Death Al Dente (23 page)

She had dated over the years, though never seriously. But she should have somebody special in her life. Somebody who treated her well, as Bill would.

“Naturally, she's concerned about her children's reaction. We intended to go public at the Festa, but at the last minute, she popped around the corner to say no because she hadn't had a chance to tell you girls yet. Then the murder happened, and she thought it better to wait to tell you after the criminal investigation.”

So that's where she'd gone when Kim thought she'd snuck out to kill Claudette. Made sense. Made me a little dizzy. “What about your daughter?” On the shelf behind his desk sat a framed snapshot of Bill with a small blond girl, on a trail by a mountain lake, fishing rods in hand.

He picked up the bottle on his desk. “I need to deliver this. You'll like Alicia. She lives in Portland. I'll tell you more about her tomorrow, at dinner in the orchard.”

Dang. I really was going to hate to miss that one.

I blew out a horsey breath. “Just treat my mother right.”

We parted outside the shop, my mind swirling. “All will be well,” I muttered. “All will be well.”

But as I pulled out of the parking lot, I spotted Bill, medicine bottle in hand, headed for the back door of the Merc.

* * *

O
ne more stop on the medicine trail.

Polly's morning greeting had fallen a notch or two on the cheerfulness scale, and she didn't move quite as spritely as usual. Rocking the night away will do that.

“Pol, you said Angelo bought stupid kid stuff for his nephews, but you didn't remember what.” He'd told me this morning he wasn't in touch with his family. “Any chance it was stuff like fake vomit and toy dead mice?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I was so mad at him for trying to sneak past me without paying, I hardly noticed. But yeah, that sounds right.” She led me to the boy toy aisle and an impressively disgusting collection of lifelike snakes, giant spiders, and all manner of rodentia.

I picked up a small black rubber object. “Shrunken heads. Didn't know they still made them.”

“Gad. Remember Ted Redaway wearing one of them on a shoelace around his neck? Maybe fourth grade.”

“He always had style. You said Angelo argued with Gordy over a prescription. Is he in?”

“Yeah.” She waved me back to the pharmacy counter. The Springers had been pharmacists in Jewel Bay as long as the Murphys had been grocers. Gordy was a few years ahead of us in school. His dad led the wave of moves to the highway in the 1970s; now Gordy's wife ran an antiques shop in the old drugstore building, a block up from the Merc.

I hadn't seen him since last Friday, when we crouched alongside Claudette's lifeless body. A tall, homely man with a fringe of dark hair and the eyes of an eager puppy, he unlatched the pharmacy door, descended, and wrapped his long arms around me.

“Rough week,” he said. “I usually lose my customers to natural causes.”

“Gordy, you heard about James Angelo's arrest?” He nodded. “He said you refused to fill a prescription for him last Friday afternoon. What happened?”

“You look close when a first-timer you don't know brings in a scrip from a pad. Most are electronic these days. And it looked funny—faded ink, kinda crumpled, and the date might have been written over. Like, to change it, which is weird.”

Old and crumpled. What did that mean?

“We routinely ask all new patients for ID. He said James Angelo was a professional name, and showed me his driver's license, in the name of Jay David Walker. But the name on the prescription was David J. Walker. It was all just strange enough that I wanted to call the prescriber, so I said fine, but he'd have to wait his turn.”

According to the elder Bergstroms, Jay's dad blew the drug money on booze. I bet Jay had done as my mother did with Claudette's note, and I with the note on my car—crumpled it up in anger, then thought better. A prescription seemed like an odd souvenir. But then, Jay Walker was an odd duck.

“That's not something you need to report?”

He rested an elbow on the counter. “No. Digoxin isn't controlled. I only call the sheriff if somebody's fishing for narcotics. Sometimes we hear about a guy making the rounds. I mean, it doesn't produce a high, so it's an unusual drug to forge a request for. Sounds like self-prescribing.”

Or poisoning. “So you refused. Then what?”

“He threw a fit. Practically gave himself a heart attack.” Gordy chuckled. “Ranted and raved about the state of health care in this country, how hardworking people can't afford it, we're all in cahoots to bleed the people dry. I told him he was no longer welcome, and he should leave.”

“He thinks anyone working a family business had money handed to them on a silver tray.”

Gordy rolled his eyes. “Ten minutes with my accountant would dispel that notion.”

“Thanks, Gordy.”

Polly helped me pick out a squeaky duck toy for Tracy's dog Bozo. On our way to the register, I spotted a display of Fourth of July decorations. There at the front was a foot-wide red metal star—perfect for the back gate.

Then I remembered my other question, and headed back to the pharmacy. “Hey, Gordy, when you came to the Festa dinner, any chance you saw Dean and Linda Vincent arrive?”

“Sure did. He must have dropped her off out front, then parked out back near me. We walked in Red's gate about the same time.” Gordy ran a hand over his thinning hair. “Made it a double shock when you found Claudette out there a few minutes later.”

And with that, I was back at square one.

I
f hanging a red star on the back gate would enhance the Merc's fame and reputation, then I wanted it up there toot-sweet.

If red star energy would help protect my mother, I'd hang a whole constellation.

I wanted a word with her, even if my pants weren't clean. Bill had neatly sidestepped my questions about her health. But when he said he had a prescription to deliver, he'd headed for the Merc.

An Audi with Arizona plates pulled out of a parking spot right behind our building, and I grabbed it. My lucky stars were on fire today.

Even though the killer was still on the loose—and Gordy Springer had just eliminated my prime suspect.

I slipped the star's wire loop over a nail on the gate. Its rustic style coordinated nicely with the weathered planks and dark iron latch and hinges. Liz would approve. But we'd need to clean up the weeds in the alley, haul in some dirt, and plant a few shrubs. Why did every project seem to take on a life of its own?

I itched to get going on the courtyard remodel. One more reason to get this murder solved, and soon. Crime is big-time distracting.

So why did I all of a sudden feel panicky and fearful?
Shake it off, girl. It's just the morning's adrenaline metabolizing.
Maybe Dean wasn't the killer, but I sure as heck knew it wasn't Fresca or me. With Angelo in custody, and Ian's confession, we were all in a lot less danger.

And if my mother was ill, it couldn't be serious, could it? Plus, she had an herbalist, and a lawyer, and a potential boyfriend—all in one. That was weird. But I liked Bill—his Zen seemed a good match for her zing. Everything would be fine.

Still, it already seemed like a very long day, even for solstice.

The gate between our courtyard and Red's stood open. That latch popped again, darn it. I'd take a look later, and talk with Old Ned about a replacement—and about making sure his boys kept it locked. We can't let bar customers traipse through our courtyard, especially if we turn it into retail therapy space. Imagining the safety and liability issues gave me the creepy-crawlies worse than any fake snake or shrunken rubber head.

What might Ted do to our courtyard if Fresca sold?

No way, José.

I opened the screen door. If Liz is right and space holds energy, then the Merc's back hall had been unplugged. I took a step forward, listening to the quiet.

Nothing.

“Mom? Fresca?” Another step. I paused at the foot of the stairs, but heard no one in the office.

“Tracy?” The kitchen to my left, the shop ahead, both radiated deathly stillness. My jaw and throat tightened.

A muffled sound caught my attention, then stopped. Where was it?
Breathe, girl. Pay attention here.
Shop lights on, nobody home. No sign of Tracy, Fresca, or a customer.

I reached for the phone in my pocket. Damn. Kim had it.

One landline phone was upstairs, the other up front. Before I could decide which to go for, I heard a scraping sound.

I stepped into the kitchen and grabbed the biggest, sharpest chef's knife we had. Knife in hand, I reached for the basement doorknob. Should I call for help first? What if Tracy had fallen down the steps and hurt herself?

The first aid kit. No. Get it later. Get to her first.

I gripped the old, dented brass. How many times had I turned that knob, had a Murphy turned that knob?

It turned a quarter inch each way, no more.

We never lock that door.

The lock was original to the building, keyed on both sides. We kept a key on top of the door frame, just in case we needed to lock it. No sign of it. I reached up, probing, hoping. Dust only.

I rattled the knob, then listened. Tracy? I couldn't tell.

Criminy. We so never lock that door that I didn't know where the other key was. My desk drawer? I bounded up two steps, then remembered. No. Check the old cash register.

I dashed to the front counter and punched the register drawer open. Lifted up the cash drawer. Grabbed the brass barrel key, and prayed I could make it work.

I ran back to the door.
Steady, Erin. Breathe.
The key slid in okay, but the latch mechanism balked. Locks and I never have gotten on well. Tracy must have gone downstairs for something, then gotten locked in by accident, though that didn't explain the missing key. The sounds from the basement increased: a banging. A muffled voice—or two voices? A rattling, like a pipe. The pipes were in the ceiling. Tracy could never reach them, unless she dragged something over to stand on.

I set the knife on the floor, then turned the key slowly with my right hand, twisting the knob with my left. My curled fingertips rubbed the stars on my other wrist by accident, and the door popped open.

Tracy crouched on the landing, her left hand gripping a rock in the wall.

“Erin, it's you,” she said, eyes wide, face red, hair wild with panic and cobwebs. “Thank God. We were afraid he was coming back.”

He who? We who? And then I noticed.

Behind her on the steps stood Rick Bergstrom.

A
war of words erupted in my head and spilled out my mouth.

“Are you okay? What were you doing in the basement? How'd you get locked in?” And to Rick, “Why are you here?”

“We're fine,” Rick said. “Did you see him? Did you call the police? We have to catch him.”

“Catch who?”

“Ted,” Tracy said, her voice anxious and thready. She staggered up the last few steps. One earring hung askew; the other had gone missing. “He came in here all riled up, looking for you or your mom. Stalking around the store, like you were hiding behind the jelly jars. Then he started yelling at me.” She blinked back tears. “Grabbing my shoulders and screaming.”

“They were in the back hall when I got here,” Rick said. “I shouted ‘let her go' and sprinted toward them. Somehow he got the basement door open—I didn't even know it was there. We fought, and I ended up on the wrong side of the door. Then he shoved her down the stairs, too, grabbed the key from on top of the door frame, and locked us both in.” A look of terror struck him. “Geez, you scared me with that knife.”

I'd picked it up without thinking. I put it back in the kitchen. “Are you hurt? Did you call the sheriff?” I asked Tracy.

She shook her head, one hand pawing through her hair. “I tried to pull Ted off Rick. The landline was up front, and my cell's upstairs, in my purse.”

“And I'd left my phone in the car,” Rick said.

No blood or visible injuries. I dashed to the front counter and grabbed the landline. It's a lot easier to call in a crime than to text one. Even if you don't exactly know what the crime is. I flipped the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED
and locked the front door. No key needed, thank goodness.

“Water first,” I told Tracy. “Wash down that shock. Then you can drink all the Diet Coke in the world. And ping the can if you want.”

Her laugh teetered on the edge of hysteria. I knew the feeling—the fear and anger that rise up after physical danger ends. Things were starting to make more sense. I'd been looking in the wrong direction, and Ted had pointed me there.

He was less of a doofus and more of a coward than I'd thought. If you're mad at me, have the guts to yell at me, not my employee. Kim arrived while Tracy and Rick were sitting at the kitchen counter, telling me the story. Fresca had left with Bill for a late lunch. Ted barged in from the back. When he couldn't find my mother or me, he'd turned on Tracy, telling her, “Make them see. Make them understand.”

“What did he mean?” she asked.

“He wants us to sell him the Merc. I couldn't figure out why, but now I think I know. Claudette used to run Red's kitchen.” I felt a flash burn inside me. Had it been Ted in my house earlier this week? And watching me in the woods last Saturday? “Trace, did he say—had he been following me, maybe gone to my cabin?”

She nodded. “And to your mom's house. Claudette loved working at Red's. And she did a good job. She only left because your mom needed help. Erin, don't sell.”

I covered her hand with mine. “Don't worry. When the move to Vegas fell apart, Claudette confided in Ted, and he suggested she take over Red's again. To sweeten the deal—and prove his worth to his father—he promised to expand the kitchen into a full-scale restaurant. For that, he needed more space.”

“The Merc,” Kim said.

“The Merc,” I agreed. “But Fresca refused to sell. So he spread rumors, to disgrace Fresca and at the same time, create sympathy for Claudette by suggesting that Fresca built her success on Claudette's recipes and management.”

“I can't believe Claudette had anything to do with that,” Tracy said.

“She may have intended to help him by encouraging Fresca to sell,” I said, remembering some of the Facebook messages, “but his rumor campaign made her furious. She told him no. He confronted her in Back Street on Friday night. And he stabbed her.”

Tracy yelped and began to sob. Rick draped an arm around her shoulder in a reassuring hug. A natural gesture, a protective response after the ordeal they'd been through. It didn't mean anything.

I turned to Kim. “Ted was with us in the courtyard while the caterers and musicians were setting up. I remember because I was irked at him for standing around and not pitching in. I didn't realize he'd left, but when we were all gathered in the courtyard waiting for you, Ned told me he'd put Ted on guard duty out front, as payback for showing up late.”

Kim flipped through her notebook, searching. “Ted said he arrived after the body was found and came in the front door.”

“Ted never comes in the front unless he parks his Harley out there to show it off. But Red's was closed for the Festa, so Ned parked his '57 Chevy out front to keep the Harley crowd away.”

“He came in the front,” Kim said, “because he knew what he'd find out back.”

Claudette, sweet doomed bird, dead.

“I think the blood on that knife your deputy found will match hers, and if you can lift any fingerprints, they'll be his.” I told her about my conversation with Ted after I'd noticed he wasn't wearing his knife. Had that been only yesterday? So much had happened so fast.

“And the prints on that spaghetti sauce jar,” I said. Criminy. “He went to my place at least twice. First Saturday. Tuesday, at the Merc, he tried to convince me to move the business out to the highway, and I brushed him off. And he kept calling Fresca, increasing the pressure. Then Wednesday, he went into my cabin, then came back here and he tried to scare me by vandalizing my car.” I was speculating about his presence in my cabin, but every instinct said I was right.

“Taking advantage of the atmosphere of fear in the village,” Kim said.

I nodded. So much made sense now. No doubt he'd been watching me at the cabin, maybe other places, like he'd waited for me after the meeting Friday morning to keep an eye on me. I shivered. “Right. But that incident didn't fit the pattern, because it was aimed at me. And he kept it up. Friday afternoon, the crazy motorcyclist I nearly hit on the highway—I bet that was Ted, coming from the orchard, pressuring Fresca.”

“Who's pressuring me?” my mother said. “Why are you closed with the front door locked? What's happened now?”

None of us had heard her come in, we'd been so focused on working out Ted's movements. Her eyes flitted from me to Kim to the others, and back to me. Bill stood beside her, one hand resting protectively on the small of her back. Kim gave her a quick rundown. Her dark eyes widened with amazement, then narrowed with anger, as she realized, along with the rest of us, how much danger we'd faced from someone we never suspected.

“But I don't understand what you were doing here,” she said to Rick.

“Uh, well.” His broad Nordic cheekbones flushed handsomely. “I planned to drop in, see how you and Erin liked the product samples I'd left, see about placing an order. But truthfully”—his eyes on me were intensely blue—“I wanted to see Erin again.”

My turn for hot cheeks.

“Erin, you left the produce cart outside.” My mother kicked into command chef mode. “Bring it in and cut up some vegetables. Finger food is best, I think. Tracy, open some tapenade and slice some bread. Bill, you're in charge of beverages.” She, of course, was in charge of all of us. That would never change.

Other deputies arrived to start the search for Ted. Kim kept tabs while taking statements from Tracy, Rick, and me. My mother fed us all, even the deputies.

I showed Kim my timeline and the Spreadsheet of Suspicion.

“Not as fancy as your murder board,” I said, “but retail managers have skills, too.”

“I hope you understand,” she said, “why I focused on your mother.”

“We'll have to agree to disagree on that.”

“Oh. Almost forgot.” She pulled my phone from her pocket and set it on the counter. “We copied your text and the recording of your conversation with Angelo. Good work.” She extended her hand, and as I shook it, I noticed the bracelet on her arm.

“Thanks.”

* * *

T
here was no point reopening that day. After Kim and the deputies finished up, Bill took Fresca home, where a deputy would stand guard. Another deputy took Tracy home and would keep watch over her. No word on Ted yet, but while we couldn't rule out more trouble, I figured we'd all be safe. Put a desperate man on a Harley, and he's long gone. I'd misjudged him, but I didn't think he'd intended to kill Claudette—or to terrorize the rest of us. She'd frustrated his plans, ill-conceived as they were, and he'd reacted impulsively. After that, he'd attempted to misdirect or stymie the investigation by pointing fingers at Dean and Linda Vincent, and scaring me so I'd stop asking questions. Selling might have convinced some people of Fresca's guilt, but he'd seemed genuinely horrified to hear that Kim had threatened to arrest her.

Time to think about all that another day.

I glanced around my beloved, beleaguered Merc, site of too much work and not enough play. My eyes filled.

Rick's gaze followed mine. “It's a grand old place. Don't let this incident spoil your memories. And don't let anyone take it away from you.”

“I don't intend to.” I turned to face him. “I'm so sorry you got caught up in it. Not quite the reception you'd hoped for.”

“I like a woman who's full of surprises. And one who can rescue me from my own stupidity.”

“Ted had the advantage of surprise. And desperation. Plus he knew about the key.” I smiled wryly.

It didn't seem right to just send him away, after he'd been trapped in the basement by a madman mad at me. But Kim had ordered me to go home and stay home, and had assigned a deputy to trail me until Ted was caught. Plus, if I knew Liz and Bob, they'd be watching me with hawk eyes until all danger had ended.

Which didn't mean I couldn't invite him to the cabin, or the dock. We'd be amply chaperoned.

But as appealing as Rick was, and apparently interested—at least before said madman came on the scene—I wanted to be alone. To relax, and think, and spoil my cat.

From the window display, I grabbed a basket filled with the Merc's goodies and held it out. “For the road. Come back anytime for a refill.”

He gave me a long, understanding look, followed by a smile. “You bet.”