Butter Off Dead

by Leslie Budewitz

  “It was weird. He comes in regularly, and he’s mouthy, but . . .”

  “What did he say?”

  J.D. scrunched up his face. “He started it, but he had his back to me, so I didn’t hear. And Friday nights are noisy. I think she said something like ‘out of my hands.’ If that makes any sense. Pissed him off royally. Downed his drink and stomped out the back door.”

  To avoid Christine? Frost had come in the front. Though Nick had grown incredibly still, I saw wheels spinning behind his eyes. “Thanks, J.D. Hey, I hope you’re happy in Jewel Bay. Not having any second thoughts.”

  Behind his stubbly beard, the six-foot redhead turned pensive. “It’s—been interesting.” He glanced at Nick. “A few surprises, but no, no second thoughts.”

  Surprises? That involved Nick? Before I could ask, my brother spoke. “I’ll take another beer.” J.D. gave a mock salute and spun away.

  “Frost,” he said the moment J.D. left. “Now I’m convinced. Had to be him.”

  I squirted mustard next to my fries. “Seriously? Over art classes?”

  “Her vision had evolved way beyond that. She was planning to build cabins in the woods and expand the kitchen in the church basement, so she could offer year-round retreats and summer camps for adults. Like the Jazz Festival and Workshop, but for painters and potters.”

  Another festival that Sally, the gas station owner, and their ilk had contended we didn’t need—until they discovered that amateur musicians and concertgoers spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on food, gas, and other goods and services.

  I took a long sip of my beer, letting the slightly bitter taste roll around my mouth. “Does—did—she have enough land for that? Was she trying to buy some of his? He’s pretty protective of that property.” I described my encounter with Frost, leaving out the part about trailing Nick to Rainbow Lake. Had that been just this afternoon?

  A fry midway to his mouth, Nick looked at me as if deciding what to say.

  I beat him to it. “Don’t say it. I’ll be careful. And don’t you go confronting him, either. Back to the Art Center donation. I’ve been working with Larry Abrams on the Film Festival, and he’s on the board, plus boards of half a dozen other museums. Kathy said he was working on finding an appraiser. Let me talk to him.”

  Nick reached for the ketchup. “That might be jumping the gun. I promise, I’ll talk to Bill.”

  “You talking to him about the will and Sally’s threats to challenge it?” Nice to have a lawyer in the clan, even if he only practices on us.

  His hand stopped midair. The bottle burped and spit all over his plate. “Murphy’s Law,” he muttered, then swiped a fry through a pool of ketchup that had settled on a pickle.

  “Hey, you Murphys.” Kyle Caldwell kissed my cheek and held out a hand to Nick, who waved messy red fingers. Kyle grinned. “You guys won’t believe this. You remember Danny Davis, the other night? I told him about my GTO being in the kids’ documentary. He called it a piece of junk. Scrap. On the way out, he said I should sell it and get a real car. Now he’s called me up. Offered me twenty grand.”

  “Holy cow. Is it worth that much?” To Nick, cars were transportation, nothing more.

  “Maybe he wants to use it to advertise his rental biz.” That was how we had met, or remet, last summer, over a scratched fender.

  “Way more than that, if I get it running smooth again. Even without the original paint. I told Kim—she ’bout popped an eyeball. She can’t fathom me doing anything right.” A dark-haired woman rapped on the other side of the glass and held up a pool cue. “My turn. See you guys later.”

  We ate in silence, Nick using half the napkins in the holder and washing down the excess ketchup with his stout. But I didn’t grow up in the same house as a sensitive artist and a brooding biologist without developing a decent sense of intuition.

  “Okay. Out with it,” I said. He flashed me the face of a kid caught stealing cookies ten minutes before dinner. “What else is on your mind?”

  He swallowed before answering. “Umm, well, yeah. The lawyer said I could start cleaning out the cottage and church. So, meet me there in the morning? I have to check my packs first, but we can clean out the fridge, sort the papers—bank statements, mail. And go through her clothes. Take whatever you want, donate the rest.”

  “Her stuff will fit Chiara better than me, but sure. I’ll help. Ten thirty? After we get the Merc open.”

  “Good. She can sort the art supplies.”

  “Settled, then.” But not in my mind. A guy who wears the same pants six and a half days a week—seven, if he isn’t going to his mother’s for Sunday dinner—anxious to clean out his dead girlfriend’s closets?

  Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark, as Hamlet’s buddy said when the dead king’s ghost beckoned.

  Something besides Nick’s socks.

  * * *

  “You text, I deliver. Hey, boy.” I couldn’t see around the giant box of chocolate in my arms, but the click of dog nails on the tile in Tracy’s entry told me Bozo was up and at ’em.

  “Hooray! Did you imagine how many extra orders we’d get for Valentine’s Day? Not to mention the movie candy.”

  The aroma of warm, sweet chocolate drew me to the kitchen. Notes of vanilla and ginger, and a sharp-but-fruity hint of chili. “I hate to say this, but you need to work in a certified kitchen.”

  “I know.” Her fingers wiggled beneath her chestnut ponytail and massaged the base of her skull. Today’s earrings: silver and turquoise feathers. “Just this once, so I can keep an eye on him.” Two chairs blocked the entry to her cramped kitchen. Bozo curled up against the makeshift barrier, his giant black-and-white head on his paws.

  I set the box on the counter. “How’s he doing?”

  “Better. For now.” Her forehead rose in soft wrinkles and she rubbed her left eyebrow. “But I think we’re talking Rainbow Bridge before long.”

  “Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry.”

  She bit her lip and nodded quickly, then reached for a knife to slit the box open. Chocolate, the ultimate distraction. I peered inside, mouth watering. Pounds and pounds of rich Belgian chocolate. Couverture—both milk and dark—for dipping and coating. Chocolate for ganache, the rich dense filling I adore. White chocolate for accents and cocoa powder for dusting. And bags of nibs. Tracy sliced one open, spilled a quarter cup into a small bowl, and set it on the counter between us.

  “Mmm.” A few bits of the fermented, dried, and roasted cacao beans were plenty. No sugar meant they were almost bitter. Crunchy and complex, with notes of dark cherry. “What are you doing with the nibs?”

  “Wendy’s using them as garnish on the chocolate torte at Chez Max, and on her amazing dried cherry brownies. I’ve started mixing them into ganache for a super chocolaty filling. These truffles—” she gestured toward a covered tray on her dining room table—“are garnished with a combination of crystallized ginger and candied nibs.”

  “Are nibs what Kyle uses in his steak gravy?” The secret ingredient that fools everyone.

  “Yep. I’m also using them in this great recipe for cocoa. You make it in a French press. Rick loves it.” She blushed sweetly, swinging from impending loss to new love. “Want a cup?”

  I sat at the counter while Tracy chopped nibs, heated milk, and readied the press. Loaded trays covered every surface, protected from dog hair and other detritus by plastic wrap. “Truffles always remind me of Iggy.”

  Nice going, Murphy, I told myself as Tracy swallowed back tears. I snaked a finger under a bit of plastic and snared one dusted in yellow—ginger? I bit in. “Chocolate and lavender, but what else? Weird, but good.”

  “Lavender and chamomile rolled in bee pollen. I got the idea from your tea blends. Bill gave me the pollen when he treated the dog.”

  “Sage. That’s Sally Grimes’s daughter’s name. You know her?”
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  Tracy swished hot water in two mugs and set them on the counter. “No. But last summer, when Iggy was still dropping by for truffles, she said Sally was going to lose her daughter if she didn’t watch out. Apparently, Sally didn’t approve of the husband and would only see Sage and the baby without him. So Sage stopped coming up and refused to let Sally visit them in Missoula.”

  Where they lived in a house Sally owned, if I’d guessed right. “Let’s hope Larry can talk sense into her. He’s good with the high school kids. I mean, Sally may be right about the husband, but you can’t try to control a grown kid like that.” Not that plenty of parents don’t try.

  Tracy strained the hot nib-milk mixture into the French press, then gave the hot cocoa a quick stir, licked the spoon, and tossed it into the white porcelain sink where it clattered. “Maybe. Iggy didn’t think much of him. Larry, I mean.”

  “Why? They both loved Western art.”

  “I dunno.” She slowly pumped the plunger. Thick, chocolaty bubbles filled the glass pot. “Something about pieces he thought she should sell but she wasn’t sure. That’s all I know.”

  We carried our mugs of frothy cocoa into the living room, Bozo trailing behind. Tracy had kept the house when her former husband moved on, and I knew the payments were a stretch. Handmade truffles and dog biscuits might be just the ticket to a little financial freedom. Her cheap-chic shopping habits extended to the decor as well, and I settled into a wing-back chair she’d rescued from the dump and re-covered with burlap coffee sacks. Surprisingly not scratchy, their aroma sent me to the jungle—in my mind.

  “Ahhh.” The first sip went down sweet and smooth. Liquid heaven. “Rick has good taste.”

  Tracy colored. Her first serious relationship since her divorce.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” I said. “I saw it coming. You two are much better suited than he and I.”

  She bent to scratch behind Bozo’s floppy black ear. “He’s coming over this weekend for the Film Festival.”

  “Great. Trace, you may not have thought this far ahead—” Fat chance. Every woman thinks this far ahead. “And I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but I’m thinking about the shop and summer and . . .” My turn to go red.

  “Oh, no,” she said, her voice firm. “Don’t you worry. I moved three times when Mitch got itchy feet, always thinking the grass was greener and the fish bigger someplace else. I’m never moving for a man again.” She cradled the mug close to her face. “But I won’t have to. If it works out, Rick can work from Jewel Bay as easily as from the farm.”

  True enough. Modern technology had expanded the range of work-from-home jobs, a huge boost for Montana’s economy. And for those who’d rather not wear shoes on the job.

  “Good. I’ve also been wondering if—well, if you’re going to want to start your own chocolate shop. I mean, if it’s what you want, great. Go for it. Don’t let me or anybody hold you back. I’ve always hoped the Merc could be a business incubator, and I’d be thrilled to see you succeed, but—well, we’d be kinda lost without you.”

  Her expression said I’d hit the target this time. Before she could reply, the old dog lumbered to his feet, barked once, and limped purposefully toward the back door.

  “Potty time,” she said. I carried our mugs to the kitchen, where she put a goldfish box into my hands. Another bark. “I’ve been experimenting. You pooh-poohed the green tea truffles, but try ’em. Hang on, Boze. I’m coming.”

  Treasure box in hand, I let myself out. The snow had started up again and the temperature had fallen. The day’s sunshine had warmed the roads in Tracy’s hilltop subdivision just enough to leave a thin sheet of ice. Like driving behind a Zamboni.

  Down the hill I crept till I reached the highway, surprised to discover I’d been holding my breath. In Seattle, an inch of snow stops the city. Newcomers from the Rockies or the Midwest laugh at the natives, until they try to drive the city’s hills in wet slush. Nobody can do it. When the first snow fell here shortly after Halloween, it had taken me a week or two to feel comfortable on the roads.

  As I drove south along the lake, my headlights glinting off roadside reflectors, competing thoughts struggled for mental airtime. The Merc needed Tracy and her truffles. Few customers can resist the lure of locally made chocolates. They come in for one, buy a box, and load up on pasta, cheese, and sauces. Then they come back. My vendors count on that ripple effect.

  On the other hand, I understood the desire to build your own business. To be your own boss. Enormously satisfying, but never easy. Would she want to take on that kind of commitment? Her chocolate combined with Rick’s business acumen could be a killer recipe.

  A flash of light caught my eye and I glanced in the rearview mirror. An SUV with its brights on swerved around me, tucking back into our lane as a semi approached, its giant wheels throwing a cascade of half-melted snow and ice my way. I flicked on the wipers a moment too late: Thick, gray-brown mush caked my windshield and began to freeze.

  I muttered and crept toward the shoulder, pulling into the next driveway. Flicked the defroster to full blast. Groped on the floor for my snow brush and scraper. Did my best to clear the windshield and wiper blades, then remembered the headlights.

  Filthy. I scooped up a handful of clean snow and scrubbed first one light, then the other. Not perfect, but clean enough to get me home.

  I tossed the scraper into the backseat and reached for my door handle. A whooshing sound filled my ears and a jolt of adrenaline filled my veins. Slush from passing wheels hit the back of my legs and knocked me against my car.

  I am dead.

  Not dead. Just soaked and freezing, standing on the narrow shoulder of a narrow highway. The truck zoomed on by, its driver heedless. I brushed myself off. Climbed in and let my forehead fall onto the steering wheel.

  The goldfish box sang to me. One more truffle wouldn’t hurt, would it? As a reward for surviving my own stupidity?

  Eyes on the road and hands on the wheel, Erin. People, and cats, are counting on you.

  • Seventeen •

  Two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the road not plowed.

  Again.

  The next morning, I stood outside Christine’s cottage for the second time in less than a week, sniffing out trouble.

  Six inches of fluffy white powder covered the walk and steps, punctuated by the hooves of a young doe who’d cut across the yard to nibble the tender tips of an evergreen.

  So, carrying a latte in each hand and a bag of pastries, I detoured to the side door. I’d trudged a few steps down the unshoveled path between the two buildings when I realized no Jeep. No tire tracks.

  But someone had been here. The screen door swung loose on its hinges like a warning in a late-night horror movie. The main door stood ajar, shards of glass scattered across the threshold.

  I pushed it open with the toe of one boot and peered in. Clumps of snow and mud tracked across the kitchen and out of sight.

  Get out. Go in. Someone could be inside. Someone could be hurt.

  I froze, warring thoughts racing through my brain. I steadied my breath and studied the snowy back step and passageway between cottage and church.

  The tracks went in and the tracks came out.

  I swallowed the urge to follow. Instead, I explained it all to the 911 dispatcher—thinking, Here we go again, warning her that approaching officers needed to avoid trampling the footsteps, that they should follow the tracks away from the cottage to find the culprit. Who was probably long gone. I didn’t think the church had been broken into—no footsteps. And unlike the cottage, it had a security system.

  “No,” I assured her, “the house is empty. Or should be.” But while my father had taught us to recognize the signs of our woodland neighbors—whitetail, mule deer, elk, fox, hares, coyote, and the wild cats—tracking the far more dangerous human animal was outside my expertise.
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  So glad we’d rescued Pumpkin last weekend. After losing her human, the trauma of a break-in might have been too much for her—not to mention Sandburg and me.

  I waded through the snow back to the front porch—unmarred by the intruder—and sat. Cupped my still-warm latte in my gloved hands. My shaking hands.

  Two patrol cars arrived, both officers heeding my warning about the footprints. They were inside when Deputy Kim Caldwell turned onto Mountain View, pulled a U-ey, and parked in front of the cottage, engine running, overhead lights ablaze.

  Why? The danger is over. Announcing her presence to the neighborhood? Marking her territory?

  Much of what she does in the name of law enforcement baffles me.

  “Figured I’d find you here,” she said. A patrol deputy rounded the corner, saving me from a response.

  “’Morning, Detective.” He’d been here Saturday, too. “Cottage is trashed. Someone searching for something.”

  A car door slammed. “Erin!” Feet thudded through the snow. “Erin!”

  Nick stopped halfway up the walk, his eyes darting from Kim to me and back. “You okay? What happened now?”

  “No one’s hurt. But someone’s broken into the cottage.” Kim turned to the deputy. “See where those tracks lead. But don’t go off the property until backup arrives.”

  I heard her, but I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy noticing that my brother had driven in from the south—from the direction of Rainbow Lake. Not from the north, the road he would have taken from the Jewel. And Kim had noticed, too.

  “You check your packs?” I asked, afraid of the answer. Afraid of another lie.

  “What?” he said, distracted. “Yeah. What happened? You sure you’re okay? Dammit, Erin. Why does it seem like everywhere you go, something goes wrong?”

  A flush of anger crawled up my throat. I handed Kim the latte I’d brought for Nick.

  “Thanks,” she said, assessing the current between my brother and me. “You two come inside. The deputies have cleared the space and photographed the wet footprints. But we haven’t taken other photos or prints yet, so don’t touch anything. Just tell me what might be missing. What the burglar might have been after.”