Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (23 page)

And our one formal family portrait, taken the same day as Nick’s senior pictures. At eighteen, sixteen, and fourteen, we’d been the proverbial peas. Mom had planned on a repeat for my graduation, but Dad’s accident changed everything. My senior yearbook photo is my official Rodeo Queen portrait, rhinestone tiara on the hat and all.

I hoped Buzz and Stacia had had a family portrait taken. So little Luke would have something to rely on, to confirm that his whisper of a memory of his mother was real.

Because when somebody’s gone a very long time, even when you learn to live without them, memories aren’t always enough.

I
woke to the sound of my door knocker. “Coming.” I shrugged into my robe, cinched the belt, and ran a hand through my hair. Sandburg stretched, paws forward, tail high.

Knock me over with a cat whisker. Amber Stone stood on my doorstep, a slightly older woman built along the same lines behind her.

“Stone Sisters Car Cleaning at your service.” She bowed, then gestured. “My sister Jade. It’s early, I know, but Duke and I made a pretty big mess.”

I hesitated for less than half a breath. “Have at it.”

They scrubbed and vacuumed, sprayed and polished. When they’d finished, I poured coffee and served cinnamon whole wheat scones, freshly defrosted. We sat in the red willow chairs on the front porch, Sandburg sniffing each Stone sister in turn.

“He smells Duke. Where is your boy today?”

“Resting in his kennel. He’s had enough fishing for a while,” Amber said. “I think we got all the mud off your upholstery. My sister can clean anything.”

“After running a B&B? You bet,” Jade replied, accepting a mug and a scone.

I handed Amber the cream. She looked both lighter and more serious, as if facing the gravity of her stupidity had lifted a weight off her shoulders.

“I’m not in the clear yet,” she said. “Gib’s best shot at getting off is to pin Drew’s murder on someone else. Like me. But after the tasting Saturday, I headed straight for my van. I didn’t know anything had happened until the sirens started. One of the Caldwell brothers offered me a hand on my way out. I can’t tell them apart—just hope he remembers.”

“Keith,” I said, “and he does.”

She tilted her head, but didn’t ask how I knew. “Good coffee—your Cowboy Roast?” When I nodded, she glanced at her sister. “It’s better than what we’ve been serving.”

“Come in decaf?” Jade asked me. “They all want lead in the morning, unleaded at night.”

“You bet. Hang on.” I popped inside and grabbed a half-full bag of decaf beans from the freezer. “Try this.”

Jade opened the bag and sniffed the beans, then handed them to her sister, who did the same. Both women nodded appreciatively.

“Thank you, Erin,” Amber said, setting her empty mug on the porch rail. “For the coffee, but mostly, for rescuing me and my dog without hesitating. Nasty as I was to you the other day, I didn’t deserve it.”

“Hey, I’ll do anything for a good dog.”

“He’s hooked on those dog cookies. Ticked me off royally when I realized where you were taking me and that I had no choice. I swear, Erin, I didn’t know what Gib was up to. I knew he was giving me an unfair advantage, so I shouldn’t have taken it. But I had no idea he was trying to hurt Drew—or that he would kill him.”

I believed her.

“Nothing I did was criminal,” she continued, head slightly bowed, brows knitted. She raised her eyes and met my gaze. “But if word does get out, I’ll deal with it.”

She was asking me to keep quiet. I couldn’t promise. There were people who needed answers.

The coffee finally kicked in. “Do you have a sister named Opal?”

Amber smiled ruefully. “Ruby, Pearl, Jade, and Amber. Four girls, no boys. Gemologists shouldn’t be allowed to name their own children.”

“Coulda been worse,” Jade said as they picked up their supplies. “Lapis Lazuli. Tourmaline.”

“Rosetta,” I called, waving. I carried the coffee tray inside, still laughing.

The Stone sisters. Bunny and Polly Easter. Mick Mock, a guy from college, and Jay Walker, a fellow I’d met earlier this year.

I’d always felt a little weird—identifying myself as half-Italian despite my one hundred percent Irish name. Weird no more.
Thank you, Fresca
. You’ve got a lot to answer for—but at least I’m not Cubic Zirconia Stone.

*   *   *

I
t was late morning before I had a few minutes to run up to the sheriff’s office and hand over the papers I’d culled from Stacia’s mishmash. Not that I procrastinated. But the morning was busy. And Ike hadn’t exactly welcomed my theorizing. Even with the evidence from Drew’s computer and Amber’s admission that she’d knowingly violated the rules by submitting a recipe that wasn’t her own, to help Gib force Drew out of the competition, Gib’s role in either death was hypothetical.

As long as it wasn’t all in my mind.

Ike glanced at the unfolded pages and set them on his desk. “Points for perseverance, Erin. But why, why are you so determined to get involved in this investigation?”

No woman is an island . . .
“Because I am involved. I found Stacia’s body. Because a woman I liked, who came to town to help us promote ourselves, a woman who left a husband and a three-year-old, ended up dead on the side of the road like a runaway dog and nobody knew who did it. Nobody knew why, and everybody deserves justice.”

Because I promised
. I wasn’t exactly shouting, and he wasn’t exactly cowering. But I’d touched a nerve in Sheriff Cucumber.

“Because I knew Drew Baker and I admired him. Because he always pitched in. He helped other chefs get established and he deserved more than a ‘tsk-tsk too bad’ and a teary memorial.” My voice trembled but I wasn’t done.

“Because I always believed that people of ill will could not make perfect Hollandaise. I was wrong.

“Because Gib Knox used us. He used Mimi George. He used Stacia Duval, Pete Lloyd, and the Caldwells. The entire community who opened their arms to him.” I swung my arm toward the village. If everything fell apart, if town imploded, taking the Merc with it, what would happen to my family? And to me?

“Summer Fair and the Grill-off are older than I am. They matter, Ike.
They matter
. I’ve heard the jokes about Jewel Bay and its festivals, but people depend on them. People who get up before dawn to milk cows and gather eggs. Who baby their seedlings in the spring and coax the last tomatoes to ripen so we can eat real food. People who pick berries for a living and cook jam, who spin wool and throw pots and make beautiful paintings to bring out the best in us. They matter.

“Our traditions matter. Gib Knox was willing to destroy an entire village for his own petty revenge. No, Ike. No.”

My voice cracked. My hands shook and my throat rasped. A bead of sweat rolled down my face.

Or maybe it was a tear.

Ike studied me. If the law enforcement academy didn’t teach recruits to control their emotions, the job sure did. And he’d been on the job a long time. But then, those dark brown eyes softened just a bit and a quiver shook that stern jaw.

And I understood, finally, that he didn’t want me involved because I reminded him of another hit-and-run fatality. One he hadn’t been able to solve.

He picked up the papers and sat. I perched on the edge of the chair opposite, watching him.

A few moments later, he raised his eyes to mine. “Then I’d better fill you in.”

I listened intently, trying to understand the foreign language. Gib claimed that a pair of Lodge employees were going into town to meet some friends and drink for the evening. They invited him to go along. They were already in one woman’s car, so he hopped in, and drove it home for her later.

“I’ve got deputies headed to the Lodge,” he said. “They’ll track her down and check that out.”

The forensics tests and accident reconstruction might prove Gib’s involvement in the hit-and-run. But the mallet that killed Drew had been wiped clean. Only an eyewitness or a confession would make the case. No eyewitnesses had been identified. And Gib Knox confessing to murder was about as likely as Fresca letting me run the Merc my way.

Especially after Ike told me Gib had an alibi for that, too. And an accusation.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, my stomach wobbling.

“Check out those alibis. And question the Caldwells about Amber Stone’s—what did you call it?”

“Whabouts.” My cute label didn’t sound so cute anymore. “You don’t believe Gib, do you? A man who would blame another for his own professional failure and nurse a grudge for ten years? Then persuade a young chef desperate for publicity that would save her failing business to help him get revenge on a man who’d been kind to her, in a field that chews women up and spits them out for fun?”

Ike’s expression was stern, but not unkind. “I still don’t get what you think these papers and the missing pages prove.”

I wriggled in my chair, its firm bottom reminding me that it hadn’t been that long since I’d bruised my backside and fallen on a gravel road with angry wildlife prowling nearby. “All three chefs submitted their recipes to Stacia and Gib on time, by e-mail. Gib saw that Drew’s was an old favorite—it got award nominations and raves in
Sunset
magazine.”

“So Drew’s the hotshot chef Gib had hoped to be. So what?”

“So Gib does his research. I think you’ll find a search history on his phone—he does everything on his phone. Unless he erased it, but can’t you track that? Anyway, he finds out that Kyle Caldwell is an up-and-comer, with a safe job at a place his family’s run for sixty years or more. No chance there. But Amber Stone is young. Overinvested and not drawing like she should. Check out her online reviews. Everybody says good food, nice place, but nobody raves. You can’t make a living in the tourist trade if you don’t get raves.”

Ike frowned and scratched his forehead. I forged on. “Gib gets hold of Amber and tells her if she submits a second recipe, of his choosing, he’ll all but guarantee she wins. She has to do it. She needs Gib Knox to declare her steak the winner. To all but crown her the best chef in a town of good chefs.”

“A town that calls itself The Food Lovers’ Village,” he said.

“Exactly. She agrees. But then Gib has a problem. Stacia Duval saw those e-mails. When Amber submits a second recipe nearly identical to Drew’s, she shows it to Gib. Wonders what they should do.”

Ike’s eyes narrowed in a question. “Why didn’t Gib go to Amber in advance? So no one would know? Sounds like he expected Drew to submit this huckleberry thing.”

“He couldn’t be certain—it’s been off the menu for a while. And he didn’t know who the other chefs were until their submissions came in. He knew Drew was part of the competition—he’d made that a condition for coming to Jewel Bay. But only the committee—Ned Redaway, Mimi George, and I—knew who else had been chosen.”

Ike crossed one arm over his flat stomach, rested his other elbow on it, and rubbed his fist across his chin.

I leaned forward. “At that point, Gib knew he wouldn’t get his revenge unless he got Stacia to go along. He also knew she had physical copies. She printed everything out. She had them at our meeting last Thursday morning. So—and I’m not sure about this part—”

“I’m not sure about any of it.” Ike lowered his hand and folded both arms across his chest.

I swallowed hard, thinking of Buzz and Luke Duval. “I suspect that Gib confronted Stacia on Thursday night, after we finished filming the appetizer and dessert segment. Or maybe she confronted him. They argued. I think I heard them.” I summarized the what and where, then went on. “She called home, then took off for a walk, in her work clothes and city shoes. Her husband says she was upset with Gib Knox and that she never went for a walk alone at night, even at home, except after a fight.”

“Then Knox goes after her, in the rental car. The first car.”

“Yep. They had adjacent cabins. He must have seen her leave. I don’t know whether he meant to kill her, or took the opportunity when he had it.”

“Felony either way. So, back to the missing pages.”

“He had to find them. I’m thinking he went to her cabin that night, after she was killed, and took them. Kim—Deputy Caldwell—said they didn’t find anything on her laptop or phone. I’m betting he erased them.”

Ike made a note to check. “We might be able to tell. And we’ll check for his fingerprints.”

Here’s where it got dicey. I couldn’t admit I’d gone into Gib’s cabin. “Gib carries a briefcase, a black leather thing. He might have put the papers there.”

That drew a long, steady stare. A parental stare. An “I know what you really mean” stare. “We’ve applied for a search warrant. We’ll look.”

He opened a desk drawer and held up a paper evidence bag. Through the clear plastic window, I saw a scrap of familiar black-and-blue-print fabric. “I’m going to hold on to this for now. See how it all plays out.” Another long warning gaze. “But Erin. I mean it. Stay away from this case.”

I nodded.

And I meant it. I swear, I really did mean it.

M
aybe there was something to this feng shui stuff after all.

From the red distressed metal star hanging on the outside of the Merc’s weathered wood back gate to the happy geraniums inside, the sturdy wrought iron tables and chairs, and the fountain—oh, the fountain—our courtyard had sprung to life.

And like Amber, I felt lighter inside, too, despite knowing that “it” wasn’t over. Ike and his deputies had work to do. The prosecutor had charges to file. Didn’t every accused killer claim an alibi? And didn’t most of them fall apart under pressure, the way an overbaked cookie crumbles at the first bite?

As potential witnesses with what business lawyers call “unclean hands,” Amber and I were both vulnerable to Gib Knox’s wrath. On our ride last week, I’d gotten a glimpse of a complicated, vengeful man, and everything I’d learned since had only confirmed that.

But for now, nothing more we could do.

I wasn’t worried. Ike finally seemed to understand how a grilled filet with a huckleberry-morel mushroom glaze had become a recipe for murder.

And despite everything, I had faith in Ike Hoover.

The quest for justice had left me starving. The jam maker had been hard at work in our commercial kitchen all morning, and the fruity-rich perfume bathed the air. But while strawberry jam is blissfully good, I needed something more substantial than a jam sample on the water crackers she’d set out.

Never fear—Le Panier is near.

“Hey, Wendy. Oh, the cookies.” A covered tray of s’more sandwich cookies sat on the front counter, beckoning.

“They’re a hit already,” she said, handing me one. “We’ll bag ’em up for you this afternoon.”

As the greeting card says, “Life’s uncertain—eat dessert first.” “Oh, my. Best cookie in the world,” I said, impolite as it is to talk with your mouth full.

“Guess we better try ’em,” the man behind me said to his wife.

A few minutes later, I sat behind my own front counter relishing my portobello panini. A friend in Seattle had worked in an office where the manager banned all food. Other than the coffeepot, no cooking or reheating was allowed—she unplugged the microwave and permitted nothing but cream and pop in the fridge, saying food odors were unprofessional.

Happily, in a grocery, that’s not a problem. Tastes and smells are essential ingredients to our success.

And we were cooking.

All afternoon, the door swung open, customers oohed, aahed, tasted, and bought. A vintage car club drove into town and I stood on the sidewalk ogling, along with half the village. A stunning royal blue Rolls-Royce parked in front of the Merc, and I stepped out for a better view.

“This is fabulous.” I circled the gleaming antique and tried not to drool on its silver-plated trim. “Did you drive all the way here?”

The owner, a gracious man in his early fifties, shook his head. “We shipped the cars to Calgary. Drove over to Banff, then south through Waterton and across the border into Glacier. Next stage, we go to Jackson Hole. Some owners will drive home from there, but this beauty will be shipped back to Atlanta.”

“What year?” My fingers itched to stroke the red leather interior.

“It’s a 1910 Silver Ghost.”

“Really, 1910?” I pointed to the Merc’s cornerstone, where my great-grandfather had carved the year he’d built Murphy’s Mercantile. At that, the owner and I bonded, and we had our pictures taken with car and building. Two classy antiques, chugging into their second century.

I gave him a jar of jam as a souvenir, and as thanks, he bought half a dozen more. His fellow club members flashed their Platinum and Gold American Express cards equally freely, although no one else drove a 1910 showpiece.

I love retail.

After the car club cleared the door, I found myself thinking of Stacia. A tea or wine shop with some imported foods would have been the perfect fit for her. I dried a damp eye.

Who would want to create a new biz? Heidi maintained that imports were a hassle and she’d rather send people elsewhere. Steph Brooks? Or another corporate worker bee ready to build her own hive? Half a dozen names came to mind. But before reaching out to anyone, I needed to talk to Ray. He kept a few imported jams and cookies on the shelves by the cash register, along with his special sauerkraut, and had briefly considered a line of sauces. We were making the sauerkraut now—to his specs—and he appeared to have lost interest in expansion. The Grille needed every inch of floor space. But plans change and I didn’t want to step on his toes.

Uh-oh
. Sally was holding court on the sidewalk between her shop and the Grille, complaining loudly to a cadre of friends. I willed myself not to look at her, the way a two-year-old first learning to play hide-and-seek thinks that if they can’t see you, you can’t see them.

No such luck.

“I suppose you think you’re a real detective, now that they’ve arrested that Gib Knox. Like you deserve a prize.”

What do you say to that?

“A prize for bringing a killer to Jewel Bay,” she continued. “All you brought was bad luck and tragedy. Well, you know what they say—tragedy comes in threes.”

“The third tragedy would be to let the killer get away with murder, and leave a blot on the village that stains the memories of two good people and damages what we’ve all worked so hard to create. I’m not willing to let that happen, Sally. Are you?” I gave her my best cold, hard stare, and marched on.

“Heard about Gib,” Ray said when I slid onto a stool at the Grille’s well-polished black granite counter. “I sure didn’t think he was too drunk to drive Thursday night, or I’d have stopped him. And killing Drew in cold blood . . .” He shuddered and his voice trailed off.

“Tell me again when you saw him.”

“’Bout nine, a few minutes to. Things were slowing down and I stepped out to look around. See if town was busy, get a sense of whether to expect any more tables. On a weeknight, you never know. Gib was coming out of Red’s with a girl—”

“Stacia?”

“No. Younger than you. A little taller. Kinda—built.” He drew a shape with his hands. “Works at the Lodge, I think. You’d know her if you saw her. Anyway, they crossed the street to his car and got very friendly, then he drove off. It was a bit much for a public kiss, but he didn’t seem drunk.”

The deputy sheriff at the makeshift blockade hadn’t thought so, either. “Crossed the street, you said. Where was he parked?”

“That was funny. His Porsche was parked right in front of Sally’s place. Under the streetlight. That’s how I got such a good view.”

Not on Red’s side of the street at all. So much for Gib’s explanation of the damage to his car.

“But then, the girl fished around in her bag and handed him something—musta been her keys. She went back in the bar and he disappeared down the street. I’m guessing he took her car.”

The Acura that Kyle had seen. “Was the Porsche still here when you left?”

He nodded. “Now that you mention it, yeah, though I don’t remember seeing it when I came in the next morning, around ten.”

I glanced over at Puddle Jumpers, betting I knew who would have seen Gib pick up the damaged Porsche on Friday morning. “Change of subject. We’ve all been saying our town needs a wine shop with a few imported foods. The Merc’s mission is local, Heidi’s not interested, you’ve said you don’t have the space. Before I go recruiting, I wanted to double-check with you. That A-frame just west of the Jewel Inn, used to be a law office? Perfect spot.”

“No, no. Go for it.”

“Thanks, Ray.” I headed for the Merc. I might be able to squeeze in some calls today if I hurried.

But in business and investigation, you make your own luck. Through Red’s open door, I spotted Ned behind the bar and made a detour.

“Hey, girlie,” he said. “Good job, nabbing that son of a gun.”

“Ain’t over till it’s over,” I said. “Ned, you said Gib Knox was in here briefly last Thursday. Was he alone?”

Ned’s face darkened. “When he came in, yeah, but that singer girl glommed on to him pretty quick. Her name escapes me.”

“Music on a Thursday night?” That would be unusual.

“No. She came in maybe seven, seven thirty. Waiting for him, looked like. They were all over each other, but like I said, he didn’t stay long.”

Odd. He’d only been here a day and a half. But I guess when you think you’re hot stuff, it doesn’t take long to find someone who agrees. “How’d he seem when he got here? Rattled?” Guilty?

“In a hurry. Downed one G&T, if I remember right, made the rounds, and walked out with her wrapped around him. Melinda Mayes, that’s her name.” Ned always remembered right when it came to drinks. He scooped ice into a glass and filled it with whiskey and soda. The rattle of ice against glass sounded like puzzle pieces clicking together.

“Thanks, Ned,” I said with a wave good-bye. I knew the woman he meant. Sultry voice, sultry eyes, and a killer shape. And Ray was right about her day job.

*   *   *

“W
ho are those masked men?” I called. “The Caped Crusader and his trusty sidekick?”

The taller of the two superheroes walking in front of me turned his head. “Nice try, Erin, but the Caped Crusader is Batman. We are Supermen.”

“You certainly are.” What else can you say of a thirty-five-year-old willing to wear a cape in public to please his five-year-old son?

“Auntie Erin!” Landon’s deputy sheriff’s star glinted on his cape. Mix-and-match costumes are fine by me. The world needs more superheroes, and a two-for-one special is always good for business.

“Dress-up day at the library,” Jason said, holding the door for me. Landon scooted past us, yelling for his grandmother. “Noni!”

I helped Tracy close, then Chiara joined us for wine and milk and cookies in the courtyard. S’more sandwich cookies are surprisingly tasty with sauvignon blanc. And Landon loved them, even without the added fun of toasting marshmallows.

Which we could do in that portable fire pit if I decided to keep it. I made up my mind.

“Okay, Mom. You win. I’ll keep the patio heater and the fire pit. In exchange, I need you to agree not to buy anything else for the building or the business without talking to me first.” I raised my glass to her. “I can’t ask you not to buy any more buildings, or even to tell us. Your money is your money, after all. And you’re right. You do deserve some privacy.”

She lifted her glass and we clinked. “Thank you, darling.”

“But one question. What was in the envelope Ned gave you Sunday afternoon?”

“Sunday?” She cocked her head, remembering. “Oh, the signed lease. I needed that before signing the remodel contract. See, honey? Your business lessons are rubbing off.”

A nice thought.

“So, dish, little sister. I saw the florist make the delivery. Who sent you roses? Gib Knox?” Chiara said, laughing.

“Ha, ha.” I felt myself coloring. “Rick.”

She raised one eyebrow, a talent that had skipped me. “I like Rick. But I really like Adam. I like you and Adam.”

Me, too. “So many men, so little time.”

“You complained that all the guys you met in Seattle were too focused on work to get serious, and now you’re doing the same thing,” she said.

I pulled Landon into my lap and wrapped my arms around him. “Loving what I do doesn’t mean I’m obsessed.”

“You’re too busy investigating,” Fresca said, her tone disapproving. “You’re not trained for that kind of danger. You may not get so lucky next time.”

There wasn’t going to be a next time. Peace and quiet would return when the tourists left for the season, and we would all live happily ever after in the fairy-tale village by the bay.

I’ll drink to that.