Death Al Dente Read online

Bob and Liz’s revelations about the depth of my mother’s despair and her loyalty to Claudette had surprised me—but also explained what I had glimpsed and never understood. Ask anyone to describe Fresca, and even if they don’t like her, they’d say “smart, energetic, and loyal.”

  Which makes her sound like Sparky the Border collie, my childhood dog.

  Hadn’t Sparky been one of Dad’s nicknames for Mom? One of half a million.

  My parents had adored each other. Half the town had adored them. Mr. Murphy, beloved history teacher, respected coach, trusted friend. But when he came home, he was just Dad—half of Mom-and-Dad.

  As a kid, of course, I knew that they had a bond separate from their relationships with each of us. But still, they always made me feel like part of their team.

  Had I never understood what losing him meant to her? Or did I simply see it in a different way, now that I’m older, and she and I are in business together? Now that we stand on adult ground.

  Working with, or for, your mother requires more flexibility than I had anticipated. More than learning to call her Fresca instead of Mom. More than holding my own in discussions, expecting her to listen and respect my decisions, not turning to her for a rescue in sticky moments.

  It also means seeing her vulnerabilities. Recognizing when she’s off center, and giving her enough space—but not too much. I had assumed she’d be fine, that she’d be Mom, always sure of herself, never too far off-key. Bouncing back.

  Sparky.

  But Claudette’s murder had reopened the wounds of my father’s death, touched that same pain. How could I be the daughter-friend she needed now?

  I parked behind the Merc and walked around front to admire our shiny new window. Wednesdays are delivery days in the village, with vans and trucks of all sizes jamming the street. Men with dollies carted boxes of products and supplies into shops and restaurants for the busy days ahead.

  “Buy you a cup of coffee?” A hint of his Minnesota upbringing clung to Adam Zimmerman’s resonant voice.

  I hid my go-cup behind my skirt, then snuck it surreptitiously into my carry-all. “Sure.”

  We sat at an outside table in front of Chez Max and Le Panier, with other morning coffee customers. “What brings you downtown? You’re a highway business guy.”

  He shook his head. “That village-highway rivalry makes no difference to the Athletic Club. We serve the whole community.”

  “Tell me more about what you do there. And what you’ve been up to all these years.” He’d been a Parks and Rec major, with an emphasis on Wilderness Management. That might sound like basket weaving for the outdoorsy set, but in the Rocky Mountain West, all things related to forestry and land management are serious business. Adam had bounced around the state a bit, working in the Park, then for a nonprofit that negotiated a major land swap with a timber company. Then he’d landed in Jewel Bay, running the outdoor programs for kids at the Athletic Club.

  “Best job ever,” he said. “And I’m so glad you came back to Jewel Bay.”

  We caught up on my doings, and on a few old friends. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, with a ready smile and a gentle laugh. A guy who’d found his niche. I felt his warm brown eyes focus on me. The attention made me a little nervous. “And you’re looking for a donation to the kids’ wilderness program.” Merchants are always being hit up for contributions. Food, maybe, instead of our scarce cash?

  “Yes and no. I did come down to solicit a few business owners, but . . .” He uncrossed his legs and recrossed them. Long, tanned, shapely legs. Hiking legs. “What I really wanted was a chance to talk with you. And—I’d like to see you again. Maybe this weekend?”

  As a woman, I sometimes forget that it’s not always easy for a man to say that. But as soon as the words were out, I realized I’d wanted to hear them.

  “Dinner?” I said just as he said, “A hike?” We laughed. “Let me see if Tracy will work alone Sunday so I can sneak out.”

  “Great. Up in the Basin? Birch Lake?”

  “Perfect.” Which meant skipping the family Sunday dinner. Which might require explanation. His smile was as warm as his touch on my arm as we said good-bye. I’d worry about tradition later.

  Inside, Tracy was already counting out the till. She raised her eyebrows in a “Who was that?” look. My cheeks pinked.

  “What are these doing here?” The huckleberry chocolates sat next to Claudette’s memorial flowers.

  “People ask for them, so I moved them. You always say, give people what they want.”

  I picked up the box. “I know you love the Merc. And we couldn’t function without you. But if we’re going to keep working together, we need to be on the same page.” Her expression turned to stone. “You know half the town. Our customers love you. You could be a terrific ambassador for the Merc’s new direction.”

  “If I drank fancy water instead of Diet Coke? If I ate croissants instead of jelly doughnuts?” Her voice shook. “You can’t tell everyone what to do.”

  Yes, I can. I run the joint. But no, I couldn’t. And if that’s how snooty I sounded . . . The phone rang and Tracy turned her back to me, a little more deliberately than necessary, to answer. I put the chocolates back where they belonged and headed upstairs.

  I updated the Facebook page and sent some Tweets, then remembered the coffee mug I’d stashed in my bag. In the bottom of the bag lay Fresca’s phone. I set it on the desk.

  My eyes kept drifting to it. Who had she been talking to yesterday afternoon? Who’d told her I’d been snooping and set her off? Heck, as long as I was snooping . . .

  Her phone was easy to use—I’d set it up myself. Two calls in the key time frame. One from Chiara—who wouldn’t have revealed anything to Mom without talking to me first. The second number looked unfamiliar. I pushed Call.

  Got voice mail. “You’ve reached Chef James Angelo. If you’d like to book an event, or order some of the Chef’s outstanding Italian products, leave a message and . . .”

  Holy cow. I glanced at the little arrows in front of the numbers. He’d called her.

  He hated her. What was up?

  Two new voice mail messages. Why not? I pushed Listen.

  Yesterday, after she’d split. “Fresca, it’s Ted. Sorry things got heated earlier. I hope that doesn’t stop you from considering my offer. It would be best for everyone in the long run.”

  What on earth? Yesterday afternoon he’d come barreling down the back hallway into me and the tomatoes, and she’d been visibly upset but insisted it had nothing to do with me. Which meant she hadn’t been referring to my snooping—if he’d ratted on me, she’d have lit into me then.

  So what had they discussed that had gotten so tense?

  He’d left a second message just past seven last night. “I’ve got the appraisal and sales info for the frame shop and gallery that sold last year. I’ll match that, plus ten percent. Two days. Call me.”

  If blood could freeze, I’d be a human ice cube. Ted Redaway wanted my mother to sell him Murphy’s Mercantile.

  Where would he get the money? Far as I knew, he had wages from Red’s, and no ownership interest. He lived rent-free in a cabin behind Old Ned’s place, and had blown his wad on the Harley. No question, he’d need Ned’s money.

  But the idea was so ridiculous, why had Fresca let it upset her? Unless she took it seriously.

  Which meant I had some planning to do, and some careful stepping.

  * * *

  The kitchen smelled like an olive harvest, accented with the pungent smell of homegrown Rocambole garlic. It sounded like a helicopter landing pad, as Fresca whirled Kalamata olives, oil, the garlic, and fresh parsley in her industrial-strength food processor. I changed the demo sign, and got out bowls, platters, toothpicks, and napkins for samples, then sat on a stool to wait.

  When the whirring stopped, she looked up warily.<
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  “You left your phone yesterday. It’s upstairs. Can we talk?”

  She wiped her hands on her apron, poured coffee, and slid a cup across the counter toward me.

  “Erin, you’re not a kid anymore. There are things I need to tell you.”

  No, you can’t sell. I know, the Merc hasn’t turned a profit yet, but we’re just getting started. There’s so much more we can do—

  The front door chimed and Kim Caldwell entered before I could say any of the things I’d been thinking. Her boot heels hammered on the wood floor as she strode toward us. My mother’s face said her thoughts were echoing mine: What now?

  “Ian Randall’s in the hospital, since last night. Food poisoning. He’ll recover, but it’s been a scare.”

  My heart stopped, started, revved. My mother went ghostlike, and I zipped into the kitchen to support her. “And Jeff?”

  “Anxious, upset, of course, but not sick.”

  “I ran into them Tuesday morning in Le Panier, but I don’t remember what they ordered.” Did it matter? I’d eaten there and hadn’t gotten sick.

  “The docs say it’s probably something he ate Tuesday evening. The Health Department’s checking into it, of course, but without other reported cases, they’ll rule out restaurants. The symptoms were pretty severe. Cramping and vomiting, blurred vision, an irregular pulse—weak, slow. Anyone else who’d been affected would have gone to the ER, too.”

  “Casseroles. Fruit salads,” I said. “Their kitchen was filled with food when I dropped by yesterday.”

  Kim nodded. “It’s all been taken for testing.” She turned her bullet eyes on Fresca. “The only thing he ate that Jeff didn’t was your artichoke pesto.”

  The butler at Downton Abbey would have called for brandy, and Sam Spade would have dowsed my mother with whiskey. No such options at the moment, but I did get her safely seated.

  According to Kim, the jar was open in the fridge, but no one knew how long it had been there. Neither Jeff nor Ian remembered opening it, but who remembered such a mundane thing?

  “You only sell that variety here, right?” I asked. Fresca nodded. “And Claudette didn’t stop in when she came back to town, so she must have taken that jar months ago.”

  “It was her favorite,” Fresca said, her voice thin and strained. “Ian’s, too.”

  “We’ve sold dozens of jars of that pesto with no complaints,” I said. “Even if Claudette had left a jar open in the fridge, it wouldn’t have gone bad, not with all the acid in it. So someone tampered with it, on purpose.” Kim nodded. Now I felt sick. No doubt dozens of friends and relatives had been in and out of Claudette’s house since Saturday. Had someone targeted Jeff or Ian?

  Did one of them know something about Claudette’s murder—that the killer wanted to keep quiet? But they hadn’t even been in town when she was killed.

  “I need—to go to the hospital. Jeff shouldn’t be alone.” When I started to protest, Fresca continued, “Stop worrying. I’m fine. You’ve got a store to run.”

  Ouch. Meaning, don’t go out investigating. “Don’t forget your phone.”

  “Wait a moment, Fresca,” Kim said. “There’s another way Ian could have gotten that pesto, isn’t there?”

  I interrupted. “Did you check her pantry? She’s bound to have kept some jars.” Except that Claudette thought she was leaving town for good. She’d have cleaned out her cupboards, maybe taken her favorites along.

  “You took a basket out to Jeff and Ian, didn’t you? Monday afternoon?” Kim said, eyes trained on Fresca.

  So that’s why Kim was here. I knew from my years at SavClub that a case of suspected food poisoning would not normally involve a detective. But when the victim was the son of a murder victim, the rules changed.

  And Fresca’s failure to volunteer her little offering wouldn’t help.

  Kim insisted Fresca write out an inventory of what had been in the basket, even though they’d no doubt confiscated all the contents. Testing her memory—or her honesty?

  Before leaving, Kim slipped an envelope out of her jacket pocket. “Your statement, Erin. Review and sign.”

  I resisted the urge to salute. “You’ll let us know the lab results? Can we visit Ian?”

  “Oh, you’ll know, all right. And yes—if Jeff will let you.”

  Criminy. He hadn’t believed the rumors before, but what would he think now?

  The moment the door swung shut behind her, I turned on my mother. “Why didn’t you say you’d dropped off a basket?”

  “Because I knew how it would look.”

  “It looks worse now. Didn’t you think she’d find out? And you did take them artichoke pesto, didn’t you?”

  Her eyes watered and she nodded. “They all loved it. But I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  Neither did I. I’d been thinking Kim had come as a friend. I’d been thinking my mother was a sensible woman just about to reveal whatever she was hiding.

  I’d have to uncover it myself.

  * * *

  Tracy burst into tears at the news, and she and Fresca dashed off to the hospital in Pondera. The shop was blessedly quiet, letting me gather my thoughts.

  Kim and I had talked for two hours, but my formal statement ran only two pages. Deflating to realize that most of what I’d said wasn’t relevant. But maybe that was a good sign—for me, at least: Kim had explained that the written statement was intended to present the key points of my trial testimony, if charges were brought. I didn’t think I’d seen or heard anything critical Friday night, and the statement seemed to confirm that, focusing instead on Claudette’s history with the Merc and our drugstore meet-up.

  I scoured it for anything that might hurt my mother. Nothing, to my eyes. Why wouldn’t she talk to a lawyer? I signed the statement and slid it back in the envelope.

  My retail training kicked in and I decided to take the artichoke pesto off the shelves for now. I piled the jars on the kitchen counter. I was a thousand percent certain it was fine—even opened a jar and helped myself to a few bites just to prove it—but no amount of profit was worth any risk to our customers. The back door squeaked open, and I tossed the spoon into the sink and wiped my mouth.

  When I reached the shop floor, Jimmy Vang was trying to explain something to a couple in their mid-fifties, obviously tourists, in his gesture-laden English. “Oh, here, here. Miss Erin.” He waved at them, then at his buckets by the back door. “More mushroom? Last of season.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy. I’ll be right with you.” I helped the customers choose a few items, then made the deal with Jimmy. As he stuffed my receipt and check into his worn brown Carhartts, I noticed a small steel clip, almost like a barrette, folded over the edge of the pocket.

  As ubiquitous as cell phones.

  “Jimmy, may I see your knife?”

  With a nod that involved his whole body, he pulled out the knife and extended it to me. I picked it out of his palm and examined it. Your standard jackknife I understood—still carry my green Girl Scout model in the Subaru—but how to open this one?

  Jimmy took it in his nimble fingers. “Like this, Miss Erin.” The three-inch blade flicked out with an almost imperceptible snap. “You try.”

  I tried. Easy to do, but I did not like it. Three inches of sharpened steel looked plenty long, and plenty deadly. “Thank you, Jimmy.” He nodded, the knife disappearing back into his pocket. We traded full buckets for empties and he left.

  Now that I’d seen a folding blade up close, I knew Claudette had been knifed. I rustled up a sweater, poured a fresh cup of coffee, and drank it half down.

  The door opened and I put on my happy face. A walking confectionary wafted in. In cotton candy pink Roman sandals, tight black capris, a form-fitting pale pink top, and a black-and-pink polka dot scarf around her waist, hot pink sunglasses tucked into her fuchsia-streaked black
hair, she carried a woven basket big enough to hold baby Moses with room to spare. And all of it exuded an overpowering scent of sugar. Pink sugar.

  “I’m Candy Divine? Heidi called you about me?”

  Good thing I’d already swallowed the coffee. When Heidi had said she was sending over a woman making the rounds with samples, she hadn’t mentioned her name. Or her voice.

  But good things can come in unusual packages, so I invited Ms. Divine to give me her spiel. “I’ve got Frufalla—it’s like Turkish delight, only fruity? Made with real rose water?” Wasn’t fruit the essence of Turkish delight? The Northwest version, Aplets and Cotlets, does well at SavClub and I admit a weakness. Hers fed that powdered-sugar craving nicely.

  “And nougat? In seven flavors? Oh, you’ll love them.” Tasty, but they glued my tongue to my teeth.

  Then it turned out she wasn’t real sweet on chocolate. “It’s kind of bland, don’t you think?”

  Chocolate—my personal Vitamin C—bland? What was she smoking? I wiggled my jaw and worked my lips to free my nougaty tongue. “What brought you here?” Clearly not a Montana girl, not even a newcomer. We have no pink-only shops.

  A decidedly unperky look crossed her face. “I’m—in transit? And this seems like a great little town.”

  But if I took her on, would I need a new supplier next month?

  “What I’m looking for,” I said, sounding like a bass to my own ears after hearing her piccolo, “is the Montana flavor. High quality, nicely packaged—and you’ve got all that.” In pink paper candy cups wrapped in pink cello, tied with pink ribbons. “Something tourists can take home for themselves or their friends, and at the same time, a treat locals will pop in for.”

  “Oh, you mean like chocolate river rocks and chocolate bear paws with raw cashews for claws?” Exactly like that. I nodded, hopeful. “Cherry bark.” She made it sound like something the dog threw up.

  “Not your thing, I take it.”

  “No-ooo.” With sad eyes and a flat voice, she repacked her basket, leaving me a few samples. “Call me if you change your mind?”

  The moment she left, I called Heidi. “Her name.”