Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (17 page)

But my self-righteous words to Kim echoed in my ears:
Stacia deserves justice, too
.

No tears, Erin. Tears won’t help.
I dug in my bag. “Found it!” I held up the pen, then signed and dated the statement.

Ike slid the paperwork to the side of his painfully clean desk. “Now, let’s talk about Sunday afternoon. Do you want to file charges?”

“Sunday after—how did you know about that?” For the nano-est of seconds, I’d thought he meant this afternoon and my broad-daylight escapade—and narrow escape. But no. He meant Gib’s punch. But if I pressed charges against Gib, and he had even the slightest idea that I’d broken into his cabin and rifled through his briefcase . . . “No. Worst thing that happened was I didn’t get to finish my ice cream.”

Ike didn’t buy my bluff. His eyes went to the white bandage on my elbow and the rainbow of bruises surrounding it. “If you’re sure . . .”

“It was as much my fault as theirs.” Ike’s features remained impassive, but the intensity in his eyes made me uncomfortable. I turned toward the murder board. “So here’s what I know. These people”—I used my pen as a pointer and gestured at the circle—“were all intimately connected in some way that isn’t apparent yet. It’s not like the way any five or six random people in Jewel Bay are connected—we all live here, work, play, shop here. Some of these folks had never been here before. Some hadn’t met until the filming started.

“Drew’s at the center,” I continued. “Not just because he’s the murder victim. But because he connects them all.”

“We know all that, Erin,” Ike said.

“Do you? You know Drew was married to Tara, who had a fling with Kyle. They divorced and Drew left his job. You know Drew used to work with Gib. It was Drew who asked Gib to come up here. But why did he come? They weren’t friends. There was a tension—what was that about?”

A flicker of irritation mixed with curiosity crossed Ike’s face. Was I getting him to think about things he hadn’t known?

“Pete Lloyd dates Tara, Drew’s ex-wife. He gets this temp job with the crew, and he—they—want to turn it into a full-time gig.”

“Pete was filming when Drew was killed.”

I knew that—I’d been there. “Yeah, but I’m not talking alibis. I’m talking connections. Drew and Tara argued about it—I heard them.” Ike raised one eyebrow and I explained what I’d heard Friday morning outside the Jewel Inn.
Ah, victory
—he made a note.

“Stacia Duval isn’t on your board, but she should be. And what about Amber Stone?”

“There’s no physical evidence that ties Stacia’s death to Drew’s. Entirely different types of crimes, entirely different circumstances.”

“Two nights apart, in the same general area. Two people working on the same project.”

“Who’d only met each other that week,” Ike said. “And yes, Amber Stone participated in the Grill-off, but that’s her only link to Drew Baker.”

I leaned forward, resting my clasped hands on Ike’s desk. “No, it’s not. I’m not sure Stacia ever met Drew or Amber. But they were connected. Here’s how.” I explained what I suspected about the recipes, what I’d found in Stacia’s files, and most important, what I hadn’t. And what Amber had told me about her professional respect for Drew. “Gib Knox made a lot of people in town mad in a hurry. You wouldn’t have let him leave just now if you thought he was the killer. I hope you warned him he might be the next victim.”

Movement caught the corner of my eye. Kim stood in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame. A deep frown creased her face.

Ike set his palms flat on his desk, ready to rise. “I admit, you know these people better than I do, but frankly, I’ve heard enough. Similar recipes as evidence of murder? How different can recipes be? The prosecutor would laugh, and so would every juror. You haven’t got proof of anything, Erin.”

My jaw cramped and a band tightened across my chest. “Ike, listen. I didn’t say the recipes are evidence of murder. But the similarity—and the accusations—are evidence of something. Of a connection we’re not seeing. I think we should check Stacia’s phone and laptop. Find the recipes and the e-mails. See who sent what when, and who knew—”

“‘We’ aren’t doing anything.” Ike stood. “Stick to selling pasta. And consider some time off—you did take a nasty fall yesterday.”

Time off? A nasty fall? Now he really had my Jell-O up.

“I checked the victim’s phone and laptop,” Kim said, “but we didn’t know what we were looking for. I’ll go back and search—”

“No, you won’t. You are off that case, too.” Ike ran a finger around his collar, where a bead of sweat rolled down his neck from his close-cropped hair. According to Kim, the deputies called him “Sheriff Cucumber” in private. Not so cool at the moment.

“Why take me off the hit-and-run if there’s no connection between it and the murder?”

“I’m not saying there’s no connection. We don’t know. But until we do, we will do everything to preserve every appearance of impartiality. We will not give some sleazy defense lawyer ammunition to suggest improper conduct by this office, and lose an arrest or a conviction.”

And that was that. Ike Hoover had laid down the law. I snatched my pen off the desk, grabbed my bag, and marched out. I wished I was wearing heels so their click on the faded linoleum would convey how angry I was.

“Erin, don’t go yet.” I turned to see Kim trotting toward me. “Unbelievable. You suspect some link between the victims, and now I’m off homicide and back to detective. Back to shoplifting and smash-and-grab cases.” She shook her head, eyes wide.

“Wait. I find a link, and Ike dismisses it. But even though my link stinks, he thinks leaving you on the case smells bad. And you’re ticked at me? That’s unbelievable.” I gave her my best Francesca Conti Murphy “you’ve got to be kidding” glare, jerked the car door open, and tossed my bag inside.

“No, wait, Erin. That’s not what I meant.”

I didn’t give her a chance to tell me that what she’d said was not what she’d meant. I was tired of people telling me I didn’t understand when I knew full well what they’d said. Don’t weasel out of responsibility for your own words by telling me I didn’t understand.

I put the Subaru in gear, backed out, and aimed for the village.

Were the recipes motive for murder? I didn’t know. I didn’t have proof. I never said I did. All I wanted was for Ike—and Kim, if he let her do her job—to understand that there were connections we hadn’t discovered. There was something going on that we couldn’t see.

I knew it. And it wasn’t a hunch. Maybe it was another cryptid, lurking under the surface.

Dive in, girl.

“S
orry to leave you here alone all afternoon. I just sorta—got caught up in things.”

“As in investigating things?” Tracy grinned. Today’s earrings brushed her shoulders—bugle beads in shades of blue, orange, gold, and white in a pyramid pattern. Needless to say, they complemented her outfit. No doubt all bargain-found.

I felt myself blushing, not wanting to explain. “You get some new deliveries? Oh, Wendy’s graham crackers. And what are these beauties?” I picked up a sandwich cookie and bit in.

“Ohmygosh. Ohmygosh.” I took another bite. “Graham crackers cut round, sandwiched with vanilla buttercream, and dipped in bittersweet chocolate.”

“I’m sure one’s enough,” Tracy said, reaching for a second. “But that’s not going to stop me. I can hardly wait to try Candy’s marshmallows. Sam brought in the wine you ordered, and we’re fully stocked on jams and jellies now. After that demo, the truffles flew out the door—I’ll get up early and make a few more dozen.”

So we got the
Food Preneurs
bump even without a broadcast. I hoped others in town were getting a similar boost.

I checked the giant glass jar of dog biscuits. “Any chance you can bake up some dog treats? We’re running low.”

She groaned in mock annoyance. “Who knew being an entrepreneur was so much work?”

“Anyone who’s ever tried it. Go home—I’ll finish up here.” So glad to have her happy, busy, and on the same team. And making money for the Merc and herself, thanks to the biscuit and truffle trade.

For the next hour or so, I made phone calls, updated the Merc’s Facebook page, and checked stock, confirming that the new inventory system was working as advertised.
Yes!
That warranted a little double fist pump.

Which reminded me of fistfights and what was up between Pete and Gib.

Maybe I should forget it all. Let Ike investigate his way, even though he didn’t seem to be anywhere close to an arrest—or arrests. Two serious crimes on his plate. And Gib would be leaving soon.

Did I honestly think Gib or Tara had followed Drew and whacked him?

I didn’t know what to think anymore.

I’d brought a stack of bills down from the office to work on. Right on top lay the bill for Fresca’s courtyard splurge. I didn’t know what to do about that, either.

Geez, Erin. You think of yourself as a woman who makes decisions, who takes action.
But here I was surrounded by my own indecision.

Topic number one: I’d wanted to run the Merc and the building. The basement do-over had been spot on, and the courtyard renovation was a blooming success. Now I needed a plan for how we would use the space. Then I could decide if we needed the stand-up heater.

Number two: Keep following my nose down the murder trail? I believed I had something to offer Ike Hoover—even if he didn’t. My local-girl knowledge of the community, and of the food business, had already shown me connections he’d missed.

Alas, my indecision went one step further. Topic number three: I had daydreams of Adam Zimmerman and a dinner date tomorrow night with Rick Bergstrom.

Buck up, Erin
. Make a plan, and stick to it.

But I couldn’t solve the hit-and-run. That required legwork and questions only law enforcement could ask. And it hit a little too close to home. Still, I couldn’t get my mind off the investigation. Why weren’t they doing more? All those interviews took time, I understood. But they didn’t have time.

I dug out the phone number Kim had given me, rubbed the stars on my wrist, and called Stacia’s husband. Buzz Duval—perfect name for a rock band sound engineer—accepted my condolences. But the memorial fund astounded him.

“It won’t be much—maybe a thousand dollars. For Luke, for the future. It’s the least we could do—we enjoyed her company.”

A brief silence. “And she yours. When she called Thursday night, she couldn’t stop raving about Jewel Bay. You say you have some of her things. Did you happen to find—” His voice faltered.

“She called Thursday night? What time?”

“Eight, on the nose. Stacia’s never late. She calls—called—every night to wish our son good night and read him a story.” He paused. “Did you find the book? It’s all I really want back.”

Ah. That explained the copy of
Goodnight, Moon
. Now my own throat tightened.

“I’ll get it back to you, safe and sound,” I said. “Before you go, one thing’s been bugging me. Why would Stacia take a walk, on a country road, when it was nearly dark?”

“I keep asking that myself,” Buzz said. “She was a city girl. She loved it up there, but she worried about bears.”

A common tourist terror, rarely a real problem.

“Even at home, she didn’t go walking at night,” he continued, “unless we’d had a fight. I doubt she even packed a pair of sneakers.”

She hadn’t. “Did she sound upset? Had something happened?”

“Heck, working with Gib, anything could happen. She knew how to handle him, most of the time. Give him enough of what he demanded to think he’d won, then do what she thought was best for the show.”

Ah. Like with the recipe snafu. Appease the little boy cowering inside the big bully.

“But this time, he really pushed her. I don’t know the details, but it made the possibility of moving to Jewel Bay even more enticing.”

Possibilities lost to all of us. Dang it. Reality sucks sometimes.

“Buzz, thanks. I’ll take care of the papers, and the bank will be in touch about the memorial fund.”

In the bathroom, I washed my face, holding my cool wet hands over my hot red eyes. In the mirror, they looked swollen, my complexion both pale and flushed. Had I been running around all afternoon, and helping customers, with my hair like something the Lake Monster had shed? A simple combing wouldn’t fully smooth my hair, but I did my best. I straightened my button-front soft black tunic and adjusted my belt.

Uh-oh.
My fingers snagged in my skirt. More precisely, in a rip in my skirt. The torn edge hung raggedly, and one of the black threads that held the silver spangles to the black and blue fabric lay loose. If I didn’t go a little easier on my clothing, I’d be begging Tracy to help me scrounge a new wardrobe.

Criminy
. Had I torn it scrambling over Gib’s windowsill? So much for luck.

Back out front, all was quiet. I locked the front door and flipped the sign to
CLOSED
. Turned off the lights, grabbed my gear, and walked out the back.

I paused in the courtyard, considering the space. This fall, I’d talk to the owner of the nursery north of town. Next summer we could showcase potted plants and sponsor classes for folks to create their own hanging baskets and unique arrangements.

New product launch parties were another option—starting with Luci’s soaps and Maggie Bird’s Blackfeet Naturals.

And wine tastings in the evenings. Sam and Jen from Monte Verde would jump at the chance, and so would the other vineyards. The new distillery might be interested in a cocktail sampling. If we partnered with Red’s, we wouldn’t need a liquor license. That outdoor heater might come in handy, especially in the shoulder seasons.

I unlocked the gate and slipped into Red’s courtyard. Inside, I ordered a pepperjack cheeseburger—my stop at the Brewery had whetted my taste buds—and waffle fries. Red’s burgers are my go-to comfort food. Along with ice cream, chocolate, spaghetti Bolognese, and linguine with basil pesto, but Red’s doesn’t serve those.

I carried my Eagle Lake IPA outside to a table in the corner, shaded from the last of the afternoon sun by a tall pine. Summer would be winding down soon. This time of year, Montanans start storing up the heat in our bones, so we won’t go freezing mad in mid-January.

At the picnic table where Mimi, Ned, and I had sat last Friday morning to reconsider the weekend’s festivities, Ned now sat, back to me, deep in conversation with a local builder. Blueprints covered the table. Weird. Red’s never changes.

Not exactly true. Events last June had triggered major changes at Red’s. Hadn’t Ned said a relative—a nephew or a grandson—might join the business? But no sign yet of new blood.

Ned stood and shuffled inside for something. The builder waved.

“Hey, Chuck. Project time?”

“Some updates. New kitchen equipment, redo the restrooms. New windows. A new floor if we can swing it. Keep the charm, improve the function.”

Charm
? Not the first word Red’s decor brought to mind. “I’m all for that.” The kitchen guy brought out my food, Ned behind him carrying a pair of draft beers. “Dinnertime. Catch you later. Hey, Ned. You never said you were classing up the place.”

He grunted and handed Chuck a glass of stout.

“Ned, you here most evenings now?”

“Purt’ near. Got hung up at the Lodge on Saturday night, after the tragedy, but I been here every other night for going on two weeks.”

“You were at the Lodge on Thursday, too, when we filmed the appetizer and dessert party.”

“Early, yeah. Came up here after, stayed till closing.”

“So were you here when Gib Knox came in?”

Ned’s broad face darkened. “Him? He waltzed in, glad-handing like he were lord and king, downed one G&T, and took off. Barely stayed long enough to wet his whistle.”

Now that was food for thought. Ten minutes, maybe—not the hour or more he’d claimed. Where else had he been? Getting friendly with Tara? Getting angry with Drew?

More data for my spreadsheet. I picked up a thick perfectly done waffle fry and promptly dropped it. I slid off my stool to pick it up—wouldn’t want someone to step in it—but couldn’t see where it had gone.

Fry, fry, wherefore art thou, fry?

The “wherefore” in Juliet’s speech meant “why,” not “where.” “Why?” was definitely the question of the day.

Ike Hoover was wrong when he said I was messing in things that weren’t my business. But he might have been right when he said I needed more sleep.

*   *   *

C
abin, sweet cabin
. I’m sure that’s what the first person to utter “Home, sweet home” really meant. Aside from the Orchard, which would always be home to me, the cabin beat out every other place I’d lived by a country mile.

Fresca did have a point: It was small. Cozy. Perfect for one woman and one cat, but add even a mouse and it would be cramped. (Another reason I don’t let Sandburg invite his mice friends in to play.)

When I moved in and Liz did her woo-woo thing—burning sweetgrass to clear the space and orienting me to the
baguas
—I’d said we could take out the second nightstand, that I’d rather have the extra room.

“Bad feng shui,” she’d replied, “if you ever want to have a serious relationship.”

The nightstand stayed. But I’d drawn the line at leaving half the closet empty for some future Prince Charming. After years of dorm rooms, studio apartments, and tight-but-pricey one-bedrooms in the city, with storage designed for another era, a whole closet to myself felt positively lavish. Plus I needed it—I still had the city wardrobe, bought with the city salary. Though I was thinning it out this week.

I hung the swirly Indian print skirt in the far back with a sigh. Needle and thread were strangers to my hands, but if anyone could fix it, Chiara could. (Of course, she’d also try to wheedle out of me how it got ripped.)

The piles of papers lay on the living room floor. I swathed
Goodnight, Moon
in bubble wrap and placed the package in a box, tucking in the flaps for extra cat protection. I needed to scour the papers again, check my inventory, and double-check for evidence before packing up the lot and shipping any personal items to Buzz and the work stuff to EAT-TV.

Tomorrow. Tonight, my Prince Charming was a sable Burmese cat and the Royal Ball was back-to-back episodes of
Pie in the Sky
, a classic BBC series about a homicide detective who opens his dream restaurant.

Even without glass slippers, I felt like Cinderella.