Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village)

by Leslie Budewitz

  “Get in,” I yelled to her, grabbing for the dog’s collar as he continued to evade me.

  “But Duke!”

  “He’ll get in when you do.”

  She jerked open the passenger door and fell in, immediately turning in her seat and extending her arms. “Here, boy.” Duke leapt in, then scrambled over the backseat, defying his age and arthritis.

  I slammed the hatchback shut and dashed to my open door. My foot caught in a rut and I went down. On my left elbow. Pain shot through my body, but there was no time for whimpering. A huge, shaggy, crazy-eyed beast stepped onto the road and stopped in front of me.

  This was no cryptid. Dark and dripping wet, with a hump behind her neck and menacing eyes. I scrambled to the car and dove in.

  “Hang on!” I shoved the car into reverse, wrapping my right hand around Amber’s headrest to better see behind me. But before I could hit the gas, the grasses parted again and a young calf emerged. Moose calves aren’t as strange looking as their mothers—as with humans, awkward is cute in the very young—but we weren’t sticking around to ooh and coo.

  “We’re trapped,” Amber said in a panicky tone.

  “Go to Mama,” I urged the calf, letting the car slip slowly backward, and danged if she didn’t take a few stuttery steps toward the side of the road, then bolt forward to the cow.

  I gunned it and we sped away in reverse. A few hundred feet away, I spotted a field entrance on the other side of the road. I backed across, cranked the wheels in the opposite direction, and tore back out. Before racing off—facing forward this time—I glanced at the cow moose, her calf beside her, still bellowing in the middle of the road as if she owned it.

  At that moment, she did.

  When we reached the highway, I pulled over, folded my arms on the steering wheel, and bowed my head. My heart was still in overdrive.

  “Erin, you saved my life.” Amber’s voice shook.

  “What the heck happened?” In the backseat, Duke chomped away at the dog treats, which I must have tossed in after him.

  “We were working our way north, along the river’s edge. I lost sight of Duke, then I heard him barking. The calf came rushing toward me and stopped, fifteen feet away. I could hear the mother getting closer. I didn’t know where to go—the river was too deep, and if the cow was really ticked, she’d come right in after me. Then I slipped on the wet bank.” Her entire right side was covered in thick, gooey river mud. “I’ll clean your car, Erin. Detail it, head to toe.”

  Darn straight. “Where’s your gear? Where’d you park?”

  “Dropped it. In the river or in the meadow when I ran—I don’t know. I walk up and fish this hole when I’ve only got an hour or two. What were you doing here?”

  “You walked?” I blew out a long noisy breath, then rummaged under the seat for a water bottle and offered it to her. She shook her head and I swigged half of it down. “I was coming to see you.”

  Beneath the mud, her cheeks flushed then paled.

  “I know what happened, Amber. Part of it anyway. All three of you submitted your recipes on time. Only Gib and Stacia saw them. Gib decided to use you to get back at his old pal Drew. Right so far?”

  Her wide blue eyes said yes.

  “Gib gave you a copy of Drew’s recipe and suggested that you submit it for the Grill-off, instead of whatever you planned originally. Strongly suggested, I suspect. Hinted that you’d win if you did as he said.”

  She leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. The dog kept chewing.

  “You didn’t know it was Drew’s until the Thursday before the Grill-off, when I called to say there’d been a mix-up. Gib wanted you to go forward with the huckleberry-morel filet—he recognized it as a clear favorite—and he wanted Drew to be kicked out and humiliated. But the Committee messed up his plans when it decided you should both resubmit. He thought he could still get some mileage out of it, though, by making his insinuations public.”

  Her chin quivered. I pushed on. “Was it hard to create a new recipe on such short notice, or did you go back to your original submission?” She shook her head no, then nodded yes.

  “That’s what I thought. I also think Gib threatened you on Monday, when he and Pete came out here to film. Told you to keep your mouth shut.”

  Eyes still closed, she practically vibrated with stress.

  “You texted him that afternoon, didn’t you?” The message he’d gotten while I was in the closet.

  “I beg you, Erin, stay out of it. This could ruin my career.”

  I turned toward her sharply. Her eyes flew open. “Murder ruined Drew Baker’s life. He left a daughter. A hit-and-run ruined Stacia Duval’s life. She left a husband and a son. He’s only three, Amber. She called him every night to read him Goodnight, Moon.” I was shouting. Duke stopped chewing. “I know you didn’t kill Drew. But the rest—you have to own up.”

  She met my gaze, not blinking, not speaking. Then she sat back, facing forward, her eyes closed again. Tears slid down her muddy cheeks.

  I hit the lock switch for the doors, buckled my belt, and put the car in gear. I didn’t know what had happened to Stacia’s copies of the recipes and e-mails—or to Stacia. But I knew what was happening next.

  A few minutes later, Amber spoke. “I thought you were circling around to the Inn. You passed my road.”

  “Later,” I said, continuing south toward Jewel Bay. “Tell me, were you at Caldwell’s Lodge any time on Thursday, before or after we filmed the appetizer and dessert segments?”

  “No. I meant to go down and scope it out, but we had a big group reserve at the last minute, so I stayed to help with prep. Party of ten. They ate the works, from wine and appetizers to coffee and dessert. It was great. We were pooped. All we had left was one order of mussels, one crème brûlée, and a chocolate mousse. They even ate all our bread.”

  Mousse. I howled. With laughter or hysteria, I didn’t know. Or care.

  • Twenty-six •

  I delivered my witness and her dog to Ike and told my story. It was complicated, involving three cars, a rush to get the first Porsche turned in and repaired before the deputies decided to take a closer look, and a lie to the rental agency about the reason for the damage. The door to Ike’s office hadn’t closed fully, and I could almost feel Kim on the other side, listening to every word Amber and I said. I gave Ike the printouts from Drew’s computer and sent him my photos of Gib’s rental car. I even offered to share the spreadsheet, which he’d barely glanced at.

  “I could charge you with criminal trespass,” he said, scowling.

  Times two, I thought, hoping my luck held. “To find evidence you missed.”

  He harrumphed and dispatched a crew to impound the black Porsche.

  Then he sent deputies to track down Gib Knox and take him to the county jail in Pondera for questioning.

  “If he’s the guy, we’ll get him,” he assured me.

  Of course, we still didn’t know whose car he’d been driving Thursday night. But I had a hunch Ike would get that little detail out of Knox without my help.

  * * *

  “Darling, what on earth?” My mother sat at one of our new courtyard tables with Ned Redaway and Chuck the Builder. A legal pad lay open in front of Chuck, a roll of blueprints at his feet.

  I did not feel like explaining how or why I’d confronted a pissed-off, overprotective eight-hundred-pound wild animal who looked like a horse put together without an instruction manual. Or that I’d done it to save a woman I did not like or trust.

  And that I’d do it all again.

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing.” I glanced at the two men, then focused on Fresca.

  Ned pushed back his chair. “We’re about done for now anyways, aren’t we?”

  Chuck picked up his prints and stood. “Fresca, I’ll write this up and get you an es
timate in a day or two.” Ned opened the gate between our courtyard and Red’s and closed it behind them.

  “Darling, why you don’t get cleaned up and—”

  “Mom, just tell me what you’re up to. Now.” (“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” as King Henry exhorted the troops.)

  My mother doesn’t fluster easily, except when dealing with machinery unrelated to cooking. Her cheeks turned pink. Her perfect coral-rimmed mouth opened and closed. “I’m giving Ned a hand.” She paused. I waited, knowing from experience that she couldn’t stand the silence. “I bought the building and leased it back to him. He needed money, darling. You understand. But of course, it needs work—he’s put it off for years. Consider it an investment in the future.”

  I did understand. But much as I admired Fresca’s loyalty and compassion, those traits had gotten us all in trouble not so long ago. Would we ever learn?

  “I have the right to my privacy,” she said, answering my unspoken question. Her dark eyes flashed and her chin jutted out.

  “So do I,” I said, and marched inside.

  One look at me and Tracy said she’d handle closing. I grabbed a truffle for the road and two more for later—any day involving a near-collision with a mad mother moose calls for extreme measures—and turned to leave.

  And spotted the tall vase full of red roses. Tracy wagged her eyebrows and I reached for the envelope tucked into the bouquet.

  “Ow.” I stuck my paper-cut finger in my mouth, then slid the card out. “Sorry. R,” it read. I stifled the impulse to toss the card in the trash and send the roses home with Tracy. Might do me good to practice a little humility.

  Can you be humble carrying a dozen red roses? I took the vase and chocolates and swept past my mother without a word, just to test the theory.

  * * *

  “Thank you, Liz. Thank you, Luci,” I said a few minutes later as bubbles enveloped me and the scent of lavender filled the air. After wrestling Duke the dog, outmaneuvering a moose, and sweating like a pig, I was so filthy I’d had to rinse off in the shower before sliding into the tub.

  I leaned against my bath pillow and took a sip of crisp, peachy pinot grigo. Ah, heaven. I’d walked in, greeted the cat, set the roses on the counter—they really were beautiful, and wonderfully fragrant. Popped a cork and mixed up my favorite chicken marinade.

  Now I was marinating myself in wine and hot water. Poetic justice. I rubbed my stars that Ike and his deputies would bring Gib Knox to real justice, and that Amber Stone would be in just enough hot water to make her sweat.

  I wasn’t going to think about any of it. About Gib, Amber, or Fresca. Or Rick.

  Or my poor muddy, mucky car.

  After my soak, I planned to grill my chicken and savor it on the deck with leftover Two Bean and Pesto Salad. Watch the sunset, watch a movie, and watch the inside of my eyelids.

  But what they say about pink elephants is true: It’s hard to deliberately not think about something.

  I rubbed a little arnica gel on my reinjured elbow and bundled up in the fluffy white hotel robe I’d splurged on during a SavClub business trip. Had that only been last winter? (I refused to let the resemblance to Gib Knox’s robe remind me of the biggest pink elephant.) Stepped outside to heat up the grill. That reminded me of the super-duper commercial grill Fresca had ordered that I’d sent back, and the propane heater awaiting a decision.

  She hired me to manage the Merc, then spent money we didn’t have on things we didn’t need. She gave me control over the entire building—which she owns in trust for the three of us kids—but didn’t tell me when she bought the building next door. With her own money, but still. And she used her emergency keys to borrow a belt from my sister’s gallery.

  “You can’t stop her,” Chiara would say if she heard my litany. “You knew that when you came home.”

  Could I at least slow her down, and give myself a chance to catch up with her?

  I sighed and headed to the kitchen for more vino. On the living room floor lay Stacia’s papers and the cardboard box, the precious book inside. What a relief it would be to tell Buzz Duval that Gib Knox was behind bars. That he’d be charged with Stacia’s murder—call it what it was—as well as Drew Baker’s.

  So why didn’t it feel better?

  Sandburg and I heard the engine in the driveway at the same time. “You get the door,” I said. He stared at me from his couch cushion, eyes narrow.

  Kim Caldwell stood on the porch, her expression sober.

  “We got him,” she said. “What smells so good?”

  “Hmm? Oh, that’s the grill heating. The chicken will go on in a minute. There’s plenty.” She followed me inside. I gestured with my glass. “You off duty?”

  “And still off the case. Nice roses.” She took a sniff. “Secret admirer?”

  “Not so admiring, I’m afraid.” I handed her a glass of wine. “The other day, at the office, I’m so sorry—”

  “Completely my fault,” she said. “I’ve been a clod lately.”

  Join the club. I picked up the bowl of chicken. “Tell me more. About arresting Gib.”

  “That’s all I know. I am persona non grata. Non everythinga. Exiled from my own office and reassigned to Pondera for the duration. I’m not even supposed to go to the Lodge or talk to my family.” She looked miserable.

  “Criminy. So Ike’s finally convinced the two deaths are related?”

  “Maybe convinced, maybe related. And my father and my cousin are witnesses. Not to the homicides, but to Amber Stone’s movements. What did you call it?”

  “Her whabouts.” I forked the chicken breasts onto the grill, poured the marinade into a small saucepan, and set it on the flame to reduce. Kim and I sat at the café table, our chairs angled toward the lake view. In a cloudless sky blessedly free of smoke from forest fires, the sun looked almost white as it hung above the horizon. The closer it got, the deeper it would glow.

  Which for no obvious reason reminded me of toasting marshmallows. I excused myself, went inside for my bag, and rummaged for Landon’s smashed treats. I’d snare him a fresh bag tomorrow.

  “These are tasty, if you don’t mind how they look.” I tossed the bag at Kim and flipped the chicken. We brought out the salad and dishes. And the wine.

  “Will Amber be charged with anything?”

  Kim spooned out the fragrant green-and-white salad. “No law against being stupid, or conniving. The jails are full enough already.”

  Jail. I tried not to think about my two break-and-enter escapades. Talk about pink elephants. I cut a piece of chicken, then stopped, fork halfway to my mouth. “He’ll say Stacia’s death was an accident, won’t he? And deny killing Drew. No one can place him in the Lodge parking lot, can they? Or do you not know that, either?”

  “I don’t officially know anything, but you’re probably right. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

  “At my mother’s knee, or some other low joint.” I took a bite. “Mmm. So moist. Love this marinade.”

  Kim’s features froze. “Your dad used to say that.”

  “What? Oh, yeah. He credited Princess Margaret, but he coulda been making that up. He was like that.”

  She bit her lip and lowered her eyes, then raised them and her glass. The bracelet slid down her arm. “Nice place. You’ve made a good life back here.”

  “Thanks. So I know Gib doesn’t have to prove his innocence, only poke holes in the prosecution’s case—”

  “Reasonable doubt.”

  “But won’t he try to show that someone else killed Drew? That someone else had means, motive, and opportunity?”

  “Everyone had means. Drew’s sous chef observed him pack his gear. He’s confirmed that the mallet came from the Jewel Inn kitchen. Drew always takes—took—one, just in case.”

  I dashed inside for my iPad and the Sp
readsheet of Suspicion and set it on the table where we could both see it. “Who can we rule out?”

  “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “You’ll get over it.” I shared my theories and got her responses. To her credit, she gave me no confidential information. She said she didn’t know much, but I didn’t believe her—Kim had always been extraordinarily perceptive, as well as sharp of eye and ear.

  I took another bite of the bean salad. Green and garlicky, the way I like it. “So, when a person admits doing some bad things, but denies others, do you believe them?” I always had, a parallel to my belief that bad people can’t be great cooks. Another myth bites the dust.

  “Depends. Do they expect to get nailed for one thing, but get away with the other? Are they admitting a less serious offense to deflect attention from more serious crimes?” She twirled the stem of her wineglass in her long, slender fingers. “Or have they been threatened into silence? Gib scared the beejeebers out of Amber. Fear is a powerful motivator.”

  I pursed my lips. “She admits her part in the recipe theft, but denies killing Drew. And I see no reason for her to kill him. She was mortified by what she’d done, and by the risk of being exposed.”

  “She had a lot to lose. Reputation, livelihood. The B&B is heavily mortgaged.”

  As I’d figured. “But only if Drew discovered her complicity and either he or Gib made it public. Which would have backfired and destroyed them, too. That’s what made the recipe switch the perfect act of revenge.”

  “Sounds like in the process of ruling out Amber, you’re also talking yourself out of blaming Gib.”

  No. But Gib enjoyed taunting Drew so much that it was hard to imagine him launching a physical attack.

  Now there you go thinking murder is rational.

  Kim continued. “Okay, I’ll buy Drew staying silent about the recipe theft—he didn’t want to be tainted by Gib’s act of vengeance. But wouldn’t he have found another way to punish Amber for betraying his kindness? Subtle comments meant to steer folks away from her place—that sort of thing.”

  “And put himself on Gib’s level?” I sipped my wine. “No. One thing my investigation made crystal-clear: Drew Baker may not have been touchy-feely-cozy, but he was a stand-up guy.”