Which reminded me of my mother’s broken martini glass. I added finding a replacement to my to-do list.
The landline rang as I signed the last January commission check for our vendors. When Tracy didn’t grab the phone by the third ring, I figured she was busy helping a customer.
“Glacier Mercantile. This is Erin Murphy.”
The caller introduced himself, apologized for the interruption, and asked if I knew how to reach Nicholas Murphy. “You’re in luck. Would you prefer to hold, or have him call you back?”
He preferred to hold. I dashed down the stairs, wondering why one of Pondera’s most prominent lawyers wanted my brother.
A few minutes later, when all was quiet, I snuck up the steps and peeked into my office. Nick sat in my chair, stunned. As if he’d been struck by one of his own darts—humane darts, used in tracking and collaring wolves. I pried the receiver from his hand, set it in the cradle, and waited.
After a long silence, he raised his eyes. “Her will names me her primary heir. The real estate, personal property, and cash and investments. Money I never imagined she had. There’s a whatdoyoucallit? A bequest to the school district for the art program and another to the Art Center. A few other specific bequests.”
“She never made any money. Her paintings were too affordable.” The proof hung on the wall. “Did it come from Iggy?”
“Must have, but she never told me.”
“Mom’s here. You sit. I’ll get lunch.” I dashed next door and ordered Nick’s favorite, the roast beef and Havarti on a baguette, and two Caprese panini.
In summer, there’s a dip in traffic at noon, when shoppers with stomachs on standard time stop for a bite, and another at one o’clock when folks convinced the restaurants will be jammed at noon take their turn. On a snowy Monday in February, I can count the midday shoppers on one hand. So with Tracy gone for lunch and a dog walk, a trio of Murphys settled onto the red-topped stools and unwrapped our sandwiches. I ate and watched while Nick told Fresca about the unexpected inheritance.
Fresca laid her hand on his. “Oh, darling. You truly had no idea she meant for you to have all that?”
“Not a clue. Contingency planning, the lawyer called it. She was only thirty-four, but she knew what can happen.” Losing a parent young—in her case, both parents and very young—was one of the things Nick and Christine had in common. “Why didn’t I know? If she felt that strongly . . . I mean, we were getting back together. I was trying to figure out how to be home more, work closer to Jewel Bay. But . . .” He shook his head, mystified.
Fresca leaned closer. “You have nothing to feel guilty about, Nick. Nothing. The things unsaid . . .”
I knew she was thinking about her own loss. My father. Nick knew it, too. He turned his hand palm up and squeezed hers. My throat tightened. I reached for the unfinished sandwiches and began wrapping. “The worst part is—”
Our front door chimed and I stopped myself.
“Hello, Kimberly,” Fresca said. “Just in time for lunch.”
Thank goodness I’d held my tongue.
“I’m fine, thanks,” Kim said. “Erin, Nick, I need formal statements about Saturday.”
No hint of the romantic interest Fresca had speculated on in Kim’s tone or her expression. But her left foot tapped the floor in a most peculiar way. She opened a black leather messenger-style purse and withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle.
“We found the murder weapon, a .38 that matches the slug taken from the body. So, I brought your gun back.” She opened the bundle to reveal Nick’s .45.
“Where did you find it?” I asked. “The .38, I mean.”
“I can’t say. Not until the rest of the analysis—”
The chime clattered and clanged as the front door flew open, the century-old oak frame smacking the front counter. The vibration set the jelly jars quaking and I grabbed a pint of cherry preserves before it smashed onto the floor.
“He had motive and means.” Sally jabbed her forefinger at Nick. “And if you’ve got the nerve to ask the right questions, I bet you’ll find plenty of opportunity.”
“Sally, what are you saying?” Fresca took her arm in a grip too firm to shake off. Sally wore no coat, and her thin brown tunic and tan suede loafers were no match for the weather.
“He had everything to gain, at my expense.” She whipped her head toward Fresca. “Did you know that, when you came over this morning, acting all sympathetic?”
“Know what?” Kim said.
“Christine left him everything. Including what she stole from my family.”
“Wait a minute.” Kim extended her hands like a pair of stop signs. “Slowly, calmly, tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Iggy and I were family. Everyone thought Christine was her granddaughter, but she was a complete stranger who wormed her way into a lonely old lady’s life.” Sally spat out the words, ignoring Nick’s sputtered protests. “That—that painter convinced Iggy to leave her everything. Everything. Cutting out her family, her rightful heirs.”
Last summer, Sally had informed me that not everyone in the village approves of the emphasis on food. Apparently she didn’t care for our reputation as a haven for artists, either.
“This one”—her mad eyes darted toward Nick—“made all lovey-dovey and got her to leave it all to him. And then—”
“I get the picture, Sally,” Kim said.
Nick let out a long, ragged breath. “I won’t pretend to know what two dead women—two kind, generous women—were thinking. But I loved Christine Vandeberg, and I had nothing to do with her death.”
“How do you know any of this?” Kim asked Sally.
“Her lawyer called. He knew I’d been consulting about my rights to challenge Iggy’s will. He wrote both wills—he’ll be in deep doo-doo if I win. He said Christine added a codicil to her will, leaving me a few pieces of art. Trying to buy me off.”
A buy-off? That made no sense. The heirs would inherit on Christine’s death, and Sally had to be twenty years older. In normal circumstances, Christine would have outlived her.
“I understand that Iggy’s art collection was quite valuable,” Kim said. “Christine may have been more generous to you than you realize.”
Sally waved a hand in dismissal, focusing instead on Nick. “Where were you Saturday, Mr. Big Shot?”
“That is none of your business.” I couldn’t help myself.
“I don’t mind telling you,” Nick said, voice steady, blue eyes unwavering. “Where I am most days, out tracking wolves.”
“I’ll come over for a statement when I’m finished here.” Kim all but escorted Sally, still steaming, to the door.
Fresca barely waited till she was gone to share a piece of her mind. “You know that is completely ridiculous. Sally and her daughter may have been Iggy’s only living relatives, but it was Christine who shopped for her, took her to the doctor, and in the end, sat by her side for hours. They were closer than blood.”
Nothing like a mother in full protective mode.
But Sally had dared to talk about the elephant in the room. What I’d been about to say when Kim arrived. No matter what else happened, everyone would wonder about Nick. Such is the power of a sizable inheritance. Especially one out of the blue.
And small-town tongues love to wag.
The butcher’s wife arrived toting a cooler full of sausage and fresh beef, giving me a reason to keep busy while Kim interviewed Nick in my office. I heard his steps descend, cross the hall, and head down to his basement refuge. I steeled myself for the summons.
Kim sat in my chair and I tried not to fidget on the spare seat, a creaky piano stool. Her open notebook and digital recorder lay on my desk.
“Why were you meeting at the church?”
“Last-minute prep. Making sure we had all the details in hand.” Step by step, Kim led m
e from the moment I parked in front of the church to the gruesome discovery.
“Why call Nick?”
“All the doors were locked, and I needed to find her spare key.”
“And where did he say he was?”
“Up in the Jewel Basin, checking his packs.” What he’d said then, and what he’d repeated to Sally this morning. That’s when I noticed an iPhone on the desk, in a slim silver case. Mine was in my blue leather tote bag. Kim kept hers in a sturdy black leather case, department issue.
That was Nick’s phone.
“Reception’s kind of iffy up there,” she said, and my throat constricted. “You pick up on any tension between Christine and Zayda?”
“Zayda’s a great kid. She admired Christine. She’s moody, but what seventeen-year-old isn’t?” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Kim, she was alive when I found her. Zayda says she was fine. Was the killer lurking in the studio, waiting for us to leave?” If I’d gotten there two minutes earlier, Zayda and I would have been inside. Putting all three of us in danger. The thought gave me the pee-my-pants terrors.
“I’m not going to speculate,” she said. “Not till we have all the evidence. ME should give us the manner and cause of death today.”
A chill tore through me. “But you know the cause, don’t you? Gunshot to the chest. And the manner—homicide, right? I mean, an accidental shooting is going to be to the hand or foot. And it didn’t look like . . .” I couldn’t say it. Not that I knew what suicide looks like.
The muscles in Kim’s jaw tightened. “Don’t get involved, Erin.”
I sat back and held up my hands in a “who, me?” gesture.
She let out a knowing sigh. We’ve been friends a long time.
• Nine •
I bundled up and grabbed our weekend deposit envelope. The piles of snow and a few unshoveled stretches of sidewalk made the trek to the bank treacherous, but driving would be worse.
Across Front Street, the Playhouse stood dark. Was it really such a good idea to go ahead with the Festival? Was I trying too hard to act as if nothing was wrong, and drag the whole town with me?
At the corner of Front and Hill, a bright red semi struggled in the heavy wet snow, sliding backward each time the driver downshifted. Instead of veering left onto Hill, I stayed out of the way, detouring across the intersection to an inviting log building.
Inside, above the cutting table, hung a quilted jewel of a dragonfly on a marbled green backdrop. Bolts of cloth racked the shelves, and skeins of yarn crammed cubbies and spilled out of oversized baskets. With all that wool and batting, how could Dragonfly Dry Goods be anything but warm and cozy?
The normally coolheaded leader of the Merchants’ Association gripped the phone like a hand grenade with the pin pulled. “We pay Jack Frost to plow the village streets every night when it snows. Where the heck is he?”
“Stuck in a snowbank somewhere?”
“Well, if he doesn’t get his backside down here and move some snow, he’s going to be stuck with something a lot more painful.”
Don’t mess with a woman who sells knitting needles.
On my way back from the bank, I swung into Jewel Bay Print and Copy to pick up a few more Festival posters. “Snow everywhere out there,” the owner said.
“Kathy Jensen’s trying to round up Jack Frost, to plow.”
“Good luck. He’s an ornery old coot.”
Ah, winter. Peace and quiet. Ice scrapers, snow shovels, tire chains, and balky heaters. Not to mention cranky neighbors. And dead friends.
Hot coffee beckoned. I climbed the steps to the Jewel Inn. In summer, it rocks all morning and well past lunch, but at the moment, it was me and the antelope head mounted above the hostess stand. A waitress pushed through the swinging kitchen doors, spotted me, and called over her shoulder, into the kitchen. A moment later, Mimi emerged. In the forty-eight hours since I’d last seen her, her perky blue eyes had sunk halfway to China and her highlighted hair had turned to moldy straw.
We took a booth in the corner and the waitress filled two heavy white mugs.
“She won’t talk to us. She barely comes out of her room.”
“School might be a buzzard today,” I said.
“We let her stay home. Until we know whether Kim—Ike, the county attorney, whoever—is going to charge her . . . Oh, Erin. You know her. She couldn’t possibly . . .”
I reached for her hand, small comfort that the gesture was. “Saturday, did Zayda go straight from here to Christine’s?”
“She wasn’t working,” Mimi said. “It’s been slow and with all the Film Club meetings and run-throughs, learning to work the new equipment, she’d gotten behind on her schoolwork.”
In other words, unless someone other than her parents and a café’s worth of customers and cooks could vouch for her, Zayda had no alibi for the time of Christine’s death.
“Kim asked the same question,” Mimi continued. “She doubts my daughter, but she doesn’t know her. You know better.”
Did I? The more of this investigating stuff I do, the less I feel I know about my friends and neighbors.
And even my relatives.
* * *
Upstairs in the Merc, I punched on my computer and called up my old friend, the Spreadsheet of Suspicion. The empty columns mocked me, the facts too elusive to build a case.
The chair wobbled as I leaned back, arms folded, gripping my biceps through the thick fleece.
Though I’d been a business major, a course in logic had been one of my favorite classes and its clean simplicity appealed to me. “Never start with your conclusion,” the professor intoned in my memory. “You cannot reach a true conclusion if you think you know it in advance.”
But I did know: My brother did not kill Christine. No thesis or antithesis could ever make it so.
But Nick came first on my list because Sally wasn’t the only person who would suspect him. Because I loved Christine and Iggy, and wanted their memories honored. And because the best way to do that was to prove what really happened.
Much as I hated to put Zayda on the list, I had to rule her in or out.
Sally, too. And no, that wasn’t a move based in spite. She nursed a mighty grudge against Christine for having the chutzpah to inherit from Iggy. If she did challenge Iggy’s will in court and it was overturned, would Sally inherit instead, as the next of kin?
Sally and her daughter, who’d left Jewel Bay ages ago.
I made a note: “Ask Bill about the will.”
Who else had a gripe about Christine? Jack Frost. Nick said the Junkman had spouted off, but hot air isn’t evidence.
Onto the list he went. I could always delete him later. (Or clear the contents. In Excel, misuse of the delete key can be deadly.)
The Spreadsheet and I stared at each other for several long moments. I blinked first. Truth was, I didn’t know much. Except that Christine was dead, there was a hole in my heart, and my brother was innocent. I hoped he wasn’t taking out his own anger and frustration on my pricey new shelving.
For the next hour, I did my Monday thing: Paid bills. Called vendors to place orders and confirm time slots in the commercial kitchen. Returned a call from a baker in Spokane interested in our tea shop concept. She’d made an appointment to see the property and wanted to chat up a few village merchants during her visit.
Mid-afternoon, the UPS man delivered cases of canning jars for Fresca and a thick padded envelope for me. “Right on schedule,” I said, and he grinned, then whisked his magic dolly away, a fresh jar of Fresca’s tapenade in his wind-chapped hand.
I perched on a stool and pried up the tear strip on the back of the envelope. It broke off in my hand, giving me just enough room to poke a finger in and wriggle the thing open. Inside were five heavy-duty clear plastic cases, each holding one of the precious commercial-grade DVDs.
* * *
Much as I love the shop, it’s good to get away now and then. First stop, the paint counter at Taylor’s Building Supply. Anything would be better than the scuffed white someone had slapped on to lighten up the hand-milled pine planking.
“Why not strip it back to original?” the Paint Yahoo said. (I swear, that’s what his name tag says.) “Long as you’re doing the work.”
Long as Nick was doing the work. Easy peasy.
But did restoring an area customers rarely see matter? I’d persuaded Fresca to give me control over the building as well as the business, not anticipating all the decisions that would follow—or how minor decisions can become major headaches.
“Shame about Christine. She was a peach, that one,” the Yahoo said as he brushed stain samples on a scrap of pine. “Scary times. Hope they catch the punk bas—sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ve heard of punks before.” I walked out carrying the damp pine scrap and half a dozen paint chips in shades of warm tan. Options, options, too many options.
Next stop: Gather the eggs and cheese I’d missed on Saturday.
The Creamery folks had left my order in a cooler inside the barn. I exchanged my empty for their full and drove another mile down the highway to Mountain View. Yellow crime scene tape still circled Christine’s property.
“Just looking,” I said to no one as I got out of my car. “Feeling the vibe.”
A tall lilac hedge marked the south border, snow clinging to the bare limbs like snags of thick white cotton. I waded through deep powder, freeing snow-covered branches bent to the ground, careful not to dislodge the bird’s nest huddled in one sturdy crook.
And realized, when I got to the end of the row, that I’d reached the property line Christine shared with Frost. My first clue? The sign reading HELL WITH DOG—BEWARE OF OWNER. Another, a few feet down the four-strand fence, read: PROTECTED BY SMITH & WESSON.
I peered through the woods, a mix of fir, spruce, and scrub pine, along with birch and red willow. The leafless trees and shrubs exposed a faded blue bus, its windshield shattered, and a dozen dead cars, their shapes and colors obscured by snow. Not for nothing was Jack Frost known as the Junkman.
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