Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (24 page)

“H
e didn’t want us to see it before it was edited, but I insisted. We paid for it,” Mimi said. It was Friday morning, and she, Ned, and I—and the Mardi Gras moose—huddled over coffee and quiche in the Jewel Inn’s banquet room, an iPad open on the table. “I was afraid EAT-TV would scuttle the show and all the film, or whatever you call it these days, would be stuck on some computer somewhere and we’d never get a chance to see what we could salvage.”

“Good thinking, girlie,” Ned said.

We hadn’t actually paid for the filming, at least not in cash. But we’d paid in other ways. And it was our town and our festival. With Gib Knox in nearly every frame, there might not be much usable footage. But we prowled the screen for snippets of vendors displaying their products or showing off their prize garlic. And Pete’s crowd shots and stunning landscapes.

I cradled my cup and watched the scenes fly by. Pete had captured the essence of the street fair and all its vibrant energy. He was a talented cameraman, no question. But with Stacia dead and Gib charged with two murders, would EAT-TV give him a chance? Not likely.

Though if Tara was still hesitant to uproot her daughter, he might not mind.

Saturday evening replayed itself before us. The lake waters sparkled, and beyond, the mountains gave a lesson in visible chemistry, each receding layer a slightly paler shade of mountain blue—that striking gray-blue-black that occurs when steep slopes covered in variegated greens merge with air and distance to create an entirely different, mesmerizing color.

On the screen, Pete pulled the focus back and panned the Lodge grounds, then the crowd, before zooming in on Gib Knox. My jaw tightened and a hot spot exploded inside my chest. Mimi and Ned didn’t say a word, but I felt their Jell-O rising, too.

The camera followed Gib as he spoke with each chef, then focused on the cooking, the serving, the cutting, the tasting.

A loud buzz rattled the blue leather bag at my feet. I fished out my phone. At the name and number, hope caught in my throat.

“’Scuse me,” I said, shoving my chair back from the table and bustling to the far side of the room. “Hello? Adam?”

“Hey, Erin.” The signal was a bit scrambled, but no mistaking that voice. Rich yet perky, as my coffee roaster might say. My heart responded before my ears did. “I was afraid I’d miss you.”

“What—where? Are you here in town? I thought you weren’t coming back till next week.”

“No. I’m in West Glacier. Pump on the well went out and I had to run in for a part. Pain in the you-know-what, but the upside is cell service. And a chance to call you.”

I swear, the moose on the wall gave me a wink. “Camp director, fund-raiser, and plumber, too.”

He laughed. “We hope. I think it’s just a short on the relay switch. If it’s more than that, repairs could be pricey. I’d sure hate to have to send these kids home early. They’re having too much fun.”

The line crackled and I thought I lost him.

“What about you?” he was saying. “What kind of trouble you getting up to?”

I stifled the urge to say “the usual murder and mayhem.” “Jewel Bay in August. Busy, busy, busy.”

“Great. Hey, I gotta go—the connection’s breaking up. I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

“Great. See you then.” The line crackled into silence. My fingers tightened around the phone. My heart thudded in my chest. Was Adam Zimmerman The One? Too soon to tell. How did you know anyway? What if Chiara was right and he didn’t understand why I felt compelled to investigate, to stick my nose where it didn’t belong and try to right wrongs and all those things cow dogs and other superheroes do every day?

If he didn’t understand, then he wasn’t The One.

*   *   *

T
racy and I worked like madwomen the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Cool to see her develop into an astute saleswoman. Phone orders. Customers by the twos and threes buying produce, eggs, meat, sauce, and pasta. Both townies and vacationers had some tasty meals on the menu this weekend. When Tracy finally ran home for a quick lunch and dog break, a reporter from an entertainment magazine called for an interview. I weaseled out, saying the sheriff had asked us not to comment.

I was sitting behind the front counter nibbling Creamery cheese on Montana Gold crackers when Maggie Bird made her first delivery of jerky and pemmican bars.

“So glad you decided to sell your products through the Merc,” I said.

“Been gettin’ calls,” she said in her clipped cadence. “People who heard about us after the weekend. But you were the first person who asked. And you’re from here. Plus you run a family business, too—you understand.”

We went over the details of our arrangement and signed the vendor agreement. Tracy returned in time to help set up a display and shelve the product.

“Do you mind?” I asked Tracy after Maggie left. “A short ride would do me wonders. Be back in an hour or so.”

“Go.” She waved me away. I exchanged my summer green dress and sandals for jeans, a T-shirt, and riding boots. Grabbed a pemmican bar and headed for the trail.

*   *   *

I
parked in my usual spot, on the south end of the Lodge grounds. I thought I spotted a familiar loping walk across the lot.

“Hey, Pete.” I waved, but he didn’t respond. Musta been somebody else.

Another Friday afternoon with no word from Kim. I could understand if exile and a day spent running down bad guys in the far reaches of the county kept the good deputy from our regular Friday afternoon ride. But she could at least call or text to let me know I was riding solo.

Give her a break, Erin.
After all, Kim had a serious job. Not like selling pasta and truffles. And she didn’t have an employee to cover for her.

You’re a lucky woman, Erin. Don’t forget it.

My route took me past the south cabins, where Stacia and Gib had been staying. Not that seeing Gib’s place would shed any light on what he’d done, but it drew me like a magnet anyway.

Or maybe I just wanted to scout for more scraps of my clothing stuck to the windowsill.

What I did not expect was to find Melinda Mayes, housekeeping staff and aspiring country singer, perched on the edge of Gib’s front porch. One hand cupped her face, normally striking but at the moment, pale and splotchy. Strands of heavily highlighted hair had escaped their braid and flitted around her face like a bumblebee. The cabin itself looked unchanged, except for the
DO NOT ENTER
tape sealed across the lock, the black-on-yellow a strange echo of Melinda’s hair.

“A real shocker, isn’t it?”

She glanced up, dark eyes wide and glistening. That old song “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue” drifted through my mind.

I leaned against the porch rail. “So sorry. Had you known him long?”

Her face reddened and she gave an almost-imperceptible shake no. “I met him Wednesday, after he checked in. We just talked, flirted. For an older guy, he’s really hot, you know? And he’s in TV . . .”

Career climbing? “Food TV.”

“Thursday, I was cleaning his cabin and he came in. We . . .” Her ragged voice trailed off, her features anxious. She looked up as if suddenly remembering I was there. “I swear, I’ve never fooled around with a guest before.”

Funny how a hint of unexpected sympathy can unlock someone’s tongue. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

“I told him I couldn’t be seen with him on the Lodge grounds—I could lose my job—but I’d be in town that night with some of the other girls. He said he’d come after the photo shoot.”

“And did he?” Did her version of the story mesh with Ray’s and Ned’s?

“Yeah. I got there before him, I don’t know when. Had a couple of margaritas, danced a bit. Played the poker machine. I was getting kind of antsy, but then he finally showed up. I wanted him to myself, but he had to talk to everybody.” She rolled her eyes. “The price of celebrity.”

Gib needed to be seen in town. Melinda had been a convenient excuse. He needed a dozen witnesses who could place him in Red’s. Witnesses like her who weren’t paying attention to the clock, so he could safely say he’d gone into town long before Stacia took her walk. Long before some careless idiot killed her. Some other idiot.

“How long did he stay?”

“Not long. Fifteen—twenty minutes? Said he had to get back to the Lodge—early filming, I guess. I stayed to party with some friends, so he took my car back to the Lodge. Well, it’s my mom’s car—she lent it to me while I’m working here.”

Totally not the story he told. “What about his car? How did he get into town?”

She shook her head. “Maybe he walked or got a ride—it isn’t far. I don’t really know.”

Why had Gib rushed back here? To be the one who found Stacia so he wouldn’t be a suspect? That plan hadn’t worked—I beat him to it.

Or to search her cabin and take the papers? I could vouch for how easy it was to break in.

“Did you see him again?” I asked gently.

“I didn’t expect to. It seemed like a brush-off. But later—maybe ten? Ten thirty? I’ve got a studio apartment in the staff lodgings. Makes me sound slutty, doesn’t it?” She flushed again. “And I might have drank more than I should have. Why am I telling you this? It’s not like I want to get him in trouble, and if it gets out, I’ll probably lose my job.”

Don’t stop now.
“People saw you together, Melinda. But if you tell the sheriff what you know . . .”

“Deputies came looking for me this afternoon. I hid in one of the duplexes I was cleaning. I feel like a dunce, but I can’t let him get away with killing her, can I?”

I took out my phone, but she kept going. “But I still can’t figure out what he was doing here Saturday. I’d lost a key and had to have another spare made, so Thursday night when he left, I walked out with him and he saw me hide it on top of the exit light. Saturday, my neighbor spotted him searching for the key. He said he’d left something in my room and needed to get it before he left town. But it sounded fishy. She took the key and wouldn’t let him in.”

“What time was that? Did he say?”

“About six thirty? I’d already gone to Pondera—the band had a gig. Gib knew that. So it was weird.”

I’d been acting producer that evening. Gib finished tasting at quarter after six and the schedule called for a fifteen-minute break. But then Tara found Drew dying in the parking lot.

Unless I missed my guess, Gib had known Melinda would be out and rushed to her place to get what he’d stashed there Thursday night, when he dropped by unexpectedly. Unlike the alibi he’d set up for the hit-and-run, this one might be legit.

“Did you find what he left? Did he say what it was?”

“No. I’ve tried to talk to him, but it’s like he’s avoiding me. I guess I was kinda dumb.”

She’d been used. Gib’s idea of “getting lucky” and hers were a little different.

“I might know. Can we take a look?”

Her strong dark brows creased, questioning. “You do? Yeah—I’m off the clock.”

We crossed the south lawn to the staff lodgings, a residential hall with dorm-like rooms with private baths and a communal kitchen. Melinda’s space was neat and tidy. A Martin guitar stood in one corner, milk crates filled with music books and CDs beside it.

Where to start?
I tried to channel Gib. He’d have picked someplace easy. A place within reach when she slipped into the bathroom. In with her music? A long shot—too hard to retrieve. I gestured and Melinda helped me lift the mattress. Nothing.

I studied the small room.
Where, where, where?

“There,” I said. Not the first dresser drawer, and not the second. The dresser was old, with plywood shelves between each drawer rather than the simple slides of modern furniture. Then we slid out the third.
Bingo
. Three folded pages lay underneath the drawer, where no one not on the hunt would have ever found them.

I unfolded them carefully.
Yes.
Drew’s huckleberry filet recipe and transmittal e-mail, and Amber’s original recipe, two tiny staple holes marking it as mate to the e-mail printout in Stacia’s pile.

“Melinda, I need to get these to the sheriff. They’ll help prove what Gib did to Stacia.”

“And what he did to Drew Baker?” she asked, arms crossing her body, hands clutching opposite arms, as if to hold herself steady.

Had Gib killed Drew? It wasn’t impossible, but it would have meant quite a sprint. I’d leave that to Ike and his deputies to sort out. “Everything he did,” I told the shaking girl. “But you have to promise me you’ll tell them everything.
Everything.
”

She nodded. I gave her a quick hug and tucked the papers inside my boot. On my way down the narrow stairs, I called Ike Hoover. He was out, so I left a message and headed for the barn.

I was long overdue for a date with a horse and a trail.

E
verything looks better from the back of a horse.

For the first time in days, I could breathe easy. Stacia Duval would have justice, even if Drew Baker’s death was not yet resolved. Once Ike talked to Melinda and her neighbor, he’d piece together the timeline and rule Gib in or out. With the other evidence he had, he’d nail Drew’s killer.

Whoever it was.

Ribbons and I left the Lodge grounds and started the climb up the hillside trail. Birch and aspen branches sighed in the breeze, the horse’s breath and hoof falls the only other sounds. Riding is like meditation, the clip and clop and sway as relaxing to me as an hour on a yoga mat to other women.

We paused at the bench to drink in the vista. A bald eagle perched in a snag eyed us, decided we were neither prey nor threat, and resumed his regal pose.

“Aren’t we lucky, girl?” I patted her neck, then we turned back to the trail and moseyed on.

A few hundred yards later, I cocked my head at a small noise. Ribbons and I both searched out the source with our eyes. If a tree falls in the woods and no one’s there to hear it, does it make a sound? Depends whether you’re a Zen Buddhist who believes everything is alive and aware, or you think only humans and other animals can hear.

It had stopped. I nudged the mare forward with my knee. “It’s okay, girl. Nothing there.”

What a week. The Summer Fair committee had thought we were inviting a TV film crew to showcase a festive weekend of food, art, and fun. Instead, Jewel Bay had become the star of a soap opera tale of grudges, betrayal, revenge, and murder that no one would believe—if it hadn’t all really happened.

Meanwhile, life in the village continued. Tourists came and went. Merchants bought and sold. Reg Robbins threw pots and Kathy Jensen sold yarn. Wendy baked and Max cooked.

And I dithered between two men.

As problems go, it was a nice problem to have. Adam and Rick were opposites in many ways, and not just that one was dark-haired and the other blond. Adam loved to get out and about—to hike, camp, and kayak. Rick liked to drive. Did either ride? Didn’t know.

Didn’t matter. I liked getting out on my own.

Rick loved food. He loved the business of food. Adam considered food fuel. But Fresca had sparked a glimmer of interest at the courtyard party last weekend, when she insisted he try her arancini and he’d dueled Jason with a cheese straw for the last one.

The mare and I reached the stream. I let her drink, then turned around. I’d been away from the shop long enough—it wasn’t fair to leave Tracy there alone all afternoon on a busy Friday.

Halfway down, the crack of a good-sized branch caught my ear. Ribbons pricked her ears and we paused.

“You heard it, too, didn’t you, girl?” This was a popular route, but most riders kept to the trail, safe from the dense undergrowth and windfall that could snap a horse’s leg.

But again, I saw nothing. I urged her forward, and after a few minutes, she settled into an easy walk.

Below the lookout, more cracking. The sounds came from the thick brush on the left. A loud snap, followed by a crashing, then Kintla, the big Appaloosa that Gib had ridden last Friday, broke onto the trail, facing us.

Pete Lloyd held the reins, looking a little queasy. He pulled too hard and the Appie jerked, stepping back and sideways. Ribbons halted and I held her reins loosely but firmly.

“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t know you were up here. Great day for a ride.”

Bingo
. The pieces clicked into place as I realized what I’d missed. What we’d all missed. We’d all assumed Pete had kept filming after Gib tasted the three steaks and took a break. The schedule had called for Pete to film the guests mingling. But he hadn’t.

And none of us noticed. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to share the video. But he’d finally given in when Mimi insisted, no doubt certain that we wouldn’t inspect every minute. Or that we wouldn’t understand the significance of what we didn’t see.

Which was that Pete Lloyd had no alibi for the time of Drew’s murder.

Ribbons sensed my energetic shift and took a step back, jerking her head. I could feel her tail switch back and forth. The Appie, often paired with her on rides, shook his big head and tried to step forward, but Pete pulled him back.

“You figured it out, didn’t you? But I can’t let you expose me.”

“Gib killed Stacia to keep her quiet, but you killed Drew, didn’t you?” I said. “Because Tara wouldn’t fight him for full custody so she could leave. You loved her so much that you’d deprive her child of a father to get what you wanted?”

“He deprived me,” Pete shouted. His horse’s ears, already alert, shot back. Kintla startled at the sound and stepped back. Clearly not a horseman, Pete shifted in his saddle, struggling to keep his balance.

And as he shifted, I saw a bulge on his right hip.
Careful, Erin.

“If you wanted the job so badly, why not just go, with or without Tara?” I wasn’t sure how the mare and I could get past them, especially if Pete was armed, but the longer he talked, the better our chances. And if I died trying, at least I would know why.

“Drew made me do it. He deserved to lose everything, like I had. The chance for a family. The chance to leave this crappy little town where nobody ever lets you forget the past.” The Appie skittered from side to side, responding to signals Pete had no idea he was sending. “Tara called me a loser. When he refused to let her go, she fell back in love with him. He kept me from getting what I wanted like he’d kept Gib from getting what he wanted.”

“You knew? That Gib blamed Drew for derailing his career? And you knew Gib fed Drew’s signature recipe to Amber Stone, to disgrace him?”

“Of course I knew. I’m a cameraman. I see all and hear all, without being seen.”

It made sense in a certain perverted way. Was it Holmes who said no one’s a villain in their own mind?

If it wasn’t Holmes, it should have been.

Pete was sweating, despite the shade. “When I saw you at the Lodge just now, I knew you were coming up here. You fingered Gib, and I knew you’d nail me, too.”

“You gave it away, Pete. First by insisting you’d been filming when the evidence said you hadn’t. There was so much confusion, none of us realized you’d slipped away, too. We would have figured it out eventually, but when you followed me, I knew.”

“That’s BS,” Pete shouted, punching the air with his right fist. The Appie dropped his shoulder and stepped sideways. Pete lost his balance, slipping dangerously to his right. His left hand flailed in the air, the reins slipping through his fingers. I kicked the mare forward and grabbed Pete’s reins. The horse spun, dumping Pete into the brush alongside the trail with a loud crash and a string of swearing.

I’d told Gib not to gallop on these trails, that it wasn’t safe. But he didn’t know them. The mare and I did. I dropped the Appie’s reins and he fell in behind us as we raced downhill, cutting and turning, speeding and slowing, until we reached the flats near the Lodge grounds. I took his reins again and the three of us returned to a walk, breathing hard and heavy.

If the horses were as confused as I was about what had just happened, they didn’t show it. That’s one of the reasons I love them.

I was just reaching for my phone, glad to finally have the chance, when I spotted a sheriff’s rig parked on the main road, near the corral. Thank goodness Ike had gotten my earlier message. I really needed him now.

We skirted the corral, the two horses and I, our breathing slowing but not yet back to normal. Near the far gate, by the corner of the barn, stood not Ike but Kim, her back to me, talking to someone standing in the shadow of the building. Even at a distance, she looked tense.

We rode closer. To my amazement, Kim stood toe to toe with Kyle. She wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near him. He spotted me first.

“Erin. What’s wrong?” Kyle said. “You’re lathered. And where’s the other rider?”

“Kim, I was wrong about Gib Knox. Half-wrong anyway. He didn’t kill Drew Baker. Pete Lloyd did. He came after me, but—but we got away. He’s up on Trail One, between the fork and the vista. He might be hurt. He’s armed.” She waited, wide-eyed, for me to finish. “And a little crazy.”

Kyle took the Appaloosa’s reins and led him into the corral. I watched and waited as Kim radioed dispatch and requested immediate backup. She called to Kyle to saddle her horse, then used her cell phone to call Ike. “He’s on foot. He may be armed.” Still listening, she wriggled out of her jacket and tossed it, one-handed, over the fence rail. “I can’t leave him out there, boss. There’s houses. Hikers. Potential hostages.”

She clicked off, swung into the saddle, and took the reins from Kyle.

“Be careful,” I said to her back. “He’s a desperate loser.”

And I don’t want to lose you.

*   *   *

K
yle tried to convince me to let one of the stable hands groom the mare and Appaloosa—“under the circumstances”—but I insisted on staying. He stayed, too, and we brushed and combed in silence, stroking the horses’ necks, whispering words meant to comfort them and each other.

Deputies arrived and blocked the Lodge entrance. They secured the grounds, telling everyone to stay inside until the all-clear was given. Ike and other deputies, they said, were fanning out along the road and up into the woods, searching.

No telling what Pete would do when he spotted them. But the game was up. He had nowhere to hide.

They’re experts
, I reminded myself. And whether it’s cheesemaking, pottery, or law enforcement, experts know what to do.

Kyle and I retreated to the main Lodge, where he marched into the saloon and poured a glass of wine for me and a stiff whiskey for himself.

The wait felt longer than it was. I was halfway into my second glass—a tall draft of water on the side—when Ike Hoover strode into the Lodge.

“Got him,” he announced with a note of triumph.

Beside me, Kyle let out a long sigh of relief.

“And Kim?” I said, not caring if anyone heard my voice shake.

“Deputy Caldwell is assisting with prisoner transport,” Ike said. “A word, Erin?”

But I was already out the door. There was a horse who needed me.