Treble at the Jam Fest Read online

  “That she’s remarrying?” My feet sunk into the spongy moss. “It’s been years, Chiara. She deserves this.”

  “No, that’s not it. It’s so unfair that Dad never got to see what his kids became. He’ll never know Landon, or your kids, or Nick’s.”

  “If either of us ever has any.”

  “You will.” She raised her head, her eyes brimming. “I sound like an awful bitch, don’t I?”

  “Not awful. It’s a crazy time, with summer coming on. And you have the biggest heart and freest spirit of anyone I know.” At the edge of the woods, a chickadee chirped.

  “You didn’t say I wasn’t a bitch.”

  No, I didn’t.

  “I asked her once why she hadn’t remarried,” she said, “right after Jason and I moved back here, when Landon was really little. We’d had too much Prosecco. She said she felt like Dad wanted her to move on, but until his death was solved, she couldn’t.”

  And now that had shifted, freeing her to make a new commitment.

  “You gave her that gift,” she said, and I heard an unfamiliar tone. Jealousy? Resentment? Both so unlike her.

  I kicked at a small, moss-covered rock, bright against the toe of my red shoe. “Yeah, who’d a thunk your kid sister could solve a crime the cops couldn’t.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Chiara’s dark eyes flashed. “I thought—I thought you of all people would understand.” She slipped off her perch, stumbling on the soft ground. She grabbed her skirt with both hands and rushed up the trail toward the orchard.

  Criminy. What was I supposed to understand?

  I perched on the rock my sister had abandoned. Mom’s news that she and Bill were engaged had made sense of a few things. A casual comment about travel, her urging that I expand the Merc’s partnership with Ray and the Grille.

  And her determination that I hire toot sweet. Though not why she’d insisted on Lou Mary.

  You think you understand your family, and then whoosh! In two sweeps of the minute hand, you realize you don’t understand a thing.

  ∞

  “Erin, come with me.”

  “I’ve got to get to the Merc, Mom. Tracy’s off, and Lou Mary doesn’t have keys.”

  “You can spare a minute.” She strode down the hallway, the black skirt with its red-orange poppies swinging.

  In the bedroom, Mom stood at her dressing table. A silk kimono, deep green with purple trim, lay draped over the bench. My mother is the only woman I know who actually uses a dressing table—this one a waterfall design in butterscotch walnut. (Details I learned helping her scavenge the set from my great grandparents’ homestead house before my sister moved in. Every few months, Chiara contends that the pieces ought to come back to her house, where they belong. Mom just rolls her eyes.)

  I could see her reflection in the beveled mirror. Her graceful hands held a small square black box. Though I had never seen it before, its meaning was unmistakable.

  “I’ve been saving this for you, darling. I think it’s time.”

  My hands remained at my sides, frozen. She reached for one and placed the box in it.

  No matter what your inner turmoil, you can’t not open a box. Especially a box like this.

  A flood of emotion washed through me as I stared at its contents. I was astonished, stunned, awestruck, joy-struck, love-struck, and terrified all at once.

  “It’s—it’s your engagement ring. From Dad. It’s so gorgeous.”

  “White gold. The center diamond is a princess cut. I always felt like a princess when I wore it.”

  I slipped the ring out and held it up. If there’s any light at all in a room, a diamond will gather it up and give it back to you, doubled, tripled, and more.

  “But, what about Nick?” I met her gaze. “Don’t you want—shouldn’t he—I mean, he’ll find someone else.”

  “Your grandfather gave him your grandmother’s solitaire, years ago. You remember—he gave it to Christine.”

  Who’d offered it back when she broke their engagement, but he’d refused. As if he’d known they’d need it someday.

  “But—”

  She took the ring from my trembling fingers. “No buts about it, darling. He can decide for himself what he wants to do with that ring. This one is yours.” She slipped it on my right ring finger.

  I stretched out my hand. Small channel-set diamonds tapered toward the center stone. The ring fit as if it had been made for me. I caught my reflection in the mirror.

  My mother stood behind me, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes moist. A moment later, she stepped back and cleared her throat. “No strings attached. You can wear it, you can sell it, you can have the diamonds reset. You can put it on a chain around your neck.”

  Like she’d done with the matching wedding ring.

  “No strings attached,” she repeated.

  But that didn’t keep me from feeling them tugging at my heart.

  Eleven

  Adam had left his car—a perpetually dirty black Xterra—at the top of the long driveway that led past my cabin, also known as “the caretaker’s place,” and down the hill to “the big house” on the lake, my landlords’ summer home.

  “Promise me you won’t do anything dangerous this afternoon,” I said. “Not one word tonight about whitewater, rock climbing, or mountain bikes. And no more dead bodies.”

  “From what I hear,” Tanner said, “running a retail shop is at least as dangerous as running the rapids.” He stepped nimbly out of my reach, Adam behind him, laughing. I rolled my eyes and climbed into the Subaru.

  Less than ten minutes later, I was unlocking the Merc and apologizing to Lou Mary for making her wait.

  “Normally, we set up the till first, then restock the produce cart and get the day’s samples ready before we open, but Sunday should be slow enough that running late won’t be a problem.” Thank goodness Wendy’s crew had cleaned up the courtyard after yesterday’s bridal shower.

  Lou Mary followed me around the shop like an eager puppy, the wooden heels of her apricot loafers slapping the plank floor. I wondered if she had a pair in every color.

  I’d given Tracy the day off, which meant training Lou Mary and tending to customers, and leaving business details for another day. Fine with me—sometimes I get so caught up in invoices and orders and product development plans that I forget how much I love working the shop floor.

  Technically, my mother owns the Merc. My grandfather gave it to my father, and when he died, the building went to her, although she calls herself the custodian, holding it for the three of us. Nick and Chiara are more than happy to let me tend to the old pile, and I knew her remarriage wouldn’t change the arrangement. Some adult children get anxious about money and inheritance when a parent remarries, but I couldn’t see any of us fussing over that. She and Bill were both financially comfortable, fair-minded, and relatively young and healthy. If they wanted to run off to Maui and blow their wad, fine with me.

  Not that I expected them to do that. Maui, maybe, but they were too smart to do anything really dumb.

  Unlike me. I’d just dumped a bag of Montana Gold crackers onto the kitchen counter instead of into the bowl.

  I cleaned up my mess and hoped Lou Mary hadn’t seen the mishap.

  No such luck. The woman was a retail queen, eyes in the back of her head. Happily, she knew when to bite her tongue.

  This was our first Sunday open since Christmas, and my expectations were modest. About half the customers were workshop students and their families, checking out the town after checking in at the Playhouse. As they shopped, they tossed out comments about this class or that artist. Gerry Martin’s name came up a few times, but not as often as I’d expected.

  And not one word about murder, thank goodness. Though the rumor mill’s temporary silence gave me little comfort.

  Lou Mary
didn’t know all products and their stories, but she had an amazing ability to set customers at ease, to chat in a relaxing way that didn’t set them up as marks.

  Tracy and I could learn a few things from her.

  Teaching her and the customers about the jams and jellies, meat and cheese, and other goods kept my mind off the murder, my stormy sister, and the ring in the box tucked deep in the bottom of my blue bag. If Tanner hadn’t been with us, I might have shown it to Adam. Or maybe not. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was trying to wheedle a proposal out of him.

  Ha. He would think that was my mother’s plan. And he might be right.

  “Penny for your thoughts.” Lou Mary rested an elbow on the front counter. I’d finished ringing up a customer, and we were alone in the shop.

  “Big family do this morning. I can finally share the news I’ve been sitting on all week. My mother is getting married.”

  Lou Mary’s eyes brightened and she clapped her hands, the jade and mother-of-pearl bangles on her wrist jangling. “Bill and Fran­cesca! It’s about time. When?”

  “First day of summer. I’m not sure if they mean that to be symbolic, or if it’s easier to remember the anniversary that way.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised, but I am delighted.” She gave me a knowing look. “Aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am. Bill is wonderful, and he adores my mother. And she loves him right back.”

  “But … ” Her voice trailed off suggestively, and I had a sudden urge to show her the ring.

  I dashed upstairs and returned with the box.

  “She gave me this. The ring my father gave her in 1970-whatever. I think she’s trying to tell me something.”

  “Put it on.”

  I slid it on to my right hand, as my mother had, fingers trembling.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Lou Mary pronounced. “It suits you. Wear it,” she said as I started to slide it off.

  “It doesn’t feel like mine yet.”

  “Jewelry never feels like yours until you wear it.” She reached up to finger the jade beads around her neck. “That takes time. And don’t feel strange about it having been your mother’s. Good jewelry always tells a story. From what I hear, this ring carries good vibes.”

  The door opened. I slid the ring off my finger and tucked the box into the back of the cash drawer. The gift symbolized a big change in my mother’s life, and I supposed I wondered how that would change who she was. Who I was.

  Or whether I was ready for the answer.

  The afternoon sped by profitably, thanks mostly to sales of picnic baskets for the concert. About four o’clock, we hit a lull. It’s typical, even in high summer. The golf widows have finished shopping for the day, and the casual browsers have tired themselves out. They’ve all gone home to rest before dinner and the evening’s entertainments.

  “Mind if I sneak out for a few minutes?” I asked Lou Mary, busy studying the Montana Gold grain products. “I want to run down to the park and see if they decided the weather will hold, or if they’re moving tonight’s concert indoors.”

  “You go. I’ll be fine.”

  I grabbed a pemmican bar and headed out the front door. The temperature had dropped four or five degrees since noon, and a cluster of gray clouds, bruised around the edges, filled the sky.

  Halfway down the block, I caught up with a man I knew largely by sight.

  “Doesn’t look good, does it?” Marv Alden ran a hand over his shiny head. He peeled off his rimless glasses and polished them with a white handkerchief as we walked down Front Street toward the bridge.

  Across the lake, sunbeams had broken out from behind the edge of the clouds, and lit up the tops of the mountains. “It’s clearing. We may get lucky.”

  Alden’s footsteps slowed as he put his glasses on and adjusted them, then tucked the hankie back in the front pocket of his pleated khakis. “Luck would be a nice change.”

  I swallowed the last bite of pemmican, buffalo meat mixed with berries. “Martin’s death must be upsetting for the festival board. And a logistical challenge.” The bridge’s plank walkway wasn’t quite wide enough for two, and I glanced at him over my shoulder.

  “It’s both. Wife and I moved up here for good a year ago, when I retired. The board sounded like an easy gig. Keep me busy, help us meet more people.” He rolled his eyes, his bushy salt-and-pepper brows waggling like wooly worms. “You know what they say—no good deed goes unpunished.”

  We’d crossed the bridge to the small parking area. The Greek Guy, the ice cream wagon, and a couple of other food trucks were gearing up for pre-concert business, their generators drowning out the sounds of the river, the aromas pricking my nostrils.

  And, nose out, a sheriff’s vehicle. A patrol deputy I didn’t know stood beside it, shades on, arms folded. Even without a murder, extra deputies would be on duty, plus the reserves, to respond to emergencies. To keep the rowdies in line, simply by their presence.

  “Like I told Dave Barber, if there’s anything you need from the Merchants’ Association, let me know.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said.

  We started up the grassy slope leading to the covered stage, past a white tent lined with posters for this year’s concert. A table stacked high with programs waited for Ann Drake and her volunteer ticket takers. I thought I saw her near the band shell.

  A friend of Adam’s directed two men stacking a bank of speakers. I tried to remember his name—Rocky? No, Rocco, from the music shop in Pondera. On the lawn, men and women scurried back and forth, some toting gear, others shouting instructions and responses.

  “Busy place,” I said. “Buzzing like the bees in the cherry trees.”

  “That’s what I like to see,” Alden replied. “Enjoy the show.” He hustled across the lawn to the sound booth, under a canopy by the giant golden willow.

  “I thought for sure we’d be hauling a—hauling our backsides down to the Playhouse,” Jennifer Kraus said. I hadn’t seen her approach. “It’s a ton of work, moving from one venue to another, and another. We’ll be playing three places in four days.”

  “That’s what happens when you cram a big festival into a little town.”

  “Everybody wants their piece of the pie.”

  That wasn’t quite what I meant. To me, it was about being involved—for the good of it, not to get your share.

  Sam appeared at my other elbow. “Shaping up to be a great night. Nacho?” He held out a red-and-white paper boat filled with gooey chips and cheese.

  “No, thanks. Nachos always make me want beer, and it’s too early,” I said. Besides, I needed to save room for my mother’s picnic feast.

  He extended his offering to his wife, who crossed her arms and scowled.

  “So crazy, everything that’s happened since Friday night,” I said. “Good news is the crowd had a great time, despite the problems on stage. Sweet of you to try to smooth things over with Martin.”

  Jennifer gaped at me blankly, then recognition hit. “Right. Lotta good that did.” She marched off toward the food trucks. Sam raised his eyebrows at me and wandered after her.

  I strolled back up to the stage, hoping to see Rebecca’s big gear investment. At the foot of the steps to the stage rear, voices stopped me.

  “The only reason I care that’s he’s dead is that it’s bad publicity. We didn’t need that has-been yet another year. If she hadn’t kept insisting we bring Martin back, we could have attracted serious names. Guys who sell tickets, and would put us on the map. I had Lee Ritenour and Bill Frisell talking to us.”

  I frowned, trying to identify the speaker. Male. And who was the she? I snuck up another step.

  “On the other hand, his studio would have been a major draw to the community. Not that it matters now.” A second man’s voice.

  I peeked around the corner into the wings. No
sign of Ann Drake, which didn’t surprise me. Everyone involved with the festival knew her daughter had a lot riding on that association with Gerry Martin. No one would diss him to her now. Hard enough that Gabby was going to need a new patron.

  His back to me, Marv Alden blocked my view of the other man. Then he shifted his weight and I caught a glimpse of Dave Barber.

  I heard footsteps and turned quickly, as if I were leaving. A crew member toting two guitar cases came into view and I flattened myself against the wall, then hopped down the steps into the open.

  Though the music wouldn’t start for another hour or two, the evening’s performers had begun to gather for a sound check. I neared the parking area and paused to study the sky. No clouds. I pulled out my phone to check the forecast.

  A moment later, Gabby Drake emerged from behind the Greek Guy’s truck, nostrils flaring, her hands cutting through the air. Behind her, wearing a pleading expression, came her mother.

  The crowd chattered. The generator hummed. From the stage came the sound of a sax, mournful and bright.

  So all I heard from Gabby was “don’t deny” and “push.”

  Ordinary words, I told myself. They could mean anything.

  But they gave me the shivers anyway.

  Twelve

  My hands gripped my upper arms. My heels echoed on the wooden planks of the bridge. Below, the waters of the Jewel River raced by.

  Dave Barber’s animosity toward Gerry Martin had been simmering long before Friday night’s performance. Why had it reached a boil on stage?

  Had he planned to take an unrehearsed solo, to test Martin’s reactions and goad him into—what? Had he meant to embarrass a guest artist he didn’t want to welcome?

  Rebecca had called the incident Martin showing his inner jerk. The same could be said, I suspected, of Dave Barber.

  I reached the cottages where Martin had been staying. Once upon a time, another pioneer family had owned this property beside the river. Generation by generation, they’d moved away. The farmhouse burned one night when I was in high school—smoke huddled in the air for weeks. Then a newcomer with California money bought the property and we held our breaths, expecting a trophy home. Instead, he built a dozen jewel-box cottages, each a sweet getaway ringed with flowerbeds and small trees. They looked as if they’d always been here.