Butter Off Dead (7 page)

Today, though, gray clouds hid the mountains and an ominous gloom shrouded the water.

“She was the force behind the Festival,” I said, a warm buttered scone in hand. “I hope I can figure out what all needs to be done.”

“Do you have to take over?” Adam said through a mouthful.

“Who else? Wendy's in charge of food, Mimi tickets, and Chiara publicity. All I have to do is wait for the movies to get here and make sure everyone does what they said they'd do.”

“Just seems like you do a lot you don't get credit for.”

His words hit home, and I didn't like it. “It's not about getting credit. And it's too late to recruit another volunteer. Easier to do it myself.”

“Don't get mad. But this time, you can't say it's for the good of the town and the Merc. A midwinter festival is not going to boost business much, no matter how good the popcorn seasonings are.”

“But it
is
for the good of the town. Building community. Having fun.” In truth, I'd gotten tired of taking on tasks for the benefit of other merchants, who too often forgot to say thanks, or who griped at me when something went wrong. “Good-idea fairies” who piped up at the last minute with some harebrained notion they thought was wonderful and couldn't understand why it wouldn't work or was too late. “Besides, most of the work is done. And Larry and the kids can help.”

Except that one of those kids might be under arrest, for all I knew.

“Mmm-hmm.” Adam sipped coffee and changed the subject. “I've been thinking about that solar coffee roaster. It's got potential for a heckuva business.” He reached for my hand.

I knew what he had in mind. A business we could build together. Combine my food and business savvy with his inventiveness and mechanical know-how. And our shared love of coffee.

Christine was dead, and I did not want to talk about our future.

“Need a refill?” I stood abruptly. I half wished the Merc weren't closed on Sunday, so I'd have somewhere to go.

Because for once, my own log cabin, my much adored, lovingly restored little cabin in the big woods, felt a touch uncomfortable.

M
y mother always says when you don't feel the way you want to, act as if you do, and before you know it, your mood will shift. Sounds crazy at first, but it works.

And this was the perfect time to act “as if.”

“He's not answering,” I told Adam, “and Mom hasn't seen him. You gotta leave Nick alone sometimes. He's always been that way.”

Adam piled my cross-country gear in the back of his dirty black Xterra and shut the hatch. The gear of the season only leaves his car when he's using it. We'd separated the cats, leaving Pumpkin access to the crate if she felt the need. I wished, again, that the deputy had let me take a sweater or a T-shirt of Christine's so the cat could comfort herself with the scent. But, no. “Could be evidence, ma'am,” he'd said. Heck, the cat could be evidence, but after she clawed him, he was all too thrilled to be rid of her.

“Let's stop at the Playhouse,” I said as Adam pulled onto the highway. “Kim told me they'd give me Christine's three-ring binder with all the Festival details in a day or
two, but I can't wait. I need a copy of the schedule she and Larry made. One should be posted somewhere.”

“Sure.” He reached for my hand and this time, I didn't pull away.

I had temporary custody of Playhouse keys and let myself in the front door. The lobby was dark, though sounds echoed somewhere in the building. A movie playing? More tests of the new equipment?

I found a schedule taped to the ticket office wall and peeled it off. It was an old one, still showing the documentary on Friday night, but it would have to do. While the copier warmed up, I stepped back into the lobby to scope it out with my “woman in charge” eyes.

The control room door stood ajar. A mix of voices, live and recorded, drifted out.

“You promised. You said if I—” Zayda George, her words obscured by the goose-like honk of an old-time car horn. Screening the documentary one more time?

A male replied. “But you didn't.”

She interrupted. “I tried. It—”

It was impossible to hear, and anyway, Zayda's spat with her boyfriend had nothing to do with me.

Buffet tables along that wall. Drinks at the concession booth. Film Club display there.
Most of Larry's posters would hang on the walls, where signs commemorating past years' productions now hung, but a few key pieces on easels would set the mood.
Where? Good visibility, but out of the way.
Pondering, pointing, talking to myself, I focused on the space.

And backed smack into Dylan Washington, coming out of the men's room.

“Oh, Erin. Hi.” His cheeks pinked and he hurriedly finished zipping his fly.

Footsteps clomped across the lobby floor. “You won't believe—” Zayda broke off mid-rant.

So she hadn't been arguing with Dylan. Then who?

“How are you, Zayda? I hope Kim—Detective Caldwell—wasn't too hard on you yesterday.”

A shadow crossed her face. “Everything I told her is the truth. I didn't have anything to do with—with what happened to Christine.”

“It would be easier for her to believe you, if you'd told the truth from the start.”

“I knew you wouldn't understand.” She dashed past us and disappeared into the women's room, the door ka-thumping on its hinges.

Strange to be the adult now, part of the generation that doesn't understand.

Dylan watched her go, mouth open, his eyes hurt and confused. “I thought I understood her,” he said, his voice catching, “but not anymore.”

*   *   *

T
wenty-eight degrees and four inches of new powder overnight. The Nordic trails had been freshly groomed, and we fairly flew down them.

I always say my favorite part about winter sports is the hot buttered rum by the fireplace afterward, and that's half-true. But the sensation of gliding through the frozen world is addictive. Whether it's for the endorphins, the muscle movement, or the opportunity to commune with the lesser-seen side of nature, I keep coming out here, winter after winter.

And when all your parts are moving in sync, keeping you warm and upright as you sail through the woods, it's hard to worry about everything that's wrong.

Cross-country skiing is a lot less work than traipsing up hill and over dale on snowshoes. No wonder Nick the Wolf Man is in such great shape.

I was behind Adam on our last loop through the woods, admiring his great shape, when he glanced over his shoulder to shoot me a goofy grin.

And caught a tip and bounded over his skis. His head
disappeared from view, poles flapping like the wings of a drunken bird, and he did a flying somersault. The air froze in my throat as he descended, dangerously close to the broad trunk of an old-growth ponderosa pine. I could not see him land, my vision obscured by a geyser of snow.

The air cleared. One ski had landed in the trail, facing the direction we'd come. The other stuck out of a drift, beside his maroon-and-gray knit hat. Our college colors.

“Adam!” I urged myself forward on the trail, then tugged off my skis and plowed toward him. One mitten appeared, then one sleeve, and another. A bellow broke the quiet hush, and two arms gathered me into the downy drift.

It is possible to make a double snow angel.

“You scared the bejeebers out of me when you flew off the trail,” I said a few minutes later, tossing my ski boots in the back of his rig.

“Scared myself,” he admitted. “Not ready to die crashing into a tree trunk.”

We'd driven a mile or two from the trailhead when I said, “That retired newscaster and her husband have a house up here somewhere. They came to the Festa last summer, and their housekeeper shops at the Merc.”

“That road. Go left, then back in a ways,” he said. At my surprise, he explained. “I asked for a donation to the Wilderness Camp and they invited me out to hear more. Nice people, great house, big check. Your lighting director, Larry Abrams, lives down that way.” He pointed to another road.

“You get around.”

“A bit. Nice guy, generous. But, funny. Odd funny. Place is built of logs salvaged from old barns and cabins, and I swear, he knows where every wall came from. Hand-forged hardware—replicas that function with a modern security system. The place is huge, but I guess he needs all that space for his collections.”

“What collections, besides the movie posters?”

“All kinds of stuff. I guess he's on museum boards all
over the state. Even I recognized some of the art. A giant Chatham over the fireplace. Amazing.”

Russell Chatham, famous for multilayered lithos and oils that capture the changing moods of the Yellowstone River bottoms. “What else?”

“Horse paintings. Cowboys and Indians. And who's that guy—painted a lot of teepees? Your mother has a watercolor.”

“Ace Powell. Wow. And here I thought he was just a quirky guy obsessed with reliving his childhood.” But talking about Larry reminded me of Christine, and that dimmed the glow of the afternoon.

“His office is jammed—artifacts and old stuff everywhere. He's crazy for Russell.” Adam turned down the Stage Road, taking the back way into the village.

Charles M. Russell, aka Charlie Russell or CMR. The most famous Montana artist, deeply admired for his chronicle of the Old West. Before homesteaders plowed up the cattle range and the horseless carriage chased the pinto and the paint into obscurity.

Adam started up the driveway of a buddy's house and a bevy of colored plastic sleds flew down the hill. “He's got this Chinese gong—”

“Is that Landon? What are we doing here?”

He parked behind my sister and brother-in-law's rig. “Don't you remember? Friday night? I said we'd stop by today if we came out this way.”

What else had I forgotten, in the shock of yesterday's discovery?

Four couples, half a dozen kids, three dogs, and fresh powder: all the ingredients for delicious chaos.

“Froster time!” Adam's buddy, the homeowner, called, and chaos erupted. Jason helped Landon and the other kids make a snow castle in the yard, all wearing shorts or swim trunks and snow boots. The homeowner manned the snow-covered grill. Adam stripped to his shorts and boots, and
struck a sunbathing pose in a lounge chair while Chiara did sun salutations on the deck in a borrowed bathing suit.

I kept my clothes on and snapped pictures. Someone had to record the insanity, even if it was temporary.

“Nothing cheers me up like making a total idiot of myself.” Adam flashed me that lopsided grin that makes me melt, and we all dashed inside. Robes and blankets were found and cocoa poured, while chili bubbled on the stove.

Who can stay grouched up surrounded by silliness? Frosting, a trend that sweeps snowy regions every year or two, is the essence of acting “as if”: acting as if the weather is so great, why wouldn't you be outside in next to nothing?

I sipped my cocoa and watched Landon. He'd grown so much the last few months. Not just taller, but even sweeter and more thoughtful.

The past year's sadness weighed heavily on me as the anniversary of my dad's death approached. Après–ski and frosting, I did feel lighter. But as I sank into the soft maroon leather couch in our friends' living room, my mood dipped, too. Did anyone here but me care that Christine was dead? Laughter felt a touch like betrayal.

Who had killed her? Surely not Zayda. Not anyone I knew.

Dangerous thinking, Erin. You know you never know
.

Adam leaned over the back of the couch and whispered in my ear. “Relax. Let Ike and Kim do their job.”

Across the room, my sister watched us. Her heart-shaped face so much like my own, her dark eyes framed in straight dark hair that brushed her collarbone, said the same thing.

But I wasn't sure my acting skills were up to it.

M
y family's big on tradition. On food, talk, and the Sunday gathering at the Orchard.

Call it the training ground for acting “as if.”

“You don't have to go to your mother's house every Sunday, you know,” Adam said as we pulled up next to my cabin.

“You know my mother.”

“Maybe it's time she realizes she's not always going to be the center of your universe.”

“It's not like that.” Or was it? My mother and sister seemed to have reached an agreement: Chiara participated willingly in family traditions, and Fresca left her room to create her own. Nick's travels earned him a pass, but short of a crisis at the shop or a virus in the contagious stage, I felt an obligation to appear every Sunday. Close friends popped in when they were around. “Christine was practically a member of the family. I want to go to the Orchard tonight. But you don't have to come.”

“If it's important to you, it's important to me. Besides,
it's my last chance to see you this week.” Time for his recertification course in wilderness medicine. The field had grown far beyond splinting a broken arm with tree branches, and as camp director, he was responsible for training counselors as well as treating sick and injured kids.

Forty-five minutes later, we joined the gathering in my mother's living room. The Persian rug smelled of spot remover where Chiara and I had worked on the huckleberry spill, now a faint lavender.

“That's your favorite
soppressata
on the antipasto platter,” Fresca told Adam as we hung up our coats and slipped off our boots. “Dig in. The lasagna's in the oven.”

Beside me, Adam groaned. He adores Fresca's cooking. I'd never seriously imagined that he'd stay home tonight, if for no other reason.

Nick stood by the fireplace, nursing a glass of Chianti. It's impossible not to think of my father when I see my brother. The three of us mix and match our parents' genes. Other than our eyes—a blue-eyed boy and two brown-eyed girls—we're clearly peas in a pod, with Dad's fair Irish skin and Mom's straight hair, so dark brown it's nearly black. Nick puts Dad's height and athleticism to work in the wilderness, though, instead of in the orchard or with a ball.

The familiar blue eyes were downcast now, the strong shoulders sagging. A man in mourning, for a woman and possibilities.

Chiara sat on the couch, listening to Heidi's tales of the winter gift show in Las Vegas. I poured myself Chianti from the bottle on the side table, extra careful of the glass—a clear bowl above a stem of stacked colored marbles. Adam, who'd detoured to the kitchen for a beer, whispered in my ear. “Bill made Caesar salad and Chiara brought chocolate mousse.”

Such a romantic.

From the back of the house came sounds of Landon and Jason rattling lightsabers.

My mother slid her arm around my waist and kissed my cheek. A sign that my transgression with the martini glass was forgiven?

“Nick, darling,” she said. “We should plan a service for Christine.”

“She hated funerals. She'd rather celebrate life.”

“A party, then. To celebrate her life.”

“What's happening to the Film Festival?” Heidi asked. “Her big deal, wasn't it?”

I smiled wryly and raised a hand.

My mother frowned. “You wanted to focus on the Merc this winter. And take time for yourself.”

Nothing changes plans quite like murder.

“And the property?” Heidi continued.

We all looked at Nick. “Her cousin, I guess. Back in Vermont.”

“Odd that Iggy left everything to Christine, instead of her own relatives.” Heidi twirled her Prosecco, the diamonds wrapped around her left wrist sparkling. She is a Sunday regular at the Orchard, except when the boyfriend of the day has other plans. The last guy had taken off to sail the Caribbean the day after Thanksgiving and had not returned to Jewel Bay.

Fresca settled into a bentwood maple chair, her Chianti complementing the deep red florals in the upholstery. “Well, what would you do if Sally Grimes were your only living relative?”

“Sally? Is related to Iggy?” I said. Petite, stylish, ancient Iggy, oil painter, art collector, chocolate truffle connoisseur. And Sally, sour, peevish protester of progress.

“Iggy's late husband was Sally's first cousin, twice removed,” Fresca said. Before I could ask what that removal stuff means, Chiara said, “That's Greek, Mom,” and Bill, lawyer-turned-herbalist, explained. “It's not complicated,” he said. “It simply means two generations further removed from the common ancestor. David Ring and Sally's grandmother
were first cousins. Twice removed means Sally is two generations younger.”

“Wouldn't that make them third cousins?” I asked.

“No. If David and Iggy had grandchildren, they would be Sally's third cousins. Same generation of descent, even if they weren't the same age.”

“Wonder why they never had children,” Chiara said.

“They had a son,” Fresca said, and my sister and I stared in astonishment. “He was killed in Vietnam. David never got over it. He'd been a strong man, a forester. But he lost the will to live. He died a few years later.”

“But she soldiered on,” I said.

Fresca glanced at Nick, who was listening with sorrowful eyes. “You don't believe it yet, darling. But the world goes on.”

I'd known Iggy Ring all my life, but had never given any thought to her family or her heartache. Nor, I realized, to Sally's. Shame on me.

“Wasn't Christine some kind of relative of Iggy's, too?” Chiara said.

“No,” Nick said. “Iggy—Louise was her real name—and Christine's grandmother grew up together, back east. David was a Montana boy. They met when he went to forestry school at Yale. Christine's parents were killed when she was eight, and her grandmother raised her. She grew up hearing stories about Montana, so after college, she came out to work in Glacier for a summer. She and Iggy hit it off, and sort of adopted each other.”

“What about Sally?” Time to make up for lost curiosity.

“She's local,” Fresca said. “Married a man from Pondera. Sad case.”

Nick interrupted, his words rushed, his tone raw. “They've got her place all roped off. They wouldn't let me in. I know it's a crime scene, but . . .”

Fresca's fingertips brushed his arm.

“Why would Zayda George shoot her?” Chiara said. “Bad blood?”

Nick swallowed hard, regaining composure. “More likely, it was Jack Frost. He hates progress. Foamed at the mouth over her talk about cleaning up the neighborhood.”

“You'd think a guy who's got all those hubcaps and fenders lying around would love a neighbor who puts a welded horse sculpture in her backyard. He's sitting on an artist's gold mine.” Trust Chiara, artist and art dealer, to think of that.

“Protecting his crops,” Adam said. Heads turned and he spread his hands innocently. “Hey, I hear things.”

Frost certainly hadn't liked seeing all those deputies yesterday afternoon. A cash crop would be one good reason.

“I got you, Auntie!” Landon leaped into view, brandishing a duct tape and cardboard tube lightsaber. I sank to my knees, clutching my chest with one hand, raising the wineglass above the fray. Chiara plucked it deftly from my fingers. “Noni, the Jedi win!”

“Jedi should wash their hands for dinner,” my mother said, rising and leading her grandson out of the living room.

“Strangest thing last night,” Chiara said as I reclaimed my wine. “We were testing martinis in those handblown glasses. I clinked too hard on the toast and Erin's glass broke. Mom flipped her lid. Did she and Dad buy those in Italy?”

Heidi shook her head. “We found them in a shop in Pondera. I was scouting the competition, and Fresca was my cover. They reminded her of her first date with your dad, and she had to have them.”

I sat back on my heels and sipped. So the glasses were recent acquisitions, not souvenirs from her Grand Tour of Europe. The tour that ended in Florence where my California-born mother met my Montana-born father, then a student at Gonzaga University's Italian campus. That made her reaction all the more curious.

“Noni says time for dinner,” Landon called from the doorway. “Uncle, you can sit by me. You'll feel better.”

Nick scooped up Landon, who raised a hand to brush the ceiling. “I feel better already.”

We wouldn't truly feel better until the killer was caught.
You're not investigating
, I told myself.
Not this time
. Tragic as it was, Christine's death had nothing to do with my shop. Too soon to tell if it might harm the reputation of our village, so dependent on showing tourists a good time.

But it gave me every reason to worry about my family.

Halfway into my lasagna, I hit on a solution to the problem nagging me. “Big brother, time to collect on my Christmas present. If the wolves will let you.”

He squinted, obviously having forgotten his offer to work on the building.

“Loose ceiling tiles. Basement shelving to assemble. And the back hall hasn't been painted since Richard Nixon was president.” My mother shot me a glance that said she grasped my dual purpose: Keep him busy, where we could keep an eye on him, while checking a few projects off the list.

“Yeah, sure,” he said absently. “Whatever you need.”

“Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock.” My brother would be my handyman, and I would be his keeper.