Butter Off Dead (20 page)

“Let's get you back to town,” Nick said a few minutes later and stood. I took his hand, my knees stiff with cold.

“Now you see what I do.” He turned the key in the Jeep's ignition. “Not glamorous. But critical to the survival of the species.”

I rubbed my arms and wiggled my toes in my boots. “Hard to believe they're right here among us, and we barely notice.”

“It's unusual to have a site so accessible. To me, it proves that humans and wolves can live side-by-side peacefully. They want what we all want: to hang with our own kind and be left alone by the rest.”

And enjoy a little fresh venison now and then. We drove by the Redaway cabin. J.D.'s truck was gone.

“You have two other witnesses, sort of.” Nick shot me a curious glance, and I went on. “Phyl and Jo hear the wolves at night. They also see you drive out this way too often for coincidence.”

He smiled wryly. “Not much gets past those two.”

“Not much gets past Ike or Kim, either. They've talked to Phyl and Jo. That's how they knew you were out here Saturday. That, and the rotten cell reception up the Jewel, plus what they get from your phone. Let me tell Kim. Get her to persuade Ike to keep the wolves' whereabouts under wraps. Keeping secrets makes you look guilty, brother. More secrets equals more trouble. It's like compound interest.”

Not until he pulled up outside the Merc's back door did Nick speak, turning in his seat to face me. “I can't stop you, Erin. I won't try. Promise me that before you do anything, you'll think about the consequences.”

As if I could think about anything else.

N
ick's escapade had almost made me late for my meeting with the drama teacher. Not to mention cold and wet.
Oh, well
. I tossed my gear in the back of the Subaru and zoomed up the hill.

The high school hadn't changed much since my student days. It even smelled the same—hormones and hair spray, with undertones of lemon-scented ammonia. And near the gym, sweat mixed with the dirty-rubber odor of tennis shoes and basketballs. I autographed the visitors' register and headed for the drama classroom. Jaw clenched, I paused to run my fingers over the raised letters of the plaque designating the Tom Murphy Memorial Gym. He'd been going home after a team practice but never made it. I'd been at the Playhouse for a rehearsal when Ike Hoover came to break the news and drive me back to the Orchard.

“Ah, you found us.” A tiny blonde in her mid-thirties extended her hand.

Paper banners covered the classroom walls, each illustrated with hand-painted images and lines from poems and
soliloquies. “The students created those,” the teacher told me. “And they are thrilled at the opportunity to put together a program, short notice and all. These kids thrive on sharing their passion, and community support is invaluable.”

She had a class in ten minutes, so we ran through the schedule quickly. The kids had brainstormed with her, choosing poems and dramatic readings focused on food or movies.

“Great choices. Any chance of including this?” I handed her a copy of a page from my recipe binder.

“Pie. Oh, pie. I love pie,” she exclaimed, not yet realizing she was repeating a refrain of the essay. “And I know the perfect girl for this piece.”

“Great. We're set, then. But what's that one?” I pointed at the final entry on her list, reading “J.C. skit—D.G.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Allow me one surprise. I promise, you'll love it.”

Famous last words. Like giving directions and saying, “You can't miss it.”

I was halfway back to my car before realizing I should have offered her a cat.

*   *   *

“U
PS come?” I hung my damp coat on a hook and peeled off my boots.

Tracy nodded. “Brought your sample tins and labels. But no DVD. What if it doesn't get here in time?”

I swore to myself. “I've got a plan, but I'd rather have a movie. Give me two minutes.” Bozo had improved enough to stay with a neighbor today, and she was eager to check on him.

Upstairs, I called the distributor for the UPS tracking number—bypassing customer service and going directly to the friendly supervisor—then checked the number. The delivery slotted for today had been rescheduled for Friday. “Weather-related delays,” the site said. I picked up the phone and called the copy shop, local shipping headquarters.

“Big mess all over,” the manager said. “If it misses the Friday delivery to Jewel Bay, as long as the truck gets to the Pondera hub by noon Saturday, I can run in and grab it.”

“Fingers crossed. Thanks.”

“Sure,” he said. “Wife and I are looking forward to the Festival. We'll do all we can.”

And that is why I do what I can for this village.

Back on the shop floor, I sold a few more Valentine's baskets and bags of popcorn. A regular came in to pick up her weekly order. “So glad you carry locally raised beef and pork,” she said. “We feel better, supporting our neighbors. And it tastes better.”

Exactly
.

I unpacked the tins and labels. Good products, good prices. Wouldn't fit our machine—we'd half to fill, seal, and label by hand. Hire a part-timer or do it myself? I had to be careful not to keep Luci from her soap-making.
Don't mess up your own plans, Erin
.

Luci. Soap. I reached for the phone.

“Reg Robbins could make molds for you shaped like wolf and bear tracks, using Nick's casts. I'd recommend earthy scents—sage, cedar, sweetgrass. No lilac-scented grizzly paws.”

“How about wild rose? Or huckleberry,” Luci said. “And what about cutting soap into animal shapes, like trout and moose?”

Hard to imagine gripping a wet moose in the shower, but I told her to bring me samples and we'd try it out.

“
Yes!
” I said after we hung up. Designing new products is such a high.

Tracy called to ask for the rest of the day off, to spoil her pup and whip up more Valentine's treats. Give me an animal- or business-related excuse and I'm a sucker.

The early afternoon lull stretched on. I straightened shelves, restocked product, and handled the mail. The commercial kitchen stood idle—in season, the jam-maker
takes it over on Thursdays, perfuming the entire village with sweet berry scents. Right now, she was peddling her wares and soaking up rays in Arizona. She'd sent me a bag of prickly pear cactus candy, wondering if we'd like to carry it—and true to our mission, I told her if she could make it out of our high plains cactus, you bet.

But finally, I could put off deciding what to do about Nick, the alibi, and the Chinese chop no longer.

I didn't share Nick's distrust of Ike Hoover. True, Ike had not solved the crime that mattered most to our family. But he was a good cop, and a good man. And he kept the cold-case file on the shelf behind his desk.

First, I called the state historical society. The chief curator trotted out to the gallery floor and confirmed my suspicions.

I opened the Spreadsheet. Instead of rows and columns, my sister would use lines and arrows and shapes to illustrate the relationships between facts and people. My brother would make notes and specify coordinates.

Why not combine our approaches? I brought up Christine's place on Google Maps. Kim had said the attack likely occurred five to twenty minutes before death. Nick's log put him on the wolf trail at Rainbow Lake starting before sunrise. My call established he was near there when I found Christine. I zoomed out, searching the ridge above the lakeshore for J.D.'s cabin. The road past the cabin was barely visible through the dense tree cover, but I made out the turnaround where it ended. Clicked on the place mark icon, dragged it into place, and added a label. Could Nick have attacked Christine, fled, and gotten back to the turnaround so quickly?

Pretty tight.

Why did he not see that he had to show Ike and Kim the logbook—or continue living under their suspicions? Chances were they'd find out about it sooner or later, and sooner was better.

Next on the list: Sally. She'd left the village Saturday
at ten thirty, according to the crochet lady, and reached Pondera well before noon. Stayed there all afternoon. She was off the map, and off my list.

Jack Frost. I'd all but crossed him off for lack of motive. Kim discounted motive in favor of evidence. But I didn't have any evidence tying Frost to Christine's killing. Did she?

What if I went back out to interview his neighbors, tracked down his plowing customers, tried to pinpoint his movements? No doubt Kim already had.

Zayda. Her behavior at the scene baffled me. She insisted she'd simply arrived early, gone in, then changed her mind and decided to wait outside. From what I'd observed at the scene, her shock at Christine's injuries had been real.

Both her mother and her boyfriend were as puzzled as I was.

Acting out of character raises questions. But I didn't know her or her character well enough to put those questions into words.

I labeled Christine's place, and dropped another marker at the Georges' house, barely a mile away.

Sat back and stared at map and spreadsheet. Ran through my decision tree yet again. With Adam away—and not so keen on me playing Nancy Drew—and Chiara holed up in her studio, there was no one to bounce my ideas off. I could pout about that, or trust myself.

Sorry, Nick
.

*   *   *

K
im's big rig,
TIMBERLAKE
COUNTY
SHERIFF
emblazoned on the side panels, stood near the door to the sheriff's satellite office, tucked in an unused space behind the fire department headquarters.

Maroon 5 blared through my car speakers, the lead singer holding on to those notes longer than seemed possible. I'd closed the shop early, certain I knew what to do,
but now that I stood, metaphorically, on the threshold of betraying my family in order to save it, I couldn't do it.

So I did what a good chicken always does.

I crossed the road.

And kept on going. Drove north out of town, then east, winding along the base of the mountains. Jason says a Murphy is incapable of driving a straight line anywhere. We detour down
this
road, take
that
one to see what's there. We stop for historic sites, and drag our friends past personal landmarks. My mother says it's a good trait; it's how she met my father.

Without realizing where I was headed, I found myself in the Jewel Basin, on the same road Adam and I had driven last Sunday.

Adam. My heart sank. Had my pride derailed another chance?

The entries in Nick's logbook confirmed that he was watching packs in the Jewel as well as near Rainbow Lake. Did it matter? He knew, I knew, and Kim knew he hadn't been up here despite what he'd said.

The road led on for miles, curving through drainages and climbing to a popular trailhead. From there, a hiker could plunge into the wilderness or take day hikes into the clear blue alpine lakes—frigid even in August—that dot our rugged mountains. This time of year, even all-wheel drive would only take me so far.

“This is pointless,” I said to no one. “Go back before you get stuck.”

Even if Kim didn't have the phone records proving that he hadn't been up here when I called, or if Phyl hadn't reported seeing Nick on Rainbow Lake Road, my map project proved his lie wouldn't have protected him. None of his observation sites were far enough from Christine's place.

“That's it,” I said out loud. The road was getting slicker by the second and I forced myself to relax my grip on the
wheel. “I'm telling her everything I know. I don't care what Nick says.” He was digging himself a hole as big as a wolf den, with no chance of escape.

On the way back, I took a different route. True to my family in that regard, at least.

Dense tree cover on this stretch, and I drove on alert, keenly aware that deer and elk would be on the move as twilight fell. Keenly aware, too, that I had a party to throw in not very long, and wasn't dressed for the occasion.

Few people live out here, almost none in February, but instinctively I glanced down each road and driveway, an eye out for other drivers who assumed they too were alone on these roads. On the third road, a woman ran. Jogging in this weather?

I backed up and the figure sprinted toward me. No coat or hat. She stopped ten yards from the Subaru and bent over, bare hands on her knees, panting. Her breath exploded in the air.

“Zayda?” I got out and stood by my car, struck by the sense that she'd bolt if I weren't careful.

She took a few steps toward me, clutching her stomach.

The hell with caution
. I grabbed a spare fleece jacket from my car and dashed toward her. Wrapped it around her shoulders and ushered her into the passenger seat. Blasted the heat. Her teeth chattered.

“Stomp your feet.” I wriggled out of my own puffy purple coat and wrapped it around her legs. Handed her my gloves, her fingers so stiff I had to tug them on for her.

“Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.” Probably not high on the list of hypothermia prevention tips, but it would calm her.

I dug under my seat for a water bottle. “What happened? What are you doing out here?” Miles from home. Even a track star like Zayda would not run far in this weather not properly dressed.

And then I realized where we were. At the end of Larry Abrams's driveway.

“Zayda, what happened? Are you hurt?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Shook it violently.

Without saying a word, she protesteth too much.

I locked her in and headed down the long lane. Dylan had said other kids were giving her a hard time. More of that? “What are you doing out here anyway?”

“Nothing. I just had to talk—details for the Festival.”

By the time I reached her red SUV, her breath had returned to normal and I thought the worst had passed. No other vehicles except Larry's white Cadillac stood in front of the cavernous log home. “Are you sure nothing happened? Nothing you need to tell anyone?”

“You can't call the police. Don't call the police.” She clutched the door handle, ready to run.

“Oh-kaaay.” Why would I call the police? “If you say you're okay . . . Keep the sweater for now.”

She started her car and I followed her out, driving in tandem toward town. She turned on her road and I kept going.

Places to go, secrets to spill.