Death Al Dente (9 page)

The back door creaked—I'd deliberately not oiled the hinges, so we could tell when it opened—and heavy footsteps pounded in. A short black-haired Asian man in faded fatigues stopped where the back hall met kitchen and shop, a five-gallon bucket brimming with morels in each work-worn hand.

“Miss Erin,” Jimmy Vang said. “Bad time?”

“Always a good time, Jimmy. Be right with you.” I extended my hand to Rick Bergstrom. “Glad you stopped in. If you'll excuse me, I've got to see a man about mushrooms.”

He held on longer than I did. I hate that—makes me feel like I've misread the business code manual, at least the one men get.

“Enjoy the samples. I'll give you a call to see what you think.”

“You bet.” What had briefly seemed like it might have deeper potential was “just business” after all.

Ten gallons of mushrooms would go fast, and the season was ending. Like many of the Hmong refugees in western Montana, Jimmy made his living gardening and foraging, so I knew he'd be back with other offerings soon. I set some morels aside for Fresca and me, and hand-printed a sign for the produce cart:
FRESH MORELS INSIDE
. Typed up a recipe card to hand out. When I came downstairs with the cards, a customer was just leaving and the shop was empty.

“Farm boy's hot,” Tracy said in a lilting voice.

Agreed, but our conversation had demonstrated the perils of mixing business with pleasure. Fine. I didn't come back to Jewel Bay to get involved anyway. “We don't pass muster. Not pure enough.”

“Outsnobbed in your own shop? That bites.” She plowed through the samples on the kitchen counter. “Organic oat bread, multigrain bagels, seed loaf. Honey buckwheat pancake mix. I see what you mean.” She held up a heavy paper bag with a resealable folding top. “What on earth is Wheat Coffee?”

“Brew some up,” I said. “Let's find out if Rick Bergstrom can stand a little hot water.”

T
hat afternoon, my mood swung like a 1940s big band on too many triple espressos. On the one hand, the Festa had lured a crowd to the village to eat, drink, and shop, and they'd done all three merrily. Merchants who'd questioned the need for another festival now eyed their empty shelves and full tills, and hummed a different tune. I had created A Good Thing.

On the flip side, a family friend and former employee had been murdered. My childhood BFF suspected my mother of involvement. And the only interesting guy I'd met in months had left the shop with “all business” written on his face.

He had a point. If I meant what I said about increasing awareness of local food sources, we had work to do. But I hate when people point out the obvious.

Chiara's poster for the wild food walk caught my eye. Maybe it had caught his, too, and showed him we meant business.

Unless he considered eating wild onions and nettles more frivolity.

Kathy from Dragonfly interrupted my pity party, toting a basket full of handmade placemats and napkins, and a small shelf-talker sign sporting her blue-green dragonfly logo. I'd suggested the Merc carry her products to complement our own—why compete by selling linens made in China when we could promote our friends and neighbors instead?

“Listen, Erin,” she said in a confiding tone as we laid a place setting on the display table and tucked napkins into pottery mugs and goblets for a shot of color. “You need to know what people are saying in town.”

I stopped, a square of cotton printed with rainbow trout in my hand. “Go on.”

“They're saying your mother may be a prime suspect in the murder. They don't blame her for being angry with Claudette, not with the way she took off, but they—they think Fresca just snapped.” Her pinched expression made clear she hated telling me this.

My worst fears confirmed. “Who's saying that? Linda Vincent? Why would anyone believe her? She must have hated Claudette.”

Kathy looked miserable. “That's why they believe her.”

“Didn't her behavior Saturday night show she hates Fresca, too?” A chill crept up my spine. “What if Linda's trying to deflect attention from Dean—or herself? Fresca had nothing to gain from Claudette's death. Dean might have been the one who snapped—he sure is quick to anger. And Linda could have wanted revenge—or to eliminate a potential rival. After all, what's to say he wouldn't have left her again?” I thought back to Friday night. They had both been in the courtyard before I went out to the alley and found Claudette's body. Had they come in that way, following a deadly encounter?

“One more thing,” Kathy said. “But it's just more nasty gossip.”

“Spill,” I said, looking squarely at her. “It's not gossip to tell us—we need to defend ourselves.”

“You broke your own window to get sympathy.”

“What? Me? That window?” I pointed to the plywood, a blatant reminder of someone's malice. “I love this building. Do they have any idea what that costs, or that our insurance may not cover vandalism?”

“Apparently someone your height and size was spotted running away from here early Sunday morning. I'm sorry, Erin. I thought you should know.” She hugged me, squeezed my hand. “It will all work out.”

“Thank you. Thank you for telling me.”

So this was what reached Kim as she worked her way through town. No wonder she suspected Fresca. How could I convince her otherwise? Especially if my mother wouldn't hire a lawyer to help her protect herself.

I was sitting on a stool nibbling a carrot when Tracy returned from her lunchtime dog walk. She looked as peeved as I felt.

“I love living here,” she said. “I never considered moving when Mitch left me. But sometimes . . .” She shook her head and plopped onto the next stool.

“What?” More rumors, more nastiness?

“The sheriff's office hasn't released the cause of death, right?” Not as far as I knew. “So at the gas station, I heard she was stabbed. Or shot. Or beaten to death. Everybody has a pet theory.”

Sounded like the guess station.

“And Rick? The grain guy? Somebody spotted an unknown man in a sport coat leaving the Merc, and before you know it, he's some hot-shot detective the sheriff's office brought in to help Kim. Or take over, because of her connection to your family, and because she hasn't made an arrest yet.”

The first twenty-four hours are critical. Bring in the big guns to help the hicks. Sounded like I wasn't the only one who'd seen too many late-night cop shows.

I squeezed Tracy's shoulder.

No two ways about it: I would have to find the real murderer. Like Hank the Cowdog.

But with only two legs, and no trusted deputy, could I stay ahead of real trouble—and catch a killer?

I
f I ran, it would have been a ten-mile day. But running is against my religion, so I called my sister to meet me for a planning session, aka a drink.

For a cowboy bar, Red's not only cleans up good—it pours unexpectedly tasty wine. Not the snooty stuff, but very drinkable. And generous, too—a healthy glass of a spritely sauvignon blanc set me back all of five bucks.

Chiara flopped her red leather handbag—shaped like a bowling bag, and not much smaller—into the booth and slid in, exhaling about ten pounds of carbon dioxide. “Criminy, what a day.”

“Really? Light traffic on our side of the street.”

“Ours, too, though we're still recovering from the weekend.” She ran Snowberry, a co-op gallery, with five other artists. “The smart remarks and funny looks started to get to me.”

“Like, ‘Oh, it's your mother who—' and then they clam up like they shouldn't say anything but it's too late.”

“Exactly. Worse for you, though, since you found the body.” Sympathy mixed with horror on her face.

“Practically at your back door,” I mimicked as Ted delivered her gin and tonic. The old-fashioned glass looked like a toy in his hand.

“At whose back door?” He'd obviously overheard our exchange.

“At least here, it's idle curiosity. Blood and guts go with the atmosphere.”

“Heck, no. This is a classy joint.” Hard to tell if he was teasing.

“Ted, be a dear,” Chiara said, “and bring us a basket of waffle fries. With Dijon mustard, since you're upscale. Seriously,” she said after he left, lowering her voice. Her loose hair swung as she leaned forward. “I'm worried about Mom.”

“I called two lawyers, but she refuses to go. Monday's sauce-making day, but she came in for a while then left without doing a thing.”

“I talked to her a little while ago. She wants to be alone. Doesn't even want to see Landon.”

We sat back and stared at each other. That was a bad sign. My mother didn't get all gaga and googoo over babies, but she did adore her only grandchild, who often spent an afternoon or evening with her.

“Erin?”

I looked up into coffee brown eyes, a mess of dark, curly hair, and a face I couldn't quite place.

“Adam Zimmerman.” He extended his hand—long, slender fingers, grip firm but not overbearing. “It's been ages.” If he'd been this cute in college, I would have had no trouble remembering him. He'd outgrown the geeky stage. “Adam. I'm so sorry—I've been meaning to return your call. Do you know my sister, Chiara Phillips?”

“Adam Zimmerman,” he said, shaking her hand. “I followed Erin around like a puppy dog all through college, but she barely noticed me.” He grinned. The bar wasn't dark enough to hide my blushing cheeks. To me, he said, “No worries. I spent the weekend at wilderness camp, helping the staff get settled before the kids come on Thursday.”

Which explained both the three-day beard and the clothes that looked like he'd just crawled out of the woods. And the bottle of Moose Drool in his left hand.

“Join us,” Chiara said, flashing me a wicked smile. “If you're alone.”

“Don't mind if I do.” He slid in next to me. I scooted over to make room, but not before his thigh touched mine. I nearly jumped.

“Hey, Z. What's up?” Ted set the basket of fries on our table and pulled a bottle of Dijon out of his apron pocket.

“Hey, Ted. Just enjoying the pleasures of civilization.” He grinned at the two of us.

Ted hrrmmphed, then turned his attention to me. “Erin, you just gotta expect some gossip these days. Especially 'cuz of how Claudette left.”

“Claudette?” Adam asked. “The fireball who burned your burgers?”

Ted glowered.

“She worked here? Did you know that?” I looked at Chiara.

“Before she started at the Merc. For six months, maybe?”

“You were away,” I said to Adam. “You didn't hear.” We filled him in on the murder and investigation. He asked all the right questions and made all the right sympathetic noises. “So, ever since Friday night, there's been a lot of guessing going on.”

“Stick to the facts,” he said at the same time as Chiara said, “Ignore it. We need to focus on Mom.”

“We have to find out who the killer is.”

“Leave it to the police,” Ted interjected. “Stay out of Kim's way.”

Why was he standing there? “Still carrying a torch?”

His face darkened to a purple that clashed with his red bandanna and made his nearly new biker leathers even more ridiculous. The damp bar towel in his beefy hand didn't improve the look. “You are a witch. You've even got a black cat.”

“He's sable. And I am not.”

Chiara burst out laughing and I joined her. Ted spun on a heavy heel and left. “Does he really have the hots for her?” she asked.

“I'm missing something here.” Adam reached for a waffle fry and dipped it in the mustard, his arm brushing my shoulder.

My drink was empty. If I stayed and had another, I'd end up explaining all my fears and anxieties, and what suddenly seemed like a totally messed-up situation. I did not want to walk away from this guy. But I also did not want him to think I was totally messed up.

“I need to get going,” Chiara said, laying down cash and gathering up her things.

“Me, too. Adam, it's been great to see you.”

“So early?” he said. We slid out of the booth, then I stood there, not sure whether to shake hands, hug, or kiss his cheek.

He took my hand, leaning close for a half hug. “Let's get together again. Soon.” I nodded.

Outside, Chiara and I watched him saunter up Front Street. Nice guy, nice view. “You got a live one, little sister.”

On the phone, he'd wanted to ask me something. No doubt for a donation to the wilderness program, not a date. He hadn't asked for either one. I sighed. I did not remember feeling nervous around Adam Zimmerman ten years ago. What had changed?

Chiara and I both promised to check on Mom. But there had to be more we could do. More I could do. Like find out where Claudette had gone after I left the drugstore and before she turned up dead in Back Street. Or who she had talked to. But where to start?

And how, I wondered, did Ted Redaway know I have a cat?

* * *

B
ack at the Merc, Tracy had closed up and gone home, and the shop stood oddly quiet.

The box of Montana Gold samples still sat on the kitchen counter, though Tracy had snared the bagels—the pinnacle of her personal food pyramid. I dug out a box of cracked wheat crackers, added goat cheese and peppered antelope salami, and took my plate, a Pellegrino, and my personal iPad to the courtyard table.

I didn't know who Claudette hung out with in Jewel Bay, and we weren't Facebook friends. But my sister and I were online pals, so I checked Chiara's profile, found Claudette on her friends list, then guessed her password. (Landon08, and she'd be furious, but she'd never know.) Voilà! About eight seconds to climb on Claudette's wall.

She called herself an “aspiring restaurateur.” Okay—as good a description as any for an unemployed retail manager whose last two jobs had involved food.

One hundred thirty-two friends. Her son, her sister, half a dozen local business folks, some other names I recognized. Several Elvi and a surprising number of Elvira, no doubt recent meets from Dean's impersonation—excuse me,
tribute
—program. Looked like she'd been the unofficial photographer at Elvis school—her photos included dozens of shots of various tribute artists doing their best to honor the King.

She wasn't friends with Dean or Linda Vincent. I'd scout them out next. FB threads weave an intricate web, and I wanted to make sure I stayed the spider, not the fly.

Why friend James Angelo? Nothing inherently sinister about her online connection with my mother's professional rival. No reason they shouldn't be friends. Business gurus preach that competitors should be cooperative where possible, cordial at the least, and never take their contest personally. Especially true in small towns, as I'd said myself more than once.

Except that he's such a creep.

No FB activity since Friday morning. Claudette hadn't rushed home to post about her plans for the evening. In fact, it was so unlike her to wear the same dress for an afternoon of errands and an evening do that I wondered if she'd gone home at all.

So what had she been up to?

I smeared goat cheese on a cracker—tasty, they were—and scrolled through her updates and her friends' posts. All standard exchanges.

Whoa
. I scrolled back to a message I'd nearly missed. Ted Redaway saying,
Welcome home, we
missed you!!!
Last Wednesday—two days before he told us she was back and spreading rumors about Fresca and me. Rumors she denied any part of.

Why would she have confided in him? Had his name been on her friends list and I missed it? I double-checked. Not there. She must have unfriended him. My word of the week—
why?

I scrolled slowly this time, searching for more messages from Ted. A post about his motorcycle ride around the lake, with a shot of him on his bike at a turnout. Another about a band that played at Red's two weeks ago. I bit into a hunk of salami and kept reading. In the last few weeks—even before her return—he'd sent her several links to sites giving advice about starting up a restaurant. She called herself aspiring, and she did have some experience. While I see Red's mainly as a bar, it serves burgers, wings, and a few salads and other snacks. And waffle fries.

Still, if I were opening a restaurant, Ted Redaway would not be my first choice in mentors. And his father ran the place, not him.

I jotted down names of other local friends—people she might have seen or talked with since her return. Or who ran into her Friday afternoon and might have known she was coming to the Festa.

That reminded me—Angelo spotted us on his way into the pharmacy. I clicked on his page, but the handful of posts were all business: Announcements of new products. A description of his contributions to last Saturday's Gala. Photos from catering jobs. Frustrated, I begged my friend Google for more. A few mentions in the weekly newspaper's coverage of charitable events, all for his food contributions, but nothing more. No YouTube videos, no Twitter feed, no blog. Nothing personal—not one hint of his hometown, family, past work, education, or a single hobby.

He claimed he lived to cook, and it appeared to be true. Odd for a forty-year-old man to leave such a slim cyber trail—especially a man in business. Ripe for Jason's web design and marketing services, though I didn't seriously think Angelo would want to do business with a man closely related to Fresca and me.

I prowled around online awhile longer. Nothing unexpected turned up about the Vincents. Their twin girls got their share of ink—on the tennis court, on the Honor Roll, onstage, and on the walls of the student art show. Striking blondes with bright eyes and innocent faces. For Claudette, I found little more than her death notice in the newspaper and a mention of her appearance in a musical review last fall, with a photo of her onstage, looking adoringly at the star—Dean as Elvis, natch. Maybe where they first hooked up.

Darned if I knew what any of this meant. I washed another of Rick Bergstrom's crackers down with mineral water and leaned back, soaking in the last bit of warmth before the courtyard fell into shadow. Even in mid-June, Monday nights in the village were dead.

I cringed. As the Bard said of Denmark, something was rotten in Jewel Bay, and not just my choice of words.