Treble at the Jam Fest Page 5

  Not to mention all the rest of us.

  I set my Pellegrino on one of the café tables my friend and personal landlady, Liz Pinsky, had helped me choose last summer. Was it proper etiquette to sit before the law enforcement officer sat?

  You’d think I’d know by now.

  Dang, I miss you, Kim.

  I sat. “The fence between our place and Red’s is locked. Their liquor license requires it. But we can walk over and see the stage.”

  The deputy hitched up his gun belt and sat, then took out a small notebook. “Undersheriff Hoover is retrieving the body. With help from Mr. Zimmerman and Mr.—” He flipped back a page.

  “Lundquist,” I said. “Tanner Lundquist. Visiting from Minneapolis. He got here last night, just in time for the concert.”

  “Tell me about the concert,” Oakland said. He wiped the corners of his mouth with thumb and forefinger, in the manner of a man who missed having a mustache. “The festival doesn’t start until tomorrow, does it?”

  I explained about the special event, featuring local musicians, a guest artist, and a promising workshop student. “The idea is to serve up a taste of the festival, spurring ticket sales for next week’s evening concerts. Last night’s proceeds go to the scholarship fund. And special events help reach people who don’t want to mess with the crowds.” Crowds being a relative term. The Playhouse seats four hundred and fifty, and the park across the one-lane bridge holds about that many. But in a town of less than three thousand year-round, doubling or tripling in the height of summer, that’s a good turnout.

  He scribbled a note. “Who was in charge?”

  “Rebecca Whitman, Dave Barber, and the board. It’s all volunteer.”

  “Tell me about the decedent. Mr. Martin.”

  Decedent was almost as chilling as the body. Criminy, I hate that shift, from Martin or world-famous musician to the body. But it beat the dead guy on the rocks above the river.

  I took a long sip from the green bottle. “I met him briefly last winter when he came up for a fund-raiser. He’s played here quite a few times.”

  Oakland would be talking to everyone involved. I’d let them tell him what had happened. After all, what I interpreted as ego-driven tensions could easily have been dropped cues or mistaken signals, musicians not used to playing together rubbing each other the wrong way.

  “Tell me more about this festival.”

  “It’s been around a few years, though this is my first one. Guest artists—big names—perform a concert or two in the evenings. During the day, they visit the workshops, teach special classes, and hang out with the students and other artists, sharing the love of music.”

  “And it’s all jazz? Isn’t that trombones and stuff?”

  “Oh, yeah. There are workshops for brass and woodwinds. But also guitar and small groups. Martin is a guitarist. He plays with—played with—a lot of famous musicians. Wrote a bunch of soundtracks—I couldn’t tell you which ones without my friend Google.”

  The deputy frowned. “Sounds like he got around. What was he doing here?”

  “Like I said, playing and teaching. For the guest artists, it’s a chance to reach a new audience. And squeeze in a vacation.”

  “Tell me about last night.”

  For a moment, I thought he already knew about Martin’s bad mood, but then I realized it was simply a question. “Everything sounded great, but I’m not a musician. You’ll need to talk to the people he played with, get their perspective.”

  Oakland pursed his lips.

  “I can say he wasn’t happy after the concert.” I reached for my water, no longer cold, but didn’t take a drink. “He made a nasty crack to Rebecca Whitman, and said he’d ‘spread the word about this town.’ But I have no idea what he meant. All I did was put up a poster and provide half the space.”

  Oakland made a note, grunted, and got to his feet. Unlike Ike Hoover, he wore the full uniform—brown pants, tan shirt, sturdy black shoes with rubber soles a guy could run in. Not that he appeared to do much running. He wasn’t fat, but clearly Oakland didn’t make the use of the department exercise equipment that his boss did.

  We walked out to the alley and circled around to Red’s courtyard. The magic had vanished in the daylight. A group of young men had taken over a picnic table, now littered with beer glasses and baskets of burgers and fries. The aroma set my stomach gurgling.

  Oakland pulled a small camera out of his pocket and snapped a few quick shots of the stage and surroundings. For the file, I imagined—or rather, the oversized corkboard that shares one wall of the sheriff’s Jewel Bay satellite office with an equally oversized white board. For background.

  Because surely nothing that had happened here had anything to do with Martin’s murder.

  Or did it?

  The deputy tucked his camera away and held out a big hand. “Thanks for your time. I’ll head inside, see if I can catch Mr. Beckstead or Mr. Redaway.”

  For half a second, my mind went blank—I never think of J.D. or his grandfather by their last names.

  “Deputy, Martin and the killer may have been struggling—we don’t know—but in the end, it sure looked to Tanner like the killer pushed Martin over the edge on purpose.”

  Oakland’s face gave away nothing.

  “I come from the grocery business,” I continued, trying another tack, “where a slip-and-fall is not uncommon. The signs are pretty obvious—a wet spot on the floor, a stray grape. I didn’t see anything like that on the trail, and I don’t think you did, either. Are you investigating this as an accident, a fight that resulted in tragedy, or as an intentional act? A murder?”

  He gave me a long, appraising gaze, his fingers working that spot where his mustache used to be. I did not doubt that he shared Ike Hoover’s reluctance to trust the observations and theories of the average citizen.

  “Ms. Murphy, I hear you’re pretty smart. You know I can’t answer that.”

  I did know. But this isn’t your average town. And maybe I flatter myself, but I’m not your average citizen.

  Six

  Inside Red’s, I ordered a hot pepper jack burger and fries to go, then sat at the bar to wait.

  At the other end, out of my hearing, the deputy spoke to J.D.

  The bartender wiped an imaginary spot on the dark, timeworn surface and shook his head. Behind him, a neon PBR sign glowed. He glanced at the deputy, muttered something, and shook his head again.

  In the mirror behind the bar, I saw Oakland slip his notebook into his shirt pocket. His heavy steps and the sway of the gun belt as he left spoke of disappointment, of nothing useful learned.

  J.D. continued wiping the counter, a patch at a time, until he stood across from me. Still the new man, though he’d been behind the bar since the first of the year, he had his grandfather’s affability as well as his red hair and stocky build. “Hard to believe Martin’s dead.”

  “Deputy tell you what happened?” I asked.

  “No. He wanted to know if I saw or heard anything unusual Friday night. Sounds like Martin got too close to the edge. Slipped and fell.”

  Not so, but I’d promised Undersheriff Ike that I’d keep my mouth shut. “Did you? See or hear anything?”

  “Nope.” J.D. slid down the bar, checking on his clientele. A handful of patrons sat inside—the lawyer who downs one short Scotch at noon every day, the fishing guide working on a plate of nachos and a dark beer, a couple of men in a friendly spat over whether baseball or football is America’s favorite sport.

  If Kim were on the job, I might have told her about the tensions I’d sensed between Martin and Barber, and the partial conversation I’d heard between Gabby and her mentor. Though she was a cop through and through, I knew she trusted my observations.

  It doesn’t take a cop’s experience to know that a petty conflict or a trivial slight can fester under the su
rface until it becomes a deadly heat-seeking missile.

  I called out to J.D., and when he stood in front of me, eyes bright with expectation, I took the round-about route. “Ned ready for a big week? You guys are hosting the late-night jam sessions, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, we are. Gramps is good.” J.D. wiped the spot he’d just scrubbed. “Big events wear him down more than he wants to admit, but they psych him up, too. And they’re great for business.”

  I gestured toward the rows of bottles behind him. “Music sells booze.”

  “The louder the music, the more people drink.”

  “Does Dave Barber play here much, or is his stuff too mellow?”

  J.D. snorted. “He and Gramps don’t get along. Don’t know why, but when I came to town, Gramps told me not to let him near me with a scissors.” He ran his hand over his close-cropped red hair, a shade lighter than his stubble of a beard.

  Interesting. My family had always believed that being active in town is a good thing, and I’d assumed that anyone who pitches in must be a good guy.

  Then I remembered what they say about what happens when you assume.

  “Lunch time.” The kitchen runner handed me a brown box I was hungry enough to eat without opening.

  “Thanks,” I told her, then spoke to J.D. “Gotta run. Gotta stay on Tracy’s good side.”

  He rolled his eyes and went on wiping.

  On the sidewalk, I succumbed to temptation and opened the box wide enough to sneak a big, fat fry. Bit off the tip, knowing how potatoes can hold the heat.

  Perfect.

  Back in the Merc, I sat at the counter on one of the chrome stools my mother had salvaged from an old soda fountain and topped in cherry red vinyl. The place was quiet, as it often is at lunchtime, and Tracy dashed home to grab a bite and check on her dog. An elderly Harlequin Great Dane, Bozo had gotten too arthritic for the doggy door.

  I was down to my last fry when the door opened and in swept Lou Mary Vogel.

  “Oh, Erin! I’m so happy to see you. Thank you for considering hiring an old bag like me.” She paused near the cash-wrap, her lime green quilted handbag the same shade as her loafers, complementing her floral print blouse. The rough-cut carnelian stones in her necklace matched both her lipstick and the poufy light red hair that, while carefully tinted, could have been her natural shade.

  I love retail ladies.

  At my gesture, she boosted herself onto the stool next to me, grabbing the counter for support as the stool swiveled. She and my mother were roughly the same age, but the years showed more clearly on Lou Mary. She had the pale skin, splashed with freckles on the cheekbones and throat, that many redheads despair of, and the wrinkles told me she’d battled the effects of sun in vain. But she was one of those women whose eyes—the green of leaves about to turn—and personality made her attractive.

  I wiped grease and salt off my fingers and held out my hand. Her touch was light and I noticed her swollen knuckles. She would not be toting cases of jam up the wooden steps from the basement, or helping me haul in coolers of cheese from Jewel Bay Creamery.

  That’s okay. Youth carries obligations, and one is the obligation to carry things.

  She accepted my offer of mineral water and I twisted off the cap for her.

  “Retail’s been my career. My last job before we moved here was in a scrumptious boutique in Palm Springs. It had its perks.” Lou Mary wriggled her fingertips at her necklace. “Of course, this is very different, and that’s what makes it fun. Every store is unique. You get to know the products and customers, and help them find each other.”

  “We?” No wedding ring.

  “I’m single now.” She gave me a rueful smile. “Happens to the best of us.”

  “Ah. I’m sorry. Where do you live?”

  “I’m renting a townhouse near the golf course. For the time being.” Her smile wobbled.

  Her manner of speaking fascinated me. I’d known in half a second that she wasn’t a Montana native, but I couldn’t place the accent. When I offered a drink from our cooler, she’d said “no soda pop,” which sounded Northeastern to my ears, but then she raved about the new enchilada sauce Fresca made, using a recipe from Ray Ramirez’s grandmother, and she gave enchilada a Southwestern flair. And when she mentioned lasting one winter in Chicago, she reminded me of my old boss at SavClub, who’d never left the Windy City until a promotion to headquarters in Seattle.

  A customer came in and Lou Mary watched as I answered the woman’s questions and bagged up her pasta and pesto purchases.

  “Your mother was right. You manage the customers beautifully.”

  I blushed, as if I was being interviewed. As I suppose I was.

  “Tell me about your name. It’s unusual.”

  “It was supposed to be Mary Lou—one name for each of my parents. My father handled the paperwork while my mother was half-unconscious—they gave serious drugs for childbirth back then. He claimed the nurse got it backwards. My mother said he did it on purpose.” Lou Mary cackled.

  “We both have funny naming stories. I’m the youngest of three, and when I came along, my father decided that my mother had gotten her say twice, so it was his turn. Which is why a half-Italian girl is named Erin Margaret Murphy. That, and because I was born on St. Patrick’s Day.”

  More laughter, then her eyes became serious. “Your father must have been a prince, to win Francesca’s heart. A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.”

  I grabbed my water and took a swig, to wash away the prickling at the back of my throat. After all this time, I shouldn’t miss him so much, but I did.

  Lou Mary reached out a hand as if to pat my knee. “I always say my parents got my name backwards, but I did all the rest myself.”

  I liked her self-deprecating wisecracks. She was a bit of a throwback—I could almost picture her drinking a martini and blowing smoke rings. But my mother had made a good point about connectors. And while my business instincts are reliable, I don’t have the oil-off-the-back temperament for working the floor all day.

  I glanced at her hands again. The job didn’t require straight fingers. Heck, I had perfectly capable hands and I’d splashed jam all over the floor, barely missing Ann Drake’s white pants.

  Lou Mary was retail-ready.

  “Can you start tomorrow? It will be our first Sunday of the season, and while it would be great to have Tracy here, she’s overdue for a day off. Noon to five.”

  Her eyes sparkled behind the tortoiseshell glasses. “Why not today? Give me an hour for lunch.”

  Tracy walked in as I said, “It’s a deal.”

  Lou Mary slid off the stool. “The three of us will make a great team.”

  The door closed behind her and Tracy’s wide eyes locked on me.

  “It’ll be strange to see a new face here,” I said, “but I think she’s just the ticket.”

  “Hope so,” Tracy replied. “Because we are gonna have a rockin’ summer.”

  “I heard that musician plunged off the River Road,” our very next customer said. “Must have been high or drunk.”

  I tipped my head in a question.

  “It’s so obviously dangerous,” she continued. “I can’t imagine why people thought converting that old road into a pedestrian path was a good idea.”

  Those “people” included my father, my uncles, and my granddad. Originally the homesteaders’ road into town, it had long ago been replaced by a highway south of the river, and fell into disuse. In my kidhood, community volunteers led by the Murphy men had worked out an easement with the power company and reclaimed the unpaved trail for a foot and bike path.

  “I’ve lived here more than forty years, and no one’s ever fallen,” another customer said.

  “Not true,” the first woman said. “My cousin’s friend fell and broke her collar bone. Ten years ago? Twelve? ’Cou
rse, it was night and they were loaded.”

  “Lucky that was all she broke,” I said.

  “Be a shame if the bad publicity hurt the festival,” the other shopper said. “After all the hard work.”

  The naysayer counted out quarters for three huckleberry truffles. “Musicians,” she said, as if it was a dirty word.

  “Besides being fun,” I said, “the workshop and concerts haul in the money. You know the Krauses from the winery—they came here as students, then bought property. Same for the new cardiologist at the hospital in Pondera. So the festival even sells real estate.”

  Pahn-duh-RAY, the big town, all of thirty thousand people, thirty miles away.

  Unconvinced, the woman bit into a truffle and left, wiping purple goo off her lips.

  The door had barely shut when it flew open. Heidi Hunter, my mother’s best friend and the owner of Kitchenalia, the ever-expanding housewares shop that brings thousands of visitors—and untold dollars—to the village, marched in. A strand of her long highlighted hair whipped her in the face, and she flicked it away.

  “Erin, I can’t believe it’s true. I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  “I know. I’m still in shock.”

  She took a deep, ragged breath. “This will be so hard on the students. Erin, I loved his music.”

  “Oh, Heidi, I know you did.” I wrapped one arm around her. “And he was so young.”

  “People don’t just take a walk in broad daylight, fall down a cliff, and die. You know this could be a problem for the festival.”

  “I’m not sure why,” I said, stepping back. “Accidents happen every day. People get sick, have heart attacks. We all feel terrible, but we don’t stop supporting the arts.”

  Even to Heidi, I didn’t want to say the word murder. A fight that went wrong would be bad enough, and could result in criminal prosecution. But it was understandable, in a way—a tragic accident. Murder, on the other hand …

  Heidi’s voice grew stern. “Erin, it’s all over town that Adam and his friend helped rescue the body. And that Ike Hoover hauled them both up to the sheriff’s office for interviews.”