Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (7 page)

P
arking in the village is always a challenge on summer weekends, but stir in a major festival and walking to work Saturday morning sounded like the superior plan. I sprinkled a little catnip on Sandburg’s scratch pad, wished him sweet dreams of chasing mice through snowberry, and pulled the cabin door shut behind me.

In theory, I’m the caretaker on Bob and Liz’s spread, but in reality, they hire out all the heavy work like lawn mowing and snow plowing. They winter in Arizona, where they made a not-so-small fortune out of stone coasters and retired young, so I keep an eye on the place when they’re away. Meanwhile, my little guy and I live here rent-free, with full run over fifteen wooded acres and anytime access to the dock and Eagle Lake.

In other words, perfect.

The cabin sits on a slope that gives me a tree-filtered water view. This morning, the lake sparkled. I set off through the woods toward town on a well-worn game trail, the soft thuds of my feet on the duff keeping time for a pair of warring squirrels chirping madly. Morning light broke through the fir and pine canopy, falling in patches on the forest floor. My sister says you can’t be a painter in Montana without a deep love of green. I’m no artist, but after growing up on an orchard and living all my life in the Northwest, green always makes me shimmer inside.

So did the memory of Friday night. My family and friends had astonished me with the courtyard make-over and party. And my head spun in delight—and confusion—over Adam Zimmerman.

Today he’d be busy picking up provisions for the camp, and on Sunday he’d be meeting parents and busing the last group of kids off to the wilderness for two weeks.

Two weeks.

I’d been anticipating seeing Rick this weekend. Now I felt like a weather vane after a storm.

I was not a flake. Not in business, and certainly not when it came to men.

Like Scarlett O’Hara worrying over Tara, I had vowed last night to put all decisions about dating off until tomorrow, another day.

Tomorrow had arrived.

And Stacia, I remembered with a sickening stomach cramp when my feet hit the pavement, was still dead.

My mother always says don’t tell trouble you’re looking for it. Just because I had solved one crime this summer didn’t make me a detective. And untangling one mystery over recipes didn’t mean I had any right or reason to get involved in this one. I’d proposed a solution that both chefs and the contest committee and judges had accepted. Drew Baker and Amber Stone had submitted their new recipes yesterday, without any hitches.

All would be well.

I crossed the one-lane bridge over the Jewel River, the waters of the Wild Mile growing quieter as summer wound down. Soon, the season would change and, with it, the rhythm of life and retail. In truth, I’d welcome the more relaxed pace. I had plans for new products that needed time to develop and market.

But meanwhile, high summer reigned, and we had a festival to run.

Much as I like to think of the Merc as the heart of the village, the real heart is the library and community center at the south end of Front Street. A children’s playground brings favorite storybook characters to life. Inside, the library kept us all well read, meeting rooms got a steady workout, and the walls served as an art gallery. I strolled on by.

Clusters of white canopies dotted Front Street. Most vendors had unloaded their crates of merchandise and now bustled around, unpacking pottery, hanging paintings, and arranging jewelry in glass-front cases. A few trucks and vans loitered, the rumble of their idling engines not loud enough to drown out the chitter-chatter of a hundred and fifty vendors, the friends and family helping them, and the volunteer crew valiantly urging stragglers to hurry.

Ah, yes. The challenges of a one-lane village sometimes strain its charms.

The face painter, a friend of my sister’s, was setting up near the playground. Next to her, a woodworker sold hand-made kaleidoscopes. I peered through a walnut model and aimed it down the street. “Delightful,” I said, then stared, eyes wide, as a panoply of pink filled the viewfinder.

I handed back the wooden toy and wished the craftsman a banner day.

“So, you decided to give our little village a go after all.” Candy Divine looked like she was early for Halloween, her dress just this side of an adult fantasy shop version of Minnie Mouse. The black velveteen bodice sported a sweetheart neckline and a white sateen collar and cummerbund. She’d strung a black-and-white cameo on a pink ribbon around her neck. A white ruffled petticoat peeked out from underneath the pink-and-white-polka-dot skirt, making it stand out like a square dancer’s skirt. In her sole concession to practicality, she wore white sneakers, her hot pink anklets trimmed with white lace.

Hey, if it sold taffy and nougat, then it was in good taste.

“Everyone’s been so welcoming,” she said in her high-pitched voice. “So many craft fairs and festivals around here. Sales are booming.”

“If it’s made in Montana,” I said, “it must be good.” But I wondered how perky she—and that pink bow on top of her head—would be after nine hours in eighty-five-degree heat.

In the cluster of booths near the Merc, I spotted Luci the Splash Artist. With her short, feathery white-blond hair and her collection of 1950s aprons, she could have stepped off the pages of
Country Living
. Today’s apron sported turquoise and chartreuse paisley with brown accents on a white background, worn over a form-fitting white T-shirt reading
SQUEAKY CLEAN
, white crops cuffed at the knees, and turquoise Crocs. In June, she’d brought Tracy and me samples of her soap, shampoo, and lotion. We’d found the lotion particularly appealing—not too greasy—and she had a deft hand with fragrance. She had taken our suggestions to clean up the labeling and simplify her product line, but ultimately decided to sell the products herself.

“Summer’s gone great. I’ve sold almost everything I’ve made.” She grinned.

“Super.” I love success stories.

“But you know,” she said in a confiding tone, “doing all my own sales and promo, plus making the products, is kicking my butt. Can we talk?”

“You bet. Monday, if not this weekend.”
Yes!
I gave her a quick hug and let her return to setup while I continued making the rounds. Her quad mates were a leather worker; a stained glass artist whose windows, picture frames, and suncatchers were stunning; and two painters who shared a booth. Christine Vandeberg painted mostly in acrylics. Her playful trees and flowers were delightfully, deceptively childlike. A year or two older than me, she’d been engaged to my brother Nick, but broke it off for reasons I’d never heard. They visited me once in Seattle, and we’d eaten sushi and drunk too many appletinis.

I picked up a long, narrow wrapped canvas, words stenciled on a brightly splattered backdrop:

DREAM

CREATE

SNICKER

DOODLE

It’s the kind of work that makes you instantly think,
I could do that
, and then,
but I never will
.

“Sold,” I said.

Christine’s long red hair was gathered in a ponytail on top of her head so the hair spread out like water from a fountain. It bounced and splashed while she took my cash and handed over the painting. She’s got an endless supply of eyeglasses. Today’s frames were purple.

“Oh, first score!”

“Iggy!” I gave the old woman a gentle hug. She and Christine share a studio as well as a festival booth. Iggy’s work is nothing like Christine’s: abstract oils with tiny figures and hieroglyphs scratched into thick, troweled-on paint. It makes my brain itch, like I should understand it but don’t.

The food booths were clustered on the cross street north of the Merc. The large booth Montana Gold shared with the Creamery was synchronicity in action. Burlap sacks of Montana grain were piled next to the entrance, and tall stalks of amber wheat filled an old metal milk can. The Creamery owner was arranging baskets of crackers and bagel chips and trays of sliced cheese on a small table. Inside the booth, a long table held five- and ten-pound bags of flour, boxes of crackers, bags of bagels, chips, and breads, and other specialty grains and mixes, all organically grown in Montana. Coolers brimmed with cheese: bricks, blocks, sticks, logs, wedges, and wheels. Toy tractors and trucks continued the farm theme.

But no sign of Rick. Might be parking his truck up at the high school or scouting the other vendors. Montana Gold was new in the western part of the state and new to Summer Fair, so he’d be intent on making connections.

I wanted to see him and wish him a good Fair. But I also needed to let him know I’d be working, sort of, at the Grill-off, so we’d need to revise our date plans. Until last night, I’d been eager for more time together. Now confusion clouded my excitement.

Who could I ask for advice? Not Fresca. My father had been the love of her life, and her new relationship with Bill was giving her a sweet second chance. And Chiara would just roll her eyes. Heidi? She always seemed to be juggling two different boyfriends. On the other hand, despite stunning good looks—or because of them—my mother’s best friend and owner of the most amazing kitchen shop in three hundred miles wasn’t known for her romantic smarts.

Maybe this version of double dating wasn’t a good idea after all.

The next booth featured beef, buffalo, and elk jerky, and pemmican bars. “All natural, made with buffalo raised on the prairie. No preservatives. This one’s got cranberries. That one’s got raisins and walnuts. And sunflower seeds,” the dark-haired woman standing under the canopy said in the distinctive Indian cadence. “Native American” might be politically correct elsewhere, but living this close to two of Montana’s seven reservations, I knew the people still called themselves “Indian.”

BLACKFEET NATURA
LS: USING THE ANCESTO
RS’ WAYS FOR MODERN H
EALTH AND GOODNESS
, the sign read. Folks who haven’t eaten buffalo sometimes cringe at the idea—it’s hard to imagine how such strange-looking critters will taste. That’s okay. Leaves more for me.

I tried a sample of buffalo-cranberry first. The flavors exploded in my mouth, then settled onto my taste buds in near perfection. “Terrific. Your first festival? I’m Erin Murphy, by the way.”

“Yah. Maggie Bird.” The skin around her deep brown eyes crinkled when she smiled. She was short and generously built. “I sent my kid to college and he brought home a business plan. We been selling on the reservation two years now. Time to branch out.”

I bought two of each flavor in the snack size—they also had larger bars for all-day hikes or overnight emergencies—and some jerky. Start-up packaging, but that would be easy to upgrade. We chatted a few more minutes, then I gave her my card and invited her to check out the Merc. I’d love to carry Indian products, especially such yummy ones.

More booths beckoned, but it was past time to get to work. I headed down Back Alley and popped open the courtyard gate.

Not a dream after all. The place still bubbled. Maybe there was something to Liz’s talk about the energy of a space.

Got to make it pay for itself
, I thought as I unlocked the Merc’s back door.

Inside, Tracy stood by the front counter, a distant expression on her face.

“Hey. Didn’t expect to see you so early.”

She straightened with a start and reddened. “Oh, uh. I, uh—” She gestured at the glass display case and the containers stacked on the counter. “I wanted to make sure we had enough, since we’re featuring my chocolates for the Fair.”

My stomach growled at the mention of Tracy’s huckleberry and raspberry truffles. Not to mention her new chocolate-covered Flathead Cherries. Two bites of pemmican did not count as breakfast. “Go for it—you’re the display queen. Try one of these. I’m hoping she’ll become a new vendor.”

Cheeks still pink, she took the pemmican bar. “Oh, uh. You just missed Rick Bergstrom.”

“Figures.” I’d have to catch him later. Meanwhile, time to pop next door for one of Wendy’s “breakfast jewels,” a warm puff pastry shell filled with egg, spinach, and cheese. Wendy might be testy, but darn, could she bake.

Back at the Merc, I focused on making the most of festival day. I restocked the produce cart and hauled it out to the sidewalk. Started coffee and made sure we had plenty of cream and sugar, paper cups, stirring sticks, and napkins. Set out bowls and trays for the samples we’d be offering. Fluffed the coolers and shelves.

Ready. I rubbed my hands with glee.

My new painting lay on the kitchen’s stainless steel counter. I carried it and my bag up the half flight of stairs. The tiny office tucked under the eaves still felt like Fresca’s. Her cookbooks crammed the shelves: Julia Child, Jacques Pepin, Marcella Hazan, Escoffier,
Larousse Gastronomique
, and more and more and more. Stacks of
Bon Appetit
,
Saveur
, and
Food and Wine
filled the corners. Even a pile of
Gourmet
—when her favorite magazine shut down, Fresca had practically wept.

I’d cleaned out the files when I took over the business, but since my mother had given me full responsibility for the building as well, another sweep might be in order.

Her cookbooks had to stay. She consulted them regularly. Now that we’d cleaned up the basement, I could install shelves and gently suggest she move the books downstairs. But forcing her to clean out entirely would be like forcing her out of the business.

Which she’d stepped back from voluntarily. Was I protecting her, or resisting the responsibility of being really, truly in charge?

Start small, Erin.
I took down a framed poster titled
Spices of the World
and hung Christine’s painting in its place.

Perfect.

Downstairs, Fresca had arrived and we set out today’s samples. We three worked the floor all morning, chatting with customers about our mission—high-quality natural and organic food, focusing on products sustainably grown in the region. Plus cool things to go with them—handmade table linens from Dragonfly, locally made pottery, and recycled glassware. We offered samples, handed out truffles, and had a grand old time. If the vendors outside were having half the sales and fun we had, they’d declare the Thirty-Fifth Annual Jewel Bay Summer Fair a bang-up success.