Butter Off Dead (15 page)

“H
ey, Bozo. How you doin', boy?” The Great Dane raised his big head and I rubbed behind one ear. Contentment filled his dark eyes, and I wished every male was so easy to read—and to please.

“Thanks for letting me bring him to work,” Tracy said from the door between the shop floor and the hall.

“Long as he stays back here, we'll be fine.” I tugged off my gloves and shucked my coat. If the health inspector dropped in unannounced, I'd take my lumps. Worth it to keep a good employee happy.

“I didn't expect you for hours,” Tracy said. I followed her into the shop and poured a cup of strong coffee. Explained what we'd found. She clapped a hand to her mouth. “His footprints were still melting? What was he after? Thank God you didn't get there earlier.”

I grimaced and headed to my office.

Outside the church and cottage, Nick had sped off without a backward glance, and when he reached the highway, drove east. Away. Maybe he did have a pack in the Jewel.
I wasn't sure I cared. His refusal to talk—to let me help him—spiked my Jell-O.

But I knew myself. If Kim wasn't convinced that Nick had nothing to do with the murder or the break-in, then I couldn't stop searching for the killer.

Though it was harder and harder to justify pointing a finger at Frost. Easy targets aren't always the right ones.

Tracy had asked the right question: What did he want? But was that the right pronoun, I wondered, toeing off my boots. Mine leave a distinctly female footprint, but Kim had worn a pair of slip-on snow boots as bulky as Frost's and her deputies' boots. As big as Nick's.

Zayda's clunky Doc Martens popped into my mind's eye. A lot of kids wear oversized boots these days. I closed my eyes and tried to remember whether she'd worn a pair last Saturday. No luck. I replayed finding Christine's bloody body every night in my sleep, but when I rolled the mental tape now, I couldn't see Zayda's feet.

No doubt the footwear examiner at the state crime lab would use the casts and photos to identify brand, model, and shoe size from the measurements and tread patterns. No doubt it would take a day or two, at least—unlike
CSI
on TV. And no doubt they wouldn't tell me.

But how could they track down the owner, especially now that so many people shop online? I had visions of deputies setting up watch outside the grocery store and post office, or the Building Supply, scouting for a one-hundred-and-sixty-pound man with a slight left limp and a pronated heel, wearing a size-twelve Sorel, rubber shell, leather upper, and a fleecy frost cuff, sold in brown with a red stripe or black with a yellow stripe.

No. Sherlock Holmes and Lieutenant Columbo may pick up on all those clues, but they're fictional.

Back to real life. Back to Zayda. Her behavior baffled me: Nothing suspicious about her going inside the church as soon as she arrived, but why leave and wait outside?
And why lie, until the found eyebrow ring proved her presence?

If she'd shot Christine, would she have stayed? Again, why? And if she had been the intruder this morning, what was she searching for?

The impasse made my insides hurt. That kind of post-adrenaline-surge hangover that tightens your chest and makes you feel like the blood and oxygen aren't circulating the way they ought to.

Coffee. I took a big gulp and forced myself to attend to business. I returned a few e-mails and texts. But still no tracking info for
Chocolat
.

I'd told Larry we couldn't adjust the film schedule, but it's always good to have a backup plan.

When we cleaned up the basement, we'd moved Fresca's cookbooks and magazines downstairs, leaving a few of my favorites on the office shelves. They gave me an idea. What about a staged reading of foodie fiction and essays? I caught the high school speech and drama coach between classes and pitched my idea. “If you think the kids can do this, let's schedule it as a special performance between movies on Saturday. If the second movie doesn't arrive, then the kids can wrap up the evening. Give them a chance to show off their talents to the community.”

“Oh, that's
per
fect. The state tournament's over, so this will be a fun new challenge.” She had a naturally infectious voice, the kind that makes you think she thinks you're brilliant. A great quality in a teacher. “Any pieces to suggest?”

“Yeah. A juicy poem about pie, if I can find it.”

“This will be a treat. Thanks for thinking of us.”

Oh, no, thank YOU
.

I trotted down to the shop in time to help Luci the Splash Artist, one of my favorite vendors, haul in new stock. The platinum-haired pixie sported another vintage apron, this one bib style, knee length, in a black-and-white
Greek key print with a solid black sash, worn over black pants and a black turtleneck.

We unpacked soaps and lotions and Tracy rearranged the displays. Luci's products had quickly garnered repeat customers, always a positive sign. Plus she is cheery and easy to work with.

Most of the time.

“Erin, can we talk?” Her dark blue eyes were serious, and her dimples had disappeared. I gestured to the red-topped stools.

She set a basket on the counter. “Samples. A new soap—olive oil castile. Super pure and natural. Nontoxic, eco-friendly. It's even biodegradable—for people with septic tanks.”

Tracy sniffed a small square. “Mmm. Olive oil soap is great for dry skin.”

“Thanks,” I said. “What's on your mind?”

“Well, it's . . .” She sighed heavily. “It's winter, and sales . . . aren't so great.”

“Your products sold beautifully over the holidays. Some of the highest sales per square foot in the store.” After truffles. “We're featuring your rose-scented soap and lotion for Valentine's Day. Listen, this is a tough time of year. But you're growing sales. And you're working on new products, which is crucial.”

We'd talked about this last summer, when Luci decided to turn her hobby into a business. But sometimes reality bites.

“What about goat's milk soap?” Tracy said. “Or baby shampoo.”

“You could create a line of cleaning supplies. Try soap in shapes, besides rectangles. The state of Montana.” My left hand cupped an imaginary bar, fingers gripping the Canadian line, my thumb poking up through Idaho.

“I like those ideas,” Luci said, her tone hesitant.

But they would take time to develop, and cash for
supplies.
Think fast, Erin
. As Project Tea Shop was proving, the challenge in seasonal retail is bringing in enough summer income to carry the business through the off-season. Without a ski area close by, winter traffic would never close the gap. And a rainy June or a smoky August can be fatal. That, as the Againsters could never grasp, is why I love special events. Festival fatigue is a danger, but not if we mix it up and stay creative. The stakes are too high.

As the somber face of the normally perky young blonde in front of me demonstrated.

A customer arrived and Tracy went off to greet her.

“We may need part-time help this summer,” I said. But Luci's face made clear that might be too late.

Another possibility waved from the recesses of my mind. We did a decent mail-order business, mainly tourists and snowbirds who got home to Georgia or Arizona and realized no spinach fettuccine holds a tomato to Fresca's, and they honestly did feel friskier all day after a nice cuppa Cowboy Roast in the a.m. But I'd been reluctant to pursue web sales whole-hog, at least until we had more products under our own label. Adding that expense on top of the sixty percent of each sale that goes to the vendor made my head swim.

And I kinda like keeping things small and manageable. Of course, my sister says I have control issues.

But in business, you gotta grow, you gotta change, to stay alive.

I made up the plan as I talked. “So you'd work for Jason, setting up an e-commerce site. Take pictures, write copy, input product details. Say, twenty hours a week during the design and construction phase, and five or ten after it gets going, adding new products, taking down old ones. You'd have plenty of time for soap making, and to develop new items for summer.”

The sun came out. Crocuses bloomed under the snow. Kittens were cute again and ice cream tasted sweet once more. “Oh, Erin! That's so perfect. I worked on websites
in art school, and I know I can do exactly what you need. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

She grabbed my shoulders and hugged me, her black mascara forming a tiny teardrop at the outer corner of her left eye.

Perfect ideas twice in one morning. A girl can get used to that.

Luci threw on her Mexican poncho and grabbed her basket. “I'll go see Jason right now. Erin, thank you so much.”

Which gave me two minutes to call Jason and confess. He'd been after me to ramp up the web biz for a while, but even so, he would appreciate the warning.

I waved good-bye, smiling. And caught Tracy eying me thoughtfully.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing.” Her hammered silver hoops swayed.

Upstairs, I called Jason and we agreed on a plan. “Don't work her too hard. Just enough to keep her afloat, but leave her plenty of time to play with soap.”

I grabbed my jacket and stepped around the corner to Bill's clinic for a consult about Christine's will. But the Wizard of Wild Medicine had a full waiting room. Later, darn it.

Back at the Merc, I handled the shop while Tracy took the dog for a quick walk and ate lunch. A foursome of sixtyish women popped in for snacks to take to their weekly bridge game. Outside, a man studied the Valentine's Day window, then came inside for a basket of wine, cheese, crackers, salami, and artichoke pesto—all locally grown or made. I offered a sample truffle and he bought four mix-and-match boxes.

At twelve thirty, Ginny Washington from Food for Thought, the local bookstore, arrived and we headed downstairs to sort the cookbooks I'd been given last summer by the family of a much-admired chef. I'd plucked out some promising titles, but hadn't had time to go through every
box. After an hour, we called it quits, leaving more than half the boxes unopened. I'd set aside a few books to keep or give to friends—clearly, Tracy needed
The Art of the Chocolatier
, and a few volumes on baking might interest Wendy. After school, Ginny's son, Dylan, would cart the boxed rejects across the street to the bookstore for resale.

Back upstairs, I presented the book to Tracy, who was immediately entranced. The door chime rang and Kathy arrived, toting a plastic crate of quilted table runners, place mats, and napkins, all sewn by local women using Dragonfly fabrics. Our pairing is a natural fit—the linens soften our displays and add color, and I'd rather promote a neighboring business than sell cheap imported goods.

“We've been sorting Drew Baker's cookbooks,” I said, gesturing to my dusty apron. “Hundreds. Thousands. No exaggeration.”

“International, modern, baking,” Ginny added. “He shopped with me regularly, but I had no idea he'd built such a collection. Some quite old, even rare.”

“So, why search out, buy, hold on to more of whatever it is than you'll ever use?” I asked. “More art than you have walls. More books than you can read or cook from—some of these look like they'd never been opened.”

“Stamp collecting,” Tracy said. “What's the point?”

“Earrings,” I said.

“They're useful. I wear them.”

“The thrill of the hunt,” Kathy suggested. “Searching high and low for the missing piece. Putting together a complete set, the best examples.”

“My mother-in-law collects dolls.” Ginny sipped a cool Pellegrino. “She grew up poor, and played with a corn husk doll. A classmate had a doll with a porcelain head and real human hair. When my mother-in-law started working after high school, she bought one for herself. And another, and another. Unfortunately, she has three sons and six grandsons. What we'll do with them when she goes, I have no idea.”

“She has an emotional connection to them. Another woman might have turned that connection into a career as a dollmaker.” Like Larry Abrams's early passion for movies had led him to a career he loved.

“And they're pretty. She's very feminine, and loves the hair and clothing—all that silk and lace.” Ginny wrinkled her nose. “Although some of the faces are almost creepy.”

“Growing up, my best friend's mom was a hoarder,” Tracy said. “She never let anyone come to their house, except me. A few years ago, her mom tripped over a mess of empty boxes and broke her hip, so while she was in the hospital, we helped her dad clean out. Rented a Dumpster. It took days.” Her face turned grave. “They saw a counselor and my friend hired a cleaning service. Occasionally, her mom decides she needs to save empty pill bottles or wrapping paper tubes and a pile builds up, but it's manageable now.”

Kathy laid a runner on a display table while Tracy tucked matching napkins and jars of jam in coffee mugs.

“But hoarding isn't collecting, is it?” I said. “It's more random and indiscriminate.”

“Collecting can serve an emotional purpose without being obsessive,” Kathy said. “Like the dolls. And some people just love the stuff. God bless the customers who buy far more yarn and fabric than they'll ever need.”

Ah. A simple explanation for my mother's love of handblown martini glasses? They remind her of that magical year traveling in Italy—when she met my dad—but she also loves the colors and shapes.

The broken glass shattered not only her memories, but the comfort they'd given her.

Ginny left, and Tracy helped a customer needing fresh eggs and jam.

“Speaking of collecting,” Kathy said as we unpacked the last place mats and napkins. “I don't want to pester Nick, but the sooner he decides whether to follow through
with Christine's plan to donate Iggy's collection to the Art Center, the better.”