Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) (9 page)

Kyle wagged his eyebrows at the crowd, signaling a miss. Gib blinked, not liking being fooled. “It’ll hit me in a moment,” he said, pushing Kyle’s plate away and pulling Drew’s toward him.

I held my breath. Drew’s steaks regularly won raves in restaurant reviews. Gib’s left cheek twitched as he chewed. He cut a second bite, swishing the meat in a puddle of sauce before putting in his mouth. “Excellent use of local flavors—we’ll be visiting a cherry orchard later in the week. A great choice. The acid mixes with the sweet to give it just the right bite and balance. The filet is medium-rare.” He held up a large chunk and Pete zoomed in for the close-up. “Those red and pink juices transport the flavor all through your mouth.”

I waited for a barbed comment, a veiled criticism, but none came. A quick glance at Drew told me he’d been waiting, too. But he didn’t let his breath out yet.

“The recipes will be posted on the
Food Preneurs
’ website, so you can try all three yourself.” Gib stood. “Let’s give our chefs one more round of applause. And after a short break, we’ll crown a winner.”

Applause erupted as the chefs bowed. Gib smiled handsomely for the camera, then headed in to the Lodge’s dining room. His comments all but telegraphed a choice of Drew, but I’d already seen that Gib Knox thrived on being unpredictable.

My turn, I realized with a start, and stepped to the center of the patio. “While our judge ponders his difficult decision, please enjoy yourselves. We have plenty of appetizers, lots of beer and wine and other beverages. After the winner is announced, we’ll sample desserts from the Lodge, Le Panier, Applause!, and”—I searched my notes—“the Bayside Grille.” How could I forget Ray’s huckleberry-peach tartlets?

Cowgirls appeared bearing more trays, and Lodge staff helped the chefs clean up their stations.

“Ought to be a three-way tie,” Heidi said to my mother and me. “Every dish looked perfect.”

Fresca snorted. “He’s a master of the backhanded compliment. I’d like to backhand him.”

Mimi joined us, wild-eyed. “This was a terrible idea. I could strangle him.”

“You mean Nasty Knox?” I said. “Glib Gib?”

Mimi snatched a glass of Chardonnay from a passing tray and downed half of it in one swallow.

“‘Bite and balance’ is a cute phrase, but calling something nice over and over is a put-down,” Fresca said. “And ‘the juices carry the flavor.’ That’s a new one.” She rolled her eyes.

“TV talk. They need something new to say every episode,” I said. Most of the guests milled near the Lodge, close to the food and drink. A few wandered down to the lake shore, or sat in Adirondacks clustered on the lawn. “I left the shop early to help out here, but we were hopping all day.”

Heidi nodded. “All the merchants and vendors I talked to were thrilled with their sales. The new layout is working.”

My stomach gurgled. I snared more snacks and mingled.

“This town sure knows how to pack a weekend,” a Lodge guest who’d skipped the field trip told me. “We are having a blast.”

“Cheers to that.” I raised my glass and peeked at the woman’s watch. What was taking Gib so long to choose a winner?

Heels clattered across the flagstones. I whipped around as Tara Baker crashed into view.

“Is there a doctor? I need a doctor. I think he’s dead.” She let out a thin wail. “I think he’s been murdered.”

“W
ho? Who’s dead?” I grabbed Tara as she collapsed, catching her before she hit the ground.

“Where?” The woman who’d commented on what a busy place Jewel Bay is stepped forward.

“In the back parking lot.” Tara pointed vaguely.

“I’m an ER doc.” The woman crouched, her face close to Tara’s. “We need you to show us where. Can you do that?”

Tara nodded and I helped her stand. Together, we wobbled for a few steps until she took a deep breath and found her stride. The three of us headed for the north parking area.

Behind me, the elder Caldwells took charge. “We’ve called 911,” said Keith, Kim’s dad and the Lodge general manager. “The EMTs will be here in minutes. Everyone, stay calm and stay put until the sheriff arrives. There’s plenty of food. You’ll be informed the moment we know what’s going on.”

Following Tara’s lead in silence, we passed between two log cabins, pushed through an opening in a tall green hedge, and reached gravel. Tara pointed, and the doc took off.

She was pointing at my car.

No. She was pointing at the van beside it.

Drew’s van.

I wrapped my arm around Tara’s quaking shoulders and we watched from the edge of the road.

“My daughter,” she said.

“Emma? Is she here?” I hadn’t seen her.

Tara shook her head furiously, blond hair whipping. “At a friend’s. But her dad—if he’s dead . . .”

I pulled her closer, wishing I could say everything would be all right. Wishing I knew what the heck had happened.

Wishing I were hundreds of miles away, back in Seattle, where things like this happened every day, sure, but never to anyone I knew.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Horses whinnied, hooves beating. I gazed across the meadow to the trail. Horses had their schedule. No doubt the wranglers had followed their nightly routine, sending the horses up the hill before the chaos started. Trampling any evidence that might be in their way.

I could see the doctor’s back as she tended to the body hidden from view.
As she tended to Drew
, I told myself.
As long as he’s alive, he’s not “the body.”

Keith Caldwell trotted into view. The ambulance crept around the corner behind him.

“Let’s get you back to the Lodge,” I told Tara.

“No.” She tried to jerk away. “I have to know what’s going on. I have to be with him.”

I hung on, and we stayed put. Just because they were divorced, just because they fought like cats and dogs, didn’t mean her heart wasn’t breaking. Especially if his stopped beating.

Kim arrived in her official rig a few minutes later as EMTs loaded Drew into the ambulance. Those chef whites, once sparkling, were now covered in blood. And it wasn’t from the steak. I let Tara go and she spoke briefly with Kim, then climbed into the front of the ambulance and it sped off.

Kim spoke briefly to her dad, then caught sight of me. An unreadable look crossed her face. Relief at a familiar face, or exasperation to see me once again at the scene of a violent crime?

I wasn’t any happier about it than she was.

“Will he live?” I said as we neared each other. She pursed her lips and blew out a small, horsey breath. She didn’t know.

The notebook came out of her jacket pocket. She must keep a loaded jacket—and a loaded gun—by her front door for off-duty calls. “Tell me what you heard and saw.”

“Nothing. The chefs finished cooking. The judge—Gib Knox—tasted each dish and commented on them. He was a little snotty. Then he took a break to make his decision. Where is he?” I looked around, but though a small crowd had gathered, he didn’t seem to be part of it. “I didn’t see where he went. Or the chefs. To load up their stuff, I guess.” I glanced at the van and shivered.

“Snotty how? Be specific.”

I repeated Gib’s comments. “It sounded—I don’t know. Hoity-toity. Superior. Which is kind of how he’s been acting all week. To tell you the truth, when Tara said ‘he’s murdered,’ my first thought was she meant Gib Knox.”

“Why? Who would have killed him?” Kim said, rapid-fire.

Can’t you keep your trap shut, Erin?
“Nobody. But he wasn’t making many friends in Jewel Bay.”

My gaze fell on the van one more time. More precisely, on an object on the ground. I stepped closer.

“I have one just like it.”

“What is it?” Kim said.

“Oh, right, you don’t cook. Meat tenderizer. It’s got a rubber handle and a three-sided head, each with different teeth.” It flattens! It tenderizes! It smashes in your enemy’s skull! “I got mine at Sur La Table in Seattle, but any good kitchen shop sells them.”

“Was it Drew’s?”

I closed my eyes and tried to picture his gear. His recipe shouldn’t need one, but he might have brought one anyway, just in case. “Sorry. Don’t know.”

The entire grounds were now a crime scene, crawling with deputies. Back inside, deputies had separated those who’d had direct contact with Drew in the last two hours from the rest, herding them down to the Carriage House for the ritual name gathering and preliminary questioning. That left two dozen of us seated at rustic log dining tables cradling cups of coffee, or huddled on deep leather couches in front of an unlit fire. Through no fault of its own, the place no longer felt quite so inviting.

A few minutes later, Undersheriff Ike Hoover strode in. Silence fell. Even in jeans and a black Henley, he had a commanding presence. But mostly, we turned to him because we hungered for news.

“I’ll be handling this investigation,” he said, his slow, sweeping gaze taking us all in. “As Deputy Caldwell is a member of the family. No word yet on Mr. Baker’s condition, I’m afraid.”

Kim stood by the front door, arms crossed. She did not look pleased at being displaced, but the decision seemed like a no-brainer.

Especially considering the bad blood between the victim and his ex-wife—a key Lodge employee.

“So. Here we are again,” Fresca said, slipping into the chair next to me. We’d both switched from wine to mineral water.

“At least it’s not our party this time.” Or our problem.

She grabbed my hand and squeezed. “He’ll make it. He’ll pull through.”

“This whole thing’s a disaster.” The chair across from us clattered on the wood floor as Mimi George jerked it out and sat sideways. “Cursed. Just like Gib said.”

“Now, Mimi—” Fresca began, at the same time as Old Ned chimed in. I hadn’t seen him standing behind me.

“You stop that talk,” Ned said sternly. “Nothing’s cursed and nothing’s anybody’s fault. Except whoever done this.”

“I never should have suggested the filming,” Mimi protested, her voice thready, her cheeks splotchy. “The crew’s been nothing but disruptive. And what if Drew dies?”

She reached for her wineglass but before she could take another drink, Ned plucked it away. “I’m cutting you off. Hot coffee’s the thing.”

One of the cowgirls placed a mug in front of her and I slid cream and sugar across the table. Mimi dutifully doctored her coffee, sniffling.

She had a point. Everything about the Summer Food and Art Fair was going swimmingly, except for filming the Grill-off. I mentally ticked off the troubles: The cameraman’s illness. The recipe snafu. Stacia’s death.

And now this. I don’t believe in curses, but you have to wonder sometimes.

Drew wasn’t part of the crew, and the attack on him was nothing like those other incidents. So—who? And why?

On TV crime shows, the cops always say there’s no such thing as coincidence. But life isn’t a TV crime show. Even if it sometimes seems like one.

Drew had been furious with Tara, but her reaction to his injuries convinced me she’d never hurt him. He was the father of her child.

And for a moment, I’d gotten the impression that she still loved him.

I scanned the dining room, normally a vibrant, cozy place, the epitome of “the lodge look.” Only here, it wasn’t a look, a suburban decorator’s dream. The plank floors weren’t distressed by factory workers swinging chains on brand-new lumber to rough it up and give it a naturally aged appearance. They really were naturally aged, distressed by decades of boot heels as old hands and greenhorns criss-crossed the space in search of hot coffee or cold beer. Roughed up by hundreds of children, scraped by thousands of guests pushing back their chairs after satisfying meals. The caribou mount staring down at us had to be an import—a gift from a grateful guest, or a trade with a dude ranch up the road in Canada. But all the other trophies were local, displayed alongside bentwood snowshoes laced with rawhide, long-handled fishing nets and bobbers, and other well-worn outdoor gear.

Now, though, the atmosphere was subdued. Sad, as if expecting another boot to drop.

As if Mimi were right and the whole dang idea of a film shoot had been doomed from the beginning. But I knew better. At least I thought I did.

Odds were the attack on Drew hadn’t been random. Odds were, someone in this room had committed a vicious assault.

I crumpled up my napkin. The feel of a cold stare sent shivers down my spine. I turned my eyes in the direction it seemed to come from. Up, up—on the mezzanine? No one there except a stuffed wolverine. I nearly laughed out loud.

Chill, Erin. Chill.

Ike Hoover had commandeered the small check-in office near the Lodge entrance. As undersheriff, he’d overseen Kim’s investigation of the murder earlier this year. Fourteen years ago, he’d been the lead investigator on the hit-and-run that killed my father.

I rubbed my stars, hoping he’d be more successful this time.

In the alcove between the office and the lake-view saloon, Gib Knox made himself at home on a chocolate brown leather couch, a bear skin rug draped over its back. Was he as unconcerned about Drew as he appeared? Or acting, trained by a career in the public eye?

The office door opened and Ike emerged, tall, well built, still dark-haired at fifty-plus. He and Gib shook hands and stepped into the office.

No sign of Kim anywhere.

Talk continued while we waited to be interviewed. My mother reached down and stilled my foot, reflexively kicking the leg of her chair. “Sorry,” I mouthed. She patted my knee.

The kitchen doors swung open and Kyle Caldwell emerged bearing a large tray. Behind him, a cook bore another, and they set the trays on a long serving table. “We can all do with a bite,” Kyle said. “We’ve rustled up some hearty appetizers and desserts.”

The dessert course we hadn’t gotten to, before the horrid interruption.

Food always brightens the mood, even if you don’t have much reason to be hungry. Folks picked up plates and formed a casual line. Kyle stood to one side, watchful. I wandered over and gave him a quick half hug. “Sweet of you to think of food.”

“I’m always thinking of food. It’s my job.”

After the tasting, the other chefs had packed up. Kyle had little to pack and not far to go. Had that given him time to observe?

I rattled on. “You had to work while the rest of us enjoyed the festivities—a tasty spread, by the way.” He nodded thanks, attention on the makeshift buffet. A pair of deputies got in line, the T-shirted Pete Lloyd behind them, looking more rumpled than usual. Tara had not returned. “During the break, you must all have relaxed, speculated on who won.”

No response.

“Gib can be pretty snide. Did you see Drew after Gib tasted the dishes?”

“I went straight to my kitchen, Erin. This is what I do.” He watched the room as if it were a battlefield, and I were a gnat to be ignored. He’d been so engaging and easy to talk to earlier. What had happened?

I slunk back to the table. My mother had her phone in her hand. “Drat. I can never manage this thing. Why can’t your sister just call?”

“You wouldn’t answer. She texts so you can respond when you want.” I took the phone and read Chiara’s message. News travels at warp speed around here. I texted back, saying no, we hadn’t heard any updates on Drew’s condition, we were waiting to be questioned, and we didn’t know when we could leave.

“I saw you talking with Kyle Caldwell,” my mother said.

“Tried to. He was a regular chatterbox earlier today, but his lips are zipped right now. This attack has everybody unnerved.”

“Well, with all that happened three years ago, can you blame him?”

“What? What happened?” It’s strange to come back to your hometown, where you think you know everyone and everything, and constantly bump into surprises.

“The reason Drew left the Lodge. The reason he and Tara got divorced,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Okay, so I’m an idiot for not knowing. How would I? I didn’t live here then, and I barely know either Drew or Tara. What happened?”

“Oh, don’t get huffy.” Her brows furrowed. “I just thought you knew, that Kim would have told you. When Kyle came back from Iraq, he and Tara had a torrid affair. The steamy sex-on-the-kitchen-counter kind. His father and uncle almost made him leave.”

Wow.
I felt my eyebrows rise. The Caldwells were fierce in their loyalty, to family and employees. To even consider tossing out one of their own . . .

Why hadn’t Kim told me? Part of the chill Kyle had mentioned?

“They wanted Tara to leave and Drew to stay,” Fresca continued, “but of course, he couldn’t, not unless Kyle left. That’s when the Georges asked Drew to head up dinner service at the Inn.”

“What about Tara and Kyle?”

“Oh, that ended almost as quickly as it started, and as dramatically. She dumped a pitcher of iced tea over him on the patio, in front of two hundred guests.”

We stared at each other, the implications obvious. My mother’s revelation cast my veggie-sorting chat with Kyle, and Tara’s interruption, in a new light.

Then Ike Hoover called my name. As I approached the office, Gib Knox brushed past me. I touched his arm in sympathy. He shot me a glare so sharp it cut.

“Hello, Erin,” Ike said, his voice low and solicitous. “It’s always nice to see you and your family, but I wish it were under different circumstances.”

“Not half as much I do, Ike.” Calling him by his first name wasn’t disrespect. Undersheriff sounds too much like undertaker to me, and it had been Ike who’d come to the village Playhouse to get me, during rehearsal, after my father’s accident. The association still stuck. Childish, maybe, but it wasn’t a feeling I could logic my way out of.