Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (18 page)

T
uesday morning dawned clear and sunny. If I sat up in bed, I could glimpse the lake. Smooth as glass today. No monsters.

Just the monster rattling my cage—the one who’d killed Drew Baker and driven me halfway to distraction.

I took an extra-long, extra-hot shower, letting Luci’s lavender shower gel perfume the place. Nothing like starting the day with a personal spa moment. Today promised to be busy, so I dressed for comfort in gray leggings and a hot pink cotton tunic with three-quarter sleeves that covered my still-raw elbow without chafing. The tunic matched my pink Tom’s shoes, amazingly comfy considering the fabric was made from hemp and recycled plastic bottles. At the last minute, I twisted a long aqua scarf around my neck.

“Sandburg, earn your keep today. Sort those papers, find what we’re after, and give me a ring. Or text.” From his perch on the back of the couch, he stared, comprehending all too well, then turned away and rested his head on his paws.

What animals get away with, not having thumbs.

*   *   *

“O
oh, hot.” I shifted my double latte from one hand to the other, then used the tail of my scarf as a cup sleeve.

“Careful,” Max said, the rolling
r
and accented second syllable so very French.

“Too late,” I said with a smile, thinking of more than coffee. My mother liked to call me her cautious kid, her planner and plotter, who always knew what came next and never did anything reckless. In contrast to my sister, who might show up for dinner with an emerald green streak in her hair, or my brother, who tracks predators through the woods on skis and studies deer kills while wolves look on. Either she doesn’t know me as well as she thinks, or I’ve learned from watching them when to hide my wild side.

Tuesdays bring a bit more tourist traffic, so I spent the morning in the shop. We unloaded deliveries and placed our cookie order. Fresca whipped up tapenade and artichoke pesto, scenting the air with garlic and olives. But I had orders to pick up, so when Tracy came back from lunch, I headed out.

Rainbow Lake Garden is a taste of heaven on earth. A country life magazine in the flesh and flora. A fawn, still wearing spots, cavorted in a daisy-speckled meadow beside the curving farm lane. I parked by the main gate, behind a white van, and hopped out.

“Hello, Henny Penny,” I said to the fat red chicken staring up at me. “I’ve come to steal your eggs.”

“She’s taken to greeting every car that pulls in,” Phyl said, her Kiwi accent strong as the midday sun. “Peculiar, eh? I reckon a visitor gave her a treat, and now she’s expecting it.”

The hen waddled off, clucking, as if she didn’t like being talked about.

“Your order’s all packed,” Phyl said, gesturing with one bare, freckled arm. “In the cooling room.”

I followed her into the lower level of the two-story earth berm house. Tucked into a hillside, only the glassed south wall exposed, it stayed pleasantly cool even on hot days. Three large crates held veggies for the Merc’s produce cart, heavy on salad greens, tomatoes, and ears of corn, while two smaller boxes brimmed with tomatoes, peppers, and herbs for Fresca. A canvas bag held my personal cache. We checked each one, iPads in hand, comparing the contents to her invoice and my order sheets.

“The Lemon Boy tomatoes are coming on.” Jo’s lilting voice carried as she led another visitor into the cooling room. “They’d make a lovely salad with arugula and goat cheese.”

“Mmm. And a tangy dressing,” the other woman said.

“Tarragon, maybe?” Jo replied.

Jo—Johanna, from Denmark—and Phyl—Phyllis, from New Zealand—proved the old saying that opposites attract. A willowy five-ten-ish, Jo wore her long blond hair in a high ponytail that swayed across her tan shoulders as she approached, dressed in a stretchy pink, yellow, and orange print top resembling 1970s pop art, and a charcoal gray skort. Did long, dark winters give Scandinavians an affinity for bright colors? Phyl was four or five inches shorter, solid but not fat. Today, as usual, she grubbed around the garden in a loose cotton tank faded from dark blue to an off-purple and dirt-streaked black shorts that looked like cast-off men’s swim trunks. They wore identical red rubber clogs—easy to hose off before going upstairs to the living quarters.

Before summer ended, I intended to bring out a Merc picnic basket and a couple of bottles of wine as thanks for their support and excellent produce. And if I primed the pump, maybe they’d tell me how they met and how they got to Jewel Bay—one of town’s unsolved mysteries.

Jo started checking produce boxes with her customer and I realized who it was.

“Glad to know Bear Grass serves the best produce in the valley,” I said, stepping into view.

Chef Amber Stone blanched like beans in boiling water, then flushed like peaches in red wine. Scrutinized her spinach in silence.

Her attitude was my fault, I supposed. “Amber, I upset you the other day. I’m sorry.”

She gripped the greens. Jo looked like she wanted to rescue them. “You’re interfering with things you don’t understand.”

“So why don’t you tell me?”

Her face darkened. She grabbed a box and practically ran out of the room. Jo glanced at me and Phyl, shrugged, picked up a crate, and followed her.

Phyl let out a long, slow whistle. “What’s she done, to not look yeh in the eye?”

“Not a clue.”

“She’s a skittish one, all right. Let’s cut your flowers, then we’ll get your eggs from the chilly bin.”

When I came out a few minutes later, Amber had taken off—no doubt in a rush to escape me. Phyl and I loaded my Subaru while Jo leaned on the gate, nibbling a sprig of mint.

“You spooked her good,” Jo said.

“Wish I knew why. How’d the filming go? You two TV stars?”

Phyl rolled her eyes. “Thinks he’s God’s gift to women, that one.”

“Yah,” Jo said. “One taste of his charms, we’d run off to La-La Land with him and leave the good life behind.” They doubled over, howling.

And that was all they would say about Gib Knox.

But that said it all.

*   *   *

I
swung by the Creamery to pick up the Merc’s order. Drove home nibbling fresh cheese curds. Talk about God’s gifts.

Back at the Merc, I unloaded, and Tracy helped me restock the coolers and our produce cart. Never underestimate the value to the Universe of fresh eggs. And they’re pretty darned important to a grocer sweating her backside off to develop a market for natural, local, sustainable foods in a seasonal town.

While I was out, Candy had dropped off her samples. “Did you try them?” I asked Tracy, reaching for the cellophane bag.

Tracy nodded, wincing. “Not quite ready for prime time, if you want my opinion.”

I studied one of the white squares. It looked fine. I nibbled a corner. Considered. Took another bite and shook my head. Fail. “The inside’s fine, but the texture outside isn’t right.”

“Exactly. Too much cornstarch, not enough confectioners’ sugar. In my opinion.”

Imagine me wanting a sweeter taste than Candy. And she’d sounded so confident. But I had no backup plan.

I went upstairs to make The Call. This part of retail I hate, and it’s far worse when you have a personal relationship with the vendor. No matter whether you’re a SavClub buyer talking to a major corporate sales rep, or a small-town merchant talking with a one-woman shop: If you’ve gotten friendly, it stinks to bear bad news.

“I’m so sorry, Erin. I wanted to please you so much.” Candy’s high voice had lost some of its sweetness. “I’d never made them before and they seemed okay. Let me try again? I’ve been tinkering with the recipe, and I promise, I’ll just keep making them until I get it right? And meet your deadline?”

What can you say when a vendor begs for another chance? “Yes, of course,” I said, my chest tightening, and hoped she’d make good on round two.

“Almost forgot. Reg returned your call,” Tracy said when I came back down and we perched on the red stools with cool drinks, the shop momentarily quiet. “He’s got more of the pieces you wanted, but he can’t get away. Want me to swing by his studio on my way home?”

Reg Robbins had been a star in the NFL before an injury sent him to early retirement. He’d turned to pottery and made a new name for himself. His serving bowls and platters were stars at the Merc.

And if I remembered right, he rented his guest house to Drew Baker.

So my trusty Subaru and I hit the trail again, searching for who knows what. Secret passages. Buried treasure.

Intelligent life.

For the second time today, I drove into a virtual magazine spread. Jewel Bay had been featured in a few travel and lifestyle glossies over the years and we were due for another shiny spotlight. After Drew’s murder was solved, when we needed to polish our tarnished image.

And honor his memory.

With its giant rolling doors, red siding, and cupola, Reg’s studio could have been a barn. All it lacked were bales of hay and a few hogs. On one side, a deliberately faded “ghost sign” bore the name of his grandfather’s North Carolina farm, Gene’s Promised Land, with a backdrop of cornstalks and cotton. The far end sported his NFL team logo. “Catches some eyes,” he liked to say. “And some grief. But hey, it paid for all this, and I’m a grateful man.”

The studio’s open doors beckoned, but I strolled up the path slowly, delighting in the late-season lilies and other blooms that lined it. The faint scent of thyme between the stones enveloped me. Here and there, a glass and copper fairy danced and moss-covered frogs and turtles dozed. A bouquet of flowers made of orphaned forks and spoons, rebar for stems, bloomed near a tiled bird bath that looked suspiciously like a repurposed satellite dish. Outside the studio door, a small ceramic tree spirit, matte glazed to look like bark, gazed down from a tall spruce.

Creative man though he was, Reg had not crafted all these ornaments himself. It’s a treat to see how artists collect each other’s work, often by trade, taking joy in the works of other hands.

Inside the barn, I walked past the small gallery Reg had built up front and headed toward the working space. Clay spatters covered the concrete floor, and unfired greenware filled the shelves on one long wall.

“Aloha, Erina.” A tall, broad-shouldered man in a blue-and-white Hawaiian print emerged from the storage room at the far end. A fine layer of clay dust gave his mahogany skin an earthy cast and speckled his close-cropped black hair. “It’s heavy,” Reg said of the box in his well-muscled arms. “Let me walk it on out for you.”

“Thanks.” I half jogged alongside him, no match for his long stride. “Didn’t expect to sell out so quickly.”

“You got yourself a good thing going there. I hope the off-season’s kind to you.”

“Me, too. How do you get through the winter?”

“I just fire up the kiln and keep the doors shut tight. Then I run off to Hawaii for a few weeks to work on my tan and pick up some new shirts.” He slid the box into the Subaru’s hatchback and grinned. “Winter’s my time to work the wheel, stock up on pots for the galleries and art fairs. Last weekend nearly wiped me out, but I kept a few things back for my regular outlets, like you.”

A perennial at Summer Fair, Reg’s booth drew well. “Awful about Drew Baker, isn’t it?”

He raised steepled hands to his face and closed his eyes. “At times, it is hard to fathom God’s plan.”

God was not on my blame list for Drew’s murder. But I felt the pain behind Reg’s words. “You lost a friend and a tenant.”

He nodded. “In fact, Tara’s over at the guest house now, sorting and packing. I ought to check on her.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“Sure thing. Drew was a good man.” The grin returned. “And a damn fine cook—I’ll miss those taste testings.”

I stopped abruptly and he turned to look at me. “Reg, did Drew test any new recipes for you recently?”

“New ones, no. An old retired recipe, for an old retired jock. That huckleberry-morel steak sauce had been off his menu for a while and he wanted to try it before submitting it to the Grill-off.”

Bingo
. “Wonder why he hauled out an old recipe instead of creating a new one.”

We resumed walking. “Point was to showcase unique Montana flavors, and it was a proven winner. The other was plenty good, too—a tasty cherry glaze. ’Course, anything’s tasty served with his mashed potatoes and sage butter.”

“Reg! You ate two steaks?”

He put on an expression of mock offense. “Gotta maintain my girlish figure. ’Sides, they were small steaks. Itty-bitty.” He touched forefinger to thumb—in his giant hands, the size of a saucer.

“Testing recipes during his busy season—he musta been working some long hours. When was that?”

“Not sure exactly. Drew understood, you’ve got to keep your head on straight and do whatever comes next.” We traipsed through the woods along another delightful path to the guest house. “I remember now. Two weeks ago, I had a shipment for a gallery in Atlanta, and I hired a kid to build some packing crates. We worked hard and late, and that dinner sure did hit the spot.”

Two weeks. That meant Drew had been fine-tuning days before the due date. All this meant it was his own recipe, not cribbed from Amber, and that he’d sent it in on time.

So why had Gib thought otherwise? Had he told Stacia his reasoning? Did anyone else know?

“We gotta go in this way,” Reg said, leading me into the garage below the guest quarters. “Big tree blew down last week and took out the outside steps to the second floor. Haven’t had time to rebuild ’em.”

My mother says a guest space should be comfy enough to feel welcoming, but not so inviting that your guests never want to leave. Reg Robbins—or the decorator he’d hired—hadn’t listened. He’d ignored the Northwest lodge look in favor of woodsy-modern, with long sleek lines, cedar siding, and massive windows. The interior felt both cozy and spacious—the effect of those windows and the soft ochre walls. I wanted to curl up on the golden brown chenille sofa and take a nap.

Until I saw the kitchen, made for cooking. High-end stainless steel appliances, a range hood the size of a Mack truck, and naturally aged soapstone counters. A small desk alcove held a laptop, an open cookbook on a stand, and a cup full of pens and pencils. A bar counter in a shiny dark wood that matched the living room tables divided the kitchen from the rest of the space. Tall chairs let guests sit and watch the chef at work.