Butter Off Dead (8 page)

“Y
ou don't have to like each other,” I told the cats Monday morning. “Just don't kill each other.” They'd made a temporary peace overnight, Pumpkin cowering in the open crate, Sandburg supreme on the foot of my bed, one green eye vigilant.

My urban-chic wardrobe had included winter-in-Seattle necessities like a black umbrella, a red trench, and scarves to muffle the damp breeze that blows in off Puget Sound from September to May. It did not include winter-in-Montana necessities like long-sleeved tees and turtlenecks that look good layered or worn alone, wind-stopper pants that don't scream “ski slopes,” and knee-high boots with nonskid soles.

I pulled on the black pants I'd been living in the last few weeks, a willow-green thermal top with a subtle burnout, and a fleecy sweater sporting ribbed cuffs and collar. But while fleece wards off the winter chill in Seattle, it's a year-round fabric here.

A few village shops close after Christmas and reopen in
spring; others take a short sun break. I'm glad Wendy and Max are workaholics like me who never take a vacation.

“Hey, Wendy. The usual, please.” Double tall skinny, and a
pain au chocolat
. Nonfat milk balances out the chocolate calories. I rubbed my hands both for heat and in anticipation, glancing into the backroom full of worktables and industrial ovens. Love a bakery that lets you watch your breads and treats spring to life, from scratch, by hand.

A hank of long brown hair had worked loose from Wendy's ponytail and she shoved it behind her ear. Wendy is not what you call warm and fuzzy. The problem isn't her plain features, but her moodiness. One look and you know how she feels.

In her hands, even the steamer sounded angry this morning.

“I don't know if I can do it, Erin.” She set my latte on the counter and reached into the pastry case. “Pretend we're all friends having fun at the movies while a murder investigation is going on.”

Wendy came from a theater family, but acting “as if” wasn't in her blood.

I took the white bag she held out and squeezed her hand. Some hurts even chocolate and caffeine can't heal.

We'd had to upgrade the Merc's furnace last fall, putting a sizable dent in the year's profits, but when I punched the thermostat and it roared to life, I thanked my lucky stars. Dumped my stuff on the front counter—the cash-wrap, in retail parlance—and grabbed the snow shovel. Once last night's dusting was gone, I found a bucket of salt mixed with sand and scattered a handful on an icy patch. Must keep the customers upright.

“Dang, it's cold.” In the back hall, Tracy made a show of shivering. Her glass-bead earrings shook like chandeliers in an earthquake. She shrugged out of her coat—a decidedly un-chic powder blue imitation of a sleeping bag—and snared it on an iron hook original to the building. Vintage
is not always tasteful. “Every time I say we're in for a slow day, something happens to prove me wrong.”

“So say it,” I said. “Work a little reverse psychology.”

“You see the forecast? Snow every day this week. So much for a film festival.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Christine. Ohmygod. I can't believe it.”

I slid off my stool and hugged her.

A few minutes later, the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the shop and a bowl of Candy Divine's saltwater taffy sat on the stainless steel counter next to the coffeepot.
Bring 'em on!

Fresca charged in, eyes blazing. “I can't believe you're taking on the Film Festival.”

“Hey, you always say the object is to die with a full in-box.” In other words, keep busy. “Christine cared about this, Mom. I want to see it through for her. Besides, it's too late to cancel. The Playhouse bought the gear, and the kids are premiering their documentary.”

Although if Zayda was arrested, we'd lose our chief technical officer as well as our chief organizer. I perished the thought.

“Darling.” Fresca cradled my face in angora-gloved hands, the same deep teal as her wool coat. “I don't know where you get your determination, but I'm glad for it.”

Look in the mirror, Mom
.

“I'm going across the street to give Sally my sympathies,” she said. “If I'm not back in half an hour, send in the troops.”

Typical Fresca. Sally and Christine were connected through Iggy, and the murder reopened the wound that was Iggy's loss. I couldn't bring myself to tag along.

Almost ten. Where was my brother?

The front door opened and a pink cloud swirled in. Not colored snow, but Candy Divine herself. “Oooh,” she squealed. “I'm so cold I could eat an elephant.”

She slipped off her black hooded cape, lined in pink
satin, to reveal an astonishing pink-and-white striped sweaterdress and sparkly pink Moon Boots.
Some ice cream shop has lost its awning
.

“I'm so sorry about Christine,” she said, in the voice that always sounds like she swallowed helium. “It seems heartless to talk about candy—the treats, not me—after what happened, but . . .”

“Thanks. And no worries. Wendy's got the festival menu all planned, but Tracy and I thought it would be fun to offer handmade movie candy in the shop.”

She spread a collection of recipes on the stainless steel counter for our perusal.

“Green tea truffles? Dark chocolate bark with candied mint and citrus peel?” I said. “Sounds yummy, but let's stick with the classics. Peppermint patties and snowcaps.”

“Snowcaps? You mean oversized chocolate kisses covered in sprinkles?” Candy wrinkled her nose.

“I thought you love everything sweet and pink.”

Tracy laughed. “Erin, you're the one who always says, ‘Try new things. Get out of the food rut.'”

“There's a time for adventure, and a time for the tried-and-true.” Unfortunately, the difference isn't always clear.

“Hey, little sister. Hi, Trace.” Nick gave us each a hug, then extended his hand to Candy. I made introductions. A minute later, he headed downstairs.

“Oo-ooh.” Candy's pitch rose to the roof. “He's dreamy.”

“Christine's fiancé,” I fudged, suppressing a twinge of guilt as the petal pink bow in her hair drooped.

I traipsed downstairs. Nick's cabin had never been intended for four-season living, let alone a home office, so rather than freeze—or half rebuild it—he'd taken over the basement workspace we'd created for Fresca. Plus, he gets free coffee and Wi-Fi.

He stood there now, staring at the piles of papers and books on his makeshift desk. “Wow,” he said, looking up. “She's pink.”

Good to laugh, if only for a moment.

We debated where to put the chrome shelf units I'd bought for the canning area. The producers who use our commercial kitchen would be able to cook, bottle, label, and store their products all in one location. I promised to pick out the hall paint this afternoon.

Back upstairs, Fresca had returned from her condolence call in one piece and started a batch of olive tapenade, a bestseller in all seasons. Its salty-tangy-garlicky aroma filled the air. My next snack.

All quiet on the shop floor, so I headed upstairs. Our POS—point of sale—inventory control system is a royal pain at times, and the crown jewel at others. Right now, the figures for Fresca's fresh pasta were off, but I spotted the problem, jiggered the software, and whipped them back in line.

As expected, sales had limped through January and stumbled into February. We'd changed our business model and product mix when I took over last May—tossing the gimmicky gift items and focusing on the local and regional, the whole and natural—so we had no basis for an annual comparison. But summer and fall had been strong enough to convince me that we'd found the right combo. Real food, sustainably grown, and a few ancillary items that mesh with our mission: Reg Robbins's earthenware, hand-sewn linens from Dragonfly Dry Goods, glasses crafted from recycled wine bottles paired with lovely vintages from Monte Verde.

Which reminded me of my mother's broken martini glass. I added finding a replacement to my to-do list.

The landline rang as I signed the last January commission check for our vendors. When Tracy didn't grab the phone by the third ring, I figured she was busy helping a customer.

“Glacier Mercantile. This is Erin Murphy.”

The caller introduced himself, apologized for the interruption, and asked if I knew how to reach Nicholas
Murphy. “You're in luck. Would you prefer to hold, or have him call you back?”

He preferred to hold. I dashed down the stairs, wondering why one of Pondera's most prominent lawyers wanted my brother.

A few minutes later, when all was quiet, I snuck up the steps and peeked into my office. Nick sat in my chair, stunned. As if he'd been struck by one of his own darts—humane darts, used in tracking and collaring wolves. I pried the receiver from his hand, set it in the cradle, and waited.

After a long silence, he raised his eyes. “Her will names me her primary heir. The real estate, personal property, and cash and investments. Money I never imagined she had. There's a whatdoyoucallit? A bequest to the school district for the art program and another to the Art Center. A few other specific bequests.”

“She never made any money. Her paintings were too affordable.” The proof hung on the wall. “Did it come from Iggy?”

“Must have, but she never told me.”

“Mom's here. You sit. I'll get lunch.” I dashed next door and ordered Nick's favorite, the roast beef and Havarti on a baguette, and two Caprese panini.

In summer, there's a dip in traffic at noon, when shoppers with stomachs on standard time stop for a bite, and another at one o'clock when folks convinced the restaurants will be jammed at noon take their turn. On a snowy Monday in February, I can count the midday shoppers on one hand. So with Tracy gone for lunch and a dog walk, a trio of Murphys settled onto the red-topped stools and unwrapped our sandwiches. I ate and watched while Nick told Fresca about the unexpected inheritance.

Fresca laid her hand on his. “Oh, darling. You truly had no idea she meant for you to have all that?”

“Not a clue. Contingency planning, the lawyer called it. She was only thirty-four, but she knew what can
happen.” Losing a parent young—in her case, both parents and very young—was one of the things Nick and Christine had in common. “Why didn't I know? If she felt that strongly . . . I mean, we were getting back together. I was trying to figure out how to be home more, work closer to Jewel Bay. But . . .” He shook his head, mystified.

Fresca leaned closer. “You have nothing to feel guilty about, Nick. Nothing. The things unsaid . . .”

I knew she was thinking about her own loss. My father. Nick knew it, too. He turned his hand palm up and squeezed hers. My throat tightened. I reached for the unfinished sandwiches and began wrapping. “The worst part is—”

Our front door chimed and I stopped myself.

“Hello, Kimberly,” Fresca said. “Just in time for lunch.”

Thank goodness I'd held my tongue.

“I'm fine, thanks,” Kim said. “Erin, Nick, I need formal statements about Saturday.”

No hint of the romantic interest Fresca had speculated on in Kim's tone or her expression. But her left foot tapped the floor in a most peculiar way. She opened a black leather messenger-style purse and withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle.

“We found the murder weapon, a .38 that matches the slug taken from the body. So, I brought your gun back.” She opened the bundle to reveal Nick's .45.

“Where did you find it?” I asked. “The .38, I mean.”

“I can't say. Not until the rest of the analysis—”

The chime clattered and clanged as the front door flew open, the century-old oak frame smacking the front counter. The vibration set the jelly jars quaking and I grabbed a pint of cherry preserves before it smashed onto the floor.

“He had motive and means.” Sally jabbed her forefinger at Nick. “And if you've got the nerve to ask the right questions, I bet you'll find plenty of opportunity.”

“Sally, what are you saying?” Fresca took her arm in a grip too firm to shake off. Sally wore no coat, and her thin
brown tunic and tan suede loafers were no match for the weather.

“He had everything to gain, at my expense.” She whipped her head toward Fresca. “Did you know that, when you came over this morning, acting all sympathetic?”

“Know what?” Kim said.

“Christine left him everything. Including what she stole from my family.”

“Wait a minute.” Kim extended her hands like a pair of stop signs. “Slowly, calmly, tell me what you're talking about.”

“Iggy and I were family. Everyone thought Christine was her granddaughter, but she was a complete stranger who wormed her way into a lonely old lady's life.” Sally spat out the words, ignoring Nick's sputtered protests. “That—that painter convinced Iggy to leave her everything.
Everything
. Cutting out her family, her rightful heirs.”

Last summer, Sally had informed me that not everyone in the village approves of the emphasis on food. Apparently she didn't care for our reputation as a haven for artists, either.

“This one”—her mad eyes darted toward Nick—“made all lovey-dovey and got her to leave it all to him. And then—”

“I get the picture, Sally,” Kim said.

Nick let out a long, ragged breath. “I won't pretend to know what two dead women—two kind, generous women—were thinking. But I loved Christine Vandeberg, and I had nothing to do with her death.”

“How do you know any of this?” Kim asked Sally.

“Her lawyer called. He knew I'd been consulting about my rights to challenge Iggy's will. He wrote both wills—he'll be in deep doo-doo if I win. He said Christine added a codicil to her will, leaving me a few pieces of art. Trying to buy me off.”