Carried to the Grave and Other Stories Read online

  “She’s your wife’s cousin,” I said. “The one who looks so much like her that even your friends back home can’t tell them apart. The one your wife can’t—or couldn’t—stand.”

  Max, the man who knew the guidebook backward and forward, had picked this village because it was remote enough that he could take Parisa out into the jungle and be assured of finding harm for her to fall into, yet easy enough for her cousin to reach on her own and take her place.

  The detective sent for the bus driver, who confirmed that he’d brought an extra passenger back to Yelapa earlier in the week. We hadn’t seen her on the return trip because we’d gone exploring, missed the bus, and hitchhiked back in the bed of a rusty pickup driven by a man we didn’t know, but who surely lived nearby and would vouch for our story.

  “She’s loco,” Max said. “She’s been drinking that raicilla. She’s seeing things.”

  But I had never been more sober, or more sure.

  ∞

  We had time for breakfast the next morning before the water taxi came. Jackie and Jill sat with us—they were leaving, too—and the waitress brought our usual orders.

  The eggs were fried to perfection, the corn tortillas bursting with flavor, the tomatoes and avocados the fruit of the gods. Fingers pinched together, I plucked off the cilantro leaves and set them aside.

  Vacation may be good for the soul, but it can be murder on the appetite.

  Put on a Dying Face

  “Remember Cats on Broadway, in Missoula?” Adam asked as we settled into our seats in the Playhouse. Good seats, thanks to the generous donation the Merc had made to this year’s summer theater program.

  “The vet clinic?” I said. “The sign always cracked me up.”

  “I actually saw this show on Broadway,” he said.

  “The real Broadway? The one in New York?” My sweetheart never ceases to amaze me. We’d been married not quite six months, though we first met at the University of Montana when he crushed on me and I was too oblivious, or self-absorbed, to notice. We met again fifteen years later when I returned to Jewel Bay to take over the Merc, my family’s hundred-year-old grocery in the heart of the village. Thanks to my mother’s vision and my long hours, it’s now a thriving market focused on local foods. Adam had been lured to the tiny lakeside community to run kids’ programs at the athletic club, including the wilderness camp that would take him into the woods for most of the summer. This was our last Friday Date Night before his departure. He’s an utterly amazing guy and I count myself utterly lucky that he gave me a second chance.

  But—musical theater? In New York?

  “She musta been pretty cute,” I said. When you reconnect with a guy at thirty-two, you know you missed a lot of history. And you don’t ask too many questions. But honestly, I couldn’t imagine Adam Zimmerman, who loves music and movies but hates crowds and collars, going to a big-city theater for any reason other than a very attractive woman.

  His jawline flushed. Bingo!

  The lights dimmed. I smiled and squeezed his hand. In moments, we were enthralled as the stage of our small theater in northwest Montana became the back alleys of London, overtaken by magical creatures with impish black noses, wickedly long whiskers, and tails that had lives of their own.

  The costumes were incredible. Especially considering that, according to the village rumor mill, the costume manager had quit less than a week before opening night. My sister and other local designers had pitched in to help fit the rented costumes for Cats and adapt costumes from the company’s storehouse for the other productions.

  A slinky, minky feline sidled onto the stage. I almost didn’t recognize Emily Davies, the actor beneath the makeup and fur. Summer stock is a big draw for our little town, but it doesn’t pay much. Like a lot of “theater kids,” Emily needed a part-time job that could be squeezed in between rehearsals and performances. I’d hired her at the Merc to pack and ship online orders, sending Montana-made jam, jerky, and truffles to lucky folks across the continent. At busy times, she helps out on the sales floor. She often sings as she works, and when customers catch a line from Oklahoma! or Singing in the Rain, a few join in. I like to joke that at the Merc, earworms are free.

  On stage, cats snarled, clawed, and scratched as they pranced and prowled, singing all the while. After a particularly fractious exchange and another refrain, Emily snapped her tail at the offending cat and flounced off into the wings. As the action continued, the auto-replay function in my brain was still singing about Jellicle Cats.

  And all that might explain why I recognized Emily’s voice when I heard the scream.

  ∞

  Chad Stevenson did not look good. When Emily screamed, the actors on stage paused briefly, then carried on in loyal theater tradition. But I’d elbowed Adam and we’d edged our way down the row to the aisle. Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of time in the theater. I was on stage rehearsing for the senior play the February night when my father was killed.

  So despite the dark, I had no trouble finding the stairs, hidden by a half wall, that led to the L-shaped junction between stage and green room. Where Stevenson should have been on duty, script and pocket flashlight in hand, one eye on the action and an ear on any waiting actors. As stage manager, it was his job to cue them, make sure the necessary props were at hand, and generally keep things rolling.

  I glanced at the stage, where the show went on, and slipped into the green room, Adam behind me.

  Emily stood against the nearest wall, one black-gloved hand covering her mouth. The room looked as it always did. A high-top table near the door was jammed with pop cans and water bottles. More bottles and scripts littered a large table on the far side of the room, and a gigantic whiteboard covered with the production and rehearsal schedules filled one wall.

  In the middle, in a clearing where actors often paced, muttering their lines, lay Stevenson. His eyes were open but blank. What I could see of his skin—forehead and cheeks—appeared dark, almost purple, though in life he’d been a fair-skinned white man. Some sort of scarf or muffler, made from that fuzzy yarn that looks like it’s shedding even when it isn’t, was wrapped tightly around his mouth and nose.

  Adam crossed the room and dropped to one knee. He laid two fingers along the man’s neck, checking for a pulse, while I slipped an arm around Emily, her small body quaking, the gray and black faux fur of her wig quivering.

  “Is he—?” She couldn’t finish the question.

  Not for the first time, I gave silent thanks for Adam’s wilderness medical training, though I had no doubt that Chad Stevenson was past saving.

  Adam’s expression confirmed my fear.

  “He’s gone,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  Ohmygod.

  I turned to Emily. “How long until intermission?”

  She glanced at the wall clock. “Three minutes?”

  Adam gave my arm a gentle squeeze, then strode out.

  I pictured him standing in the shadows, waiting for the curtain to fall. Redirecting the actors to keep them from barging in on a crime scene. Because Chad Stevenson’s death was clearly no accident.

  I slipped away from Emily, fumbling in my bag for my phone. Stevenson lay on his back, legs outstretched. I snapped a few pictures, wondering how the killer had managed to wrap the scarf, or whatever it was, around his head tightly enough to kill him without signs of a struggle. Anyone who’s ever seen a late-night horror movie—and who hasn’t, on a sleepless night—knows that if someone wraps something around your face or neck, you grab it. You pull, you jerk, you fight.

  But Stevenson’s arms lay by his sides, fingers closed. Not in fists, but loosely, as if wrapped around something.

  I leaned in, not daring to touch him. One hand held a lime-green object, the other a few inches of hot pink yarn. I caught a whiff of jasmine perfume. His? Odd for a man.

  Had he fought with someone, grabbed bits of a costume? Emily’s was dark and sparkly, but I thought I’d seen spots of color on other c
ats.

  I took a few more shots, close up.

  Stevenson wore black, the better to stand unseen at the edge of the stage. An average-sized man; not big, not small. It couldn’t have been easy for one person to move him, dead or alive. And he couldn’t have been dead long. We were still in the first act.

  Then I heard Adam, calling from the edge of the stage, “Is there a doctor in the house?” I tucked my phone in my bag and stood near the door, next to Emily. Wide-eyed and trembling, she shed no tears. A surprise, frankly, as I’d found her to be sweet and sensitive in the few weeks she’d worked for me. Artistic control, or a fear of ruining all that makeup?

  Moments later, footsteps approached.

  Adam entered, followed by a fiftyish woman in black linen crops and a white lace-trimmed tunic.

  Her attention went straight to the body. “Strangled?”

  “Suffocated, I think. Smothered. Red spots in his eyes.” Adam gestured to his own black-coffee eyes, pinched with worry. “And I don’t see any neck injuries.”

  Her blond bob swayed slightly as she did what Adam had done, surveying the area around the body, then crouching to check for a pulse. She slipped her fingers underneath the scarf and lifted it up, giving the mouth and nose a closer look.

  “Who’s in charge?” she said, standing. “And what is this man’s name?”

  A dark-haired man I’d known most of my life emerged from the shadowed hallway. “I am. I’m Kip Taylor. Christopher Taylor. My family and I run the summer productions. He”—Kip gestured, his hand shaking—“is Chad Stevenson. He’s our stage manager.”

  “Carolyn Cook,” the woman said as she straightened. “M.D. Visiting from Tucson for a few days. My condolences.”

  “What—?” Kip asked. His gaze skittered from Dr. Cook to the body on the floor and back. “He’s dead? Heart attack? Isn’t he too young for that?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Dr. Cook replied, not sounding frightened at all. “I’m not a medical examiner, but I’d say this death looks suspicious.”

  A collective gasp came from the actors gathered in the dark hallway.

  Emily gasped, too, and I pulled her close. With that single word—suspicious—Dr. Cook had put her finger on exactly what had been bothering me.

  Though I didn’t know what was wrapped around his face or what had been tucked into his hands, and hadn’t the foggiest idea why he lay on his back in the middle of the green room floor, it was crystal clear that Chad Stevenson’s body had been deliberately arranged.

  Staged.

  ∞

  I’ve always cherished the patterns of the day that give it rhyme and reason. And the ritual cup of morning coffee with Adam—in good weather, on the stone terrace outside our newly remodeled home, overlooking the orchard my great-grandparents planted—is sweetness itself.

  But that cup of coffee, delicious as it had been, had worn off by the time I got to work Saturday morning. Happily, right next to the Merc is a touch of Provence, a French bakery called Le Panier. I drove down Back Alley and parked behind the Merc, then headed over for a Saturday morning special: a double latte and a pain au chocolat.

  Okay, that’s my Monday through Friday special, too, but let’s not quibble.

  And I admit, I was particularly curious this morning to hear what the townspeople and visitors were saying about Chad Stevenson’s murder.

  The Playhouse is a major part of life in Jewel Bay. The elder Taylors founded it more than fifty years ago, and while community and student productions fill the house in the off-season, it truly shines in summer. Aspiring actors from around the country audition, hoping to gain experience and credits. It’s repertory theater, rotating four plays and musicals a season. That’s brilliant, if you ask me. Theater lovers in Montana and beyond make the trek their seasonal ritual. And tourists visiting Jewel Bay or passing through on their way to Glacier National Park delight in discovering an unexpected gem.

  The money they spend in our hotels and inns, our restaurants and grocery stores and gas stations, keeps this town afloat. Not to mention what they spend in shops like mine.

  While Kip Taylor, the middle child, had taken over the summer theater from his parents, his younger sister, Wendy Taylor LaFontaine, had found her calling in flour and yeast. She runs the bakery, while her French husband runs the adjacent bistro. If the Merc, founded in 1910, is the heart of Jewel Bay, Le Panier is its stomach.

  The outdoor tables were already half full. Inside, I was greeted by whiffs of caffeine and sugar and the whistle of the espresso machine. Heavenly. A woman examined the pastry case. Behind the counter, a barista attempted the intricate ballet of lattes and cappuccinos, this milk or that, extra foam, and shots of flavor.

  “Was that skinny mocha double or single?” she asked.

  “Double. The capp’s a single,” Wendy answered. Wearing a summer-weight white chef’s tunic and black cotton pants festooned with red chili peppers, she juggled giving instructions, taking orders, and plating croissants.

  “Hey, Wendy,” I called. “How goes the grind?”

  Bad puns are half the fun of working in food and retail.

  She tossed me a half smile, her eyes dark and intense. She’s two years older than I, the same age as my sister. Since I came back to Jewel Bay two years ago and took over the Merc, we’ve become good friends.

  The woman in front of me added a lemon tart to her coffee order, then turned to her husband. “So, what should we do tonight? Since the show is canceled. At least we’ve seen Oklahoma! before.”

  The cancellation wasn’t a surprise. Though it seemed likely that Stevenson was killed where he was found, the sheriff would view the entire theater as a crime scene. I imagined the Sunday matinee a no-go, but hoped his team finished scouring the building in time for next week’s shows.

  “Linger over dinner, I guess,” the man replied as he pulled out his wallet. “What else is there to do?”

  “There’s a folk duo playing in the park tonight,” I said. “Other side of the one-lane bridge. The galleries and shops are open late and several bars and restaurants have live music.”

  “Anywhere to dance?” the woman asked.

  “The Jewel Inn. The chalet-like building at the north end of town.”

  “Oh, we saw it. It’s darling,” she said. “Such a terrible business, murder in the theater. When we heard the scream last night, we thought it was part of the show.”

  How could you? I thought, but bit my tongue. Literally—a salty pang shot through my mouth.

  “Honestly,” she continued, “we had no idea anything was going on. And the town looks so safe.”

  “Sheriff Hoover is top-notch. I’m sure he’ll wrap this up quickly.” I rubbed the three lucky stars tattooed inside my left wrist.

  “I hope so.” She took the wide white coffee cup her husband handed her. “Thanks for the suggestions.”

  “The usual?” Wendy asked me and I nodded. Behind her, in the bakery in back, I saw a young man shovel loaves into the brick oven while a woman slipped in and out of view, bearing large metal trays of something delicious.

  “You shorthanded this morning?” I asked as Wendy slid my croissant into a white takeout bag.

  “I’m down two theater kids,” she said, holding up two fingers. “At least Bianca texted me that she was too upset to come in. Braden didn’t bother. I had to move a baker up front to pull shots. I don’t know when we’ll get the dishes washed.”

  I’d barely known Stevenson—we’d met at the annual welcome party the Merchants’ Association throws for the cast and crew, and I often saw him strolling down the sidewalk in the afternoon on his way to work, sipping from a can of flavored Pellegrino. But even I found his death deeply distressing. I could imagine how hard this was on the kids who worked with him. Sheriff Hoover, who had been the deputy in charge of investigating my father’s death all those years ago, had once told me that if violent or untimely death didn’t bother you, you were a poor excuse for a human being.


  “How’s Kip taking it?” I asked.

  “He ordered a triple shot,” she said. “Not sure if he was that upset, or just isn’t used to getting up in the morning.”

  Too funny. And while I’d never heard the sheriff say you should wonder about your humanity if you didn’t occasionally laugh in the middle of tragedy, I was certain he’d agree.

  ∞

  Outside, I stopped and raised the cup to my lips. The substitute barista didn’t quite have the knack; the foam was too thick to let the good stuff through. I pried the lid off and was about to take a sip when a young couple approached, hand in hand, eyes only for each other. He leaned down, she lifted her face, and they kissed, still walking.

  “Hey!” I stepped back, but not fast enough to avoid getting bumped. My coffee sloshed over my hand.

  “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry,” the young woman said. “Are you okay?”

  I set the dripping cup on the stone wall separating the bakery’s patio from the sidewalk and shook my hand. Milky coffee had splattered my short denim skirt and was now dribbling down my leg. In half a second, it would pool into my sandal. The woman who’d ordered the lemon tart was sitting at the closest table, and I gratefully accepted the napkins she offered.

  “I’m so sorry,” my accidental assailant repeated. “I guess we weren’t watching where we were going.”

  Too focused on each other.

  “Here, Erin. I got napkins,” the young man said as he emerged from the bakery, the screen door banging shut behind him. He was one of the athletic club’s year-round employees and a camp counselor. The swimming and boating instructor, if I remembered right, though I could not pull his name out of my rattled memory. She was a summer hire.