Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (3 page)

And seventy-five for the belt at my sister’s gallery. “Oh, look at the baskets!” She’d woven cobalt blue and sunny yellow ribbon through the edges of rattan baskets, then tucked the goodies in a nest of brightly colored crinkled paper—recycled and shredded at Jewel Bay Print & Copy. The baskets were the only item not made in the region, highlighting my constant dilemma: It wasn’t always possible to sell only local wares and use only local supplies. My compromise: At least buy local. That includes SavClub in Pondera. I can’t help it—I love the place.

The front door chime rang and we both looked up.

“Iggy.” Delight filled Tracy’s voice and mine. I didn’t remember a time when Iggy Ring hadn’t been a fixture in the village, a mascot of sorts.

And she’d become a regular in the Merc since Tracy had awed me with an unexpected kitchen talent earlier this summer. Her handmade chocolate truffles not only filled a gap in our product line, but drew customers and fattened our bottom line.

“Hello, girls,” Iggy called, her warbling voice thinned by age. A shade under five feet, her champagne blond hair curled into a flip, she wore tan capris and a black painter’s smock she probably bought in 1957. One spot-on modern addition: leopard print loafers. How old she was, I didn’t know—easily eighty-five, maybe ninety.

Iggy peered into the glass case on the front counter, anticipation brightening her fairy-like face. Tracy did the honors. A tissue in hand, she plucked out one perfect dark chocolate huckleberry truffle, accepted Iggy’s three quarters, and handed over the prize. Iggy closed her eyes and took the first bite.

Rapture.

Following Iggy as she tottered out, I scooted next door to Le Panier. Behind the pine green screen door stood a real French boulangerie and patisserie in one, with all the requisite tastes and aromas. Wendy Taylor Fontaine may not have been born French, but she made up for it with her food.

“Hey, Wendy. Missed breakfast.” Sweet, yeasty scents and the heady aroma of freshly ground coffee beans mixed with the slightly charred bread-and-cheese smell of the panini press. I studied the chalkboard listing today’s specials. “What’s in your cheesy panini?”

“Roasted red peppers, crimini mushrooms, balsamic onions, and basil, three cheeses, eight-grain bread.”

Okay, so panini are Italian, not French. But they’re yummy, so why quibble? “Sold.”

She worked silently, dark ponytail wagging. Le Panier shared a front deck with Chez Max, her husband’s bistro. On festival weekends, when thousands of visitors competed for a place to sit and eat, it hummed.

“You all ready for the street fair? And making your desserts for the TV episode?”

Wendy grunted. When it came to small talk, she was not a believer.

“Given any more thought to creating a scone mix for us? The breakfast baskets are adorable. Pop over and check ’em out.”

A buzzer sounded and she slid my sandwich out of the hot press, wrapped it in white paper, and tucked it into a brown paper bag in a fluid move worthy of a ballet. If a ballerina wore a white chef’s jacket, clown print pants, and cherry red clogs.

The door opened and a gaggle of hungry shoppers entered, exclaiming over the cute French decor and the drool-worthy pastry case. The mouthwatering smell of my fresh panini was a great advertisement.

“See you tonight,” I called on my way out. If Wendy needed help solving any problems with the event or film crew, she’d let me know.

I took advantage of the noon lull to eat at the Merc’s stainless steel counter, keeping an eye on the shop while Tracy ran home to grab a quick lunch and walk Bozo, her rescue Great Dane. The slightly sweet grilled bread was the perfect complement to the melted cheese and tangy vegetables. A little messy for a working lunch, but worth it.

I scrolled through the lists on my iPad, making sure we had what we needed for the weekend. In between bites, I helped a few customers and called a couple of suppliers who hadn’t yet restocked their displays.

Overall, we were in great shape. Still, I’d be trolling the booths at the Fair for potential new vendors. If
Food Preneurs
intended to turn a Montana BBQ sauce or a line of spiced mustards into a star, I meant to be in the game.

*   *   *

A
t the Jewel Inn, I waited in the otherwise vacant bar while Chef Drew scrutinized a delivery of custom charcuterie. The same butcher supplied our sausage and cured meats, and we’d never had a problem, but Chef Drew had an exacting set of customers and expectations. He had an unusual arrangement with the Georges, the Inn’s owners: Tony and Mimi handled breakfast and lunch, Tony at the grill and Mimi out front. But the dinner service was all Drew’s. He hired his own staff and had complete control of the menu. A restaurant-within-a-restaurant. An admirable innovation.

At the moment, he was peeved. Not with the sausage—he praised it from spice to taste and texture and back again. But his high color and abrupt gestures, and the barely sheathed sharpness in his tone, unnerved me.

“Mimi said you needed a minute.” About five-nine, average build, in his late forties with brown hair beginning to thin, he sat opposite, poised as if he didn’t intend to sit long. His most striking feature was a pair of hazel eyes with unfairly long lashes, brightened by the contrast with his sparkling whites.

I slid my peace offering—a small box of huckleberry truffles—across the table. “There’s been a mix-up with the recipes for the steak Grill-off. We need you to submit a new recipe. By five o’clock tomorrow.”

Those eyes flared and bore into me. His spine straightened and his shoulders squared. His jaw tensed.

But I was no clumsy busser who’d dropped a tray of glassware or a newly hired prep cook who’d diced the shallots when Chef wanted them brunoise. Not that Drew would have barked at his staff—he had a reputation for solving problems so efficiently that mistakes barely registered on the radar, and were rarely repeated.

In the village hierarchy, we were equals. Plus, he owed me. I had introduced him to the charcutier.

Which didn’t keep him from quizzing me with a touch of sarcasm. “Our recipes are too similar? What does that mean? We both use beef? Season with salt and pepper?”

“Think flavors and combinations. Then rethink them.”

He scowled. “And are we all being subjected to this last-minute nonsense?”

His piercing eyes demanded an answer, and there was no reason not to tell him. “No. Just you and Chef Stone from Bear Grass.”

He pulled back, head tilted. “She thinks I copied her? I’ve eaten her food. It’s good. It’s excellent. But my approach is entirely different.”

“This—concern didn’t come from Chef Stone. It came from the TV crew.”

His hands, scarred and calloused beyond their years, gripped the box of chocolates. I cringed for the tender morsels inside, picturing huckleberry cream oozing out in a most unattractive way. Tracy would never forgive me if I gave Chef Drew Baker a leaking truffle. We never sent imperfections out the door. We ate them.

“You mean,” he said, voice honed on steel like the finest chef’s knife, “it came from Gib Knox.”

I refused the bait. “We—the committee—don’t know what happened, and we don’t blame you. We just think, for the sake of appearances, that you and Chef Stone should each plan another dish.”

He released the box and slapped his palms on the table. His face flushed, blanched, and flushed again. “When Mimi asked me . . .” His Adam’s apple throbbed. Then, to my amazement, his face and shoulders relaxed. “Well, it all makes sense now.”

To him, maybe. But had the storm clouds fully passed?

“Will a Cabernet-cherry sauce do? It’s straight off our menu, but it’s local fruit and flavors, with Monte Verde wine. My reservation book is jammed every night this week, and I don’t have time to create something new to appease Mr. Bigshot TV Chef.”

I’d eaten Chef Drew’s filet with Cabernet-cherry sauce. “Just right.” As long as I steered Chef Amber Stone in a different direction.

He reached for the box of chocolates, but I grabbed them first, lifted the lid, and peered inside. Intact, thank goodness. “I’ll swing by tomorrow to pick up a copy.”

“Fine.” He bit off the word and breezed away, shoving the kitchen door open with one hand. It swung wildly behind him.

Bullet dodged. But what was up with Drew Baker? He’d been tense when I walked in. Why had the similarity in recipes pushed him over the edge?

Should I warn Mimi about Drew’s foul mood? Maybe.

Or give Gib Knox a heads-up?

Nah.

*   *   *

I
n my loft office at the Merc, I convinced myself it would be fine to call Chef Amber rather than run out to Bear Grass, a quaint country inn about fifteen miles north of town, on the road to Glacier National Park. (Simply “the Park” to most of us.) We’d only met a few times, but she seemed like a roll-with-the-punches kind of gal.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought—okay. Whatever.”

“No cherries,” I warned, “and no wild mushroom gravy.”

“Piece of cake,” she said. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you down. We need the exposure.”

“That’s the spirit.” In big business or small, the flexible shall go far.

Back on the shop floor, I surveyed Tracy’s display of Breakfast Baskets with satisfaction. Town thrived on its summer regulars—folks with time-shares in lakefront condos, busy families who gather at the grandparents’ place, and urban couples who relish six weeks of summer at their mountain retreats. Our goal was to give them fresh, local food they could really use. Produce, pasta, easy sauces. Add a baguette from Le Panier and make a meal. No odd ingredients left moldering in the fridge, to be tossed out on the last day.

But we also needed tourists who stopped for lunch while passing through, charmed by our unexpected gem of a town. Campers who came to hike or to kayak the Wild Mile, then relaxed with a beer at Red’s and a stroll through town. Visitors in search of a hostess gift, or a taste of Montana to tuck into their suitcases as a reminder of vacation when the daily routine became the daily grind.

So Tracy and I refilled the antique Hoosier’s shelves with jars of jam and jelly, and settled bottles of syrup into its possum belly. Cherry, strawberry, black cap raspberry, wild chokecherry, and of course, the magnificent huckleberry.

Pretending the jars were my five-year-old nephew’s Legos, we created a three-story tower of dilled green beans and a castle of pickadilly guarded by baby gherkins. The outposts were manned by jars of beer-soaked sauerkraut, a specialty of Chef Ray at the Bayside Grille. (Which every townie calls the Grillie.) He’d hired my mother to make the pungent product, the first item we’d run through the new canning equipment.

We can’t beat SavClub for price, but we compete on quality, and we have ’em nailed on local.

“Every time I come in to the Merc, I want to move to Jewel Bay.” Stacia Duval stopped a few feet inside the front door, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. “It’s like Mayberry, with better food.”

“Aunt Bee’s butterscotch pecan pie always looked pretty good to me,” Tracy said.

I suppressed a grin. Tracy never met a dessert she didn’t like. She constantly complained about her hips, though she wasn’t seriously overweight.

“Then don’t talk about it,” Fresca said. “Do it.” She stepped out of the kitchen and, smoothing the garden print apron she wore on cooking days, gave Stacia a hug. The producer had made a quick trip to Jewel Bay earlier in the summer to size us up, and she and Fresca had hit it off big-time. Since her return a few days ago, she’d stopped in every day—for friendship as much as for truffles.

She settled on a counter stool, its red upholstery the same shade as her jeans and nail polish. Her black flats and zebra-striped top were super-cute. “This would be a great place to raise Luke. And I’d love for one of us to get off the road.” Her husband, a sound engineer for a rock band, could live anywhere. “But what could I do for work?”

I got Pellegrinos out of the cooler and a Diet Coke for Tracy. “One option, take over an existing business.” I gestured with the bottle. “Two, figure out what’s missing and start a new business. Make your own job. A tea cottage, or a wine shop. You’d be perfect.”

She sipped the mineral water. “You sell tea and wine. Wouldn’t that compete with the Merc?”

I shook my head. “No. Our mission is local and regional foods. But more specialty shops would enhance the town’s draw. You know the town motto: The Food Lovers’ Village. Think about it. You’re preoccupied right now, but after the weekend, we can brainstorm a business plan. If you’re serious.”

She smiled and nodded. Part of the fun in running a business with high tourist traffic is seeing the pleasure people take in discovering Jewel Bay. And I loved the thought of this delightful woman—as food-obsessed as the rest of us—joining the fun.

The door chimed and Tracy bounded off to greet customers. Fresca returned to saucery. Time for me to ask the question nagging me ever since my talk with Drew.

“Stacia, I thought
Food Preneurs
agreed to come to Jewel Bay because Gib and Drew knew each other from years back. But when I talked to Drew, I got the sense that there was no love lost between them. Is there something we should know about?”

She pursed her lips, hesitating. “Gib likes to make people uncomfortable sometimes. I’ve seen it before. I suspect he’s just baiting Drew.”

And Drew had risen to it. “Because Gib’s got fame and a TV show, while Drew’s stuck in the hinterlands? Even though the hinterlanders love him?”

She waved a red-tipped hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t worry about it. You know how temperamental chefs can be.” She grinned. “But one bite, and all is forgiven.”

E
very community needs a secret weapon or two, and Caldwell’s Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch is ours. A genuine dude ranch a rope’s throw from town, founded by the late Gus Caldwell and now run by his sons, Keith and Ken, with help from other relatives—including Ken’s son, Chef Kyle. Well-tended log cabins, cooperative horses, and feast-worthy food. And half a mile of sparkling lakefront on the twenty-eight-mile-long Eagle Lake, the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi.

The main lodge held the check-in office, kitchen, dining room, and a stone fireplace that makes you want to toast your backside even when it’s eighty degrees out. My childhood best friend, Kyle’s cousin Kim, and I had spent hours on the trails and docks, and I loved the ranch almost as much as I loved the Murphy homestead.

Pete and Stacia had already filmed the historic buildings and grounds, but adding people to the mix adds complications, so we’d kept this first event small. With the Lodge’s regular guests off to Glacier Park for the day, we’d invited locals to share the fun.

I’d planned to arrive a little early—I never miss a chance to watch pros at work—but a last-minute glitch in the Merc’s new inventory system kept me in the shop later than expected. Filming had already started when I rushed in.

Gib Knox was in his element. The fitted plaid shirt and jeans emphasized how much time he spent in the gym. The boots added a couple of inches to his height, already well over six feet. The Stetson, tilted a shade too far back, gave him a dudish look. And not in the affectionate modern sense. But at forty-five or so, he carried it off well.

On the stone patio behind the main lodge, his gaze casually scanning the stellar views of lake and mountains, Gib read his intro from a whiteboard hidden from the camera’s eye. His charm and ease made it look spontaneous. He strolled down to the lake as though he owned the place and wanted nothing more than to share it with you. As a viewer, you trusted him to give you the flavor of a place, a taste of the history, and the scoop on the present. I found myself smiling, the morning’s discomfort eased.

Then, in response to Stacia’s wordless gestures, the focus shifted back to the patio and to food. Gib asked the black-clad chef Kyle Caldwell about tonight’s appetizers, and I thought it cruel—if not unusual—to make us wait while he described his signature grilled portobello mushroom mousse with a balsamic reduction and parsley oil, served on focaccia.

“Moose?” Gib’s face reflected his amused tone. “Well, we are in Montana.”

Tall, slender, and blond like the rest of his family, Kyle smiled politely and carried on. He’d grown up on the ranch, where guests included movie stars, Fortune 500 CEOs, and other Famous People. He’d cooked in the Army, and served two tours in Iraq. Took more than a smarty-pants TV chef to rattle him.

If I hadn’t liked Kyle already, that alone would have done it.

Kyle described the other appetizers: Bruschetta with roasted red pepper pesto (made by Fresca) and a bite of tart local goat cheese. Miniature Cornish pasties in a nod to Montana’s mining history.
Mmm.

Baked sweet potato chips. I tried to suppress an automatic gag reflex.

Beside me, Stacia laughed. “I thought you’d eat anything.”

“Except those.” The rare exception to my omnivoracity.

Lodge waitresses—college girls in short denim skirts and cowboy boots—circulated with trays.
Why are cocktail napkins always so small?
I snapped up my favorites, then snared a glass of sauvignon blanc from the bar, where Ned stood guard.

Gib eyed the waitresses appreciatively, then shook hands and posed for camera-phone snapshots while Pete filmed the pastry chefs, at Stacia’s direction. She’d changed into professional garb, very city-like in all black with fabbo low-heeled slingbacks.

Each
pâtissiere
gave a brief description of her offering: Wendy Fontaine and her chocolate-espresso mousse cups. Add that to the menu for my last meal on earth. The Lodge baker’s tiramisu made with wild raspberries. Blasphemy for a half-Italian girl to admit she doesn’t like tiramisu, but it’s never seemed worth the calories. Huckleberry-peach tartlets from the Bayside Grille and miniature cheesecakes with huckleberry glaze from Applause!

The evening brought to life my motto: If it’s made in Montana, it must be good.

Tara and Emma Baker sat on the stone wall that embraced the patio, each holding a small plate. Tara, in her usual black, looked almost relaxed in her daughter’s spritely presence. Pink ribbons had been woven into the tiny girl’s blond braids, and Tara adjusted a slipping bow, a soft smile on her face, as Emma chattered. A few feet away, Pete turned the camera toward them with a wistful look.

I plucked a second focaccia-mushroom toast off a passing tray and mingled, chatting with Kathy Jensen from Dragonfly Dry Goods, the quilt and yarn shop next to the Jewel Inn. Liz and Bob Pinsky, my mother’s best friends and my landlords, joined us.

“The fountain arrives tomorrow,” Liz reminded me, late-afternoon sun glinting off her diamond studs. “Be prepared for an energetic transformation.”

Bob rolled his eyes. Both Pinskys were small, dark, and intense, and I adored them.

The social clusters changed shape, as they always do, and I found myself standing across from Mimi and Tony George, with Gib Knox holding court. We were close to the bar, and when Ned offered a refill, I gladly accepted.

“That’s why I think the contestants need to prepare at least three courses,” Gib was saying. “A meat dish alone is not a true test of a chef’s abilities. Steak is too bland—you need sauces to get any flavor. And outdoor grilling . . .” His expression clearly placed the favored summer cooking method in the rookie category.

Gad. Talk about blasphemy.

“The Grill-off wasn’t designed to crown the best overall chef,” Mimi said, exhibiting the deliberate patience of a mother of two teenagers. “It was designed to give home cooks new ideas for grilling good Montana beef.”

“What about Wagyu beef?” a man I didn’t recognize said.

“Wagyu-shmagyu. It’s nothing special. Wagyu is Japanese for beef.” Gib cackled.

“Besides,” Mimi said, “it’s a little late to criticize the premise of a show you agreed to host months ago.” She turned and stalked into the Lodge.

I muttered “excuse me” and darted after her.

“Mim.” I grabbed the sleeve of her turquoise linen tunic outside the women’s room. “What’s all that about?”

“Mr. Big Shot and his snide comments about our one-stoplight town and cute little backward ways. Not to mention our low-brow food. He actually called sweet potato chips quaint.”

I had other words for them. But now wasn’t the time to share that opinion.

“This is a disaster,” she said, running her hand through her short pale hair and giving it a tug.

“Don’t worry. He may be an ass in person, but he’ll be fine on camera.” I’d encountered people like that in the corporate world. Secret pot-stirrers whose egos kept them from misbehaving when they thought it really mattered. But as my mother would say, it always matters.

“I wish I could believe you.” Throwing me a skeptical look, Mimi pushed open the door labeled
COWGIRLS
and slipped inside.

“Humans,” I muttered, and headed for the corrals.

Half an hour of horse-whispering later, I wound my way back to the Lodge. Stroking a horse’s well-muscled neck and scratching behind its ears always put things in perspective. Temporarily, at least.

Show time would be over by now. Maybe I could score a few leftovers to nibble on back at the Merc while I rechecked the inventory control software.

“One peep and I’ll make sure your career is finished. Count on it.” The voice was male, confident of his demands. I froze, a tall green thicket between me and the argument.

“You have no hold over me,” came the disdainful reply. But from whom, or even what gender, I couldn’t tell. A hundred horses on the move will drown out all but the loudest voices. I turned to watch as the herd made its nightly procession to the upper pasture, and forgot everything else, lost in joy.

When the horses had passed, I strolled back to the Lodge with the crowd that had gathered to watch the parade. I replayed the overheard snippets in my mind’s ear. But they had been tense, colored by rage, beyond recognition.

What had I actually heard?

Sound and fury. But what, if anything, did it signify?

*   *   *

T
wo hours later, I finally felt sure that the software was working properly and that we did in fact have all the jam, flour, eggs, and pasta the bits and bytes reported.

One last chocolate mousse cup in hand—portable paradise—I descended the half flight of stairs from the Merc’s office. I double-checked the front door—just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean stuff won’t happen, and the locks on this pile of bricks are original. In the kitchen, a light glowed over the six-burner gas stove, and when I stepped inside to flick it off, I spotted Fresca’s copy of
My Life in France
by Julia Child on the counter. Astonished that Stacia had never read it, she’d insisted Stacia borrow her own dog-eared copy. But there it lay, forgotten.

Easier to drop it off tonight than try to find the time—and Stacia—later in the week. I was driving by the road to the Lodge anyway. My own place was just a short hop south of the Lodge. I tucked the book in my bag—a bright blue leather hold-all I’d bought in a teeny-tiny shop on East Pike in Seattle—and strode out the back door.

A stream of light from Red’s courtyard shone into our space, highlighting the empty corners, picking out the spaces between the worn cobblestones. I may not understand Liz’s talk about using the five elements—fire, wood, earth, water, and metal—to enhance the flow of energy, but she had a way of making me want to believe.

That’s why I’d hung a red metal star on the back gate earlier this summer, to burnish the Merc’s fame and reputation. I adjusted it now.

Several weeks past solstice, the sky had already begun darkening sooner than I would like. This time of year, it becomes impossible to deny that the seasons will change.

I turned my sage green Subaru off the highway onto a long, narrow road leading to the turnoff for the Lodge, keeping my eye peeled for deer. The pesky critters have a straight shot down the mountain, across the highway, through the dark woods and deserted fields to the water. And they rarely travel alone.

My headlights glinted off something on the right. I slowed. Not roadkill—something shiny. A black trash bag? Something that had fallen off the top of a car or flown out the back of a pickup?

No shoulder on this road, so I pulled over as far as I could and stopped the car, beams shining on the asphalt and the dense brush beside it. I grabbed the Maglite from my glove box and flicked it on. Stepped out.

Stepped closer. No.

No.
I knelt beside Stacia’s crumpled body, the lights picking up those highlights in her hair, and felt for a pulse.

From the opposite direction, more lights approached. Too fast. Too close.

No.