Treble at the Jam Fest Read online

  “What did we do?” I asked Rebecca.

  Neck taut, jaw stiff, she gave a slight shake of the head. “I have no idea.”

  A flash of turquoise flew by us.

  “Gerry, wait,” Jennifer Kraus called. But even a runner can’t move quickly in flip-flops, and he was out of sight before she reached the gate. She kept going, and I heard her calling his name again. I appreciated her attempt to smooth things over but feared the cause was lost.

  Rebecca looped her arm through mine. “I need a drink.”

  “You read my mind.”

  J.D. and Michelle were efficient bartenders, pouring drinks with two hands, and Old Ned had the beer taps under control. But the few minutes it took to snare a glass of wine and weave my way back to the table where I’d left Adam and Tanner were long enough for me to realize that the crowd had been oblivious to the musical missteps and harsh tones. If Martin thought that the other musicians had made him look bad in front of the public, he was mistaken. The public had not noticed.

  Which I suspected would only make him angrier.

  Three

  I love the Merc in the morning. I love it in the evening, too, though it sometimes tries my patience midday.

  I let myself in the back gate Saturday morning, grateful that the volunteers who’d dolled the place up, to borrow Old Ned’s phrase, would swing by soon with brooms and garbage bags. Wendy was catering a bridal shower in the space this afternoon—she and Michelle could carry the food out their back door and into the courtyard, and the bride and her pals could party for hours without interfering with business at the bakery, the bistro, or the Merc.

  That’s the kind of partnership that makes this village special.

  Inside, I switched on the milkglass schoolhouse lights that hang from the painted tin ceiling. They were original, like most of the fittings, though I’d had to replace one of the big display windows last summer after—

  Well, that was water under the bridge.

  Upstairs in my tiny loft office, I tossed my blue leather tote under the desk. A score from the sale rack at a pricey boutique in Seattle, when I’d been a grocery buyer for SavClub, the international warehouse chain, it had seen better days. Better years.

  On the wall hung a painting by my dear friend Christine. My dear, dead friend. Letters stenciled on a paint-spattered background read:

  DREAM

  CREATE

  SNICKER

  DOODLE

  Pretty good philosophy, if you ask me.

  Downstairs, I set up the till, started our Cowboy Roast coffee, and poured a bag of Jewel Bay Critter Crunch into one of Reg’s serving bowls. As a product sample, it was far less risky than strawberry-rhubarb jam, as long as we swept twice to catch all the stray popcorn kernels.

  Tracy arrived minutes before opening, Diet Coke in one hand, a white paper bag with her morning maple bar in the other. “Sorry I missed the fun last night. Rick got stuck on a sales call, and I didn’t want to come back downtown by myself. Bozo and I hung out, and I made a batch of gluten-free dog cookies.”

  I clicked on the iPad and made sure the POS—point-of-sale—software was up and running. “Oh, good. They’re almost as popular as your double dark chocolate truffles.”

  “A man at the gas station said Gabby Drake knocked his socks off.”

  “She was great. I don’t know whether to call her sound jazz, or pop, or what. She mixes it up, which I love.”

  Tracy put a stray bag of Montana Gold biscuit mix back where it belonged. “Sounds like this will be a killer week.”

  Oh, good. If no one but me and the musicians—and Grant Drake—had noticed the tensions on stage, good, good, good. And there was no reason for me to be nervous—my part in the festivities was done.

  When I co-host a party, I like things to run smoothly. I like the food to be tasty, the drinks yummy, and everyone happy. But no matter how much you plan, when you bring together a crowd of people, each with their own goals and worries, you never know what will happen.

  Kinda like retail.

  “So, tell me about Tanner.”

  I looked up with a start, then smiled, remembering the evening. “I like him a lot. I knew I would. They went kayaking this morning, on the Wild Mile. You and Rick should sit with us at the concert in the park tomorrow night. Oh, let’s be sure we have enough picnic baskets.”

  One of my brainstorms after I took over last summer had been ready-made Breakfast Baskets, featuring a pair of coffee mugs, Cowboy Roast coffee or one of our new herbal teas, and Montana Gold pancake mix with Creamery butter and a choice of huckleberry or chokecherry syrup. Eggs and sausage were extra. Our Lakeside Picnic baskets (“Just Add Water”) feature champagne and plastic flutes, crackers, cheese, and other tasty treats. This year, we were offering baskets for the Sunday-evening concerts in the park, adding my mother’s tortellini salad and other carry-out options. Plus, customers could reuse the baskets, trimmed with our signature yellow and blue ribbon, all summer long.

  “I filled a few yesterday when we hit a lull. We’ll need more baskets soon.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check the inventory.” One more item, and my mental to do list would be longer than Front Street. We’d met the women who run the Helena Handbasket Company at last summer’s street fair. Affordable and Montana-made—a match made in heaven.

  I flipped the sign to OPEN and unlocked the door. Within minutes, the Merc buzzed like a bee on caffeine. Over and over, Tracy greeted customers with our motto— “If it’s made in Montana, it must be good.” I heard it so often, I was almost sorry I’d come up with it.

  A few minutes later, Ann and Gabby Drake came in, Gabby sipping a go-cup. I called out “Hello” as Ann, elegant as the day before, made straight for the pottery display. I went back to answering a customer’s questions about our organic beef and pork. We’d worked hard to establish reliable supplies of meat, cheese, produce, and eggs. The Merc’s days as a full-scale grocery were long gone, but I was determined that we be more than a high-end specialty shop carrying luxury foods.

  I rang up the customer’s purchase of Italian sausage and an elk roast, then found Gabby testing Luci’s Lavender Valley lotion. “Gabby, you were wonderful last night. I can hardly wait to hear you again later this week.”

  “Thanks.” She looked younger in daylight, in her blue denim short-shorts and midriff top.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what was the problem with you and Martin?”

  She flicked her eyes toward her mother, then dropped her voice. “I thought he’d be thrilled to hear me do one of my own compositions. We worked on it by Skype and he raved. I’m supposed to play with him during the final concert, but now I’m not so sure. What if he tosses me off the bill?”

  “Can he do that?” Young as she looked, surely she was old enough to realize you can’t go changing other people’s plans.

  She made a face and hunched a shoulder. She didn’t know.

  “Your mom and Rebecca Whitman are friends, right? From working on the festival? If you’re worried, ask her to talk to him.”

  Gabby’s eyes widened. “Didn’t you hear—”

  “Erin, are other pieces available in this pattern?” Ann’s question broke in from across the shop. “The craftsmanship and design are superb.”

  “I’m so glad you like it.” Please, please, please, I told myself. Let me start the season with a big sale. “We haven’t restocked for summer yet, but I’ll call Reg and see what he has on hand. I’m sure he’d be happy to make more. Meanwhile, take a bowl home—try it out.”

  “That’s generous. Thank you. We can return it anytime,” she said. Her daughter stifled a yawn. “I can, anyway. I can’t vouch for Gabby—I well remember how keyed up one gets after a performance, even if the hour doesn’t seem late.”

  “Oh? Were—are you a musician, too?” The Jazz Festival began in m
y years away from Jewel Bay, and I was just getting to know the new crop of regulars it had brought.

  “Soprano with the Metropolitan Opera. No major roles, but I worked steadily, in New York and in the traveling company. I retired when I became a mother.” Chin lowered, lips together but curved, she gave her daughter a fond look. If Gabby were inches closer, Ann would have stroked her hair.

  The door chimed and Sally Grimes marched in, grabbed a bag of chai mix, and plopped it on the counter. I excused myself and went to help her.

  “My daughter’s coming up today, and she loves this stuff. It’s too spicy for me.”

  “How is Sage? And the baby?” I broke open a new roll of nickels to make her change. Sally runs the children’s clothing store and had almost lost her nickname of Sally Sourpuss since reconciling with her daughter.

  Sally’s face lit up. “She’s such a good mother. And Olivia is the most beautiful little girl. I’ve got to run—town is hopping. Since when do we have a parking problem at ten thirty in the morning? Doesn’t help to have all those fire engines and ambulances blocking the River Road.”

  My hands froze above the change drawer. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, who knows—some idiot in trouble on the river, I suppose.”

  “The river? Oh my God, no.” I threw her change on the counter and slammed the cash drawer shut. “I’ve got to find out.”

  I ran out the door. Ran up Front Street to Hill, a block and a half from the shop, and made the turn. Part way up the hill, my Mary Jane clogs not meant for running, I slowed to keep myself upright. A red fire engine crept toward me. No lights, no rush, no need. The engine was headed home.

  I squeezed past the moving truck and made for the trailhead. Half a dozen walkers, some with strollers and dogs, stood by. The River Road hasn’t been a road in decades—it’s officially the Jewel River Nature Trail, but no one who’s been in town longer than five minutes calls it that. It’s a gem, for walking, running, and sight-seeing, high above the river. The sometimes-treacherous Jewel River, with its stretch of Class IV rapids known as the Wild Mile. It draws kayakers from all over the world during whitewater season.

  Which we were smack in the middle of.

  I grabbed the arm of the EMT standing guard by the gate, now unlocked, meant to keep out all but emergency vehicles. “What’s going on?”

  “Body on the rocks. Our guys have already checked him.” He shook his head. “We’re waiting for the sheriff.”

  I took off, pounding up the dirt trail.

  “Hey!” he called. “You can’t go in there.”

  But when a Murphy girl is on a mission, there’s no stopping her.

  Four

  Around the bend, a quarter mile from the trailhead, stood a square white ambulance. Beside it, on a lichen-stained boulder, sat Tanner Lundquist, clad in a black wetsuit, one long leg outstretched, his head in his hands.

  The world went gray. It spun, the giant evergreens suddenly spiking downward in front of me, the sun’s rays shooting up. I reached out a hand to steady myself, but grasped thin air.

  What’s going on? Was he—

  “Erin! Erin, what are you doing here?” An electric hand touched my shoulder and the shock spun me toward the voice I loved, the voice I’d feared never hearing again.

  “Adam. Oh my God, Adam. You’re okay. You’re all right. You’re …”

  His arms enveloped me and the world steadied itself. I held on. And then he stepped back, his hands on my upper arms. “Of course I’m all right. We’re fine, both of us. Did you think—?”

  “All I knew was that there was a body and that you two were out on the river and … ”

  He held me tight, and Tanner wrapped his arms around us. I kissed him, too. They were safe. They were safe.

  So who—?

  I pulled back. “What happened? Why are you two up here? And who’s down there?”

  Derek D’Orazi, a picture framer and EMT, rose into view. He climbed from the hillside on to the trail, breathing hard, his navy uniform smudged with soft, red-brown dirt. He wiped his hands on his pants, though they were too filthy to help.

  “That musician,” Adam said, and a hot, sour taste bubbled up in my throat. “Not the local guys. The guest artist.”

  Oh my God. “Gerry Martin? He played with the trio, and with Gabby Drake.”

  “Yeah. We’d just shot out the last rapid, and Tanner got ahead of me.”

  Tanner broke in. “I let the current push me sideways, so I could take in the view. I looked up and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Two figures, standing close, then all of a sudden—” His eyes and mouth went wide, and he traced one hand through the air, demonstrating what happened next. “The other person reached out and shoved him. He came flying down the cliff, arms and legs flailing. He hit a small tree, and crashed right past it. Nothing could break his fall. He hit a rock, bounced, and landed on another rock. I signaled to Adam. We paddled over and he climbed up to see if … ” His voice cracked. “But no one survives a fall like that. Not the way his neck was bent.”

  Adam runs outdoor camps for kids. He’s a search and rescue expert with years of experience in wilderness medicine. He races rapids and climbs ice cliffs for fun. Naturally he’d been the one to paddle to shore and scramble up the rocks to check for signs of life. Now he pressed his lips together, eyes downcast.

  “Somebody pushed him? Who?” I asked.

  Tanner pressed his lips together. “I couldn’t see well enough to tell. Not from that distance and angle, with the trees and shrubs in the way, and the current moving me. I don’t know who anybody is here, anyway.”

  “I was on the other side of the big rapid,” Adam said. “I didn’t see a thing.”

  I blew out a noisy breath. Footprints and witnesses gave the best chance at identifying the killer, but there was no one else around.

  The River Road is heavily lined with brush and trees, except in a few spots like this one, where about ten feet of the edge stood open, unobscured and unprotected. “This is where you think he went over? Where did you come up?”

  “Best I can tell. We followed a game trail, upstream a ways. Crazy-steep, but we made it. We’d left our phones in the car, so Adam sprinted to the nearest house to call 911 while I stayed here to mark the spot.”

  The EMTs had scuffed up the ground, but their footprints were easy to identify—heavy tread in a distinct pattern.

  I silently cursed my own rules. My phone was back at the Merc, in my bag in the tiny upstairs office.

  Derek stood by the back of the open ambulance, not far from a yellow sawhorse that meant no access. Farther east, another sawhorse blocked traffic from the other direction. He frowned when I approached. “There’s no reason for you to be here, Erin.”

  “I need your phone.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  I wriggled my fingers. “Because none of us has one. C’mon, Derek, help me out.”

  He glanced down the trail, then handed me the phone. “Make it quick. The sheriff will be here any minute.”

  I snapped several shots of the ground near his feet, for the footprints, then two more shots of the soft marks made by the gripper-soled water shoes Adam and Tanner wore. They must be part goat to have climbed the steep, rocky slope in those. No doubt adrenaline helped.

  I didn’t want to mess up the scene any more than I wanted the sheriff’s deputies to yell at me when they arrived, so I crossed to the far side of the trail and circled around the other barricade. I hopped back on the rock ledge, a few feet east of the gap where Martin had gone over, roughly where the guys had come up. Heights rarely bother me, and my balance is decent, but I didn’t want to look down the steep slope. Didn’t want to see what Adam and Tanner had seen.

  Near the edge, the ground was badly scuffed. Tanner had seen a second person, but from this angle, I could not pi
ck out their tracks.

  I crouched. The ground below the cliff’s edge was undisturbed. I saw no indication of impact—no scuffed dirt, no broken branches where Martin had reached out, grabbing for anything to break or slow his fall.

  In other words, the scene and Tanner told the same story.

  I took a deep breath, then wrapped my left hand around the trunk of a scrub pine, its pungent scent striking my nostrils. I steadied myself, and peered over.

  The cliff was about three hundred feet high. Gerry Martin had tumbled down nearly the full length, over sharp rocks and round ones, past stubby spruce, tall pines, and birch beginning to leaf. He’d landed, finally, on a flat sandstone ledge. Farther upstream, larger outcroppings serve as viewing platforms and picnic spots. During the annual Whitewater Festival, held a couple of weeks earlier, thousands of kids and adults had clustered on the big rock ledges to watch kayakers from all over the country race the river.

  I shivered in the slowly warming air and drew back. Took another deep breath and leaned forward, still clutching the pine. For reassurance as much as safety.

  Last night, on stage, Gerry Martin had worn black from head to toe. The distance and angle made it hard to tell, but he appeared to be in black now as well.

  Had he taken a solo stroll along the River Road to calm himself before the day’s activities, only to encounter someone with a gripe?

  Or had he walked up here with his killer?

  Male voices interrupted my internal chatter, and I glanced up to see an SUV marked with the sheriff’s shield. Undersheriff Ike Hoover jumped out of the passenger side, the uniformed driver emerging more slowly. The EMT I’d seen at the gate climbed out of the back. I took several more quick shots, then e-mailed the photos to myself. I handed Derek his phone and stood beside Adam and Tanner, rubbing pine pitch off my palm.

  If Central Casting sent out a rural Montana sheriff, it might be Ike Hoover, except that his version of a work uniform is khakis and a polo shirt, biceps straining the short sleeves. When the weather requires, he adds a fleece pullover. He’s second in command, but I’d heard talk that the sheriff might retire—the rumor mill said cancer, though the rumor mill often says that, true or not. Ike was the obvious choice as successor after thirty years on the job, and I knew he had the ambition.