Death Al Dente (4 page)

My mother motioned to Wendy Fontaine, silent and watchful in her white chef's jacket and bright pants. Her thick black brows and tight ponytail emphasized the severity of her plain features. She brought each of us a balsamic-drizzled peach garnished with a spoonful of honey-vanilla mascarpone and a palmier. My idea, and a tasty one. Wendy could play nicely with others when she chose.

My mother spotted Kim and called her over. “I have to admit,” Kim said, her face carefully neutral as she took the extra chair, “I'm surprised you went ahead and served dinner after such a tragedy. Especially considering your history with the victim.”

Victim. A chilling word. And what history? Who had she talked to? Well, everyone, obviously.

“We loved Claudette,” I said. “And wasting food meant for a Food Bank benefit would be seriously bad karma.”

“I'd like to speak with the two of you alone.”

“We'll be off then,” Liz said as Wendy slid a dessert plate in front of Kim. “See you tomorrow night.” She kissed the air around us. Bob waved, and they left, Heidi and her guy behind them.

“What's tomorrow night?” Kim held up the palmier. “And what's this?”

“A concert at the Playhouse, with drinks and hors d'oeuvres in the lobby. That's a palmier—a puff pastry sugar cookie.”

“Honestly, Kim,” my mother said, wrapping her shoulders in the shawl I'd returned, “Jewel Bay's not such a hotbed of crime that you can't pay a little attention. Maybe get involved with community activities.”

Kim reddened slightly, tightening her narrow jaw in a familiar sign of stubbornness.

“Are you in charge of the investigation?” I asked. “What do you think happened?”

“I report directly to the undersheriff. But I can't reveal any details.”

“Why not? It happened here. Don't we have a right to know?”

My mother spoke at the same time. “Don't treat us like suspects. We have a right to know.”

“You have rights,” Kim said. “But that's not one of them.” She bit into the palmier and the crunch filled the silence.

I pushed my plate away. “You've still got people working in the alley.”

“A thorough crime scene investigation can take hours.”

“What about Claudette?” I said.
The body.

“Hospital morgue overnight. State crime lab in the morning.”

The thought of lively, energetic, confused Claudette lying on a refrigerated slab, riding to Missoula in the back of an ambulance, kept in cold storage until the ME could get to her, turned the twinkling summer night into a dull day in November. Kim said it wouldn't take long, though. Not a lot of murder in Montana.

Not a lot of consolation.

“How was she killed? Or are you keeping that from us, too?” my mother said.

Kim's jaw contracted again. She said nothing, and ate her peach. I could feel my mother's anxiety vibrating between us, and wondered if Kim sensed it.

“One more thing, Erin. Why invite Claudette when you knew she and Dean had just had a big fight?”

“I told you already. Plus I had no idea he was coming to the party. Didn't know he was back in town until today.”

“Didn't know he'd gone back to his wife,” Fresca added forcefully.

“I know people think we hated Claudette for leaving the shop on such short notice.” My voice cracked. “But we didn't. And she seemed so miserable—I wanted her to come have a good time.”

If Kim meant to goad me into saying more by her own silence, it wouldn't work. I had nothing left to say. I was as empty as the wineglasses scattered across the table.

Finally, she clipped her pen to the notebook, tucked it in her jacket pocket, and stood. “You'll be here in the morning.” It wasn't a question.

“We open at ten, but I get in earlier.”

Now all the guests were gone, leaving only Old Ned and one bartender. Despite Kim's refusal to reveal details, I suspected no witness had placed Claudette inside the bar, the Merc, or the courtyard—or we'd have been shooed out and crime scene techs would be crawling all over. A few lanterns still glowed, and I blew out the candles.

“You leave that be,” Ned said when he spotted me scanning the courtyard, once so festive and now such a mess. “My boys will clean up in the morning.”

I kissed his ruddy cheek. “Thanks, Ned. You're a prince.”

The musicians and caterers lugged their gear through Red's to Front Street, unable to pull their vans into the alley. I waved good night. Like the food, the music had hit all the right notes.

My car was parked out back, too, so after checking the Merc's doors, I walked down the street, past darkened shop windows, and turned the corner. Patrol cars filled Back Street, and yellow barricades formed a narrow exit from the parking lot, really just a large undeveloped lot between the business district and the riverbank.

I wound between the barricades to my sage green Subaru and pressed the clicker. My flashing headlights picked out a white paper bag from Jewel Bay Drug, snagged on a twig. I pulled it off, crumpled it up, and tossed it in my backseat.

Only then did I notice the car next to mine: swathed in yellow crime scene tape, Claudette's ancient black Saab.

* * *

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
Happily, I did not have miles to go before sleep. It was nearly midnight when I pulled up alongside the cabin. This close to summer solstice, the skies stay light late, and on a clear night, you can practically read outside.

I stood in the clearing and searched for the North Star. There it was, standing out despite the light of a million other stars.

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves.

What is with the quotes tonight, Erin? Murder making you maudlin?
I shook it off. The quote had prompted my tattoo, and my cat was named for a poetry god, but he had come that way. Poetry and theater hadn't been part of my life for a long time.

Inside the front door, the alarm system touch pad blinked. My mother had made me promise to set it. “That's what it's for,” she'd said.

As if Claudette's death put us all in danger.

Security systems irritate me. Everyone in Seattle had them, but I didn't want to live like that. Still, I'd promised. I punched in the code, then headed for my bedroom and changed into cotton drawstring shorts and a cami, my feet bare.

Back in the kitchen, I poured Sandburg a few cat treats, which he pounced upon, and poured myself some sauvignon blanc. I hadn't finished a glass of wine yet all night. I'd snared leftovers from the caterers, so I tossed some lasagna in the microwave and took a bite of a cold stuffed mushroom.

And fumed. Someone had ruined the Festa. He, she, it—they—had shattered the peace and quiet of a rare town that still had peace and quiet. And they'd killed a good woman.

My red boots lay by the front door, where I'd pulled them off. My magic red boots.

I wanted that feeling back. I stalked to the door and punched off the alarm.

The microwave dinged. Food. Nurture and nourishment. I needed both.

Sandburg settled in next to me on the oversized chocolate brown leather sofa, sniffing at my plate. “Paws off, buddy. My turn for treats.”

Before leaving the Merc, Kim had told me she'd reached the Seattle police, who would break the news to Claudette's ex-husband. Their son was taking a year off after high school to work and travel with his father, who imported Asian art and antiques.

Ian was just a year older than I'd been when my father died. I washed down the lump in my throat with a swig of wine.

At least they weren't suspects. So who was?

Not my problem. Kim Caldwell had charge of this one. And watching her tonight, it had been clear she still saw life as a competition, and she hated to lose.

“Movie time,” I told the cat. I swung aside the hinged cover of the flat screen TV—a vibrant watercolor my sister had painted of a giant sunflower—on the stone fireplace chimney, and flicked on the screen. Brought up Netflix and contemplated my favorite comfort movies.
Sound of Music
—too sappy.
Blade Runner
—no way.
Big Night
—too close to home.

Ratatouille
. Just right. I warmed up another chunk of lasagna. As Chef Gusteau says, the secret to life is a good sauce.

N
ext morning, the sun rose like it always did and the lake sparkled so brilliantly that I almost didn't remember what had happened the night before.

Then it hit me, as the “if only” train sped through my mind. If only I hadn't gone scouting for more candles. If only I hadn't invited Claudette.

If only someone hadn't killed her.

“So what?” I said out loud. “So you brought them face-to-face. You didn't turn an innocent person into a killer.”

But I still felt rotten. So many people had worked so hard. When business advisors say “expect the unexpected,” they aren't thinking murder.

For the first time since coming back to Jewel Bay, I wanted to be somewhere else. I adored the Merc—always had, in all its incarnations, and never more than in the last few months.

But today, even with the deputies gone, the crime scene tape and barricades down, even with Claudette's black Saab towed to county impound and the Merc back to business, everything would remind me of her.

If only I could play hooky.

My mother always says throw yourself into the things you don't want to do; that once you get absorbed, you forget your fears, and before you know it, the project is finished.

If only it were that easy.

* * *

A
cloud of yeasty sweetness perfumed the air outside Le Panier's screen door. Wendy Taylor Fontaine had adored all things French even before meeting Max in cooking school. After they married and he started the bistro, the menu inspired by his native Provence, she'd focused on his dreams. Finally, this past spring, she'd opened the bakery she'd hungered for. Good to support the neighbors, though Wendy and I don't always sing out of the same hymnal.

This morning, my mission was simple: sugar and caffeine.

“Hi, Wendy. Hey, Max. Nonfat latte, double shot, and a
pain au chocolat
.”

Wendy's dark ponytail bobbed as she tamped espresso into the sieve, rammed it into place, and poured milk into a stainless steel pitcher. She wore her usual double-breasted white chef's jacket over loose cotton pants so colorful they'd make a clown jealous, and cherry red clogs. Her long working hours kept her from getting out much, but I thought she looked even ghostlier today, the red rims around her eyes the only color on her face.

The machine hissed and the aroma of fresh espresso nearly made me swoon. She poured hot milk into the coffee, using the handle of a wooden spoon to get just the right amount of foam. I love watching experts work. She set the white paper cup on the counter, next to the pastry Max had already bagged.

I thrust out a five.
“Non, non,”
Max said, waving his hands wildly, his accent thick as the foam on my latte. “On the house. The least we can do, after last night.”

“Thanks. You guys did a great job.”

A short, enthusiastic man with salt-and-pepper hair, Max beamed. Wendy's thin lips hinted at a smile.

“Hey, Erin, how you holding up?” I hadn't noticed Sam come in. “Jen and I had our noses buried in the music. We're so sorry about Claudette.”

“Oh, that gal who got killed?” This from a man I didn't recognize, drooling on the pastry case. “We heard it had to do with losing her job, some old friend stabbing her in the back.”

My fingers twitched. Wendy's knives were so close.

Max saved me. “
Non, non.
It was not like that.” More hand waving.

“Well, that's what I heard.” The tourist bent over to ogle the tartelettes, ignoring us.

“Thanks, Max!” I grabbed my breakfast and left, not wanting to insult my neighbors' customer, even if he had unwittingly suggested my mother was a killer.

No doubt there would be plenty of talk like that today. But at least I'd be fortified.

* * *

I
nside the Merc, all seemed kosher. Other than the wineglass I'd left on the kitchen counter, there were few signs that we'd thrown a party out back, let alone one disrupted by murder.

Six chrome stools with red vinyl seats flanked the stainless steel counter that divided kitchen from selling floor. Fresca—I was still retraining myself to call her that, at least during business hours—had scrounged them from an old diner in Pondera, thirty miles away, and re-covered them. They looked as though they'd always been here. I perched on one and sipped my latte. Hot, smooth, and dee-lectable. Then I broke into my croissant, its flaky pastry melting on my tongue. And the bittersweet chocolate inside—mmm. Dee-vine.

I heard a key in the front door. Footsteps echoed on the oak floor, then paused. “Who's there?”

“It's me, Mom.” I swiveled on my stool.

“Why are you sitting with the lights off?” She flicked the switch and the kitchen lit up. I hadn't minded the shadows. They suited my mood.

Her olive skin looked ashen, but her dark eyes missed nothing as she gave me a slow once-over. “You couldn't sleep, either.”

I'd fallen asleep about the time Remy the rat and Linguini the kitchen boy hatched their plot for culinary domination, and woken up at 3 a.m. Despite my brain fog, it had taken only a moment to remember why I was asleep in the living room and why I was so upset.

I'd tossed and turned on the bed till seven. Acting “as if” I felt festive, I'd pulled on a turquoise tiered block print dress with a pearl button placket. Stacked bright bangles on my left wrist. Tucked the red boots back in my closet, and strapped on my brown leather Mary Jane clogs. With the right clothes, you can fool the world.

But not my mother. In the bright light of morning at the Merc, she brushed an imaginary stray hair off my face, then frowned at my food. “I hope that's nonfat milk. With all the temptations around here, you're going to have to watch yourself.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake. Claudette was killed last night, practically on our doorstep, probably because of me, and you're worried about my weight?”

“Just be careful, darling. You do tend to seek comfort in food. And what do you mean, because of you?”

“I invited her.” Not logical, I knew, but the feeling wouldn't go away. I ripped into the last bit of pastry.

“We may not know what happened, but neither of us is to blame,” she said.

“Why would you feel guilty? You didn't know she was coming to the party. You didn't know she was back in town until Ted told us about the rumors.” I could hear the anxiety in my rising voice.

“She didn't deserve to die that way. No one does. But it's not your fault.” She sank onto the stool next to me. “I've been racking my brain, trying to imagine who could have done this, or why.”

We sat in silence far longer than typical for two Italian girls, even two named Murphy. (My brother-in-law likes to say that in our family, Murphy's Law means no silence can last longer than two seconds.)

“About the Festa, Mom.” I needed to share my doubts. “It's too late to cancel this weekend. But maybe it shouldn't be an annual thing. Maybe—”

“Don't you dare.” She held up a graceful hand in the universal stop sign. “Don't even think about quitting. Murphy girls don't quit.”

“You weren't crazy about the idea in the first place—”

“Not true, darling. It just seemed like a lot to take on so soon. But you've done a beautiful job. We needed a summer opener. Both the Chamber and the Village Merchants Association got behind you, and that says a lot.”

It said I would probably be recruited to lead one or the other before long. “I just don't want the Festa to be a constant reminder of Claudette's murder.” I drained my latte and stood. “We'll come up with something new if we need to.”

The front door chimed. If clothes make the man, they reveal the woman, and Tracy loved a bargain, the brighter the better. But today, she had not bothered trying to dress up her mood. In all my years at SavClub, I had never sent an employee home to change clothes. But Tracy's faded denim crops, tight across the thighs, and ancient navy sweatshirt might make today the first.

“Tracy McCann,” my mother said, in a voice no daughter could ever misread. “Are you dressed for work or the cleanup crew?”

Kinda nice to have a bad cop in-house.

“It doesn't matter, Fresca. Nobody's coming in today. Haven't you heard what they're saying?”

She gripped a Diet Coke can and a waxed paper bag that likely held her morning maple bar. If she'd stopped at the convenience store, as usual, she'd heard pure trash. When I'd approached the owner about the Festa, she'd rebuffed me soundly. “More village hoopla,” she'd said, underscoring the animosity some highway business people carried for the downtown merchants. As if drawing more people to town for the weekend meant she'd sell less burned coffee and stale doughnuts—and less gas.

“Like what?” No doubt the same rumors I'd heard in Le Panier.

“That Fresca threw Claudette out on her ear. That she came back with a vengeance and came here last night to confront the two of you, to show you up in front of the high muckety-mucks.” Tracy's voice shook. Had I ever seen her without earrings?

“That's ridiculous.” Fresca's back stiffened.

“It's what Ted said yesterday. And my neighbor this morning. We'll be lucky to make a sale all day.”

Fresca and I exchanged looks. The Murphy girls were on the same page.

“We've got extra fives and ones in the safe,” I said. “Tracy, you're dressed perfectly to pack up the decorations from last night. Get one of the guys at Red's to help you haul the boxes down to the basement. You can change at noon when you run home to check on your dog.”

“I'll check the stock,” Fresca said. “With the tourists returning, the pastas and sauces are really moving.”

“Don't forget the jams and jellies.”

Tracy looked baffled. “You mean, gossip is a good thing?”

“Yes. I mean, it's awful. But if people are talking about us—well, you know what they say. No such thing as bad publicity.” I didn't want the Festa associated with murder, but if it was, shame on us for not making the most of it.

Tracy looked like she might puke, and not from the Diet Coke and maple bar. “What about showing respect for the dead?”

“Trace, we loved her, too. But closing or acting glum won't honor her. Let's show this town how strong we are, and why Claudette loved the Merc and Jewel Bay.” I had an idea. “When you're done out back, help Fresca restock. I've got a project of my own.”

Upstairs in my office, I clicked on my laptop and scrolled through our photographs. Didn't take long to find a great shot. I cropped, cut and pasted, added text, and hit Print. While the printer whirred, I dashed out back, my clogs clattering on the courtyard's pavers, and scooped up one of last night's flower arrangements. Inside, I placed the pot on the front counter next to a small display easel and added my spur-of-the-moment poster:

The Merc remembers Claudette Randall.
A bright flower.
We love you. We miss you.

And across the bottom:

Fifteen percent of today's sales donated to the Jewel Bay Food Bank in Claudette's memory.

“It's perfect.” Tracy burst into tears.

My mother blinked back tears of her own and kissed my cheek.

At ten, I flipped the hand-painted sign from
CLOSED
to
OPEN
, and customers began streaming in. And they weren't just browsing. They bought. We sold more huckleberry taffy before noon than in the last two weeks combined. Jams and jellies danced out the door and wild chokecherry syrup sold like hotcakes.

And every customer, without exception, spotted the picture of Claudette, dressed like an elf for last year's Village Christmas walk, next to the antique cash register and expressed sympathy.

Late morning, another idea struck. I sprinted next door for a few baguettes. (The summer I was thirteen, my parents took the family to France and Italy. My father's joke: How to disguise yourself as a Frenchman in Paris: Walk down the street carrying a baguette. How to disguise yourself as an American in Paris: Walk down the street eating a baguette.) We slathered olive tapenade on some slices and goat cheese on others, and set platters of spur-of-the moment snacks next to piles of red-and-white-checked cocktail napkins.

And promptly sold out of tapenade, goat cheese, and the handmade serving dishes.

Though the thought turned my stomach and made my heart ache, apparently murder can be good for business.