Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (12 page)

S
tiff and sore as I was, I insisted on going to the Merc. My Good Samaritan had walked back down to the village as soon as I was safely in the local doctor’s hands, and I wanted to give her a token of thanks. A picnic basket of goodies from the Merc—just the ticket.

“Darling.” Fresca rushed toward me when Chiara, Landon, and I passed through the Merc’s back door. “Let me look at you. Are you all right?” Her hands fluttered, not knowing where she could safely touch me. Fresca was so not a flutterer.

“Mom, don’t worry. Dr. Meadows says I’m fine, and Dr. Chiara gave me arnica.”

We fetched cold drinks and retreated to the courtyard. Fresca plugged in the fountain, and the soothing sounds of flowing water began to work their magic. The back gate flew open and Ned Redaway charged in like an angry bull.

“Girlie. You okay? I’d like to give those dunderheads a piece of my mind.”

I sighed. “Does the whole town know?”

“People are concerned, darling. They care about you.”

But would more bad news taint our reputation? I closed my eyes and leaned back against the chair.

“Don’t let her fall asleep.” Ned and Chiara spoke at the same time.

“I’m not asleep,” I said without opening my eyes. “Don’t you all have shops to run?”

Silence.

“Mommy, I gotta go,” Landon said, and I heard his boots scuff across the stone floor as he and Chiara headed for the bathroom. Even cowboys need a little help sometimes.

I opened one eye. Ned slipped Fresca a long white envelope and mouthed “All done.” She tucked it into her apron pocket.

“Better check my kegs,” Ned said. “Getting close to beer-thirty.”

I roused myself to go inside and check the goings-on. Tracy broke away from weighing a basket of produce for a customer to give me a once-over and a quick hug. I offered the customer a complimentary truffle and we chatted about Summer Fair.

“Our first time in Jewel Bay,” she said, “but not our last.”

I smiled, forgetting for a nanosecond about my swollen jaw. It reminded me in a hurry, so I went to the kitchen for ice, passing the pasta and sauce display. Fresca was explaining to a thirty-ish couple why particular pastas and sauces were traditionally served together. “But ultimately, it’s your preference,” she said. “What does your mouth like?”

“And can you twist spaghetti on your fork without splattering red sauce everywhere?” the man said, laughing.

Ned’s envelope lay on the stainless steel counter. His contribution to Stacia’s memorial fund, so soon? But why give it to Fresca?

Behind me, the restroom door made its familiar closing click and I snatched my hand back before Chiara and Landon came into view.

“Auntie, I was scared when you got hurt.” Landon flung his arms around my waist.

“Me, too, buckaroo. But having you close by makes me feel a lot better.” I adjusted his hat. “Wish I had a spare pair of pants handy. An apron won’t cover this rip.”

“Wear my painting pants,” Chiara said. “We finally finished the bathroom redo—come see.”

As we crossed the street, I tried to stay a half step ahead of Landon, using him as a shield to hide my torn britches. Iggy and Christine called out. I waved and kept moving.

With the variety and quality of artwork in the street fair, it was great to see so many shoppers inside Snowberry, Chiara’s co-op gallery. She painted in a large brightly lit (and underinsulated) attic studio in the old Murphy farmhouse where she and her guys lived. I followed her to the gallery’s cramped back room, where she rummaged, then flung a wadded-up pair of pants at me and pointed at the restroom.

Which had been transformed into a painted garden. On each wall, dense green foliage grew knee-high, dotted with blooming Shasta daisies, purple iris, and the gold Stella D’Oro daylilies I recognized from my mother’s garden. A willow basket of begonias in butter yellow, scarlet, and apricot hung from a weathered chain, all real enough to touch. A monarch butterfly flitted above the mirror, and high in one corner, a spider clung to a web that sparkled with morning dew. A small dark chocolate cat with black pointing peeked out from behind the white pedestal sink.

So that was why Chiara had taken so many pictures of Mr. Sandburg.

I tugged off my ruined pants, wincing when I bumped a tender spot. On the back of the door, the artists had hung self-portraits. Easy to find my sister’s. Chiara had tucked a coral pink begonia in her nearly black hair. Flames glowed in the pupils of her dark eyes, and fairy wings took the place of ears. We were often mistaken for each other by people who didn’t know us well enough to distinguish her ethereal spirit from my more practical one.

Sometimes I wished I saw the world through rose petals, like she did.

Squeezing into her well-worn knee-length khaki crops took some wriggling. The paint-spattered right leg looked like the background of one of Christine’s paintings.

On the street, foot traffic had slowed as the afternoon wound down. I stopped to gab with Luci, Iggy, and Christine, reassuring them and other vendors that really, truly, I was fine. Or would be. Just an accident. Got in the way. No harm done, yadda yadda yadda.

Outside the Merc, I paused to survey the baskets in our window and pick the right thank-you gift. I started for our open front door and nearly collided with Rick.

He held up both hands, surrender-style, and took a quick step back. “Erin. I’m so sorry. After what happened with those clowns, you don’t need me knocking you over, too.”

“And people think Jewel Bay isn’t the real Wild West,” I said lightly. The knitted brows and the serious look in his blue eyes spoke of concern. He extended a hand as if to touch me, then let it drop, uncertain.

“Bruised but not broken,” I added. “At least it’s been a good weekend for business.”

“And how. I admit, I underestimated Jewel Bay.” He looked me up and down, his gaze brushing my swollen face. “You’re really okay? Not too injured for dinner Tuesday?”

“At Chez Max? I predict a miraculous recovery.”

“Counting on it.” He grinned, stepped closer, and kissed my unbruised cheek. “Tuesday.”

Tuesday, I repeated to myself, watching the blond head, the strong shoulders as Rick strode back to his booth. Would I know my heart by then?

Not counting on it.

*   *   *

A
fter convincing Fresca I was safe to drive, I left her and Tracy to close up the Merc and took my offering to the Lodge. The desk clerk knew me and directed me to the doctor’s cabin, on the north end of the complex. She and her family were out, so I perched on an Adirondack to scribble a thank-you note.

“Hey, Erin.” I raised my head to see Kyle Caldwell on the path between this cabin and the next. He noticed my damaged arm and his brows furrowed. “What happened to you?”

I explained. Despite the Army ball cap pulled low on his forehead, I saw his brows rise and his eyes widen.

“Holy cow. Are any of us safe? I’m so sorry. And I’m sorry for how abrupt I was with you Saturday evening. The kitchen was in chaos—the news about Drew came while we were still serving the party and getting dinner ready for the guests. Then the sheriff wouldn’t let my staff go home. They all knew him, and some of them had to be back in time to work breakfast. I took it out on you.”

“No worries.”

He glanced at his watch and blew out his breath. “I’m late. Man, am I glad you’re okay.” In two or three strides he stood beside the cabin’s porch, leaned over, and kissed my uninjured cheek. It was getting an unusual amount of attention this afternoon.

Kyle trotted off to the main Lodge. Nearly time for the dinner bell, and judging from the number of folks gathering with drinks on the patio and the families mingling on the lawn, the Lodge was at full capacity. Shouldn’t he have been in the kitchen already?

I tucked my note in the basket and left it next to the front door. Stepped off the porch onto the path. Looked both ways, pondering. Had Kyle been to see Tara? He claimed things were long over between them—and no one I’d talked to had suggested otherwise.

His visit could have been professional—chef and sales manager need to consult occasionally. But on a Sunday? More likely, a condolence call.

My turn.

I followed the path to the Chef’s Cabin, a misnomer despite the wood-burned sign out front. To me, a cabin is little more than a room or two—an open living area that includes cooking and eating space, plus a cramped bedroom and a creaky bath with rusting faucets and ancient linoleum floors. The lucky few boast a sleeping loft for the kids. My cabin no longer fit that definition—in style or function—after Liz had added her cozy touch.

This place, on the other hand, was a bona fide log home—a smaller version of the showstoppers the Caldwell brothers had built for their families when Kim and Kyle were in high school. But the Caldwells did not deny their employees the good life. They’d expanded the original cabin, where Kim’s father and his brothers and sister had been raised, into this place. Two-story with a deep front porch and gables, it could have jumped straight off the cover of
Sunset
.

Frankly, it surprised me that Tara had kept the cabin after Drew’s departure—she seemed like a woman who’d trade free rent for a place of her own choosing. A woman who’d prefer the sleek lines and polished surfaces of modern style, who’d banish anything plaid, pine, or antler in favor of child-unfriendly glass, chrome, and stainless steel.

So much for stereotypes. The white Adirondacks on the front porch flanked an antler table, painted white and topped with a round mirror. A girl’s pink bike leaned against the rail. I reached for the door knocker—the standard upright horseshoe—but the door opened before I could lift it.

“What are—what happened to you?” Her tone swung from confrontational to concerned—and curious—midsentence.

“Tried to stop a fistfight with my face. Not a good idea.” Hadn’t Pete called her? I was tired of explaining. She’d hear the details soon enough—no reason to add to her troubles. “I just came by to say how sorry I am about Drew.”

She held the rustic pine door wide and waved me in.

A generous stone-paved entry led to the living room, where floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the lake. No dark leather couches or Pendleton blankets here. The chairs and sofas wore white, and a pale green and gold Persian rug covered the refinished fir floor. On the rough-hewn fireplace mantel, a Rothko-like modern oil of wide stripes of orange-red, avocado, and golden yellow angled against a fieldstone chimney. Call it country contemporary. Western style with an updo. A rustic log dining table—sibling to the longer tables in the main Lodge—was set with antique white china and gleaming chrome flatware, and surrounded by fifties modern white vinyl chairs. I glimpsed the kitchen beyond, a similar marriage of the Jetsons and the Cartwrights. The scent of lemon furniture polish clung to the air.

“Come sit,” Tara said, gesturing toward the snow-white upholstery. I glanced down at my dirty borrowed pants. She laughed. “Slip covers. They wash.”

I sank into an unexpectedly comfy armchair facing the water. Tara handed me a glass of iced tea and set a bamboo coaster on the glass-topped antique sled that served as a coffee table. Nearby, Emma’s books and toys filled a giant willow basket. Even that had been painted white.

Tara took the opposite chair and tucked her legs underneath her. One bare foot stuck out, the nails polished pale pink. She’d changed since this morning and now wore cuffed boy jeans and a white oversized men’s shirt, her only jewelry tidy gold hoops. I had never seen her not dressed in black, and I had never seen Pete in a shirt so nice.

“Quite the place. Not what I expected.”

“Few things are.” No bitterness in her tone—just sorrow and exhaustion.

“I ran into Kyle on my way up.”

She took a hasty sip of iced tea, hiding her flushed cheeks. “Sympathy call. The whole family’s been so good to me. In town—not so much. The ex is not supposed to care, especially since—well, you know.”

“You mean, because your divorce was so—public?”

“And because of what triggered it. Or who.”

“Kyle’s got to be near the top of the sheriff’s list.”

The color drained from her face. “He didn’t—he wouldn’t—”

“I know. I’ve known him half my life—he would never do such a thing. But if the wrong people see you together, things could get ugly.”

Tara lifted her chin, her eyes boring into mine. “Is that why Ike Hoover is investigating Drew’s”—her voice faltered—“attack instead of Kim? Because her cousin Kyle is a suspect?”

I nodded. “That, and because her family owns the property. Then there’s the history between you and Kyle, and the tension over the Grill-off.”

“The Grill-off?” Her tone dismissed the event, despite all the work that had gone into it. “The chefs didn’t take that seriously. Nothing more than a chance for a little extra publicity. Sure, they wanted Gib to praise their food, but it didn’t matter who won.”

I wasn’t so sure the chefs agreed with her assessment. Everyone likes to win. And chefs are high-test. “The old line, ‘Say anything you want about me, as long as you spell my name right’?”

“And take decent pictures for Facebook, Pinterest, and the website.” She smiled wryly. The modern world of marketing.

“So, they all did their grilling.” I blocked out the scene with my hands. “Gib tasted each dish and made his comments. Then he went—I don’t know where—while the chefs broke down their stations. Next thing I knew, you found Drew.”

She gave me a glassy stare. “Am I on the sheriff’s list, too? Or just yours?” She rose and walked behind her chair, crossing her arms over her thin chest and staring out the window. The silence grew. Where was Emma? At a friend’s, or down for a nap?

“I followed him,” she said reluctantly. “We’d been arguing about Emma. The one way I could get to Drew, get an emotional reaction, was to threaten to take her away.”

She faced me, tears ruining her thick mascara. “I just wanted to talk. To tell him I understood how much he loved her, and that I wished . . .”

“Were you planning to leave? You and Pete?”