Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) Read online

  I clutched Landon’s left-behind teddy bear—or was it an Ewok?—and pretended everything would be all right.

  • Five •

  My Subaru waited next to the cabin, as if I’d parked it there myself. I waved thanks to my brother-in-law Jason for dropping me off, and headed inside to salvage my relationship with the main guy.

  Mr. Sandburg couldn’t decide whether he was happy to see me or PO’d that I’d been out all night. He sniffed my PJs. Eau de dog. His nose twitched and he took a half step back. I’d inherited the sable Burmese cat from an elderly friend in Seattle, and he’d adjusted to our move well, except for the occasional testy encounter when Pepé visited. I mollified him with the rattle of the treat tin, and he nibbled a few pieces out of my hand. I scratched behind his ears and he meowed.

  Stacia’s death was awful. But it had nothing to do with me. So why was I reciting John Donne as I brushed my teeth? “No man is an island, entire of itself. . . . Each man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind.”

  Or womankind.

  Don’t get involved, Erin.

  But I knew I would. I already was.

  Standing at the closet, I searched for something to celebrate a brief friendship ended in tragedy. Though I’d reclaimed many of my village ways in the three months I’d been home, I still savored my city wardrobe. I slipped on a stretchy skirt, the deep pink of raspberry cream, and a black-and-white tank with a diamond pattern and a draped front. Black leather sandals. A short stack of bracelets: brass bangles with onyx and mother of pearl, from an import shop in the Market in Seattle, punctuated by an acrylic square bracelet in fuchsia.

  Stacia would approve.

  I rubbed the magic spot on Sandburg’s forehead. “Don’t chase the squirrels. They just want to be friends.”

  On the passenger seat of my car lay the book. Julia Child had lived a long, full life. Stacia Duval had not had that chance. I touched the cover and made them both a promise.

  * * *

  “What would you do without Wendy’s croissants?” Tracy asked when I walked into the Merc, half-eaten pastry in hand.

  “Lie in the gutter and weep.” A stricken look crossed her sweet, round face. “Sorry. You heard?”

  Jaw quivering, she nodded. I stuffed my croissant back in its bag and gave her a long hug.

  Most early mornings, I have the shop to myself and relish the quiet time. Today, I welcomed the soft sounds of another human being shuffling around the place, making ready for more human beings.

  In the kitchen, I started a pot of Cowboy Roast and opened a new package of the tiny paper cups we offer customers. Spotted the Wheat Coffee we’d gotten from Montana Gold, a family-run farm-to-fork business in the central part of the state. The stuff would probably give Gib Knox the vapors. That alone was reason enough to start a pot. I no longer cared if Mr. TV Host approved of our little town or not.

  He wanted to try local foods. That’s what we’d give him.

  Thinking of Montana Gold gave me a smile. I’d suggested Rick Bergstrom share a booth this weekend with the Creamery folks. Fair goers who tasted local cheese on crackers and bagels made of Montana-grown grains were more likely to buy than if they tried the two products separately.

  Plus, I wanted the broad-shouldered, blond farm boy–turned–sales rep to think of Jewel Bay fondly.

  I’d texted word of Stacia’s death to Mimi and Tara last night and suggested we meet midmorning. Pleas for information had already been broadcast on the radio and TV. Ned didn’t text, so I dashed next door to Red’s, hoping the grapevine hadn’t beat me to it.

  “Oh, girlie.” At the news, fatherly concern filled his ashen face.

  “Kim will find the culprit. For all we know, someone’s heard the reports, realized what they did, and called in to confess. I mean, it’s a crime to hit someone, and to leave the scene, but . . .” My voice trailed off as I realized I’d put mouth in gear before engaging brain.

  “It’s all right, girlie. No need to pussyfoot around me. I’ll tell you now, don’t cancel a thing. That don’t honor the poor lass.”

  I squeezed his arm and headed back to the Merc, wishing for a way to avoid the inevitable cancellation of the broadcast. Two women stood in front of our display window, peering and pointing. “Those Breakfast Baskets are new,” I said. “Come on in and take a closer look.”

  They followed me inside, where I offered coffee and showed them basket options.

  “Such a sweet little town,” the shorter woman said, her vowels thick as Mississippi mud. They had to be sisters, with the same frosted blond curls, high foreheads, and laughing blue eyes. Sixty-ish, they both wore white crops and beaded sandals, and tropical print blouses.

  “I told you so.” The other woman turned to me, brushing my arm with her pearl pink fingertips. “We’ve been here before, my husband and I. We just love it. But I don’t remember noticing this place.” To my Western ears, it came out “remembuh this plice.”

  “We’re new. And old.” I started to explain how my family had started the first grocery store in the area right here—

  “On this very spot,” the returning visitor exclaimed, peering up at the tin ceilings and down at the wide plank floors.

  “Well, that is so sweet,” her sister said, picking up a jar of cherry jam.

  The front door chimed and Kim Caldwell entered. She’d changed into her usual pants suit, in navy. The silver bracelet with black onyx that I’d given her years ago wrapped her left wrist. But while she’d cleaned up, the circles under her eyes said she’d been working most of the night.

  “I’m so glad you found us,” I told my customers. “You ladies browse all you want. Tracy can answer all your questions.”

  I poured two mugs of Cowboy Roast—Kim clearly needed more than the sample size—and led the way to the courtyard. “Sorry about the mess. We’re remodeling. As you predicted, the accident’s all over the morning news.”

  She took a sip. “Mmm. Tastes good. Strong. Publicity is critical in investigating a hit-and-run. As you know.” She colored slightly, then set her mug on the rusty iron tabletop and pulled out her notebook. “Need to go over a few things.”

  For the next several minutes, I replayed everything I’d seen last night on the Lodge road, including Kyle’s actions and comments. Kim asked a few questions about Stacia and the filming, trying to piece together her last hours.

  “She was staying at the Lodge, in the guest cabins, right?” I said. “There are trails all over the place. Why walk up the main road? And she wasn’t dressed for exercise.” She’d been wearing the same black linen pants and collarless jacket she’d worn for the appetizer and dessert filming, and the same pointy-toed, slick-soled slingbacks.

  “Inquiring minds want to know,” Kim said.

  “Did she call someone? Did someone call her? Upset her with bad news?”

  Kim’s lips tightened but stayed zipped. Rekindling our friendship didn’t mean she’d reveal any details of an ongoing investigation.

  “This might not be relevant—I mean, clearly it’s not, but it might have been on her mind. Even though we got it straightened out.” I told her about the recipe mess, and our attempts to entice Stacia to move to Jewel Bay.

  Kim made a few notes, then drained her coffee and stood. “Erin, I know . . .” She hesitated, glancing off in the distance. “I know this is doubly hard on you because of your dad, but we will do everything we can to solve this.”

  I forced down the tension that rose in my chest. Kim had dropped me like a hot potato the spring my father died. At the time, I’d been so raw, so wounded, that I thought everything was connected to his death. Only recently had I learned the real reason, one of those things that means the world to a teenager but later, with a little more experience, becomes insignificant. “If only I’d seen something. The car, or . . . I feel so helpless.”

 
“Just keep doing what you do best. That’s the best way to remember her.”

  I sat at the table after she left, staring into my nearly empty coffee mug. The air around me felt gray and lifeless.

  My mother had suggested a memorial fund for Stacia’s son, but what should we do? Make it part of the festivities? Donate a portion of Grill-off ticket sales? Any profits were earmarked for the town’s advertising fund, and a change in plans would require a vote of both the Chamber and the Merchants’ Association. On short notice. Fat chance.

  The cold mug in my hands gave me another idea. Stacia loved our Cowboy Roast. Why not donate a dollar from every pound of coffee—the real thing and the roasted wheat substitute—the Merc sold this weekend to a memorial fund? If Red’s, the Inn, and half a dozen others joined us, donations would pile up.

  If I hurried, I could get to the bank to set up a fund before the committee meeting.

  It was the least we could do. Short of sending her home alive.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, I walked out of Jewel Bay Bank and Trust feeling—well, trusting. The bank manager had known exactly what we needed. I stopped at the copy shop to arrange for posters, which the owner offered free. Action—a surefire cure for helplessness.

  I headed up Hill Street toward the Jewel Inn and Front Street. Drew Baker stood outside the Inn’s rear door, his back rigid. I craned my neck to see who he was talking to and caught a glimpse of long blond hair.

  The Inn door may have obstructed my view, but it didn’t block Tara’s words. “If you do anything that keeps him from getting that job . . .”

  Drew’s reply was too low for me to catch.

  “I’m telling you, Drew. Don’t you dare interfere. Or I will find a way, and you will have to fight me for every minute with Emma.”

  How old was Emma? Maybe six. She and Tara had looked so happy together, just last night.

  Keep going, Erin. Their custody dispute is none of your business. You have places to go and people to beg.

  • Six •

  When I got back to the Merc, Liz had taken charge of the courtyard, supervising Bob and a friend installing the fountain. We’d settled on weathered metal cutouts of mountains and leaping fish against a wall of red-and-silver corrugated metal, the recirculating water washing away worries and creating a soothing haven.

  In theory, anyway. At the moment, wrenches, a cordless drill, and lengths of pipe lay strewn in one corner. The men had muscled in a wheelbarrow filled with stone to surround the trough at the base. Boxes holding new café tables—unassembled—and chairs were stacked next to the gate. Flats of plants sat next to ceramic pots.

  “I promise you,” Liz said, her perfectly manicured hands making reassuring gestures. “You won’t recognize the place.”

  I didn’t recognize it now.

  “Holy cow. Girlie, you got yourself a first-class mess.” I hadn’t seen Ned come up behind me. He gestured at the fence between the Merc’s courtyard and his. “Unlock the gate. We’ll meet on my turf. Lizzie, you send the others in when they get here.”

  Lizzie? Only Ned could get away with that.

  Ned and I settled at a wooden picnic table in Red’s courtyard. Odd to sit here drinking coffee instead of a beer.

  When Tara and Mimi arrived, we all expressed our shock at Stacia’s death. I shared my plan for the memorial fund.

  “She loved our quiche. We’ll pledge a dollar from every slice we sell through Sunday.” Mimi’s voice trembled, and I covered her hand with mine.

  “I’ll match the Merc’s donation,” Ned said.

  His generosity didn’t surprise me, but linking it to ours did. I grinned. “Then I’ll make sure every customer buys at least a pound of coffee.”

  He grinned back.

  Tara looked somber, in her usual black. “I’ll need to talk to the Caldwells, but I’m sure the Lodge will contribute something.”

  We divvied up the task of gathering donations from our neighbors, then moved to the pink elephant in the room: the filming.

  “Such a shame,” Mimi said. “We’ll never get another shot at that kind of national exposure.”

  “It’s no substitute,” I said, “but why not hire Pete to film the street fair, then put the video on the town website? Or use it in TV ads.” If we did TV ads. Another long-running debate.

  “They’re going ahead with the broadcast. They’re not canceling.”

  We all stared at Tara.

  “Gib had to talk to somebody at the network,” she continued, “but Pete thinks—”

  “Place looks different in the morning.” Gib grabbed a silver mesh chair from a nearby table. He sat and stretched his long legs.

  “You’ve been here before?” I asked. He and Pete had snuck in together.

  “Last night. Soaking up the local flavor and the local gin. Both quite nice.”

  Ah. Between the appetizer filming and his arrival at the hit-and-run scene. Or had he gone out later, salving his grief with drink? I took a slow, sad breath.

  “What does Pete think?” Pete said, sliding in beside Tara and giving her a quick kiss. His overshirt caught on the bench and he tugged it loose.

  Tara blushed. “That the show should go on, in tribute to Stacia.”

  “But how can it?” I said. “Don’t you need a producer? Someone to direct things?” My grasp of Stacia’s job was scanty.

  Gib leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Here’s our plan. Network’s cleared it. We’ve already got a lot invested in this project. Stacia would not have wanted us to pull the plug.”

  Probably not, but saying we know what the dead person would have wanted can be a way to justify our own desires.

  “We don’t need help for the field trips,” Pete said. “But for the Grill-off and street fair, we need an assistant.”

  “We need you, Erin,” Gib said.

  “What? I don’t know the first thing about TV.” But Gib Knox had a way of looking at a woman intently and emphasizing the word “need” that implied a little something extra.

  “Piece of cake,” he continued. “Stacia had checklists for everything. And you said yourself you’d be scouting for products for your store. Kill two birds with one scone.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  Five pairs of eyes studied me. “I can’t do it. I’ve got a shop to run.”

  “You already know the plan,” Mimi said, leaning forward. “Say yes, Erin. We need this broadcast.”

  True. All true. “Oh, all right. I’ll ask Fresca to help Tracy out in the shop.”

  “Speaking of running things.” Mimi ran a hand through her hair. “Anything else we need to discuss this morning?” We shook our heads, and the rest of the committee took off, leaving me with my new bosses in my job as film crew assistant.

  It’s for Stacia, and for Jewel Bay.

  “Sunday at the street fair is all interviews,” Gib said. “You just walk through town with us, make sure we don’t skip somebody important, and get everybody’s names.”

  Sounded simple enough. “Stacia made a list of participants we thought you should interview, but I don’t have a copy.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Gib said. “You know everybody. Now, for the Grill-off. Every cooking demo is shot in segment format, so host and camera both know what’s happening and don’t miss anything. There’s the intro—me conversing with each chef. Pete pans the work surfaces to show what ingredients they’re using. Then it’s fire time. He shoots them grilling, reducing their sauces, whatever they do. We go down the line. I ask questions. Each chef gets roughly equal air. They plate, he pans, I eat. Voilà.” He sat back, satisfied.

  “And what do I do?” It sounded too easy to be true.

  “Just stay out of my viewfinder,” Pete said.

  Gib shrugged. “You just watch, unless something goes seriously wrong.”

 
It already had.

  “Keep in mind, entertainment first, cooking second.”

  The reverse of what every home cook who watched the show imagined. But my real task was clear: make sure the viewers understand that, in Jewel Bay, food comes first.

  * * *

  On the theory that sympathy breeds charity, I made the rounds, hitting up my neighbors for contributions to Stacia’s memorial fund. Solicitations are a fact of life in a town that depends on volunteerism for everything from watering the flower baskets that hang on the light posts downtown to stringing Christmas bulbs on the one-lane bridge leading into the village. Most merchants factor donations into our cost of doing business, figuring it’s a trade-off for the lack of municipal taxes—and services.

  My sister agreed to contribute a percentage of the weekend’s jewelry sales. Our good friend and stalwart Heidi, the power behind Kitchenalia, pointed to her display of grilling tools and offered to split the proceeds.

  I skipped Puddle Jumpers. No need to subject myself to Sally’s tirade about the constant hounding of merchants who barely scraped by to benefit some new cause every week and blah blah blah.

  Ray Ramirez at the Bayside Grille called Stacia “a sweetheart—she loved my Reuben”—and said he’d chip in fifty cents for every Reuben sold this weekend. “Glad they’re not canceling. Though I can’t say I’m a big fan of Knox.”

  I gave him a quizzical look.

  “He and Stacia had lunch here yesterday, and everybody heard him spouting off. Saying if the food looks good, viewers think it tastes good. Don’t know if he honestly thinks we can’t cook worth beans here, or if he just likes playing know-it-all.”

  The latter, I suspected. “He’s about entertainment, not food.”

  “Exactly.” Ray’s summer-weight cooking shirt lay open at the collar, exposing the tail end of a scorpion tattoo on his chest, the ink black against his coppery skin.