Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (15 page)

Gib’s jaw twitched and his face settled into a “don’t worry your pretty little head” look. Behind him, I saw Pete stiffen, and his brief glance shot daggers into Gib’s back.

“Okay, fine,” I said, shrugging one shoulder. “Don’t tell me. Just makes it hard to keep pretending it was an accident.”

Gib cleared his throat. “Stress. First, Stacia, then Drew. We got impatient with each other. That’s all.”

Pete looked from me to Gib and back, wide-eyed, and nodded quickly. Too quickly, as if he hadn’t expected that explanation but was happy to go along.

“Makes sense,” I said, though I didn’t buy it. Even the worst stress won’t make a fight break out of thin air. “Poor Stacia. What was she doing out on the road at nine o’clock?”

Another shrug. “She liked to walk.”

“At night? In those shoes?” I wasn’t buying that, either.

“We’ll never know, will we? But the best way to honor her is to keep on working.” Gib gave me a long, steady gaze, then turned to Pete. “Where to next?”

Pete pulled a small notebook out of the pocket of his overshirt. “Bear Grass, check. The Merc, check. Looks like Rainbow Lake Garden, and the Creamery after that.”

A few minutes later, I had the shop to myself. Tracy had gone home to walk Bozo, and Fresca had left to meet Bill for a quick lunch. Our talk about the courtyard would have to wait. I perched on the stool behind the front counter with my iPad and fired up my spreadsheet. Jotted a note to ask if Drew dated, and who. Added Mimi to the suspect roster so I could cross her off.

I stared at the columns and rows. No obvious patterns emerging. Sometimes you have to move the data around.

Or add to it. I created a new column labeled
STACIA
and noted her connections to each of the others. After Drew’s death, the recipe snafu might not matter, but I still had questions—and she’d had them, too.

I closed my eyes, trying to think like her, picturing her papers spread out on my living room floor—minus Drew’s e-mail and recipe and Amber’s recipe. Identical recipes, according to Gib, or at least oddly similar. Where had Stacia’s copies gone? She’d had them with her at the meeting last Thursday morning, hadn’t she?

No surprise that she and Gib had discussed the problem and how to solve it before informing the committee. But she had seemed surprised when Gib accused Drew of copying Amber’s recipe.

Why? Because she’d seen the e-mails and knew it was an innocent coincidence? Or because she knew it wasn’t?

Well, I didn’t know Maria von Trapp’s view of coincidences, but I knew what Poirot and Holmes and the TV cops thought. And I didn’t believe in them, either.

I
still hadn’t called Stacia’s husband. Tonight. And I hadn’t called Chef Amber. I picked up my phone, then decided a visit might be smarter. When Tracy returned, I congratulated her again on a terrific demo, then headed to Le Panier for a cheese-and-spinach-filled croissant. Eating in the car might be a sin in France, but in my book, letting your tummy go growling when there’s a great bakery next door is an even bigger sin.

I slid the Subaru’s moon roof open and welcomed the sun and sky. Fresca and I had driven up to Bear Grass late last spring, shortly after my return, to meet Amber and see the transformation she and her sister had made. Once an outfitter’s fishing and hunting camp—Gib’s jab at “Bear Poop Lodge” had not been far off—it was now a picture-perfect retreat. New roof and furnishings for restaurant and cabins, a new septic system, and a dee-luxe kitchen with every shiny tool and toy a chef could want. And no doubt the debt to match, unless Amber was a trust fund baby in disguise.

“Rustic” need not be a synonym for “run
-
down.”

Gib hadn’t been up here until today. How had he known about its history? Lucky guess, or he’d done a little research after all.

Wonders never cease.

Two Honda Gold Wings with Alberta plates stood in the small parking area, alongside a white van sporting the B&B’s name and logo—a grizzly crouched in front of a clump of bear grass. A fly rod leaned against the peeled pine porch rail, next to a net and a pair of dripping waders.

A full-figured Golden Retriever lay on the porch and lifted his large head at my approach. Not guarding the place so much as mooching for a scratch behind the ears. I obliged. An old guy, judging from the patches of white around the eyes and muzzle, the rest of his long, wavy fur a lush red-gold. “Good boy.”

“That’s Duke,” Amber said from behind the screen door. “Old and arthritic, but he still runs the place.”

“Nice to have a good supervisor.” I straightened. “After the, uh, eventful weekend, I wanted to drop in and see how you are.”

“Still in shock, I guess.” She was around thirty-five, five-four, wiry and athletic-looking. I didn’t know who took the guests hiking and fishing, but her tan face and arms said she got out at every chance.

“Were you and Drew close?” I asked.

“When we bought this place, he came up for dinner, invited us to his restaurant. People think chefs are all cutthroat and competitive, but not Drew. He wanted everyone to succeed.”

“I’ve been hearing that. Makes his death even more of a loss. The village won’t be the same without him.”

She folded her arms and tightened her jaw.

I came for information and she wasn’t in a chatty mood.
Dig in
. “So it must have stung when he submitted your huckleberry-morel steak recipe.”

Her mouth opened and shut like a fish blowing bubbles, but she didn’t speak.

“And no doubt Gib’s comments about your dish at the Grill-off felt doubly unfair, when you’d had to come up with something new at the last minute.”

Her eyes darkened and she twisted the dish towel in her hands. “Drew didn’t—is that what Gib said? What are you implying, Erin?”

At the sound of her rising voice, old Duke struggled to his feet. I reached for his ears, and he pushed my hand with his nose. “Good boy,” I said, and he pushed my hand again. Not asking for a scratch this time. He barked.

I held up my hands and backed down the wooden steps. “Catch you later,” I told woman and dog.

Far be it from me to come between a woman and her dog.

*   *   *

W
hat had I had said or done to spook Amber Stone? When I first mentioned Drew, she was sad, almost wistful.

But when I brought up the recipes, her entire demeanor had changed. I still didn’t believe Drew had stolen her recipe. I’d hoped she’d tell me there had been an innocent coincidence—that she had created a similar recipe after a casual conversation with him, or after tasting a special at his restaurant, and hadn’t remembered the source until Gib Knox raised a red flag.

Instead, she’d gotten angry. Frightened. Why? It almost sounded like she didn’t know Gib had accused Drew of theft.

On the drive back out to the highway, I swerved to miss a young turkey sitting in the road and the Subaru hit a pothole. “Yeow!” Pain shot up my arm as the wheel jerked out of my hands.

This investigating was turning out to be a real pain in the backside—and other places.

As I drove back to Jewel Bay, I visualized the spreadsheet and my list of suspects. I hadn’t seriously considered Amber as a murder suspect—not enough tension between her and Drew. Or was there?

I wished I’d asked if she’d seen him after the tasting. She’d have been busy reloading her gear, like he was.

Where had she parked? I tried to picture the lot, but couldn’t recall seeing her white van.

She may not have killed him, but she knew something. Did she, like Mimi and probably half the town, think Gib had done it?

He could be aggravating, for sure. But a blow to the back of the head seemed like a cheap shot, and he seemed like a guy who’d prefer a real battle to swinging a meat tenderizer. Honor among thieves, nobility among killers.

Plus, no one had even suggested a credible motive.

Remind me why I’m sticking my nose in this?

If Drew’s killer wasn’t Gib, then it had to be someone local. I’d just come back to Jewel Bay. The town was booming. Now we made national news and not in a good way. Foodies everywhere would hear “Jewel Bay” and roll their eyes. “Oh, yeah,
that
town.” It could destroy us.

I wanted to go back to the Merc and stick my nose in my own business. Sell more handmade pasta and truffles. Spark a run on pemmican bars. Eat a pint of Avalanche Crunch ice cream every day if I felt like it.

But I couldn’t do it. No one else seemed to really care that Drew and Stacia were dead. That they were killed trying to do good things for our town—a sweet, innocent town where a killer was walking free. I liked to think that people who chose the quiet life of a mountain village were decent and kind. That people who love good food were good to the core. But relishing the flavor of a prime cut of beef and appreciating the texture of a well-made piecrust don’t actually make you a better person, do they?

Drew and Stacia had loved those things. Drew had dedicated his life to creating them for others. Stacia had worked so hard to make everything go smoothly. And they’d left young children. They deserved a better legacy than a resentful town and a food show forever marred by murder.

They deserved every bit of effort I had. And if it got tiresome, if it made people mad—as it obviously had irked Amber Stone—tough. Murphy girls are tough. We get things done.

We solve problems.

My phone lay on the passenger seat. The message light glowed and I picked it up. A message from Ike Hoover—would I come in and review and sign my statement this afternoon, if it was convenient?

If Ike Hoover had any evidence implicating Gib, he’d be hot on the man’s trail. He must know Gib was scheduled to leave midweek. Actually, Gib’s plan had been to leave Monday, but after the murder, he decided to stay longer for more interviews. Did that mean he wasn’t guilty—no reason to flee—or that he was as guilty as double-fudge truffles but stuck around to avoid suspicion?

For all I knew, Ike might be bearing down on Gib right now.

Argghh.
This was all too confusing.

I wasn’t ready to talk to Ike. I drove past Jewel Bay and headed for Caldwell’s Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch. I had questions. I needed cookies.

Plus, the dogs at the Lodge liked me.

*   *   *

I
slipped in the side door of the main Lodge, into the wide passage between the kitchen and the dining hall. An aproned young woman emerged from the kitchen, double doors swinging behind her and a giant tray of peanut butter cookies in her hands.

“Ooh, perfect timing.”

“Always time for cookies,” she said.

“Hey, got a sec? I was helping with the Grill-off Saturday night—you were here, weren’t you? Horrible.” She hesitated, mid-turn, and I rushed on. “After Gib tasted each chef’s meal, he came inside—”

“Right in that door.” She gestured to the door opening from the patio into the passage, which also served as a semiprivate dining area for the Lodge staff. Then she pointed at the door I’d come in. “And right back out.”

I cocked my head. From there, he could have gone north, after Drew. Or almost anywhere, for that matter, including to his own cabin.

“Did you see the chefs?”

“Kyle, is all. I’d just refilled the iced tea dispenser, which I need to do right now. He came in the kitchen to make sure we were on track with the guest dinners. Seems like only a minute or two later, everything was in an uproar. People running, sirens, EMTs, the sheriff.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Everybody was pretty upset. I gotta get that tea.”

“Thanks.” I poured myself a glass of lemonade, grabbed another cookie, and strolled outside.

Kyle sat at a picnic table, camo ball cap on backward, scribbling on a yellow notepad. I perched on the bench across from him, gesturing with my cookie at the glassy lake and the mountains beyond. “Why turn your back on a view like that?”

“To avoid distractions,” he said, eyes on his notepad. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Double-checking my head counts and inventory for the week.”

“On paper?”

“A notepad doesn’t break when I drop it,” he said. “Or melt if I splash hot gravy on it.”

“This won’t take long, I promise. Saturday, after Gib tasted the steaks, you all came inside. You went into the kitchen. Drew, we know, went to the parking lot. Do you know where Gib and Amber went?”

He laid down his pen. “Gib, no. I remember seeing Amber walk out with her cooler in one hand, pulling one of those milk crates with the wheels and handles, like a luggage cart. Going to her car, I guess. I mean, obviously.”

“Any idea where she’d parked?”

He started to say no, then stopped himself. “When she got here, she stopped that old Dodge van of hers out front to unload—I helped her haul things in—then she drove off to park. That way, I think.” He pointed south, the opposite direction from where Drew and I had parked. “She may not have known the north lot’s closer to the kitchen. Why? What’s this about?”

Which only meant her van wasn’t parked in the same area as Drew’s. It didn’t mean she hadn’t followed him—maybe to talk about the recipe mix-up. She was short. Had she been angry, picked up his mallet, and clobbered him while he leaned over?

Or had she seen what happened?

“Just trying to figure a few things out. For myself, is all. Thanks. How’s Tara holding up?”

Reddening, he picked up the pen and fiddled with it, prying the cap off and on with one hand. “I haven’t seen her since yesterday, when I ran into you. I swear, Erin, there’s nothing going on between us. No matter what Pete thinks.”

My eyes widened and I waited.

“She’s been itching to leave Jewel Bay for ages. This
Food Preneurs
gig was his shot at the big time, and she pushed him to parlay it into a job offer. Now he’s rarin’ to go, and she’s backing down. He accused me of trying to get her to stay, but heck, no. It’d be a lot more comfortable around here without her.”

That I could believe.

My hand on the door, I turned back with one last question. “Kyle, Saturday night. What was the secret ingredient Gib couldn’t guess?”

He grinned. “Cocoa powder. And don’t tell a soul.”

Oh, yum
. I made a zipping motion across my lips and ducked inside.

I found Keith Caldwell, aka the GM and Kim’s dad, in the office. Tall and spare like all the Caldwells, he’d always been kind to me. Like every merchant in town, I’d already been hit up for charity more times than I could count. Had to be ten times worse at the Lodge, but Keith didn’t hesitate when I asked for a contribution to Stacia’s memorial fund. He printed out a computerized check and signed it, then pulled out his own checkbook. “This one’s from me and Patsy. And town needn’t worry about Drew. We’ll take care of that.”

“Thanks. The Georges will help. Sure wish I knew who hit Stacia. And what happened Saturday night.”

“Sad business.” He shook his head. “I came in as Drew was carting his stuff out to his van. I didn’t see anyone else.” He thought a moment. “Oh, that little blond chef—what’s her name?”

“Amber Stone.”

“That’s it. I spotted her struggling with the main door and her gear. I held the door and offered to help, but she said her van was parked down by the South Lodge, so she didn’t have far to go.”

That matched Kyle’s recollection, and put her in the opposite direction from Drew’s van.

Dang. This wasn’t helping. Everyone was where they should have been.

“Quiet around here today. I was hoping to catch Gib Knox.”

“New crop of guests came in yesterday. Some are out riding, some went sailing or fishing.” He leaned back in his chair, long fingers laced behind his head. “We put Gib and the producer in adjacent cabins. Lucky for him, we were able to let him stay on a few days.”

“Thanks.” If Gib had dashed back to his cabin after the tasting, he, too, would have gone the opposite direction from Drew. But nothing said that was what he’d done. “My heart breaks for Tara and Emma.”

“Drew had no family, but Tara’s sister flew in from back East to lend a hand. Haven’t seen them today. But we’ll help her all we can.”

I nodded. That was the Caldwell way. They’d helped my family when my father died, hosting a reception after the service and letting me keep my horse here, rent-free. Of course, Keith hadn’t been able to control his daughter’s reaction to my sudden half orphandom, but I never blamed him for that.

He gave me a quick half hug—also the Caldwell way—and I headed back outside. The conversation with Amber had made me uneasy, but why? What was she holding back?

That recipe had to be the key.

Had Kim and I overlooked the missing pages when we packed Stacia’s cabin? I didn’t think so, and odds were that it had been thoroughly cleaned by now. Might even be occupied by new guests. Still, wouldn’t hurt to take another look.