Death Al Dente

by Leslie Budewitz

  Still, if I were opening a restaurant, Ted Redaway would not be my first choice in mentors. And his father ran the place, not him.

  I jotted down names of other local friends—people she might have seen or talked with since her return. Or who ran into her Friday afternoon and might have known she was coming to the Festa.

  That reminded me—Angelo spotted us on his way into the pharmacy. I clicked on his page, but the handful of posts were all business: Announcements of new products. A description of his contributions to last Saturday’s Gala. Photos from catering jobs. Frustrated, I begged my friend Google for more. A few mentions in the weekly newspaper’s coverage of charitable events, all for his food contributions, but nothing more. No YouTube videos, no Twitter feed, no blog. Nothing personal—not one hint of his hometown, family, past work, education, or a single hobby.

  He claimed he lived to cook, and it appeared to be true. Odd for a forty-year-old man to leave such a slim cyber trail—especially a man in business. Ripe for Jason’s web design and marketing services, though I didn’t seriously think Angelo would want to do business with a man closely related to Fresca and me.

  I prowled around online awhile longer. Nothing unexpected turned up about the Vincents. Their twin girls got their share of ink—on the tennis court, on the Honor Roll, onstage, and on the walls of the student art show. Striking blondes with bright eyes and innocent faces. For Claudette, I found little more than her death notice in the newspaper and a mention of her appearance in a musical review last fall, with a photo of her onstage, looking adoringly at the star—Dean as Elvis, natch. Maybe where they first hooked up.

  Darned if I knew what any of this meant. I washed another of Rick Bergstrom’s crackers down with mineral water and leaned back, soaking in the last bit of warmth before the courtyard fell into shadow. Even in mid-June, Monday nights in the village were dead.

  I cringed. As the Bard said of Denmark, something was rotten in Jewel Bay, and not just my choice of words.

  • Fourteen •

  “Love what you’ve done with the place,” I told Deputy Caldwell, seated behind a gunmetal gray desk in a room maybe ten-by-ten and last painted in another century. The outer office had fared no better. In the dull-and-dingy design category, the sheriff’s satellite office took first prize.

  They’d hidden the entrance well, too, on the back side of Jewel Bay Fire Hall, marked only by a foot-high sheriff’s department seal—and Kim’s rig nearby.

  She didn’t offer me a chair, but I sat anyway. Her jacket, a tan number with a subtle weave, hung on a hook behind the door. Shadows under her eyes marred her otherwise clear complexion. On her desk, a three-ring binder lay open to photographs from the Festa. Another binder was labeled STATEMENTS. One wall held a bulletin board with pictures of Claudette—dead and alive—and the crime scene, a diagram of the alley and Red’s courtyard, and a June calendar.

  On the opposite wall, a whiteboard sported a timeline for last Friday, and a To Do list in blue marker: IV F&F, LAB, ME—TOD, MOD/COD, WEAPON??? No decoding needed to get the gist.

  But what gave me the willies was the outline of a body, a single large wound marked in red.

  My first thought had been that it all looked like prep for a new product release—timelines and checklists for QC approval, pricing, final labels, catalog copy, and on and on.

  My second thought: The wound was on the left side, just below the breast. Consistent with the blood flow I’d seen.

  I looked back at the murder board. No scribbled notes about calibers, no photos of entrance and exit wounds. A knife, then, thrust upward into the heart.

  “Those question marks mean you’re waiting for information, and you haven’t located the weapon yet?”

  “Erin, I’m not going to discuss this case with you.”

  I met her gaze. “What case, Kim? The one where you’re investigating Claudette’s death, or the one where you’ve already decided my mother is a cold-blooded killer?”

  “We have to investigate every possibility.” Did her voice waver slightly?

  “What other possibilities?” I gestured at the boards. “Don’t they usually list the suspects and their motives? What’s my mother’s motive?”

  “Don’t get in my way, Erin.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” We glared at each other until I remembered the paper bag in my hand. “Brought you a snack.” She withdrew each item—Montana Gold crackers, goat cheese, and a jar of roasted pepper spread—gingerly, as though expecting a bomb. Or a snake—she hates snakes.

  “Rumor mill says you can’t handle this investigation, that a new detective’s been brought in, and was seen snooping around the Merc today. He’s actually a sales rep for a grain company out of central Montana. I thought you’d want to know. Those are his crackers.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “What else does the rumor mill say?”

  “Nothing you haven’t heard, I’m sure. But we promised we’d cooperate, so I have two things to mention. Fact, not fiction. Friday when I was home getting ready for the Festa, my phone rang. I ignored it, and with everything that’s happened since then . . .” I wasn’t going to lie and tell her I’d just discovered it, but no reason to admit I’d withheld evidence—if it was evidence. “Claudette called me at five seventeen p.m., maybe half an hour after I ran into her.” I played the message for her, and she noted the time.

  “You said two things.”

  I told her about the pavers piled behind the Playhouse. “Doesn’t tell us who threw it, or why, though. I hear tell that someone was seen running through the village on Sunday morning, after the window was smashed, and speculation says it was me. It wasn’t.” I gave her a wry smile. “You remember how I hate running.”

  “I remember.” A poker voice to match her poker face. And I held no cards.

  “But how is the broken window connected to the murder?” I asked. Were we at risk? Did someone out there want to hurt my family, my employee, my customers—or me?

  “Erin, I’m sorry.” She stood, not looking the least bit apologetic. “We should both go home.”

  My mother had urged me to renew my friendship with Kim, even though I hadn’t ended it all those years ago. Any doubts I’d nursed about the depth or permanence of the rift vanished. My father’s death had changed something between us, and Kim’s face made crystal-clear that my family’s connection to another mysterious death would not change it back.

  I pushed myself out of the chair and left without another word. No plan, but when did that stop a Murphy girl?

  * * *

  Maybe a drive would substitute for a plan—or spark one.

  I left the Fire Hall by the back road. In Seattle, even in the suburbs, driving had not been relaxing, so when I’d needed to think, I walked. But the old habit had returned and I thought—or worried—best behind the wheel.

  A few minutes later, I drove down Old Stage Road, near the cozy garden cottage where Claudette had lived since her divorce. Had she rented it out, or left it empty when she followed Dean to Las Vegas? The same shiny red rocker and white wicker table I remembered from past visits sat on the porch, and the same white lace café curtains hung in the kitchen window. No car, no lights, no petunias cascading from the planter boxes, but otherwise, unchanged.

  Like she’d just dashed out to meet a friend.

  Stiff upper lip, Erin. Channel the Cowdog. I strode up the cracked concrete sidewalk to the front door, painted the same beckoning red as the chair. Knocked and waited. Knocked again.

  “Hello!”

  No reply. Through the window, I saw only shadow. Did it move? I couldn’t tell. I wished my vision were as sharp as Hank the Cowdog’s. I marched around back. Claudette had sunk herself into the garden, creating perennial borders and an herb bed that even Martha Stewart’s gardener would appreciate. Anywhere else, these flowers would have long gon
e to seed, but gardens—and gardeners—follow a delayed schedule on the northern Rockies. Her spirit animated the place, dancing among the peonies and bleeding hearts, the daisies, foxglove, and iris.

  A dark blue VW with a kayak on top pulled into the rear driveway of the house next door. James Angelo stepped out, wearing his customary black-and-red pants and white chef’s jacket, and glared at me.

  “You’re trespassing, Erin.” A bass voice in a small man is always startling.

  “Paying my respects.” I held up a small bouquet of yellow-gold coreopsis and scarlet monarda. “Claudette let my mother harvest herbs for her sauces. She wouldn’t begrudge me a few flowers.”

  He gave me a long, silent glare.

  “I didn’t know you lived next door. Did you see her again, after you saw us talking outside the drugstore?”

  His head tilted. “What are you getting at?”

  Whoever killed her either knew she was going to the Festa, or ran into her there. “Just trying to figure out where she went and who she talked to.”

  “You think I followed her to the Festa and stabbed her in the alley? It wasn’t enough to exclude me from dinner—now you’re trying to shift the blame from your family to me?” He shouted across the fence and garden. “It won’t work. I wasn’t anywhere near your precious dinner. I was out on the river, where a man can be left alone. Maybe you ought to look closer to home.” He stalked toward his house, loose cotton pants billowing. The back door slammed behind him.

  “Closer to home.” Meaning maybe my mother really had killed Claudette? Holy cow. What set him off? I had never imagined he’d been anywhere near the courtyard Friday night. Did the gentleman protest too much?

  But if he had wanted to kill Claudette—for some unknown reason—why do it there?

  Unless he wanted to make it look like Fresca had done it. Or that I had.

  Alone on the river wasn’t much of an alibi. And as a chef and an outdoorsman, he’d know how to use a knife.

  Was I clutching at cheese straws?

  Behind the Chef Boyardee facade, James Angelo was hiding something. But if it wasn’t connected to Claudette’s murder, did I even care?

  * * *

  I left town with the images from Kim’s bulletin board still in my mind. They twined and tangled with images of Claudette’s garden, the bright, untamed splashes that captured her so perfectly. I passed the old bowling alley, half-dismantled, a redevelopment project stalled by the economy and not yet resuscitated. Burgundy iris bloomed against the concrete block foundation. Beyond lay the lake, the cloud-filtered sunlight casting shadows on the waves. It was the light that usually caught my eye, its bright sparkle. How had I never noticed that the shadow side overtook the light as the wave rocked and roiled?

  What had Claudette been up to, with her talk of opening a restaurant? Why had she wanted to talk to me before the dinner? Had she decided to come after all to see me—or someone else?

  And why was Angelo such a creep?

  Oh, Erin, I heard nearly everyone I knew say to me. Stay out of it.

  Stay out of it.

  Clearly many people trusted Kim—the sheriff, townspeople—and they might be right. But she had given me no reason to put my trust in her again.

  I passed my turnoff and kept going. Past the old elk farm, past the cliffs and trails where my brother had once tracked mountain lions until my father found out. Past a tall sign on peeled log poles. In my years away, Ten Commandments billboards had sprung up across the valley, but I could swear this one had sprouted in the last twenty-four hours.

  Thou shalt not commit adultery.

  Thou shalt not kill.

  Almost before I knew it, I’d reached the road to the orchard and turned in.

  Thou shalt not butt in and try to solve other people’s problems.

  Thou shalt not stand idly by when someone accuses your mother of murder.

  * * *

  I knew my mother was in trouble when I smelled the prosciutto frying.

  When I first left home, I’d been surprised that my idea of comfort food horrified my friends. To them, comfort food was pale and undemanding: mashed potatoes with butter or gravy, macaroni and cheese, scrambled eggs. Foods that slide down the gullet easily, barely touching the taste buds. Not that I don’t love those dishes, with fresh herbs and a special touch or two. To me, comfort tastes like spaghetti Bolognese, with thick chunks of tomato and bell pepper, ground beef, pork sausage, and salty pancetta. Or a garlicky-green pesto, the aroma of crushed basil mixed with fruity olive oil chasing away whatever ails me.

  Or my mother’s personal choice, fettuccine carbonara, made with crumbled pork sausage and crisp prosciutto, butter, and fresh parsley, mixed—at the table is best—with beaten eggs and freshly grated Parmesan. As kids, we’d thought it our special treat. Only later, in those months alone with her after my father died, did I realize that when my mother made carbonara, she needed mothering herself.

  One look at her face as she drained pasta in her battered enamel colander confirmed my diagnosis.

  I brought the salad to the table and she filled our bowls with steaming pasta and sauce. She wore no makeup, and her eyes were tinged with red.

  “Why is Kim wasting time investigating me when there’s a killer on the loose? She must know I had nothing to do with it.” Fresca rapped the end of her spoon on the table edge, the equivalent to my ears of fingernails on a chalkboard or the mindless click of a ballpoint pen. I grabbed her wrist.

  “It’s got to have been Dean,” she continued. “They ran into each other in the alley and argued, and he got angry. He wanted to put his marriage back together, and her presence threatened that. Or maybe it was Linda. She can be pretty nasty.”

  As half the town had seen. “They both had motive. Mmm. This salad is terrific.” Wedges of romaine, Belgian endive, and radicchio, with a country mustard vinaigrette, croutons, and shaved Parmesan. “Basil in the dressing?” She nodded.

  “I went out to Claudette’s,” I said, trying for nonchalance. “The place looked the same, and not the same.”

  “I know. I went out there, too.”

  I stared at her, my fork in midair. “Mom, if anybody saw you—anyone who thinks you killed Claudette—that could look really bad. This is why you need a lawyer.”

  “Darling, don’t be such a worrywart. No one was there. And Kim’s not going to arrest me. She didn’t tell me not to leave town, like they do on TV.”

  “That’s TV. This is real life.” Funny, since what little I knew about police investigation came from TV. “I went to talk to Kim tonight, Mom. I think—”

  She held up a finger and disappeared into the kitchen. How could I tell her what I thought? That Kim had targeted her. There was no list of suspects, with photos, on the murder board. There didn’t need to be. She was only waiting—

  For what? For the one piece of evidence that would convince the prosecutor to file charges. The knife, the eyewitness who put them both together, or who swore he or she had seen my mother sneaking around back to meet Claudette.

  She returned with a bottle of Chianti in hand and refilled our glasses. This ordeal was getting to her, I could see by her pale skin and deer-in-headlights expression.

  “Mom, Friday afternoon, did you talk to Claudette?”

  She played with her pasta, a slow warmth creeping up her neck. What wasn’t she telling me?

  “Your sister stopped by to check on me,” she said. “I hear that fellow from the Athletic Club has his eye on you. What’s his name? She says he’s cute.”

  Too bad I’d never been able to will myself from blushing. “Adam Zimmerman, and yes, he’s cute, and don’t change the subject. I heard a rumor that Claudette was planning to open a restaurant.”

  My mother’s hand froze, the glass partway to her lips. “That’s ridiculous. Where did you hear that?” I ignored t
he question—she didn’t need to know I’d hacked my sister’s Facebook account. “As if this town needs another restaurant,” she continued. “Besides, Claudette couldn’t do it alone—she’d need a chef. And where would she get the money?”

  Questions swirled in my head like the pasta in my bowl. “Her divorce settlement?” I asked.

  Fresca shook her head. “She needed that to live on.”

  How to phrase this? Turns out it’s not easy to question your own family without letting them know you’re snooping. “Was she after you for money?”

  “Blackmail? Heavens, no.”

  Back to the unanswered question. “Did you talk to her Friday, Mom?”

  “I called her. I was hurt, but I wanted to see her, and I told her so. She said—she said she needed to talk to me but she didn’t want to be seen at the Festa. So . . .” She took a swig of wine. Her glass hit the tip of her knife and wobbled before I caught it. “So she asked me to meet her in the back alley.”

  Holy cow. “Why?”

  “She said she couldn’t come to the dinner without telling me something first. As if I wouldn’t want her there if I knew.”

  “Did you tell Kim?” Her face said she hadn’t. But Kim must have taken Claudette’s phone. Which was why she hadn’t been surprised to see that Claudette had also called me. She knew what calls Claudette had made, and she knew Fresca was withholding information.

  “I never got there, Erin. I got occupied with the caterers and early arrivals. And, well, there was someone else I needed to see. The next thing I knew, everyone was rushing out back and she was—gone.”

  I believed her. But how on earth would we convince the rest of the world?

  • Fifteen •

  I really ought to open an espresso bar. Tuesday morning, and here I was on Le Panier’s doorstep again. I’d recoup the investment in no time, just from the savings on my own daily double. But I’d miss Wendy’s croissants and éclairs too much.