Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village)

by Leslie Budewitz

“Want,” I said, pointing at her shoes—lime green flats with straps criss-crossed over the instep. So cute. The comfy black hiking sandals that had seemed like a good idea when I got dressed this morning—function over form—looked dumb now.

  Tracy joined us for another look at Luci’s natural, organic, Montana-made bath and body products. We chose a bar soap, shower gel, and a hand and body lotion, in lavender, mountain rose, and unscented.

  “Let’s try those first. We can add the facial cream and shampoo and conditioner later.” I love the sound of planning in the morning.

  “But where to put it all?” Tracy said. The shelves might be gaping at the moment, but not for long.

  I surveyed the space. “What if . . .” We spent the next ten minutes shuffling and rearranging, making room for the weathered metal washtub and washboard Luci hauled in from her car.

  Tracy filled the tub with shredded white paper (recycled, natch) and fluffed it like bubbles. Then she added the washboard and artfully arranged a few bottles and bars of soap. The other bars and bottles we shelved nearby.

  “Doesn’t feel quite right,” I said. Tracy turned the tub to make the washboard visible to customers already in the store as well as those just entering.

  “Perfect. You’re brilliant.” I held out my hand to Luci. “Welcome to the Merc.” We shook, she beamed, we hugged. I had never hugged a vendor at SavClub—one more plus to running my own joint.

  Tracy had the shop floor well in hand, so I headed upstairs and gave Maggie Bird a call about her pemmican bars and jerky. “I’m sure you’ve got other offers,” I said, “but I think we’re a natural fit.” I gave her my spiel and crossed my fingers.

  “Yes,” she said, and we made plans.

  Yes! And I knew who else would want to talk with her. The moment we hung up, I called my friend Steph Brooks in Texas. We’d met at SavClub years ago, working as assistant grocery buyers. She’d since moved on to a national chain of natural food stores.

  “Is it true? EAT-TV comes to town and people die?” Steph adored the TV food shows. Our friendship sprouted from a love of cooking and eating—oddly, not a trait all grocery buyers share. If I remembered right, she had a bit of a star crush on Gib Knox.

  “Well, no, it’s not like that.” It was exactly like that, but hearing it put that way, even by a friend, made me squirm. “I mean, yes, a local chef was killed during a break in filming—”

  “Right. Heard that. The story hinted at something more.”

  “But who or why, we don’t know. The ‘something more’ is just as bad. Two days earlier, the show’s producer went for a walk at night and was killed in a hit-and-run.”

  Silence on the other end. When she spoke, it was with tenderness and sympathy. “Oh, Erin. I am so sorry. Bad time for my joking. You must be reeling.”

  Literally, but I didn’t tell her about getting punched. No point mentioning a dumb accident. “How did you hear?”

  “Saw it on my news feed. They led with Knox’s name, but were quick to say he wasn’t a suspect and no arrests had been made.”

  So who was the official suspect? Not that anyone would tell me.

  “Hey, I called for a completely different reason. Our annual Summer Fair was this weekend—that’s why Gib Knox came to town. Scads of great food. I found a producer you will love. I promise.” I gave her the scoop on Blackfoot Naturals’ pemmican bars, and she got so excited, she could hardly wait to call Maggie Bird. One more reason I love the Merc—helping local producers find the larger markets they deserve.

  After we said our good-byes, I knocked my forehead on my desk. Tragedy was not the national news we’d been hoping for. It would be best for town if talk spread fast and died out soon—or got pushed out by the next juicy tidbit. As much as every food lover in Jewel Bay respected Drew Baker, his murder only made headlines because of Gib Knox and EAT-TV. If Knox was accused, the story would get a lot more attention for a lot longer.

  I wanted justice for Drew. But I hoped town wouldn’t suffer in the process.

  “Erin, you okay?”

  I hadn’t heard Tracy climb the stairs.

  “There’s a delivery for you, out back.”

  Puzzled, I followed her down the half flight of stairs and headed for the courtyard. We weren’t expecting anything other than routine deliveries. Everything on Liz’s remodel plan had already arrived.

  Greg Taylor, Wendy’s brother, stood in the courtyard with a giant cardboard box strapped to a hand cart. What was so important that the building supply store manager made the delivery himself?

  “Hey, Erin. Where do you want this? It’s a heavy son of a gun. Plus the tanks.”

  Tanks? I felt my eyebrows rise. “What is it?”

  “Your heater and the other stuff.”

  “My what? And what other stuff?” Another man jerked a second loaded hand cart over the threshold. I nearly had to shout over the rumble of the delivery truck idling in Back Alley. “I didn’t order anything.”

  Greg handed me an invoice and I read out loud. “Commercial patio heater, hammered bronze finish.” Sure enough, the box on his cart bore the silhouette of one of those tall outdoor heat lamps.

  “Forty-six thousand BTU,” he said. “Top-notch.”

  The other boxes held a commercial propane six-burner grill and an outdoor fire pit. I squinted at the invoice. “My mother ordered these.”

  “Yeah, but they’re for here.” Greg pointed to the delivery address. “Delivery and setup, on the Merc’s account. I’m here to hook up the propane.”

  “Darling! Perfect timing!” Fresca burst out the Merc’s back door, flying across the stone pavers in her cherry red Keds. “Just what the make-over needs.”

  “Mom, what is all this stuff? We didn’t talk about any of it.” I glanced at the figures on the invoice, my chest tightening. “We can’t afford it. And where are we going to put it? None of this was on Liz’s plan.”

  “Don’t be such a worry-wart. Now you can repeat the Friday night party anytime you want.”

  I ran my hand through my hair. The gesture made my damaged left elbow scream. “Mom, Friday night was great, but we don’t need this stuff. We need to reinvest in the business, not blow every penny turning the courtyard into our personal party palace.”

  “You need space,” she said. “You’ve got that itty bitty cabin, and now that you’re finally making friends—”

  “Ladies, hate to interrupt,” Greg said in the voice he used to get swarms of Little Leaguers to listen when he coached. “But I need a decision.”

  Fresca pointed her chin at me, her eyes daring me to take charge. I remembered the conversation with my sister, when I first said I wanted control over both the business and the building. “Careful what you ask for,” she’d cautioned. “You may get it.” And we both knew, there was no controlling Fresca.

  I turned to Greg. “The grill goes back. I am so sorry. Since the heater’s heavy, can you leave it here a few days, boxed up, and let me think about it?”

  He nodded. “No propane, though. You want that set up, you call me. What about the rest?”

  “The fire pit can stay for now.” It was cute, not expensive, and light enough to pack up and take back myself if need be. Plus the only fire element in Liz’s design was the tabletop candle lanterns, so if we found a good location, the fire pit might be a nice touch. Balance the energy flow and all that.

  The guys retraced their steps and reloaded their truck, then took off with a revving of the engine that expressed the displeasure Greg had kept in check.

  My mother had disappeared, and when I went back in the Merc, I heard her in the kitchen. Best to think now and talk later.

  Upstairs, I ran the weekend numbers. Even after the expense of the canning equipment and updating the courtyard, we were doing well. But after the clash with Fresca, did I need to temper my enthusiasm? Tell her
less? Or tell her more, so that she understood we were in the black but still a long ways from hordes of goblin gold?

  She’d never been a spendthrift. Her motives were good, if not exactly pure, hidden in the comments about my tight quarters and “making friends.” She meant “boyfriend.”

  Aye-yi-yi.

  I shook the tussle out of my brain and ran the sales figures I’d promised Tracy. Sure enough, Jewel Bay adored Tracy’s Truffles. A steady upward trend. I took the printout downstairs and straightened jars and boxes while Tracy finished with her customer.

  “See?” I handed her the accounting. “Your chocolates are a hit. The dog treats, too. You are a successful entrepreneur.”

  She studied the numbers, beaming. The door opened and Old Ned Redaway entered.

  “Hey, girlie. How’s tricks?”

  I came out from behind the counter to give him a kiss. “Fine and dandy. Long as I’m careful where I sit.”

  “What do I owe you for that memorial fund? You’re doing what, a buck a pound of coffee? And I’m matching.” He slid his checkbook out of his back pocket and patted his other pockets for a pen.

  Hadn’t he made his contribution yesterday? When he handed Fresca that white envelope?

  Obviously not, if his plan had been to match our contribution. I must have misunderstood in my post-punch daze.

  “Let me get that figure,” I said, trotting toward the office.

  So what had been in Ned’s white envelope?

  What else was Fresca not telling me?

  • Seventeen •

  After Ned left, I got to thinking. Thinking leads to lists and notes, so I tromped back upstairs—pausing at the kitchen to blow Fresca a kiss. But she was too busy chopping to notice.

  The Spreadsheet of Suspicion had been useful earlier in the summer. Could it be helpful here? Not that I wanted to make a habit of sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.

  Too late.

  Now I had some real questions to work with.

  Was it Hercule Poirot or Sherlock Holmes who said start by studying the victim? And that wise woman of song, Maria von Trapp, said, “Start at the very beginning.”

  All of which meant focus on Drew Baker. I opened a new spreadsheet and labeled three columns MOTIVE, MEANS, and OPPORTUNITY. Means was obvious: We knew the murder weapon had come from Drew’s cooking kit. So this was a crime of opportunity, not one planned in advance.

  Down the left I listed people connected to Drew. Tara, for sure. At six, Emma was not a suspect, but she did represent motive. I wrote “Emma—custody” in the motive column of Tara’s row.

  Followed it with another note: “Leave JB?” Tara had implied that the threat wasn’t serious—she just wanted to get a rise out of Drew—but their argument had sounded knock-down, drag-out.

  Had Pete been Tara’s ticket out, or a chance to make the threat look real?

  If the threat was empty, what had Tara hoped to gain from Drew—money? More time with Emma?

  Did she crave drama and a crisis high?

  Or truly not know what she wanted?

  Pete’s name went in the next row, and below it, Gib Knox, Amber Stone, and Kyle Caldwell. The only motive I could assign to Pete was a desire to leave Jewel Bay with Tara. Where did they stand now? I hoped Pete could give Tara time to recover from her own shock, and that she could give him the chance to help her.

  In my role as production assistant, I’d been focused on the filming and hadn’t paid attention to Tara’s roamings. Her tale of following Drew to force him to talk with her was unlikely enough to be true.

  The sheet needed a fourth column: WHEREABOUTS. The columns were getting out of whack so I abridged the label to WHABOUTS. Excellently mysterious word. I typed “followed Drew” in Tara’s WHABOUTS column and “filming” in Pete’s, then sat back to study my handiwork.

  Gib Knox. Motive? What did we really know about Gib? The call to Steph had reminded me that he’d done several EAT-TV shows before developing Food Preneurs. Some food show hosts were flamboyant on air, others more serious. Gib blended a bit of each, but no question, he was all about entertainment.

  Was that difference in focus a clue? Did Tara know what old tensions simmered between Gib and Drew?

  Had Stacia known? Criminy. I flashed back to last Thursday morning, when the recipe snafu was first revealed. Stacia had seemed so reluctant to bring it up, Gib so—enthused.

  Like he enjoyed the prospect of making trouble for Drew.

  Like this was a chance to rub Drew’s nose in—what?

  But that was no motive for murder. If you want to show someone up, you need them alive.

  What had Gib said on our ride? That he’d wanted a kitchen, but he got a TV set. To the rest of the world, Gib appeared to have everything. But Drew had what Gib had wanted: a successful career as a chef.

  In the back of beyond, Gib was quick to say. A neat little jab. On the offense, or the defense?

  A dark thought crossed my mind and brow. Had Gib wanted Tara, too?

  Had she been lounging in his oversized white shirt yesterday, not Pete’s?

  I stood. The slanted ceiling gave me no room to pace, so I rested my right foot on the bookcase and stretched my stiff hip. A line from an old country song wafted into memory: “Have you left the one you left me for?”

  But who did that shoe fit? Tara had left Drew for Kyle, then broke it off, although I wasn’t clear who’d left who. Or whom. And I had gotten no sense that Drew wanted to reconcile—not judging from his anger in the parking lot.

  Where did Gib belong in all this? Had Tara been involved with him years ago—during or before her marriage? Was that the source of conflict between the two men, and the reason the Bakers left California?

  One problem with detecting is that you sometimes stumble into parts of people’s lives that you’d rather not know. But there’s no unknowing.

  The thought made me squirm. It felt invasive—dirty, almost. I didn’t have to do this. I didn’t have to investigate. Plenty of folks—from my family to the sheriff and no doubt the killer—would rather I didn’t.

  Drew was dead. The publicity might hurt Jewel Bay and cause real harm to those I loved and respected. If I could help Ike Hoover solve this murder by looking closely—I knew these people better than he did—then I couldn’t walk away.

  Why had Drew come here? That was two questions: Why leave L.A., and why choose Jewel Bay? I needed to talk to two women who’d done the same thing: Tara and Mimi.

  * * *

  First stop: the bookstore, and a request to borrow Child-ish books. Ginny, the owner, promised to bring over a stack, including a charming book about Julia, Paul, and their cats. I might even sneak it home and curl up with Mr. Sandburg for a quick read.

  “And this is for Stacia Duval’s memorial fund,” Ginny said, pulling cash out of her till. “Such a sweetheart. Such a tragedy.”

  “Thanks.” I tucked the contribution into my bag. Next up: the Inn. Then the bank.

  Mimi sat in a booth for two near the hostess stand, cradling a mug of coffee. The late-for-breakfasters were gone, and the lunch crowd hadn’t yet started trickling in. Nothing looked out of place—pint jars of fresh daisies bloomed on every neatly set table—but the restaurant wore a layer of gloom thick as the paint on the hundred-year-old moldings. Even the pronghorn in the Groucho Marx glasses looked downcast.

  I slid into the booth opposite Mimi and reached across the table, covering her hand with mine. She turned hers so our palms touched and I felt her chill.

  “Mim, none of this is your fault.”

  She gave my hand a quick squeeze and withdrew hers, returning it to the mug like a pigeon to home.

  “Let’s get you a warm-up.” I signaled a waitress, who brought us each a fresh cup.

  Mimi’s face was wan, her blue eyes bloodshot with worry and sleep
lessness. “Erin, can you ever forgive me for yesterday? Leaving you to decide what to do about filming the street fair, and to deal with Gib Knox? We were devastated. I managed to hold it together for the staff, but in the process, I dumped the burden on you.”

  “No forgiveness needed.” Mimi and Tony had a great reputation as employers. “Honestly, I’m glad Pete and Gib forged ahead with the street vendor interviews. When the sheriff nabs the killer and gets all this resolved—well, they can air some of the footage then. By that point, we’ll be craving good publicity.” That reminded me, they were supposed to film visits to farms and producers today.

  Mimi looked like she’d swallowed a peach pit. “No. No, they can’t. Me wanting publicity is what got us into this mess in the first place.”

  I leaned forward. “No, it isn’t. Not unless you picked up that mallet yourself and smashed your chef’s skull.”

  She angled toward me, eyes bug-wild, fingers gripping the table’s edge. “You don’t think I—”

  “No, of course not.” I rewound my mental tape of late Saturday afternoon. (There ought to be a word for that time around four to six, when afternoon slides into evening. Not twilight—too early, this far north in summer. Twi-noon?) Mimi had been furious with Gib for his snide remarks. And after the discovery, as we all sat inside, captive, she’d gotten a little bit drunk.

  Now I remembered, with a shiver. She’d said she could strangle him. But Gib Knox was alive and well. He could easily have infuriated Drew, but I didn’t think Gib was the type to argue with a man, then bash him over the head when he turned his back. When provoked on Sunday afternoon, Gib had squared off for a fistfight. No doubt boxing was another skill his father had thought every man ought to master.

  But Gib did have a talent for annoying people. If he wasn’t the killer—and I wasn’t ruling him out—he might be the next victim.

  Mimi wrapped her arms around herself, moaning.

  “Hey, I know how you feel,” I said. “But just because you had the idea and brought all these people here doesn’t make you responsible for what happened to Drew. Or to Stacia. Heck, we don’t have any idea who killed him. It may have been completely unrelated to the Grill-off.”