Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (14 page)

She’d never been a spendthrift. Her motives were good, if not exactly pure, hidden in the comments about my tight quarters and “making friends.” She meant “boyfriend.”

Aye-yi-yi.

I shook the tussle out of my brain and ran the sales figures I’d promised Tracy. Sure enough, Jewel Bay adored Tracy’s Truffles. A steady upward trend. I took the printout downstairs and straightened jars and boxes while Tracy finished with her customer.

“See?” I handed her the accounting. “Your chocolates are a hit. The dog treats, too. You are a successful entrepreneur.”

She studied the numbers, beaming. The door opened and Old Ned Redaway entered.

“Hey, girlie. How’s tricks?”

I came out from behind the counter to give him a kiss. “Fine and dandy. Long as I’m careful where I sit.”

“What do I owe you for that memorial fund? You’re doing what, a buck a pound of coffee? And I’m matching.” He slid his checkbook out of his back pocket and patted his other pockets for a pen.

Hadn’t he made his contribution yesterday? When he handed Fresca that white envelope?

Obviously not, if his plan had been to match our contribution. I must have misunderstood in my post-punch daze.

“Let me get that figure,” I said, trotting toward the office.

So what had been in Ned’s white envelope?

What else was Fresca not telling me?

A
fter Ned left, I got to thinking. Thinking leads to lists and notes, so I tromped back upstairs—pausing at the kitchen to blow Fresca a kiss. But she was too busy chopping to notice.

The Spreadsheet of Suspicion had been useful earlier in the summer. Could it be helpful here? Not that I wanted to make a habit of sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.

Too late.

Now I had some real questions to work with.

Was it Hercule Poirot or Sherlock Holmes who said start by studying the victim? And that wise woman of song, Maria von Trapp, said, “Start at the very beginning.”

All of which meant focus on Drew Baker. I opened a new spreadsheet and labeled three columns
MOTIVE
,
MEANS
, and
OPPOR
TUNITY
. Means was obvious: We knew the murder weapon had come from Drew’s cooking kit. So this was a crime of opportunity, not one planned in advance.

Down the left I listed people connected to Drew. Tara, for sure. At six, Emma was not a suspect, but she did represent motive. I wrote “Emma—custody” in the motive column of Tara’s row.

Followed it with another note: “Leave JB?” Tara had implied that the threat wasn’t serious—she just wanted to get a rise out of Drew—but their argument had sounded knock-down, drag-out.

Had Pete been Tara’s ticket out, or a chance to make the threat look real?

If the threat was empty, what had Tara hoped to gain from Drew—money? More time with Emma?

Did she crave drama and a crisis high?

Or truly not know what she wanted?

Pete’s name went in the next row, and below it, Gib Knox, Amber Stone, and Kyle Caldwell. The only motive I could assign to Pete was a desire to leave Jewel Bay with Tara. Where did they stand now? I hoped Pete could give Tara time to recover from her own shock, and that she could give him the chance to help her.

In my role as production assistant, I’d been focused on the filming and hadn’t paid attention to Tara’s roamings. Her tale of following Drew to force him to talk with her was unlikely enough to be true.

The sheet needed a fourth column:
WHEREABOUTS
. The columns were getting out of whack so I abridged the label to
W
HABOUTS
. Excellently mysterious word. I typed “followed Drew” in Tara’s
WHABOUTS
column and “filming” in Pete’s, then sat back to study my handiwork.

Gib Knox. Motive? What did we really know about Gib? The call to Steph had reminded me that he’d done several EAT-TV shows before developing
Food Preneurs
. Some food show hosts were flamboyant on air, others more serious. Gib blended a bit of each, but no question, he was all about entertainment.

Was that difference in focus a clue? Did Tara know what old tensions simmered between Gib and Drew?

Had Stacia known?
Criminy
. I flashed back to last Thursday morning, when the recipe snafu was first revealed. Stacia had seemed so reluctant to bring it up, Gib so—enthused.

Like he enjoyed the prospect of making trouble for Drew.

Like this was a chance to rub Drew’s nose in—what?

But that was no motive for murder. If you want to show someone up, you need them alive.

What had Gib said on our ride? That he’d wanted a kitchen, but he got a TV set. To the rest of the world, Gib appeared to have everything. But Drew had what Gib had wanted: a successful career as a chef.

In the back of beyond, Gib was quick to say. A neat little jab. On the offense, or the defense?

A dark thought crossed my mind and brow. Had Gib wanted Tara, too?

Had she been lounging in his oversized white shirt yesterday, not Pete’s?

I stood. The slanted ceiling gave me no room to pace, so I rested my right foot on the bookcase and stretched my stiff hip. A line from an old country song wafted into memory: “Have you left the one you left me for?”

But who did that shoe fit? Tara had left Drew for Kyle, then broke it off, although I wasn’t clear who’d left who. Or whom. And I had gotten no sense that Drew wanted to reconcile—not judging from his anger in the parking lot.

Where did Gib belong in all this? Had Tara been involved with him years ago—during or before her marriage? Was that the source of conflict between the two men, and the reason the Bakers left California?

One problem with detecting is that you sometimes stumble into parts of people’s lives that you’d rather not know. But there’s no unknowing.

The thought made me squirm. It felt invasive—dirty, almost. I didn’t have to do this. I didn’t have to investigate. Plenty of folks—from my family to the sheriff and no doubt the killer—would rather I didn’t.

Drew was dead. The publicity might hurt Jewel Bay and cause real harm to those I loved and respected. If I could help Ike Hoover solve this murder by looking closely—I knew these people better than he did—then I couldn’t walk away.

Why had Drew come here? That was two questions: Why leave L.A., and why choose Jewel Bay? I needed to talk to two women who’d done the same thing: Tara and Mimi.

*   *   *

F
irst stop: the bookstore, and a request to borrow Child-ish books. Ginny, the owner, promised to bring over a stack, including a charming book about Julia, Paul, and their cats. I might even sneak it home and curl up with Mr. Sandburg for a quick read.

“And this is for Stacia Duval’s memorial fund,” Ginny said, pulling cash out of her till. “Such a sweetheart. Such a tragedy.”

“Thanks.” I tucked the contribution into my bag. Next up: the Inn. Then the bank.

Mimi sat in a booth for two near the hostess stand, cradling a mug of coffee. The late-for-breakfasters were gone, and the lunch crowd hadn’t yet started trickling in. Nothing looked out of place—pint jars of fresh daisies bloomed on every neatly set table—but the restaurant wore a layer of gloom thick as the paint on the hundred-year-old moldings. Even the pronghorn in the Groucho Marx glasses looked downcast.

I slid into the booth opposite Mimi and reached across the table, covering her hand with mine. She turned hers so our palms touched and I felt her chill.

“Mim, none of this is your fault.”

She gave my hand a quick squeeze and withdrew hers, returning it to the mug like a pigeon to home.

“Let’s get you a warm-up.” I signaled a waitress, who brought us each a fresh cup.

Mimi’s face was wan, her blue eyes bloodshot with worry and sleeplessness. “Erin, can you ever forgive me for yesterday? Leaving you to decide what to do about filming the street fair, and to deal with Gib Knox? We were devastated. I managed to hold it together for the staff, but in the process, I dumped the burden on you.”

“No forgiveness needed.” Mimi and Tony had a great reputation as employers. “Honestly, I’m glad Pete and Gib forged ahead with the street vendor interviews. When the sheriff nabs the killer and gets all this resolved—well, they can air some of the footage then. By that point, we’ll be craving good publicity.” That reminded me, they were supposed to film visits to farms and producers today.

Mimi looked like she’d swallowed a peach pit. “No. No, they can’t. Me wanting publicity is what got us into this mess in the first place.”

I leaned forward. “No, it isn’t. Not unless you picked up that mallet yourself and smashed your chef’s skull.”

She angled toward me, eyes bug-wild, fingers gripping the table’s edge. “You don’t think I—”

“No, of course not.” I rewound my mental tape of late Saturday afternoon. (There ought to be a word for that time around four to six, when afternoon slides into evening. Not twilight—too early, this far north in summer. Twi-noon?) Mimi had been furious with Gib for his snide remarks. And after the discovery, as we all sat inside, captive, she’d gotten a little bit drunk.

Now I remembered, with a shiver. She’d said she could strangle him. But Gib Knox was alive and well. He could easily have infuriated Drew, but I didn’t think Gib was the type to argue with a man, then bash him over the head when he turned his back. When provoked on Sunday afternoon, Gib had squared off for a fistfight. No doubt boxing was another skill his father had thought every man ought to master.

But Gib did have a talent for annoying people. If he wasn’t the killer—and I wasn’t ruling him out—he might be the next victim.

Mimi wrapped her arms around herself, moaning.

“Hey, I know how you feel,” I said. “But just because you had the idea and brought all these people here doesn’t make you responsible for what happened to Drew. Or to Stacia. Heck, we don’t have any idea who killed him. It may have been completely unrelated to the Grill-off.”

The tilt of her head and the “oh, c’mon” look in her eyes conveyed her disbelief.

“Okay,” I continued. “Say it was Gib. You knew they’d worked together in L.A., and that’s why you asked Drew to see if Gib would bring the show to Jewel Bay, right?”

She nodded, her expression grim.

“Did he say anything? Suggest any bad blood?” But if there’d been any history, why would Drew have agreed to invite the man and participate in the show?

“No. Drew was so even-tempered, so steady. Anything past was past to him. But the moment Gib got here, trouble started.”

True enough, though Gib hadn’t singled Drew out. His comments at the Grill-off had dripped with that sarcastic, snipey tone some people confuse with sophistication.

But the recipe thing nagged me.

“Mimi, Drew did his ordering and menu planning on the Inn’s computer, right? Did he submit his recipe for the Grill-off from here, too? Can I take a peek?”

“If you think it will help.” She led me to a cramped office behind the kitchen where an ancient PC hummed sleepily. I brought it to life, then found the e-mail program. Drew had set up his own account. Password-protected. I plugged in “Emma” and the year of her birth, and presto! (I still hadn’t told Chiara I’d hacked her Facebook account last June. Somebody ought to warn parents not to use such obvious passwords.)

Mimi glanced at her watch. “Lunch time—I need to head out front. You okay here?”

Perfectly okay. Blissfully okay, scrolling through a dead man’s in-box. If Ike Hoover caught me, he’d throw a fit. Or throw me in jail. I typed faster.

Routine e-mails from suppliers. Notes from friends. Someone would have to notify his contacts and close this account. Later. Drew had set up folders for vendor correspondence, employees, and recipes, broken down further by main ingredient. Nothing relevant under
BEEF
. No folder for the Grill-off, darn it.

Nothing anywhere: not in the in-box, the sent box, the Recycle Bin. I opened Word and found a few recipes, but not this one.

Dag-nabbit.

Before letting the computer go back to sleep—they work hard, they need their rest—I scrolled through Drew’s in-box again, scanning for other potential connections. Jumped on Facebook, but found nothing unusual.

When I left the Inn, I took the donations to the bank, then strolled back to the Merc. Half a dozen customers eyed the kitchen activity from the shop side of the stainless steel counter. A couple perched on the red-topped stools Fresca had snared from an old soda fountain, watching as Pete filmed Fresca laying freshly cut pasta on drying racks and chatting with Gib about the necessity of a vine-ripened tomato for a good, hearty sauce. I’d completely forgotten that we—or rather Fresca and Tracy—were on the schedule for today.

Martha Stewart and Ina Garten make cooking on camera look easy. Well, so did Francesca Conti Murphy. Her natural calm and enthusiasm for all things tasty and Italian made you want to make whatever she was making. And more important, to eat it.

Then Tracy demonstrated truffle making. Her voice betrayed her nervousness, and I rubbed my lucky stars, hoping she could control her shaky hands as she melted chocolate and talked about couverture, ganache, and tempering.

“Breathe, Tracy,” I said softly, watching the action from the shop. Beside me, Fresca whispered, “Smile.” She seemed to hear us both, calming visibly as she demonstrated holding a ball of soft, creamy raspberry filling with her index and middle fingers and swirling it through the lush dark chocolate, finishing with a quick twist before settling the concoction onto a parchment-lined tray.

Tracy reached for another tray and angled it toward the camera, speaking directly to the lens as Fresca had done. “If you’re going to dip chocolates in the summer, do it in the morning, while the air is still cool. Otherwise your chocolates may develop a white bloom or cloud. That won’t affect the taste, but it isn’t attractive. It’s getting a little warm in here, so I’m going to stop now.”

Gib’s jaw dropped, but I cheered her for taking control—especially in pursuit of perfect chocolate.

“So now you’ve seen how two of Jewel Bay’s most creative cooks have made a niche for themselves, sharing their passion with us. For
Food Preneurs
, on location at the Glacier Mercantile in Jewel Bay, Montana, I’m Gib Knox.” Camera still rolling, he glanced aside, mock horror on his face. “Hey, save one of those for me.” Then he turned back to the camera and gave his future audience a smile and a wink, his signature sign-off.

I stepped around Pete and his pile of gear to grab a Diet Coke. I slipped the cold can into one of the foam thermal sleeves Tracy had made and handed it to her. “Good job.”

“Thanks.” Flushed but happy, she took a swig, then carried the sample tray out to the shop floor to share.

“Mom, you’re a natural,” I told Fresca. “You should have your own cooking show.”

“Erin.” Gib Knox broke in. “Glad to see you still among the living.”

Ouch. “I’m fine, thanks. But you owe me ice cream.” Which reminded me to call the owner of the ice cream truck. Scoops and cones were out of the question, but we could do decent traffic in prepacked pints. We’d need a small freezer—a better investment than a deluxe outdoor grill. Or at least one with a more obvious business purpose.

Pete tittered, wrapping a cord. A customer was waiting at the front counter. “I’ll get her,” Fresca said.

“In lieu of a waffle cone, how about telling me what happened?”