Carried to the Grave and Other Stories Read online

  “Keep your mouth shut now, you stinking old man,” Corinna said. “You’re not my brother. And I don’t want to claim you as my uncle. I’m the oldest grandchild, not George. Precious George who got all the attention, while quiet, mousy Corinna got shoved aside. ‘Be quiet, Corinna. Be a good girl, Corinna.’”

  The cavalry would arrive any minute. I had to get to Corinna first, so we wouldn’t be burying anyone else.

  “You were my favorite aunt,” Wendy said from the doorway, her voice low but assured. Corinna swiveled toward her, the gun barrel wavering. “You gave me my first Barbie doll, with the skating outfit and the little white rubber figure skates.”

  “You!” Corinna said. “How much did you hear?”

  Wendy held out a hand. “I guessed ages ago, Aunt Corinna, when I took a genetics class in college. Last week, Granny G and I looked through the old albums, and that’s when she told me the rest. She loved Grandpa, but not like she loved Ira.”

  “What about me?” Corinna let out a sob. “She never loved me like she loved your father and her other children.”

  “I think she loved you the most,” Wendy said, as I moved carefully, quietly behind the mad woman. “You were all she had left of him.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Corinna raised the shotgun, aiming first at Frank, then Wendy.

  “I’d never seen the picture of her with your father until today,” Wendy said. “You look just like him. Anyone could see how much they loved each other. It was a different time, like Uncle Frank says. They did their best in a terrible time.”

  Corinna lowered the gun and I took the final step. I jammed my hands onto her shoulders. Pulled the sweater down, pulled her arms down, knocked the gun to the ground, away from the old man and my pregnant friend.

  Shouts and footsteps filled the air as Wendy’s husband and brothers surged into the barn. Max led Wendy away, while one brother took charge of Corinna and the other helped the old man out of the chair.

  My hands shook as I broke open the shotgun. Empty.

  I took a deep breath and crossed the barn to the tack room. Hung the gun on a hook on the wall and closed the door tightly before walking out into the sunshine.

  ∞

  I used my hip to open the screen door and one foot to keep it from banging shut. I handed Kim Caldwell a glass of lemonade and sat beside her on the top porch step.

  “You’re not going to tell me what really happened?” she asked. Kim had arrived moments behind the uniformed deputies. Despite being officially on leave, she’d responded when she heard the call. We’d all insisted nothing had happened, apologizing for the unnecessary summons.

  “Just a little argument,” I said. Max had taken Wendy home. Lynn Taylor was sitting upstairs with Corinna, in her old bedroom. “You know how tempers can flare at reunions. A little talk, a little time, and everything will be fine.”

  A dark green Toyota pulled up, the blond minister at the wheel.

  “Then why,” Kim said, “is Reverend Anne here?”

  My hand tightened on the icy glass, then relaxed, and I took a sip.

  “Some stories are better left untold,” I replied.

  Carried to the grave.

  Pot Luck

  Front Street looked like a giant potluck.

  This was Autumn Fest. All summer long, Jewel Bay, Montana, the Food Lovers’ Village, is about other people. The tourists, astonished to find a town bursting with art galleries, live theater, and great food high in the Northern Rockies. The summer people, often with deep roots, who nestle into the valley’s embrace for a few weeks every year.

  But this was the festival we’d created for ourselves, the hometown folks. On the second Saturday in October, we turn Front Street into a buffet, selling tickets to raise money for a scholarship program. All week, I’d been crossing my fingers and rubbing my lucky stars for good weather. We locals pride ourselves on our rugged nature and proclaim our love for winter, but it’s a lot easier to eat finger food and swap stories over casseroles if you can actually feel your fingers.

  And I was in charge of those casseroles, grateful that was all that was on my plate today. That and running the Merc. If I get involved in something, I tend to wind up running it. It’s a family trait. Call the Murphy women “take charge” or reframe our bossiness as leadership skills; I don’t care. Just don’t call me the morning of the Big Event to say you won’t be able to bring your stuffed cabbage rolls or help staff the tables because you have to take your dog to the groomer when you knew that days, even weeks, ago.

  Volunteers. They’re the lifeblood of a small town and the bane of every organizer’s existence.

  “All set,” Tracy, my shop assistant, said as she surveyed her work. I can organize just about anything, but she makes it look good. Front Street, our main drag, was closed off for the day so booths could be set up without blocking sidewalks and shop entrances.

  Tracy and Lou Mary, sales clerk extraordinaire, had covered the long plastic tables with leaf-print cloths. They’d made holders out of twigs for the matching paper napkins. Surgically altered pine cones held place cards identifying each dish and its creator. Lou Mary, who is even bossier than I am, directed Adam, my fiancé, as he ran a heavy extension cord out the shop’s door to a power strip, well-secured with duct tape to prevent tripping. Giant bouquets of sunflowers, teasel, and wheat stalks beckoned. A canning jar tied with ribbon held this year’s prizes, wooden spoons hand-carved of cherry from my family’s orchard.

  And it all echoed the display in the front windows of Murphy’s Mercantile, the grocery my great-grandfather built more than a century ago out of pale gray bricks made from clay dug at the foot of the mountains. These days, it’s a thriving local foods market.

  “Erin! I’m here!” a voice called. I turned to see Nan Crawford, cradling what looked like a baby bundled in too many blankets. Her white-haired husband, Joe, trailed behind her, pulling a cooler on wheels.

  Adam dashed forward to take the bundle.

  “Careful,” I said. “Don’t drop the front-runner.” Every year since the festival began, Nan’s elk medallions with mustard-thyme cream sauce had taken home the prize for best casserole. Except the year a prankster sneaked psychedelic mushrooms into the chicken and biscuits with gravy.

  The Crawfords lived in a waterfront condo complex just across the bridge at the south end of town, so walking made more sense than driving and trying to park. Despite the exercise, Nan looked perky and stylish in a fringed suede jacket, a stack of bracelets on her wrist.

  “It wouldn’t be fall without Autumn Fest,” Nan said. “I got carried away. Made too much to fit in the cooler. The warmer, I should call it. This is not a dish that can be served cold.”

  “And it wouldn’t be Autumn Fest without you. We’ll tuck these inside until it’s time to serve.” Though the skies were clear, the air did have a nip to it. I reached for the handle of the cooler and Joe gave me a big smile, but there was something vacant in his expression, as though he knew he should know me but couldn’t place me. As though he didn’t quite understand what I was doing.

  “I’ll take that,” I said, and only then did he release his grip. Nan held the door and I boosted the cooler over the threshold.

  Inside, Adam set Nan’s bundle on the steel counter that separates our commercial kitchen from the shop floor. I unwrapped it, the steamy aroma tickling my nose, and opened the cooler, then slid the red-and-white baking dishes into the warm oven. Heidi at Kitchenalia, the kitchen shop across the street, had started selling the dishes this past summer. I’d bought several myself. Then I checked on my rigatoni, making sure it didn’t dry out.

  “Any chance you kept some of that for us?” Adam said. “Only problem with all these food events is that by the time we get the chance to eat, the good stuff’s gone.”

  I pointed to a square baking dish, covered in foil, on the back of the stove. “After town clears out, we’ll have our own little feast in the courtyard.”

  “See wh
y I love you?”

  When Adam smiles at me, I feel like the luckiest woman alive. We met in college fifteen years ago, but truth be told, I’d barely noticed him, despite his gorgeous black-coffee eyes and dark curls, his broad shoulders and long legs. How could I possibly have overlooked that smile? Because I was wrapped up tight in my own life, in the grief over my father’s unexpected death a few months earlier. After graduation, I’d moved out to Seattle, working my way up the grocery side of SavClub, the international warehouse chain. It was a good career and a good life, but when my mother asked me to come home and take over the business, I hadn’t hesitated. The Merc, and Jewel Bay, are in my blood. Town surprised me in the ways it had changed—and the ways it hadn’t—while I was gone. But the biggest surprise had been to find Adam Zimmerman living here, in my hometown, after a decade wandering the globe in search of outdoor adventure. Now he runs kids’ programs and wilderness camps at the local athletic club.

  Call it coincidence or fate. Divine intervention. I call reconnecting with him the best thing that ever happened to me. We’d gotten engaged last spring beneath an old tree in my family’s orchard and were planning a Christmas Eve wedding.

  We released each other from a long slow kiss. I ran a hand through my dark bob, then straightened my apron.

  “I used to see Joe Crawford at the club,” Adam said. “He’s really aged.”

  “Funny how differently age affects people. Mom’s sixty-five and she’s like a kid compared to some people who aren’t much older than she is.” Though part of her sparkle came from her remarriage earlier this year, an event my siblings and I heartily approved of. “Nan’s got to be seventy, but she’s got plenty of energy. I always thought Joe was about the same age, but now he seems decades older.”

  “A touch of dementia? He was pretty mellow just now, but I’m sure it can be frustrating.”

  “More than a touch, I think. He was some kind of big-shot corporate finance guy. Summer people until he retired.” They’d thrown themselves into volunteer work and community activities after moving here full-time, but from what I’d heard, he’d remained hard-driving. Or hard-ass, depending on your point of view.

  By the time we got back outside, the Crawfords had moved up the street and Nan was chatting with Donna, owner of the liquor store. As usual, Donna was serving sparkling cider and mulled wine. Joe leaned over Nan’s shoulder, and even from two doors away, I could see the twitch of exasperation on her face as she spoke to him. He turned, hands clasped behind his back, and grinned at passersby.

  In front of the Merc, Tracy gave the tables one last loving touch, then headed in to mind the shop. I wriggled the produce cart outside. The season was winding down, but we still carried locally grown spinach, carrots, and squash, along with apples and plums. Braided garlic and clusters of dried morels hung from the canopy. I doubted we’d do much business today, not with the focus on food and friends. I adore summer in Jewel Bay—it’s gloriously beautiful, and it’s great to see town bustling—but I kinda don’t mind when the craziness ends.

  Lou Mary stood on the sidewalk, a faraway look on her face.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” I said.

  “What? Oh. No. Not worth half that.” She was a study in fall colors today, in an olive-green cashmere sweater and caramel pants, her coral nail polish the perfect complement to her reddish hair. Tortoiseshell readers hung around her neck on a gold chain. Though I’d worked with her for months now, much about her remained a mystery. Money, for example. She lived in the same pricey condo complex as the Crawfords. Her classic clothing looked expensive, stylish though clearly older. And yet, my mother had asked me to hire her because she needed a job. Whatever her secrets, Lou Mary could sell pasta to a hollow tree, and I’d learned a lot from her.

  She handed me the clipboard holding the sign-up sheet for our category. Volunteers arrived with a motley mix of Crock-Pots, warming dishes, boxes, and coolers. My old school pal, Polly Easter Paulson, brought her chicken enchiladas, and her sister, Bunny Easter Burns, her tamale pie. You could always count on the Easter twins to be in sync, and to bring good food. Though I did think my enchiladas were better, thanks to the orange peel in the sauce. Heidi popped across the street to give us her eggplant Parmesan, in the ubiquitous red-and-white baking dish. Up and down the street, cooks delivered their entries to the appointed locations—appetizers, soups and stews, breads, pickles. Cakes, pies, and cookies. The very best of home cooking.

  I dashed in to fetch my rigatoni and Nan’s elk dish and nestled them into warming trays on the tables outside. Then the clock on the library tower struck noon. Lids were lifted, covers removed, and heavenly aromas filled the air—peppers and tomatoes, rich sauces, fragrant herbs. The sounds of conversation that had swarmed around us became the sounds of eating and appreciation. Volunteers helped Lou Mary and me fill plates.

  “Ohmygosh,” a woman from the bank said. “Those elk medallions are divine.”

  “If Nan ever says she’s tired of bringing the same thing every year,” Old Ned Redaway said, pointing his compostable fork at me, “you set her straight, Erin.”

  “Don’t you worry,” the bank woman interjected. “Nan likes taking home the prize too much.”

  We all laughed, but it was true. Nan Crawford wasn’t the only one who turned what was meant to be a friendly cooking contest into a Top Chef rerun.

  They drifted off and a round-headed, round-bellied man took their place. “You gonna take home the wooden spoon this year, Erin?” Gordon Springer asked. The pharmacist was an ardent supporter of anything involving food, which in a town that calls itself the food lovers’ village meant plenty of opportunities to indulge.

  “No, no. I’m just in it for the fun. Make sure your wife saves me one of her blondies.”

  “You bet,” he said, taking his first bite of my rigatoni. “Mmm. Buffalo sausage?”

  I nodded and he muttered an approving grunt, while two men in chef’s whites surveyed the tables.

  “I think I’ve seen this menu before,” Ray Ramirez of the Bayside Grille said.

  “Variety isn’t a big spice among casserole cooks,” I answered. “A taste of each? Except mine—I’m not entering the contest.”

  “Too bad,” Tony Black said. He and his wife run the chalet-like Jewel Inn at the north end of the village. “Looks like it’s Gordon’s favorite.”

  “Gordon!” I play-swatted the pharmacist’s hand as he helped himself to a second serving of rigatoni. “One per customer, or there won’t be enough.”

  Tony and Ray were this year’s judges. I give them much of the credit for Jewel Bay’s culinary reputation, along with Wendy the baker and her husband, namesake of Chez Max, the French bistro. I like to think the Merc boosts the town’s reputation, too, as do Kitchenalia and a handful of other establishments. A small town needs an identity and a draw, and we’d found ours.

  From the looks the two men shared, I thought they’d found their winner. And I suspected it wasn’t Nan and her elk medallions.

  The chefs thanked us and moved on, Tony making a note on the back of an envelope.

  “She can be a pain in the neck,” the volunteer of the hour said in a low voice, and it took me a moment to realize she meant Nan. “But it’s got to be incredibly difficult to see the man you married years ago turn into someone else. Joe is almost like a child at times.”

  “Excuse me, Erin,” Lou Mary said. “I need a break.”

  Two spots of color bloomed high on her pale cheeks. I watched her step up the curb, her balance shaky. Her arthritic fingers clutched the doorframe as she paused, then stepped inside the Merc.

  Was she ill? Had something she’d eaten disagreed with her? No one had complained about any of the dishes. I wasn’t even sure Lou Mary had eaten anything—I hadn’t. Once we start serving, the fun doesn’t stop.

  The thought of Lou Mary being seriously ill was too much to consider. We’d been going great guns all week and all morning. She’d be fine once she ate.


  Another round of tasters converged on us and we served and chatted and served some more. I spotted the new sheriff’s detective, Oliver Bello, better-dressed off duty than most men in town dressed for work. He’d moved here recently from Miami and the urban influence still clung to him. But he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  There was nothing but a lonely mushroom left in Nan’s casserole dish, so I took advantage of the lull to go inside for another pan of medallions.

  As I’d predicted, the shop had made few sales and the Merc was empty except for Tracy and Lou Mary, sitting at the counter. A pile of used tissues sat in front of Lou Mary. Tracy shot me a worried look.

  I put a hand on Lou Mary’s back. “Is there anything we can do?”

  She shook her head, the movement rattling the gold chain that held her glasses. “I’m sorry, Erin. After all these years, I shouldn’t be such a mess. But seeing him today . . .”

  Not understanding, I looked at Tracy, who mouthed a word to me. I frowned and she mouthed it again.

  “Joe?” I said. “Why would . . . ohhh.” How had I never put it together? When Lou Mary left me a note that a supplier had called or we were low on blackberry jam, she signed it with a bold LM, and the name on her paychecks was Lou Mary Vogel. But from the recesses of my brain, I pulled up her full name: Lou Mary Williams Crawford Vogel. As in Joe Crawford.

  “And seeing what it’s done to Nan,” she was saying, “well, that could have been me. And I’m grateful and I’m ashamed and I’m worried.”

  “How long were you married?” I asked.

  “Too long,” she said, her tone hinting at the wisecracker I loved. “Joe was smart and hardworking and handsome as all get out. Tailor-made for the corporate world. He could see what everyone was doing and plan five steps ahead. And absolute hell to live with. We divorced ages ago, and I had twenty happy years with my David before he died.”