Butter Off Dead Page 2

  “Zayda’s got her number bibs from every race,” Dylan said. “Plus all her ribbons. They cover the back of her bedroom door.”

  “’Cause she always wins,” the redhead said.

  “Yeah, but buying stuff just to hang on to it . . .” Dana’s voice trailed off. Clearly, he was not in possession of the collector gene.

  “Enough jabbering. Gotta make sure all this new gear runs like it’s supposed to.” Larry pointed toward the control room.

  “Yessir.” Dylan gave a mock salute, and the kids swarmed out of the lobby.

  Zayda trailed behind. “Larry, you promised . . .” she said in a low voice.

  “Soon as the job is finished,” he said. Zayda bit her lower lip and followed the other kids. Larry headed for the men’s room.

  “What was that all about?” I asked Christine.

  Face raised, her gaze darted from one end of the sign to the other, measuring whether it hung straight and level. Years as a professional framer gave her a sharp eye for details.

  The sign sparkled. Which was the point: To bring a little color and light to a village mired in the deep midwinter. Let other towns break the monotony of February with hearts and flowers. But a town that calls itself the Food Lovers’ Village and boasts first-class summer stock plus a vibrant community theater? Food and film, a natural combination.

  “What? Something happen?”

  I reached for the ladder. “No. But Larry may be a little too directorial.” Zayda was a good kid, eager to prove herself. Eager, too, to get on a pro’s good side and make contacts in the industry. Her mother, Mimi, had told me she had her heart set on film school in L.A. She’d work lights and sound, almost any job, biding time for a chance to get behind the camera. Let other girls crave the spotlight. Zayda George wanted to be the one telling them what to do.

  Christine squinted at the sign through turquoise glasses frames. “Yeah. But without the money he raised for the screening equipment, we wouldn’t be having a film festival, so . . .”

  “Did you convince him to display his poster collection in the lobby?”

  “Your sister figured out some kind of insurance thing, so he finally agreed.” She scooped up the bag from the sign.

  “Are all his posters for movies about Montana?”

  “Just the ones he’s lending us—Jane Russell in Montana Belle, Gene Autry in Blue Montana Skies, a dozen others. I guess some are pretty valuable.”

  “Speaking of collections,” I said. “Have you decided what to do with Iggy’s? I still can’t believe she had all that amazing art.” Iggy Ring, painter, collector, teacher, mentor, and a fixture in Jewel Bay, had died over the past winter. A tiny woman who’d left a huge hole in the community, and in my heart.

  The red-haired buoy wobbled dangerously. “A few legal details to work out, but most of it’s going to the Art Center. What they can’t keep, we’ll sell to fund education programs. Art classes for teens, I’m thinking, and a business training course for artists. I’ve got to finish Iggy’s inventory, then get an appraisal.”

  “Good work, ladies.” Larry crossed the lobby to join the kids.

  “Thanks,” I called to Larry. To Christine, “good choice.” More than a century ago, settlers began floating logs cut from the surrounding mountains down the Jewel River to a mill beside the bay. Around 1900, construction of a small dam and power plant, and a new road for lumber wagons and trucks, spurred more growth. By the 1970s, the mill had closed, lights had dimmed, and the town needed a new spark. Locals—including Old Ned Redaway and my family—fashioned Jewel Bay into an arts village, and in recent years, cooked up a reputation as a food lovers’ haven. Others built up the area’s recreational assets.

  Now those passions bloom side by side, making Jewel Bay, Montana, a most unexpected place. It melds mouth-watering food, eye-watering art, a golf course designed by Jack Nicklaus, tummy-churning whitewater, and the most dedicated volunteer force on the planet. The result? A village chock-full of charm. Not to mention that it sits on a bay of the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi, with a backyard wilderness stretching more than a million acres, and Glacier National Park half an hour’s drive away.

  Since moving back home nine—nearly ten—months ago to take over the Merc, my family’s hundred-year-old grocery, I’d come to understand the power of local in a whole new light. My mother and I converted the Merc into a market specializing in foods grown or produced in the region. Wine to wash them down, pottery to serve them, and soap to wash up, all of it locally made, too. We also created a commercial kitchen in the back of the shop, so vendors can cook and pack their products in a facility that meets health department specs.

  But while I love my vendors dearly, it took about ten seconds to realize that knowing how to make fabulous pasta and pesto, cure award-winning salami, or cook huckleberry jam that makes grown cowboys tear up is a far cry from knowing how to market those skills. A whole ’nother kettle, as my grandfather Murphy would have said.

  So I’d put my decade of experience as a grocery buyer for SavClub, the international warehouse chain based in Seattle, to work mentoring my vendors in the fine arts of inventory control and cost management, giving an occasional lesson in sales and marketing.

  And after watching my sister, Chiara, launch a successful co-op gallery while other artists struggled to pay the bills, I firmly believe every working artist needs a crash course in business savvy.

  As a painter and framer, Christine had seen plenty of artists fight that same battle. She gave the sign a long, loving gaze. “This weekend is going to be a hit, isn’t it?”

  I folded the ladder and hoisted it onto my hip. “Everything’s falling into place perfectly.”

  Famous last words.

  * * *

  The first Friday in February and the Merc was quiet as a cloud. I minded—cash flow trickles this time of year—but it’s kinda nice to catch your breath once in a while.

  Happily, Tracy McCann, my shop clerk and sole employee, is a display whiz. The plate glass windows on either side of our front door boast deep bays that present a constant challenge. To me, anyway. To Tracy, changing the product mix and finding the right theme and accent pieces is the best part of her job.

  Second best, after a seriously fine talent for making truffles.

  One window celebrated Valentine’s Day: wine and roses, chocolates, scented soaps and lotions, red-and-white dishes. A picnic basket—one of our year-round specialties—brimming with ingredients for a romantic dinner for two.

  In the other window, the movies held center stage. The Festival poster. Popcorn poppers in the newest, grooviest styles, from Kitchenalia, across the street. Saltshakers in two simple designs: clear quilted glass with a metal screw top, and an aluminum canister with a curved handle. And from my favorite NFL player-turned-potter: a serving bowl in a poppy red glaze and four small bowls, each bearing a distinctive red-and-white pattern. Red-and-white popcorn cartons and boxes of Junior Mints and Dots continued the theme.

  Not to mention the bags of organic white popcorn, grown in Montana and sourced for us by Montana Gold, a family-owned wheat and grain farm and distributor headquartered on the Hi-Line, the state breadbasket.

  “Now for the pièce de résistance, or whatever it’s called.”

  “Great find.” I picked up one end of the antique movie projector. “Woof. Heavy.”

  The red enamel hearts that hung from Tracy’s earlobes swung drunkenly as we hoisted the projector carefully into place. She stepped back to catch her breath. “Borrowed it from the tuna tycoons.”

  Jewel Bay is home, at least part-time, to all kinds of folks who made all kinds of fortunes in all kinds of ways. We’ve got our coaster king and queen—Bob and Liz Pinsky, the family friends who own the property I take care of in exchange for rent. We’ve got our mattress millionaires, our software squillionaires, our baby-wipe barons.<
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  And our tuna tycoons. Tracy and Mrs. Tuna bonded over their love of rescue Great Danes—Tracy’s baby is a black-and-white Harlequin called Bozo. Major movie lovers, the Tunas had joined forces with a dozen other businesses and individuals as Festival co-sponsors. Winter events are for fun and friendship, not profit, though we seriously heart any and all mid-winter vacationers who stray our way.

  “And the final touch.” She cleared a space on the front counter for a red-and-white popper, a replica of a theater-style machine.

  “It even smells like popcorn. Plus it’s the perfect color.” Like other businesses—both in the village, aka downtown, and on the highway—we fly red and white on weekends, in a show of school spirit.

  “The big popper they salvaged from an old theater is going in the Playhouse for the weekend,” she said. “We can use this one to get people in the movie mood.”

  “Mood, I like; the mess, I don’t like, but it’s all for a good cause.” During my SavClub years, I worked a day or two a month in a Seattle warehouse to stay current and get real-time customer response to our products. That meant an occasional stint cloaked in white, my dark above-the-shoulder bob in a hairnet, serving hummus on chips or chicken cacciatore. Those little white pleated paper cups and napkins end up everywhere.

  We have a similar problem here whenever we offer samples—one of the few similarities between slaving for an international food giant and sweating over a small-town specialty shop.

  “What are we waiting for?” I said. We plugged in the popper and poured in the corn. Suddenly, we were ten again, going to the movies.

  Tracy glowed, and not from the light sweat we’d worked up. Or from the mouth-watering smell of the kernels popping.

  No, I suspected her glow came from thoughts of Rick Bergstrom, the Montana Gold sales rep. He and I dated briefly last summer, but quickly discovered that a shared passion for the food biz was not enough to overcome a clash of temperaments. “Farm Boy,” as Tracy dubbed him when he first came calling on the Merc, is a great guy. Just not the right guy for me. I’d been delighted to see him and Tracy get together.

  My own love life had taken another twist, one that still took me by surprise.

  “What are you girls doing?”

  “Mom.” Even after working with my mother most of a year, I don’t always remember to call her “Fresca,” short for “Francesca,” at the shop. I licked butter and salt off my fingers. “Try some. It’s really good.”

  “With one of your special seasonings?” She scooped about six kernels into a red-and-white paper boat. “The secret is portion control,” she always says when I worry about my weight, but clearly I had not inherited her metabolism, or her flawless olive skin, oval face, and perfect features.

  “We went classic for the first batch.”

  “Classic is good.” She licked a finger, her Coral Sunset nail polish complementing the fluffy yellow-white kernel and golden butter. She makes fresh pasta, sauces, and pestos in the Merc’s commercial kitchen on Mondays and Tuesdays, and gets a manicure every Wednesday.

  “We tested them all,” Tracy said, settling onto a red vinyl stool at the stainless steel counter separating shop floor from kitchen, her second sample in hand. “Cajun, dark cocoa, bacon salt.” She made a face at that one.

  “And everyone’s favorite”—I paused for effect—“cheesy garlic,” as Tracy sang out “caramel marshmallow.”

  “They sound divine. I popped in—no pun intended—the day you tried truffle salt, but I didn’t hear that on your menu,” Fresca said.

  “Too expensive. We need to keep every variety the same price.”

  Her coral lips tightened. She thinks I pay too much attention to cost of goods sold, inventory on hand, turnover rates, and price point—“all that business blah blah blah”—but we were finally making a profit. Not a lavish one, but trending up. The Merc had not turned a profit under her care, though she established a tradition of great food with a local emphasis. I thought we could have it all. So far, so good.

  It’s particularly important to keep costs down on “adventure food” or “splurge snacks”—foods people don’t need, but think would be fun to try. We managed by packaging the blends in clear resealable bags dressed up with labels my sister designed.

  “Speaking of divine, Candy’s bringing in a special taste treat.” Candy Divine—Candace DeVernero on the checks I write her every month. “Jewel Bay Critter Crunch.”

  “You love Critter Crunch but can’t stand caramel marshmallow popcorn. What’s the difference?” Tracy said, laughing.

  “One has chocolate and nuts and the other has marshmallows,” I replied. She rolled her eyes at my food quirks. Not that I think anyone who drinks Diet Coke for breakfast has a leg to stand on in Taste Wars.

  “It all sounds wonderful, darling.” My mother kissed my cheek. “And Tracy, the shop looks so festive.”

  Tracy beamed. “See you tomorrow, Erin. ’Night, Fresca.”

  Last spring, when my mother asked me to come home and run the shop, Tracy worried that she’d be fired or forced out when the Merc once again became a family business. But while we have our moments, on the whole, we make a good team.

  “And I’m off as well. Bill and I are going to Paris for the evening.”

  One of the many advantages of my mother’s involvement with Bill Schmidt, the town’s only ex-lawyer herbalist, is that she now has someone besides me to drag along to festivities, this one a French-themed fund-raiser for the community college in Pondera. We’d been so focused on the displays that I’d barely noticed my mother’s flapper dress, seamed stockings, and wool felt cloche. And the dead fox draped over her shoulders, beady black eyes and all.

  “Where did you find that thing?” I wrinkled my nose. “Oh, geez. It’s nearly six. I meant to fix that inventory glitch before Pool Night.”

  “It belonged to your grandmother Murphy,” she said. “Don’t you remember, Nick used to scare you with it when you were little?”

  I remembered. The only thing Nick liked about having two little sisters was terrorizing us. “And you wonder why he became a wildlife biologist? Have fun.”

  “You, too, darling. Stay out too late.” She sashayed off into the night.

  I locked the front door, switched off the lights, and carried the iPad and the vintage metal sewing box we use as a cash register up the half flight of stairs to the loft.

  The office finally felt like my space. Fresca’s collection of cookbooks and food magazines had migrated, stack by stack, to shelves we’d installed in the basement—given a thorough cleaning and spiffing after last summer’s misadventures. We’d swapped the old green-and-gold linoleum for a slate look and painted the walls Roasted Red Pepper, a name that always makes me hungry. I’d begun sprinkling in personal touches, including a painting I bought from Christine last summer at the Art and Food Festival.

  I sank into the fancy desk chair Tracy had scored second-hand, remembering what I’d rather forget. Murder and mayhem. Threats to my family, my friends, and this marvelous, maddening pile of bricks.

  And to me.

  My right hand circled automatically around my left wrist, my thumb massaging the three colored stars tattooed there.

  Thank goodness for winter. Cold, calm, peaceful winter.

  • Two •

  “Four in the corner pocket,” Kyle Caldwell said, and I knew we were sunk.

  If you had told me a year ago that the highlight of my week would be a burger and a beer at Red’s followed by hours of good-natured but competitive pool shooting, I’d have asked what you’d been smoking.

  Well, everyone else is competitive. My run of beginner’s luck was screeching to a halt.

  Adam leaned his long frame against the paneled wall, fingers wrapped loosely around a cue, a bottle of Moose Drool brown ale dangling from the other hand. A neon sign for Pabst Blue Ribbon glow
ed above him, giving his dark curls red and blue highlights. He has a natural detachment, an ease that rarely fails. “Unflappable,” my mother says. Good trait in a man who runs outdoor programs and a summer wilderness camp for kids.

  Also, a nice balance for what my mother calls my “energy.”

  His black-coffee eyes met my brown ones. He winked.

  “Five in the side.” Kyle tapped the cue ball with a soft touch, the cue ball hit the five with a heavy clonk, and the solid orange ball slid down the hole and rattled down the rail to join its littermates.

  “He’s running the table,” Christine said. She’d wrapped red and white ribbons around her coil of hair, making it look like a drunken candy cane.

  When he was on it, and we gave him half a chance, Kyle often ran the table. As the last shooter, I’d given him more than half a chance. Three-quarters, at least.

  Nick crept up behind Christine and leaned in to kiss her neck, her short sturdy frame a contrast to his slender height. When we started playing a few weeks ago, after Christmas, he’d sworn they were just friends.

  That was then; this was now.

  The game ended. Kyle racked and his teammate and cousin, Kim Caldwell, broke with a sharp, satisfying crack. This round pitted them against Nick and Christine, so I two-stepped across the room, in time to the music blaring through the speakers. Satellite radio.

  “Hey, good-lookin.’”

  “Hey, yourself.” Adam set his cue aside and drew me close. He tasted like chocolate and hops. “Your brother and Christine are having fun.”

  “I like her,” I said. “A lot. But she dumped him once, a couple of years ago, and it hit him hard. I hope she isn’t using him because she’s lonely.”

  “You mean after Iggy died.”

  “Yeah. Not that one relationship is anything like the other, but . . .” Despite a fifty-year or more age gap, Iggy and Christine had been fast friends as well as studio mates and painting partners.

  “But Nick came back to town right about the time Iggy died, and you can’t help wondering if Christine latched onto him for the right reasons.”