Death Al Dente (12 page)

And she hadn't even started cooking yet.

I glanced at the knife block. All accounted for. I grabbed the whiteboard and marker, scribbled,
FRESH GARDEN SAUCE—DEMO TODAY
, and propped it on an easel. Demos are a great enticement. And a great appetite whetter. I popped a frosty Pellegrino Arunciata—love that sweet-tart orange flavor—and headed next door to check out Wendy's lunch specials. The call of the wild quiche quickened my step.

No quiche today, and the spinach and three-cheese croissants had sold out. As Wendy readied my prosciutto Caprese panini—with fresh buffalo mozzarella—for the press, I considered my approach. You never know what will raise her hackles.

“Your grandmother lives—lived—near Claudette, doesn't she? I hope she's not too upset by the . . .” I hesitated over the ugly word.

“The murder?” Wendy wiped her bread knife clean. “Of her next-door neighbor, who watched out for her? Who was sweet and generous to everyone? She's terrified. Plus the sheriff's been crawling all over the place, and God knows who else.”

Me, for one.

“She can hardly sleep.” Wendy's voice cracked. “And to think—oh, never mind.”

“Wendy, never mind what?”

The panini press buzzed and she whipped around, busying herself wrapping my sandwich. She thrust the bag at me.

“Wendy, if you know something about the murder, tell me. Or tell Kim.”

“Butt out, Erin. You don't know what you're asking.” She shot me daggers, then stalked away into the floury recesses of Le Panier.

No, I sure didn't. And it didn't seem like Wendy Taylor Fontaine was going to help me figure that out anytime soon.

Not until I was back inside the Merc did I realize I hadn't asked her about restaurants.

* * *

I
grabbed the latest issue of
Entrepreneur
and took my lunch to the courtyard. I'd gotten halfway through—Wendy makes a wicked panini—and deep into an article on motivating your sales force when Liz called “Hello!” and stepped into my dusty oasis. In forest green knit pants and an orange, yellow, and green print top, she provided much-needed color to the dreary place.

Hands on her hips, she surveyed the landscape. “What's your budget?” I tried not to look freaked out. “Don't worry,” she said in a reassuring tone. “We'll work the same kind of magic out here as you've created inside.”

“I hadn't planned on a courtyard project this year, but after the Festa, the place is begging for a boost.”

She nodded, her dark bob barely moving. “Let's start with a cleansing. Then we'll have a better sense of the energies we're facing.”

Ideas that sound whacky off other tongues seem perfectly reasonable when Liz suggests them. When I moved into the cabin, she'd smudged it thoroughly, and oriented me to the feng shui quadrants in the space. Now she extracted a sage and sweetgrass braid from her bag and lit it. What a smell—sweet, pungent, and wild, like a prairie fire without the danger.

Slowly, we walked the perimeter, pausing at each corner to fan the smoke. At the gate between our place and Red's, she took an extra moment, muttering an incantation. I latched the gate. Why had Ted come into the Merc this way? Why had he been in the Merc at all?

When we reached our back gate, Liz's prayer grew longer and louder. “Hang something red here,” she said. “To enhance the fire energy.”

All I could offer was a leftover geranium, in a heavy wire hanger.

“This will do for now,” she said, “but look for something else—a fire symbol, or a human or animal shape, in a shade of red. Until then, water it every day. Can't have dead things in your fame and reputation corner.”

Certainly not.

I couldn't keep myself from glancing down the alley.

“Show me where you found her,” Liz said. Chilled in the bright sunshine, hand trembling, I pointed. Liz waved her smudging stick in the four directions, then lifted it to the sky and lowered it toward the ground.

The sharp odor brought a sense of peace.

Peace and determination.

* * *

A
fter Liz left, I checked on my mother. Rich tomatoey smells punctuated with garlic and fennel filled the place. As usual, when she was in “creative chef” mode, I had to call her name three times and rap a wooden spoon on the counter before she noticed me. Whatever had upset her earlier didn't seem to be bothering her now.

What a relief. We talked briefly about dishes for the funeral lunch and I headed into the shop. As always, the sight made my heart pulse an extra beat.

The memorial sign for Claudette would stay up until after the service. Meanwhile, I replaced the plant with a vase of Jo and Phyl's fresh flowers. Stimulate that feng shui.

I make a big deal of “buy local,” and I do mean it. But you just can't get everything you need in Jewel Bay. Brain-tanned doeskin jackets, check. Montana sapphire earrings, check. Socks and underwear, get thee to Pondera. I see no reason to give my money to the chain grocery store in town when I can give less of it to a chain store in the next town for the same items. After all, a community like ours draws from the entire region, so I try to support the region. Plus I strolled into SavClub in Pondera with the Merc's shopping list in my pocket, so I told myself I was here on business.

Or maybe it was all an elaborate ruse to treat myself to a berry smoothie and stock up on imported cheese at a great price.

A visit to SavClub is a bit like old home week. As a buyer, I'd been headquarters staff, but I'd also worked two shifts a month in a store in the Seattle area. These days, a trip can take hours as I study new products and spy out changes. Helps me stay current, too—nobody spots the trends, knows its customers, or solves problems like SavClub.

No time for that today. I loaded up on supplies for home and shop, and picked out a few new wines to try. En route to the paper products, I paused to marvel at a Father's Day display of gourmet cookies and candy—a gaping hole in our product line. We really needed some primo chocolates—truffles, toffee, bark.

A runaway cart crashed into mine, scooting it sideways, followed by a string of loud curses. “Well, if it isn't Miss Buy Local, sneaking in a trip to the big city.”

“Hello, Linda.” I pointed to the case of tissue in my cart. “Nobody in Jewel Bay makes TP.” I glanced at her cart—everyone does it—then stifled my surprise. Bags of powdered sugar and candy sprinkles, along with plastic buckets of chocolate clusters and chocolate-covered peppermints. Had she been trying to pass commercial chocolates off as handmade? Or dust them with sugar and cocoa powder and claim full credit?

Anyone willing to commit such a sin could easily be a killer.

She sniffed, grabbed her cart, and sashayed off, her plush fanny swinging like a pendulum. She must buy her clothes in the one-size-too-small shop, where pockets are outlawed. A straw hobo bag hung off one arm. I tried to picture her Friday night. She'd carried a bag—one of those teensy beaded things just big enough for a lipstick and a tissue.

Nowhere to hide a knife. I piled cases of San Pellegrino in my cart and conjured up an image of Dean in his Elvis suit. No extra room there, either.

It was a serious question. Kim had considered the Merc's kitchen knives, but the weapon could have been much smaller. How long a blade would be lethal? Would it depend on the victim's size—tiny Claudette, or paunchy Ted?

I scooped up a jar of mixed nuts with extra cashews—an occasional indulgence—then remembered 9 volt batteries for the smoke alarms. And there on the end cap was a display of folding knives. Some had three-inch blades, some four, sealed inside clear plastic. A stainless steel clip could slide over a waistband or a pants pocket.

“If you want to try one,” a male customer said to me, “go to Sporty's. Heck, you can even find these in the drugstore, though the price is better here.”

Dean's office was next to Jewel Bay Drug. Everyone in town shopped there at one time or another—Angelo, Fresca, Tracy.

Even me.

I
walked into the Merc cautiously this time. The kitchen stood empty. I'd just deposited the last box on the counter when Fresca dashed in, clutching her phone.

“What do you think you're doing?”

Therapists say no one can make you feel bad without your permission, but they're obviously forgetting about mothers.

“You've been interrogating people,” she continued. “Asking questions about me and Claudette and this—this tragedy.”

“Well, you're not doing anything to defend yourself.”

“I don't need to defend myself. I need you to stop interfering.”

“Kim Caldwell's rattling her handcuffs in your ear, and you still think she's a harmless teenager who'll come to her senses any minute now. Smell the coffee, Mom. It's burning.”

Something was burning, and it was the look in her eyes. No, it was the pan on the stove, smoking. I grabbed an oven mitt, tossed the pan into the sink, and turned off the flame.

My mother had disappeared.

This is why I hate small towns. Why I couldn't wait to leave when I graduated, why Nick preferred wolves. And why Chiara had lit out for San Francisco, though she and Jason had responded to Jewel Bay's siren call when Landon came along.

Another word for small is microscopic. As in, under the microscope. Under scrutiny. Underfoot and under eyes. They see all, they know all, they tell all.

And even when you're thirty-two, they can't wait to tell your mother.

* * *

F
resca had fled the building, leaving her phone on the kitchen counter. Her Volvo was not in its usual spot. Worry and anger warred in my brain, and in my gut.

The killer was still out there. How could she be so blind to danger?

Out front, Tracy sat behind the cash register, reading the weekly paper, Diet Coke at hand. I wanted to crush the can.

Watch out, Erin. You are not fit for human company.
I retreated to the office, swiveling my secondhand Aeron chair like the rusty Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair. I'd begged my dad to let me ride, then thrown up all over him. Which I felt like doing right now.

All that hard work, and everything was crashing down.

“You don't have to do this,” I said out loud. “You didn't create the problem and you don't have to solve it. You don't have to rescue her, and you don't have to rescue this shop. You can go home, grab Mr. Sandburg, and ride off into the sunset.”

My laptop sat on the desk and I punched it to life. Figures—the first icon I spotted was our mission statement, and next to it, the vendor list.

I'd wanted to be the center of the wheel, not just another cog. But the spokes depend on the center. It must hold. If I walked away, the Merc would fail. Maybe I couldn't keep my mother out of jail, but I had to try. And I had to keep the Merc up and running, and keep Tracy, Jo and Phyl, and all the other vendors in the game, too.

Dang. I could really use a pound of huckleberry truffles right now.

Lacking good chocolate, I needed a plan. First, find the real killer. I thought about
Law and Order
, and
Homicide
. Sure, they were made up, but TV writers understood what cops really did, didn't they? Kept paid consultants on staff, even. And the true crime shows, like
Dateline
and
48 Hours
—who hadn't seen a few reruns, on sleepless nights? Or
America's Most Wanted
.

Dean Vincent, local bone cracker and Elvis Impersonator, hardly seemed to fit the killer mold, although Ted seemed convinced of his guilt, too. But didn't those shows prove that you never knew the killer next door?

I created a spreadsheet with a list of names and columns for motive, opportunity, means. I saw what the initial letters spelled, and reversed the last two labels. Dean first, then Linda. Motive, easy. Means? Kim's questions made a knife most likely, though I couldn't rule out a shooting. Consider everyone and everything, then narrow it down—isn't that what Mark Harmon or Mariska Hargitay would do? If they were real and working homicide in Jewel Bay.

Dean didn't seem like the hunting type, but looks are deceiving. And plenty of men and women own guns for protection, especially if they live in the country or hike a lot. Though I still thought we'd have heard a bang if Claudette had been shot.

Who else had Claudette dated? Any killers lurking in those shadows? Who could I ask, besides my mother? Why was I coming up with more questions than answers?

Next column, opportunity. Which really meant:
Could they have been in Back Street at 6 p.m. last Friday night?

I had provided the killer's opening, by bringing all these people together and inviting Claudette. But I hadn't pulled the trigger or thrust the hilt or whatever had happened.
Shake it off, Erin. Shake it off.

I closed my eyes and tried to visualize all the people I'd seen come in the back gate. Gordy Springer, the pharmacist, who'd stayed with the body till the paramedics came. He'd come solo—his wife, an antiques dealer, had gone to a show in Missoula.

The musicians had been in and out for a good thirty minutes. What about Sam and Jennifer? Jen and Claudette had clashed big-time, and I'd had to work hard, offering business advice and my sister's design services, to calm Jen down. Murder, over that? Too ridiculous to contemplate. I input her name anyway. For all I knew, she could be an escaped serial killer hiding in plain sight.

Talk about ridiculous. But the real point stuck out: Perfectly pleasant people have secrets they'd rather not expose. Unexpected tensions buzz just beneath seemingly smooth surfaces.

And everyone gets their Jell-O up from time to time.

In all fairness, I had to add Fresca to the list. And myself. People thought I had motive, and the point of this exercise was as much to rule suspects out as to rule them in. Tracy. Ned. According to Kathy at the Dragonfly, Claudette had quit work at Red's abruptly and left Ned in the lurch. His kind heart aside, this was about opportunity. I couldn't believe anyone on my list had killed Claudette deliberately, with malice aforethought—whatever that was.

But in the heat of the moment, maybe.

A new theme emerged. Claudette had made a habit of quitting jobs abruptly. Who else nursed a grudge? I added a note. I love spreadsheets.

Speaking of notes, where was hers? I scribbled Fresca a reminder to look for it.

One by one, I worked my way through the names and columns. What about Jeff? He and Ian made the five-hundred-mile drive—or two-hour flight—from Seattle regularly. Any viable list of suspects should include the spouse. At least on TV. I added him.

The only other person whose whereabouts—now there's a criminal word for you—I felt reasonably sure of was Tracy, who'd been standing next to me before I went out to the alley. And just before that, she'd been scurrying around the courtyard, doing Fresca's bidding.

Where had Fresca been at the key moment? That blank cell on the spreadsheet dared me to find another explanation.

Ned had been right there, too. Or had he? Truth be told, I hadn't paid close attention. We'd each had our tasks, and I'd trusted everyone to get them done.

Finding a killer would be a lot easier if there'd been a stranger in our midst. Someone who didn't belong.

I rubbed my eyes and put the computer to bed. On TV, the killer lurks in the shadows the whole time, where the cops barely notice him, thumbing his nose at justice until all the pieces fall into place, three minutes before the hour.

In real life, no such script.

* * *

I
knew I ought to run my mother's phone out to her house, but I was still too peeved. Later, after we'd cooled off.

Meanwhile, when in doubt, rule everyone out. If that wasn't an official investigator's motto, it ought to be. Maybe I'd suggest it to the Cowdog.

I left the village by the back road and swung by Claudette's house. Jeff sat in the front porch rocker, a beer bottle on Claudette's white wicker table.

“Hey, Jeff. Just wanted to say Fresca will bring a tortellini salad and fruit skewers on Thursday.” Lame opening, but this unobtrusive probing was tricky.

“Thanks. Care for a cold one?”

I shook my head. “So you and Ian were in China? Buying and selling antiques? That must be fascinating.”

“We'd just gotten back to Seattle Thursday night. Thank God this didn't happen earlier. I handle some antiques, some reproductions, working with local craftsmen and small factories. I go over a few times a year. Been great to have Ian traveling with me.”

“I know it isn't really any of my business”—though I'd been acting like it was—“but did Dean Vincent break up your marriage?”

Jeff looked surprised. “No. Claudette and I were never right for each other. The travel didn't help. She knew Dean, of course—our kids were friends, and it's a small town—but I'm sure they didn't get involved until we were through.” His eyes filled and closed. I sensed another presence, and spotted Ian standing at the open window. Bowls and plates filled with food, no doubt brought by friends and neighbors, covered the kitchen counter. How much had Ian heard? Jeff rubbed his eye with his left hand, drawing his fingers down to his square jaw. He opened his eyes slowly, gaze still focused on the past. “Claudette was like a baby bird. No matter how infuriating she could be, you'd never hurt her.”

His description of Claudette was right on, but his conclusion wrong. Someone had hurt her, and I was no closer to knowing who.

But violent crime has many victims. I glanced up. Ian was gone.

* * *

“W
ise men say, only fools rush in . . .” Not a great soundtrack for an impromptu interview of a possible killer, but here I stood, on the sidewalk in front of Dean Vincent's condo. The uncurtained window gave the neighborhood a full frontal view of his living room rehearsal. No question, he had the look—the tucked chin and earnest eyes, and the moves—those famous swiveling hips.

Maybe the King had just needed a decent chiropractor.

“I was in the neighborhood.” Thinking up excuses to drop in on people is tough. “Hope I'm not interrupting.”

Dean smoothed his hands over his royal blue hip-hugger bell bottoms, the shirt open way too far. “Rehearsals go better in costume. It sets the mood.”

“You must have loved Vegas.” The living room looked like a designer's sketch for a casino hotel lobby, circa 1970: a sleek black leather banquette-style couch, a pair of chrome chairs upholstered in white leather, a zebra-patterned shag rug beneath a glass-topped table. The only things missing were neon lights and a lava lamp. “Bet it was hard to come back.”

He raked a hand through his gelled hair, not quite as rakish as Elvis's. “We all need a break now and then. I'm lucky to have my work and my art.”

Art. I supposed so, in a certain light. “So you didn't intend to leave Jewel Bay? To give up your practice?”

“Heck, no.” He sank onto the couch and waved me toward a chair.

Surprisingly comfy. “Where'd you find this furniture?”

“Vintage, mostly. Linda and I collected it over the years.” He reddened at the mention of his not-exactly-ex wife.

“From the looks of things, I'm guessing you'll be moving it all back to her house soon.”

What was that line about building dreams on suspicious minds?

“Did we all misunderstand Claudette? We thought you two made a permanent escape.”

His hands twitched reflexively. “Claudette believed what she wanted. Don't get me wrong—she was great.” A bead of sweat dripped down his cheek, and not from exercise.

“But?”

He shrugged. “As I said, magical thinking. She blew it all out of proportion.”

In other words, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

“Did Claudette tell you I'd invited her to the Festa dinner?”

“That's why she was there? I thought maybe—” He interrupted himself, then stood. “You should leave now, Erin.”

“What did you think?” He had the pout, without the sex appeal. “That she intended to harangue you in front of your wife, and the whole town? Does that sound like her?” The sound system—karaoke with costumes—started a new tune.
“Don't be cruel, to a heart that's true.”

He looked lower than an ant's belly, as my grandfather Murphy would have said. Maybe Dean and Claudette had a real connection after all. “No. She could be a drama queen, and she was angry enough that she wouldn't have minded embarrassing me. But she would never deliberately humiliate herself in public.”

True enough. “You and Linda arrived together?” He nodded. “Which way did you come in?”

“Which way did we come in? Through Red's front door. We got lucky and found a parking spot out front. I told the detective all this.” He shut the door firmly behind me. The music stopped and started up again.
“Love me tender.”
Yeah, right.

Of course, no reason they couldn't have been using each other. He for a break from his marriage, and she for adventure, in a life lacking direction. Still, I did not believe she had meant to hurt anyone—least of all my mother,—with her abrupt departure, or the supposed rumors.

And you, Dean Vincent. You ain't nothing but a hound dog. I'd love to see you make that jailhouse rock.

* * *

T
he Pinskys' covered deck is as near to paradise as you can get with a roof overhead. I leaned on the rail and gazed over the landscape below, lush with native shrubs. Across the lake, the Salish hills formed a pattern against the sky, each ridge a layer of slightly deeper blue, though up close, they were a mosaic in green. Light and distance change everything.

The crisp, citrus-y wine tasted like sailing. When all this was over—whatever this was—I'd cajole Bob into taking me out for a day on the water. I had a hunch Adam Zimmerman would be up for any outdoor adventure. And a lot more fun than that hunky-but-snooty Rick Bergstrom. Liz patted the spot next to her on the love seat, its burnished aluminum frame vaguely old-world, the loose cushions perfect for my modern derriere.