Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (6 page)

In the tack room, I gathered her saddle, blanket, and other gear. No sign of Kim. She’d canceled once or twice before because of work. She was probably tied up with the investigation. But no one minded if I rode out on my own.

I was adjusting Ribbons’s bridle when Gib Knox strode into the corral, summoning a tall Appaloosa named Kintla with a whistle. Mostly black with a speckled face and a black-and-white blanket pattern across the hips, the broad-shouldered Appie radiated power, though I knew he was a sweetheart.

“You ride?” I said.

“Why else do you think I came to Montana? For the food?”

Really, when was the man serious and when was he teasing?

“Saw your mug on the wall,” he continued, stroking the Appaloosa tenderly. “Never figured you for a Rodeo Queen.”

“It was kind of a fluke.” Senior year, I’d gotten lucky in a few barrel races and outscored Kim by enough to take the title that should have been hers. Since my horse had been stabled here, the head wrangler hung my picture on the wall in the tack room. The constant reminder would have bothered me if the tables had been turned, but Kim never said a thing.

“You waiting for someone?” he said. “Or can I tag along? I bet you know these trails by heart.”

“Saddle up,” I said.

For a big man, Gib was a surprisingly good rider, flexing easily with Kintla’s moves. And he was surprisingly decent company. The trail took off up a steep slope, switching back and forth through dense woods—pine, fir, larch, and the occasional white paper birch, its golden leaves rippling in the slight breeze we made. Eventually, the trail broke out into a flat-rock vista overlooking the lake. We paused, drinking in the view.

“This may be the most genuinely beautiful place I’ve ever been,” he said. “You folks don’t know what you have up here.”

“Sure we do,” I said, turning the mare back to the trail. “Why do you think we live here? There’s fresh water for the horses a little farther on.”

The stream rolled down the mountain into a perfect pool. We dismounted and let the horses drink. I yanked a water bottle out of my saddle bag and Gib did the same.

“So you knew Drew and Tara in L.A.?” I perched on a giant boulder.

He nodded, taking a long draw from his bottle. “We cooked together for Berndt King, in his original restaurant. Before King went corporate and sold his name to frozen food makers and slapped it on overpriced appliances.”

“Must be nice to reconnect.”

His harsh laugh startled Ribbons, who gazed around, then lowered her head back to the water.

“How the mighty have fallen, from the King’s favored son to this charming outpost. God knows why he’s so content here—lost all his ambition. Tara, on the other hand, has drive to spare. She’s pushing me to hire Pete permanently.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “And I just might.”

Ah. So was that what Tara had been telling Drew this morning, in the parking lot?

Not my business then or now. I kept one eye on the horses and changed the subject. “Where’d you learn to ride?”

He crouched, rinsed one hand in the pool, and ran it over his forehead. Even in August, the water was refreshingly cool.

“My father was a self-made snob. Riding was one of the things he insisted people of our social class should know how to do. About the only one I liked—and the only thing I liked that he ever approved of.”

That explained his English seat, quite different from our cowboy ways. “But you’re a big success. First as a chef, and then on TV.”

He stood, giving me a wry smile. “Poor bastard didn’t live to see me on TV. Committed suicide when the banking regulators came after him. But no, he wouldn’t have been impressed. ‘Still in a kitchen,’ he’d have said.”

When women cook, it’s dismissed as women’s work, but when men cook, the title gets an upgrade to chef and a jump in prestige. Sounded like the elder Knox hadn’t considered cooking a profession fit for a man, no matter what title it was given. Or maybe “Nasty Knox” was a hereditary nickname.

A long time to nurture such bitterness. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

He jammed the light tan Stetson on his head. “Race you down the mountain, Rodeo Queen.”

“No. Not on these trails. Not safe for the horses.” Or riders—too many roots and branches, and far too steep. I gathered up the reins and we mounted, but I took the lead to keep Gib in check. Both Ribbons and I felt him nipping at our heels, but Kintla was a seasoned trail horse and never took the head Gib tried to give him.

Back at the corral, Gib handed his horse to a wrangler, thanked me for the ride, and sauntered off toward the Lodge. That got my Jell-O up. Even President Reagan had groomed his own horse. I groomed Ribbons, put away the tack, and found two green apples, one for her and one for the Appie. Stroked their faces and promised to come back soon.

I headed for my car, checking my phone. No word from Kim. As I walked by a cluster of cabins, it was obvious which one had been Stacia’s: the one with bright yellow tape screaming
DO NOT ENTER
stretched in an X across the door.

Maybe our teenage selves had been right. Maybe we should have stuck to horses.

I
peered in the window. Stacia’d been given a one-room cabin, maybe twelve by fourteen, in tastefully rustic decor. But there was nothing tasteful about it now. Blouses, skirts, and underwear lay strewn across the peeled log bed, obscuring the red-and-black-plaid quilt. One fringed pillow lay on the floor, a black boot next to it. Books and papers covered the pine nightstand and table, a lacy beige bra hooked over the back of a log chair. Next to the butterscotch leather easy chair, the wrought iron floor lamp’s parchment shade tilted rakishly.

He-llohhh.
Had someone ransacked the place? Hunting for what? Or was this mess the aftershock of an official search?

Who could do that to Stacia’s things? She’d be rolling over—well, metaphorically speaking.

I shuddered and glanced around. No sign of Kim or any other deputies. No sign of anyone. A maid sang as she worked in the next cabin, her sweet, strong voice rising and falling as she moved. Her cart stood between the two, keys swinging from the handle. A big no-no, as I well remembered from summers working here.

Obviously the sheriff had already been to the cabin, so I wouldn’t be disturbing anything. No one would notice if I—

“Hey, Erin.”

My fingers retracted instantly at the sound of Kim’s voice.

“Sorry I missed our ride. I meant to call, but the time got away from me. Glad you went ahead.” Her blue eyes lacked their usual sparkle, and her step its usual determination.

“Too nice a day to pass it up. Kim, what the heck happened in there?” I gestured at the window.

“Nothing. Our search and inventory turned up no evidence. We took her phone and laptop—that’s all.”

“Evidence? She was killed in a hit-and-run.” Some drunk, somebody who panicked and took off. Or never knew what they’d done.

“Negligent homicide is a felony, and leaving the scene of an accident and failure to report are misdemeanors. So this is a full-on homicide investigation.”

I closed my eyes, thoroughly confused. “She was killed up by the highway. What does the cabin have to do with it? Did somebody break in and wreak havoc? You guys can’t have done that. I mean, I know you can’t leave everything exactly as you found it, but . . .”

“We went over every inch of the place. Especially after we saw what a shambles it was. But there were no signs of a break-in, struggle, a fight. Nothing connected with the crime.”

I sank onto the forest green Adirondack chair by the front door. “This is unbelievable.”

“You’d be amazed at how some people live,” Kim said.

The maid stepped on a small lever to unlock the wheels of her cart. I recognized her as an aspiring country singer who sang at local bars. Melinda something. She was striking even in jeans and a T-shirt, but in boots and a short fringed dress with the neckline cut halfway to China, whoa.

“Like I told you earlier,” she said to Kim, “every day she was here, this cabin looked like a hurricane hit it.”

The wooden chair was less comfortable than it looked. Stacia had seemed so orderly and organized. Weren’t all compulsive list-makers neat freaks like me? Well, like me mostly. I swear, my boots and shoes jump around in the closet on their own.

Kim leaned against a porch post. “We’ve got to box it all up and send it to her next of kin.”

“Just like that? Kind of—cold. Plus the papers are all related to the filming—the crew might need them.”

“And I hear you are part of the crew now.”

Before I could say a word, before I could protest that I really had to run to get home and shower and change, Kim had unlocked the cabin door, tossed Stacia’s clothes and toiletries into the suitcase she found in the closet, and stowed it in her patrol car, then thrown all the files and piles of paper into cardboard boxes she shoved into the back of my Subaru.

At least, it seemed to happen that fast.

Now I sat in the driver’s seat, staring at a slip of paper with Stacia’s husband’s name and number. I had to call him.

Secret slob or not, Stacia deserved that much.

*   *   *

I
cleaned up in a hurry, still picturing the chaos in Stacia’s cabin. It gave me the willies. My own closet looked pretty decent in comparison, but I vowed to reorganize it the minute Summer Fair ended.

What to wear right now? Normally I plan ahead, but I hadn’t planned on meeting Adam tonight. A white tank, a bandanna print skirt, and a denim jacket. A chunky silver bracelet and belt. And my red boots.

Sandburg meowed loudly by the front door. I chucked him under the chin. “Sorry, buddy. You’re in for the night. Promise, I’ll make it up to you later.”

I’d agreed to meet Adam at Red’s, then grab a drink and meet the others. But Liz would be disappointed if I didn’t stop at the Merc to check her progress on the courtyard.

“I’ll just peek,” I muttered as I opened the Merc’s front door.

Inside, something felt funny. Not wrong—just different. Like the shadows the shelves and bottles cast were laughing at me.

The sensation grew as I opened the back door. Brow furrowed, I stepped out into the early evening.

The courtyard glowed. It sparkled, shone, glimmered, and glistened. Wrought iron candle lanterns flickered on the gleaming tile tables. Rope lights tucked behind metal edges lit up the fountain, the water dancing, the metal fish leaping.

But the brightest glow came from the jack o’ lantern grins on the faces that greeted me: Liz and Bob. My mother. Chiara and Jason, and five-year-old Landon, in cowboy duds, standing next to his new best friend, Adam.

“Surprise, Auntie!”

“Happy courtyard, girlie.” Old Ned raised a beer in a toast. “It don’t look like the same place.”

It surely did not. It had been transformed. The sketches Liz and I had spent hours tweaking, the art, furniture, and accessories we’d found, had sprung to life.

Chiara pulled a bottle of Prosecco out of a wheelbarrow filled with ice and began pouring champagne. “Now I know we surprised you—you’re speechless.”

Fresca handed me a glass, beaming. “Isn’t it wonderful, darling?”

I nodded, taking it all in.

“And I finally got to meet your famous cow dog.” Adam smiled down at Landon. “Your sister nabbed me outside.”

The back gate opened and more friends surged in: Kathy from Dragonfly, Heidi from Kitchenalia and her latest beau, and Bill Schmidt, Fresca’s sweetheart. Bill ran an herbal medicine clinic just around the corner, dispensing both Western and Chinese herbs and wisdom. They’d been involved for several months, although my sister and I had just discovered the relationship in June. We approved.

“You said you didn’t know what to do with the remodeled space,” Fresca said. “Liz and I thought party! So here we are.”

“Is this the reason for the rush?” I asked Liz. She grinned.

I’d been had.

“It’s perfect for small gatherings,” Chiara said. “Fund-raisers, baby showers, special dinners. You didn’t want to compete with Wendy or anyone else, but
au contraire
, it’s another venue for the caterers.” She looped an arm through mine. “He is so cute.”

I blushed, knowing she meant Adam.

A jazz trio filled the air with spritely tunes. I waved at Sam Krauss from Monte Verde Vineyard on piano, his wife, Jennifer, on bass. Adam raised a hand to Dave the Barber, on guitar.

Everyone but me had brought food. A summer feast lay before us. Adam put a guiding hand on my back as we threaded our way to the buffet table, and his touch added a little extra something to the music.

“I’m not much of a gourmet,” he said. “I don’t even know what all this food is.”

“Stick with us, and you’ll never go hungry.”

The offerings included an antipasto tray with fresh and marinated veggies and cured meats, plus crostini with my mother’s toppings. A shrimp salad with Kalamata olives and fresh herbs and vegetables. Broccoli Slaw. My Two Bean and Pesto Salad—all the better because I hadn’t had to make it myself. Arancini, the fried rice balls my brother-in-law devours.

“Careful,” I warned as Adam reached for a slice of soppressata, a spicy Italian salami. “That’s hot.”

He plucked it in his mouth before I finished speaking, and his eyes went wide. “Hot, but terrific. Ohmygosh. Is all this food this good?”

“Only one way to find out.” We filled our plates and found seats at one of the new tables. I still couldn’t believe they’d done all this—and kept it a secret, too.

“So, I have to admit,” Adam said, sipping the glass of Eagle Lake Brewery ale that had magically appeared for him, “when you talk food, I haven’t always been that interested. But I’m starting to get the idea.”

“Food should be fun. But it’s also powerful.”

“What do you mean?”

“Take the Merc,” I said. “We focus on food grown in the region or products made here. The jams and jellies use local fruit. So does the wine. The meat, eggs, and dairy products are all raised in this valley.”

“And Tracy’s chocolate truffles? No cocoa plantations around here.”

“But made here, with a combination of local and imported ingredients. When you buy local, more of the money stays put. Transportation costs decrease, the carbon footprint goes down, and you feed your neighbors and yourselves. That’s economic power, for social good. We can’t rely solely on local goods—not in this climate—but we can do a lot.” I stopped myself. “Sorry. I get carried away sometimes.”

“I wouldn’t last long without coffee,” Adam admitted. “But I do buy locally roasted beans.”

“Perfect example. Hey—we’ve got our own blend, Cowboy Roast. You should come with me to the roaster. Field trip.”

“I’d like that.” His smile warmed me like the first sip of a double latte.

Fresca slid into the chair next to Adam, beaming. From the Prosecco, the glow of the lanterns, or her delight in seeing me with a guy? Hard to tell.

“I still can’t believe you did all this for me,” I said.

“You know how we love a party.” She got Adam talking about his memories of me in college, his work as assistant manager of the health club, and the wilderness camp.

“Camp season must be winding down,” she said.

“We take the last group of kids up on Sunday for two weeks,” he said. “Then a few days for cleanup and winterizing. I’ll be back in town full time by the end of the month.” His sideways glance said he was already counting the days.

Me, too.

Now I had a problem. Adam was here less than forty-eight hours, and unless I missed my guess completely, he’d want to spend Saturday evening together. But I’d committed myself to help at the Grill-off, and I’d agreed days ago to meet Rick Bergstrom there.

Pooh
.

For the next couple of hours, we mingled—eating, chatting, enjoying the music. For all his protests about being a woodsy guy, Adam fit right in with my artsy, foodie crowd. Across the courtyard, Chiara gave me a wink.

Then the party began to break up. The musicians packed their gear. Leftovers were boxed and bagged. Friends departed and finally, the fountain still flowing and the lanterns still glowing, Adam and I sat alone.

“Adam, about this weekend . . .”

He reached across the table and took my hand. “Could we do this again tomorrow? Just you and me.”

Ah, summer. Busy, sweet, and complicated. “I wish I could. But I have to work the Grill-off, and . . .” I chickened out and left it at that. He didn’t need to know there was another man in the picture. The picture was changing rapidly.

“A little more sparkling wine?” I rose and reached for the last bottle. When I turned around, he was standing beside me.

He slipped a hand around my waist and leaned closer. “You’ve got all the sparkle I want.”

And as I reached up to kiss him, the stars in the night sky twinkled in agreement.