Praise for the Food Lovers’ Village Mysteries
“A pleasing read with a thoughtful heroine, a plethora of red herrings, and some foodie tips.”
―Kirkus Reviews
“A lighthearted and amusing story with the added bonus of several yummy recipes.”
―Mystery Scene
“Treble at the Jam Fest has all the necessary elements to satisfy cozy mystery lovers: likeable, believable characters, a fast-moving plot, and a logical ending. Great fun!”
―Suspense Magazine
“A delicious mystery as richly constructed as the layers of a buttery pastry. Wine, enchiladas, and song make for a gourmet treat in the coziest town in Montana!”
―Krista Davis, New York Times bestselling author of the
Domestic Diva Mysteries
“Leslie is a fellow foodie who loves a good mystery and it shows in this delightful tale!”
―Cleo Coyle, New York Times bestselling author of the
Coffeehouse Mysteries
“Music, food, scenery and a cast of appealing characters weave together in perfect harmony in Leslie Budewitz’s Treble at the Jam Fest.”
―Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of the
Orchard Mysteries and the County Cork Mysteries
“Small-town charm and big-time chills. Jewel Bay, Montana, is a food lover’s paradise.”
―Laura Childs, New York Times bestselling author
Books by Leslie Budewitz
Food Lovers’ Village Mysteries
Death al Dente
Crime Rib
Butter Off Dead
Treble at the Jam Fest
As the Christmas Cookie Crumbles
Carried to the Grave and Other Stories
Spice Shop Mysteries
Assault and Pepper
Guilty as Cinnamon
Killing Thyme
Chai Another Day
The Solace of Bay Leaves
Nonfiction and Cookbooks
Books, Crooks and Counselors: How to Write Accurately About
Criminal Law and Courtroom Procedure
Contributor
The Cozy Cookbook: More than 100 Recipes
from Today’s Bestselling Mystery Authors
The Mystery Writers of America Cookbook
Writes of Passage: Adventures on the Writer's Journey
How to Write a Mystery: A Handbook by Mystery Writers of America
Writing as Alicia Beckman
Bitterroot Lake
Title Page
Copyright
Carried to the Grave and Other Stories
Leslie Budewitz
Copyright © 2021 by Leslie Ann Budewitz
“A Death in Yelapa” originally appeared in Malice Domestic 14: Mystery Most Edible, edited by Verena Rose, Rita Owen, and Shawn Reilly Simmons (Wildside Press, 2019).
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
ISBN: 978-1-954717-25-1
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Contents
Carried to the Grave
Pot Luck
The Christmas Stranger
A Death in Yelapa
Put on a Dying Face
An Unholy Death
Acknowledgments and Historical Notes
Note to Readers
About the Author
Carried to the Grave
“Many of us came to know our sister in Christ, Gwendolyn, through her extended family, and her generosity to our friends and neighbors.”
The Reverend Anne Christopherson opened her arms, the sleeves of her gold-trimmed white robe reminding me of the wings of a bird. The effect was highlighted by a ray of early afternoon sun streaming through the wide clerestory window above the altar as the good reverend beamed down at that extended family.
It was easy to tell the relatives from the friends packing the pews of Jewel Bay United Methodist. The Gottfried-Taylor bloodline bore dark eyes and strong brows, and dark hair gone pure white in the older generation. Granny G—everyone called Gwendolyn Gottfried Taylor that, related or not—had kept a full shimmery white crown until her death last week at ninety.
My seat, near the back on the outer aisle, gave me a decent view of the front row, where my village neighbors, Wendy Taylor Fontaine and her husband, Max, sat with her parents, her two older brothers, and their wives and kids. Behind them, on both sides of the aisle, sat Granny G’s brothers and sisters and their families, three and four generations deep.
“I remember well,” Reverend Anne said, “as a classmate of her granddaughter, Wendy, how Gwendolyn taught the entire third-grade class how to use frosting and plastic bags to make bunny ears on our Easter cupcakes. Some of us learned those lessons better than others.”
The smile she aimed at Wendy, the village baker, spread through the gathering. Thinking of Granny G made my eyelids hot and my throat swell. No matter how expected, death always hits us like a surprise.
“Granny G attended every school and church event for her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. The choir counted on her clear soprano to lead them through the most challenging hymns. And the rest of us counted on her cakes and pies at church socials.” Another smile, another ripple of amusement. “She epitomized the volunteer spirit that makes this community such a gem, treating each and every one of us like family, in the truest sense.”
Near the front of the church, someone let out a muffled cry, followed by the soft and not-so-soft murmurs of those whose peace and comfort was being disturbed. I craned my neck to see a thin, older woman push her way out of the pew and into the side aisle. Corinna Gottfried, Granny G’s youngest sister. A teacher in Spokane, two hundred miles way, recently retired. Corinna didn’t spend much time in Jewel Bay, and I barely knew her. Unlike the rest of the family, she had soft red hair that appeared natural, though she had to be nearly seventy, a smattering of freckles on her pale cheeks.
Those cheeks were drawn now as she marched down the aisle, her pale eyes not moist with grief, but flashing. In anger? Or something else?
Did I hear actual whispers, or just the tiny movements of the multitudes as we turned to watch? Impossible to say. Church mice might be quiet, but churches themselves are not.
From her spot between my sister and me, my mother squeezed my hand and I gave my attention back to the Reverend Anne.
; “The Lord knows our hearts, and our histories,” Anne said, “and commands us not to judge, but to love one another, in heart, thought, and deed. Let us pray.”
The mourners rose with the shuffling of feet, the whispering of fabric, and more than one muttered groan that I chose to attribute to creaky knees rather than a reluctance to follow ministerial instruction. Anne had been two years ahead of me in high school, in the same class as Wendy and my sister, Chiara. Her great-grandmother had been a sort of foster child to our Murphy great-grandparents, after her father, a local minister, was murdered. Our families had been close ever since. Family lore also said our great-grandmother had solved the crime, but no one knew for certain. Anne had returned to Jewel Bay only a year ago, but I was sure that like me, and every kid who’d left and come back, she drew on her hometown knowledge every day.
And that made me wonder, as the sturdy preacher raised her face and arms to the heavens and called for the Lord’s blessing on Gwendolyn Gottfried Taylor and those gathered here, whether the caution against judgment was one she shared at every funeral, or whether she had reason to remind this particular crowd of that most basic principle.
∞
“I still can’t imagine the girl I used to sneak out of study hall with for a smoke presiding on the altar,” my sister said a few minutes later as we stood on the church’s broad steps, blinking against the sunlight. Her name is said with a hard C, and rhymes with tiara, but she was no princess.
Neither was I, for that matter. “Senior year, I went to homecoming with her brother, Lonnie. He’s a theoretical physicist. For NASA. The kid voted ‘most likely to be jailed’ is a rocket scientist.”
“Erin, hush,” my mother, Fresca, short for Francesca, said. One of the many challenges of running the family business has been learning to call my mother by her first name, at least when we were in the shop. “The Christopherson kids were late bloomers.”
“I’ll say. Lonnie showed up wearing the jacket and shirt to a rented tux, with board shorts and orange Chuck Taylors. My corsage was silk flowers he cut from the wreath on the front door with his pocketknife.”
“Ohmygosh. I never heard that.” Chiara had already left home for art school in San Francisco by then. “Mom didn’t kill him? And Dad didn’t send him home to change?”
“They didn’t know until we showed up at the dance—they were chaperones. But the flowers matched my dress, so it was all good. Plus, he was a great dancer and an even better kisser.”
“You girls are not helping me polish my glowing memories of your childhood,” Mom said, but while the set of her jaw was stern, her dark eyes twinkled.
You would not have guessed we’d just left a funeral from all the laughter around us. Granny G’s family were not a reserved bunch—siblings and cousins teasing each other, greeting friends with squeals of joy and slaps on the back.
Even Wendy, who’d swapped her chef’s jacket and cherry-red rubber clogs for a sky-blue linen tunic and loose-fitting black pants, seemed to light up among them.
Actually, I knew her glow came from another source. I’d popped into the bakery one morning a few weeks ago and found her in the bathroom, retching. After ten years of marriage and two adoptions that fell through at the last minute, she was pregnant. Thrilled and terrified, she’d made me promise to keep quiet, under penalty of refusing to sell me another chocolate-filled croissant. Ever.
My sister says if you have a secret you need to keep, but you’re itching to tell someone, tell Wendy. She’ll carry it to the grave.
Along with her secret to perfect croissants.
A few feet away, Uncle Frank, Granny G’s twin brother, told a story, hands rising and falling. Wendy smiled, saying nothing. Max grinned, his arm around her waist.
A gaggle of older women clustered around Frank’s brother Al, the family flirt. Among Granny G’s extended family were dairy farmers and teachers. The building supply manager, Wendy’s oldest brother. And theater people—Wendy’s parents had founded the Jewel Bay Playhouse and Summer Theater, now run by her middle brother.
No sign of Corinna.
But I did spot Kim Caldwell, my childhood BFF, on the far side of the crowd, and waved. After a long breach, we’d tentatively renewed our friendship. She’d taken a leave of absence from her job as a sheriff’s detective to wrangle horses in California for a few months, and was home for a visit. If she’d made up her mind about her future, she hadn’t told me.
“Chiara,” Mom said, “you’re going to the Taylors’ house with me? And Erin, you’re coming out later?”
We nodded. Taking food to the Taylors was a bit like that coals-to-Newcastle thing—Wendy and French-born Max run the bakery and bistro next door to the Merc, the hundred-plus-year-old brick building where my family has run some version of a grocery since 1910. Max had been running both kitchens while Wendy helped her mother keep vigil at Granny G’s bedside. She hadn’t so much as kneaded a loaf of bread in days.
But you can never have too much funeral food. Taking dishes to the family is a community ritual. A human ritual. When my father died, February of my senior year, bowls and platters covered the tables in the high school cafeteria after the service. He’d been a popular coach and history teacher and the Catholic church had been too small, so we’d held the funeral in the gym. Wendy and Anne had been away at college. But I remembered Lonnie Christopherson giving me a long, hard hug. One of the few kids who’d dared look me in the eye, let alone touch me. Like losing my father was contagious.
“Gotta get back to the Merc,” I said. I blew them each a kiss. Wendy and Max had joined the circle around Uncle Al. No point interrupting to take my leave; I’d see them in a few hours.
I rounded the east corner of the church, heading for the WPA steps that link the residential area to the village, the original town site, now home to art, food, and all things mercantile and touriste.
“What were you thinking, stomping out of there like that?”
Startled, I looked around, but saw no one. I’ve been called the village snoop, as well as the unofficial village PI, and I admit to enjoying the role. I stopped and cocked an ear.
The man spoke again, hidden by the forsythia, a few of its yellow, star-like blossoms littering the cracked concrete sidewalk. “Disrespecting your sister, after all she did to hold this family together.”
“Don’t you be telling me what to do, Frank,” a woman answered. “Gwen did that my whole life. She didn’t die and leave that role to you.”
Family feuds, I thought, as I hurried away. Another part of the human ritual.
∞
“Erin, would you take these truffles to the Taylors’ house?” Tracy, my shop assistant, held out a box of dark chocolate beauties. “Wendy loves my huckleberry chocolates.”
“Everyone loves your huckleberry chocolates. If they don’t, they need their pulse checked. Why don’t you come with me and deliver them yourself?”
“No. I should stay here,” she said, voice trembling, eyes downcast.
I’d have happily closed the Merc for an hour to let Tracy attend Granny G’s service, but she’d refused. Midday, midweek, well before tourist season, a brief closure would not have touched our bottom line. But I hadn’t pushed her. Funerals aren’t everyone’s cup of tea.
Neither, it seems, are the gatherings afterwards.
Fifteen minutes later, I parked my Subaru on the long dirt lane serving both the Taylors’ house and Uncle Frank’s. More than a century ago, two brothers had homesteaded next to each other, and their farmhouses, still in the family, stood a few hundred feet apart. The farms had long since been combined. Passersby often stop to photograph the twin dairy barns, one red and one white, standing out against the willows and cottonwoods and the glacier-topped mountains beyond.
No sign of my mother’s car—I’d missed her and Chiara. Granny G and Frank had six living brothers and sisters, all younger, and judging by the long line of cars and trucks, every relative had descended on the home place.
Despite my family’s earlier offerings, I’d felt my own tug of obligation. I reached into the backseat and grabbed Tracy’s box of truffles and a tote bag with my contribution.
The soles of my Mary Jane clogs crunched the gravel. After she’d been widowed, Granny G had moved into a small house in town, not far from the school. She’d given this place to her eldest, Wendy’s father, and Wendy grew up here. As I neared the white farmhouse, I slowed, drinking in the scent of old-fashioned lilacs with undertones of cow pie, and marveled at the massive clumps of tulips. Most of us have to fence our tulips or go without, but Frank’s sons and grandsons run dairy cattle, and that keeps the pesky deer away.
On the spring-green lawn, Max, Wendy’s brothers, and a swarm of twelve-and-unders played soccer. I’d tagged behind Chiara often enough when we were kids to know my way around the place, and bypassed the wide steps leading to the front porch and headed for the kitchen door.
Granny G had created a lovely flower garden along this side of the house, where heat from the brick path gave the early bloomers a boost. The tall purple iris seemed to have an edge over the white buds, but in the race for garden glory, never bet against a yellow flower.
I stopped to admire a bumblebee hopping between the bluets, one of the bravest blossoms in these mountain valleys.
Carried to the Grave and Other Stories Page 1