Death Al Dente Read online

  • Six •

  A few minutes before one, we reached the usual lull. The eat-late-and-miss-the-rush shoppers had gone in search of lunch, while the eat-at-noon crowd hadn’t yet returned to shopping. Tracy had gone home to walk Bozo, a Harlequin Great Dane rescue dog, and change clothes. The morning sales spree had brightened all our moods.

  Fresca roved the shop, picking up after our less tidy customers. “People,” she muttered as she plucked a napkin out of the wine rack. “Were they raised in a barn?”

  “Top of the cooler.” I pointed to a stray paper coffee cup.

  We were just filling our plates with leftover salad and reheated rigatoni Bolognese when the door chimed. I strode out to the sales floor, ready to greet our afternoon clientele with a smile.

  But this visitor wasn’t here to shop.

  “Hello, Kim.” Navy blazer and pants today, with a butterscotch silk T-shirt that matched her low-heeled ankle boots. She cleaned up good. I kept that thought to myself—not the best time for smart-assery.

  She scanned the shop quickly and efficiently, then picked up my poster. “Nice touch.”

  I listened for a hint of sarcasm, but heard none. That was one of my faults, not Kim’s. Still the no-nonsense ranch girl, even with a gun on her hip.

  “Quiet in here today,” she said.

  “It hasn’t been. You caught us during the lunchtime slowdown. Mom—Fresca—and I are just diving into last night’s leftovers. Join us?”

  “No, thanks. But you go ahead.” She followed me back to the kitchen, and I noticed her eagle eyes as Fresca sliced bread. Was she hiding her hunger—or counting our knives, checking our inventory?

  Didn’t take us long to eat. Mom and I were used to grabbing a bite between customers. Still, it’s irritating to be watched while you feed your face.

  “Fresca, if you don’t mind”—Kim’s tone suggested it wouldn’t matter if she did—“I’d like to speak with Erin first, alone.”

  The front door opened and the laughter of well-fed women ready to fork over their plastic tickled my ears. “Say no more,” Fresca replied and called out a greeting.

  “Let’s go outside.” I snatched two small bottles of San Pellegrino from the cooler. “More privacy.”

  Out back, Old Ned’s crew had closed the wooden gate between our courtyard and his. The borrowed tables and chairs, lights and lanterns, and other party regalia had vanished, along with the festive mood. The space wasn’t much larger than a double garage, and this morning, about as grungy.

  “The shabby look,” I said, “without the chic.” Now that I’d seen the yard in party mode, I itched to transform it permanently. Later.

  At the corner table where we’d talked last night, Kim slipped out her notebook and recorder. “I’d like to take your formal statement now, then we’ll type it up for signature.”

  Anything you say can and will be used against you . . . With a glance at the recorder, I wiped a hand across the back of my neck. My hair felt damp. No reason to be nervous. We all needed to do everything possible to help. “Sure.”

  “Let’s go over the incident in front of Dr. Vincent’s office.”

  “Dr.—oh, Dean.” After thinking of him as Elvis for so long, his real name jarred me. I described again how Claudette had dashed in front of me and I’d called out to her.

  “How did you conclude that she’d been in Dr. Vincent’s office?”

  I tilted my head. “Circumstantial, I guess. She was near his front door. She told me—well, she didn’t say they’d just had a fight, but she was furious. With him. And he came out looking for her.”

  “Tell me exactly what she said.” Kim’s voice was firm.

  I repeated it the best I could. “She was convinced he’d lied to her about starting over together in Las Vegas.”

  “And when you asked whether she’d been telling people your mother stole her recipes and forced her out to create a job opening for you?”

  “She adamantly denied it.” I could still picture her shaking her head, her lively features distressed at the suggestion.

  “What was her reaction to the question?”

  “Shock. Which was why I believed her. She always seemed honest to me. And loyal.”

  “Did Dr. Vincent appear angry?”

  “Not angry. Concerned.” Although he’d been incensed later, when I blocked him from Claudette’s body. Did he have a volcanic temper? I didn’t know, but it was hard to hide that kind of thing in a small town.

  Kim checked her notes. “So, who knew you’d invited her to the Festa?”

  “No one, until I got back here an hour later and told Fresca.” I reimagined the scene, the two of us sitting on the drugstore bench, my back to the door. I just wanted Claudette to calm down. I hadn’t a clue who might have walked by. Except Angelo, but he disappeared quickly.

  “Who might she have told?”

  “No idea.”

  “So when did Fresca first suggest that you replace Claudette as manager?”

  “Late winter maybe? She knew I was ready for a change, and she thought Claudette would be happier working sales and demos.” Nothing nefarious in it. Perfectly natural for a parent to want her child to join the family business, especially a child with useful skills and experience. A child at a crossroads.

  “But Claudette got wind of it and left instead.”

  “Not according to her note.” Kim gave me a questioning look. “She said she was moving to Las Vegas with Dean. She apologized for leaving the shop in the lurch, but said she knew Fresca would understand. Neither of us saw her again, until yesterday.”

  “I’ll need that note.”

  “Sure. It’s in her personnel file. Look, they had disagreements. I won’t pretend otherwise. Fresca had a hard time giving up control. Claudette screwed up with inventory, and irritated a couple of vendors. Nothing unusual—just growing pains for a new business.” Nothing to kill for. “They worked it out. You know how Fresca is.”

  “Tell me about the vendors. You mean suppliers?”

  “Not a big deal. Claudette and Jennifer Krauss, the winemaker, disagreed over what varieties would sell best, and whether their label worked. The potter demanded a better percentage. Some problems with quantity and late payments. It’s all resolved.” Several vendors had actually threatened to pull their wares until I’d stepped in.

  Kim studied me, eyes unblinking. “What happened in Seattle, Erin?”

  I sat back and took a swig of warm, flat bubbles. Did they teach that look in cop school? The steady gaze that says, I can wait a long time, so you might as well talk.

  “Nothing. I’ve heard the gossip, but I didn’t get fired. I left on my own. Not an easy decision. Big pay cut.” No joke. I’d gone from house-hunting condos that started at a quarter million to appreciating that rent-free cabin. “I loved SavClub, but my job wasn’t going anywhere. Logjam ahead of me in the promotion line. If I’d wanted to move up the corporate ladder, I’d have had to leave.”

  “So you left anyway, and moved down the ladder.”

  Oddly, it felt like a step up. Even if I’d stayed, what would I have been? Vice-president of prunes? But all that was too hard to explain.

  Something had happened, not in Seattle, but here, between us. It was time I knew what. “Kim, senior year, when my father—”

  The alley gate opened and Tracy burst in, breathless. “Oh, sorry. The yellow tape was gone, so I thought—”

  “Not a problem. We’ve finished the alley search and released the crime scene.”

  At the word “crime,” Tracy blanched and wobbled. I gave her a reassuring look. “Why don’t you give Fresca a hand? I’ll be in shortly.”

  She glanced at Kim, her physical near-opposite, then fled inside. In her blue linen tunic, white crops, and woven blue ballet flats—Tracy favored solid colors and bargains from the designer
consignment store—the queen of cheap chic was back on duty.

  The moment had passed. Kim asked more questions about the Festa, the scene in the alley, Claudette’s friends and family. I couldn’t answer them all. “Ask Fresca.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  I pictured the two of us as teenagers after a trail ride, Kim taking hours to groom her horse, rubbing every muscle, checking each joint, hoof, and shoe. I’d be in the Lodge, drinking lemonade mixed with iced tea, eating freshly baked cookies and chatting up the kitchen staff, and she’d still be in the corral, teasing burrs from mane and tail.

  Like she was doing now, metaphorically.

  “Would you send your mother out, please?”

  Sent packing in my own domain, and I didn’t even mind.

  Inside, I found Fresca ringing up a sizable purchase of pasta and sauces, mouthwatering fresh mozzarella, basil, and salad greens. “Kim’s waiting for you,” I said softly. Her face took on a determined look, chin set, eyes unreadable.

  “My daughter will help you,” she said to the customer, with a smile, and I took over, suggesting wine and strawberries picked that morning. Really wished for good chocolate to go along. We’d printed recipe cards for the Caprese salad, and while the customer debated between Viognier and Chardonnay, I tucked one into her bag.

  “Don’t forget a baguette next door,” I called as she left, a smile on her face.

  “How do you do that?” Tracy said when we were alone. “They end up buying stuff they didn’t want and don’t even mind.”

  “If they end up with stuff they didn’t want,” I said, “they mind. Show them what they don’t know they want. Help them figure out how to make a simple meal memorable, without spending hours in the kitchen or tossing extra ingredients when vacation ends.”

  For the next half hour, Tracy and I waited on customers and assembled take-out picnic baskets. Each included a screw-top bottle of wine, compostable glasses, plates, and utensils, and napkins sporting lakeside scenes. We added crackers and a jar of basil pesto to some, and a bag of Le Panier breadsticks and roasted eggplant spread to others. In each went a list of pick-and-choose ingredients, all conveniently located in the cooler: creamy local goat cheese, an herbed goat cheese croton, a cow’s milk Jack, mozzarella, or my personal favorite, herbed cheese curds. All certified organic, all from happy goats and cows I’d visited myself. (The Creamery had been full-scale only a few months, with aged cheddars and blues in the works. I’d had a taste, and could hardly wait to expand our offerings.)

  The customer could then choose beef or venison salami, plain or peppered, or beef, venison, or buffalo jerky. Wild game doesn’t suit every palate, so we also offer imported prosciutto and salami in resealable packages. (The hunt for a local source, and a butcher willing to cut to spec, was still on.)

  And because everyone deserves something sweet, a bag of amaretto cookies. I dreamed of the day we could offer hand-dipped dark chocolate truffles.

  “I’m next, right?” Tracy twisted blue and yellow ribbon into a bow for the handle of the last basket.

  “No worries. Kim doesn’t bite.” At least, I hoped not. Fresca had been gone a long time.

  “I don’t know anything about the murder.” Tracy twisted her finger in her thick hair. “I was helping take Food Bank donations when you found her.”

  “Answer her questions truthfully and you’ll be fine.” I set a pair of baskets in the front window, next to a sign reading LAKESIDE PICNICS READY TO GO—JUST ADD WATER. The window reflected back the blue-green of my dress, as if we were on the water. “Thanks for getting the decorations put away.”

  “Ted helped. You know, that basement’s a rathole.” She wrinkled her nose.

  I hated the place. As did everyone in my family—we’d ignored it for years, while the dust and cobwebs and piles of half-forgotten boxes multiplied. A fall cleanup project, after tourist season.

  Fresca came in, and Tracy, still nervous, went out. “How’d it go?”

  She made a noise I couldn’t interpret. She was prone to grunts and groans, sprinkled with Italian, though she was born and raised in Northern California and hadn’t set foot in Italy until she dropped out of college to travel. That’s where she met my father, Tom Murphy, an American college student in Florence. After he graduated, they married and moved here, his hometown, where he taught high school history and coached basketball, and she cooked and raised the three of us. He died in a car accident on his way home from practice fourteen years ago last winter, and I missed him every day.

  The phone rang and the front door bell chimed. By the time I’d dealt with the caller and greeted the new arrivals, my mother had disappeared. I sold a picnic basket, three bottles of cherry wine, and half a dozen jars of honey and huckleberry jam, along with festive napkins, a fused glass serving platter, and a good supply of pasta and sauce.

  I twisted open another Pellegrino and perched on a stool behind the front counter to catch my breath. Although several morning customers had mentioned the murder, there’d been scarcely a whisper of foul play this afternoon. But I’d overheard plenty of chatter about the Festa, the decorating theme carried throughout the village, and tonight’s events. This might be one of our best days ever.

  And I loved it.

  Footsteps on the office stairs confirmed my suspicion that Fresca had snuck away for a few minutes’ respite. She entered the shop area now, eyes a touch puffy despite fresh liner and mascara, her skin pale in contrast with her coral lipstick.

  The back door creaked open and Tracy returned, a shaky smile on her plump cheeks. Kim walked in behind her, looking cool and efficient.

  “Mom, did you find Claudette’s note?”

  Fresca plucked at her necklace, one of Chiara’s creations, frosted pink and green glass beads reminiscent of sea glass strung on a silver cord. “It wasn’t in her file. I’ll look at home.”

  “Kim, we’ve told you everything we know,” I said. “Time for you to return the favor.”

  “I’m sorry, Erin. Everything’s confidential at this point.”

  All business. She would not let our friendship—or what was left of it—change that. Smart maybe, but it stung.

  “Kim, you’ll take some fresh pasta and sauce for dinner?” Fresca said. “Only a few minutes to prepare.”

  “Or more leftovers? Besides the lasagna, we’ve got grilled veggies and stuffed mushrooms—thirty seconds in the microwave.” In the kitchen, I pulled out the goldfish boxes we’d stocked for the upcoming classes.

  “I can’t accept food from you,” Kim said.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Fresca said. “It’s not a bribe. I’ve known you since you were twelve. You said yourself you don’t eat enough when you’ve got a major case.”

  Before Kim could protest further, I handed her a bag of food. “And some palmiers. Everyone deserves a treat.”

  She took it. Clearly, all was not sweetness and light in Jewel Bay. I only hoped that whatever evil walked among us didn’t hurt us any more.

  • Seven •

  Four o’clock is the witching hour in retail. Every afternoon about then, serious buyers and window-shoppers alike run out of steam. Some retreat to a lakeside bar for a cold one, while others head home to put their feet up before a night out. After my restless sleep, and with the Festa continuing in full swing that evening—although I wasn’t in charge, thank goodness—I ached to do the same.

  And if Tracy actually understood that a good day wasn’t a betrayal of Claudette, the Merc would be fine.

  I slipped out the back door. Pitiful as the courtyard looked, it had potential. Ha. I’d learned some real estate code in my brief Seattle house hunt, before doing a one-eighty and coming back here instead. “Potential” meant cramped and in major need of cash and sweat.

  Truth. Sweat, we could muster. Cash, not so much. Anyway, Fresca made all decisions about the buil
ding.

  I sighed and opened our back gate. I’d walked to work this morning, wanting to avoid the alley, but the sooner I faced it, the better.

  As Tracy had said, the crime scene tape was gone and, with it, all signs of tragedy. Only the faintest impression in the dirt and gravel suggested a body—none of the gruesome chalk outlines they use on TV. I knelt beside the trash barrel, where I’d knelt less than twenty-four hours ago. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve this. I promise—”

  What could I promise? To find her killer? That was Kim’s job. To never forget her?

  My inner Catholic girl made the sign of the cross. Strange to think of an alley as sacred space, but death will do that.

  I hadn’t checked my phone since Friday. SavClub had a no-cell policy, both in-store and at headquarters, and I’d adopted it for the Merc. Business hours, business line only. On my own time, my phone was usually close at hand. But in the last twenty-four hours, routine had flown the coop.

  I strolled and scrolled, scanning till I got to a pair of calls late Friday afternoon. First message: “Hey, Erin. Adam Zimmerman here. Still hoping to catch up, and to talk about the fund-raiser for wilderness education at the Club. Summer program for kids, outdoor recreation—we’d love to have the Merc’s support. Give me a ring.”

  Give him points for persistence. He’d hung out with my roommate at UM and started calling me a couple of weeks ago. Part of the hiking boot crowd. Geeky-cute, if I remembered right. Which I wasn’t sure I did. What did we have to “catch up” on?

  Second message, 5:17 p.m. Friday—while I’d been on my way to the shower. A breathless voice: “Erin, it’s Claudette. I don’t think—I’m not sure—well, maybe I should just come to the Merc tonight after all. We’ll talk?”

  Gad. Had those been her last words? Didn’t we all imagine we’d have something profound to say in our final moments?

  More likely, something profane.

  “Auntie Erin!” Outside the library slash community center, on the south end of the village, I scooped up a five-year-old tornado.