Death Al Dente Page 12

  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?

  * * *

  Back 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.

  And she hadn’t even started cooking yet.

  I glanced at the knife block. All accounted for. I grabbe
d the whiteboard and marker, scribbled, FRESH GARDEN SAUCE—DEMO TODAY, and propped it on an easel. Demos are a great enticement. And a great appetite whetter. I popped a frosty Pellegrino Arunciata—love that sweet-tart orange flavor—and headed next door to check out Wendy’s lunch specials. The call of the wild quiche quickened my step.

  No quiche today, and the spinach and three-cheese croissants had sold out. As Wendy readied my prosciutto Caprese panini—with fresh buffalo mozzarella—for the press, I considered my approach. You never know what will raise her hackles.

  “Your grandmother lives—lived—near Claudette, doesn’t she? I hope she’s not too upset by the . . .” I hesitated over the ugly word.

  “The murder?” Wendy wiped her bread knife clean. “Of her next-door neighbor, who watched out for her? Who was sweet and generous to everyone? She’s terrified. Plus the sheriff’s been crawling all over the place, and God knows who else.”

  Me, for one.

  “She can hardly sleep.” Wendy’s voice cracked. “And to think—oh, never mind.”

  “Wendy, never mind what?”

  The panini press buzzed and she whipped around, busying herself wrapping my sandwich. She thrust the bag at me.

  “Wendy, if you know something about the murder, tell me. Or tell Kim.”

  “Butt out, Erin. You don’t know what you’re asking.” She shot me daggers, then stalked away into the floury recesses of Le Panier.

  No, I sure didn’t. And it didn’t seem like Wendy Taylor Fontaine was going to help me figure that out anytime soon.

  Not until I was back inside the Merc did I realize I hadn’t asked her about restaurants.

  * * *

  I grabbed the latest issue of Entrepreneur and took my lunch to the courtyard. I’d gotten halfway through—Wendy makes a wicked panini—and deep into an article on motivating your sales force when Liz called “Hello!” and stepped into my dusty oasis. In forest green knit pants and an orange, yellow, and green print top, she provided much-needed color to the dreary place.

  Hands on her hips, she surveyed the landscape. “What’s your budget?” I tried not to look freaked out. “Don’t worry,” she said in a reassuring tone. “We’ll work the same kind of magic out here as you’ve created inside.”

  “I hadn’t planned on a courtyard project this year, but after the Festa, the place is begging for a boost.”

  She nodded, her dark bob barely moving. “Let’s start with a cleansing. Then we’ll have a better sense of the energies we’re facing.”

  Ideas that sound whacky off other tongues seem perfectly reasonable when Liz suggests them. When I moved into the cabin, she’d smudged it thoroughly, and oriented me to the feng shui quadrants in the space. Now she extracted a sage and sweetgrass braid from her bag and lit it. What a smell—sweet, pungent, and wild, like a prairie fire without the danger.

  Slowly, we walked the perimeter, pausing at each corner to fan the smoke. At the gate between our place and Red’s, she took an extra moment, muttering an incantation. I latched the gate. Why had Ted come into the Merc this way? Why had he been in the Merc at all?

  When we reached our back gate, Liz’s prayer grew longer and louder. “Hang something red here,” she said. “To enhance the fire energy.”

  All I could offer was a leftover geranium, in a heavy wire hanger.

  “This will do for now,” she said, “but look for something else—a fire symbol, or a human or animal shape, in a shade of red. Until then, water it every day. Can’t have dead things in your fame and reputation corner.”

  Certainly not.

  I couldn’t keep myself from glancing down the alley.

  “Show me where you found her,” Liz said. Chilled in the bright sunshine, hand trembling, I pointed. Liz waved her smudging stick in the four directions, then lifted it to the sky and lowered it toward the ground.

  The sharp odor brought a sense of peace.

  Peace and determination.

  * * *

  After Liz left, I checked on my mother. Rich tomatoey smells punctuated with garlic and fennel filled the place. As usual, when she was in “creative chef” mode, I had to call her name three times and rap a wooden spoon on the counter before she noticed me. Whatever had upset her earlier didn’t seem to be bothering her now.

  What a relief. We talked briefly about dishes for the funeral lunch and I headed into the shop. As always, the sight made my heart pulse an extra beat.

  The memorial sign for Claudette would stay up until after the service. Meanwhile, I replaced the plant with a vase of Jo and Phyl’s fresh flowers. Stimulate that feng shui.

  I make a big deal of “buy local,” and I do mean it. But you just can’t get everything you need in Jewel Bay. Brain-tanned doeskin jackets, check. Montana sapphire earrings, check. Socks and underwear, get thee to Pondera. I see no reason to give my money to the chain grocery store in town when I can give less of it to a chain store in the next town for the same items. After all, a community like ours draws from the entire region, so I try to support the region. Plus I strolled into SavClub in Pondera with the Merc’s shopping list in my pocket, so I told myself I was here on business.

  Or maybe it was all an elaborate ruse to treat myself to a berry smoothie and stock up on imported cheese at a great price.

  A visit to SavClub is a bit like old home week. As a buyer, I’d been headquarters staff, but I’d also worked two shifts a month in a store in the Seattle area. These days, a trip can take hours as I study new products and spy out changes. Helps me stay current, too—nobody spots the trends, knows its customers, or solves problems like SavClub.

  No time for that today. I loaded up on supplies for home and shop, and picked out a few new wines to try. En route to the paper products, I paused to marvel at a Father’s Day display of gourmet cookies and candy—a gaping hole in our product line. We really needed some primo chocolates—truffles, toffee, bark.

  A runaway cart crashed into mine, scooting it sideways, followed by a string of loud curses. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Buy Local, sneaking in a trip to the big city.”

  “Hello, Linda.” I pointed to the case of tissue in my cart. “Nobody in Jewel Bay makes TP.” I glanced at her cart—everyone does it—then stifled my surprise. Bags of powdered sugar and candy sprinkles, along with plastic buckets of chocolate clusters and chocolate-covered peppermints. Had she been trying to pass commercial chocolates off as handmade? Or dust them with sugar and cocoa powder and claim full credit?

  Anyone willing to commit such a sin could easily be a killer.

  She sniffed, grabbed her cart, and sashayed off, her plush fanny swinging like a pendulum. She must buy her clothes in the one-size-too-small shop, where pockets are outlawed. A straw hobo bag hung off one arm. I tried to picture her Friday night. She’d carried a bag—one of those teensy beaded things just big enough for a lipstick and a tissue.

  Nowhere to hide a knife. I piled cases of San Pellegrino in my cart and conjured up an image of Dean in his Elvis suit. No extra room there, either.

  It was a serious question. Kim had considered the Merc’s kitchen knives, but the weapon could have been much smaller. How long a blade would be lethal? Would it depend on the victim’s size—tiny Claudette, or paunchy Ted?

  I scooped up a jar of mixed nuts with extra cashews—an occasional indulgence—then remembered 9 volt batteries for the smoke alarms. And there on the end cap was a display of folding knives. Some had three-inch blades, some four, sealed inside clear plastic. A stainless steel clip could slide over a waistband or a pants pocket.

  “If you want to try one,” a male customer said to me, “go to Sporty’s. Heck, you can even find these in the drugstore, though the price is better here.”

  Dean’s office was next to Jewel Bay Drug. Everyone in town shopped there at one time or another—Angelo, Fresca, Tracy.

  Even me.

/>   • Seventeen •

  I walked into the Merc cautiously this time. The kitchen stood empty. I’d just deposited the last box on the counter when Fresca dashed in, clutching her phone.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Therapists say no one can make you feel bad without your permission, but they’re obviously forgetting about mothers.

  “You’ve been interrogating people,” she continued. “Asking questions about me and Claudette and this—this tragedy.”

  “Well, you’re not doing anything to defend yourself.”

  “I don’t need to defend myself. I need you to stop interfering.”

  “Kim Caldwell’s rattling her handcuffs in your ear, and you still think she’s a harmless teenager who’ll come to her senses any minute now. Smell the coffee, Mom. It’s burning.”

  Something was burning, and it was the look in her eyes. No, it was the pan on the stove, smoking. I grabbed an oven mitt, tossed the pan into the sink, and turned off the flame.

  My mother had disappeared.

  This is why I hate small towns. Why I couldn’t wait to leave when I graduated, why Nick preferred wolves. And why Chiara had lit out for San Francisco, though she and Jason had responded to Jewel Bay’s siren call when Landon came along.

  Another word for small is microscopic. As in, under the microscope. Under scrutiny. Underfoot and under eyes. They see all, they know all, they tell all.

  And even when you’re thirty-two, they can’t wait to tell your mother.

  * * *

  Fresca had fled the building, leaving her phone on the kitchen counter. Her Volvo was not in its usual spot. Worry and anger warred in my brain, and in my gut.

  The killer was still out there. How could she be so blind to danger?

  Out front, Tracy sat behind the cash register, reading the weekly paper, Diet Coke at hand. I wanted to crush the can.

  Watch out, Erin. You are not fit for human company. I retreated to the office, swiveling my secondhand Aeron chair like the rusty Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair. I’d begged my dad to let me ride, then thrown up all over him. Which I felt like doing right now.