The studio’s open doors beckoned, but I strolled up the path slowly, delighting in the late-season lilies and other blooms that lined it. The faint scent of thyme between the stones enveloped me. Here and there, a glass and copper fairy danced and moss-covered frogs and turtles dozed. A bouquet of flowers made of orphaned forks and spoons, rebar for stems, bloomed near a tiled bird bath that looked suspiciously like a repurposed satellite dish. Outside the studio door, a small ceramic tree spirit, matte glazed to look like bark, gazed down from a tall spruce.
Creative man though he was, Reg had not crafted all these ornaments himself. It’s a treat to see how artists collect each other’s work, often by trade, taking joy in the works of other hands.
Inside the barn, I walked past the small gallery Reg had built up front and headed toward the working space. Clay spatters covered the concrete floor, and unfired greenware filled the shelves on one long wall.
“Aloha, Erina.” A tall, broad-shouldered man in a blue-and-white Hawaiian print emerged from the storage room at the far end. A fine layer of clay dust gave his mahogany skin an earthy cast and speckled his close-cropped black hair. “It’s heavy,” Reg said of the box in his well-muscled arms. “Let me walk it on out for you.”
“Thanks.” I half jogged alongside him, no match for his long stride. “Didn’t expect to sell out so quickly.”
“You got yourself a good thing going there. I hope the off-season’s kind to you.”
“Me, too. How do you get through the winter?”
“I just fire up the kiln and keep the doors shut tight. Then I run off to Hawaii for a few weeks to work on my tan and pick up some new shirts.” He slid the box into the Subaru’s hatchback and grinned. “Winter’s my time to work the wheel, stock up on pots for the galleries and art fairs. Last weekend nearly wiped me out, but I kept a few things back for my regular outlets, like you.”
A perennial at Summer Fair, Reg’s booth drew well. “Awful about Drew Baker, isn’t it?”
He raised steepled hands to his face and closed his eyes. “At times, it is hard to fathom God’s plan.”
God was not on my blame list for Drew’s murder. But I felt the pain behind Reg’s words. “You lost a friend and a tenant.”
He nodded. “In fact, Tara’s over at the guest house now, sorting and packing. I ought to check on her.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Sure thing. Drew was a good man.” The grin returned. “And a damn fine cook—I’ll miss those taste testings.”
I stopped abruptly and he turned to look at me. “Reg, did Drew test any new recipes for you recently?”
“New ones, no. An old retired recipe, for an old retired jock. That huckleberry-morel steak sauce had been off his menu for a while and he wanted to try it before submitting it to the Grill-off.”
Bingo. “Wonder why he hauled out an old recipe instead of creating a new one.”
We resumed walking. “Point was to showcase unique Montana flavors, and it was a proven winner. The other was plenty good, too—a tasty cherry glaze. ’Course, anything’s tasty served with his mashed potatoes and sage butter.”
“Reg! You ate two steaks?”
He put on an expression of mock offense. “Gotta maintain my girlish figure. ’Sides, they were small steaks. Itty-bitty.” He touched forefinger to thumb—in his giant hands, the size of a saucer.
“Testing recipes during his busy season—he musta been working some long hours. When was that?”
“Not sure exactly. Drew understood, you’ve got to keep your head on straight and do whatever comes next.” We traipsed through the woods along another delightful path to the guest house. “I remember now. Two weeks ago, I had a shipment for a gallery in Atlanta, and I hired a kid to build some packing crates. We worked hard and late, and that dinner sure did hit the spot.”
Two weeks. That meant Drew had been fine-tuning days before the due date. All this meant it was his own recipe, not cribbed from Amber, and that he’d sent it in on time.
So why had Gib thought otherwise? Had he told Stacia his reasoning? Did anyone else know?
“We gotta go in this way,” Reg said, leading me into the garage below the guest quarters. “Big tree blew down last week and took out the outside steps to the second floor. Haven’t had time to rebuild ’em.”
My mother says a guest space should be comfy enough to feel welcoming, but not so inviting that your guests never want to leave. Reg Robbins—or the decorator he’d hired—hadn’t listened. He’d ignored the Northwest lodge look in favor of woodsy-modern, with long sleek lines, cedar siding, and massive windows. The interior felt both cozy and spacious—the effect of those windows and the soft ochre walls. I wanted to curl up on the golden brown chenille sofa and take a nap.
Until I saw the kitchen, made for cooking. High-end stainless steel appliances, a range hood the size of a Mack truck, and naturally aged soapstone counters. A small desk alcove held a laptop, an open cookbook on a stand, and a cup full of pens and pencils. A bar counter in a shiny dark wood that matched the living room tables divided the kitchen from the rest of the space. Tall chairs let guests sit and watch the chef at work.
No wonder Drew had loved the place.
Still, it felt—unsettled. Or was that me, projecting my mood onto the space?
“Hey, sweetpea.” Reg hugged Tara gently, as if she might break. She did appear less resilient than Sunday afternoon at her place—and nowhere near as punchy as at the playground Sunday morning. Her sister, Debra, shared her slender build and straight blond hair. Both had dressed to work, Tara in blue jeans and another oversized man’s shirt.
“Now there’s no rush,” Reg told Tara. “You take your time.”
“Sooner the better,” she said.
Did she simply want to get a distasteful task out of the way, while she had help, or was she in a hurry to tie up loose ends and hit the road with Pete? From the looks of things, they had barely gotten started. A bundle of flat boxes and a tape dispenser lay on the living room floor, but I didn’t see any packed boxes.
“Need a hand?” I said. “I can stay for an hour or two.”
“Won’t say no,” Debra replied as Tara shook her head and said, “We’re fine.”
Reg took off and Debra put me to work. “Isn’t this the most fabulous kitchen? My husband and I run a B&B on the Maine coast. D’you suppose if I ship Drew’s pots and pans home, that will turn me into a chef?”
“Only if you can cook,” I said. She laughed.
Debra and I filled boxes while Tara sat at the counter, nursing iced tea. All my suspicions and wariness aside, this had to be rough on her. I pulled out a box of copper cookie cutters in animal shapes and held up a bunny.
“Tara, want to keep these? To bake cookies with Emma?”
She raised her head at the sound of her name, but was clearly too unfocused to decide.
“I’ll put them in the keep pile.” Debra carried them out of the room.
“Tara, what was going on Sunday between Pete and Gib? The fight I walked into?”
She gazed out the window sightlessly. “I—I thought the shoot was our opportunity. If Pete could get on permanently with Food Preneurs, or some other EAT-TV show, we could leave Jewel Bay. Go back to California.”
Confirming what Gib had said on our ride last Friday.
She stuck the tip of her little finger in her mouth. “He screwed it up with Gib. And truthfully, now that Drew’s gone, I’m not so sure I want to leave after all. Emma’s in school here. She’s happy. She doesn’t need any more upheaval.”
Debra had returned, her arms full of men’s shirts. “You want all of these?”
Tara turned and nodded. “He never knew I borrowed them when I came to get Emma.” Her eyes filled.
Debra dumped the shirts on the dining room table and wrapped her arms around her sister from be
hind. “You and Emma always have a home with us. And any hotel or inn in New England would welcome you, with your experience in marketing and sales.”
One mystery solved. Though Drew hadn’t been a big man, Tara was slight. She’d looked like a waif in his shirt.
“Another question, Tara, then I’ll shut up, I promise. Did you and Gib have a—history?”
She looked puzzled. “No. I barely knew him.”
But if the tension wasn’t from a love triangle . . . “Okay. But last week, Drew alluded to some tension with Gib. I got the impression it caught him off guard.”
Understanding dawned. “Ohmygod. I never knew the whole story, but is that what this is about?” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I thought . . . oh, my god. I thought Drew and Kyle had finally gone after each other, after all these years.”
Debra and I slid into the chairs flanking Tara as she continued speaking. “Ages ago, Drew and Gib both worked for Berndt King—you’ve heard of him—in California. He liked to pit his sous chefs against each other in subtle ways. Drew never cared—he was oblivious to the competition and petty jealousies. But Gib wasn’t.”
“And King was the kind of boss who encouraged that, thinking fear motivated employees?” I knew the type. It never worked. Instead, people grew frustrated and left.
Tara nodded. “There was an incident. Some hotshot food critic came in. Their big chance. Gib messed up. He relied on someone else to cook the pasta and it was mushy. His dishes didn’t come out at the same time. I’m not sure what all went wrong. Berndt berated him in front of the critic and the staff.”
“Yikes,” I said, and Debra’s eyes widened.
“Not long after, Berndt started building his empire. He opened a couple of new restaurants and promoted Drew to head chef at the flagship. He didn’t fire Gib, but he might as well have. Not getting his own kitchen after all those years . . .” She shrugged one shoulder. “Drew had nothing to do with any of it, but Gib wasn’t the kind of guy to see it that way. To him, it was humiliating.”
“So that’s when Gib left.”
“Right. Drew stayed a couple of years, then we were expecting Emma and wanted more family-friendly jobs. The Caldwells recruited him as head chef, and I had experience in hotel management, so it was perfect.”
“Until you met Kyle and blew your life up,” Debra said, more matter-of-fact than snarky.
“Stupidest thing I ever did. And why, I still don’t know. Drew”—one side of her mouth twisted wryly—“the man couldn’t hold a grudge with two hands, but that was too much. Not that I blame him.”
She seemed genuinely remorseful—and genuinely grieving. But I wasn’t sure I bought it. Not just yet. She’d had means and opportunity, and it had been clear from their argument in the parking lot that she was plenty angry.
Drew might not have held a grudge, but he’d known how to hold the line.
“Did Drew date?” Consider your victim—expand the circle.
“Not seriously. He was married to his restaurant. But you know, Gib getting pushed sideways out of cooking is old news. He started a consulting business—all the big names have done that on the side or between gigs: Anthony Bourdain, Thomas Keller, Tom Douglas. No shame in it. And then he became a TV star.”
“No shame in that, either,” I said. “Sounds like he always wanted to be a star.” But to him, it was shining at being a failure.
“And yet, it’s like he blamed Drew for becoming the success he wasn’t.”
Reason to accept the invitation, yes—to check up on Drew, scout out a chance to show him up. But reason to kill? Hard to swallow.
But then, as Tara herself had said, sometimes we’re the last to grasp our own motives.
• Twenty-two •
Turned out Reg’s box of plates and bowls wasn’t as heavy as he’d made out. Still the Southern gentleman.
“Oh, Erin, finally. Thank goodness you’re back,” Fresca said two seconds after I’d set the box down. “That darn fool machine is giving me fits.”
The epithet covered a lot of territory. My mother could figure out a new kitchen appliance in a heartbeat, but a cell phone or a computer baffled her, and anything with a motor? Forget about it.
“The labeling machine,” she said, heading for the basement stairs. I followed.
Ten minutes later, my hands were covered in sticky gray goo, but the bottle labeler was back in action. What she’d done to it, I hadn’t a clue. The machine was pretty slick, actually. Load a roll of preprinted labels, adjust the arms for the size of your bottle or jar, and presto slicko! We’d gotten a great deal that ought to last for years, even with my dreams of expansion—if we didn’t muck it up.
But the goo wasn’t the easiest to clean off, making me extra glad I’d brought my date clothes along so I didn’t have to drive home to change with sticky hands.
No hand-painted garden murals in the Merc’s one-staller, though my mother had dressed it up with black-and-white tile floors, shiny white wainscoting, and a picture rail. And fixtures that evoked the mood of 1910, when my great-grandfather Murphy opened the town’s first grocery on this very spot, but incorporated the best of modern plumbing.
Ned ought to consult with her on his remodel.
Once I de-gooed my fingers, I slipped on a stretchy cream top with navy dots, a scoop neck, and dolman sleeves long enough to cover my scabby elbow. Pulled on a crinkly blue chambray skirt with a stepped hem. Jumped up to see the ensemble in the mirror over the sink, but no luck.
Calmify, Erin. It’s only dinner.
I let out a long noisy breath and slid my feet into my red boots. Ahhhh. Midcalf, ruby red leather, with pointy toes and a riding heel, and white stitching in a tulip and vine pattern. My magic power boots.
I added a leather and pearl beaded bracelet my sister made for me, silver hoop earrings, and a touch of eye makeup. Wiped a stray bit of mascara off my check and called it good.
The shop was closed, but Fresca and Bill sat at the counter dipping leftover baguette slices into the last of today’s sample, olive tapenade. Fresca looked me up and down.
“Stay right there.” She dashed out the front door.
“You look lovely,” Bill said. The crinkles around his eyes deepened. No doubt thinking of his own daughter, out traveling the world. We hadn’t met yet.
In a flash, Fresca returned. She wrapped a wide cinnamon leather belt with openwork around my waist, front to back and around again, knotting the long tails in front. She stepped back and gave me another appraisal. “Perfect.”
“Did you just go raid the gallery? This isn’t even Chiara’s work. Is she even open?”
Fresca dangled the keys and wriggled her eyebrows playfully.
“Oh, Mom.” I was mortified, but my sister would be philosophical. Especially if I showed up carrying coffee and a treat when I returned the purloined belt.
She held my shoulders lightly and kissed my cheek. “Have fun, darling.”
* * *
Chez Max could have been plucked off the streets of Paris or Arles and set down in Jewel Bay without cracking a single heavy glass tumbler. Small rustic pine tables were set close together—a hair too close for American comfort—and big men like Rick hesitated a moment at the rush-bottom wooden chairs, though they were quite sturdy. Comfy, too.
Black-and-white photographs of French scenes lined the dining room’s soft peachy walls. (The hall leading to the restrooms was plastered with unframed movie posters, like a college dorm room. But they were French, so the effect was charming.)
About all that wasn’t French were the staff’s accents. Except Max’s, bien sûr.
I waved at him, bustling in the kitchen, as the hostess seated us.
Rick draped his bomber jacket over the back of his chair. The same leather as my belt—a fashion trend or a sign?
“Is Wendy here tonight?” he asked, and
I wondered if he’d chosen Chez Max for the great food or to woo Wendy as a customer. But when the hostess replied “no,” he simply said “too bad” and turned that farm-boy smile toward me.
I unfurled my napkin—a blue, white, and yellow Provençal pattern—and our waitress set a chilled wine bottle filled with water and a basket of bread on the table.
“Fresh bread, from our sister bakery, Le Panier,” she said. “Served with a dipping sauce of roasted garlic and basil pesto in olive oil.” Fresca’s pesto.
“Any chance you know where the flour is from?” Rick asked.
“No, sir, but I can ask the chef if you’d like.”
He opened his mouth but I beat him to it. “Next time,” I said. “We see how busy Max is.”
She left and he blushed, chagrined. “Did I step in it?”
I took a bite, concentrating. “Wendy’s baguettes and I are old pals. No change in flavor or texture, so I’m guessing she hasn’t changed flours. But she did try your flour in my cookies.” I was telling him about the graham crackers and s’more sandwich cookies when the waitress brought our wine. I ordered Max’s blue cheese, apple, and walnut salad and the halibut, while Rick chose the house salad and steak frites.
“I guess you’ve had your fill of steak this week,” he said, raising his glass of Côtes du Rhône red in a toast. “Here’s to better times.”
“I’ll drink to that.” My white Bordeaux blend went down well, fruity with a touch of almond, pear, and honey. “You knew Drew, didn’t you?”
“We’d just met. Called on him in June, on my first trip to town. Had dinner there—fantastic. I was looking forward to working with him.”
Our salads came, reminding me how wonderful it is to sit and eat, especially with helpful waitstaff and an interesting companion.
“Drew and Gib Knox both worked for Berndt King in L.A., but I don’t know much about him,” I said.
Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) Page 19