Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) Page 3

  “Iggy.” Delight filled Tracy’s voice and mine. I didn’t remember a time when Iggy Ring hadn’t been a fixture in the village, a mascot of sorts.

  And she’d become a regular in the Merc since Tracy had awed me with an unexpected kitchen talent earlier this summer. Her handmade chocolate truffles not only filled a gap in our product line, but drew customers and fattened our bottom line.

  “Hello, girls,” Iggy called, her warbling voice thinned by age. A shade under five feet, her champagne blond hair curled into a flip, she wore tan capris and a black painter’s smock she probably bought in 1957. One spot-on modern addition: leopard print loafers. How old she was, I didn’t know—easily eighty-five, maybe ninety.

  Iggy peered into the glass case on the front counter, anticipation brightening her fairy-like face. Tracy did the honors. A tissue in hand, she plucked out one perfect dark chocolate huckleberry truffle, accepted Iggy’s three quarters, and handed over the prize. Iggy closed her eyes and took the first bite.

  Rapture.

  Following Iggy as she tottered out, I scooted next door to Le Panier. Behind the pine green screen door stood a real French boulangerie and patisserie in one, with all the requisite tastes and aromas. Wendy Taylor Fontaine may not have been born French, but she made up for it with her food.

  “Hey, Wendy. Missed breakfast.” Sweet, yeasty scents and the heady aroma of freshly ground coffee beans mixed with the slightly charred bread-and-cheese smell of the panini press. I studied the chalkboard listing today’s specials. “What’s in your cheesy panini?”

  “Roasted red peppers, crimini mushrooms, balsamic onions, and basil, three cheeses, eight-grain bread.”

  Okay, so panini are Italian, not French. But they’re yummy, so why quibble? “Sold.”

  She worked silently, dark ponytail wagging. Le Panier shared a front deck with Chez Max, her husband’s bistro. On festival weekends, when thousands of visitors competed for a place to sit and eat, it hummed.

  “You all ready for the street fair? And making your desserts for the TV episode?”

  Wendy grunted. When it came to small talk, she was not a believer.

  “Given any more thought to creating a scone mix for us? The breakfast baskets are adorable. Pop over and check ’em out.”

  A buzzer sounded and she slid my sandwich out of the hot press, wrapped it in white paper, and tucked it into a brown paper bag in a fluid move worthy of a ballet. If a ballerina wore a white chef’s jacket, clown print pants, and cherry red clogs.

  The door opened and a gaggle of hungry shoppers entered, exclaiming over the cute French decor and the drool-worthy pastry case. The mouthwatering smell of my fresh panini was a great advertisement.

  “See you tonight,” I called on my way out. If Wendy needed help solving any problems with the event or film crew, she’d let me know.

  I took advantage of the noon lull to eat at the Merc’s stainless steel counter, keeping an eye on the shop while Tracy ran home to grab a quick lunch and walk Bozo, her rescue Great Dane. The slightly sweet grilled bread was the perfect complement to the melted cheese and tangy vegetables. A little messy for a working lunch, but worth it.

  I scrolled through the lists on my iPad, making sure we had what we needed for the weekend. In between bites, I helped a few customers and called a couple of suppliers who hadn’t yet restocked their displays.

  Overall, we were in great shape. Still, I’d be trolling the booths at the Fair for potential new vendors. If Food Preneurs intended to turn a Montana BBQ sauce or a line of spiced mustards into a star, I meant to be in the game.

  * * *

  At the Jewel Inn, I waited in the otherwise vacant bar while Chef Drew scrutinized a delivery of custom charcuterie. The same butcher supplied our sausage and cured meats, and we’d never had a problem, but Chef Drew had an exacting set of customers and expectations. He had an unusual arrangement with the Georges, the Inn’s owners: Tony and Mimi handled breakfast and lunch, Tony at the grill and Mimi out front. But the dinner service was all Drew’s. He hired his own staff and had complete control of the menu. A restaurant-within-a-restaurant. An admirable innovation.

  At the moment, he was peeved. Not with the sausage—he praised it from spice to taste and texture and back again. But his high color and abrupt gestures, and the barely sheathed sharpness in his tone, unnerved me.

  “Mimi said you needed a minute.” About five-nine, average build, in his late forties with brown hair beginning to thin, he sat opposite, poised as if he didn’t intend to sit long. His most striking feature was a pair of hazel eyes with unfairly long lashes, brightened by the contrast with his sparkling whites.

  I slid my peace offering—a small box of huckleberry truffles—across the table. “There’s been a mix-up with the recipes for the steak Grill-off. We need you to submit a new recipe. By five o’clock tomorrow.”

  Those eyes flared and bore into me. His spine straightened and his shoulders squared. His jaw tensed.

  But I was no clumsy busser who’d dropped a tray of glassware or a newly hired prep cook who’d diced the shallots when Chef wanted them brunoise. Not that Drew would have barked at his staff—he had a reputation for solving problems so efficiently that mistakes barely registered on the radar, and were rarely repeated.

  In the village hierarchy, we were equals. Plus, he owed me. I had introduced him to the charcutier.

  Which didn’t keep him from quizzing me with a touch of sarcasm. “Our recipes are too similar? What does that mean? We both use beef? Season with salt and pepper?”

  “Think flavors and combinations. Then rethink them.”

  He scowled. “And are we all being subjected to this last-minute nonsense?”

  His piercing eyes demanded an answer, and there was no reason not to tell him. “No. Just you and Chef Stone from Bear Grass.”

  He pulled back, head tilted. “She thinks I copied her? I’ve eaten her food. It’s good. It’s excellent. But my approach is entirely different.”

  “This—concern didn’t come from Chef Stone. It came from the TV crew.”

  His hands, scarred and calloused beyond their years, gripped the box of chocolates. I cringed for the tender morsels inside, picturing huckleberry cream oozing out in a most unattractive way. Tracy would never forgive me if I gave Chef Drew Baker a leaking truffle. We never sent imperfections out the door. We ate them.

  “You mean,” he said, voice honed on steel like the finest chef’s knife, “it came from Gib Knox.”

  I refused the bait. “We—the committee—don’t know what happened, and we don’t blame you. We just think, for the sake of appearances, that you and Chef Stone should each plan another dish.”

  He released the box and slapped his palms on the table. His face flushed, blanched, and flushed again. “When Mimi asked me . . .” His Adam’s apple throbbed. Then, to my amazement, his face and shoulders relaxed. “Well, it all makes sense now.”

  To him, maybe. But had the storm clouds fully passed?

  “Will a Cabernet-cherry sauce do? It’s straight off our menu, but it’s local fruit and flavors, with Monte Verde wine. My reservation book is jammed every night this week, and I don’t have time to create something new to appease Mr. Bigshot TV Chef.”

  I’d eaten Chef Drew’s filet with Cabernet-cherry sauce. “Just right.” As long as I steered Chef Amber Stone in a different direction.

  He reached for the box of chocolates, but I grabbed them first, lifted the lid, and peered inside. Intact, thank goodness. “I’ll swing by tomorrow to pick up a copy.”

  “Fine.” He bit off the word and breezed away, shoving the kitchen door open with one hand. It swung wildly behind him.

  Bullet dodged. But what was up with Drew Baker? He’d been tense when I walked in. Why had the similarity in recipes pushed him over the edge?

  Should I warn Mimi about Drew’s foul moo
d? Maybe.

  Or give Gib Knox a heads-up?

  Nah.

  * * *

  In my loft office at the Merc, I convinced myself it would be fine to call Chef Amber rather than run out to Bear Grass, a quaint country inn about fifteen miles north of town, on the road to Glacier National Park. (Simply “the Park” to most of us.) We’d only met a few times, but she seemed like a roll-with-the-punches kind of gal.

  “Oh,” she said. “I thought—okay. Whatever.”

  “No cherries,” I warned, “and no wild mushroom gravy.”

  “Piece of cake,” she said. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you down. We need the exposure.”

  “That’s the spirit.” In big business or small, the flexible shall go far.

  Back on the shop floor, I surveyed Tracy’s display of Breakfast Baskets with satisfaction. Town thrived on its summer regulars—folks with time-shares in lakefront condos, busy families who gather at the grandparents’ place, and urban couples who relish six weeks of summer at their mountain retreats. Our goal was to give them fresh, local food they could really use. Produce, pasta, easy sauces. Add a baguette from Le Panier and make a meal. No odd ingredients left moldering in the fridge, to be tossed out on the last day.

  But we also needed tourists who stopped for lunch while passing through, charmed by our unexpected gem of a town. Campers who came to hike or to kayak the Wild Mile, then relaxed with a beer at Red’s and a stroll through town. Visitors in search of a hostess gift, or a taste of Montana to tuck into their suitcases as a reminder of vacation when the daily routine became the daily grind.

  So Tracy and I refilled the antique Hoosier’s shelves with jars of jam and jelly, and settled bottles of syrup into its possum belly. Cherry, strawberry, black cap raspberry, wild chokecherry, and of course, the magnificent huckleberry.

  Pretending the jars were my five-year-old nephew’s Legos, we created a three-story tower of dilled green beans and a castle of pickadilly guarded by baby gherkins. The outposts were manned by jars of beer-soaked sauerkraut, a specialty of Chef Ray at the Bayside Grille. (Which every townie calls the Grillie.) He’d hired my mother to make the pungent product, the first item we’d run through the new canning equipment.

  We can’t beat SavClub for price, but we compete on quality, and we have ’em nailed on local.

  “Every time I come in to the Merc, I want to move to Jewel Bay.” Stacia Duval stopped a few feet inside the front door, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. “It’s like Mayberry, with better food.”

  “Aunt Bee’s butterscotch pecan pie always looked pretty good to me,” Tracy said.

  I suppressed a grin. Tracy never met a dessert she didn’t like. She constantly complained about her hips, though she wasn’t seriously overweight.

  “Then don’t talk about it,” Fresca said. “Do it.” She stepped out of the kitchen and, smoothing the garden print apron she wore on cooking days, gave Stacia a hug. The producer had made a quick trip to Jewel Bay earlier in the summer to size us up, and she and Fresca had hit it off big-time. Since her return a few days ago, she’d stopped in every day—for friendship as much as for truffles.

  She settled on a counter stool, its red upholstery the same shade as her jeans and nail polish. Her black flats and zebra-striped top were super-cute. “This would be a great place to raise Luke. And I’d love for one of us to get off the road.” Her husband, a sound engineer for a rock band, could live anywhere. “But what could I do for work?”

  I got Pellegrinos out of the cooler and a Diet Coke for Tracy. “One option, take over an existing business.” I gestured with the bottle. “Two, figure out what’s missing and start a new business. Make your own job. A tea cottage, or a wine shop. You’d be perfect.”

  She sipped the mineral water. “You sell tea and wine. Wouldn’t that compete with the Merc?”

  I shook my head. “No. Our mission is local and regional foods. But more specialty shops would enhance the town’s draw. You know the town motto: The Food Lovers’ Village. Think about it. You’re preoccupied right now, but after the weekend, we can brainstorm a business plan. If you’re serious.”

  She smiled and nodded. Part of the fun in running a business with high tourist traffic is seeing the pleasure people take in discovering Jewel Bay. And I loved the thought of this delightful woman—as food-obsessed as the rest of us—joining the fun.

  The door chimed and Tracy bounded off to greet customers. Fresca returned to saucery. Time for me to ask the question nagging me ever since my talk with Drew.

  “Stacia, I thought Food Preneurs agreed to come to Jewel Bay because Gib and Drew knew each other from years back. But when I talked to Drew, I got the sense that there was no love lost between them. Is there something we should know about?”

  She pursed her lips, hesitating. “Gib likes to make people uncomfortable sometimes. I’ve seen it before. I suspect he’s just baiting Drew.”

  And Drew had risen to it. “Because Gib’s got fame and a TV show, while Drew’s stuck in the hinterlands? Even though the hinterlanders love him?”

  She waved a red-tipped hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t worry about it. You know how temperamental chefs can be.” She grinned. “But one bite, and all is forgiven.”

  • Three •

  Every community needs a secret weapon or two, and Caldwell’s Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch is ours. A genuine dude ranch a rope’s throw from town, founded by the late Gus Caldwell and now run by his sons, Keith and Ken, with help from other relatives—including Ken’s son, Chef Kyle. Well-tended log cabins, cooperative horses, and feast-worthy food. And half a mile of sparkling lakefront on the twenty-eight-mile-long Eagle Lake, the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi.

  The main lodge held the check-in office, kitchen, dining room, and a stone fireplace that makes you want to toast your backside even when it’s eighty degrees out. My childhood best friend, Kyle’s cousin Kim, and I had spent hours on the trails and docks, and I loved the ranch almost as much as I loved the Murphy homestead.

  Pete and Stacia had already filmed the historic buildings and grounds, but adding people to the mix adds complications, so we’d kept this first event small. With the Lodge’s regular guests off to Glacier Park for the day, we’d invited locals to share the fun.

  I’d planned to arrive a little early—I never miss a chance to watch pros at work—but a last-minute glitch in the Merc’s new inventory system kept me in the shop later than expected. Filming had already started when I rushed in.

  Gib Knox was in his element. The fitted plaid shirt and jeans emphasized how much time he spent in the gym. The boots added a couple of inches to his height, already well over six feet. The Stetson, tilted a shade too far back, gave him a dudish look. And not in the affectionate modern sense. But at forty-five or so, he carried it off well.

  On the stone patio behind the main lodge, his gaze casually scanning the stellar views of lake and mountains, Gib read his intro from a whiteboard hidden from the camera’s eye. His charm and ease made it look spontaneous. He strolled down to the lake as though he owned the place and wanted nothing more than to share it with you. As a viewer, you trusted him to give you the flavor of a place, a taste of the history, and the scoop on the present. I found myself smiling, the morning’s discomfort eased.

  Then, in response to Stacia’s wordless gestures, the focus shifted back to the patio and to food. Gib asked the black-clad chef Kyle Caldwell about tonight’s appetizers, and I thought it cruel—if not unusual—to make us wait while he described his signature grilled portobello mushroom mousse with a balsamic reduction and parsley oil, served on focaccia.

  “Moose?” Gib’s face reflected his amused tone. “Well, we are in Montana.”

  Tall, slender, and blond like the rest of his family, Kyle smiled politely and carried on. He’d grown up on the ranch, where guests included movie stars, Fortune 50
0 CEOs, and other Famous People. He’d cooked in the Army, and served two tours in Iraq. Took more than a smarty-pants TV chef to rattle him.

  If I hadn’t liked Kyle already, that alone would have done it.

  Kyle described the other appetizers: Bruschetta with roasted red pepper pesto (made by Fresca) and a bite of tart local goat cheese. Miniature Cornish pasties in a nod to Montana’s mining history. Mmm.

  Baked sweet potato chips. I tried to suppress an automatic gag reflex.

  Beside me, Stacia laughed. “I thought you’d eat anything.”

  “Except those.” The rare exception to my omnivoracity.

  Lodge waitresses—college girls in short denim skirts and cowboy boots—circulated with trays. Why are cocktail napkins always so small? I snapped up my favorites, then snared a glass of sauvignon blanc from the bar, where Ned stood guard.

  Gib eyed the waitresses appreciatively, then shook hands and posed for camera-phone snapshots while Pete filmed the pastry chefs, at Stacia’s direction. She’d changed into professional garb, very city-like in all black with fabbo low-heeled slingbacks.

  Each pâtissiere gave a brief description of her offering: Wendy Fontaine and her chocolate-espresso mousse cups. Add that to the menu for my last meal on earth. The Lodge baker’s tiramisu made with wild raspberries. Blasphemy for a half-Italian girl to admit she doesn’t like tiramisu, but it’s never seemed worth the calories. Huckleberry-peach tartlets from the Bayside Grille and miniature cheesecakes with huckleberry glaze from Applause!

  The evening brought to life my motto: If it’s made in Montana, it must be good.

  Tara and Emma Baker sat on the stone wall that embraced the patio, each holding a small plate. Tara, in her usual black, looked almost relaxed in her daughter’s spritely presence. Pink ribbons had been woven into the tiny girl’s blond braids, and Tara adjusted a slipping bow, a soft smile on her face, as Emma chattered. A few feet away, Pete turned the camera toward them with a wistful look.

  I plucked a second focaccia-mushroom toast off a passing tray and mingled, chatting with Kathy Jensen from Dragonfly Dry Goods, the quilt and yarn shop next to the Jewel Inn. Liz and Bob Pinsky, my mother’s best friends and my landlords, joined us.