Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) Read online

  Chiara pulled a bottle of Prosecco out of a wheelbarrow filled with ice and began pouring champagne. “Now I know we surprised you—you’re speechless.”

  Fresca handed me a glass, beaming. “Isn’t it wonderful, darling?”

  I nodded, taking it all in.

  “And I finally got to meet your famous cow dog.” Adam smiled down at Landon. “Your sister nabbed me outside.”

  The back gate opened and more friends surged in: Kathy from Dragonfly, Heidi from Kitchenalia and her latest beau, and Bill Schmidt, Fresca’s sweetheart. Bill ran an herbal medicine clinic just around the corner, dispensing both Western and Chinese herbs and wisdom. They’d been involved for several months, although my sister and I had just discovered the relationship in June. We approved.

  “You said you didn’t know what to do with the remodeled space,” Fresca said. “Liz and I thought party! So here we are.”

  “Is this the reason for the rush?” I asked Liz. She grinned.

  I’d been had.

  “It’s perfect for small gatherings,” Chiara said. “Fund-raisers, baby showers, special dinners. You didn’t want to compete with Wendy or anyone else, but au contraire, it’s another venue for the caterers.” She looped an arm through mine. “He is so cute.”

  I blushed, knowing she meant Adam.

  A jazz trio filled the air with spritely tunes. I waved at Sam Krauss from Monte Verde Vineyard on piano, his wife, Jennifer, on bass. Adam raised a hand to Dave the Barber, on guitar.

  Everyone but me had brought food. A summer feast lay before us. Adam put a guiding hand on my back as we threaded our way to the buffet table, and his touch added a little extra something to the music.

  “I’m not much of a gourmet,” he said. “I don’t even know what all this food is.”

  “Stick with us, and you’ll never go hungry.”

  The offerings included an antipasto tray with fresh and marinated veggies and cured meats, plus crostini with my mother’s toppings. A shrimp salad with Kalamata olives and fresh herbs and vegetables. Broccoli Slaw. My Two Bean and Pesto Salad—all the better because I hadn’t had to make it myself. Arancini, the fried rice balls my brother-in-law devours.

  “Careful,” I warned as Adam reached for a slice of soppressata, a spicy Italian salami. “That’s hot.”

  He plucked it in his mouth before I finished speaking, and his eyes went wide. “Hot, but terrific. Ohmygosh. Is all this food this good?”

  “Only one way to find out.” We filled our plates and found seats at one of the new tables. I still couldn’t believe they’d done all this—and kept it a secret, too.

  “So, I have to admit,” Adam said, sipping the glass of Eagle Lake Brewery ale that had magically appeared for him, “when you talk food, I haven’t always been that interested. But I’m starting to get the idea.”

  “Food should be fun. But it’s also powerful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Take the Merc,” I said. “We focus on food grown in the region or products made here. The jams and jellies use local fruit. So does the wine. The meat, eggs, and dairy products are all raised in this valley.”

  “And Tracy’s chocolate truffles? No cocoa plantations around here.”

  “But made here, with a combination of local and imported ingredients. When you buy local, more of the money stays put. Transportation costs decrease, the carbon footprint goes down, and you feed your neighbors and yourselves. That’s economic power, for social good. We can’t rely solely on local goods—not in this climate—but we can do a lot.” I stopped myself. “Sorry. I get carried away sometimes.”

  “I wouldn’t last long without coffee,” Adam admitted. “But I do buy locally roasted beans.”

  “Perfect example. Hey—we’ve got our own blend, Cowboy Roast. You should come with me to the roaster. Field trip.”

  “I’d like that.” His smile warmed me like the first sip of a double latte.

  Fresca slid into the chair next to Adam, beaming. From the Prosecco, the glow of the lanterns, or her delight in seeing me with a guy? Hard to tell.

  “I still can’t believe you did all this for me,” I said.

  “You know how we love a party.” She got Adam talking about his memories of me in college, his work as assistant manager of the health club, and the wilderness camp.

  “Camp season must be winding down,” she said.

  “We take the last group of kids up on Sunday for two weeks,” he said. “Then a few days for cleanup and winterizing. I’ll be back in town full time by the end of the month.” His sideways glance said he was already counting the days.

  Me, too.

  Now I had a problem. Adam was here less than forty-eight hours, and unless I missed my guess completely, he’d want to spend Saturday evening together. But I’d committed myself to help at the Grill-off, and I’d agreed days ago to meet Rick Bergstrom there.

  Pooh.

  For the next couple of hours, we mingled—eating, chatting, enjoying the music. For all his protests about being a woodsy guy, Adam fit right in with my artsy, foodie crowd. Across the courtyard, Chiara gave me a wink.

  Then the party began to break up. The musicians packed their gear. Leftovers were boxed and bagged. Friends departed and finally, the fountain still flowing and the lanterns still glowing, Adam and I sat alone.

  “Adam, about this weekend . . .”

  He reached across the table and took my hand. “Could we do this again tomorrow? Just you and me.”

  Ah, summer. Busy, sweet, and complicated. “I wish I could. But I have to work the Grill-off, and . . .” I chickened out and left it at that. He didn’t need to know there was another man in the picture. The picture was changing rapidly.

  “A little more sparkling wine?” I rose and reached for the last bottle. When I turned around, he was standing beside me.

  He slipped a hand around my waist and leaned closer. “You’ve got all the sparkle I want.”

  And as I reached up to kiss him, the stars in the night sky twinkled in agreement.

  • Eight •

  Parking in the village is always a challenge on summer weekends, but stir in a major festival and walking to work Saturday morning sounded like the superior plan. I sprinkled a little catnip on Sandburg’s scratch pad, wished him sweet dreams of chasing mice through snowberry, and pulled the cabin door shut behind me.

  In theory, I’m the caretaker on Bob and Liz’s spread, but in reality, they hire out all the heavy work like lawn mowing and snow plowing. They winter in Arizona, where they made a not-so-small fortune out of stone coasters and retired young, so I keep an eye on the place when they’re away. Meanwhile, my little guy and I live here rent-free, with full run over fifteen wooded acres and anytime access to the dock and Eagle Lake.

  In other words, perfect.

  The cabin sits on a slope that gives me a tree-filtered water view. This morning, the lake sparkled. I set off through the woods toward town on a well-worn game trail, the soft thuds of my feet on the duff keeping time for a pair of warring squirrels chirping madly. Morning light broke through the fir and pine canopy, falling in patches on the forest floor. My sister says you can’t be a painter in Montana without a deep love of green. I’m no artist, but after growing up on an orchard and living all my life in the Northwest, green always makes me shimmer inside.

  So did the memory of Friday night. My family and friends had astonished me with the courtyard make-over and party. And my head spun in delight—and confusion—over Adam Zimmerman.

  Today he’d be busy picking up provisions for the camp, and on Sunday he’d be meeting parents and busing the last group of kids off to the wilderness for two weeks.

  Two weeks.

  I’d been anticipating seeing Rick this weekend. Now I felt like a weather vane after a storm.

  I was not a flake. Not
in business, and certainly not when it came to men.

  Like Scarlett O’Hara worrying over Tara, I had vowed last night to put all decisions about dating off until tomorrow, another day.

  Tomorrow had arrived.

  And Stacia, I remembered with a sickening stomach cramp when my feet hit the pavement, was still dead.

  My mother always says don’t tell trouble you’re looking for it. Just because I had solved one crime this summer didn’t make me a detective. And untangling one mystery over recipes didn’t mean I had any right or reason to get involved in this one. I’d proposed a solution that both chefs and the contest committee and judges had accepted. Drew Baker and Amber Stone had submitted their new recipes yesterday, without any hitches.

  All would be well.

  I crossed the one-lane bridge over the Jewel River, the waters of the Wild Mile growing quieter as summer wound down. Soon, the season would change and, with it, the rhythm of life and retail. In truth, I’d welcome the more relaxed pace. I had plans for new products that needed time to develop and market.

  But meanwhile, high summer reigned, and we had a festival to run.

  Much as I like to think of the Merc as the heart of the village, the real heart is the library and community center at the south end of Front Street. A children’s playground brings favorite storybook characters to life. Inside, the library kept us all well read, meeting rooms got a steady workout, and the walls served as an art gallery. I strolled on by.

  Clusters of white canopies dotted Front Street. Most vendors had unloaded their crates of merchandise and now bustled around, unpacking pottery, hanging paintings, and arranging jewelry in glass-front cases. A few trucks and vans loitered, the rumble of their idling engines not loud enough to drown out the chitter-chatter of a hundred and fifty vendors, the friends and family helping them, and the volunteer crew valiantly urging stragglers to hurry.

  Ah, yes. The challenges of a one-lane village sometimes strain its charms.

  The face painter, a friend of my sister’s, was setting up near the playground. Next to her, a woodworker sold hand-made kaleidoscopes. I peered through a walnut model and aimed it down the street. “Delightful,” I said, then stared, eyes wide, as a panoply of pink filled the viewfinder.

  I handed back the wooden toy and wished the craftsman a banner day.

  “So, you decided to give our little village a go after all.” Candy Divine looked like she was early for Halloween, her dress just this side of an adult fantasy shop version of Minnie Mouse. The black velveteen bodice sported a sweetheart neckline and a white sateen collar and cummerbund. She’d strung a black-and-white cameo on a pink ribbon around her neck. A white ruffled petticoat peeked out from underneath the pink-and-white-polka-dot skirt, making it stand out like a square dancer’s skirt. In her sole concession to practicality, she wore white sneakers, her hot pink anklets trimmed with white lace.

  Hey, if it sold taffy and nougat, then it was in good taste.

  “Everyone’s been so welcoming,” she said in her high-pitched voice. “So many craft fairs and festivals around here. Sales are booming.”

  “If it’s made in Montana,” I said, “it must be good.” But I wondered how perky she—and that pink bow on top of her head—would be after nine hours in eighty-five-degree heat.

  In the cluster of booths near the Merc, I spotted Luci the Splash Artist. With her short, feathery white-blond hair and her collection of 1950s aprons, she could have stepped off the pages of Country Living. Today’s apron sported turquoise and chartreuse paisley with brown accents on a white background, worn over a form-fitting white T-shirt reading SQUEAKY CLEAN, white crops cuffed at the knees, and turquoise Crocs. In June, she’d brought Tracy and me samples of her soap, shampoo, and lotion. We’d found the lotion particularly appealing—not too greasy—and she had a deft hand with fragrance. She had taken our suggestions to clean up the labeling and simplify her product line, but ultimately decided to sell the products herself.

  “Summer’s gone great. I’ve sold almost everything I’ve made.” She grinned.

  “Super.” I love success stories.

  “But you know,” she said in a confiding tone, “doing all my own sales and promo, plus making the products, is kicking my butt. Can we talk?”

  “You bet. Monday, if not this weekend.” Yes! I gave her a quick hug and let her return to setup while I continued making the rounds. Her quad mates were a leather worker; a stained glass artist whose windows, picture frames, and suncatchers were stunning; and two painters who shared a booth. Christine Vandeberg painted mostly in acrylics. Her playful trees and flowers were delightfully, deceptively childlike. A year or two older than me, she’d been engaged to my brother Nick, but broke it off for reasons I’d never heard. They visited me once in Seattle, and we’d eaten sushi and drunk too many appletinis.

  I picked up a long, narrow wrapped canvas, words stenciled on a brightly splattered backdrop:

  DREAM

  CREATE

  SNICKER

  DOODLE

  It’s the kind of work that makes you instantly think, I could do that, and then, but I never will.

  “Sold,” I said.

  Christine’s long red hair was gathered in a ponytail on top of her head so the hair spread out like water from a fountain. It bounced and splashed while she took my cash and handed over the painting. She’s got an endless supply of eyeglasses. Today’s frames were purple.

  “Oh, first score!”

  “Iggy!” I gave the old woman a gentle hug. She and Christine share a studio as well as a festival booth. Iggy’s work is nothing like Christine’s: abstract oils with tiny figures and hieroglyphs scratched into thick, troweled-on paint. It makes my brain itch, like I should understand it but don’t.

  The food booths were clustered on the cross street north of the Merc. The large booth Montana Gold shared with the Creamery was synchronicity in action. Burlap sacks of Montana grain were piled next to the entrance, and tall stalks of amber wheat filled an old metal milk can. The Creamery owner was arranging baskets of crackers and bagel chips and trays of sliced cheese on a small table. Inside the booth, a long table held five- and ten-pound bags of flour, boxes of crackers, bags of bagels, chips, and breads, and other specialty grains and mixes, all organically grown in Montana. Coolers brimmed with cheese: bricks, blocks, sticks, logs, wedges, and wheels. Toy tractors and trucks continued the farm theme.

  But no sign of Rick. Might be parking his truck up at the high school or scouting the other vendors. Montana Gold was new in the western part of the state and new to Summer Fair, so he’d be intent on making connections.

  I wanted to see him and wish him a good Fair. But I also needed to let him know I’d be working, sort of, at the Grill-off, so we’d need to revise our date plans. Until last night, I’d been eager for more time together. Now confusion clouded my excitement.

  Who could I ask for advice? Not Fresca. My father had been the love of her life, and her new relationship with Bill was giving her a sweet second chance. And Chiara would just roll her eyes. Heidi? She always seemed to be juggling two different boyfriends. On the other hand, despite stunning good looks—or because of them—my mother’s best friend and owner of the most amazing kitchen shop in three hundred miles wasn’t known for her romantic smarts.

  Maybe this version of double dating wasn’t a good idea after all.

  The next booth featured beef, buffalo, and elk jerky, and pemmican bars. “All natural, made with buffalo raised on the prairie. No preservatives. This one’s got cranberries. That one’s got raisins and walnuts. And sunflower seeds,” the dark-haired woman standing under the canopy said in the distinctive Indian cadence. “Native American” might be politically correct elsewhere, but living this close to two of Montana’s seven reservations, I knew the people still called themselves “Indian.”

  BLACKFEET NATURALS: USING TH
E ANCESTORS’ WAYS FOR MODERN HEALTH AND GOODNESS, the sign read. Folks who haven’t eaten buffalo sometimes cringe at the idea—it’s hard to imagine how such strange-looking critters will taste. That’s okay. Leaves more for me.

  I tried a sample of buffalo-cranberry first. The flavors exploded in my mouth, then settled onto my taste buds in near perfection. “Terrific. Your first festival? I’m Erin Murphy, by the way.”

  “Yah. Maggie Bird.” The skin around her deep brown eyes crinkled when she smiled. She was short and generously built. “I sent my kid to college and he brought home a business plan. We been selling on the reservation two years now. Time to branch out.”

  I bought two of each flavor in the snack size—they also had larger bars for all-day hikes or overnight emergencies—and some jerky. Start-up packaging, but that would be easy to upgrade. We chatted a few more minutes, then I gave her my card and invited her to check out the Merc. I’d love to carry Indian products, especially such yummy ones.

  More booths beckoned, but it was past time to get to work. I headed down Back Alley and popped open the courtyard gate.

  Not a dream after all. The place still bubbled. Maybe there was something to Liz’s talk about the energy of a space.

  Got to make it pay for itself, I thought as I unlocked the Merc’s back door.

  Inside, Tracy stood by the front counter, a distant expression on her face.

  “Hey. Didn’t expect to see you so early.”

  She straightened with a start and reddened. “Oh, uh. I, uh—” She gestured at the glass display case and the containers stacked on the counter. “I wanted to make sure we had enough, since we’re featuring my chocolates for the Fair.”

  My stomach growled at the mention of Tracy’s huckleberry and raspberry truffles. Not to mention her new chocolate-covered Flathead Cherries. Two bites of pemmican did not count as breakfast. “Go for it—you’re the display queen. Try one of these. I’m hoping she’ll become a new vendor.”

  Cheeks still pink, she took the pemmican bar. “Oh, uh. You just missed Rick Bergstrom.”