Butter Off Dead (10 page)

“What about the hunters?” Nick is often asked. “They need to go where the elk go,” he replies. “That's why it's called hunting.”

I pulled over in front of Christine's cottage. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the scene when we'd emerged from the fire hall late Saturday afternoon.

Pewter gray clouds had moved in, darkening the sky. Swirling snow had whipped my cheeks. The ambulance had left. Zayda's parents had arrived. Sheriff's rigs had been scattered everywhere.

The Jeep had been right here, I realized, the red clover tea not enough, never enough, to settle the fear that followed. Pointing north. As though he had in fact driven north from Rainbow Lake, past Phyl and Jo's corner of paradise, turned onto Mountain View, and screeched to a halt in front of the cottage. Run to the church, seen me, seen Christine, told his lies.

Why, Nick? Why?

T
oo many questions. I wanted answers, but the prospects terrified me.

Kim would have preliminary forensics and autopsy reports by now, and maybe ballistics analysis, but I hesitated to stop by her office. She has a sharp eye, and a keen nose for scenting trouble. And she knows me too well. If she sensed my fear and anxiety, it wouldn't be much of a leap to focus on Nick and question his alibi.

But I needed Christine's Festival notebook. Ticket sales counts, volunteer assignments, the draft program, the all-important list of donors to thank. How could I step into her Uggs without it?

Nothing wrong with giving in to one's inner chicken. Before pulling away from the cottage, I sent Kim a text. The nearly instant reply: “Waiting for fingerprints.”

Great. I'll get it back covered in black powder that turns to ink when you touch it.

I forced myself to breathe calmly as I drove back to town. Lousy place to get distracted, especially in winter.
One wrong move at the wheel and a driver could plunge into the icy river.

I crossed the one-lane bridge into the village and drove up Front Street. In dragon-lady mode, Kathy had put the fear into Frost—a freshly plowed ribbon wove down our main street and side streets. I parked behind the Merc and unloaded the eggs and cheese. Waved to Tracy and headed for the Playhouse.

In front of the theater, flower beds slept under the snow, but the sidewalks—the square pavers engraved with names of donors and patrons—had been shoveled clean.

In the lobby, the kids sat on hand-painted benches and sprawled on the floor, eyes trained on Larry, who stood beside an easel holding a whiteboard, pointing at numbers and terms I couldn't decipher. Christine's sign hung overhead, a sparkling, poignant reminder of plans gone astray.

“Hey, there. Looks like you've got it all worked out.”

Heads swiveled and voices called to me. “Hi, Erin.”

Zayda and Dylan slouched on a bench against the far wall. You could have driven a Mack truck between them.

“So glad to see you all here. Christine's death”—the word stuck in my throat—“is inexplicable. A tragedy. It delighted her to see all of you working so hard on the Festival. She reveled in your energy and enthusiasm. Your love of movies and of Jewel Bay. Thanks to you, the show is going on.” I clapped my hands together, my fingertips to my lips, momentarily overcome. Eager faces turned sad, eyes damp. A few feet away, on the floor in front of a pillar covered in a mosaic of iridescent glass tiles, Dana slid his arm around the red-haired girl and she sniffed back a sob.

“Gold in that there saddle bag,” Larry said, nodding at my blue leather bag. I handed him the envelope.

“
Julie and Julia
.
Big Night. Tampopo
—a noodle Western. Love it.
Chocolat
. And
Ratatouille
. Perfect,” Larry said, sliding out one case at a time. “Great choices. We'll run through them, make sure there's no problems. Let's
get started.” The kids pushed themselves up. A girl clapped and started a cheer: “MOO-vies. MOO-vies.”

“Zayda,” I called as she stood to follow Larry and the others out of the lobby. “Got a sec?”

Head bowed, eyes on the toe of one Doc Marten—back in style, thanks to Dr. Who—her jaw twitched but she didn't answer.

“Why did you go out there early?” I'd been right on time. To beat me there, go inside, struggle—or find Christine injured—and come back out to sit on the cottage steps would have taken a good ten minutes.

“I was just early, okay? No reason.”

“How did you lose your eyebrow ring?”

She snorted. Frustrated with me? The situation? Finally, she met my gaze. “I didn't kill her, and nothing else I did is any of your business.”

She stomped away. So much for thinking teenagers would talk to me because I'm younger than their parents. Or because I'm cool.

The sign Christine had labored over and been so proud of hung above me. “What happened?” I asked her spirit. “Who killed you?”

The fake jewels caught the light, and I swear, they winked.

*   *   *

L
ove love love the Merc's tin ceiling tiles. But over the years, a leaky roof had rusted one corner, and a few got bent by who knows what. I'd managed to take down the damaged tiles and repaint them, but reattaching them had defeated me. The tricky part is holding the panel, holding the hammer and nail, and leaving an edge to tuck the next one in, while standing on a ladder, arms lifted, neck bent.

Nick was obviously more talented than I. And taller.

“You're almost done.”

“No sweat,” he said, but it wasn't true. A thin bead crawled down the back of his neck. “Take this.” He handed me the pneumatic nail gun. They look innocent enough, but feel like ninety tons of dynamite. A co-worker at SavClub nailed his foot to the floor of the West Seattle bungalow he was restoring and limped for ages. I set it down quickly.

“Looks great,” I said. “Thanks.”

“No sweat,” he repeated, then folded the ladder and carted it out the back door.

I glanced at Tracy, who shrugged. Fresca had gone for the day, but the place still smelled like olives and garlic, and a whiff of sawdust. I got out a broom and swept up. A few minutes later, Nick's steps echoed in the back hallway and pounded down to the basement. Veteran little sister that I am, I trailed behind him.

“Hey, you got all the shelves together and put in place.”

“Yep.” He picked a small dark notebook off the tiny corner desk and slipped it into his pocket.

“The paint samples are in the hallway. Come take a look.”

“Later,” he said.

When we were kids and Nick didn't want to come inside for dinner, or leave his room, my mother often sent me to get him, and out he'd trot, as if no one else had asked. No such luck today. “Okay. Find out anything more about the will?”

A shadow crossed his eyes, and he sank into the chair, covering his face with his hands.

“Nick.” I knelt beside him, a hand on his back. After a long moment, he buried his head in my shoulder. I held my big brother while his shoulders shook in waves of soundless sobs. He'd been away at school when my father died, and if he'd cried, it had been in private. By the time he got home a day later, he'd become the man of the family, shepherding the womenfolk, protecting us, eyes dry, face grim.

But who takes care of the shepherd when the wolf strikes?

“Nick,” I said again. “It's not your fault. She knew you loved her.”

“If I'd been there . . .” he said, straightening.

“Then you'd have been shot, too.” Maybe. If Zayda had been the shooter, Nick could have overpowered her. Heck, Christine ought to have been able to overpower Zayda. They were about the same height, and Zayda was faster—track star—but Christine was stronger.

What the heck had happened in there?

Nick raised his head, not meeting my eyes. So many questions I wanted to ask. The most important one was the hardest. I angled my way in. “How are your wolves? Seen them since Saturday?”

He gave me a sideways glance. “Since when do you care about my wolves?”

Tell him the truth, Erin
. “Since they became your alibi.”

He turned to stone.

“Sally's gonna talk, big brother. And she's going to tell everyone in town that Christine pressured Iggy to leave her the money, and you killed Christine to get it. In Sally's version, she'll be the victim—the wronged relative deprived of what she deserved by the big bad Wolf Man.”

“Erin, I appreciate you wanting to help. But I have already said I was in the Jewel Basin all day, until you called me, and nothing is going to change that.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Let me know when you're ready for me to paint.”

And he was gone.

I slid into his still-warm chair. On the wall hung a short list of due dates for grant applications. On the desk—a countertop remnant I got cheap at the Building Supply—lay pens, copies of articles and scientific journals. His laptop. Nothing that told me where he'd really been last Saturday, and why he wouldn't tell me.

Think, Erin. Why would Nick lie?

Despite all Sally had said and would say, I never for a
nanosecond imagined he'd killed Christine. They'd been the best exes I'd ever seen—friends, never bad-mouthing, treating each other with love and respect. I believed him when he said they were working out their problems and getting back together.

And I believed him when he said he hadn't known about the will. Had she made it while they were engaged and simply never changed it, or written it after inheriting a sizable fortune?

But anybody who knew my brother—including Kim Caldwell and Ike Hoover—knew he didn't care about
things
. He only cared about his work.

Sally didn't know that. And she obviously hadn't known about Christine's will until the lawyer called.

But much as I dislike Sally and could readily believe her guilty of all variety of venal sins, from spreading malicious rumors to failing to shovel her sidewalk, it's a giant leap from gossip to murder. Besides, she'd been in her shop Saturday morning. I'd seen her myself.

I had bearded Wolf Man in his den and he had gotten away.

What was my brother up to?

“H
ere, Pumpkin. C'mon, kitty.”

Mr. Sandburg greeted me at the door with his all-purpose yowl, the one that can mean anything from “You left me alone all day, witch” to “A new squirrel moved into the neighborhood and we're going to be great friends.”

Pumpkin, on the other hand, did not show her face. She was not in her crate or under the bed. She was not behind my one potted plant, a ficus trimmed in tiny white lights, or hiding in the shower. Sandburg had never managed to open a fully closed cabinet or closet door, but I was beginning to think either I'd left one ajar or she had superpowers.

And then I spotted the wicker laundry basket in my bedroom, lid askew. “Ah, Pumpkin. Nice and soft in there, isn't?” I lifted her out, hoping I wouldn't regret it, but after wriggling for a moment, she relaxed against me. I took advantage of her shift in mood and perched on the chaise, cradling her in my arms. “I know. It's hard. I miss her, too.”

Sandburg hopped onto the bed, watching in sympathy—
or jealousy. The three of us sat that way for several minutes, until the siren song of Cabernet lured me to the kitchen. Both cats followed and took up posts on opposite ends of the couch.

I'd picked up a few winter vegetables from Phyl and Jo's storage bin. The fennel would pair nicely with blood oranges snared from my mother's latest fruit-of-the-month delivery, from her brother's California orchard. I poured a glass of wine and popped a pan of hazelnuts in the oven to toast.

“Awful quiet in here,” I told the cats. They had both fallen asleep. Adam usually takes charge of the music when he joins me for dinner. I plugged my iPod into its speakers and spun the dial. Bruno Mars? Too sweet. Adele? Too emotional. Neko Case?
Yes
.

I shaved fennel while Neko's voice filled the room, updating Perry Como by reminding us that you can catch a falling star, but then what? It will never be yours. Sang along as I peeled oranges, added shallots, olive oil, and the warm fragrant nuts. Snipped a few mint leaves off the plant in the window sill.

“What does it need?” I asked the nearest cat. “Ah. That's good. Thanks.” A few chopped fennel fronds made the perfect garnish. And one of Wendy's ciabatta rolls for a taste of heaven.

When the weather turned, we'd hauled the café table and chairs in and settled them next to the French doors so I could pretend to eat outside without freezing my tush off. I sat there now. Sandburg took over my chocolate brown leather chair and Pumpkin stayed on the back of the couch, her eyes watching me.

“Tomorrow,” I told her. “We'll find you a new home.”

But despite the refreshing salad, the delectable wine, and the roll's crisp chewy crust and soft spongy inside, I could not stop thinking about Nick and Christine. My big brother was keeping a secret, and I feared it would cause big trouble.

Worse, it was clear that law enforcement considered him a viable suspect. And if he wasn't being truthful with me, I doubted he'd been more forthcoming with them.

Deception only deepens the danger.

I refilled my wineglass and started pacing. The secret wasn't his relationship with Christine. Didn't take long, after Nick came home from the field last fall, to realize they were hanging out. The pool games were their first public pairing. Understandable. Easier to take another run in private than under the double scrutiny of village and family.

And I had sensed no shade of guilt in his grief.

The will. Now that was strange. Obvious enough to name him her heir during their engagement, especially with her family history. But in those days, she'd been flat broke. And she'd broken things off. Why not change her will then? Inertia, or the lack of close relatives? Or hope for reconciliation?

Or had she'd rewritten her will recently? Iggy died in early September, a month or two before Nick's return. Made sense for Christine to make plans for the future, just in case.

But why Nick? And why not tell him?

I couldn't answer the first question, not for sure, but the answer to the second was plain enough: None of us expects
something
to happen. Even in a family already tainted by tragedy.

And maybe she hadn't wanted money to be a factor in his decision about their relationship. Which was ridiculous. But she might have wondered.

“Enough hypothesizing,” I said. Why was I bothering? To stifle Sally's gossip?

Admit it, Erin.
My doubts about Nick's whereabouts on Saturday had me questioning everything he'd said. I hated that.

A faint ringing pierced my thoughts. I scooped my
phone out of my bag, on the bench in the entry where I'd dropped it.

“Erin, Larry Abrams here. You won't believe this.”

I caught my breath. Had Zayda been arrested?

“We got all the movies up and running, to check for glitches. Sorry to tell you, instead of
Chocolat
, we got this—thing. This kinda porn, trio of women fooling around with chocolate and, well, other things, and . . . I think there might be some parents upset with me, but I stopped it as soon as I realized what was going on.”

“What? Back up. Instead of
Chocolat
, we got what?”

He explained again. “Somebody's idea of a joke, in some warehouse. Switching the labels on the disc. It's almost funny, but not really.”

“No,” I said. “Not really. I'll call the distributor in the morning and ask them to overnight us a new copy.
Chocolat
is scheduled for Saturday night. Valentine's Day.”

“Make sure they check it first. We can always show four films instead of five if we have to.”

“I'd hate to change the schedule again. If people show up for the wrong movie or miss one they wanted to see, they'll get cranky.” We'd already changed the night of the student film, to avoid a conflict with a basketball tournament. The distributor factored how long we kept each movie into the charge, and had assured us we'd get them in ample time. Ha.

I loaded the dishwasher and put on jammies. Checked Pumpkin's bowl—she ate less than her figure suggested. Stress has the opposite effect on me.

On the couch with my laptop and wineglass, I pulled up the Spreadsheet, cells blank. Love spreadsheets. They give an illusion of tidy order to a messy world.

This one wasn't playing nice.

In a management class at SavClub, we'd learned a system of problem solving using circles and arrows. It
reminded me of those cartoon ice cream cones with half a dozen scoops in different colors piled on top of one another. Tempting, and impossible to eat.

But when what you're doing isn't working, do something else. I scrounged up a notepad and colored pens, and drew two concentric circles. Labeled the doughnut hole “Christine.” Around the edges, sprinkled everyone connected to her. Nick. Zayda, who'd arrived early, lost her eyebrow ring, and clammed up. Sally, ticked and now re-ticked over the inheritance.

Iggy. Gone, but not forgotten, and she might provide a valuable link. I drew a blue arrow between Iggy and Sally.

The neighbors had hinted at another beef. What had Frost said to Christine Friday night at Red's? I hadn't heard and fat chance Nick would tell me. If he knew. I made a note to quiz J.D.

Frost had also sparred with Iggy, though nothing that I knew linked him to the others. Zayda, too, seemed connected only to Christine.

Before long, I had a mess of arrows and interlocking circles—Venn diagrams, the most useful thing I learned in third grade, besides how to kick Bobby Hughes where it hurts.

It might be cheating to transfer the circle connections to my spreadsheet, but I did it anyway. My attitude improved instantly.

It improved even more after a bowl of vanilla ice cream—two scoops—drizzled with chocolate-Cabernet sauce.

Time to spy on my friends and family. I knew little about Frost, beyond what I'd heard in the last few days. In small towns, we think we know everything about everyone, but some folks fly under the radar. And sometimes what we think we know is wrong. Jack aka Jacob and Sherry—his wife?—owned twenty-two acres immediately east of the church, in a higgledy-piggledy pattern that, if I read
the map on the property tax website right, included a house, outbuildings, and forested land.

His name appeared in the local paper once, when he protested the Rotary Club's plan to build a walking trail on the north side of the highway near his place, and in the
Pondera Post
, at a meeting to discuss the state's proposed wolf management plan. That article included a shot of Frost shaking his fist in the face of a state wildlife biologist.

Nick had never mentioned him. Had Frost gone after Christine to get to Nick? Had she given Frost a piece of her own mind on the carnivore conflict? Or did the changes she'd proposed to the neighborhood worry him that much? Change is rarely easy, but it makes some people downright nasty.

That appeared to be the end of Frost's short electronic trail.

Next up, Christine. “Look to your
veec-tum
,” as Hercule Poirot put it. I hated this. It made my teeth hurt. But I'd waded in this far.

We were Facebook friends, so following her tracks there was easy. She didn't tweet, but kept up a lively blog and fabulous Pinterest boards, thick with images of her paintings and faves from other artists, many from around here. I got lost in her Etsy shop, enjoying pieces I'd always loved and others I'd never seen. I found myself smiling—a good thing when remembering a friend.

Not so good when you remember you're trying to track her killer.

Next, Google fed me a couple of arts websites, a Belgian woman of the same name, and another American who spelled their shared first name with a
K
. Yahoo! wanted to show me a pioneer graveyard in Oregon, and photos of a bodybuilder named Christopher Vandenberg, but I shuttered both attempts.

I dredged up the name of her Vermont hometown and narrowed the search. Found her high school graduating
class, and photos of her senior art show. Her parents' obituaries, and a news account of the head-on collision on icy roads that had killed them.

Ohmygod
. I had never known she'd been in the car, too, and spent a month in the hospital.

A shiver of sadness slipped through me. When I was a teenager upset with a friend over a minor slight, my mother had told me to always be kind, because you never know what burdens people carry.

A spoon clattered against china. “You like ice cream?” I asked Pumpkin. “Sorry I didn't leave you much, but it isn't good for you. Let's find you a kitten treat.” She let me scoop her up, and I carried cat and bowl to the kitchen, then poured her a few tuna tidbits. The sound of the treat tin summoned Sandburg. “We should share, don't you think?”

I watched the cats eat, side by side. She shot him a few nervous glances, but he behaved himself.

I took the opportunity to reclaim my chair and moved to the next name on my list.

Do you need to do this?
I asked myself.
Yes
. Kim or Ike might well be running the same searches, right this minute. My advantage was knowing the people and the community in a way neither of them did. Kim lives here, too, but as she'd observed about dating, the uniform and gun separate her from the rest of us.

I reminded myself that I might not like what I found
.

Better that than seeing my brother blamed for murder.

First obstacle: his name. I had to sort out Nick Murphy the film director and Nick Murphy the Irish screenwriter, Nick Murphy the ex–NFL punter, and two Nick Murphys who had played professional soccer in England, twenty years apart. Using
Nicholas
yielded another soccer player, several dentists, and a gaggle of lawyers. I added
Montana
to the search and up popped a picture of an astronomy professor at U.M. and finally, my guy, posing with last year's field assistants in an alpine meadow in Glacier National Park.

Google served up references to studies he'd participated in. Comments he'd made on proposed wolf management plans across the West. His role in tracking the legendary OR-7, a collared wolf who'd wandered hundreds of miles in Oregon, taking in the sights. His testimony against a Washington couple convicted of poaching and attempted pelt smuggling.

“What's this?” I skimmed the article titled “Grad Student Triggers Debate—Do Statistics Lie?” The piece triggered a vague memory of Nick snared in a controversy while working on his Ph.D. I jumped back to the top and began reading slowly. He'd been lead author on a study of wolf migration and predation—attacks on livestock—that enraged the anti-wolf lobby. Several U.S. congressmen challenged his university and its research funding because the conclusions were unpopular in their districts.

Nick doesn't rant or rave much—unlike the female side of the family—but one sure way to get him rolling is to interject politics into science.

He always says he chooses to work independently so he can stay out of the classroom and in the field. But I had to wonder whether this episode had left scars.

Next up, an interview at the height of the controversy. “The study results are sound,” Nick had told a national newspaper. “We used reliable methods of fieldwork and statistical analysis. Nothing that hasn't been done dozens of times. But rumors get repeated until they gain traction. People believe what they want to believe, and make me out to be some rogue tree hugger. A team of a dozen scientists did this work, but I won, or lost, the coin toss to be named first and handle the P.R. Ultimately, the extra attention is giving us the chance to show other scientists what we're seeing and let them reach their own conclusions.

“I understand politicians have to make decisions and that's fine, but if they choose to ignore the science, they need to accept that responsibility. And don't attack the scientists.”

I stood and paced between the couch and kitchen island. An academic and political dustup ten years ago may have influenced Nick's choice of career path, but what possible connection could his work have had to Christine's murder?