Death Al Dente (16 page)

Meaning what?
I replied, saying Dean had resumed his practice while waiting for a job offer.

A call to the College of Impersonation got me nowhere. “We don't discuss our students with anyone except potential employers, and then only with a release. Privacy concerns,” said a woman who sounded eerily like Bette Midler.

I understood, but we were talking about how well a guy swiveled his hips and mimicked classic rock and roll, not state secrets. And whether the school had observed any trouble “at home.” This was murder, after all.

“We're sorry. We simply can't comment. And we already told the detective—what was her name?”

Ah. Kim and I may not be sharing pages, but at least we were on the same one.

I flipped back to FB before shutting down. Dean's classmate had replied to my message:
Delusions of grandeur. Hound dog.

Enough said.

W
e were twenty minutes early, but Pine Meadow Lodge was already two-thirds full. Rows of chairs filled the middle of the large room, ringed by tables. French doors stood open to the glorious afternoon.

Fresca and Chiara delivered the fruit skewers and tortellini salad to the serving area, while Tracy and I found seats. Up front, Jeff sat with an older couple—probably his parents—and a petite woman with hair like Claudette's. Her sister? Ian sat at the end of the row. Thank God his grandparents hadn't come for a double funeral.

The minister who'd knelt with me in Back Street stood before us. He had the gift of making people comfortable even before he spoke.

“Claudette would want us to celebrate,” he said. “To laugh and play. To throw a party she'd hate to miss.” Jeff's father told a side-splitting story about meeting her the first time. Her sister, who shared her size and fashion taste, described shopping together in the juniors department and Claudette's response to the clerks who assumed they were shopping for their daughters. Some stories were poignant, and few eyes stayed dry when Jeff spoke about their years together and their love for Ian.

The minister invited the rest of us to share a few words. I glanced at Fresca, but she gave a quick, decisive shake “no.” This part of a service always unbalances me. Like I was sixteen again, with every weepy high school girl who'd ever had a crush on my dad acting like she'd be marked forever by his death, and every teenage boy whom he'd coached shuffling his feet, having no words for what he felt.

There had been no room for my words.

Which meant I needed to speak now. I rubbed my tattooed stars and cleared my throat. “Claudette was a friend to my family in more ways than I ever knew when she was alive.” I told a story about going to dinner at Claudette's with Fresca once on a visit home. The power had gone out, so she tried to bake the lasagna on the grill, with results anyone else would have predicted, and everyone laughed. “One of her new friends, from Las Vegas, told me that meeting her was the highlight of the trip. I'm sure we all know exactly how he felt.”

The service closed with a prayer, and friends of Ian's played a guitar and flute duet that reminded me of the first songbirds of spring. Fresca gripped my hand and I reached for my sister's.

Jeff's father invited everyone to stay for lunch, to celebrate life as Claudette had, with friends, food, and laughter. And with color: Each table held clusters of potted pansies for us to take home.

I joined Chiara in the buffet line. “Killers often go to their victims' funerals,” I whispered. “So watch for anyone suspicious.”

“I don't need to,” she whispered back, “and neither do you. That's why Kim's here.”

I followed her gaze to Kim. Today's ensemble—black slacks and a black-and-white houndstooth jacket—complemented her short blond hair. Coincidence that she was watching us at that moment? Yeah, right. I waved.

If the killer were here, he'd blend in well—half the village had come. I spotted Heidi and Kathy standing together, Sally standing alone, the owners of Applause! chatting with Mimi and Tony from the Jewel Inn, Serena from the salon, and almost every other shop and restaurant owner. The Taylor and Fontaine families were all accounted for, including Wendy's itty-bitty half-blind grandmother.

Linda and Dean Vincent stood at a tall table in the corner. He'd dressed doctor-casual today, and Linda wore a surprisingly appropriate peach linen dress, though her Roman sandals with four-inch wedge heels marred the effect. They seemed to be watching everyone else the way we were watching them. Was he wondering which classmate I'd talked to? Let him.

As I watched, two slender girls with long blond hair joined them. Linda slid an arm around one girl and kissed her on the cheek. “Their daughters?”

“Cassandra in the green dress, Jessica in blue. They just graduated. Jess is going to the same art school I went to,” Chiara said. “I don't know Cassie's plans.”

As I reached the round table where Fresca sat with Ted and Old Ned, Heidi stopped me, hand on my arm. “No restaurants are listed,” she said. “I asked around, but no one, not even my broker friend, knows of any for sale on the QT. Sorry.”

“Thanks,” I said, and pulled out a chair next to the Redaways. I'd always viewed Ned as a straightforward guy, and his encouragement of the Merc's new direction seemed genuine. So why did they want our building? Not the time to ask.

“Girlie, your little car okay?” Ned said as I sat. “What is going on in this town?”

“The fingerprint powder was worse than the tomato sauce. But nothing soap and water couldn't fix.”

Ted seemed a shadow of his hearty self. I smiled in sympathy. Claudette had been his friend and coworker, too.

“Ned, Friday night, you were out front greeting people, right?” He nodded, fork halfway to his mouth. “Did you see Dean and Linda Vincent arrive?”

He thought a moment, then shook his head. “Couldn't say, girlie. Too many folks milling around—they all run together.”

“No crashers? No strangers?”

“They wouldn't dare.”

“True.”

The gathering almost felt like any other party in a town full of parties. To my relief, no one seemed worried about eating Fresca's food—meaning no one suspected her in Ian's illness.

Angelo stood alone, cradling a cup of coffee. Like most of the men here, he wore khakis and a sport coat that would probably hide any sign of a knife on his belt or pocket, even if I were close enough to check.

Fresca gave me the signal to leave. At the door, Jeff and Ian accepted hugs and condolences. Cassie Vincent stood behind Ian, one nail-bitten hand on his shoulder. Were they dating?

“Sweetie, you had us all so scared.” Fresca kissed Ian tenderly. Eyes wide, skin damp and flushed in all the wrong places, he avoided her look and said nothing. Cassie's grip on his shoulder tightened. Aside to Jeff, Fresca asked, “Any word yet on what it was?”

“All I can say is, thank God the dose was too small to kill us. Either he didn't know what he was doing, or he just meant to scare us.”

“He?” I said.

Jeff shrugged. “Or whoever. Thanks so much for coming.”

* * *

W
e got back to the Merc too late to bother opening. I sent Tracy home and got a wet rag to wipe a few stray tomato splatters off my car. When I came inside, Fresca had donned her cooking clothes and begun transforming the kitchen into Production Central. She handed me a large stainless steel bowl.

“Put those eggs in here to come to room temperature, then set up the drying racks.” She snapped the dough hook into the mixer with a satisfying thunk.

“You're making pasta now? I was hoping to show you Liz's sketches for the courtyard.”
And find out more about your history with Claudette, and that box of recipes in the basement, and what on earth you've been doing the last few days, besides avoiding me and my questions.

She crouched to retrieve the pasta roller from its cabinet. “Later, darling. It's time I got back to work.”

“But you could be here all night.”

“Better than staying home and throwing myself another pity party. The shelves are empty, and Max wants fettuccine for his weekend specials.”

Had Claudette's service triggered a change in mood, or was Fresca taking her own advice to act as if she felt like whipping up a storm of spaghetti? Didn't matter. I did as directed.

But then I pushed my luck. “So now will you hire a lawyer?”

“No reason, darling. Get out of here. I have herbs to chop.”

The first batch would be ready before long, and there's nothing like brand-new fettuccine boiled briefly and drizzled with freshly grated Parmesan and butter or olive oil. But I'd been dismissed.

On the side street, around the corner from the Merc, is a tiny hole-in-the-wall where Jewel Bay's resident herbalist keeps a treasure trove of natural remedies. Sixty-fivish, with neatly trimmed gray hair and the slight stoop of a tall man who's been leaning in to listen to shorter folk all his life, Bill Schmidt was not your typical hippy herbalist. A world-renowned authority on wild foods and medicinal plants of the Northern Rockies, he often closes shop to spend the day foraging, regardless of weather, if some plant or another is ripe for the picking. I'd been thrilled when he agreed to share his expertise at the Merc.

The smells of earth and spice enveloped me the moment I stepped inside. Bill emerged from the back room, a bundle of moxa sticks in hand. “Ah, Erin.” His voice held gentleness, as though his hours in the woods had worn off the edges. He gripped my hand and met my gaze with clear, patient blue eyes. “I trust you're well.”

“Just here to confirm our plans for Friday afternoon's walk and demonstration, and find out what supplies you need.”

“Depends what nature's grocery and pharmacy is offering this week. Let's go check out my other office.” He gestured toward the door.

One of Jewel Bay's many glories is the Nature Trail, aka the River Road, above the Jewel River. Originally the homesteaders' road into town, it had long ago been replaced by the Cutoff, the narrow highway on the other side of the river, and fell into disuse. In my kidhood, volunteers—including my dad and his brothers—worked out an easement with the power company and reclaimed the unpaved trail for a foot and bike path. Bill had permission to harvest there for educational purposes.

“How's your mother today?” he asked on our way up the hill behind Dragonfly Dry Goods.

“She's been in a funk since Claudette's death, but she seems to be coming out of it.”

“She's a good, strong woman. Let her feel what she feels, and she'll be fine.”

Was there something more to his comment than neighborly concern?

He pointed. “
Lomatium dissectum
, or desert parsley. A tincture is nature's best antiviral. Belongs in every flu kit.” It grew in a sunny spot among the rocks, below a shaded hillside covered in lupine.

I fingered the lacy fronds and remembered spotting wild roses last night while searching for Sandburg. “We're mainly after edibles. How about wild roses? We could make rose petal jelly. And rose water.” Candy Divine had mentioned using rose water in her Turkish delight. I imagined a class, in August when the apples and apricots ripened.

We found a bank of deep pink blossoms, and I drank in their soft, fresh scent. Plenty for a demo—everyone could take home a small jar of jelly. I whipped out my phone and made a note.

Bill took out his knife and sliced off a quarter-sized piece of birch bark. “Too dry. Too bad. In spring, when the sap is running, this is nature's energy drink.”

Again with the knife. Did every man in town carry one?

Several wild mints and sages were ready to pick, and so were sorrel, watercress, and wild lettuces. We picked our way down the steep bank to the river and, in a swamp stinky with decay, found a patch of wild onions.

Back on the trail, I saw plenty of dandelion greens. We'd steam those, and sauté a few of Jimmy Vang's morels.

As we retraced our steps, I borrowed Bill's knife to cut some wild lupine.

“Careful with that
Lupinis
,” Bill said. “The wild form is a natural insecticide, and useful for treating vertigo, but it can be toxic. There are some edible varieties, though, and the garden hybrid's safe.” As we walked, he stressed that even toxic plants had medicinal qualities and could be consumed, if the right parts were used and prepared properly.

At his shop, Bill waved me to his consultation area. Two oak armchairs burnished dark from age and use flanked an ancient black lacquered desk accented with red and gold. I pulled one out and sat while he wrote out a list of things we needed.

I decided to pop the question that had been bugging me. “Bill, what would cause headache and nausea, with blurred vision and a slow, irregular pulse?” I summarized Ian Randall's symptoms, without naming him, but the wariness that crept into Bill's eyes told me he knew.

He looked at me intently as he handed me the supply list. “Be careful, Erin.”

I didn't point out that he hadn't answered my question, or ask, “Careful of what?” I got distracted. On the shelf behind him, next to a copy of his text,
The Field Guide to Mountain Medicinals
, was Deputy Kim Caldwell's card.

Screaming “danger.”

O
n my way home, I stopped at the grocery store for canning jars and ingredients for the jelly, and a few other supplies Bill requested. I rounded the end of the baking aisle and saw Adam Zimmerman, swinging a basket, on his way to the checkout lanes. Intriguing as he was, I didn't have the heart for any conversation that might trigger my emotions. I stepped back, letting him clear the door without spotting me. The day had been too full—I needed to retreat to my cabin, away from all demands and suspicions.

First, though, my poor little Subaru needed a bath, so I drove through the car wash. As the sprayers circled, squirting soap and water, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine who might have put a jar of poisoned pesto in Claudette's refrigerator for her son or ex-husband to find. Poisoning seems like a cowardly crime. A dangerous crime, no matter what the intent.

Why? Who benefitted?

I flashed on the Vincent twins with their parents at the memorial service. Dean was a prime suspect. How could harming the Randalls help him defend himself? Did chiropractors take the oath to “do no harm”?

What would Linda do to deflect suspicion from him—or herself? I didn't seriously believe she would hurt her daughter's boyfriend, or his father, on purpose. But Bill had pointed out that different varieties of a single plant might have greater or lesser toxicity. What if she fed them a small dose of something sickening, just to scare them? And point to my mother.

What about Angelo? My theory of a blowup between him and Claudette gave him no reason to go after Jeff or Ian. Unless one of them knew his secret and threatened to expose it. But if that were the case, he'd have left a calling card, to send a clear message of silence.

A few clicks on my iPhone gave me Linda's address. Just a quick detour before heading home. I drove my sparkling clean buggy to a subdivision up the hill behind the high school, where neat, tidy houses sported white trim and front porches that were smartly decorated but rarely used. The development backed up to the road where Claudette lived. The Vincents and Randalls had practically been neighbors, making it easy for their kids to see each other.

If I had the timeline right, the parents' affair had begun last fall, just before Ian left home. Maybe their kids' connection had brought Dean and Claudette together.

I drove by Linda's house. No cars or other signs of life. No doubt the Randall family gathering had migrated to Claudette's cottage. Cassie and Jess might be there, but what about Linda and Dean? Other than Claudette's affair with Dean, I knew little about the two families' relationship.

I circled the block and pulled over, giving myself a view of Linda's driveway but staying safely out of sight.

A few minutes later, a dark gray Suburban approached from the other direction and parked in the driveway, next to an older Subaru. Dean headed up the sidewalk and let himself in. Hardly a shock, whether he and Linda were back together or not.

Another car came up the street and the garage doors opened. A red Cadillac sedan, so new it still bore paper tags instead of real license plates, turned in and entered, Linda's platinum head visible on the driver's side and a girl in the front passenger seat.

Was the car a “forgive me” present?

Those superclose Montana connections made investigation both easier and more difficult. I ticked off the ties between our murder victim and our—well, my—suspects: Claudette dated Dean. Dean was married to Linda. And their daughter Cassie might be dating Claudette's son, Ian.

Claudette lived next door to James Angelo. Linda hired Angelo to cater—

A baritone disrupted my accounting and I practically flew out the sunroof.

“Spying on my family?”

* * *

S
omeone ought to bottle the restorative powers of pinot gris.

Oh, wait. They had. In fact, I was relishing those powers on the back deck, recovering from my encounter with Dean Vincent. I'd parked in front of a house with a
FOR SALE
sign on it, so I told him I was meeting a friend for a showing, but my pal must have gotten held up, or maybe I had the time wrong, and did the Vincents like the neighborhood? Dean had scowled, then muttered indecipherables and stepped away from my open window. Not wanting to give his suspicions any weight, I made a show of checking my phone for a text or voice mail from my imaginary friend before starting the engine and driving away.

Truth be told, he'd startled the bejeebers out of me. But my bejeebers were returning, thanks to the tart-but-fruity wine, and an appetizer of olive tapenade on Montana Gold herbed crackers. I'd channeled my burst of adrenaline into re-creating my mother's endive, radicchio, and romaine salad, topped with quarters of hard-boiled egg and slices of lightly pickled roasted golden beets. Sandburg had enjoyed a tasty treat of canned tuna, and fallen asleep in the other chair.

But I could not stop trying to unweave the strands of suspicion that entangled my mother. What was I missing?

* * *

F
irst thing Friday morning, I met my brother-in-law at his office to review options for a security alarm and camera system for the Merc. We could stream a live camera feed to the office computer. He and I could also access it remotely with our phones. I hated the idea, but as he said, you never knew what they'd show—and I wouldn't have to check it unless there was a problem.

Then time for the Village Merchants Association's weekly breakfast meeting at the Jewel Inn. Most weeks, the biggest challenge was what to order. I adore their Greek omelet, with a homemade English muffin and potatoes. The Ranch Scramble always hits the spot, and their crepes are to die for. Chiara can be counted on to order the Veggie Benedict: avocado, sliced tomatoes, and two poached eggs on an English muffin topped with killer Hollandaise. Many a customer claims to gain weight thinking of breakfast at the Inn.

As usual in summer, the front of the house overflowed. When Chiara and I entered the banquet room, coffee and juice had been served, and other members compared notes on the first week of tourist season.

Long tables formed a rectangle, a moose rack draped with Mardi Gras beads overseeing one end of the room and an elk mount in Groucho Marx glasses the other. Wendy hadn't been a regular since opening Le Panier, but she and Linda huddled together in the far corner. Linda shot me a look that said Dean had relayed our little conversation, and neither of them believed a word I'd said. Which, I hated to admit, showed good sense.

“To the Queen of the Festa.” Kathy, the Association chair, raised her cup in a toast.

A creature of good habits, Chiara gave her order, then it was my turn. My eyes popped at the sight of our new young waitress. The Vincent girls weren't identical, but after seeing them once, I couldn't be sure who was who.

“The crepes, please. And are you Cass, or Jess?”

“Cassie.” She smiled shyly, looking far more like her mother than her dad.

“I think we all agree,” Kathy said, “that the Festa di Jewel Bay was a rousing success and should be an annual event.”

Cheers of agreement circled the room. I had my doubts, chiefly whether the Festa would be remembered more for murder than for good food, music, and profits.

“The Food Bank director tells me donations were twice what she hoped for,” she continued, “although I think we can attribute some of that to the tragedy.”

Linda reported on Saturday night's ticket sales, also above expectations. “And Jody Fisher says count him in for next year. He loves playing in Jewel Bay.”

“We did nearly double the business this weekend over last,” Ray reported. “Our Italian specials sold out.”

Is this how a parent feels when her baby brings home the first report card with all A's, or cracks the first home run? Chiara squeezed my hand. “Good job, little sis.”

“Sunshine always helps,” Ray added with a chuckle. I made a note to track weather along with sales.

“Food lovers not only love to eat out,” Heidi said, “they love to cook. And they love to shop. I've reordered glassware, bakeware, and utensils I thought would last all summer.”

“Well, they don't buy children's clothing, that's for sure.”

“Sally,” Kathy said. “That can't be true. I saw so many Puddle Jumpers bags walking around town, I thought they'd grown legs and escaped.”

Everyone laughed. Sally pursed her lips.

“So it's not too early to start planning for next year. Especially if we want to get the highway merchants more involved.”

Good luck with that.

“Erin, this was your brain child,” she continued. “You'll lead the committee for the Second Annual Festa?”

“Second the nomination,” Old Ned said in his gravelly baritone.

Wendy shoved back her chair and stood, head bowed. Behind her, about to serve a plate of blueberry waffles, Cassie made a quick save. “I nominate Linda Vincent as committee chair. She arranged all the volunteers for Saturday night, and the food contributions and musicians.” Wendy rearranged her coffee cup and water glass. “We need fresh blood.” She sat as abruptly as she'd risen.

Eyes wide, Kathy scanned the room. “Do I hear a second for Linda?” No one spoke. She trained her gray eyes on me. “Erin, will you accept the nomination?”

Criminy. I didn't want the job, but I sure as heck didn't want to say no and end up with Linda in charge by default. Especially of something so important to the Merc. If her welcome speech at the Gala indicated things to come, she might leave us out entirely.

Chiara kicked me. “Say yes.”

I cleared my throat. “I'd be delighted. My first act as chair is to ask Linda to reprise her excellent job on the Saturday Night Gala.”

“Hear, hear,” Old Ned said.

“Nice one,” Chiara whispered, but I'd just done the thing I'd been determined not to do. Hate when that happens.

“Sorry we're late. Busy out front.” Mimi George slid in next to me, breathless, her husband, Tony, beside her. “Cassie, you're a doll. Coffee when you have a moment. I love summer.”

“Aren't we going to vote?” Linda said, her voice rising almost to a whine.

“Erin hit a home run her first time at bat. Why change the lineup now?” Tony George had had a cup of coffee or two in the major leagues twenty years ago, and baseball lingo peppered his speech.

“There's only one valid nomination,” Kathy said. “No second on yours.” Linda scowled and cast a sharp look at Wendy.

“Erin agreed, if Linda would organize Saturday night. Sounds perfect,” Ray said.

Kathy called the question. Like a lot of small groups, we follow Robert's Rules of Order only if we can't reach consensus, and even then, we use the short form. Bob's Rules. Only Linda voted nay. Wendy abstained. She hadn't touched her waffles and seemed to be trying to slide underneath the table.

Time for other business. Time for food. My crepes were perfect and I told Mimi so. She beamed.

We approved July's advertising campaign and heard a report from the Chamber director on the 35th Anniversary of Summer Fair, the art festival in early August. The crew from a popular TV show, Food Preneurs, planned to film the main event, a steak cook-off featuring local chefs.

I was beginning to share Mimi George's excitement.

Except for the little problem of murder and the fingers pointing at my mother.

We dispatched the rest of the agenda to the tune of knives and forks, and the murmurs of satisfied eaters. Cassie handled the room efficiently, and I complimented her to Mimi.

“We'll miss her when she goes to college in Seattle this fall. Hazard of the business—get 'em trained, and off they go.”

Seattle. Where Ian lived.

A commotion arose across the room. “I don't know why I bothered to come.” Linda Vincent threw down her napkin. “The same old clique calls the shots. No one else has a chance to do anything different.”

“That's not true,” the frame shop owner said. “Erin's new. The Festa's new.”

“She's a mouthpiece for her mother. You all blame my husband for Claudette Randall's death. Give Fresca Murphy a closer look. I guarantee you won't like what you see.”

“Foul ball,” called Tony George.

“Now hold your bucking horses one minute there, sister,” Old Ned said, voice booming. “I've known Francesca Murphy for thirty-five years. She didn't kill nobody. The slime that did it should hang, but it weren't her.”

Cassie Vincent stood motionless in the back of the room, eyes big as the tray she carried. She'd come in from the kitchen in time to witness her mother's tirade.

Across the table, Kathy looked stunned, uncertain how to regain order. Serena Travis, a tall, elegant salon owner, stepped into the void. “Linda, why don't we get some fresh air?” She gathered up Linda's purse, took her by the arm, and led her out the side door.

“Adjourned.” Kathy tapped her spoon on her water glass, the tinkling barely audible above the murmured comments.

I crossed the room to where Cassie stood, shocked. “Sit a moment. Mimi won't mind.” I led her to the chair her mother had vacated, and I sat in Wendy's still-warm seat. Mimi brought her a glass of water, then took the tray and began clearing the tables. “Take a little drink and a deep breath.”

As she did, her heaving chest slowed and her breath calmed. “I can't believe she said that. About you, and your mother.”

“She's upset. Don't worry.”

I could imagine her confusion: Her father ran away with her boyfriend's mother, then called it off and came home, and now the mother was dead. Her boyfriend had been poisoned, and her own mother had created a very public ruckus. All this as she and her sister were graduating and heading out into the world themselves. My teenage years seemed placid in comparison.

“How's Ian?”