Death Al Dente (11 page)

Questions swirled in my head like the pasta in my bowl. “Her divorce settlement?” I asked.

Fresca shook her head. “She needed that to live on.”

How to phrase this? Turns out it's not easy to question your own family without letting them know you're snooping. “Was she after you for money?”

“Blackmail? Heavens, no.”

Back to the unanswered question. “Did you talk to her Friday, Mom?”

“I called her. I was hurt, but I wanted to see her, and I told her so. She said—she said she needed to talk to me but she didn't want to be seen at the Festa. So . . .” She took a swig of wine. Her glass hit the tip of her knife and wobbled before I caught it. “So she asked me to meet her in the back alley.”

Holy cow. “Why?”

“She said she couldn't come to the dinner without telling me something first. As if I wouldn't want her there if I knew.”

“Did you tell Kim?” Her face said she hadn't. But Kim must have taken Claudette's phone. Which was why she hadn't been surprised to see that Claudette had also called me. She knew what calls Claudette had made, and she knew Fresca was withholding information.

“I never got there, Erin. I got occupied with the caterers and early arrivals. And, well, there was someone else I needed to see. The next thing I knew, everyone was rushing out back and she was—gone.”

I believed her. But how on earth would we convince the rest of the world?

I
really ought to open an espresso bar. Tuesday morning, and here I was on Le Panier's doorstep again. I'd recoup the investment in no time, just from the savings on my own daily double. But I'd miss Wendy's croissants and éclairs too much.

Besides, as my mother said last night about restaurants, Jewel Bay hardly needed another coffee shop, especially off-season.

Ah, last night. I'd pushed my mother to tell Kim about the phone call—the irony after my own snooping not escaping me—and she'd finally agreed to think about it. If Kim had discovered it already, Fresca's silence would have raised more suspicions. But who else had she seen?

“That's my own business,” my mother had insisted, “and no one else's.”

But when murder's involved, the rules change.

I consider myself a creature of good habits when it comes to food, but variety is the spice and all that—and a change in habit might shift my perspective. So I chose a
pain au raisin
instead of my usual. Just as I started to push the door with my elbow, it swung open and I stopped before dousing Jeff Randall, Claudette's ex-husband, with hot coffee.

“Sorry.” We spoke at the same time.

“It's so awful,” I said. “We're so sorry.” Behind him, Ian radiated pain and loneliness.

He nodded. “Must have been hard on you, finding her. We've heard the gossip, and we don't for a moment think Fresca had anything to do with it. She would never hurt anyone. They were friends, and friendship matters.”

As his father spoke, a shadow crossed Ian's face, so like his mother's. His jaw clenched, and below his close-cropped hairline, his neck pulsed. Oh, the mix of emotions: shock, anger, grief, betrayal. I well remembered.

“The memorial service is scheduled now. Thursday afternoon,” Jeff said. “I hope you both will come.”

“Of course. Thank you for not believing the rumors.” If Claudette's own family refused to suspect my mother, surely Kim would look elsewhere.

They ordered, and we chatted about life in Seattle, traveling in Asia—small nothings to fill the gap Claudette's death left. I asked Ian about school—still thinking drama at UM, or in Seattle? I'd left my own theatric ambitions behind, but was genuinely curious about his. Had he seen any Kabuki theater or Chinese opera in their travels? Though we were about the same size—Jeff was not a big man, and Claudette had been tiny—Ian seemed to stare past me, arms crossed, uninterested in chitchat. At nineteen, he was barely older than I'd been when my father died. A hit-and-run was traumatic, but it wasn't murder. No comparison, really.

Or was there? I wasn't an only child like Ian, but my brother and sister had already flown the coop. The family—both Murphys and Contis—had rallied around us, but when they went back home, whether to California or five miles down the lake, it had been my mother and me, alone together, in the house that suddenly seemed far too big. That seemed empty without my father's steadiness.

The fresh grief in Ian's eyes made my heart ache, though whether for his loss or mine, I couldn't say.

“Here you go,” Wendy called, and Ian stepped to the counter. I started to tell Jeff what a great kid he had, but the exhaustion on his face silenced me. Too much sympathy can be as difficult as too little.

Ian handed Jeff a cup and paper bag. “Do either of you know what Claudette was planning to do next? When she came back from Vegas?”

“No idea.” Jeff sounded baffled. But Ian looked like there'd been a goldfish in his cappuccino and he wasn't sure whether to swallow or spit it out.

It isn't squealing if someone guesses. “Was she planning to start a restaurant?”

He looked like he didn't want to respond, but saw that his father was waiting for the answer, too.

“Not start. Take over.” He stared at his feet.

“Which place?” Nothing in the village was publicly for sale, but I didn't know about the rest of town. And the right offer could always be persuasive.

But he didn't know. “Where are you staying?” I asked.

Jeff answered. “At Claudette's house. It's Ian's now, until we figure out what to do with it.”

Of course. “Good, good. I'm sure it's nice to be home. I bet the neighbors are glad it isn't sitting empty.”

“Mrs. Taylor is nice, but her other neighbor's a creep,” Ian said. Wendy's grandmother—I'd forgotten. And James Angelo. “He gave Mom a hard time.”

“About what?” But Ian's tongue had loosened all it would. He shrugged, and said no more.

“We'll see you Thursday. I'm sure Fresca would be glad to help with lunch after the service.”

“We'd like that,” Jeff said. “Claudette would like that.”

I blinked back a tear.

* * *

W
hat restaurant had Claudette been eyeing? I carried my coffee and bun up to the office and mentally ticked them off. In the village, Chez Max, the Inn, Applause!, and the Bayside Grille were all chef-owned and set for the long haul. The others all appeared to be in safe hands. None of the cafés and casinos on the highway were a likely option, either.

I sipped my latte. What about that shuttered place north of town? It had undergone half a dozen incarnations, none successful. Bad feng shui, Liz said. Bad food, Fresca said.

Tracy arrived a few minutes later, Diet Coke and white grocery store bakery bag in hand. Time for me to go a-snooping.

First stop, kitchen shop. Heidi kept her bejeweled fingers on the hidden pulse of the village.

“Heidi, can you get real estate info from your hunky pal?” She answered with a slow, sly smile. “Say a person wanted to buy a restaurant in town. What's available?”

“You are not buying a restaurant.” A statement, not a question.

“Not me. Claudette. When she was alive.”

“No way. No money. Unless she had a partner. Who would have to be crazy,” she said. “Claudette Randall was a delightful woman and as flaky as a box of Wheaties.”

“And you told my mother so.”

“Francesca makes her own decisions. I take no pleasure in having been right.”

So why had Fresca been blind to Claudette's faults? Or hired her despite them?

On the sidewalk outside, I debated my next move. I needed to know Claudette's plans, her movements Friday afternoon, and who'd been repeating the stories about Claudette, Fresca, and me.

A restaurant owner might know who was buying and selling. Much as I love Max, it wouldn't be fair to pepper him with questions given Wendy's reticence. But Ray Ramirez at the Bayside Grille—like half the town, I thought of it as “the Grillie”—was a straight shooter, and friendly.

The Grille mixed modern with Western decor for a look both warm and breezy: birch tables, driftwood hanging from the ceiling, abstracts and landscapes in bold colors on the walls. It felt handcrafted, and so did the food.

The breakfast rush had ended, though the dawdlers still nursed their coffee. Ray's
huevos rancheros
are killer, but I couldn't let food deter me from my mission. A pass-through separated the kitchen from the front counter, where I took a seat and caught Ray's attention.

“Rock and roll all weekend,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We don't usually do so well this early in summer—thanks.”

“Great. Quick question. A chef friend from Seattle's thinking about a move, opening his own restaurant. Any possibilities around here?”

“That place north of town is empty again.” He squinted, thinking. “I bet the guy at the golf course would sublease in a heartbeat—great room, tough location. Oh, and the old marina, but that kitchen needs a serious overhaul.”

“Heard talk of anyone interested? My friend might like a partner.” If my friend existed.

He shook his head. Behind him, in the kitchen, my eye lit on someone I totally did not expect to see. “Angelo's working for you?”

“Yeah. You know, the guy's not a half-bad cook. I needed help, and he's still got evenings free for catering.”

“Did he help you Friday night?”

“Don't think so.” His brow creased as he thought. “Yeah, yeah, he did, but prep only. He was gone by four, four thirty.”

And stopped at the drugstore on his way—where? The swing gate opened and Angelo zipped out. “Ray, got a moment? I was thinking . . .” And then he spotted me. “What are you doing here? Tailing me all over town?”

“Just checking in after the weekend,” I said. “Finding out what worked about the Festa, what didn't.” Other than murder. “Congrats on the new job.”

Angelo glowered, turned, and flew back into the kitchen. Ray shrugged, brown eyes placid. “Temperamental. Goes with the territory sometimes.”

I murmured agreement. Did that signal a violent streak?

Next stop, Puddle Jumpers. Every town has an owner like Sally. Or two, if the karma's bad. Nothing's ever right. No one listens to her. A clique calls the shots and plays favorites. When the Merchants Association hangs flower baskets on the lampposts, she complains that the one by her shop is ugly.

Blah, blah, blah.

But if I remembered right, Claudette had worked there once. What better launching pad for rumors?

“Oh, how cute.” I fingered a hot pink sundress with white straps and green-and-white polka dots. “Makes me wish I were five again.”

“It hung there all weekend and I only sold three.”

Leaving one on the rack. Ohhh-kay. You can't please some people. “Hey, just wanted to check on you. I know you were friends with Claudette, and it's all so sad.”

Sally was carefully dressed and made up, the oversized diamonds in her ears complementing her short, moussed, and frosted curls. But her features and her eyes had turned bitter long ago. “Well, it's convenient for you.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

Sally was defiant, her glare hard as steel. “With her gone, no one can prove what your mother did to her.”

One wheel in the rumor mill identified. “Which was what, exactly?”

“You know. Took advantage of her talent, her ideas, her hard work. Ran her off with no warning.”

“Claudette left on her own, to chase Elvis dreams with Dean.”

Her eyes darkened and she pursed her lips before speaking. “And you don't think your mother encouraged her?”

First I'd heard of that. “Fat chance. Fresca trusted Dean about as far as she could throw him.”

A trio of well-heeled grandmothers entered, chattering over the cute clothes and toys. Sally's bread-and-butter, and I didn't dare stand between her and a sale. But her parting look as I walked out said I'd learn no more from her, no matter how many questions I asked.

A sign of the temperature in the village, or Sally's usual malcontent?

I sighed and pushed open the florist's door. The oversized worktable in the back screamed bad idea. It was deep with gladioluses in white, coral, and deep red. Funeral flowers. The very sight of them sent me back to the high school gym where my father's memorial service had been held. The death of a popular teacher in a hit-and-run was a tragedy for the town, not just my own family. He'd belonged to every kid who'd ever been in his classroom or on one of his sports teams, to their parents, to our friends and their parents, to every one who'd grown up going into Murphy's Mercantile for groceries or to buy a quarter's worth of double-chocolate malted milk balls from the glass canister on the front counter. But the very public grief had seemed to rob my family of our own time to mourn.

Shake it off, Erin. It's not like no one else is ever going to die in your life.

I'd handled my father's death well for years. But now, back in my hometown, with my mother and my former best friend caught up in another death, my defenses slipped.

At the sight of the box filled with birds of paradise, I fled.

T
he knit and sew bug has never bitten me. But who doesn't love wandering through quilt and yarn shops, filling your eyes with color, twining your way through magic? And though Jewel Bay calls itself The Food Lovers' Village, Dragonfly Dry Goods is a key ingredient in the town's appeal.

For me, it was respite after my confrontations with Angelo and Sally. As always, I drooled mentally over the quilt hanging behind the cutting table: a kaleidoscopic dragonfly hovering above garden green foliage, all made more vibrant by the black background and red-and-gold fabric frame. While Kathy cut yardage and chatted with her customer about a quilt project, I stroked lustrous mohair from Angora goats raised at the foot of Jewel Basin, in the mountains east of town, and touched a skein of kid mohair to my cheek. Softer than Sandburg, though I wouldn't tell him.

Her customer left, and her gray eyes turned sympathetic. “That bad, huh?”

“I need to solve this crime before the whole town turns against Fresca.”

She rewrapped and pinned the bolts she'd just cut. “Strong women aren't always popular.”

“Claudette worked here before she went to Red's, right? What happened?”

“Too many mistakes. Measuring fabric was like rocket science to her.”

I smiled. “I mean, at Red's.”

She cocked her head. “My impression was she wanted to work more closely with your mother and Tracy. And restaurant work is hard.”

“She said that? So why would she want to go back to it?” I told her what I knew.

“Sounds crazy to me. I never heard Claudette express any entrepreneurial ambition.” Neither had anyone else. But there were those Facebook posts. “Wish I could help you more, Erin. But I don't listen to talk. Rumor doesn't sell yarn.”

If the killer were local, and not random—as Kim seemed convinced—maybe the key question was not who would benefit from killing Claudette, but who would benefit from casting suspicion on my mother.

At that thought, a firecracker exploded in my chest.

A pair of full-figured middle-aged women entered and beelined for a yummy display of yarn. Hand-spun, hand-painted colorways inspired by the West, according to the sign.

“Thanks, Kath.” I left Dragonfly and trudged back to the Merc, mulling over the various threads and threats. My mother hired Claudette to manage the Merc against the advice of her friends, all successful business owners. Claudette was gathering info on restaurant management and told her son she planned to take over an existing operation, but she had minimal experience and no cash—and no local joints were for sale. With Ian out of high school, she had few ties to Jewel Bay—but I'd uncovered nothing to suggest she had her eyes on another town.

The aroma of fresh bread brought me back to the present. Despite her closed mouth—or because of it—Wendy did hear a lot about the goings-on in town. Getting her to talk could crack things open. I popped in, but the young woman at the counter—a member of the summer Playhouse stage crew at night—said she was elbow-deep in dough. Later.

In deference to her grief, I hadn't quizzed Tracy about the rumors or Claudette's plans. Might be time. Buttonhole her now, or query Old Ned?

Before I could decide, a white truck outfitted with racks and huge sheets of glass pulled up in front of the Merc.

“This would be the place,” the driver said, eyeing my plywood window.

“This would be the place,” I agreed.

The crew had obviously done this before, but it was all new to me, so I watched the painstaking—or panes-taking—process from a safe distance. First, they carefully removed the plywood and broken glass. The sight of those sharp edges pricked my skin. They fitted the replacement window onto a roller, glided it across the sidewalk, then lifted it into place using powerful suction cups. Two men kept their grip on the bottom, and I held my breath while the third tipped the glass up against the back frame, using heavy tape to hold it secure. Next, he reinstalled the wooden stops. I couldn't help noticing that the old wooden trim needed a touch-up. One more project for the list.

One man cleaned the glass while the others packed their gear. Finally, they popped open frosty water bottles and leaned against their truck to catch their breath and admire their work.

I fetched them each a jar of jam as thanks. Nobody ever refuses.

Talk about an instant mood lift. Light poured in and the gloom that had clung to the Merc the last few days vanished.

So, unfortunately, had my opportunity to chat up Old Ned before his lunch rush. He'd be flipping burgers and boiling waffle-cut potatoes in oil for at least another hour. And I couldn't talk to Tracy, either. With no one else to watch the shop, any probing conversation would have to wait.

Tuesdays aren't hot for tourist traffic. Last week's visitors are on the road to elsewhere, and the new crop hasn't arrived yet. But inside the Merc, Tracy held a picnic basket for a woman in white crops and a royal purple sweatshirt. Their conversation mirrored our talk about helping customers create a meal with our products—not pick out odd ingredients they didn't have a use for. She might not be committed yet to the Mission, but I sensed progress.

And maybe she was getting over her resentment of me.

In the kitchen, I found Fresca organizing for a sauce-making stint. “Erin, darling, where have you been? Go out to Rainbow Lake Garden for me and pick up tomatoes and basil. And eggs. I've already called Johanna and told her you're on your way.”

We'd agreed she would let me make the orders, but I didn't have the heart to chide her. Better to see the Fresca we all knew and loved back—at least for a while.

“And no one would even know we carry cheese—we're wiped out,” she continued, deep into command mode. “Swing by the Creamery on your way back.”

Summertime, and the living is busy. I slid Jody Fisher's CD into the player and cranked up the volume. Good stuff. On the dirt road that led to Rainbow Lake—not much more than a swimming hole—I closed my windows to keep out the dust, then turned at the rustic sign marking the farm lane. A movement on the right caught my eye and I braked. In the meadow, a tiny spotted fawn wobbled next to her mother. Behind her, a larger doe sized me up. Grandma, or an aunt, on guard duty.

The first fawn sighting. Summer had truly arrived.

Jo and Phyl—short for Phyllis—had Fresca's order boxed and ready by the garden gate.

“Three fawns,” Phyl said in her Kiwi accent. “Twins in the far meadow.”

“You heard about Claudette,” I said. They didn't get into town much—town came to them—but they knew everyone.

“Shame,” Jo said. “We liked her, though we had our trials.”

I'd worked hard to clean up the problems other vendors had experienced with Claudette. “Not to gossip,” I said, “but just to make sure we don't repeat her mistakes, can you be more specific?”

They traded one of those subtle couple-looks that spoke volumes to them and nothing to me. Danish Jo, blond and golden tan, six inches taller than ruddy Phyl, who wasn't stocky but looked it next to her partner. How they'd met and how they'd gotten here, I couldn't imagine.

“Big row last summer,” Phyl said. “She ordered for both the Merc and your mother, and messed up quantities constantly. She'd call midaft for stuff we'd already picked and insist we pick again, despite the pain in the arse and the effect of the heat on the veg. Or she'd ask us to bring things in, then say she needed something else instead.”

“That's why we don't deliver anymore.” Jo fanned herself with her straw beach hat.

“None of that nonsense with you,” Phyl said. “You value us and what we offer the community. Who needs Whole Foods or Trader Joe's?”

Not the time to confess I planned a trip to SavClub in Pondera later. “The climate's a challenge, but I believe we can develop a market.”

She nodded. “Good on you. And your support's spurring us to work harder, too—try more early-and-late season varieties, more storage crops. Maybe build a winter greenhouse.”

They were counting on me to make this work. My jaw tightened. Every decision I made had a ripple effect.

“You two supply quite a few restaurants, don't you? Any changing hands—new owner or manager?”

“A few seasonal changes in menus, but that's all,” Jo said. “Why?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Just following a wild hare.”

“Gotta watch those wild hares,” Phyl said. “Or they'll bite you in the arse.”

I laughed and slid the last box of produce into my car. Jo handed me a bouquet of Shasta daisies, pink and purple delphiniums, purple foxglove, and blushing pink peonies with ruffled white edges. “Keep an eye on your mother. She's a friend to us.”

Back on Cutoff Road, I drove east half a mile to the Creamery. The owners, who'd built their kids' 4-H goats and dairy cows into a family business, exchanged the empty cooler I'd brought for one loaded with Fresca's shop order. I delivered the huckleberry honey they'd asked for and took off.

As I pulled onto Cutoff Road, a dark blue VW with a kayak on top whizzed past me, inches away and well over the 50 mph speed limit.

Innocent enough. Everybody in town drove this road from time to time—why not Angelo?

So why did I suddenly feel like those wild hares were getting way too close?

* * *

B
ack Street still made me shiver, but I took a deep breath and parked outside our gate. The hinge creaked, reminding me of my date with Liz to brainstorm a courtyard makeover.

To my surprise, the section of fence dividing our courtyard from Red's stood ajar. I kicked it shut.

A crate of tomatoes in my arms, I freed two fingers to open the Merc's back door, then wedged my foot and backside in and wriggled through. With my head down and the door slamming shut behind me, I didn't see or hear Ted Redaway before we smacked into each other.

“Criminy.” I managed to keep my grip on the box, but the top layer of tomatoes went flying. “Watch out!”

Ted pushed past me, his face beefsteak red, as fruit splattered the walls and floor.

I carried the box into the kitchen and grabbed wet rags, muttering bad words. I was prying a tomato seed from between two planks with my thumbnail when Fresca descended from the office, a vegetable-print apron protecting her navy-and-cream-striped T-shirt and cropped khakis, her feet in the cherry red Keds she saved for sauce-making day.

“Ted,” I said. “Blustering through without watching where he was going.”

Only then did I notice her unusual pallor, followed by a rapid deep flush. Her eyes flared and her right hand rose sharply then fell, as if to lift a cleaver but deciding there was no point.

She sat on the bottom step, her face in her hands.

“Mom, it's okay. Six tomatoes, eight max. There's dozens left, not even bruised. And more boxes in the car.”

She raised her eyes, bright with rage, and shook her head.

“What is it? Did something happen?” Something else . . .

“It doesn't concern you, Erin.” She pushed herself up and headed up front without another word.

What the heck? But no time to find out—not with a car full of perishables and a wet, sticky floor.

A few minutes later, I'd hauled all the produce inside. Only the cooler was left. It really needed two people, but Tracy had the shop and I didn't want to disturb my mother. She was disturbed enough.

A knight in black leather approached, hands up. “Erin, yell at me all you want. I deserve it.”

Apologetic was not Ted's style. Sarcastic, rude, crude, and on occasion, mildly amusing. He'd gotten my Jell-O up, as he was prone to do, but grudges weren't my style. “Help me drag this cooler inside and you're forgiven.”

He slid one end out of the hatchback while I maneuvered the other. “Geez, what you got in this thing?” It came out “whutchew.” “Bricks?”

“Not geez—cheese.” I grinned. “Cheese bricks.”

He set his end down, forcing me to do the same. “Erin, I got to talk to you. Seriously. I been thinking.”

He sounded so earnest that I stifled my smart-ass comment. “Shoot.”

“I been thinking about your plans for the Merc—one-stop shopping, farm-to-table, all that stuff.” He fingered the edge of his red bandanna sweat rag. “Wouldn't you be better off up on the highway?”

“Nope. The action's in the village.”

“But downtown's always crowded. Never enough parking.” He gestured at the dusty lot behind me, half full even on Tuesday. “More visibility out there.”

“More walk-in customers down here. The highway's great for essentials, like gas, auto parts, the Laundromat. But people don't stop and browse out there—they come into the village for that.” I reached for the cooler handle.

“I'm only thinking about you, Erin. Do you want to be reminded about murder every time you unload your car?”

Good question. But I would never give up this property, and I knew Fresca felt the same, even though it had come from my father's family, not hers. She viewed it as our legacy. You'd think Ted would understand that.

“Murphy's Mercantile is staying put,” I said.

“Then you better hope your pal Kim gets that Elvis creep behind bars soon, so we can all put this tragedy behind us.”

We dragged the load inside and Ted left, not saying another word about the mess. It was as much my fault as his, but heck—I run the joint. No reason to be on alert for blind-siding neighbors in my own back hall.

Yellow plums, red Romas, and Early Girls obscured the kitchen's stainless steel prep surfaces. Stainless steel bowls held garlic, peppers, and basil.

A large white cutting board lay next to the sink, where Fresca washed and sorted tomatoes. The sights and smells whisked me back to childhood—pots bubbling, steam on windows, all three kids with mouths watering crowding the kitchen doorway.