Butter Off Dead (9 page)

A buy-off? That made no sense. The heirs would inherit on Christine's death, and Sally had to be twenty years
older. In normal circumstances, Christine would have outlived her.

“I understand that Iggy's art collection was quite valuable,” Kim said. “Christine may have been more generous to you than you realize.”

Sally waved a hand in dismissal, focusing instead on Nick. “Where were you Saturday, Mr. Big Shot?”

“That is none of your business.” I couldn't help myself.

“I don't mind telling you,” Nick said, voice steady, blue eyes unwavering. “Where I am most days, out tracking wolves.”

“I'll come over for a statement when I'm finished here.” Kim all but escorted Sally, still steaming, to the door.

Fresca barely waited till she was gone to share a piece of her mind. “You know that is completely ridiculous. Sally and her daughter may have been Iggy's only living relatives, but it was Christine who shopped for her, took her to the doctor, and in the end, sat by her side for hours. They were closer than blood.”

Nothing like a mother in full protective mode.

But Sally had dared to talk about the elephant in the room. What I'd been about to say when Kim arrived. No matter what else happened, everyone would wonder about Nick. Such is the power of a sizable inheritance. Especially one out of the blue.

And small-town tongues love to wag.

The butcher's wife arrived toting a cooler full of sausage and fresh beef, giving me a reason to keep busy while Kim interviewed Nick in my office. I heard his steps descend, cross the hall, and head down to his basement refuge. I steeled myself for the summons.

Kim sat in my chair and I tried not to fidget on the spare seat, a creaky piano stool. Her open notebook and digital recorder lay on my desk.

“Why were you meeting at the church?”

“Last-minute prep. Making sure we had all the details
in hand.” Step by step, Kim led me from the moment I parked in front of the church to the gruesome discovery.

“Why call Nick?”

“All the doors were locked, and I needed to find her spare key.”

“And where did he say he was?”

“Up in the Jewel Basin, checking his packs.” What he'd said then, and what he'd repeated to Sally this morning. That's when I noticed an iPhone on the desk, in a slim silver case. Mine was in my blue leather tote bag. Kim kept hers in a sturdy black leather case, department issue.

That was Nick's phone.

“Reception's kind of iffy up there,” she said, and my throat constricted. “You pick up on any tension between Christine and Zayda?”

“Zayda's a great kid. She admired Christine. She's moody, but what seventeen-year-old isn't?” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Kim, she was alive when I found her. Zayda says she was fine. Was the killer lurking in the studio, waiting for us to leave?” If I'd gotten there two minutes earlier, Zayda and I would have been inside. Putting all three of us in danger. The thought gave me the pee-my-pants terrors.

“I'm not going to speculate,” she said. “Not till we have all the evidence. ME should give us the manner and cause of death today.”

A chill tore through me. “But you know the cause, don't you? Gunshot to the chest. And the manner—homicide, right? I mean, an accidental shooting is going to be to the hand or foot. And it didn't look like . . .” I couldn't say it. Not that I knew what suicide looks like.

The muscles in Kim's jaw tightened. “Don't get involved, Erin.”

I sat back and held up my hands in a “who, me?” gesture.

She let out a knowing sigh. We've been friends a long time.

I
bundled up and grabbed our weekend deposit envelope. The piles of snow and a few unshoveled stretches of sidewalk made the trek to the bank treacherous, but driving would be worse.

Across Front Street, the Playhouse stood dark. Was it really such a good idea to go ahead with the Festival? Was I trying too hard to act as if nothing was wrong, and drag the whole town with me?

At the corner of Front and Hill, a bright red semi struggled in the heavy wet snow, sliding backward each time the driver downshifted. Instead of veering left onto Hill, I stayed out of the way, detouring across the intersection to an inviting log building.

Inside, above the cutting table, hung a quilted jewel of a dragonfly on a marbled green backdrop. Bolts of cloth racked the shelves, and skeins of yarn crammed cubbies and spilled out of oversized baskets. With all that wool and batting, how could Dragonfly Dry Goods be anything but warm and cozy?

The normally coolheaded leader of the Merchants' Association gripped the phone like a hand grenade with the pin pulled. “We pay Jack Frost to plow the village streets every night when it snows. Where the heck is he?”

“Stuck in a snowbank somewhere?”

“Well, if he doesn't get his backside down here and move some snow, he's going to be stuck with something a lot more painful.”

Don't mess with a woman who sells knitting needles.

On my way back from the bank, I swung into Jewel Bay Print and Copy to pick up a few more Festival posters. “Snow everywhere out there,” the owner said.

“Kathy Jensen's trying to round up Jack Frost, to plow.”

“Good luck. He's an ornery old coot.”

Ah, winter. Peace and quiet. Ice scrapers, snow shovels, tire chains, and balky heaters. Not to mention cranky neighbors. And dead friends.

Hot coffee beckoned. I climbed the steps to the Jewel Inn. In summer, it rocks all morning and well past lunch, but at the moment, it was me and the antelope head mounted above the hostess stand. A waitress pushed through the swinging kitchen doors, spotted me, and called over her shoulder, into the kitchen. A moment later, Mimi emerged. In the forty-eight hours since I'd last seen her, her perky blue eyes had sunk halfway to China and her highlighted hair had turned to moldy straw.

We took a booth in the corner and the waitress filled two heavy white mugs.

“She won't talk to us. She barely comes out of her room.”

“School might be a buzzard today,” I said.

“We let her stay home. Until we know whether Kim—Ike, the county attorney, whoever—is going to charge her . . . Oh, Erin. You know her. She couldn't possibly . . .”

I reached for her hand, small comfort that the gesture
was. “Saturday, did Zayda go straight from here to Christine's?”

“She wasn't working,” Mimi said. “It's been slow and with all the Film Club meetings and run-throughs, learning to work the new equipment, she'd gotten behind on her schoolwork.”

In other words, unless someone other than her parents and a café's worth of customers and cooks could vouch for her, Zayda had no alibi for the time of Christine's death.

“Kim asked the same question,” Mimi continued. “She doubts my daughter, but she doesn't know her. You know better.”

Did I? The more of this investigating stuff I do, the less I feel I know about my friends and neighbors.

And even my relatives.

*   *   *

U
pstairs in the Merc, I punched on my computer and called up my old friend, the Spreadsheet of Suspicion. The empty columns mocked me, the facts too elusive to build a case.

The chair wobbled as I leaned back, arms folded, gripping my biceps through the thick fleece.

Though I'd been a business major, a course in logic had been one of my favorite classes and its clean simplicity appealed to me. “Never start with your conclusion,” the professor intoned in my memory. “You cannot reach a true conclusion if you think you know it in advance.”

But I did know: My brother did not kill Christine. No thesis or antithesis could ever make it so.

But Nick came first on my list because Sally wasn't the only person who would suspect him. Because I loved Christine and Iggy, and wanted their memories honored. And because the best way to do that was to prove what really happened.

Much as I hated to put Zayda on the list, I had to rule her in or out.

Sally, too. And no, that wasn't a move based in spite. She nursed a mighty grudge against Christine for having the chutzpah to inherit from Iggy. If she did challenge Iggy's will in court and it was overturned, would Sally inherit instead, as the next of kin?

Sally and her daughter, who'd left Jewel Bay ages ago.

I made a note: “Ask Bill about the will.”

Who else had a gripe about Christine? Jack Frost. Nick said the Junkman had spouted off, but hot air isn't evidence.

Onto the list he went. I could always delete him later. (Or clear the contents. In Excel, misuse of the delete key can be deadly.)

The Spreadsheet and I stared at each other for several long moments. I blinked first. Truth was, I didn't know much. Except that Christine was dead, there was a hole in my heart, and my brother was innocent. I hoped he wasn't taking out his own anger and frustration on my pricey new shelving.

For the next hour, I did my Monday thing: Paid bills. Called vendors to place orders and confirm time slots in the commercial kitchen. Returned a call from a baker in Spokane interested in our tea shop concept. She'd made an appointment to see the property and wanted to chat up a few village merchants during her visit.

Mid-afternoon, the UPS man delivered cases of canning jars for Fresca and a thick padded envelope for me. “Right on schedule,” I said, and he grinned, then whisked his magic dolly away, a fresh jar of Fresca's tapenade in his wind-chapped hand.

I perched on a stool and pried up the tear strip on the back of the envelope. It broke off in my hand, giving me just enough room to poke a finger in and wriggle the thing open. Inside were five heavy-duty clear plastic cases, each holding one of the precious commercial-grade DVDs.

I smiled in satisfaction and texted Larry and Zayda: “Got the goods—the gig is on!”

*   *   *

M
uch as I love the shop, it's good to get away now and then. First stop, the paint counter at Taylor's Building Supply. Anything would be better than the scuffed white someone had slapped on to lighten up the hand-milled pine planking.

“Why not strip it back to original?” the Paint Yahoo said. (I swear, that's what his name tag says.) “Long as you're doing the work.”

Long as Nick was doing the work. Easy peasy.

But did restoring an area customers rarely see matter? I'd persuaded Fresca to give me control over the building as well as the business, not anticipating all the decisions that would follow—or how minor decisions can become major headaches.

“Shame about Christine. She was a peach, that one,” the Yahoo said as he brushed stain samples on a scrap of pine. “Scary times. Hope they catch the punk bas—sorry.”

“It's okay. I've heard of punks before.” I walked out carrying the damp pine scrap and half a dozen paint chips in shades of warm tan. Options, options, too many options.

Next stop: Gather the eggs and cheese I'd missed on Saturday.

The Creamery folks had left my order in a cooler inside the barn. I exchanged my empty for their full and drove another mile down the highway to Mountain View. Yellow crime scene tape still circled Christine's property.

“Just looking,” I said to no one as I got out of my car. “Feeling the vibe.”

A tall lilac hedge marked the south border, snow clinging to the bare limbs like snags of thick white cotton. I waded through deep powder, freeing snow-covered branches bent
to the ground, careful not to dislodge the bird's nest huddled in one sturdy crook.

And realized, when I got to the end of the row, that I'd reached the property line Christine shared with Frost. My first clue? The sign reading
HELL WITH DOG—BEWARE OF OWNER
. Another, a few feet down the four-strand fence, read:
PROTECTED BY SMITH & WESSON
.

I peered through the woods, a mix of fir, spruce, and scrub pine, along with birch and red willow. The leafless trees and shrubs exposed a faded blue bus, its windshield shattered, and a dozen dead cars, their shapes and colors obscured by snow. Not for nothing was Jack Frost known as the Junkman.

No wonder Christine had wanted to clean up the neighborhood.

Freeing more branches as I went, I worked my way back to the road, a load of snow shivering down my neck as thanks.

I was still shaking it out of my hair when I reached my car. Two middle-aged women stood by the cluster of mailboxes, each clutching a stack of envelopes and catalogs.

“Sweet neighborhood,” I said.

“Except for that one,” the short, round woman said, glancing toward Frost's place.

“You're mad that his dog mistook your rosebush for a fire hydrant and killed it,” the taller one said.

“My Mr. Lincoln tea rose,” the first woman said. She turned to me, cheeks pink. “Christine invited the neighbors over last fall. For a potluck, to get to know one another. Shocked everybody that Frost and his wife came. When he heard Christine was thinking of starting an art school in the church basement, he blew a gasket, yelling about noise and traffic. From after-school art classes for kids, for Pete's sake. Probably thought she'd call the county and they'd make him clean up his property. Might find more than they bargained for, if you know what I mean.”

Local legend tells of a lightning strike that started a fire
on an old homestead out this way. Crews saved the house, but they all got high off the smoke from the burning pot. “How many acres does he own?”

“About twenty. From the pasture by the road, past the house and shop, into the woods.” She gestured. Frost's land formed an L around Christine's much smaller acreage.

Her neighbor cocked her head. “Iggy fretted about his junk heap for years, but Christine had more oomph. I do recall seeing him out there one summer, shirtless. Walking through his pasture carrying a bottle of Roundup in one hand and a .22 in the other, shooting voles.” She rolled her eyes.

“That's one way to clean up the neighborhood,” I said. We waved good-bye, and I drove south on Mountain View, then turned on Rainbow Lake Road.

A little red hen scurried across the lane as I drove into Phyl and Jo's place. The garden beds lay dormant under a thick layer of straw mulch and a snowy white blanket.

“Gotchyer eggs,” Phyl said. “Come in and warm up a bit. Talk about spring.”

Rainbow Lake Garden is a bite of heaven, year-round. In summer, fruit and veg—as New Zealand–born Phyl calls it—sprout everywhere, accented by edible flowers and others grown for joy. Chickens, goats, and the occasional orphaned fawn grow here, too.

In the off season, human life revolves around yarn. Tall, blond, and Danish, Jo spins like a woman possessed, and Phyl, her freckles fading, dyes the skeins. Most of her colors draw on the garden or the surrounding woods: orange from onion skins, a golden-yellow from St. John's wort, lavender from elderberries. The customers at Dragonfly Dry Goods gobble them up.

“Seed orders,” Phyl said. Catalogs and scribbled lists littered the round oak table. “Let me pour ya a cup of a blend we've been tinkering with.”

“Erin.” Jo rose from the table and embraced me, ponytail
swinging. She manages to look like sunshine all year round. Her hand-knit scarlet sweater bore a band of gold and orange flowers. “Such a loss, our Christine.”

But even these earth mothers shied away from mournful talk. Much more pleasant to sit by the fire and chat about herbs over cups of a spritely mint, red clover, and lemon balm blend. To debate how much produce the Merc could sell next summer, how early they would have spinach and other hardy greens, and how many pounds of tomatoes Fresca would transform into her best-selling sauces.

Phyl tipped the last drops of tea into my mug. “Saw your brother drive by Saturday afternoon, heading north. Back toward town. We see him out this way quite a bit, though I suppose no more, not with Christine gone.”

“Out here? On Rainbow Lake Road?” I squinted, tilting my head. “Saturday?”

She nodded. “I remember, 'cause you'd called for eggs, and I tried to wave him down, spare you the trip. But he was eyes on the road and moving fast.”

Nick had lied, to me and to a deputy sheriff.

Why, Nick, why?

They say red clover tea settles the stomach. I downed the last swallow, hopeful, and studied the bits of leaves and twigs in the bottom of my mug, searching for an answer.

*   *   *

E
ggs safely tucked into the Subaru, I crept north on icy Rainbow Lake Road, pondering Phyl's comment. When I'd called Nick, desperate to find the spare key, hadn't he'd said he was in the Jewel, checking his packs? Miles away, in the opposite direction.

I'd thought myself lucky to reach him, cell reception being iffy on the mountainside.

Had I misunderstood? Had he gone up early, come back down this direction, and returned to the Basin later?

No. He'd been adamant, repeating the lie to Kim: He'd
left the Orchard before daybreak and spent all day in the woods. He'd snowshoed into a blind he'd made of cut evergreens, then watched the wolves casing the area. On his way back to his Jeep, he'd noted a small elk herd and paused to assess their behavior.

Some folks in Montana are convinced that wolves have decimated the elk population and ruined hunting. They worry that elk calves are easy prey, fret over drops in elk and deer counts, and complain that families in need of meat can't compete with the far-ranging carnivores.

Others say wolves are a necessary part of the ecosystem, that without the pressure of their presence, elk stay in one place too long and browse too deeply, stunting tree growth and leading to a loss of habitat critical for everything from mountain bluebirds to grizzlies. The trophic cascade, Nick calls it. The loss of any one element—from wolves to aspen to sparrows—disrupts the entire chain of life.