school had rarely been an option, unless one of us had practice or a late rehearsal. Like the night he died.

“She told me about the damage to the screen. Erin, what is going on?”

“Don't know.” The heat from the coffee had not yet thawed my suspicions. When the cats and I had studied the Spreadsheet last night, Sandburg wondered if one of the kids had tried to sabotage the screening, out of resentment or feeling overshadowed by the others. Trying to connect the Playhouse vandalism to Christine's murder and break-in, Pumpkin favored an outsider theory. Why, none of us had a clue.

“Mimi, something weird happened yesterday. Besides the damage to the screen and the sewer lines.” I briefed her on my conversation with the utility operator, then told her about running into Zayda—almost literally—out by Jewel Basin.

She fell back in her chair, both hands to her mouth. “Larry? Did he—do you think he—?”

“No idea. It's possible, though I've never heard any rumors about him behaving inappropriately toward students. Why would she have gone out there?”

Mimi shook her head, eyes wide. “This whole thing is so bizarre. She won't talk about any of it, and that's not like her. She's a great kid, so responsible. Yesterday, a couple of kids made shooting gestures at her in the hall, miming the hanging rope. Laughing like it's all a big joke. Had her in tears. She's never held a gun in her life.”

Nick had seen Dylan with a girl at the shooting range, teaching her to shoot. They could corroborate Nick's testimony about taking Christine to the range. Still not proof, but consistent with his claim that he had given her his gun.

Did their trip to the range mean anything else?

“Mmm. If I get a chance, do you want me to ask Larry
why she was out at his house? Subtly. Or talk to Deputy Caldwell?”

She paled, no doubt at the prospect of giving Kim more reasons to look closely at Zayda. “Let me talk to Tony first.” She stood and picked up our mugs. “Merchants' Association meetings start March first. Breakfast, here. And I talked with another prospect for the teahouse.”

I knew the man she named, a grocery deli employee. Dorky guy, nice enough, but hard to imagine him rocking the village vibe. “Great. Hey, one more thing. I need a home for Christine's cat. Cute cat. Great with people and other animals.”
Fibber
.

But Mimi was already halfway to the kitchen. “Full house. Two kids, two dogs, a lizard, and a hamster.”

The waitress emerged carrying my breakfast in a box. As I pulled on my coat, the antelope mount above the hostess stand appeared to be watching me. Ready for Mardi Gras, in his beads and Groucho Marx glasses.

“You get any brilliant ideas, party boy,” I said, “give me a call.”

*   *   *

“W
hat is all this and where is it going?” Tracy whipped toward me the second I crossed the threshold, her beaded kitty cat earrings swinging madly.

“Oh, geez. I wasn't expecting you until next week,” I told the delivery man. He'd already off-loaded one huge packing crate, another strapped to his orange metal hand truck. My fingers flew to my hair as if of their own free will. “We haven't cleared space—can they go right here for now? Move that display case and the table like so?” I pointed, he nodded, and Tracy's gaze swung between us.

“But what are they
for
?” she said.

“The antique red hutch is for our tea and drink line. This—see the temperature controls?” I pointed as the delivery man cut down the cardboard box, revealing a
sleek commercial glass-front case, slightly used but good as new. “This is for Tracy's Truffles. You've outgrown that countertop display.”

Tracy stared, mouth open, fingers entwined in her long black skirt.

“I don't want you to leave, Trace. If you decide to open your own shop, I'll be your biggest fan. But you are part of the Merc. I want you to stay, even if it means hiring someone to work the floor so you have more time in the kitchen. Please. Weird truffles and all.”

Her right earring caught the light from the white ceiling pendants. “You have to admit, those chamomile-bee pollen chocolates are pretty tasty.”

The delivery man wrinkled his nose. We laughed, and she threw her arms around me. “Erin, this is exactly what I wanted. I knew when I saw how willing you were to help Luci. It will be a big change—huge—but you always say in business, the name of the game is change.”

“And give the customers what they want.” I gestured toward the artisan truffles in their too-small case. Tracy chimed in, and we recited in unison: “And what they don't know they want—yet.”

We spent the next hour juggling inventory and hatching plans for Tracy's new products. And sharing theories about the vandalism.

“The Playhouse Affair,” I said. “Sounds like a bad movie from the 1940s. It's got to be related to what happened at Christine's. Otherwise, too much coincidence. But I don't see
how
.”

Tracy wiped the last packing dust off the red hutch. “Coincidence is when other people don't tell you their plans.”

I paused, mid-sweep. “That's brilliant.”

“I read it on a tea bag.”

The front door opened as I bent over, snorting with laughter.

“This looks like a fun place,” the customer said.

Running the credit card on her purchases twenty minutes later—now
that
was fun.

“Don't forget the dog treats,” I reminded Tracy during a burst of enthusiasm over lemongrass ginger truffles and chai sipping chocolate. “Remember that woman who called from Calgary about your gluten-free dog cookies? When the website's up to speed, those will be best-sellers.”

Early afternoon, I found myself glancing out the window far too often for a glimpse of a man in a brown uniform. When he finally arrived, the DVD box in hand, I kissed him.

The color of the UPS logo triggered another thought. “Sea salt chocolate caramels.”

Tracy made a note, grinning from earring to earring.

I grabbed my coat and hat—snow was falling straight down and piling up—and crossed the street, carrying the precious DVD and a box of popcorn and seasonings. The utility truck and excavator were gone. Ned Redaway raked disturbed dirt and snow back into place.

“Gol darn it, dag nab it, girlie. What some people won't do.”

“Will the plumbers have the inside damage repaired in time?” I brushed a fat flake off my eyelashes.

“They say they will. And I didn't have to threaten 'em twice. If I find out who did this, girlie, I'll throttle the son of a gun.”

But what I wanted to know was why.

To my surprise, Dylan greeted me at the Playhouse door and took my box. “I got out early to set up. The Festival is my senior project. Academics and community service.”

“Perfect. Look what came. Can we check it out, make sure it's right this time?”

His forehead wrinkled and he glanced at the floor, then made a decision. “Yeah. Larry doesn't like us messing with the projector by ourselves—it's expensive. Digital, wireless. But it's not as complicated as he thinks it is.”

My mom says kids—anyone under forty—understand
computers and electronic gadgets telepathically. Maybe so, but these kids understand a heck of a lot more than I do. That's the difference between interest and passion.

In the control room, Dylan turned on the projector and I squinted through the darkened windows at the stage. From here, the damage wasn't visible, but I'd seen last night that the images were no longer as crisp as they should have been.

“Still wondering how that happened,” I said.

Dylan bit his lip and dropped the disc. In my mind's eye, it smashed into a million pieces. That had to be worse than breaking a mirror—seventy-seven years bad luck for everyone within seven miles.

He swore, fumbling as he picked it up, blew off the dust, and inspected it quickly, then slipped it into the projector.

A French village appeared on the hastily repaired screen, townspeople climbing the steps to church, greeted by the smarmy mayor, le Comte de Reynaud. I felt a rush of giddiness, as if I'd just eaten two Flathead Cherry truffles and washed them down with a triple espresso.

But before I could leave, I needed to make sure Dylan and Zayda would corroborate Nick's story. “Dylan, you took Zayda to the shooting range last fall, didn't you? Do you remember seeing Nick and Christine?” He nodded. “You've got to tell the sheriff. It will make a world of difference for Nick.”

“Erin, can I ask you something?” His voice a notch too high, he stared out the window, then turned to me, his face a collage of confusion and fear. “They don't really believe Zayda killed Christine, do they? I swear, she didn't. Not that your brother did, but I finally figured out why she went out there early.”

A door opened out front.

“You have to understand. We all love making movies, but Zayda—she's on fire.” The words stumbled out. “It's like it's in her blood. She'd die if she thought this couldn't
be her career. She knows stuff Larry doesn't know. But she needs—”

Footsteps approached and we froze.

“What's going on?” Larry Abrams said. He flicked on the light.

I blinked furiously in the sudden brightness. “You startled us, that's all. The film arrived. The right film, thank goodness.”

A scowl and a look of relief crossed his face at the same time, as if coming from opposite directions and meeting in the middle.

“I thought, just this once—” Dylan began, but Larry silenced him, saying “Good. Glad to hear it.”

Think fast
. “Dylan, I've got another box—”

“Later, Erin. The kid's got work to do.”

“You bet. Later.” Halfway out the door, I glanced back at Dylan. The kid who'd decided it was better to spill someone else's secret than to keep it, only to be stopped short.

Later
.

A
dam strode in the Merc's front door about two seconds before I headed out the back. No way would I show up stinky for my own party two nights in a row.

“Oh, little darlin,'” he said. “Long, cold lonely winter.”

Here comes the sun.

After a long, delicious kiss, I took a step back, hands on his arms. “Roads okay?”

“Rotten. Plows can't keep up. Snowing and blowing like mad.” At my frown, he added, “Didn't know how crummy it would be until I was halfway home.”

“Glad this shindig is mostly local.” I rubbed my lucky stars for a safe evening.

We made plans to meet at the Playhouse. Adam had never seen any of the movies on the menu, but swore he was game for all five—though I made clear he could bow out any time.

Unwilling to sacrifice another pillow, I'd separated the cats that morning. But the log wall between them didn't dampen the high-decibel yowling that greeted me.

I scooped up Sandburg and rubbed the sweet spot above his nose. “You been yelling all day? You'll give yourself sandpaper throat.” A few treats in his bowl soothed his nerves and I opened the bedroom door. Picked up Pumpkin and repeated the routine. Set her down and took a shower.

Only after I got out did I realize that I'd left the bedroom door open. I wrapped my hair in a towel, cinched the belt on my robe, and peeked out.

No cats.

Crept into the living room like fog. Frowned.
Where were they?

“You little stinker.” I grabbed a sponge and wiped up Sandburg's spilled water. His kibble lay scattered on the tile entry floor. He crouched by the overturned bowls, hissing.

“How did a butterball like you get all the way up there?” I hauled a step stool into the laundry room and hoisted Pumpkin out of the wicker basket perched on top of the cabinet above the dryer. She bared her teeth at the enemy as I carried her past him. “You're lucky we didn't both break our necks.”

So much for dressing in leisure
. I pulled on a red ribbed wool sweaterdress, black tights, and my red boots. In a bow to the weather, I donned a black knit cap, red trim around the edges. No point letting Landon have all the hat fun.

The cats tucked into their separate quarters, the door between them shut tight, I went to the movies.

*   *   *

S
how up five minutes late, and the fun's already started. That's Jewel Bay for you.

The Bijou sign twinkled and I sent a silent greeting to Christine.
Good idea.

Wish you were here.

In the lobby, aromas of popcorn, warm cookies, and wet wool competed for attention. My mother and sister wore 1940s post-war skirted suits, in honor of Julia Child's arrival in Paris. Chiara had coaxed Jason into a period suit
and skinny tie, but no amount of Fresca's magic could have persuaded Bill to trade in his fleece pullover and hiking shoes twice in one week.

The Georges, the Washingtons, and other Film Club parents came in together, several of the women in costume. Donna Lawson rocked a perfect red Chanel pant suit with black-and-white spectator pumps. I did a double take: Heidi Hunter, owner of Kitchenalia and my mother's closest friend, in a vintage black-and-white checked two-piece dress worthy of Lauren Bacall, a black beret atop her dark blond hair, her ever-present diamond tennis bracelet glistening. Arm in arm with Reg Robbins, ex-NFL star turned art potter, tall, dark, and well-muscled, grin as broad as the valley views from his hilltop studio.

“Are they together? As in—
together
?” Heidi ran through men like water through a sieve. Reg avoided most village social events, and kept his personal life, well, personal.

The feather on Fresca's green beret bobbed. “And it just might work.”

Kyle Caldwell came in with the Lodge baker, the brunette he'd met for pool Tuesday night. Tracy and Rick arrived, Nick and Adam behind them. Hugs and kisses all around. We joked about Rick and Nick and rhyming names. Adam sweetly inquired after Bozo.

Rick kissed my cheek. “You look wonderful. Tonight's bittersweet, but you're in charge. How can it fail?”

“Thanks. Did Tracy tell you what we're doing in the shop?”

“Perfect solution.” He beamed. “Just don't give the chocolates so much space you don't have room for flour and oats.”

Ah, staple foods versus specialty items, the daily table versus the tourist trade. The tension never strayed far from our conversation—a big reason why our fledgling romance had met a quick end.

The main reason, snowflakes glinting on his dark curls
and the shoulders of his parka, bent his head toward Tracy as she chattered about truffles and dog treats. Adam caught my eye and winked.

I smiled back, then looped my arm through Nick's, leading him away from the door. “So glad you came. It will be a hit and a tribute. I promise.”

Fresca approached, arms open, Chiara behind her carrying wine for me and a beer for Nick.

“Thanks, Erin.” He kissed the top of my head and let them take charge of him.

Without Christine to handle MC duties, I'd delegated the job, to give the kids experience. Tonight's honors went to the girl with multihued red hair. I popped into the theater as she finished sound check and she flashed me a thumbs up.

Back out front, the kids took positions at each entrance, ready to pass out programs. No sign—or smell—of plumbing problems. I surveyed the growing crowd.
Half the town. Yes.

Including Deputy Kim Caldwell, standing near the ticket office eating popcorn.

Breathe, Erin
.

The lobby lights dimmed.
Showtime
.

“Erin, there you are.” Dylan slid to a breathless stop in front of me, Zayda close behind him. “I went out to shovel the side steps, so they're clear for people who leave that way. And I saw that guy again.”

“The guy you saw Wednesday?”
Danny?

“Sorry. We didn't tell you the whole story last night—we thought—and then I meant to tell you this afternoon, but I chickened out. The guy we might have accidentally let in. Who might have cut the screen and damaged the plumbing.”

My brain heard, but didn't quite compute.

“He's out back, by the breakers. Come on.” Dylan sprinted for the theater—the quickest route.

I shot Kim a panicked look and tore after him.

Down the side aisle we flew. Dylan pushed the door open and I followed, Zayda on my heels. The clang of metal on metal deafened me.

“Danny! Stop! You'll electrocute yourself.” The stocky man ignored me, swinging the snow shovel wildly at the olive green transformer box.

I grabbed for his arm, but he danced out of reach.

“I don't care. I deserve it. Whatever you think of me, I'm so sorry.” He flailed at the box, blinking as tears ran down his plump red cheeks and into his eyes. Whatever he hoped to accomplish, we had to stop him.

With the advantage of youth over size, Dylan lowered his shoulder and rammed him. Danny staggered backward. The shovel flew out of his hand. Zayda scrambled for it, nearly going down on the slick slope.

“It was an accident,” Danny said, words blurred by the scuffle. “I never meant to hurt him.”

“What are you talking about?” Slashing the screen and damaging the pipes clearly were not accidents. Neither was hammering away at the power supply for a theater holding more than four hundred people.

As if regretting his incomprehensible apology, Danny found a second wind and launched himself toward Dylan. At the same moment, the side door opened and Kim stepped out. Locked in a struggle, the two men fell into the junipers alongside the building.

Black metal glinted in Kim's hand.

Danny stuttered to his feet, blinded by tears and rage.

“Danny, stop or she'll shoot,” I yelled. How could I stop him? A blank paver, left over from the last remodel when blocks stamped with donors' names were used to pave the front walkway, lay by the door. One had flown through the Merc window last summer, and using another now felt like justice. Sweet, dangerous justice.

Just stun him
, I told myself.
Slow him down
.

Cracked, the paver fell into pieces in my hand. What
next? Danny lowered his head to charge me, the nearest body. Channeling my nephew's superheroes, I yanked off my black hat and flung it in his face. At the same moment, Zayda slammed his knee with the shovel and down he went, yowling like my cats.

“Just kill me,” Danny said, in between screams. “Because I killed him.”

“Him? Who? What are you talking about?” I panted for breath. “The only person dead is Christine.”

“You?” Kim said, sounding incredulous. “You were with Kyle?”

“What is going on?” I felt like a bobble-head doll, eyes and ears swinging between two people conversing in a foreign language.

Kim pulled handcuffs out of some hidden pocket and snapped them on Danny's wrists. “Help me haul this idiot somewhere safe.”

I stuck my head inside the theater, putting on my biggest fake smile. “All under control. Let the real show begin.”

Muttering into her radio, Kim dragged Danny by one arm, Dylan tugging the other, up the sloping alley. The smooth soles of his city shoes slipped on the packed snow, slowing them down.

City shoes. No snow boots with their heavy treads for Danny. He was not the cottage burglar.

At Front Street, Kim gave me a questioning look.

“Playhouse office?” I grabbed the door.

“Go find Kyle,” she commanded, and I obeyed.

Ten minutes later, Ike Hoover, in civvies, strode into the already crowded office. Two uniformed deputies stood guard outside. Cuffed to the chair, Danny squirmed under Kim's glower. Eyes wide as saucers, Dylan and Zayda flattened themselves against the wall as if they wanted to disappear into it.

This whole chaotic mess baffled me. Why on earth did Danny Davis give one fig about the Food Lovers' Film Festival?

“He knows what you did, Kyle,” Kim said. “He's been covering for you all these years.”

“Did what?” Forehead creased, Kyle studied her for answers. “Covering for what?”

“Fifteen years,” Kim said, her voice strained but determined. “It was your car that pushed Tom Murphy into the bridge. You hid it in the barn so no one would see the damage. They never matched the paint, but—”

My mouth fell open. Ike gripped my upper arm and steadied me.

“Yeah. You and your hot rod, you hit the coach's car. Sped away like a coward.” Danny spat out the words, eyes bulging, mouth twisted.

“Ohmygod. It was
you
. You killed Coach Murphy.” Kyle's blue eyes blazed in fury.

“No, Kyle. It's time to stop all the lies,” Kim said.

Kyle stretched out a long arm, pointing at Danny. “The lies started fifteen years ago. When this piece of . . . garbage borrowed my car. You said you scraped a tree. I should have known.” He turned to me. “Erin, I'm so sorry. I never put it together.”

Danny started to speak but Kyle spun around, using his ex-Army officer's control. “Shut your trap. You've done enough damage.”

Realization filled Ike Hoover and he stepped forward, arms stretched, palms out. “Enough.” His stern focus rested briefly on each of us, then settled on Danny Davis, now quiet. Danny dropped his gaze to the floor. “If I understand correctly, Davis, you took Kyle's GTO for a drive. You struck Tom Murphy's car on the bridge. You sped on past as his car spun and slammed into the guardrail, killing him.”

Kim covered her mouth with both hands, her blue eyes the only color in her face.

“You drove back to the Lodge,” Ike continued. “Later, you told your buddy you'd had a minor accident with a tree. You did not tell him you'd hit another car and run.”

Danny nodded almost imperceptibly.

Ike turned to Kyle. “You and Davis had already graduated. You'd enlisted, but you were at the funeral—I remember the parade of Tom's former student athletes shuffling past the coffin and down the reception line, greeting Mrs. Murphy and her children.”

“Shipped out two days later,” Kyle said.

Kim made a strangled noise.

“You have something to add, Detective?” Ike said.

“But I thought—I saw—” Tears filled her swollen eyes. “I was at the Dairy Queen. I saw the car go by. I thought you went in the Army because you felt guilty. To escape responsibility. But I never said anything, because you were my cousin. Oh, God, Erin, I'm so sorry.” Her attention shifted from her cousin to me to the real culprit. “But it was you driving. Not Kyle.”

Danny's chin quivered and his nose dripped.

“You thought—”Kyle's voice shook in disbelief. “All these years, you thought I killed Coach Murphy and ran away? He was my
coach
. You know what that meant to me. I've never gotten over it. None of us have.”

Except Danny Davis, who raised his head to watch the Caldwell cousins come to a reckoning.

Everything I had never understood about my friendship with Kim and its unexpected change after my father's death became clear. Her harshness toward Kyle, so evident last summer. She had misunderstood what she'd seen back then, and I'd misunderstood her response.

Counting on my red boots for confidence, I took a deep breath to steady myself. “So why go after Christine? Why try to stop the Film Festival?”

“Christine? That girl who got murdered? I had nothing to do with that.” Danny sniffed back teary snot, his face a runny mess. “At Red's last week, when you said your car was in the kids' movie, I knew I had to stop it. I've always been afraid”—he paused for a huge, grotty sniff—“that
somebody musta seen. A witness who would see the car and put two and two together.”

“And get four instead of three, like I did.” Kim cradled one elbow, her other hand clutching her lapel.