Butter Off Dead Read online

  “Crochet teacher working for you this summer?” No poaching, an unwritten rule. At least not from a friend.

  “I asked, but she’s already committed to work for Sally. She rescheduled this group from last Saturday, to fill in there. Your sister’s been taking the class, but she’s working today.”

  What? Two surprises. I’d been in the children’s shop last Saturday. Had seen Sally.

  Had she hired help and snuck out to the church?

  Was she a serious suspect after all?

  “Kath, you’re on the Art Center board, right? You and Larry and I don’t know who else.”

  She murmured agreement, her capable hands rewinding scarlet yarn into a skein.

  “The board was talking with Christine about a donation.” Christine had told me so, but I wanted corroboration. Ike insinuated motive for murder in his belief that Nick needed money.

  Kathy’s fingers and wrists bent this way and that. “We were. It’s a great collection. Right up our alley—art and artifacts from western Montana, mainly early twentieth century. A few came from the Ring family.”

  “So where did things stand when Christine died?”

  She tucked in a tail of yarn and dropped the skein into a basket on the counter. “We were searching for funding to beef up our security system. Theft is a chronic problem for small museums and it’s getting worse. She was supposed to finish the inventory Iggy started, but it was a daunting task. We couldn’t get an appraisal until then.”

  She raised her eyes to mine, not saying what we were both thinking. If Nick got to decide what happened to her money . . . If Nick hadn’t killed her.

  “Thanks for lending me the car. I replaced your wiper blades—don’t ask.” I waved farewell as she raised her eyebrows and reached for another pile of yarn.

  Outside, the sunshine had disappeared. I shivered, my skin raw from the strain of investigating, of putting on a brave face, of acting as if everything was okay when it absolutely, one-hundred percent was not okay.

  Get over it, Erin. You can’t sell soap and salami, let alone pasta and pickles, if you let the sourness seep into you, too. And you can’t sell the village to prospective merchants and restaurateurs if you don’t truly believe.

  Worse, how could I keep living here myself, if Jewel Bay no longer felt like everything I wanted it to be?

  • Fifteen •

  I dashed back to the Merc and found my mother and Candy Divine unpacking bags of handmade cinnamon gummy hearts, marshmallows, and heart-shaped lollipops. Candy’s sweaterdress-and-leggings combo contrasted with my mother’s red Keds and veggie-print apron. Pink fluff and practical chic.

  “Let’s display the candy next to the cherry wine and chocolates,” Fresca said. “Not-so-subtle suggestions for Valentine’s Day.”

  “Mom. Sorry.” I paused to catch my breath. So much for thinking myself organized, efficient, and considerate. “Emergency. I meant to get back here before Tracy left for the vet, but I got caught up and completely forgot.”

  “That’s all right, darling.” She continued arranging bags and bottles, her tight lips indicating the displeasure she would not voice in front of someone not part of the family. Lucky me.

  “Nick here? I need to talk to him.”

  Fresca opened her mouth, then closed it, exhaling loudly. “Candy, dear, make a little tower of those marshmallow blocks of yours.” She grabbed my arm and jerked me into the kitchen, out of earshot.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, you or your brother. You’ve both been treating this shop like a train station, stomping in and out and dashing off without a word. You wanted to run this business without my interference and I gave you my blessing, but if you don’t start remembering that you have a shop to run and people counting on you, I’ll—”

  “Auntie! Noni!” The front door chimed and little snow boots pounded across the weathered plank floor.

  Saved by a five-year-old.

  I kissed Fresca’s cheek. “You’re right. I promise I’ll do better. Landon!” I scooped him up. “What are you wearing?”

  “I’m a teenager,” he said. “From my mom’s gallery.”

  I squinted, then laughed. If you say “teenage ninja turtle” too fast, it does sound like “teenager.” A red band around his emerald green crocheted cap led to two red tails, tied in back in a warrior’s knot. Best of all: the eye holes, giant red frames that came halfway down his cheeks.

  “That is brilliant.” I set him down. Ninja turtles get heavy. “Is she making them?”

  “You’d know that if you were paying more attention to your family instead of running around doing heaven knows what.”

  “Point made, Mom. Truce?”

  A quick nod. “It’s almost closing time. I’ll finish up down here. You probably have phone calls and Twitter-Face. Oh, that’s right. No one calls anymore. They text.”

  Which reminded me. “Fingers crossed for a confirmation that the movie shipped.”

  “Chocolat? I have a copy. You can use mine.”

  “Won’t do. It’s got to be HD, super-duper, I don’t know what all. Not your basic home DVD. But thanks, Mom. Thanks, Candy. Landon, how about a marshmallow heart?” He picked a white marshmallow square, a red heart stenciled on top. I offered the bag to Fresca, who chose a pink heart, then headed up to my office.

  Mom’s right about texting, but sometimes only the phone will do.

  “Hey, Jason. Got a moment? I’ve got questions.” A computer geek brother-in-law is a great asset to any small-business manager, especially a snoopy one.

  “You’re partly right,” he said after listening to my half-formed questions. “They use the pings off the towers, then triangulate to identify the general location.”

  “How general?” I dropped math for drama senior year, but it didn’t take an in-depth knowledge of calculus to add up big trouble. “And what about that app or whatever it is that says—well, I turned it off because it got annoying, but if you post on Facebook from your phone, it says you were at Caffe Dolce in Missoula and you ordered the mozzarella and tomato panino with artichoke spread and a double latte. Or if you lose your phone, or it gets stolen, you can track it down.”

  “Two different technologies,” he said. “And there are other factors to consider.” Jason has a gift for explaining complicated matters simply, but in seconds, I was as lost as the hypothetical phone—SIM cards, raw radio data, real-time only, blah blah blah. My brain was too busy worrying whether Nick was in more trouble than I’d thought, or less.

  “Bottom line is,” he said, “with the records, they can tell where you were from the calls you made and received. My guess is, it’s pretty accurate in the city, where there are more towers, but it gets tricky in the mountains. But they can’t track your movements without a special device. I gotta run, but I think for the sake of my marriage that I will completely forget we had this call.”

  “We haven’t talked since Sunday,” I said. “And thanks.”

  I stared at the wall. Fired up the laptop. Swiveled my second-hand chair, thinking. Stopped, as my eye fell on the piece I’d bought from Christine at the Art Fair last summer, lime green and purple letters stenciled on a background spattered in yellow, orange, red, purple, and green:

  DREAM

  CREATE

  SNICKER

  DOODLE

  I whipped back to the desk and opened the Spreadsheet. Now I knew that Nick had not been in the Jewel Basin when Christine was attacked, but at Rainbow Lake. Kim and Ike knew it, too—no doubt the phone records confirmed what the witnesses had said.

  Zayda had been at home, a mile or two north, and on the scene minutes before Christine’s death. And she’d lied about it, until forced to admit that was her eyebrow stud found under Christine’s body.

  Labels above the columns read MOTIVE, MEANS, OPPORTUNITY, and WHEREABOUTS. Or, in my c
omputer shorthand: WHABOUTS. I added one: SECRETS. In Zayda’s row, I wrote, “Hiding??? What??? Who???”

  In Nick’s Whabouts, I struck out Jewel Basin and added Rainbow Lake. In the Secrets column, “Why lie?” Under Motive, “Money?”

  Jack Frost. Motive? To stop Christine, but from what? The neighborhood cleanup? The art school? I made a note to ask Nick more about Christine’s plans for the property. Means? A guy who put up signs bragging about his guns and confronts an accidental trespasser with one—yeah, a meanie with means.

  Not to mention opportunity. He lived next door. He’d been leaning on a fencepost when Nick and I came out of the fire hall. Where had he been when the attack occurred?

  Secrets? If he grew pot, wouldn’t he be extra careful not to bring the sheriff calling? Had he feared Christine’s plans would somehow lead to his discovery?

  Reason to kill? Maybe.

  Next, Sally Grimes. Sally Sourpuss. What did a smart, successful, civic-oriented man like Larry Abrams see in her?

  “Oh, what a gift the giftee give us, to see ourselves as others see us.” Robbie Burns’s words could be spun the other way as well: A good investigator needs to see people as they see themselves.

  Or, as one of my management professors used to say, no one is a jerk in his own mind.

  Ike had quizzed me about the history between Sally and my family, and I’d been certain that there wasn’t one. Was that true? I’d never bothered to wonder what motivated her. What she cared about. I hadn’t looked past her whining and complaining and petty jealousies to consider the woman herself.

  How to summarize all that on a spreadsheet? Under Motive, I wrote, “Resentment, will, money.” But no opportunity—not until I knew for sure where Sally had been last Saturday.

  Means. Much as I disliked Sally, it was nearly impossible to imagine her shooting someone.

  Which for no obvious reason reminded me of the White Queen telling Alice she’d believed in as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

  But a bigger question lurked. Why had Iggy left Sally out of her will?

  I’d been wondering whether Sally’s anger stemmed from need, or a sense of being cast aside. Or worse: treated as she deserved?

  There is the family you’re born into and the family you choose. Some people aren’t as lucky as I am.

  Adam’s call last night had interrupted my online research into my brother’s professional pursuits and squabbles. I glanced at the time and headed downstairs.

  Fresca had just locked the front door.

  “Thanks for stepping in, Mom. Did you hear from Tracy, about Bozo?”

  “You’re welcome, darling. Half an hour with Candy Divine is more than enough to make me appreciate how much you’ve done here.” She smiled weakly. Candy gave me a sugar headache, too, but her confections had proven unexpectedly popular. “Tracy called. Bill’s remedies are easing the pain. I told her not to worry, do what she needs to do to take care of her baby.”

  “Perfect.”

  Fresca left. Back upstairs, I returned to my chair, my questions, and my research. First, property tax records. Turned out Sally owned the building housing Puddle Jumpers, the florist next door, and a trio of second-floor offices. My eyes widened at the assessed property value. It backs up to Jewel Bay, but a greenbelt easement created years ago means hefty taxes with no option for developing the waterfront. But the rentals should make the expenses affordable.

  According to the records, she also owned a good-sized house on half an acre in a subdivision south of town, again with a healthy property value. I’d always assumed her money gripes were exaggerated—what my grandfather called poor-mouthing—but based on reality. Retail isn’t easy. Now I didn’t know what to think.

  Especially when I scrolled further. Unless another Sarah Marler Grimes was also a local land baron, Sally held title to two parcels on Main Street in Pondera. Primo downtown property.

  I expanded my search across western Montana. She owned half a city block in Libby, and parcels in Thompson Falls, Plains, and Superior.

  In Missoula, she owned one downtown building and property in a popular residential neighborhood called the Rattlesnake. College friends of mine had lived on the same street. I found the house on Google Earth. The block had improved considerably since my student days. I searched the address to find the occupants’ names: N. and S. Flynn. Her daughter and family?

  Dang. Sally’s daughter had been a couple of years behind me in high school. What is her name?

  I clicked a few more keys. Sally was not on Facebook. Puddle Jumpers had a page that said little beyond the location and hours. I clicked on the photos.

  Bingo, to quote my buddy Ned. Several pictures showed Sally beside a young woman who shared her features and held a beautifully dressed baby girl. I clicked and found the tags: Mom, me, Olivia. So, Sally’s daughter had posted the pics. I’d never seen her and baby Olivia around.

  The picture—uploaded more than a year ago—was the last update.

  What had happened?

  Dumbfounded, I crossed my arms and leaned back. How had Sally gotten all that real estate? Not by selling onesies and stick horses. Inheritance?

  Was that how she knew about challenging wills? Plenty of folks are land rich and cash poor, but from the locations, I guessed most of these were prime commercial rentals.

  I peered at the photos more closely. Sally’s features, softer than I had ever seen, radiated pure love.

  That, I realized, is what Sally would kill for.

  Had I stumbled onto the reason for her anger at being left out of Iggy’s will? The loss of the chance to pass Iggy’s assets—family assets, in a spiderwebby way—to her daughter and granddaughter?

  It didn’t seem possible.

  I scrolled back through my spreadsheet. None of it seemed possible.

  Time for a lesson from the White Queen.

  • Sixteen •

  “We have to talk. Now.”

  “Can’t.” One arm in his coat sleeve, Nick tossed the word over his shoulder. “Gotta grab a bite, then get back to work. Galley proofs due on a critical habitat study jammed with stats.”

  “Then you’ve got company for dinner.”

  Five minutes later, we sat nursing beers and waiting on burgers and fries at Red’s. Nick had started to grab a seat at the bar, but I led him to the Greenhouse, Ned’s name for a glassed-in nook off the main seating area. Midwinter, the occasional chilly draft keeps the nook’s tall tables and stools private.

  And as Jason says, when a Murphy girl wants to talk, nothing short of a dentist’s drill will stop her.

  “Look, I know you feel guilty about this inheritance,” I said. Nick’s chin rose and his hands squeezed the glass of Eagle Lake Stout. “I also know you’ve never taken town gossip seriously.” He shifted uncomfortably on the stool, staring into the dark, bitter beer.

  “Listen, Nick. This time is different. It’s life and death. Literally.” I leaned forward, forcing him to look at me. “They’re saying the money gives you motive—”

  “But I didn’t know.” He spoke through clenched teeth, his voice low, urgent.

  “We can’t prove that. And you walking around with your head sunk into your shoulders, staring at the ground when old friends offer sympathy, makes it worse. Acting guilty raises people’s suspicions.” The line between grief and guilt is a faint shadow.

  “People?” His tone was dismissive. “You mean Sally Grimes.”

  “And others. I’m hearing the talk all over town. So is Mom. And Ike Hoover is listening.”

  Mouth open, he exhaled heavily and ran a hand through his shaggy hair.

  “Here’s my plan. Got any big grants you’re ready to make public, to show you don’t need her money for your research?”

  “I wish.”

  “Then the best way to prove yourself a m
an of goodwill—and make your case for innocence, without saying a word to dignify ridiculous accusations—is charity.” Nick tilted his head, not understanding. I forged on. “Christine planned to give most of Iggy’s collection to the Art Center, right? The Russell and Remington statues. The Ace Powell paintings.”

  “And the Winold Reiss portraits.” A German artist best known in these parts for his paintings of Glacier National Park and the Blackfeet Indians, commissioned by the Great Northern Railway for its advertising calendars. Intact calendars are as valuable as the original paintings—or more.

  “Perfect. The Art Center’s mission includes showcasing the art of the Park. So you go talk to the board. Say you’ll carry out her intentions. Tell them you want the news to go public now, to reassure the community that the pieces will stay here. Oh, I know!” My hands flew up in excitement and I nearly smacked a burger basket out of J.D.’s grasp. “The Merc and the Murphy family will sponsor the opening exhibit and a public reception. And in a corner, we set up a display explaining your work.”

  Nick leaned back, eyes gleaming, as J.D. gauged the zone of safety. “Little sister, that is brilliant.”

  I beamed, glancing from my dark-haired brother to our redheaded bartender.

  “Hey, J.D. Got a sec?” I said.

  He set our burgers and fries on the table and wiped his big hands on his apron. “Gramps said you were asking for me.”

  “Last Friday, when we were shooting pool, Jack Frost was sitting at the bar. Christine came out of the women’s room and Frost said something to her. A sharp exchange, if I read it right.”

  “You think he killed her? Gramps said you—well, he said you have a knack for asking the right questions.” He flushed. He hadn’t been here for last summer’s tragedies, and if I read his face right, he’d been momentarily excited at the prospect of being involved in an investigation, until he remembered what we were investigating.

  “Thanks. Just trying to piece together her last twenty-four hours. Anything you remember could be helpful.”