Death Al Dente Page 2

  “Call it optimism,” I said.

  He laughed. “I like big thinkers.”

  Old Ned appeared in the doorway. “About time you got here.”

  “Thinks he can put me to work ’cuz he owns the place.” Ted winked. “I’m coming, old man.”

  “Ted.” We all turned at the sharp note. “I hear you’ve been talking about me.” Fresca gave him The Glare I knew so well. “You’ve been telling people I stole Claudette’s recipes and fired her to make room for Erin.”

  His face flushed as red as the bandanna knotted around his neck.

  “Why would you say such things?” she demanded. “You know I’m a professional chef. And she ran off to Vegas on her own, chasing Dean Vincent.”

  “I’m only repeating what she’s been saying herself.”

  “I don’t believe it. We’ve been friends for fifteen years.”

  And it had been that long since I’d seen my mother’s hands shaking or heard such hurt and anger in her normally calm voice.

  “Just ask Claudette.” He tried to hide a smirk. “She’s back.”

  • Two •

  “What? When? Where is she?” My mother voiced my thoughts.

  “Ted,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  He looked around—not, I thought, for Claudette, but for someone to rescue him. Even for something to do, if that would get him out of the heat. “The Elvis thing didn’t work out, I guess. Dean’s reopening his office, and Claudette . . .” He flushed again. “Well, I don’t know what she’s planning. She don’t have much to come back to, thanks to you.”

  Mom’s dark eyes flared, then she turned to me. “Why didn’t she call?”

  “Why on earth a grown man would dress up as somebody else and prance around in gold lamé”—Old Ned pronounced it “luh-mee”—“is beyond me.”

  Claudette Randall running off to Las Vegas with Dean Vincent last spring had been Jewel Bay’s biggest scandal in ages. No one had expected Dean—“I’m a tribute artist, not an impersonator”—to close his chiropractic clinic and take his dreams on the road. Especially not his wife, Linda. They’d been separated, again, but everyone assumed they’d reconcile, again. Claudette, my mother’s oldest friend, had managed the Merc the last couple of years. With business way down, Fresca had urged me to come home and take over. “Use your skills and experience where they’re appreciated,” she’d said. “Let Claudette focus on the customers. She’s good at that.” I’d loved city life: the art, the music, the food. The buzz. But my job as an assistant buyer at SavClub, the international warehouse chain headquartered in Seattle, wasn’t going anywhere. Then an elderly friend died and left me a cat my landlord hated. When Claudette took a hike, it seemed like a sign.

  So far, so good. But if Ted was right . . .

  “She must be devastated. What will she do?”

  “Mom, don’t cry for her. She gave you less than twenty-four hours’ notice, after all the time you’d worked together. And remember your fights?”

  She frowned. “We never fought, Erin. We just had different ideas about what was best for the shop. She’s still my friend.”

  I shrugged. It hadn’t sounded that way in her calls asking my business advice and hinting—not so subtly—that I come home.

  “Besides, Claudette would never tell lies about a friend.”

  For a moment, Ted’s green eyes seemed to twinkle, as though he were enjoying himself. But the shadow of a branch waved in the breeze, and I realized it was just the glint of the afternoon sun. “Maybe you two weren’t such good friends after all,” he said.

  Old Ned glowered. “You stop that BS.” He draped one arm around Mom’s shoulders and the other around mine. “Different ideas is par for the course in business. Don’t let it bother you none.”

  “Thanks, Ned,” I said.

  “You coming back’s been good for the town, by jingo. Shake things up a bit, bring in new customers.” He winked. “Folks get dry when they shop.”

  “Ned, we couldn’t ask for a better neighbor.” Mom stretched to kiss his cheek and I followed suit. She took my arm and we headed back to the Merc, leaving Old Ned Redaway blushing.

  * * *

  Inside the shop, Tracy busied herself with more displays—hoping, no doubt, to avoid questions. Claudette and Tracy had been good friends, though at thirty-four, Tracy was a good ten years younger. Both about five-two, Tracy was nicely rounded, with a softly pretty face, while Claudette was all angles and energy. When Claudette left, Tracy had lobbied hard for her job. My first act as manager had been to give her a raise and ask her to stay. The Merc needed continuity. Plus I’d been an assistant long enough myself to understand her disappointment.

  I climbed the stairs to the loft office, where my mother sat swiveling the desk chair. “Mom, what was all that about? Where did you hear those rumors?”

  “Heidi thought I ought to know before the Festa dinner tonight.”

  Heidi Hunter, my mother’s best friend, the goddess of cookware. Gourmets trekked from half a dozen states and provinces to visit her shop, Kitchenalia. Hold your wallet tight in there. “Hard to believe Heidi and Ted are gossip buddies.”

  “Apparently it’s been all the talk for days, and not just from him. Small towns are like that.”

  I pulled up an antique mahogany piano stool. “You don’t think people talk more in small towns than in cities, do you?” The gossip I’d heard at SavClub would make a habanero sweat. The bigger the office, the slimier the politics.

  “Maybe not, but with fewer people, rumors spread faster and everyone hears them.” She reached for her coffee cup, a hand-thrown model from our stock, and saw that it was empty. “Though I hadn’t heard a word.”

  “So? Just shrug it off and get back to work.” Funny to hear yourself channel your parent’s standard advice—especially to your parent.

  But my mother didn’t budge. “Claudette didn’t say any such things. She knows those were my recipes, many from your noni and papa. She helped me adapt them for production level, and expand the market. The Merc was my baby, part of the family. But it hurts that she hasn’t called.”

  “Maybe Ted’s right, that she wasn’t the friend you thought.”

  Fresca shook her head, a few silver strands catching the light. “She needed to make a change. She just had to figure out what she wanted to do.”

  “Sounds like she still does.”

  She stroked my cheek with her long, slender fingers. “Some people drift forever, darling. But others know they’re right where they belong.”

  * * *

  I’d been making lists and gathering supplies for weeks, but it wouldn’t hurt to have more votive candles for the lanterns. On my way home to shower and change, I detoured to the grocery store on the highway to rustle up a few.

  After buying all their white and yellow candles, I headed to the drugstore to check their supply. If all went well, there would be more Festas to come, and candles keep.

  And if it went badly—

  A dynamo in a riotous sundress darted out of a doorway and across the sidewalk in front of me. The splashes of orange, purple, and green against a white background looked like a bird of paradise in flight. “Claudette!”

  She slammed to a stop, long light brown curls flying, face hot pink.

  “You’re back! We just heard.”

  She jerked a thumb at Dean Vincent’s chiropractic clinic, tucked into a small space beside the drugstore. “After all I did for him . . .”

  “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “I gave up everything to help him pursue his dream. And all along . . .” Her rage steamed the air between us. “Nothing but a ruse to make his wife jealous.”

  I pulled her to a bench outside the drugstore and made her sit.

  “He talked me into going to Las Vegas so he could study Elvisology. I though
t he loved me, and we were starting over together somewhere new.” More sobbing. Blubbering. “But he never meant any of it.”

  I rummaged in my bag for a clean tissue and slipped it into her tiny, trembling hand.

  “I am mortified,” she said, her voice high and strained. “What will people think?”

  “That Dean’s a jerk.”

  A small laugh. “And that I’m a complete fool who can’t do anything right.”

  “Well, I know that feeling.”

  Her eyes widened. “You? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Dare I ask? Just dive in. “Claudette, I’ve been hearing . . .”

  She stopped crying. “What? What are you hearing?”

  “That you’ve been telling people . . .” Erin, that bad taste in your mouth is your foot. But you’re in this far—keep going. “That my mother stole your recipes and forced you out to make room for me.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. I never said anything like that.” She blew her nose, turning it red. “Who said that? Oh my gosh, Fresca must be furious with me.”

  “She doesn’t believe it.” But before I could suggest she tell my mother herself, a male voice broke in.

  “Claudette.” Dean Vincent didn’t look much like Elvis today, in his khakis, sky blue button-down, and L.L. Bean mocs, though he had the height and the dark, full hair. The Casual Friday look in cities; everyday garb for small-town professionals.

  His eyes barely registered me. “Claudette, be reasonable.”

  She rose. “How dare you call me unreasonable?” She’d perfected the short woman’s trick of looking up with only her eyes, keeping the rest of her face level and her voice sharp but steady, intimidating with presence instead of size.

  “I never meant to hurt you.” He sounded like he actually believed himself.

  “No. Just string me along and make me look like an idiot.”

  Time to say good-bye. I glanced at the drugstore entrance, surprised to see Chef James Angelo, my mother’s sauce-making rival, watching from the doorway.

  “Claudette, honey.” Dean took a step forward, one hand extended. “Can’t we talk?”

  She stiffened. “Don’t you touch me.”

  He raised both hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” He backed away and slipped inside his clinic.

  Claudette sank back onto the bench. “All my plans ruined.”

  “There’s always Plan B,” I said.

  She sighed. “Too late for that.”

  “Come to the Festa tonight. We’re kicking off summer with an Italian dinner at the Merc—all local ingredients, wine, music. Everyone will be thrilled to see you.”

  A spark lit her hazel eyes. “Really? You think your mother wouldn’t mind?”

  “Mind? She’d be furious if I didn’t invite you. The courtyard, six-ish.”

  That would quell the gossip.

  • Three •

  I pushed the hand-carved front door shut behind me and kicked off my flip-flops. Home, though not for long. The time spent comforting Claudette had cut my schedule to the bone.

  “Hey, Mr. Sandburg.” A sleek, sable Burmese, the deep espresso brown of an Italian roast, the cat stood in the entry, in his “you can pick me up if you want to” stance. I dropped my keys and bag on the table, and scooped him up on my way to the bedroom.

  “No time for love, buddy. I can’t be late, not tonight.” I plopped him on the bed, where he circled three times, still meowing, though his cries quieted as he settled in, the soft down comforter poofing up around him.

  If the locals thought I’d walked into a sweet deal with my job at the Merc, I could imagine what they thought about the cabin. The caretaker’s place on the lakefront property of our family friends, Liz and Bob Pinsky, it had come vacant last spring. My timing had been perfect—the Pinskys offered it to me, free and clear. It sat high above the main house, with peekaboo views of the lake, windows draped with lacy branches of Douglas fir and mountain birch. They’d refinished the ponderosa pine log walls and plank ceilings, reusing the original doorknobs and locks that regularly gave me fits. Best of all was the perfectly planned bed-and-bath addition.

  Inside the slate shower, I fumbled for the shampoo—a lavender-chamomile tester from a potential vendor. While I believed Claudette’s denial, Ted’s gossip still rankled. Much as I loved being home, the rumors stung. The Festa’s success would shut them up.

  The shampoo bottle flew out of my hand. I bent to pick it up and smacked my head on the grab bar.

  Good going, grace.

  My mother had insisted she didn’t believe Claudette was spreading rumors, so in theory, she would welcome Claudette back with open arms. I’d invited her on the spur of the moment, but she belonged at the party. She was part of the family, and part of the village.

  As I dried off, I heard my phone—the default ring, so not my mother or sister, or the shop line. I glanced at the clock. No time to spare.

  Good thing my outfit was all ready. I slipped on the skirt I’d chosen weeks ago, a flouncy blue-and-white floral, and a white linen tank. The clasp on my Mexican silver belt balked, but after a few tries, I got it cinched.

  Standing on one foot, I managed to get my first sandal on, but dropped the other. Geez, girl. Take a breath here. I bent to pick it up, and spotted my red boots in the corner of the closet.

  Eureka. I yanked off the sandal and pulled on one boot. Extended my leg and admired the view. Midcalf, ruby red leather, pointed toes, and a riding heel, with white stitching in a tulip and vine pattern. I smiled and slid my foot into the other.

  Oh, the magic.

  I twirled in front of the mirror, then raised my arms and danced a quick jig. My hair, cut in a bob just below my chin, spun like a dark halo.

  I slipped on shiny-bright silver earrings and a pair of silver bangles that danced across the three colored stars tattooed on my left wrist. Rubbed them for luck.

  On the bed, Sandburg mewed softly, tail switching across the new Julia Child biography I’d tossed there. I stroked the purr button on his forehead with my thumb.

  “Cinderella found the right shoes all by herself,” I told him. “And now she’s off to throw the best ball this town has ever seen.”

  * * *

  All looked just as planned. Almost—I adjusted the angle of the flags in a centerpiece.

  Fresca arrived, wearing a knee-length pale coral tank dress and a short stack of Bakelite bracelets inherited from a stylish aunt, an ivory Pashmina shawl over her shoulders. The soft colors complemented her silver-and-black hair and olive complexion. She looked like one of my grandmother’s peace roses that still grew on the orchard homestead. The tweets and woofs of the musicians’ sound check competed with the rattle and roll of the delivery carts. All the village restaurants had a piece of the event.

  I made the rounds with a long-handled lighter and set the lanterns aglow.

  At quarter to six, my sister and her husband arrived. Chiara—say it with a hard C and rhyme it with tiara, she likes to say—clapped her hands. “Little sister, it’s wonderful.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.” At a glance, we look like twins, with the same dark hair, fair skin, and heart-shaped faces, although I’m two inches taller and she’s two years older. Tonight, she’d pulled her hair back and fastened it with a giant salmon pink flower barrette made by one of her gallery partners.

  “Like you waved a magic wand,” Jason said. With his receding hairline, solid-color button-downs, and khakis, and his career in software and web design, Jason was the perfect foil for my funky dresser artist sister. And the perfect mate. “Even the stale beer smell’s gone.”

  “Masked by tomato sauce. It’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Lights sparkled in the trees, and lanterns flickered on the tables. A small-town beer garden transformed into a festive fairyland.
The butterflies in my stomach settled.

  Most guests arrived through the bar, although a few trickled in Red’s back gate. The Pinskys. Heidi, on the arm of a hunky real estate broker from Pondera. Tony and Mimi George from the Jewel Inn, the historic lodge that anchors Front Street.

  “Oh my,” my mother whispered with a look at Dean Vincent, in a white bell-bottomed jumpsuit with gold trim, pompadour gelled to a shine, and Linda, in a leopard print number that looked painted on, her platinum hair in a chignon. “Are they back together?”

  I swatted away a gnat. “I ran into Claudette outside the drugstore. She was foaming. If I’d known they were coming, I’d never have invited her.”

  Fresca’s dark eyes and coral mouth made perfect echoing O’s.

  “Looking good, girls.” Old Ned sported his Friday afternoon red-and-white plaid shirt, dressed up with a crisp white apron.

  Among the mingling guests were the network broadcaster who summered here and her millionaire husband, chatting with the minister’s wife who ran the local food pantry—beneficiary of ticket sales for tonight’s dinner and tomorrow night’s Gala. A retired general and his wife visited with the school superintendent. The bookstore owner and book club ladies, village merchants, even a few new faces, all chatted happily.

  Brubek’s “Take Five” filled the air. Sam and Jen, vintners by day and musicians by night, swayed with the beat. They’d looked a little rattled earlier—a missing cord or some other bit of gear, no doubt—but they’d found the groove. Wine flowed, appetizers disappeared. Just as planned.

  I headed for the bar and a glass of pinot grigio. “Erin.” Tracy interrupted me, a cluster of pinecones and branches bearing the three flags in her hands. “This goes on the back gate. I completely forgot.”