Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (19 page)

No wonder Drew had loved the place.

Still, it felt—unsettled. Or was that me, projecting my mood onto the space?

“Hey, sweetpea.” Reg hugged Tara gently, as if she might break. She did appear less resilient than Sunday afternoon at her place—and nowhere near as punchy as at the playground Sunday morning. Her sister, Debra, shared her slender build and straight blond hair. Both had dressed to work, Tara in blue jeans and another oversized man’s shirt.

“Now there’s no rush,” Reg told Tara. “You take your time.”

“Sooner the better,” she said.

Did she simply want to get a distasteful task out of the way, while she had help, or was she in a hurry to tie up loose ends and hit the road with Pete? From the looks of things, they had barely gotten started. A bundle of flat boxes and a tape dispenser lay on the living room floor, but I didn’t see any packed boxes.

“Need a hand?” I said. “I can stay for an hour or two.”

“Won’t say no,” Debra replied as Tara shook her head and said, “We’re fine.”

Reg took off and Debra put me to work. “Isn’t this the most fabulous kitchen? My husband and I run a B&B on the Maine coast. D’you suppose if I ship Drew’s pots and pans home, that will turn me into a chef?”

“Only if you can cook,” I said. She laughed.

Debra and I filled boxes while Tara sat at the counter, nursing iced tea. All my suspicions and wariness aside, this had to be rough on her. I pulled out a box of copper cookie cutters in animal shapes and held up a bunny.

“Tara, want to keep these? To bake cookies with Emma?”

She raised her head at the sound of her name, but was clearly too unfocused to decide.

“I’ll put them in the keep pile.” Debra carried them out of the room.

“Tara, what was going on Sunday between Pete and Gib? The fight I walked into?”

She gazed out the window sightlessly. “I—I thought the shoot was our opportunity. If Pete could get on permanently with
Food Preneurs
, or some other EAT-TV show, we could leave Jewel Bay. Go back to California.”

Confirming what Gib had said on our ride last Friday.

She stuck the tip of her little finger in her mouth. “He screwed it up with Gib. And truthfully, now that Drew’s gone, I’m not so sure I want to leave after all. Emma’s in school here. She’s happy. She doesn’t need any more upheaval.”

Debra had returned, her arms full of men’s shirts. “You want all of these?”

Tara turned and nodded. “He never knew I borrowed them when I came to get Emma.” Her eyes filled.

Debra dumped the shirts on the dining room table and wrapped her arms around her sister from behind. “You and Emma always have a home with us. And any hotel or inn in New England would welcome you, with your experience in marketing and sales.”

One mystery solved. Though Drew hadn’t been a big man, Tara was slight. She’d looked like a waif in his shirt.

“Another question, Tara, then I’ll shut up, I promise. Did you and Gib have a—history?”

She looked puzzled. “No. I barely knew him.”

But if the tension wasn’t from a love triangle . . . “Okay. But last week, Drew alluded to some tension with Gib. I got the impression it caught him off guard.”

Understanding dawned. “Ohmygod. I never knew the whole story, but is that what this is about?” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I thought . . . oh, my god. I thought Drew and Kyle had finally gone after each other, after all these years.”

Debra and I slid into the chairs flanking Tara as she continued speaking. “Ages ago, Drew and Gib both worked for Berndt King—you’ve heard of him—in California. He liked to pit his sous chefs against each other in subtle ways. Drew never cared—he was oblivious to the competition and petty jealousies. But Gib wasn’t.”

“And King was the kind of boss who encouraged that, thinking fear motivated employees?” I knew the type. It never worked. Instead, people grew frustrated and left.

Tara nodded. “There was an incident. Some hotshot food critic came in. Their big chance. Gib messed up. He relied on someone else to cook the pasta and it was mushy. His dishes didn’t come out at the same time. I’m not sure what all went wrong. Berndt berated him in front of the critic and the staff.”

“Yikes,” I said, and Debra’s eyes widened.

“Not long after, Berndt started building his empire. He opened a couple of new restaurants and promoted Drew to head chef at the flagship. He didn’t fire Gib, but he might as well have. Not getting his own kitchen after all those years . . .” She shrugged one shoulder. “Drew had nothing to do with any of it, but Gib wasn’t the kind of guy to see it that way. To him, it was humiliating.”

“So that’s when Gib left.”

“Right. Drew stayed a couple of years, then we were expecting Emma and wanted more family-friendly jobs. The Caldwells recruited him as head chef, and I had experience in hotel management, so it was perfect.”

“Until you met Kyle and blew your life up,” Debra said, more matter-of-fact than snarky.

“Stupidest thing I ever did. And why, I still don’t know. Drew”—one side of her mouth twisted wryly—“the man couldn’t hold a grudge with two hands, but that was too much. Not that I blame him.”

She seemed genuinely remorseful—and genuinely grieving. But I wasn’t sure I bought it. Not just yet. She’d had means and opportunity, and it had been clear from their argument in the parking lot that she was plenty angry.

Drew might not have held a grudge, but he’d known how to hold the line.

“Did Drew date?”
Consider your victim—expand the circle.

“Not seriously. He was married to his restaurant. But you know, Gib getting pushed sideways out of cooking is old news. He started a consulting business—all the big names have done that on the side or between gigs: Anthony Bourdain, Thomas Keller, Tom Douglas. No shame in it. And then he became a TV star.”

“No shame in that, either,” I said. “Sounds like he always wanted to be a star.” But to him, it was shining at being a failure.

“And yet, it’s like he blamed Drew for becoming the success he wasn’t.”

Reason to accept the invitation, yes—to check up on Drew, scout out a chance to show him up. But reason to kill? Hard to swallow.

But then, as Tara herself had said, sometimes we’re the last to grasp our own motives.

T
urned out Reg’s box of plates and bowls wasn’t as heavy as he’d made out. Still the Southern gentleman.

“Oh, Erin, finally. Thank goodness you’re back,” Fresca said two seconds after I’d set the box down. “That darn fool machine is giving me fits.”

The epithet covered a lot of territory. My mother could figure out a new kitchen appliance in a heartbeat, but a cell phone or a computer baffled her, and anything with a motor? Forget about it.

“The labeling machine,” she said, heading for the basement stairs. I followed.

Ten minutes later, my hands were covered in sticky gray goo, but the bottle labeler was back in action. What she’d done to it, I hadn’t a clue. The machine was pretty slick, actually. Load a roll of preprinted labels, adjust the arms for the size of your bottle or jar, and presto slicko! We’d gotten a great deal that ought to last for years, even with my dreams of expansion—if we didn’t muck it up.

But the goo wasn’t the easiest to clean off, making me extra glad I’d brought my date clothes along so I didn’t have to drive home to change with sticky hands.

No hand-painted garden murals in the Merc’s one-staller, though my mother had dressed it up with black-and-white tile floors, shiny white wainscoting, and a picture rail. And fixtures that evoked the mood of 1910, when my great-grandfather Murphy opened the town’s first grocery on this very spot, but incorporated the best of modern plumbing.

Ned ought to consult with her on his remodel.

Once I de-gooed my fingers, I slipped on a stretchy cream top with navy dots, a scoop neck, and dolman sleeves long enough to cover my scabby elbow. Pulled on a crinkly blue chambray skirt with a stepped hem. Jumped up to see the ensemble in the mirror over the sink, but no luck.

Calmify, Erin. It’s only dinner.

I let out a long noisy breath and slid my feet into my red boots.
Ahhhh.
Midcalf, ruby red leather, with pointy toes and a riding heel, and white stitching in a tulip and vine pattern. My magic power boots.

I added a leather and pearl beaded bracelet my sister made for me, silver hoop earrings, and a touch of eye makeup. Wiped a stray bit of mascara off my check and called it good.

The shop was closed, but Fresca and Bill sat at the counter dipping leftover baguette slices into the last of today’s sample, olive tapenade. Fresca looked me up and down.

“Stay right there.” She dashed out the front door.

“You look lovely,” Bill said. The crinkles around his eyes deepened. No doubt thinking of his own daughter, out traveling the world. We hadn’t met yet.

In a flash, Fresca returned. She wrapped a wide cinnamon leather belt with openwork around my waist, front to back and around again, knotting the long tails in front. She stepped back and gave me another appraisal. “Perfect.”

“Did you just go raid the gallery? This isn’t even Chiara’s work. Is she even open?”

Fresca dangled the keys and wriggled her eyebrows playfully.

“Oh, Mom.” I was mortified, but my sister would be philosophical. Especially if I showed up carrying coffee and a treat when I returned the purloined belt.

She held my shoulders lightly and kissed my cheek. “Have fun, darling.”

*   *   *

C
hez Max could have been plucked off the streets of Paris or Arles and set down in Jewel Bay without cracking a single heavy glass tumbler. Small rustic pine tables were set close together—a hair too close for American comfort—and big men like Rick hesitated a moment at the rush-bottom wooden chairs, though they were quite sturdy. Comfy, too.

Black-and-white photographs of French scenes lined the dining room’s soft peachy walls. (The hall leading to the restrooms was plastered with unframed movie posters, like a college dorm room. But they were French, so the effect was charming.)

About all that wasn’t French were the staff’s accents. Except Max’s,
bien sûr
.

I waved at him, bustling in the kitchen, as the hostess seated us.

Rick draped his bomber jacket over the back of his chair. The same leather as my belt—a fashion trend or a sign?

“Is Wendy here tonight?” he asked, and I wondered if he’d chosen Chez Max for the great food or to woo Wendy as a customer. But when the hostess replied “no,” he simply said “too bad” and turned that farm-boy smile toward me.

I unfurled my napkin—a blue, white, and yellow Provençal pattern—and our waitress set a chilled wine bottle filled with water and a basket of bread on the table.

“Fresh bread, from our sister bakery, Le Panier,” she said. “Served with a dipping sauce of roasted garlic and basil pesto in olive oil.” Fresca’s pesto.

“Any chance you know where the flour is from?” Rick asked.

“No, sir, but I can ask the chef if you’d like.”

He opened his mouth but I beat him to it. “Next time,” I said. “We see how busy Max is.”

She left and he blushed, chagrined. “Did I step in it?”

I took a bite, concentrating. “Wendy’s baguettes and I are old pals. No change in flavor or texture, so I’m guessing she hasn’t changed flours. But she did try your flour in my cookies.” I was telling him about the graham crackers and s’more sandwich cookies when the waitress brought our wine. I ordered Max’s blue cheese, apple, and walnut salad and the halibut, while Rick chose the house salad and steak frites.

“I guess you’ve had your fill of steak this week,” he said, raising his glass of Côtes du Rhône red in a toast. “Here’s to better times.”

“I’ll drink to that.” My white Bordeaux blend went down well, fruity with a touch of almond, pear, and honey. “You knew Drew, didn’t you?”

“We’d just met. Called on him in June, on my first trip to town. Had dinner there—fantastic. I was looking forward to working with him.”

Our salads came, reminding me how wonderful it is to sit and eat, especially with helpful waitstaff and an interesting companion.

“Drew and Gib Knox both worked for Berndt King in L.A., but I don’t know much about him,” I said.

“King? He did some business with the company I worked for, but we never met. A Wolfgang Puck wanna-be.”

“Managing an empire like Puck’s compared to running a restaurant like this—well, it’s the difference between SavClub and the Merc. I can hardly imagine.”

The salad flavors made a delightful combination. “How do you get the blue cheese to curl so nicely?” I asked the waitress when she checked on us. “Mine always crumbles.”

“They freeze it,” she said, looking relieved to know the answer.

“Brilliant.”

“I hear King’s kind of difficult,” Rick said after she left. “Goes through chefs and managers like a combine through ripe wheat.”

The analogy made me smile. “I imagine the testosterone level in those kitchens can run pretty high. Turns out there was bad blood between Gib Knox and Drew Baker, from their days with King.” I summarized what Tara had said that afternoon. “In Gib’s mind, Drew was the favored son and he was the black sheep. Thing is, Tara doubts Drew ever even imagined that Gib resented him for that, or he wouldn’t have invited him to Jewel Bay.”

“Ah. Lifting his leg.”

“What?” I said, fork midair.

Rick sipped his wine. “It’s a guy thing. Marking your territory. Pissing on somebody because you can.”

Tara had implied as much, in girlier words.

We left all talk of murder and motive behind as our entrées came.

“You have to try this.” Rick cut a small piece of steak and set it on the edge of my plate.

I chewed slowly, savoring the flavors. Thank goodness my bruised jaw had recovered. Max was a darn fine chef. But Jewel Bay needed high-level competition if fine dining were to remain a high-level draw. Could Tony and Mimi find a worthy replacement?

Erin, be here now.
“Tell me about the trip to Spokane. Do you do much business out of state?” I slid a bite-sized sample of halibut onto his plate.

“Working on it. Montana’s a hot brand. I’d like to get Montana Gold grains in every restaurant in the Northwest that claims a regional focus.”

“Have you tried Ted Turner’s Montana Grill? He’s pushing the name all over the country with our beef and buffalo. And we grow the best wheat.”

Rick gave me an admiring gaze. “Now that is a heck of an idea.”

“No charge.”

He grinned. “And I meant to tell you earlier, you look fantastic.”

A warm flush rose up my throat. “Thanks. Speaking of Montana grains, are you talking to the craft brewers about using local barley, or whatever? I’m clueless about beer making. But my friend Bunny—”

“I’ve met Bunny and Rob. They’re interested. Farmers around Great Falls have contracted with the major corporate brewers for years, but I’m with you. You want to call a beer local, the water shouldn’t be the only local ingredient. Barley, wheat, rye—they all make great malt. It’s a whole process.” Which he described in detail as we finished our entrées and the waitress cleared our plates.

I liked him. He was solid and friendly, with a great smile and dancing eyes. His compliments stirred me. But my mind wandered a bit when he talked about malting houses, the distinctive flavors weather and soil conditions gave each grain, and yadda yadda. Beer terroir wasn’t all that exciting. Or maybe we were business buddies, not destined for more.

“But ultimately, local can’t just mean high-priced,” he said. “Same challenge you face.”

“Hmm? Right. Local runs roughly twenty percent more. We need customers for whom price isn’t the only value.”

Rick’s hand warm on the small of my back, we strolled out front to the stone patio Chez Max shared with Le Panier for an after-dinner drink. The Playhouse crowd emerged and both restaurant and patio filled up. Rick scooted his chair closer to mine.

He leaned in, brow creased, voice low. “Not sure how to say this, or if I’m speaking out of turn. But I get the distinct impression you’re poking around in Drew Baker’s murder.”

My jaw tightened and a cloud of adrenaline burst in my chest.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he continued, his tone a little too proprietary for my taste. “The last time . . .”

I wouldn’t have minded hearing concern. Would have liked it. But this sounded like doubt and disapproval. “I am, and you are. And I’m sorry you see it that way.”

“Erin, you can’t keep interfering with criminal investigations just because—”

“This was a lovely evening. But I make my own decisions.” I scooted back my chair and walked away, my skirt not quite so bouncy, my red boots not quite so magical.

And hoped this was one decision I wouldn’t regret.