Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) Page 11

  • Twelve •

  So, we cowboyed up. At our first stop, Gib quizzed a jam and jelly maker about the distinctive qualities of Montana-grown fruit, and made noises of delight for the camera when he tasted her samples. “And to think, a week ago, I didn’t know a huckleberry from a chokecherry!” He gamely tried three flavors of seasoned kettle corn, exclaimed over pickled quail eggs, and pronounced the sausage maker’s venison Thuringer “seasoned to perfection.”

  At each booth, Gib showed a side of himself that had been lacking so far: his good side. He asked helpful questions, smiled with charm instead of smarm, and gave the vendors a chance to elaborate on their products.

  “Pemma what?” he said when I introduced Maggie Bird from Blackfeet Naturals. Like many Native Americans, Maggie did not make eye contact easily, and her resonant voice had become nearly a whisper—whether from camera shyness or overuse, I couldn’t say.

  “Tell him what you told me,” I urged. “How you took a nutrition class and started making your grandmother’s pemmican and jerky for other people on the reservation, to improve their diets and help fight diabetes.”

  “Yah,” Maggie said. “Then my son went to college and learned about business and marketing, and he said we should form a family business. It’s a lot of work, but we’re used to hard work.”

  Gib’s skeptical eyes widened as he listened. He bit into the small bar she offered. If I’d had any doubts about whether Gib Knox truly loved discovering good food, his reaction banished the thought. Pure pleasure crossed his face. The second variety brought the same response.

  “This,” he said, holding a wrapped bar for a close-up, “is what local food and local business are about. This is the future of good food and good health in our country. And if one little street fair in one little village—”

  Did he have to make us sound so podunk?

  “—can showcase all these innovative food producers in one weekend, think of the bounty across this wide country. No need to buy pricey protein bars or mourn the death of the Twinkie. This is real food, made by real people. And it’s really good.”

  He tried every variety of jerky, raving about the uniqueness, the honest flavors, the tooth and texture. Finally, he kissed shy Maggie on the cheek, and she grinned. “Remember,” he told the camera and future viewers, “information on how to find these products is on our website. That’s EAT-TV—all one word—slash FoodPreneurs dot com.”

  My anxiety eased. A private jerk, a public pro—spreading the word about Jewel Bay and helping us reclaim a bit of normalcy. I chewed the last of my buffalo jerky in satisfaction.

  Moving on, Gib listened intently as Rick described Montana Gold’s mission and products, although I suspected Rick’s comments would be heavily edited—in his enthusiasm, he overlooked the concept of sound bites. The Creamery folks were another hit. Gib snarfed down a second sample of their herbed goat cheese off-camera.

  Next stop, the Merc. I crossed my fingers, hoping the place wouldn’t be deserted. On the other side of the street, Sally glowered. Such a shame. She obviously knew her business. She could be a real asset to the community if she weren’t so sour.

  I need not have worried. The Merc buzzed. The camera whirred. Gib asked a plump shopper what brought her here.

  “The food, of course,” she said, laughing. “It’s a fun town. We love the festivals. Great shops and galleries. And, well, the food.”

  “We adore Fresca,” her friend said, gesturing at my mother. “She and Erin make us feel so welcome.” Fresca beamed, her red lipstick perfectly matching the tomatoes on her vegetable-print apron. I was glad to see she’d perked up since our courtyard clash.

  “Try the artichoke pesto,” the first woman added.

  Gib did, and pronounced it “the taste of summer, with a hint of tangy lemon and exactly the right balance of herbs.” He quizzed Fresca about her products—fresh and dried pasta, sauces, and the pestos, as well as her background and training as a chef. Then he asked how she’d started the Merc, which gave her a chance to mention me.

  I explained our mission—to showcase the fresh and local, matching customers looking for sustainable ways to eat in a challenging climate with the determined folks who grew the food and made it into great-tasting, healthy products. “And we hope everyone who vacations in Jewel Bay or stops here on their way to Glacier Park will take home a taste of Montana.”

  “I certainly will,” Gib told the camera. He held up one of Tracy’s chocolates. “If everyone ate just one huckleberry truffle, world peace would break out.”

  Then we were back on the street. Gib chatted with Iggy and Christine, tested peppy Luci’s lavender lotion, and sampled fireweed honey. He licked chocolate-Cabernet sauce off his finger, and I bought a bottle and traded business cards with the vendor. He sipped espresso and watched while Pete got up close and personal with hand-turned wooden salad bowls.

  We paused to listen to my friend Leslie Myers sing a ballad she’d written about love deepening over time, like water rounding the edges of rocks, accompanied by guitarist Doug Smith. Short and stocky, with soft gingery hair that brushed her shoulders, Leslie closed her eyes, one hand raised, while her strong, pure voice soared. Tall and rangy, Doug danced his fingers through the strings with an impish expression of delight, and for a few minutes, their music was a gift that chased away sorrow.

  Perhaps the biggest surprise was the contented expression on Gib Knox’s face.

  And then we moved on to the pretzel maker, aka the Twisted Teddy Bear. The salty treats were tolerable, the sugary ones bordering on inedible, but Gib merely smiled. He charmed his way down the line, signing autographs and reminding vendors and shoppers alike to watch for the broadcast. I could see why he’d been successful, and felt a moment’s grief for the little boy inside him, still longing for the father’s approval he’d never get.

  But even Glib Gib didn’t quite know what to make of Candy Divine. Her sheer pinkness seemed to stun him.

  “And you thought we were all dull cowboys and backwoodsers,” I said, sotto voce. He nodded, speechless.

  Candy’s booth was one of the last before the playground.

  “Auntie Erin!” Landon cried and charged toward me. He’d gotten his face painted like his hero, Hank the Cowdog, with a black nose and brown fur cheeks, and he wore his deputy’s star on his blue shirt. I scooped him up and made introductions.

  “Pleased to meet you, pardner,” Gib said. Pete turned his camera to the two cowboys, shaking hands.

  My sister’s swollen eyes and pale complexion said she’d heard about Drew. I set Landon down, knowing he’d want to swing. An elfin blond girl in a pink sundress occupied one swing, pushed by a thin woman in skinny black jeans and a black tank. Tara’s biceps flexed irregularly as she pushed and the swing zigged and zagged with the uneven force.

  “I can’t believe she brought Emma to the playground,” I said.

  “Keeping her distracted, I’d guess,” Chiara said. “If she’s even told her.”

  “She’s one tough cookie,” Gib said. I’d forgotten he knew her.

  “Auntie, push me.” Landon dashed toward the swings.

  “Pete, turn that off right now. I will not have my child exposed in her grief.”

  I’d lost sight of Pete, hadn’t realized he was filming, until Tara shrieked at him.

  “The kids make great local color,” he said. “I’ll edit you out.”

  “Right now.” Tara had stopped pushing and, hands still raised, stalked toward Pete. Emma began wailing, her swing swaying from side to side as it lost momentum.

  Chiara grabbed Emma’s swing to steady it, then stood patiently as Landon climbed onto the adjacent swing.

  “Hey, she’s almost my kid. I’d never do anything to hurt her,” Pete said.

  Tara’s brow furrowed and her hands chopped the air. “She will never be yours.”

&nbs
p; A chill whipped past me. A vow, or a simple statement of biological fact? Though I was furious with them both, I was just as angry at myself for not stopping this ridiculous scene.

  “All right, all right,” Pete said, lowering the camera.

  “Did you ask him?” Tara said, voice low but loud enough to hear.

  “Don’t push me,” Pete replied in a harsh growl.

  Her splotchy face darkened. I’d never seen her without makeup. “If not now, when? This is the perfect time, before he leaves and forgets what a good job you’ve done.” Tara spun from Pete back to the swings and spotted Chiara, pushing both kids alternately. “You leave my daughter alone!”

  “Tara, shouldn’t you take Emma home?” Chiara said. “This isn’t the place for her, not today.”

  “Why does everyone think they can tell me what to do?” Tara said, grabbing one chain of the swing. It came to a jagged stop, as Emma’s howls rose again. Tara yanked her off the swing and the seat hit her backside, not hard enough to hurt her but hard enough to raise the volume on her screams. She tried to twist away, but Tara grabbed her hand, shot the rest of us a black look, and stormed off.

  Ah, yes, our tranquil village.

  I had assumed Tara Baker couldn’t have killed Drew because she claimed she’d found him, and because she’d seemed genuinely shocked. I’d have been shocked, too, if I’d just bashed my ex-husband in the head.

  But she’d just shown a wild fury I hadn’t known she possessed.

  Gib surveyed the scene, arms crossed, wearing a bemused look. Next to him, Pete stared, open-mouthed, at her departing back. Go after her, I thought. But he knew her moods better than I did.

  I looked more closely, calculating the possibilities. Pete was about Drew’s height. I could hit the back of his head with a mallet, especially if he were bent over packing gear. And Tara was about my height, though slighter.

  I’d dismissed her as a suspect out of my own shock—my own belief that evil had to come from outside our community, not from within. And because he was her daughter’s father.

  That chill returned, despite the day’s heat. Stereotypes can mislead us.

  And sometimes they kill.

  • Thirteen •

  “What was all that about?” Chiara said. Filming done for the day, the men sauntered off, leaving the Murphys behind. But not for long. At the promise of ice cream, Landon scampered ahead, the brown-and-white tail on his cow dog costume wagging crookedly. “Spill, little sister. You know something.”

  I shook my head slowly. “Wish I did.”

  “What the heck is wrong with Tara?” she said. “We’re not BFF, but we’ve run into each other a lot over the years doing kid stuff, and I’ve never seen her rough on Emma.”

  “Is there a right way to react to your ex’s murder? We can’t judge her behavior today.” Around us, festival goers oohed and aahed at hand-crafted goods. They sniffed goat’s milk soap and pine-scented candles. Exchanged hugs and waves with old friends and made new acquaintances. Reveled in the chit and chat and the glorious sunshine that was edging toward a touch too hot. For those who didn’t know Drew, this was another great day at the Fair.

  For the rest of us, a hundred emotions swirled. Life goes on, and you want it to. But you also want to hit pause for a moment, so you can feel one thing at a time. Still, it’s the hundred feelings that make life exhilarating.

  “You were living here when Tara and Kyle had their mad fling, right?” I lowered my voice as we neared the ice cream truck.

  “‘Mad’ was the word. Yeah, Kyle’s cute, but geez. She was ten years older, and married. They were like dogs going after each other in the street—teeth and all.” Her mouth twisted at the memory.

  No wonder Kyle had been wary when Tara burst into the kitchen. And had her reaction been suspicion, a touch of possessiveness, even though their relationship ended years ago?

  “Was that her first affair?” Or had it been history that made Drew bluntly distrustful of Gib?

  She shrugged. “Far as I know.”

  But their past wasn’t motivation for Tara to kill Drew now. If she’d done it, the reason was something current. Like, Drew standing in the way of her departure.

  “What flavor do I like best, Mom?” Landon bounced as we approached the order window.

  Wow. This was no ordinary ice cream truck. A sensory cornucopia spilled its bounty as customers accepted their waffle cones, bit in, and stopped in their tracks.

  “Chocolate Heaven and Peanut Butternutter, but you have to choose. Just one scoop.”

  A pout crossed his face, disappearing as quickly as it came on. “Chocolate Heaven!”

  Chiara chose Madagascar Vanilla. Ohmygosh. The ice creamers loved local flavors, too: Dixon Melon, Flathead Tart Cherry, Wild Montana Raspberry. Like my nephew, I didn’t want to stop at one scoop, generous as they were.

  “Avalanche Crunch,” I said finally, my business brain racing. “Do you sell pints?”

  “Thinking about it,” the man wielding the scoop said.

  I fished out a business card. “Erin Murphy from Glacier Mercantile. The Merc. Call me.”

  My tongue mined fudgy veins of chocolate embedded in rich vanilla, striking golden chunks of butterscotch and crunchy nuts. You couldn’t go wrong naming anything for one of the prettiest creeks in the Park.

  “This may be the best ice cream on the planet,” I said between licks.

  Chiara grunted agreement.

  A ruckus erupted behind me and I turned to see what was going on.

  “What do you mean, no? You said—” Pete’s voice was thin and strained.

  “That was before I saw what an ass you are. I can’t count on you to hold your temper and use good judgment in public,” Gib replied in a biting tone.

  “I’m an ass? You’re the one going back on your word.” Pete lowered his camera.

  Gib Knox slipped easily into a fighter’s stance, feet spread, fists raised, and I dashed toward them.

  “Guys, hey. Knock it off.”

  Whether Gib meant to hit Pete or me, I didn’t know. At that moment, it didn’t matter. His fist caught my face. My head whipped back and I went down hard, landing on my tailbone and bouncing onto my left side. My right cheek felt hammered. Bits of rock and dirt ground into my skin and pain shot from my left elbow to my shoulder and back again.

  So that’s what they mean by seeing stars.

  And not my lucky stars.

  “Auntie!” Landon screamed in the distance and Chiara shouted my name. At the sound of their fear, I pulled myself slowly back from the darkness.

  “Don’t sit up,” someone said, but I did anyway. “Don’t get up.” This time, I obeyed.

  A small crowd whispered around me. I touched my cheek—intact but growing hot. A trickle of blood wormed down my lower arm. It had already stained my pants.

  “Did you hit your head?” It was the doctor who’d been at the Grill-off yesterday. A Lodge guest.

  “Erin, I am so sorry,” Gib said. “I never meant—”

  “I wanted a few more crowd shots,” Pete said. “Then this guy—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Chiara told them. “Nobody cares about your excuses.”

  “You sound like Mom,” I said, my voice as dazed as my brain.

  “Sit still. Let me check your pupils.” The doctor crouched in front of me and studied my face. She had a nice face. Forty-five or so, with short, unfussy light brown hair and hazel eyes. Pleasant. The world needs more pleasant.

  “You’re on vacation,” I said stupidly. “You shouldn’t have to work.”

  She patted both sides of my neck, then gently moved my head from side to side. “No signs of trauma. But I’d feel better if you got checked out. In a real clinic—not on the street corner.”

  “I’ll call Dr. Meadows and ask him to meet us at his office,�
� Chiara said, punching buttons on her phone. Landon clung to her, whimpering softly, the forgotten cone dangling in his other hand, empty. Where had mine gone? Avalanche Crunch was too tasty to waste like that.

  “I’m fine.” I pushed myself up before anyone stopped me. “A little woozy, is all.”

  But neither of us had cars close by.

  “I can drive,” Pete said.

  “You stay away from her.” Chiara’s dark eyes flashed. She did look like Fresca when she got scared and angry. But Pete had the only vehicle parked close enough that could hold us all, including the visiting doctor, who insisted on going along. Her family, she said, always understood.

  “My ice cream,” Landon said as we climbed into Pete’s Suburban. Chiara shushed him.

  “We’ll get some later, little guy,” I said. “After I get a Band-Aid on my elbow.” He pressed up next to me and I ignored the pain, focusing on the warmth that radiates from the love of a five-year-old.

  Dr. Meadows met us at his clinic and checked me out. If somebody flashed a medical light doodad in my eyes one more time this week, I’d have to find out its real name. He probed for broken bones and found none, dabbed my elbow with a disinfectant that sent me through the roof, then gave me a sheet listing signs of a possible concussion.

  “You’ll be sore for a while. Use ice if it helps.”

  “I’ve got arnica gel in my bag,” Chiara said, rummaging. Bill Schmidt kept the family well supplied in herbal remedies.

  “What don’t you have in that bag?” I asked.

  Back outside, Pete stood by his rig, on his cell. “Gotta go. But we’re not done with this,” he said, shoving the phone in his pocket. Something like a guilty expression crossed his face.

  “I’m fine,” I said, biting off the words, though he hadn’t asked. Across the street, a yellow bus stood in the school parking lot. Children shouted hellos and exchanged fist-bumps. Adults handed knapsacks and duffle bags to two fit young men who stacked them in the rear cargo hold.

  And in the center of the chaos, tall and calm, stood Adam Zimmerman. My sister and I exchanged silent glances, took Landon’s hands, and crossed the street. When we reached the parking lot, we let go and he galloped ahead.