Butter Off Dead (4 page)

M
onths before Christine roped me into helping launch the film festival, I'd started my own winter project: developing the Merc's signature drink line. “You need another project like the proverbial hole in the head,” Fresca had said. Just when I thought she understood that a business has to keep reinventing itself to stay current.

So instead of my usual double latte and
pain au chocolat
from Le Panier, I started Saturday off with a chai mix taste test. Unlike the popcorn seasonings, we hadn't created these ourselves. Instead, we'd put out a call inviting home cooks, restaurateurs, and other entrepreneurial types to submit their blends. We'd credit the winner on the label, and handle marketing, sales, and distribution. They'd also get to use our commercial kitchen for a reduced fee.

We already had our own custom coffee, Cowboy Roast, roasted and blended to our specs in Pondera. We also sold Montana Gold's Wheat Coffee, a whole-grain substitute. This spring, the women of Rainbow Lake Garden would plant mints, lemon balm, and other herbs, and come
summer, harvest the herbs, dandelions, and raspberry leaves for the Merc's line of Jewel Bay Jewels, refreshing herbal teas.

But no black teas for the time being. Not exactly a made-in-Montana product. My neighbors and I hoped to recruit someone to open a tea shop in the village, serving high tea, low tea, and all kinds of tea in between. Huckleberry scones, huckleberry creamed honey, huckleberry clotted cream. The Village Merchants' Association and the Chamber of Commerce had joined the effort. One prospect had turned us down. A second had toured the village earlier in the week but had yet to give us her decision.

I measured out chai mix, created by a local woman after a visit to a friend in India. Added hot water and stirred. Sipped.

Not bad. A touch sweet, but then, while I adore chocolate—the darker, the better—I don't have the sweetest tooth. That, I leave to Tracy and Candy Divine.

I rinsed my mouth and tried the second blend. Both had impressed the first-round judges: Tracy, Fresca, and Heidi Hunter, owner of Kitchenalia. Sweetened with stevia, this one would score well with the calorie-conscious, an important factor in product development. A less traditional flavor combination than the first. Pepperier, if that's a word.

“Yoo-hoo, Erin!” A voice rang out over the sound of the front door chime as two women entered. Mimi George, Zayda's mother and the owner—with her husband, Tony—of the Jewel Inn, the chalet-style restaurant at the north end of the village. Best breakfast joint around. Dinner service would resume in the spring, when the new chef arrived.

Mimi sat at the counter, and I set out cups of chai. “Sit,” I told Wendy Fontaine, dressed in her white baker's jacket, colorful cotton pants, and cherry red rubber clogs. “I need your professional opinion.”

They tasted, debated, retasted, and opined. The verdict? Different enough to offer both.

“So. Now,” Mimi said. “Let's see the film festival menu.” The reason for our meeting.

Wendy opened her three-ring binder. “Thursday night is the reception in the Playhouse lobby for donors and sponsors, followed by the kids' documentary. It's an upscale night, so the appetizers and desserts will be fancier than our usual fare. Paddlefish caviar on crostini—Max cures the roe himself. Goat cheese on salted olive crisps.”

I love it when Wendy talks dirty.

“Vegetable platters—fresh, roasted, and pickled,” she continued, “Crostini of zucchini,
scamorza
—that's smoked mozzarella—and bacon.”

I groaned.

“Chocolate
mollieux
and raspberry panna cotta for dessert. Sparkling wine, and the usual other beverages.”

Heavenly.

“If there's a movie theme in there, I don't get it,” Mimi said.

It doesn't take much to get Wendy's Jell-O up. (As kids, we called her Wendy the Witch, conveniently forgetting that cartoon Wendy was a good witch.) And for all Mimi's experience in the restaurant biz, tact does not top her talent list.

“We did agree to go for a bit of glamour Thursday night, and focus on the classic movie theater experience the other nights. Then Sunday, by reservation only, the Oscar-themed dinner at the Inn.” I laid my hand on Wendy's notebook. “Lovely as all this sounds, I think we can figure out easy appetizers with a movie tie-in.”

After several more rounds of chai and debate, we had a plan. To honor
Julie and Julia,
canapés au Camembert. For
Ratatouille
, crostini topped with what else? A ratatouille of eggplant, peppers, and tomatoes. And for
Chocolat
, oh, the options! We settled on éclairs, for fun and ease of service—no forks required.

“But what about
Tampopo
?” Another challenge, and
another debate. Ramen bowls were the obvious choice for the noodle Western, and impossible.

“Wontons,” Mimi suggested.

“Those are Chinese,” Wendy reminded her. “Chicken satay skewers are always popular.”

“Thai,” I said. “I know—sushi!” We settled on two varieties of rolls: tuna, and crab and avocado.

“And for
Babette's Feast
,” Wendy said, “we can make the crostini with paddlefish roe.”

“Uhhhh, sorry. Christine decided we had too many French films, so we switched to
Big Night
. Two brothers from Italy try to save their failing restaurant in New York.” I had to hurry before Wendy exploded. “How about
arancini
? Fried rice balls are easy and popular, and if you add sun-dried tomatoes to the filling, they won't need a sauce.”

Mollified, she made a few notes and we wrapped up the menu. I'd already talked to Donna Lawson, the liquor store owner, who'd agreed to supply the drinks. Friday and Saturday, we'd offer free movie popcorn. In the concession stand, the kids would sell cookies donated by Le Panier: Junior Mints sandwich cookies, already a hit in the bakery, and Wendy's and her assistant's latest obsession, iced cookies.

“I picked shapes to go with the movies. Old cars. The Eiffel Tower. A cowboy hat—that ties
Tampopo
to Montana. And Oscar—the statue, not the grouch—iced in gold.” She opened a bakery box and laid out samples.

“Almost too amazing to eat.”
But not quite
. I nibbled a wheel off a race car.

“It's practice for the Sugar Show, at Cookie Con. My assistant's teaching a class on icing, and I'm giving a workshop on presentation. You know, cookie baskets, platters, bouquets.”

“Perfect. The grocery store is donating snack-size boxes of Dots, Milk Duds, and Hot Tamales,” I said. “Zayda and I are meeting Christine this afternoon at her studio to go over a few details.”

“She's been so wrapped up with this Film Club thing.” Mimi downed the last drops of her chai. “She takes everything so seriously—I almost wish it were over. And there's her college applications. Can you believe they need written references?”

Zayda reminded me of my teenage self: intelligent and determined. Sensitive? Yes, but often that's what exasperated parents call kids who care deeply about things the adults think—or know from experience—don't really matter.

Tracy arrived moments after Mimi and Wendy left. Today, the Queen of Cheap Chic wore a black knit skirt that hit her mid-calf and a scarlet tunic, a black-and-white geometric print scarf tied around her hips like a belt. She'd drawn her thick chestnut hair back in a black scrunchie to show off her mother-of-pearl earrings. Great look, and I doubted she'd spent more than twenty-five dollars for any of it. Except the low-heeled black harness boots.

I made a strong cup of coffee to wash down the sugar and spice of the chai and headed upstairs to tackle the project I'd skipped last night.

I ran the figures for our new Jam Club, begun just before Christmas. After a purchase of ten jars, the club member gets a free six-ounce jar, any flavor. Sales and net revenue had already skyrocketed.
Yes!

Then, time to tend the shop floor. Even in February, Saturdays are our busiest days. We've worked hard to position ourselves as a local foods market, not another trendy, high-end shop, so when the dentist's wife bought our last eggs, sausage, and organic cheddar, I cheered and called my producers for more.

“Have you decided about Treasure State Olive Oil?” Tracy asked.

“I'm still not convinced,” I said.

“It's as local as the chocolates,” she said. “They use California oils and the balsamic vinegar comes from Italy.
But they blend the flavored vinegars themselves, and bottle everything in Montana.”

The owners had pitched the health benefits, the taste benefits, the profit benefits. “It's a good product, but I can't justify the investment. Not at that price point.”

“Why do you care about their price so much? You don't mind the price of chocolate-Cabernet sauce.” Tracy's voice hovered between a challenge and a pout. “And you don't have to invest anything. They're willing to consign.”

“It means an investment in space, especially for an entire line, and in your time and mine explaining the products to customers. Chocolate-Cabernet sauce practically sells itself.”

Tracy mopped up a customer's snowy footprints a tad too forcefully.

That reminded me to shovel the front walk, a first-thing chore I had put off to meet Mimi and Wendy. The downside of an unincorporated town—no town services.

I piled snow on the berm between sidewalk and street, careful to leave cuts for access, then perched on the window ledge to catch my breath and savor the sights and sounds of a sunny winter morning in Jewel Bay.

A flash of light across the street drew my eye. Larry Abrams stood in Puddle Jumpers' open doorway. Sally Grimes's hands flew, gesticulating dramatically. Sally always speaks dramatically. Fresca calls her “the Queen of the Againsters,” the folks who oppose any new idea. They're convinced what works in other towns can't possibly work here. First words out of their mouths are always “the problem is . . .” Sally wears a deflector shield worthy of a starship.

Had Larry broken through her defenses? His white head leaned in closer, his hand lightly touching her upper arm. And then, to my utter astonishment, he kissed her and strolled down Front, whistling.

Why not? Larry seemed eligible, and Sally Sourpuss is
attractive when she smiles, which isn't often. At least not at me. She does not like me. She tolerates my mother and my sister, barely knows my brother, and absolutely cannot stand me.

I must have stared a moment too long. She turned and glared, as if to say,
What's it to you?
Then she spun on her heel, almost losing her balance on the frosty concrete, and tugged the door of her shop tight behind her.

At half past twelve, while I straightened Luci the Splash Artist's soaps and lotions, the front door chime rang.

The tea shop prospect hitched her bag high on her shoulder and gave me a this-hurts-me-more-than-you look that I didn't quite believe. “Jewel Bay is adorable. But your downtown is built on restaurants and retail. That gives you ninety days to make a living off the tourists.”

“Small towns are short on office workers,” I admitted. And it's easy for the few we have, along with the bank tellers and retail employees, to run home for lunch. “But if you give the locals good food and service in a sweet place, they'll be there.”

“I've run the numbers,” she said, as if I hadn't spoken. “It can't be done.”

If you think it can or you think it can't—either way, you're right.

Half a wink after she left, the door flew open and in whirled a red-and-blue tornado, cape whipping dangerously close to a display of Montana cherry wine. Behind him stood his mother, my sister, Chiara. (Say it with a hard C, and rhyme it with tiara.)

“Bring him back to the shop after lunch,” she said and waved good-bye.

“Landon. My favorite nephew.” I scooped up the five-year-old and planted a big wet smackaroonie on his cheek. He wiped it off, a sign of his advancing age, then wiped his hand on his blue tights.

“Your only nephew,” he said, echoing his mother's standard response. “Mom says the bakery has movie cookies and you can buy me one.”

“As soon as Tracy gets back from lunch and her dog walk,” I said. “Aren't you cold in that outfit?”

He scowled. “Auntie, I'm Superman.”

A few minutes later, we popped next door into Le Panier. “A three-cheese panini. Panino. Whatever.” I'm half Italian, but all American when it comes to messing up foreign words.

“And movie cookies,” Landon said.

Wendy and her French-born husband, the Max of Chez Max, the delightful bistro adjacent to the bakery, have no children. But she always has a smile and a cookie for Landon.

She handed him a chocolate sandwich cookie with mint cream filling, wrapped in a waxed paper square that immediately drifted to the floor. I bent down to grab it. The door opened, the breeze blowing the paper under one of the café tables. I chased it around a corner, out of sight of the woman who stalked to the counter.

“How can anyone honestly believe,” Sally said to Wendy, “that this town needs yet another festival?”

My fingers touched the waxed paper and I froze.

“You'd think those Murphys would have learned their lesson,” she went on. “That Erin comes back and people start dropping like flies.”

The yeasty, warm, cinnamon-scented air seemed to freeze.

“I'm a Murphy,” Landon said, his voice as big as it could be through a mouthful of cookie. “Landon Thomas Murphy Phillips.”

I backed my way out from under the café table and stood. “If you have a beef with me, Sally, bring it to me. Have the grace not to bad-mouth my family in front of a five-year-old.”

Sally Grimes turned red. As red as Wendy's rubber clogs. As red as the red velvet cupcakes in the bakery case.