Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (10 page)

If my sister were here, she would sketch the connections between everyone in the Lodge right now—it’s how she understands the world. The result would be like one of those Halloween cakes decorated with a spider web. Or a chocolate swirl cheesecake, where you draw a knife through the dark batter to make patterns in the light.

That’s how I pictured the crime investigation board Ike Hoover would create, back at the sheriff’s office. Small-town connections get sticky when things go bad.

“I understand you were here all afternoon, filling in for Ms. Duval.”

I sat on the swiveling secretary chair. “There wasn’t much for me to do. Gib—Mr. Knox—and the chefs had it all in hand. The cameraman, Pete Lloyd, stepped in at the last minute, but he picked up on the drill pretty quickly.”

“Let’s go over it anyway.”

So we retraced my steps, starting on arrival. Mundane minute after mundane minute. I started to feel restless. “Is this going to catch the attacker, Ike? Quizzing everyone here about every step of the afternoon?”

He smiled grimly. “As it turns out, you were one of the few people besides Mr. Knox, Mr. Lloyd, and the chefs who were here from start to finish. So your perspective is important. And you’re a good historian.”

I tried to tell him about the tensions earlier in the week, but disagreements over recipes didn’t interest him at the moment.

On my way out, I spotted Amber Stone huddled near the hearth, staring at the unlit fire.
Go talk, comfort her
, my inner voice said, but I had no comfort left to give.

Criminy.
I’d completely forgotten to call Rick. The mood was definitely gone. So I did the chicken-thing and e-voided him with a text.
Held up at the Lodge. I’ll find you tomorrow and explain. Sorry!!!
Texting may annoy my mother, but it can be useful.

I kissed my mother and Ned, and headed out. Twilight had fallen. The sky lingered between light and dark, shades of blue tinged with gold. One of the big Bernese dogs fell in beside me as I walked to the parking lot, her long, silky coat brushing my fingertips. Old farm lights cast shadows on the narrow gravel drive. Next to my car, orange cones and yellow tape cordoned off Drew’s van. On the ground, a dark spot that wasn’t mud or shadow made me shudder.

The dog nuzzled my palm, then poked my leg with her cool nose, as if to say “Go home, girl. Home.”

Best advice I’d heard all day.

L
e Panier had opened early Sunday morning to serve the vendors and volunteers, thank goodness. I needed that double espresso as much as I’d ever needed anything. My head hurt. I hadn’t drunk too much, or even cried too much. The whole situation was just too much.

But that rarely stops me from eating.

I wandered up Front Street, coffee in one hand,
pain au chocolat
in the other. Wendy had heeded my plea to make them even more chocolaty.

Sunday morning setup seemed to be going smoothly, if only because the vendors knew the routine.

Looking even thinner and more frail than yesterday, Iggy rose from her director’s chair. Christine had painted the canvas back, which proclaimed
HER ROYAL HIGHNESS
. Iggy and Christine, wearing heavy black glasses frames today, enveloped me in a group hug.

“How is he? So awful. Who could have done such a thing?” Their questions echoed up and down the street. Even those who didn’t know Drew, or were just hearing about the attack, were somber.

I passed the Helena Handbasket Company’s booth, smiling at the name, and made a mental note to talk to the owner about a less expensive line for our breakfast and picnic combos.

At the next booth, colorful fleece children’s clothing spilled out of clear plastic bins, waiting to be hung from racks or stacked on tables. I stroked a dragon muffler from green tail to pink tongue. No sign of the vendor—no doubt off parking or fetching coffee. Then who to my wandering eyes should appear but Sally from Puddle Jumpers, slyly inspecting the competition.

“Are you satisfied now?” she said, blue eyes flashing like the Kmart special.

“With the Fair? It seems to be going well.”

“Play dumb if you want. You know what I mean.” She bit off the words. “That poor girl would be alive and Drew Baker wouldn’t be in the hospital if it weren’t for you and your big ideas, bringing in a fancy film crew to spotlight your store.”

Sally raised my Jell-O faster than anyone in town. “That’s ridiculous. We didn’t cause the hit-and-run, or the assault. And the filming promotes the whole village. The Food Lovers’ Village, if you recall our slogan.”

“Did it ever occur to you that some of us are fed up with this food-food-food thing? Look at all the trouble it caused in June. I’m still picking up the pieces.” Spinning on her heel to leave, she flung down the tiny leopard-print fleece cardigan she’d been examining. It landed on the pavement and I bent to pick it up, spilling my coffee.

“Pooh.” I reached for the sweater before the coffee got it, but a large male hand beat me to it.

“What the heck was that about?” Rick Bergstrom said. He handed me the sweater and our hands touched. A small spark, but a spark nonetheless.

“No clue. She lit into me, like I had something to do with the attack on Drew Baker. Because of the filming. Which wasn’t even my idea.” Rage and confusion rattled me.

“I was just coming to see you. Looks like you need more java.” He radiated calm and strength. That, and the promise of coffee, settled me down. Rick put his hand on my back and gently steered me toward Le Panier. While we waited for our orders, I filled him in on the catastrophe formerly known as the Grill-off, and on Sally’s explosion.

“People like that are never satisfied. And you push all her buttons.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I protested.

“You don’t have to. Ideas breed ideas. The filming may not have been your idea, but no one thought of it before.” He paid for the lattes and handed one to me. “You’re young and energetic, and people are listening to you. You’re a threat to the social order. She doesn’t know where she stands anymore.”

And people think organizational theory isn’t sexy.

Back outside, the energy surged in the village, and in me. “It seems callous to hope for another great day when Drew’s fighting for his life.”

“A bad day at the Fair won’t make him recover faster.” He sipped his coffee as we strolled slowly toward the food court. “Sorry we missed each other last night. Sounds pretty rough.”

“After my interview with the sheriff, I was too pooped to go anywhere but home.” I’d told myself I could date two men at once. Did I actually have the courage? Adam would be leaving town again Sunday morning. “My family gets together every Sunday at the Orchard—my mother’s house—for dinner. You’re welcome to join us.” A warm flush crawled up my throat.

His face colored, too. “Wish I could. But—” We’d reached his booth and he jerked a thumb at it. “Gotta take off soon as we tear down. I’ve got appointments in Spokane first thing in the morning.”

Two hundred miles west. Big town. Important.

“But I’ll be coming back through here Tuesday,” he said. “Dinner?”

“It’s a date.” I stretched up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. He moved closer at the same time and my lips brushed across his, then glanced off his chin.

“Sorry,” we both said, laughing.

I raised my cup in a toast. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Back at the Merc, Tracy fretted over truffles. “We sold almost as many cherry as huckleberry. That can’t be right.”

“Not everybody knows what hucks are. Say they’re like a wild blueberry, with a kick. Plus cherries are yummy, too.”

“I thought they’d fly off the shelves. What if they aren’t good enough?”

“Would Iggy buy one every day if they weren’t good enough?” Tracy had first joined the Merc as a vendor, making natural, healthy dog treats. She and the previous manager had become friends, and she’d hired on a couple of years ago. Her chocolates made her doubly valuable to the shop. The concerns she now voiced were the same concerns I heard every day from other vendors over quality, quantity, packaging, marketing, pricing. Hand-holding was a big part of my job. “Next week, we’ll go over the numbers. I promise, they are trending up, up, up.”

We prepped the shop for another busy day, straightening and restocking shelves, picking up stray napkins, setting up the till. Brewing coffee—both varieties. Fresca brushed oil on sliced baguettes and toasted them for crostini while I set out bowls of olive tapenade and artichoke pesto, then updated the chalkboard advertising today’s samples.

The morning started off well. The “Breakfast in Jewel Bay” baskets were proving popular, and Tracy beamed when I sold three six-count boxes of truffles to the same customer.

About half-past ten, the door chime rang and Ike Hoover strode in. Unlike yesterday, when he’d been summoned on his day off, today he wore his uniform: brown slacks and a tan short-sleeved shirt. Radio, pager, handcuffs. Pepper spray. Gun.

Ike Hoover didn’t treat being undersheriff as a desk job. He looked past me to my mother and my gaze followed his. Her olive skin went pale and the soft lines around her mouth and eyes seemed to grow deeper before my eyes.

“I wanted to tell you myself.” Though his gaze remained on her, his tone, full of sympathy, included me. “Drew Baker passed away about an hour ago.”

I felt the oxygen go out of the air, and my mother and I wrapped our arms around each other. Behind us, Tracy gasped, and I drew her into our circle.

According to Ike, the killer had hit exactly the right spot on the back of Drew’s head, causing severe internal bleeding. Tara had spent the night at the hospital. Ike had already been to the Jewel Inn to tell Tony and Mimi.

Fresca voiced my thoughts. “Who? Why? Who could have done this?”

Ike’s brow furrowed. “You know I can’t talk specifics. But we’ll catch him, Fresca. I give you my word.” Ike Hoover was a good man, but to my family, he would forever be the bearer of bad news.

After he left and I made sure Tracy felt steady enough to handle the shop alone, I poured two cups of black coffee and ushered my mother out to the courtyard.

“Should I call Bill?” The lawyer-turned-herbalist had a soothing, Zen-like presence.

“He’s in the Park, leading an early-morning wild medicine walk. And I’m fine.” She cradled her cup, seeking comfort, not warmth. Today already promised to be a scorcher. “I so admired Drew as a chef. Every meal I ate there made me a better cook. He was generous with his time and his knowledge. He put the village on the food map.”

Sally’s comments came back to me. “Not everyone’s thrilled with the focus on food, are they? Making it the center of the town’s festivals and ad campaigns—even our new motto.”
Jewel Bay—The Food Lovers’ Village
.

“Par for the course,” she said, shrugging. Her gaze drifted around the courtyard, pausing at the fountain. “Nice young man you brought around Friday night.”

My blushing parts were getting a workout today.

“Good to see you have a little fun,” she continued. “You work too hard.”

“Genetic trait.” I sipped my coffee. Third cup, but the spilled cup only counted as half, and my second had been a latte. Steamed milk dilutes any negative effects of caffeine, or so I tell myself. “Who could have hated Drew that much?”

“Haven’t you learned your lesson, Erin?” Fresca said, her voice razor-sharp. “Leave it to the sheriff.”

“I’m just asking. Like everybody else in town.”

“Keep your questions to yourself this time. Before you get in trouble you can’t talk your way out of.” She pushed back her chair and stalked into the Merc.

The fierceness of her reaction stunned me. Old wounds still festered.

The plan, as revised after Stacia’s death, had been for me to usher Gib and Pete around the Fair today for casual chats with vendors and tempting taste tests. What now? I drained my cup and left it on the courtyard table, heading out the back gate instead of traipsing through the Merc. Sometimes it was best to bypass the maternal energy field.

On ordinary Sunday mornings in summer, the Jewel Inn hops like the Easter bunny, serving all manner of eggs, waffles, and French toast. On festival day, it would be a madhouse. If my dinner chef had just died from a vicious attack, I’d be tempted to close, but Tony and Mimi were such pros—and the Inn so popular—that they’d no doubt keep going, despite their grief.

I’d guessed right. Every seat on the deck was full. Several groups chatted near the front steps, waiting for seats. I walked in the open door. Framed pages on the wall from
Sunset
magazine raved about dinner at the Inn. Certificates from the Northwest Cuisine Awards honored Drew’s filet and other entrées.

Behind the hostess stand, Mimi glanced over her shoulder at the main dining room, then told the couple standing in front of her to expect a fifteen-minute wait. The man nodded and Mimi handed him a buzzer.

Her face had gone as colorless as the menu. Even her blond bob dragged. I stepped aside to let the couple pass. Mimi gripped the wooden stand like a crutch.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice a low rasp. “Don’t say a word.”

Behind her, the kitchen doors swung open and a veteran waitress emerged, a sturdy brunette with short, curly hair, carrying a round tray laden with the Inn’s heavy white china and breakfast for a sizable group. I admired the skill and strength it takes to lift one of those trays, let alone balance it and walk without tripping. But despite her grace, the waitress seemed stunned, her cheeks pale, eyes puffy.

A single door opened and Tony stepped partway out, sizing up the crowd. “Hey, Erin. Good to see you.” His receding hairline glistened, but he was all business. Years as a professional baseball player—mostly in the minors—followed by more years as a professional cook, had taught him to tame his emotions and focus on the tasks at hand.

“You, too. How you managing?”

“I’m channeling Drew. He liked to quote his mentor as saying ‘a chef is ready for anything.’ So, fry one egg, then the next.” Tony flashed a humorless smile and retreated, the door swinging shut behind him.

Life goes on. Food goes on.

“Mim, we’ve got to talk about
Food Preneurs
. The guys are supposed to film today, and I know vendors have been looking forward to this, but—”

She cut me off. “Gib already thinks this town is cursed. Heck, he may be right.” The phone rang and she answered, turning her back.

In other words, deal with it yourself. I started scrolling my phone for Gib’s number as I stepped out the Inn’s door. The sudden sunshine made me sneeze, twice. When the fit stopped and I opened my eyes, Gib Knox stood in front of me, as if conjured up by fairy dust. If fairies wore plaid shirts, jeans, and boots, and an “I’m too cool to shave” stubble. Out on the sidewalk, Pete Lloyd panned his camera over the deck full of diners.

“He’s filming?”

“That’s what cameramen do,” Gib said.

“We have to cancel. Maybe you didn’t hear—”

“I heard,” he said gruffly. “We’re not canceling.”

I stared. Tried again. “Drew is—”

“Yes. He’s dead.” Around us, people turned to ogle. “Hey, you people wanted the exposure. You wanted to let the whole country know what a great town you think you have. It’s not your street vendors’ fault Drew Baker got himself killed.”

“Keep your voice down,” I said, teeth clenched. “You’ll upset the customers.” I grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the sidewalk. Pete trained his camera on Front Street, where residents and tourists milled, checking out the booths.

“We’ll strike the Grill-off,” Gib said, returning to command mode. “We’ll acknowledge Stacia and Drew in the credits. But heck, we’re here, and we’ve already got great footage. Actually, now we can spend more time on the local growers and producers. Set up some extra interviews for this week, if you want.”

Just when I thought Gib Knox hated Jewel Bay, he turned the tables. Fickle fakery, or proof that he—like Drew—had absorbed the master’s admonishment to be ready for anything?