Butter Off Dead Page 3

  Adam’s astute observation made me wonder if my boyfriend and my brother had been talking. “I guess I should let him figure that out,” I said.

  He squeezed my shoulder in agreement. “Hey, we’re invited for a snow barbecue Sunday, after skiing.”

  The front door opened and a blast of arctic air blew in, ruffling the red-and-white bunting Red’s leaves up all year. A stocky man in grease-worn Carhartts and work boots, a ball cap pulled tight, shoved the door closed.

  “Jack Frost,” the crowd yelled.

  Not some magic winter incarnation, but his name. A Friday night regular, also known as “the Junkman.” He waved nicotine-stained fingers and stomped to the bar.

  And as he stomped, Christine gave him the evil eye.

  A few minutes later the last game ended, the Caldwell cousins still the champs. We ordered a plate of nachos and a basket of Red’s waffle fries and settled around a scuffed wooden table. The smells of hot cheese and jalapeños mingled with the scents of hot potatoes, salt, and spicy mustard.

  The front door flew open again. Two men headed for the bar, passing our table on the way.

  “Look who the cat dragged in.” Kyle stood, tall, slender, and blond like all his family, and extended a hand toward a man about his own age—mid-thirties—but his opposite at about five-seven and two hundred pounds. Opposite in dress, too: Kyle had traded the chef’s duds he wore by day for jeans, boots, and a collared gray knit pullover. The other man’s royal blue parka hung open, exposing pleated khakis and a navy tie dotted with green sailboats loose at the neck of his pink button-down.

  “Caldwell,” the man said, squeezing Kyle’s hand in his own plump mitt. “Haven’t seen you in ages.” The sight whisked me back to a hot August day. Danny Davis, manager of the rental car agency in Pondera. PON-duh-ray, the big town—all of thirty thousand—thirty miles away. He’d given me the evidence I’d needed to persuade the undersheriff to probe a little deeper. Evidence that proved a man a liar and a killer.

  “You know some of these folks, don’t you?” Kyle gestured around the table. “Christine Vandeberg, meet Dan Davis. My high school buddy and fellow car nut. Nick and Erin Murphy, I think you know.”

  Nick stood and they shook hands. Four years my senior, he may not have known Danny. Kyle and Danny had been a year ahead of me, though Danny had barely been on my radar screen. As their hands dropped, Danny’s eyes settled on me and I wasn’t sure if they were friendly or not.

  “Adam Zimmerman.” Adam’s chair leg hooked mine as he pushed it back, forcing him to an awkward half stand.

  “And you know my cousin Kim,” Kyle said. “Don’t get on her bad side. She’s a pool shark.”

  Not to mention a deputy sheriff. Danny rubbed his face and his eyes flitted around our table, chased by a hearty bellow. “So this is where the action is in Jewel Bay. Red’s never changes.”

  “What brings you down here on a Friday night? You live in Pondera, don’t you?” Kyle reached for his chair. “Sit. Have a beer.”

  “Dropping off a rental car.” Danny grabbed an empty chair from the next table, spun it around, and sat, arms folded over the chair back. An “I’m not staying” gesture. “Thought we’d grab a drink before heading home.”

  “We were talking about the film festival these two”—Kyle pointed first at Christine, then at me—“cooked up.”

  “The Food Lovers’ Film Festival,” Christine said. “Next weekend. Five great films, classic movie food. An Oscar feast to wrap it up on Sunday. You should come over.”

  “I do love food.” He reached for the nachos.

  “Six great films,” I said. “Don’t forget the kids’ documentary. World premiere.”

  Kyle set his bottle on the table and leaned back. “Right. High school Film Club, Video Club, whatever they call it now. They shot a piece on classic cars and their owners—serious collectors. And a few basic car nuts like you and me.”

  Danny frowned and tugged a wad of chips, cheese, and peppers off the platter. “What’s that got to do with food and the Oscars?”

  I slid the napkin holder toward him. “Nothing. It’s just a way to showcase the kids’ project. Last summer, a rally came through town. A dozen pre-war Rolls-Royces, including a Silver Ghost from 1910, same year as the Merc was built. The owner and I got talking, and the kids got out their cameras. Shot some footage, realized they might have a story.”

  “The story of horsepower and obsession,” Nick said.

  “They even filmed me,” Kyle said. “Remember that old 1970 GTO Judge? You and I spent every spare hour in the barn. We tuned that engine till it purred.”

  In the dim bar light, I saw the other man shift on the hard chair, wincing at its discomfort.

  “You don’t still have that old wreck?”

  “Yeah. Parked it when I went in the Army, and there it stayed. I go pet it occasionally. Still in good shape—some minor body damage.” Kyle had enlisted after graduation. Became a cook. Went to Iraq. Came home and worked his way up to head chef at Caldwell’s Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch, the family biz. “Drove it around for the kids. Been too busy to work on it, but I’m getting the bug again. Might turn it into my summer car.”

  Beside me, Kim scraped her boot on the wood floor. I had the feeling she hadn’t quite forgiven her cousin for his part in the Art Festival tragedy, though they’d buddied up for Friday night pool. His had been a bit part, stemming from an old mistake, but as I knew too well, Kim does not let resentments go easily.

  J.D., the new man at Red’s, cleared our empty beers and brought a new round. He gave Danny a questioning look.

  “Gin and tonic, at the bar,” he said, his hands in push-up position on the chair back. “Been some changes around here after all.”

  “J. D. Beckstead. Old Ned’s grandson,” I said. “So there’s still a Redaway behind the bar at Red’s, despite the last name. And a redhead, to boot.”

  “It’ll be good for Ned to have family around, after what happened in June,” Christine said. “Not to mention what happened at the Art Festival. After a run of crime like that, you start to wonder, but thank goodness the system worked.”

  Amen to that. My own father’s death in a hit-and-run nearly fifteen years ago had never been resolved. I was grateful that another family had gotten justice, or some semblance of it.

  Kyle picked up his fresh beer. “The guy had to know they’d figure it out. Somebody always sees something.”

  Danny stood abruptly, the wooden chair creaking. For a bulky man, he moved with grace. I had an idea he’d been one of my father’s basketball players. In small towns, kids of all sizes play all kinds of sports.

  “Good to see you, Kyle, Kim.” His quick glance around the table took in all of us. “Don’t have too much fun tonight.” He winked and headed for the bar.

  “You know, little sis, you guys ought to put on a wildlife film festival,” Nick said.

  Christine snickered and stood. One of the few visible changes since my mother bought the building from Ned last summer had been to make the women’s room a place a woman no longer cringed at the thought of visiting.

  As soon as she was out of earshot, I leaned across the table to my brother. “So, you guys back together or what?”

  Nick played with his beer. “Christine isn’t the kind of woman you cut out of your life, just because you don’t want to spend the rest of it with her.”

  “Because you’re not that kind of guy,” I said.

  Sharp words spoken near the bar caught my ear. Red’s was still Ned Redaway’s business, not my family’s, but the tone was hard to ignore.

  Christine uttered an equally sharp reply I couldn’t decipher, her pale skin flushed. Jack Frost spun his barstool, showing her his back, and barked an order at J.D.

  But she was all smiles when she returned. We drank our beers and ate our nachos and fries—Red�
��s makes the world’s best waffle fries. We chatted about the film festival, the winter slowdown, business, art, food. How much fun it is to hang out and play pool, even though the Caldwells usually win.

  “They must be cheating,” Nick said, “but I can’t figure out how.”

  “That,” Kim replied, pointing a nacho at him, “is because you are too lame a player to recognize masters at work.”

  Fighting words.

  “Hey, Caldwell,” Danny Davis said on his way out. “Let me sell that rust heap GTO for you. Get you in a real ride.”

  Kim looked at him sharply, jaw tight. Kyle turned in his seat. “You faker. Half an hour ago, you called it a piece of junk. You trying to con me?”

  “Your choice. You want to drive around like some old fart trying to hang on to his youth, or grow real balls.”

  Men and car talk. One more thing I’ll never understand.

  • Three •

  Months before Christine roped me into helping launch the film festival, I’d started my own winter project: developing the Merc’s signature drink line. “You need another project like the proverbial hole in the head,” Fresca had said. Just when I thought she understood that a business has to keep reinventing itself to stay current.

  So instead of my usual double latte and pain au chocolat from Le Panier, I started Saturday off with a chai mix taste test. Unlike the popcorn seasonings, we hadn’t created these ourselves. Instead, we’d put out a call inviting home cooks, restaurateurs, and other entrepreneurial types to submit their blends. We’d credit the winner on the label, and handle marketing, sales, and distribution. They’d also get to use our commercial kitchen for a reduced fee.

  We already had our own custom coffee, Cowboy Roast, roasted and blended to our specs in Pondera. We also sold Montana Gold’s Wheat Coffee, a whole-grain substitute. This spring, the women of Rainbow Lake Garden would plant mints, lemon balm, and other herbs, and come summer, harvest the herbs, dandelions, and raspberry leaves for the Merc’s line of Jewel Bay Jewels, refreshing herbal teas.

  But no black teas for the time being. Not exactly a made-in-Montana product. My neighbors and I hoped to recruit someone to open a tea shop in the village, serving high tea, low tea, and all kinds of tea in between. Huckleberry scones, huckleberry creamed honey, huckleberry clotted cream. The Village Merchants’ Association and the Chamber of Commerce had joined the effort. One prospect had turned us down. A second had toured the village earlier in the week but had yet to give us her decision.

  I measured out chai mix, created by a local woman after a visit to a friend in India. Added hot water and stirred. Sipped.

  Not bad. A touch sweet, but then, while I adore chocolate—the darker, the better—I don’t have the sweetest tooth. That, I leave to Tracy and Candy Divine.

  I rinsed my mouth and tried the second blend. Both had impressed the first-round judges: Tracy, Fresca, and Heidi Hunter, owner of Kitchenalia. Sweetened with stevia, this one would score well with the calorie-conscious, an important factor in product development. A less traditional flavor combination than the first. Pepperier, if that’s a word.

  “Yoo-hoo, Erin!” A voice rang out over the sound of the front door chime as two women entered. Mimi George, Zayda’s mother and the owner—with her husband, Tony—of the Jewel Inn, the chalet-style restaurant at the north end of the village. Best breakfast joint around. Dinner service would resume in the spring, when the new chef arrived.

  Mimi sat at the counter, and I set out cups of chai. “Sit,” I told Wendy Fontaine, dressed in her white baker’s jacket, colorful cotton pants, and cherry red rubber clogs. “I need your professional opinion.”

  They tasted, debated, retasted, and opined. The verdict? Different enough to offer both.

  “So. Now,” Mimi said. “Let’s see the film festival menu.” The reason for our meeting.

  Wendy opened her three-ring binder. “Thursday night is the reception in the Playhouse lobby for donors and sponsors, followed by the kids’ documentary. It’s an upscale night, so the appetizers and desserts will be fancier than our usual fare. Paddlefish caviar on crostini—Max cures the roe himself. Goat cheese on salted olive crisps.”

  I love it when Wendy talks dirty.

  “Vegetable platters—fresh, roasted, and pickled,” she continued, “Crostini of zucchini, scamorza—that’s smoked mozzarella—and bacon.”

  I groaned.

  “Chocolate mollieux and raspberry panna cotta for dessert. Sparkling wine, and the usual other beverages.”

  Heavenly.

  “If there’s a movie theme in there, I don’t get it,” Mimi said.

  It doesn’t take much to get Wendy’s Jell-O up. (As kids, we called her Wendy the Witch, conveniently forgetting that cartoon Wendy was a good witch.) And for all Mimi’s experience in the restaurant biz, tact does not top her talent list.

  “We did agree to go for a bit of glamour Thursday night, and focus on the classic movie theater experience the other nights. Then Sunday, by reservation only, the Oscar-themed dinner at the Inn.” I laid my hand on Wendy’s notebook. “Lovely as all this sounds, I think we can figure out easy appetizers with a movie tie-in.”

  After several more rounds of chai and debate, we had a plan. To honor Julie and Julia, canapés au Camembert. For Ratatouille, crostini topped with what else? A ratatouille of eggplant, peppers, and tomatoes. And for Chocolat, oh, the options! We settled on éclairs, for fun and ease of service—no forks required.

  “But what about Tampopo?” Another challenge, and another debate. Ramen bowls were the obvious choice for the noodle Western, and impossible.

  “Wontons,” Mimi suggested.

  “Those are Chinese,” Wendy reminded her. “Chicken satay skewers are always popular.”

  “Thai,” I said. “I know—sushi!” We settled on two varieties of rolls: tuna, and crab and avocado.

  “And for Babette’s Feast,” Wendy said, “we can make the crostini with paddlefish roe.”

  “Uhhhh, sorry. Christine decided we had too many French films, so we switched to Big Night. Two brothers from Italy try to save their failing restaurant in New York.” I had to hurry before Wendy exploded. “How about arancini? Fried rice balls are easy and popular, and if you add sun-dried tomatoes to the filling, they won’t need a sauce.”

  Mollified, she made a few notes and we wrapped up the menu. I’d already talked to Donna Lawson, the liquor store owner, who’d agreed to supply the drinks. Friday and Saturday, we’d offer free movie popcorn. In the concession stand, the kids would sell cookies donated by Le Panier: Junior Mints sandwich cookies, already a hit in the bakery, and Wendy’s and her assistant’s latest obsession, iced cookies.

  “I picked shapes to go with the movies. Old cars. The Eiffel Tower. A cowboy hat—that ties Tampopo to Montana. And Oscar—the statue, not the grouch—iced in gold.” She opened a bakery box and laid out samples.

  “Almost too amazing to eat.” But not quite. I nibbled a wheel off a race car.

  “It’s practice for the Sugar Show, at Cookie Con. My assistant’s teaching a class on icing, and I’m giving a workshop on presentation. You know, cookie baskets, platters, bouquets.”

  “Perfect. The grocery store is donating snack-size boxes of Dots, Milk Duds, and Hot Tamales,” I said. “Zayda and I are meeting Christine this afternoon at her studio to go over a few details.”

  “She’s been so wrapped up with this Film Club thing.” Mimi downed the last drops of her chai. “She takes everything so seriously—I almost wish it were over. And there’s her college applications. Can you believe they need written references?”

  Zayda reminded me of my teenage self: intelligent and determined. Sensitive? Yes, but often that’s what exasperated parents call kids who care deeply about things the adults think—or know from experience—don’t really matter.

  Tracy arrived moments after M
imi and Wendy left. Today, the Queen of Cheap Chic wore a black knit skirt that hit her mid-calf and a scarlet tunic, a black-and-white geometric print scarf tied around her hips like a belt. She’d drawn her thick chestnut hair back in a black scrunchie to show off her mother-of-pearl earrings. Great look, and I doubted she’d spent more than twenty-five dollars for any of it. Except the low-heeled black harness boots.

  I made a strong cup of coffee to wash down the sugar and spice of the chai and headed upstairs to tackle the project I’d skipped last night.

  I ran the figures for our new Jam Club, begun just before Christmas. After a purchase of ten jars, the club member gets a free six-ounce jar, any flavor. Sales and net revenue had already skyrocketed. Yes!

  Then, time to tend the shop floor. Even in February, Saturdays are our busiest days. We’ve worked hard to position ourselves as a local foods market, not another trendy, high-end shop, so when the dentist’s wife bought our last eggs, sausage, and organic cheddar, I cheered and called my producers for more.

  “Have you decided about Treasure State Olive Oil?” Tracy asked.

  “I’m still not convinced,” I said.

  “It’s as local as the chocolates,” she said. “They use California oils and the balsamic vinegar comes from Italy. But they blend the flavored vinegars themselves, and bottle everything in Montana.”

  The owners had pitched the health benefits, the taste benefits, the profit benefits. “It’s a good product, but I can’t justify the investment. Not at that price point.”

  “Why do you care about their price so much? You don’t mind the price of chocolate-Cabernet sauce.” Tracy’s voice hovered between a challenge and a pout. “And you don’t have to invest anything. They’re willing to consign.”

  “It means an investment in space, especially for an entire line, and in your time and mine explaining the products to customers. Chocolate-Cabernet sauce practically sells itself.”

  Tracy mopped up a customer’s snowy footprints a tad too forcefully.