Death Al Dente (20 page)

“W
hat do you think you're doing, talking to Ned Redaway? What gives you any right to interfere in my decisions?”

After the kids left, I'd checked my e-mail. Comparing the high school class photo with the shot of Jay aka James on his Facebook profile, and the man he spotted at the Grille, Rick was sure he'd correctly identified Jay Walker. And his parents and older sister had given him a little more info on the family, shedding some light on why Jay had wanted to remake himself, while staying close enough to help his mother when his father went on drinking binges, blowing what little money they had. I began to feel a little sympathy for the fellow.

And then my mother barreled in.

“Whoa, Mom. Easy. Calm down.”

“Do not tell me to calm down. I am calm.” My mother stalked into the cabin and tossed her bag on the couch, barely missing the sleeping Sandburg. I closed the front door and followed her into the main living area. She paced the narrow aisle between couch and kitchen island, heels rapping angrily on the pine floor.

I poured two glasses of wine and set hers on the island. As she walked, her hands flapped like a drunken hummingbird. I inched her glass back a bit.

“How did you even know Ted made an offer on my building?”

In her present mood, I didn't dare admit listening to her phone messages. The dents her heels made in the floor would be the least of my worries. “Last Monday, Ted tried to convince me to move the Merc out to the highway. Touted all the pros, ignored all the cons. I realized he'd been talking to you, and put it together.” The partial truth.

She glared, skeptical, but slowed her stomping long enough to take a sip. “And you had to mention it to Ned.”

“I assumed he knew. And what do you mean, ‘my building'? You always said it was our building, that you owned it in trust for the family. You called it the Murphy legacy.” A faint tremble crept into my voice. I was unbelievably peeved, and unbelievably sad.

“Don't talk to me about decisions and legacies.” She wagged her finger at me.

“I've been waiting for you to tell me. Don't you think I had a right to know?”

She stabbed her chest. “I've had to decide everything. For fourteen years, ever since your father . . .”

“You asked me to come home and work with you, to run the Merc, and I did. And you always say, Murphy girls don't quit.”

We were shouting. My mother and I had never shouted at each other in my thirty-two years. If this was a rite of passage into a new stage of adulthood, I did not like it one bit.

“Oh, darling.” My mother looked at me, lifted her hand slightly, then let it fall back to her side. “I am so sorry. None of this is your fault. And you do have a right to know.” Glass in hand, she slipped off her black sandals and made for the living room. I scooped up Sandburg and deposited him safely in his cat bed, but Fresca ignored the couch and sat in the Morris chair in the corner by the stone fireplace. I curled up in the big leather chair.

“What happened? I thought you were having dinner at Bob and Liz's.”

“Lovely evening. But on my way out, Ned called on my cell—I'm starting to hate those things. He'd discovered Ted's plans from you, and gave Ted what for, then called me to apologize.”

I should have known Old Ned would blow his top sooner rather than later. The old song “On Top of Spaghetti” started looping through my brain.

“Hear me out, darling. This may be the perfect opportunity. Chiara and her family are cramped in the old homestead. They can take over the main house, and you can live in theirs. Nick will be fine on his own.”

What was she saying? That she might sell? And leave Jewel Bay? Go where?

And what about me? What would I do here if she closed the Merc? Go back to Seattle? Friends in other companies had tried to recruit me. But I did not want to be “in transit,” like poor, pink, rootless Candy Divine. Or indecisive Claudette. Or James Angelo, who'd walked away from his past but still felt it nipping at his heels. I'd been afraid that coming home was an admission of failure. But leaving now would be worse.

“This town can be a little claustrophobic,” she said. “The talk, the merry-go-round.”

“You can't leave. You can't make them right. Even if you aren't charged with killing Claudette, they'll still think you're guilty—of all the things the rumor mill says. And they'd tar me with that brush, too.”

My mother looked sadder than I'd seen her in years. “That's what I'm most afraid of.”

“I don't understand.”

“Darling, you are the only person besides the killer who knew Claudette was coming to the party.”

“You mean you think she suspects me? Kim?” My onetime best friend and partner in crime. An unseen weight crushed me. I felt like an idiot. My mother was trying to protect me. Again. Even if it made her more of a target. But while challenging her over protecting me too much all those years ago had been high on my list of things to talk about, the need to identify the killer—and convince Kim Caldwell—had leapfrogged to the top.

I fired up my iPad, flew to the cloud, and grabbed the Spreadsheet of Suspicion. “I have two theories. Suspect Number One: Dean Vincent.” I showed her the screen and recapped my reasons. No need to relay Cassie's suspicions, though I did tell Fresca that Ian had confessed to the vandalism.

“Oh, that poor boy. Don't press charges, Erin.”

I shrugged. “Not up to me, Mom. I did think Linda might have been involved, but now I suspect she's reached the same conclusion we did: She's afraid Dean's the killer, and wants to divert attention from him to you, with rumors and indignant talk. And she may have left the poisoned pesto.” I summarized what I knew.

“The protection racket,” Fresca said.

“Exactly. Second theory, James Angelo. You said I'm the only person who knew Claudette was coming to the Festa. Of course, I had no idea what entrance she'd use. But I think Angelo knew, too. He may have overheard me, or she may have told him. They argued earlier in the day, then talked at the drugstore, after I invited her.”

I opened a package of shortbread Scottie dogs—emergency treats—and refilled our glasses. “And then he spotted her. Polly saw him downtown, walking toward Back Street. So that's opportunity. What we don't have is motive.”

“Any idea what they were arguing about?”

“Maybe her restaurant plans, but I keep thinking it has something to do with his past. He's not who he says he is.”

She snorted. “You mean, he's not a real chef. I know all that.”

“Worse than that.” I explained what I'd discovered about his real name and family background.

“He's reinventing himself. Nothing wrong with that—it's the great Western tradition.”

I showed her the picture I'd found, and the e-mail from Rick. “He's made a new life on this side of the mountains, but he can still get home in a few hours if he needs to. For his mom, the Bergstroms think. He's been spotted there a few times. Compared to the rest of the family, he was an angel.” The source of his pseudonym?

“Odd that you couldn't find anything about him under his new name, either. As if he's determined not to be found.”

“Not to be noticed,” I said. “As if he doesn't know how to make his dreams into reality. Haunted by being Jay Walker, bullied child of the town drunk and butt of the family jokes.”

“The victim has become the bully.” She seemed to be replaying a scene in her mind.

I set the iPad aside and picked up my wine. “What were you two talking about on Tuesday? I know he called you.”

“He called to gloat,” she said. “To tell me he's cooking for Ray now, and that over the weekend, his Italian food had 'em lined up out the door. Ray is expanding their gourmet food section and I should watch out.”

“Ray did say this morning that their Italian dishes were a hit. That's good. He's got what, two shelves of imported cookies and jams? If he expands that, great—he's selling things we aren't carrying. And if he starts offering Angelo's stuff commercially, that increases interest in locally made products. No sweat.”

“Right.” She bit the tail off a Scottie.

But there had to be more to their conversation. She wouldn't have gotten so angry over Angelo's sixth-grade antics. I waited.

“I never told you,” she said, “how he sabotaged me last winter. When he tried to get the other restaurants to drop my products and use his. He told Max I'd decided to quit the business—Max got so upset I could hardly understand a word. How could I quit without telling him, weren't we friends, did I need a better price? I finally realized what had happened. He did the same thing with the Inn.

“So I called my friend at the culinary program in Missoula for the scoop. Jay had basic skills and a bad attitude. You can be a prima donna after forty years of high heat, but not after six weeks of an introductory class.”

“When he can't compete fairly, he plays dirty instead.”

“It will come back to bite him, I know—karma and all that—but in the short run, it could be ugly.”

My jaw cramped. “So he may come after you again. With more than words.”

This time she paced in bare feet, so no worries. “Don't you see, darling? That's one more reason to close the Merc and sell the building. Because of all this trouble.”

I did not see. “Trouble happens everywhere, Mom. You can't let it stop you. You never have before.”

She stared at the empty fireplace, contemplating something I couldn't see. But I had more questions. “Mom, that note of Claudette's. I found it in her personnel file, after you said you couldn't find it. What gives?”

“I'm embarrassed to admit, I didn't behave like a grown-up when I found it. I crumpled it up and threw it in the garbage. Then dug it out and stuck it in a cookbook to flatten it out.” She rolled her eyes. “But then I couldn't remember which one, and I had to plow through the office shelves to find it. Turned out it was
Larousse Gastronomique
, one of my cooking school texts.”

A doorstop of a book. We burst into giggles.

But the mention of cooking school raised another possibility. “Mom, do you suppose Angelo spread the rumors about you stealing Claudette's recipes and firing her to make room for me? She found out when she got back to town, and that's what they argued about?” Except that the box in the basement had me wondering if those rumors really were false.

“Two slime bags, Jay and Dean. Which one attacked her?”

“Maybe Old Ned's right and Jewel Bay is going to the dogs.”

She whirled on me. “Don't you believe that for one minute. This is a great town.”

I stared, wary, teeth clenched. “So why are you thinking of leaving?”

She didn't respond. How could she brush aside my future so easily? But if I solved the murder, and removed the threat to the Merc, I might convince her not to sell.

Worry about that later—after snaring Claudette's killer.

“So maybe Claudette confronted Angelo about the rumors, and he stabbed her,” I said. Had he meant to kill, or exploded in a fit of rage? Didn't matter. “Now, he has to cover up his involvement. I'm surprised he's still in town. But he's smart enough to know leaving would only make him a suspect.”

My mother glanced at her watch, a silver Brighton cuff with enameled flowers. “Too late to call Kim.”

I sat up and slammed my feet to the floor. “We are not calling Kim. First, we have to gather more evidence against Angelo so we can convince her he's the killer.”

“Erin Murphy, that is ridiculous and dangerous. Don't you dare go after that man yourself.”

“Mom, Kim thinks you killed Claudette. She won't believe anything either one of us says without proof.”

“What's gotten into you? Of my three children, you've always been the one I never had to worry about. Who buckles her seat belt without fail and knows where all the airplane exits are. Who plans and plots every step, and never did a reckless thing in her life.”

I guess I'd never told her about bungee jumping off a bridge in British Columbia. Over a stretch of river a lot like the Wild Mile.

“And now this. It's downright foolish,” she continued. But she didn't pull out her phone. She paced in front of the fireplace, glancing back at me every few steps, as if to see whether I'd come to my senses.

On one of her turns, her gaze swept the room and she stopped on a dime. Stared at the open shelves in the kitchen. “What . . . is . . . How . . . did . . . you . . .?”

A lot of strange things had happened in the last week, and seeing my mother stunned speechless topped them all. I'd completely forgotten I'd set the dusty recipe box on the shelf, out of the way.

This was the night for unexpected conversations.

Fresca crossed the room with what looked like a mix of reverence and fear. She lifted the box off the shelf as if she were a priest raising the chalice, and I swear, when she caught her breath, my own almost stopped. She carried the box—a boy's shop class project—to the coffee table, and perched on the couch. Anticipation filled the air like garlic on pesto-making day.

I knelt on the floor next to her. “I know you didn't kill her, Mom. I never thought that. But the recipes. Are they hers? They're typed. You never typed.”

She shook her head slowly, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Your father wanted to help me, when I first started to cook professionally. Long before Claudette came to town. He transcribed all the recipes—my notes and scribbles, and your noni's.”

My turn to be stunned. Of all the possibilities in all the world, I had not imagined that one.

“He had a computer—remember that old Mac? But it wouldn't print on recipe cards, so he typed these. They fit perfectly in this box your brother made.” She turned it over and traced Nick's initials with her finger, then slid a card out of the box and held it up. “We had to do a lot of testing. Grease spatters—carbonara.” She pulled out another, smiling at the memories. “Tomato stains.”