Treble at the Jam Fest

  Copyright Information

  Treble at the Jam Fest: A Food Lovers’ Village Mystery © 2017 by Leslie Ann Budewitz.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2017

  E-book ISBN: 9780738752655

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Lisa Novak

  Cover Illustration by Ben Perini

  Editing by Nicole Nugent

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Budewitz, Leslie, author.

  Title: Treble at the jam fest / by Leslie Budewitz.

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota: Midnight Ink, [2017] |

  Series: A Food Lovers’ Village mystery; 4

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016047686 (print) | LCCN 2016055162 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738752402 | ISBN 9780738752655

  Subjects: LCSH: Women detectives—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction.

  | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3602.U334 T74 2017 (print) | LCC PS3602.U334 (ebook) |

  DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016047686

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.midnightinkbooks.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For the musicians,

  who give our lives a soundtrack,

  and the retail ladies,

  who make our towns and villages hum.

  Acknowledgments

  Over the last few years, I’ve watched the development of the Crown of the Continent Guitar Festival and Workshop, in the village I call home, as concertgoer, student’s wife, auction contributor, and friend to the organizers, students, and teachers. Although the festival created on these pages is much different, I’ve drawn on my own experiences and observations of “the Crown.” Thanks to David and Judy Feffer, Diane Kautzman, guitarist Doug Smith, Doug Averill, and many others for their stories—and for their contributions to our community. Special thanks to Donna Lawson for buying a character name at a fundraiser—you’re the perfect cozy character!

  And in a case of life imitating art, I must say that I wrote this book before learning that the Crown planned to bring Gypsy jazz to our fair village.

  As always, thanks to Derek Vandeberg, who gets a new name on these pages, at Frame of Reference; Marlys Anderson-Hisaw and crew at Roma’s Gourmet Kitchen Store; and Cathi Spence of Think Local, for putting the books in the hands of local readers and sharing stories of retail life.

  Readers who cook will be as grateful as I am to Lita Artis for her red chile sauce, aka Ray’s enchilada sauce. Grazie to Brian Mahoney, bartender at the Marina Cay in Bigfork, for his champagne cocktail recipe, a drink to die for.

  Our buddy Dave Snyder christened the closing event, and my friend Brin Jackson chose Erin’s new accessory. Mark Langlois once again lent me his bar.

  Thanks to Paige Wheeler of Creative Media Agency, Inc., who found the villagers and me a new home at Midnight Ink, where Terri Bischoff, Nicole Nugent, Katie Mickschl, and the crew welcomed us. Thank you all. I am deeply grateful to Ramona DeFelice Long, whose sharp insights made this book stronger.

  And as always, thanks to my husband, Don Beans, for testing recipes, blocking out fight scenes, and enduring other challenges of the writer’s life.

  There’s no such thing as a wrong note.

  It all depends on how you resolve it.

  —Jazz pianist Art Tatum

  If music be the food of love, play on.

  —William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

  The Cast

  The Murphy Clan:

  Erin Murphy, manager of Glacier Mercantile, aka the Merc

  Francesca “Fresca” Conti Murphy, Erin’s mother, the Merc’s manager emeritus

  Molly Murphy, Erin’s cousin, a budding real estate agent

  Chiara Murphy Phillips, Erin’s sister and co-owner of Snowberry Gallery

  Landon Phillips, Chiara’s son, age six

  At the Merc:

  Tracy McCann, sales clerk and chocolatier

  Lou Mary Williams Crawford Vogel, veteran retail clerk

  The Jazz Lovers:

  Grant and Ann Drake, fundraisers and festival champions

  Rebecca Whitman, gallery owner and festival director

  Marv Alden, festival board member

  The Musicians:

  Gabrielle Drake, the voice of a new generation

  Dave Barber, barber by day, guitarist by night

  Sam Kraus, winemaker, guitarist, drummer

  Jennifer Kraus, winemaker and bass player

  Gerry Martin, prodigy turned headliner

  Jackson Mississippi Boyd, mentor to musicians young and old

  Villagers and Friends:

  Adam Zimmerman, Erin’s boyfriend, wilderness camp director

  Ned Redaway, long-time owner of Red’s Bar

  Tanner Lundquist, Adam’s childhood best friend

  Michelle, the barista

  The Law:

  Kim Caldwell, sheriff’s detective, on leave

  Ike Hoover, undersheriff

  Deputy Oakland, new on the beat

  Erin’s Housemates:

  Mr. Sandburg, a sable Burmese, king of the roost

  Pumpkin, a full-figured orange tabby, challenger for the throne

  One

  Blame it on the rhubarb. That’s as logical a start to the story as jazz or love—or greed, jealousy, or any of the thousand other notes the human heart can play.

  ∞

  Nothing says “slow down, girl” like letting a jar of strawberry-rhubarb jam slip through your fingers and smash on your shop’s wood floor. Worse—the jam splashed a customer. A customer wearing white ankle skimmers.

  “Not my pants!” she said, stepping back nimbly.

  “I am soooo sorry. Stay right there.” My palms covered in pinky-red goo, I grabbed a damp rag and sped back to the scene of my crime.

  The customer stuck out her leg and we both leaned in for inspection. She took
the rag and dabbed at one gold-sandaled foot, the jam nearly the same tint as her nail polish. “Just that one speck.”

  Thank God for small favors.

  The floor, on the other hand, looked like a finger-painting gone wrong. Tracy, my sales clerk, appeared with a bucket and mop and began the cleanup. I swiped a bit of jam off my shin, glad that my flouncy blue skirt had been spared.

  I plucked another jar off the display, careful to get a good grip, and held it out. “Courtesy of the Merc, with my apologies.”

  “That’s generous. Thank you.” The woman took the jar in one manicured hand, a diamond the size of my first apartment catching the morning light. “Strawberry-rhubarb. My husband will love it.” She slipped the jar in to her matte black leather bag, a designer logo plainly visible. Genuine, or a knock-off? Around here, you never know. Especially as tourist season kicks in. Some of Jewel Bay’s wealthiest residents and visitors dress like they haven’t updated their closets since 1965, while others flash designer labels more suited to Manhattan than Montana.

  She tucked a highlighted golden strand behind one ear, exposing a diamond stud. “I’m Ann Drake, by the way. We’re part of the festival crowd.”

  “Erin Murphy, proprietor.” I held my damp hand palm up, in a gesture that said pardon me for not shaking.

  “Mom, what about this pottery? You said you wanted rustic-but-classic.” A bright-eyed young woman stepped into view, maybe ten years younger than me, in her early twenties. She peered at the bottom of a large hand-thrown bowl, her shiny black hair swinging. “R R inside an almond?”

  “Not an almond—a football,” I said. “Reg Robbins. Long-time NFL all-star. Took up throwing pots for stress relief and found a new career.” I dried my fingers, realizing why the girl looked familiar. Hers was one of half a dozen tiny photos on the poster advertising tonight’s pre-festival concert. “You must be Gabrielle Drake. Your picture’s in our window. And the earrings give you away.”

  Ann took the bowl and her daughter reached up reflexively to finger one earring—a red, white, and blue guitar pick on a wire. “Call me Gabby. And yes, I’m playing with Gerry Martin tonight—can you believe the luck?”

  “It’s hard work, darling, not luck. You’ve earned this opportunity. And the shot at a tour.” Ann returned the bowl to the display, a brittle edge to her words. “I’ll lend you a pair of good earrings for tonight.”

  Daughter ignored mother. “I’m hoping for a recording session, too,” she told me. “He’s building his own studio.”

  “That’s great. The courtyard where you’ll be playing should be ready—let’s take a peek.” I led the women through the back hall, first tossing the rag over the stainless steel counter that divides the Merc’s commercial kitchen from the retail shop floor. The rag landed in the sink with a soft thud. Bingo.

  “Oh.” Gabby Drake clapped her hands together a minute later. “It’s magical.”

  “It will be,” I said, “when the lights are twinkling in the trees and the wine is flowing.”

  Since I took over the Merc a year ago, I’d worked hard to make the courtyard functional. It was more than that now—a bit of paradise, a microcosm of the village and its heavenly setting. We’d feng shui’d the cozy space and upgraded the wooden fence—another rustic-but-classic touch—that separates our yard from Red’s larger patio next door.

  To throw a party for a crowd, all we need to do is unlock the gate, slide the wheeled fence out of sight, and voilá! A Jewel Bay institution as venerable as the Merc, Red’s boasts a stage perfect for a musical evening under the stars. Now that my mother owns both properties, there’s a lot less grease and grime, but Red’s is still a cowboy bar deeply rooted in the Montana tradition of cowboy bars.

  The annual Jazz Festival and Workshop didn’t officially begin until Sunday, but Gerry Martin, a regular guest artist, had agreed to jumpstart the fun with a Friday night concert. Openers included a local trio, a sax player, and young Gabby, his protégée.

  A gaggle of volunteers had spent hours decorating, leaving Tracy and me free to mind our own business. The last volunteer, Rebecca Whitman, left off precisely positioning chairs that would soon be jostled any old which way to greet the Drakes.

  “Ann!” The two women touched their manicured hands to each other’s shoulders, feather-light, and kissed the air along side each other’s cheeks.

  “I was shocked to hear—” Ann said, her voice low. Rebecca shook her head. Ann nodded slightly, then directed her attention to Gabby, who’d climbed the short steps to the stage and now stood in the center.

  “As if she owned it,” went the phrase, and it fit. But I was curious what had shocked Ann.

  “Every year,” Rebecca said, “more confident and more beautiful. You have a star on your hands.”

  A satisfied smile played on Ann Drake’s perfect pink lips, her dramatic cheekbones flushing under her careful makeup. “When I think how far we’ve come, from that overcrowded orphanage. Those first years trying to get her to talk, then all the lessons and outfits and tears … ”

  Rebecca slipped her arm around the other woman’s waist.

  “Erin, Adam’s on the line.” Tracy appeared at my elbow and I hurried inside, anticipation mingling with worry. I follow my rule against staff carrying cell phones on the shop floor, to avoid distractions. So while I call or text my sweetie when I’m in my office, I sensed trouble when he called me on the Merc’s landline.

  “Hey, there,” I said into the receiver. “What’s up?”

  “Tanner missed the flight—some meeting ran long. They rebooked him, so we’ll make the concert, I promise.” Adam’s apologetic tone did little to soothe my nerves. I’d been eager to meet his best friend, but pile Tanner Lundquist’s arrival on top of hosting our first big do in the redone courtyard and welcoming the annual flock of musicians and music lovers, followed in a week by the surge of Memorial Day tourists …

  It was a wonder I’d only dropped one jar of jam. Jam I hadn’t entirely scrubbed off. I licked a red dot off the back of my hand. “Not a problem. We’ll have plenty of food and plenty of beer.”

  “Just save me a kiss.” His voice dropped a notch.

  “That’s easy,” I said with a laugh, almost feeling his lips on mine.

  We clicked off, and I dropped the phone into its cradle, next to the brass cash register that had been here since the first Murphy in Jewel Bay rang up the first purchase in Murphy’s Mercantile in 1910. Classy, but no longer practical except as a cash drawer and a stand to hold the iPad, our modern substitute.

  “Rhubarb pickles? Who ever heard of such a thing?” The customer, a plump woman in a navy T-shirt and striped capris, peered at the label through reading glasses perched low on her nose. “And rhubarb chutney.”

  “The pickles are done with ginger, mustard, and a hint of orange. The chutney’s made with raisins and onions, and a touch of spice.” I crossed the shop floor to the counter, opened a jar, and spread a sample on a water cracker for her.

  “Oh, my word.” She called to her companion, obviously her sister, “You have got to try this chutney.”

  “Come try these chocolates,” the sister called, a sample bite in hand. “They’d make a dead man drool.”

  “Tracy makes the best truffles in the state,” I said, gesturing to my beaming employee. For the first time, I noticed her earrings, miniature red-and-black electric guitars. The in-house chocolateria—a shop within the shop—had been a late-night brainstorm when I feared she’d decamp and start her own business. Freeing her up for more hours in the Merc’s commercial kitchen meant I needed another employee. So far no luck, no matter how often I rubbed the trio of colored stars tattooed inside my left wrist.

  “Rhubarb mustard sauce, rhubarb cherry sauce, rhubarb halapeny sauce—somebody’s got a heck of an imagination,” one of the sisters said.

  The jalapeño combination had been Ad
am’s idea, sparked by the memory of a jam eaten at a childhood friend’s house. His own mother’s idea of gourmet cooking had been to toss frozen vegetables in with the boxed mac and cheese. My family’s obsession with good, fresh food—the more local, the better—had baffled him when we first got together late last summer.

  The rhubarb, local though it was, had presented a challenge. Blessed with an overzealous crop, a friend of the shop had left three crates of gleaming red stalks at the Merc’s back gate, with a promise of more to come. Our jam maker had filled the shop with sweet and spicy scents, and my mother had created a divine rhubarb sauce she’d tested over lamb for last Sunday’s family dinner. A bumper year in one garden suggested similar bounty in other yards, so we printed up recipe cards. The sole holdout had been Jennifer Kraus, co-owner of Monte Verde Winery, who pronounced rhubarb wine quaint but undrinkable.

  What’s a food lovers’ village without a food snob or two?

  The customer licked her pudgy fingers. “If I worked here, I’d be a workaholic.”

  “If you lived here, I’d hire you. Where are you visiting from?”

  The sisters chatted about their travels with their husbands and two other couples in a caravan of RVs wandering the West. “We never expected so charming a town. Mountains, fishing, yes, but your art and music took us by surprise. And the food—what a treat.”

  In addition to the truffles, they chose honey, cheese, and several varieties of my mother’s pastas and sauces. And for good measure, rhubarb pickles and early produce from Rainbow Lake Garden. I rang up their purchases and sent them on their way.

  “Why does everyone want green tea truffles one day and double chocolate cherry the next?” Tracy asked as she refilled the display case. “I wish I could tell what will sell and what will be a dud.”

  “You and every retailer. At least we can eat your overstock. One year at SavClub, they overbought this chopper-sealer-grinder thingamajiggy, and after Christmas, management gave one to every employee. I bet half ended up at Goodwill, next to mine.” I scanned the jam and jelly cabinet, then headed for the basement to bring up another case of strawberry-rhubarb trouble.