Butter Off Dead (6 page)

Silent, Nick studied the corner of the desk. Reached out and probed a scratch.

“Did you talk to Christine after you left Red's?” Kim returned to the swivel chair. It squeaked.

“She called to let me know she was home, and say good night.” His voice was soft, and sad.

“Did you call her this morning?”

He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head, eyes blank.

“Somebody must have been here, besides Zayda and me,” I interjected. “Did you find tire tracks? Footprints?”

Kim ignored my interruption, her piercing blue eyes trained on Nick. “Anything bugging her lately?” Her eye flicked my way, including me in the question.

After a long moment, he raised his head and met her gaze. “Nothing you don't know about.”

“She was focused on the Film Festival,” I said. “Lots of details to manage, but no real problems.”

“What time was your meeting?” she asked me. “Why didn't you and Zayda drive out together?”

“Never thought about it,” I said. “The Georges live just up the hill. Straight shot from their house.” No one seemed to notice my stupid choice of words. I didn't know whether Zayda had come from home or the Inn. “You know me. I run a shop, but I end up running all over.”

Shop
, Christine had said. Why had she asked about my shop?
Shock
, I decided.

Kim took me through my arrival, my conversation with
Zayda, and my movements. Nick blanched when I described finding Christine.

Finally, Kim stood. “My sympathies to you both. She had no family, right?”

“A cousin in Vermont,” Nick said. He sat, not moving, then rubbed one hand across his eyebrow. “I—I can't believe any of this.”

Before I could reach out, before I could touch him, he rose and left the office. I trailed behind in time to see him stride across the big room, not giving the Georges a glance. I stretched out a hand to Mimi and Zayda. I wanted to say,
It'll be all right. Detective Caldwell and Undersheriff Hoover will do everything. It will be all right.

Ike had been a new detective when my father was killed. He had done everything he could. But he hadn't found the killer, and it hadn't been all right.

But even I can keep my mouth shut sometimes.

The wind was still swirling, the clouds still hovering, still spitting icy BBs at us. Across the highway, deputies had commandeered the snowy grounds of the former church. Industrial work lights on wheels illuminated the rapidly darkening scene. Light shone from the church windows.

Behind the cottage, near the wild horse sculpture, another work light blazed and two deputies consulted, heads together, one pointing at the ground.

Beyond them, a four-strand fence marked the property line. On the other side stood Jack Frost. Too far away, and the sky too dark and grim, to make out his expression, but his crossed arms and the body half-turned toward the deputies spoke a wary contempt. It did not speak grief for his departed neighbor.

We were nearly at our cars when Nick spoke. “Her cat.”

“They'll find it.” The cottage lights were on.
Still searching?
I'd lost all track of time.

“I'm not leaving it. Her.” Nick strode toward the cottage, and I trotted behind. His foot hit the first step to the porch and a deputy appeared out of nowhere.

“If you can catch the thing, you're welcome to take her.” The deputy grimaced and pushed back his sleeve. Three long red scratches.

Twenty minutes later, I drove away, the orange tabby yowling in a cardboard box in my backseat. I'd missed my chance to pick up fresh eggs and cheese, but there was no avoiding a stop for Band-Aids.

M
y mother punched off her phone and placed it carefully on her living room coffee table. “Bill says put calendula gel on the scratch, and take homeopathic ledum if it swells or starts to weep.”

“I can't believe you took that devil cat home,” Chiara said.

“I couldn't leave her. And Nick can't keep her.” Wolf Man insisted on the rescue, but is conveniently allergic to all variety of cats, including DSH—domestic short hair. Although this one was clearly not domesticated.

“That's why they have shelters.” My sister had tolerated Sparky the Border collie, our childhood family pet, much like she tolerated Mr. Sandburg, my cat, and Pepé, Mom's Scottie dog. My love of horses and Nick's career as a wildlife biologist baffle her. Pepé stared at the plate of truffles in her hand, pleading. “No. Chocolate's bad for dogs.”

Chiara's husband, Jason, had taken Landon into Pondera for an early movie and pizza, leaving the Murphy
girls to a long-planned evening of dinner and huckleberry martini and margarita tasting with a few girlfriends.

But with one of those friends dead, the others had stayed home. Heidi Hunter, the queen of Kitchenalia, and Kathy Jensen, owner of Dragonfly Dry Goods yarn and fabric shop and president of the Village Merchants' Association, had been as shocked as we were.

“How can you think about chocolate?” Fresca cast a disapproving eye at the plate and settled onto the couch, snugging her vintage silk kimono around her. This one featured Japanese fans scattered on a pale green background.

Unusual—and refreshing—to hear Fresca direct one of her food barbs at my sister instead of me.

After leaving Christine's, I'd stopped for Band-Aids and more cat litter. In my cabin, I tucked Pumpkin—aptly named—into my bedroom, then dug out Mr. Sandburg's carrying crate and left it open in the corner, in case she needed its security. Sandburg I left in charge of the main room. They could yell at each other—battle cries had begun the moment I hauled in the thumping cardboard box—through closed doors.

I'd showered, changed into black yoga pants and a long-sleeved purple fleece sweatshirt, and driven up to the Orchard. Though I haven't lived here in years, it will always be home.

Fresca had already taken refuge in her kimono, the minestrone she'd made earlier in the day giving the house a rich tomato-oregano aroma. Nick had stopped long enough to share the bad news, then retreated to his place.

“He shouldn't be up there alone,” Fresca said now, reaching for one of the truffles she'd spurned.

“He's a grown man, Mom. Let him mourn in his own way.” My sister's words seemed to take the bone out of Fresca's spine, and she sank into the upholstery, deflated. Pepé hopped up next to her, so attuned to changing moods that she ignored the truffle and rested her snout on my
mother's thigh. Like any good dog or cat, she knows that to an animal lover, petting is as comforting to petter as to pettee.

“I brought all the ingredients—we might as well try the recipes.” In the kitchen, I got out the blender and mixed a batch of huckleberry margaritas while my sister put together huckleberry martinis. People often mistake us for each other—we've got the same fair skin, dark eyes, and straight dark bobs, though mine's a little longer, and at five-five, I'm an inch taller. She's two years older and by far the freer spirit.

“Shaken or stirred?” she asked.

“Doesn't matter,” I said. “Either way, we've put fruit in a martini. James Bond just had a heart attack and died. We've managed what Dr. No, Goldfinger, and Oddjob combined couldn't do.”

Giggling, we carried the cocktail tray out to the living room. Pepé raised her head, saw that it was us, and went back to her nap.

“I can't imagine what you girls can find to laugh about at a time like this,” Fresca said.

“Mom, it stinks. It really stinks.” My voice got tight, my eyes watered, and my throat swelled—and not from the cat scratch on my neck. “But save it for the killer. Not us.”

Chiara poured margaritas into thick glasses rimmed in cobalt blue, souvenirs from a trip to Puerto Vallarta. “Hard to believe Zayda George would kill anybody.”

“At first, she said she waited outside for me, then she had to admit she'd gone inside. She swears nothing happened—the brow ring just fell out.” I took a glass. “Doesn't make sense. Why go back outside? If she knew Christine was hurt, why not call for help? If she shot her, why stick around?”

Fresca accepted a margarita. “Doesn't seem like the girl we know.”

The village merchants all see one another's children regularly. Older kids like Zayda, her brother, T.J., and
Dylan Washington work for their parents, the way we'd helped our grandfather when he ran the Merc. Landon and the other youngsters cut a wide swath, leaving smiles in their wake.

None of that means we really
know
any of the kids. But as president of the Film Club, Zayda had approached Christine and me about including the students' documentary in the Festival. She'd served as liaison between us—the food and organizational side—and her club and its advisor, Larry, on the technical side. She'd been capable and responsible.

Or so it seemed. But something had gone wrong today. And yesterday she'd been pestering Larry about some problem, though he'd waved off her worries.

“Good job, little sis,” Chiara said, raising her margarita glass. “You make the huckleberry tequila?”

“Yep. Thanks. So why did Kim take Nick's gun? He was crawling around the woods, spying on wolves, when—well, when it happened.”
It. Murder.

“She's got to check everything, I guess. Did she ask you and Zayda about guns?”

“I don't own one. If she asked Zayda, it wasn't in front of us.”

Fresca held her glass in one graceful hand. “She's always had her eye on your brother.”

“Kim?” I dismissed it. “When we were kids, maybe. All my friends did.”

“Mine, too. Ready for the next contestant?” Chiara positioned three martini glasses on the tray and raised the stainless steel shaker.

I nodded. “She's over it.”

Fresca tilted her head. “I'm not so sure about that. Might have been hard for her, seeing him and Christine get back together.”

I tried to picture Kim Friday night at Red's. Any jealous looks had escaped me. Since my return last May, she hadn't
been involved with anyone, far as I knew. Last fall, on one of our semiregular Friday afternoon rides, I'd asked her about dating. “The gun gets in the way,” was all she'd said. Her cousin Kyle was single, too, so it had been natural for them to pair up for pool league.

If they kept on beating the potato chips out of us, we might have to break them up.

“But you know who I wonder about. That Jack Frost character. He gives me the creeps.” I took the handblown martini glass Chiara handed me, deep red swirls draped around the V-shaped bowl and down the stem. “And the other night—”

The glass shattered in my hand. “Criminy.”

“What happened? Are you okay? I'll get a towel.” Chiara jumped up and sprinted for the kitchen. Stunned, I stared at my hand, still holding part of the glass, the rest in pieces on my lap and on my mother's Persian rug. No blood—just wet, sticky, purple vodka.

“I can't believe it. Can't you kids leave one single pretty thing unbroken? One plate unchipped, one surface unscratched?” Fresca gathered her kimono around her and swept past my sister, standing in the doorway, kitchen towel in hand.

And as she left, even Pepé's mouth fell open in astonishment.

*   *   *

“P
lay nice,” I told Mr. Sandburg. “Don't snarl at company.”

Nobody, in any species, enjoys being displaced. Sandy had always had full run of the cabin, and most nights, slept on my feet or curled up behind my knees. I woke Sunday morning to find him occupying the ottoman in the living room, chin on his paws, staring out the French doors.

Bemoaning his exile, or lamenting Mr. Squirrel's absence?

Pumpkin had left the borrowed crate only to use the makeshift litter box I'd set up in the bathroom, sniff her food, and dip her tongue in the water. The deputy had shooed us away as soon as I coaxed her out from under Christine's bed, not letting me search for her toys or bed, but she seemed reassured by the crate's confines.

It's a universal thing. Consider the appeal of the log cabin. Even an upgraded one like this, with a gas fireplace and stainless steel appliances, is comforting in part because it's so compact.

After my talk with Sandy, I threw open the pine double doors between the main room—combined cooking, eating, and living space—and the luxurious bed-and-bath addition. Pumpkin would emerge when she was ready.

A pot of Cowboy Roast brewing, I cinched the belt on my fluffy white robe and got out flour, sugar, raisins, and buttermilk. Ground flaxseed. Zested an orange.

I slid the first tray of scones into the oven and closed the door, turning in time to see a giant orange butterball bound onto the black granite-topped island.

“No, you don't.” I grabbed the cat in both hands and deposited her onto the pine plank floor quickly, avoiding those slashing claws. “House rules.”

The cat sidled underneath a high-backed barstool, its wrought-iron legs a protective cage. Flicked her tail and wrapped it around herself.

Sandburg jumped on the back of the tweedy brown couch and glared at her, eyes narrowed, front paws together. His dark fur began to bristle as the energy built in his shoulders.

“Don't you dare,” I said, in a warning tone. “No pouncing, and no hissy fits.”

One hissy fit in the family had been enough. After Chiara and I had picked up the broken glass and sponged up the sticky mess, we'd polished off our drinks and debated what on earth had gotten into Fresca. Francesca Conti
Murphy was not given to flying off the handle, despite her Italian heritage. Strong-willed and capable of deep emotion, yes, but not a drama queen. With three kids in four years, she'd cleaned up plenty of childhood accidents, and Landon certainly caused his share. But her anger over the broken martini glass had been inexplicable.

“It's because of Christine,” I'd said.

“Of course it is,” Chiara had replied, but then we'd circled back, unable to understand why Fresca's grief had taken that particular form.

“I hope I don't lash out at Landon next time he spills his milk,” she'd said. Then we'd hugged and gone home.

Now I crouched beside the terrified tabby. “You're confused, and you're mad, and I don't blame you. But you have to keep your claws to yourself. We all do.” I resisted the urge to stroke her silky apricot fur.

“Talking to yourself? Who you got down there? Hello, Pumpkin.”

I hadn't heard Adam come in. He crouched beside us and gave me the crooked smile that never failed to draw one from me.

We'd talked last night. He knew about Christine, and he knew not to touch the cat. His curled fingers rested lightly on the floor, as if they might hold a treat, and she sniffed in his direction before withdrawing into herself.

“Progress.” We pushed ourselves up.

“All in good time,” he said, and wrapped his arms around me. Our kiss was long and deep and everything I needed. Letting myself feel safe with him felt like a risk, weird as that might sound. In Seattle, every man I'd dated ultimately chose his career over me. I'd responded by focusing on my own career to the exclusion of almost everything else. Until I met a poetry-spouting retired English teacher named Roxy Turner on a walk around the reservoir in our Capitol Hill neighborhood. We quickly became good friends, and months later when she died, it had been natural to adopt her cat, Mr.
Sandburg. A cat my landlord hated. So when my mother needed help at the Merc, the timing was right to take my frustrated career ambitions, my frustrated personal ambitions, and my occasionally frustrating but mostly delightful cat and move home.

“I'm not keeping her,” I said, stepping out of Adam's embrace. “Help me think of someone to pawn her off on.”

“Did you just say ‘paw her off'?”

“No, silly.” I rattled a tin box of tuna-flavored treats. “Guests first,” I told Sandy, and headed for the bathroom. By the time I'd sprinkled a few tidbits in her bowl and set it on the floor, Pumpkin had inched over the threshold. The moment I stepped back, she fell on those treats like Landon falls on cookies.

Back out front, I spilled out a few for Sandy. Adam poured coffee in two poppy red Reg Robbins mugs and we sat at the island, drinking in the scents of dark roast and baking scones.

“You okay? You're making quite a habit of this, you know.”

Of finding bodies. I knew. “‘Okay' is a relative thing. I'm not breaking dishes”—I'd told him last night about my mother and the martini glass—“and I'm not curled up in a ball in the corner. But I feel like a light's gone out.”

“It has.”

I love how he understands my metaphors. He doesn't always recognize the bits of poems and plays I draw from thin air and the deep recesses of memory, but he listens and responds thoughtfully.

What is that saying about stars being holes in the sky where the love of our lost ones shines down from heaven, to let us know they're happy and not to worry?

The timer buzzed and I slid the scones out of the oven. We carried our bounty to the couch, where Sandburg had reclaimed his position.

“Best couch-front view in town,” Adam said. Jewel Bay
sits at the northeast end of Eagle Lake, the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi. Twenty-eight miles long, eleven miles wide near the south end. Named for the bay where the Jewel River meets the lake, the unincorporated town centers on the village—the original settlement, what some call downtown—but the community stretches for miles in all directions. Sparsely populated miles with stunning views.