Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (22 page)

I hit the lock switch for the doors, buckled my belt, and put the car in gear. I didn’t know what had happened to Stacia’s copies of the recipes and e-mails—or to Stacia. But I knew what was happening next.

A few minutes later, Amber spoke. “I thought you were circling around to the Inn. You passed my road.”

“Later,” I said, continuing south toward Jewel Bay. “Tell me, were you at Caldwell’s Lodge any time on Thursday, before or after we filmed the appetizer and dessert segments?”

“No. I meant to go down and scope it out, but we had a big group reserve at the last minute, so I stayed to help with prep. Party of ten. They ate the works, from wine and appetizers to coffee and dessert. It was great. We were pooped. All we had left was one order of mussels, one crème brûlée, and a chocolate mousse. They even ate all our bread.”

Mousse. I howled. With laughter or hysteria, I didn’t know. Or care.

I
delivered my witness and her dog to Ike and told my story. It was complicated, involving three cars, a rush to get the first Porsche turned in and repaired before the deputies decided to take a closer look, and a lie to the rental agency about the reason for the damage. The door to Ike’s office hadn’t closed fully, and I could almost feel Kim on the other side, listening to every word Amber and I said. I gave Ike the printouts from Drew’s computer and sent him my photos of Gib’s rental car. I even offered to share the spreadsheet, which he’d barely glanced at.

“I could charge you with criminal trespass,” he said, scowling.

Times two
, I thought, hoping my luck held. “To find evidence you missed.”

He harrumphed and dispatched a crew to impound the black Porsche.

Then he sent deputies to track down Gib Knox and take him to the county jail in Pondera for questioning.

“If he’s the guy, we’ll get him,” he assured me.

Of course, we still didn’t know whose car he’d been driving Thursday night. But I had a hunch Ike would get that little detail out of Knox without my help.

*   *   *

“D
arling, what on earth?” My mother sat at one of our new courtyard tables with Ned Redaway and Chuck the Builder. A legal pad lay open in front of Chuck, a roll of blueprints at his feet.

I did not feel like explaining how or why I’d confronted a pissed-off, overprotective eight-hundred-pound wild animal who looked like a horse put together without an instruction manual. Or that I’d done it to save a woman I did not like or trust.

And that I’d do it all again.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.” I glanced at the two men, then focused on Fresca.

Ned pushed back his chair. “We’re about done for now anyways, aren’t we?”

Chuck picked up his prints and stood. “Fresca, I’ll write this up and get you an estimate in a day or two.” Ned opened the gate between our courtyard and Red’s and closed it behind them.

“Darling, why you don’t get cleaned up and—”

“Mom, just tell me what you’re up to. Now.” (“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” as King Henry exhorted the troops.)

My mother doesn’t fluster easily, except when dealing with machinery unrelated to cooking. Her cheeks turned pink. Her perfect coral-rimmed mouth opened and closed. “I’m giving Ned a hand.” She paused. I waited, knowing from experience that she couldn’t stand the silence. “I bought the building and leased it back to him. He needed money, darling. You understand. But of course, it needs work—he’s put it off for years. Consider it an investment in the future.”

I did understand. But much as I admired Fresca’s loyalty and compassion, those traits had gotten us all in trouble not so long ago. Would we ever learn?

“I have the right to my privacy,” she said, answering my unspoken question. Her dark eyes flashed and her chin jutted out.

“So do I,” I said, and marched inside.

One look at me and Tracy said she’d handle closing. I grabbed a truffle for the road and two more for later—any day involving a near-collision with a mad mother moose calls for extreme measures—and turned to leave.

And spotted the tall vase full of red roses. Tracy wagged her eyebrows and I reached for the envelope tucked into the bouquet.

“Ow.” I stuck my paper-cut finger in my mouth, then slid the card out. “Sorry. R,” it read. I stifled the impulse to toss the card in the trash and send the roses home with Tracy. Might do me good to practice a little humility.

Can you be humble carrying a dozen red roses? I took the vase and chocolates and swept past my mother without a word, just to test the theory.

*   *   *

“T
hank you, Liz. Thank you, Luci,” I said a few minutes later as bubbles enveloped me and the scent of lavender filled the air. After wrestling Duke the dog, outmaneuvering a moose, and sweating like a pig, I was so filthy I’d had to rinse off in the shower before sliding into the tub.

I leaned against my bath pillow and took a sip of crisp, peachy pinot grigo.
Ah, heaven.
I’d walked in, greeted the cat, set the roses on the counter—they really were beautiful, and wonderfully fragrant. Popped a cork and mixed up my favorite chicken marinade.

Now I was marinating myself in wine and hot water. Poetic justice. I rubbed my stars that Ike and his deputies would bring Gib Knox to real justice, and that Amber Stone would be in just enough hot water to make her sweat.

I wasn’t going to think about any of it. About Gib, Amber, or Fresca. Or Rick.

Or my poor muddy, mucky car.

After my soak, I planned to grill my chicken and savor it on the deck with leftover Two Bean and Pesto Salad. Watch the sunset, watch a movie, and watch the inside of my eyelids.

But what they say about pink elephants is true: It’s hard to deliberately not think about something.

I rubbed a little arnica gel on my reinjured elbow and bundled up in the fluffy white hotel robe I’d splurged on during a SavClub business trip. Had that only been last winter? (I refused to let the resemblance to Gib Knox’s robe remind me of the biggest pink elephant.) Stepped outside to heat up the grill. That reminded me of the super-duper commercial grill Fresca had ordered that I’d sent back, and the propane heater awaiting a decision.

She hired me to manage the Merc, then spent money we didn’t have on things we didn’t need. She gave me control over the entire building—which she owns in trust for the three of us kids—but didn’t tell me when she bought the building next door. With her own money, but still. And she used her emergency keys to borrow a belt from my sister’s gallery.

“You can’t stop her,” Chiara would say if she heard my litany. “You knew that when you came home.”

Could I at least slow her down, and give myself a chance to catch up with her?

I sighed and headed to the kitchen for more vino. On the living room floor lay Stacia’s papers and the cardboard box, the precious book inside. What a relief it would be to tell Buzz Duval that Gib Knox was behind bars. That he’d be charged with Stacia’s murder—call it what it was—as well as Drew Baker’s.

So why didn’t it feel better?

Sandburg and I heard the engine in the driveway at the same time. “You get the door,” I said. He stared at me from his couch cushion, eyes narrow.

Kim Caldwell stood on the porch, her expression sober.

“We got him,” she said. “What smells so good?”

“Hmm? Oh, that’s the grill heating. The chicken will go on in a minute. There’s plenty.” She followed me inside. I gestured with my glass. “You off duty?”

“And still off the case. Nice roses.” She took a sniff. “Secret admirer?”

“Not so admiring, I’m afraid.” I handed her a glass of wine. “The other day, at the office, I’m so sorry—”

“Completely my fault,” she said. “I’ve been a clod lately.”

Join the club.
I picked up the bowl of chicken. “Tell me more. About arresting Gib.”

“That’s all I know. I am
persona non grata.
Non everythinga. Exiled from my own office and reassigned to Pondera for the duration. I’m not even supposed to go to the Lodge or talk to my family.” She looked miserable.

“Criminy. So Ike’s finally convinced the two deaths are related?”

“Maybe convinced, maybe related. And my father and my cousin are witnesses. Not to the homicides, but to Amber Stone’s movements. What did you call it?”

“Her whabouts.” I forked the chicken breasts onto the grill, poured the marinade into a small saucepan, and set it on the flame to reduce. Kim and I sat at the café table, our chairs angled toward the lake view. In a cloudless sky blessedly free of smoke from forest fires, the sun looked almost white as it hung above the horizon. The closer it got, the deeper it would glow.

Which for no obvious reason reminded me of toasting marshmallows. I excused myself, went inside for my bag, and rummaged for Landon’s smashed treats. I’d snare him a fresh bag tomorrow.

“These are tasty, if you don’t mind how they look.” I tossed the bag at Kim and flipped the chicken. We brought out the salad and dishes. And the wine.

“Will Amber be charged with anything?”

Kim spooned out the fragrant green-and-white salad. “No law against being stupid, or conniving. The jails are full enough already.”

Jail. I tried not to think about my two break-and-enter escapades. Talk about pink elephants. I cut a piece of chicken, then stopped, fork halfway to my mouth. “He’ll say Stacia’s death was an accident, won’t he? And deny killing Drew. No one can place him in the Lodge parking lot, can they? Or do you not know that, either?”

“I don’t officially know anything, but you’re probably right. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“At my mother’s knee, or some other low joint.” I took a bite. “Mmm. So moist. Love this marinade.”

Kim’s features froze. “Your dad used to say that.”

“What? Oh, yeah. He credited Princess Margaret, but he coulda been making that up. He was like that.”

She bit her lip and lowered her eyes, then raised them and her glass. The bracelet slid down her arm. “Nice place. You’ve made a good life back here.”

“Thanks. So I know Gib doesn’t have to prove his innocence, only poke holes in the prosecution’s case—”

“Reasonable doubt.”

“But won’t he try to show that someone else killed Drew? That someone else had means, motive, and opportunity?”

“Everyone had means. Drew’s sous chef observed him pack his gear. He’s confirmed that the mallet came from the Jewel Inn kitchen. Drew always takes—took—one, just in case.”

I dashed inside for my iPad and the Spreadsheet of Suspicion and set it on the table where we could both see it. “Who can we rule out?”

“I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“You’ll get over it.” I shared my theories and got her responses. To her credit, she gave me no confidential information. She said she didn’t know much, but I didn’t believe her—Kim had always been extraordinarily perceptive, as well as sharp of eye and ear.

I took another bite of the bean salad. Green and garlicky, the way I like it. “So, when a person admits doing some bad things, but denies others, do you believe them?” I always had, a parallel to my belief that bad people can’t be great cooks. Another myth bites the dust.

“Depends. Do they expect to get nailed for one thing, but get away with the other? Are they admitting a less serious offense to deflect attention from more serious crimes?” She twirled the stem of her wineglass in her long, slender fingers. “Or have they been threatened into silence? Gib scared the beejeebers out of Amber. Fear is a powerful motivator.”

I pursed my lips. “She admits her part in the recipe theft, but denies killing Drew. And I see no reason for her to kill him. She was mortified by what she’d done, and by the risk of being exposed.”

“She had a lot to lose. Reputation, livelihood. The B&B is heavily mortgaged.”

As I’d figured. “But only if Drew discovered her complicity and either he or Gib made it public. Which would have backfired and destroyed them, too. That’s what made the recipe switch the perfect act of revenge.”

“Sounds like in the process of ruling out Amber, you’re also talking yourself out of blaming Gib.”

No. But Gib enjoyed taunting Drew so much that it was hard to imagine him launching a physical attack.

Now there you go thinking murder is rational.

Kim continued. “Okay, I’ll buy Drew staying silent about the recipe theft—he didn’t want to be tainted by Gib’s act of vengeance. But wouldn’t he have found another way to punish Amber for betraying his kindness? Subtle comments meant to steer folks away from her place—that sort of thing.”

“And put himself on Gib’s level?” I sipped my wine. “No. One thing my investigation made crystal-clear: Drew Baker may not have been touchy-feely-cozy, but he was a stand-up guy.”

Her eyes narrowed, unreadable. “Unlike my cousin. How could Kyle get tangled up in this?”

“He isn’t—unless you know something I don’t. His affair with Tara was wildly bad judgment, but otherwise irrelevant. Isn’t it?”

“Oh, I thought you meant—never mind.” She blinked and shook her head rapidly.

“What? You don’t seriously suspect Kyle? The baker swore he went directly from the patio to the kitchen. That’s close to the north parking lot—I suppose he could have snuck out without being noticed, or the staff might cover for him.” I scrolled down the spreadsheet. “But why would Kyle confront Drew, rather than the other way around? Drew was the wronged man. And why wait that long? Didn’t they have it out years ago?”

“And how. It was ugly. You’re right. It doesn’t make sense now.”

“That reminds me. I don’t even remember Danny Davis. Was he a buddy of Kyle’s in high school? They were both car guys.”

Kim ran a hand through her hair and stood abruptly. “I gotta get going. You said you wanted an early night, and here I am jabbering away. Thanks for dinner—you’re as good a cook as Fresca.”

I frowned, puzzled. “No, you’re fine. No rush.”

But she’d picked up her plate and glass and taken the empty wine bottle inside. I followed more slowly, feeling the effects of the day. When we were kids, Kim and I had always been on the same wave length. No more. Once again, the loss made me sad.

“Oh, wait.” The piles on the floor caught my eye. “Stacia’s papers. Do you want to take them?”

The pain of temporary exile was visible on her face. “Never mind,” I said. “Gives me an excuse to drop in on Ike tomorrow.”

After Kim drove away, I perched on the edge of the couch and snuggled Sandberg. “She made like a banana and split. Do I suddenly have cooties growing out of my ears?”

My gaze fell on the roses. I’d had a case of the verbal cooties last night. Or maybe just a sense that it wasn’t meant to be.

A small shelf nook next to the fireplace held a few special things: An arrow-shaped agate embedded in a sandstone rock that I’d found on a hike. A hand-blown glass vase from the Chihuly Garden in Seattle. A painted clay ladybug Landon had made for me. A few framed photographs: Me at five, hugging Sparky the Border collie. Chiara and I on the wharf in San Francisco. Nick dancing with Mom at my sister’s wedding.