“How long did he stay?”
“Not long. Fifteen—twenty minutes? Said he had to get back to the Lodge—early filming, I guess. I stayed to party with some friends, so he took my car back to the Lodge. Well, it’s my mom’s car—she lent it to me while I’m working here.”
Totally not the story he told. “What about his car? How did he get into town?”
She shook her head. “Maybe he walked or got a ride—it isn’t far. I don’t really know.”
Why had Gib rushed back here? To be the one who found Stacia so he wouldn’t be a suspect? That plan hadn’t worked—I beat him to it.
Or to search her cabin and take the papers? I could vouch for how easy it was to break in.
“Did you see him again?” I asked gently.
“I didn’t expect to. It seemed like a brush-off. But later—maybe ten? Ten thirty? I’ve got a studio apartment in the staff lodgings. Makes me sound slutty, doesn’t it?” She flushed again. “And I might have drank more than I should have. Why am I telling you this? It’s not like I want to get him in trouble, and if it gets out, I’ll probably lose my job.”
Don’t stop now. “People saw you together, Melinda. But if you tell the sheriff what you know . . .”
“Deputies came looking for me this afternoon. I hid in one of the duplexes I was cleaning. I feel like a dunce, but I can’t let him get away with killing her, can I?”
I took out my phone, but she kept going. “But I still can’t figure out what he was doing here Saturday. I’d lost a key and had to have another spare made, so Thursday night when he left, I walked out with him and he saw me hide it on top of the exit light. Saturday, my neighbor spotted him searching for the key. He said he’d left something in my room and needed to get it before he left town. But it sounded fishy. She took the key and wouldn’t let him in.”
“What time was that? Did he say?”
“About six thirty? I’d already gone to Pondera—the band had a gig. Gib knew that. So it was weird.”
I’d been acting producer that evening. Gib finished tasting at quarter after six and the schedule called for a fifteen-minute break. But then Tara found Drew dying in the parking lot.
Unless I missed my guess, Gib had known Melinda would be out and rushed to her place to get what he’d stashed there Thursday night, when he dropped by unexpectedly. Unlike the alibi he’d set up for the hit-and-run, this one might be legit.
“Did you find what he left? Did he say what it was?”
“No. I’ve tried to talk to him, but it’s like he’s avoiding me. I guess I was kinda dumb.”
She’d been used. Gib’s idea of “getting lucky” and hers were a little different.
“I might know. Can we take a look?”
Her strong dark brows creased, questioning. “You do? Yeah—I’m off the clock.”
We crossed the south lawn to the staff lodgings, a residential hall with dorm-like rooms with private baths and a communal kitchen. Melinda’s space was neat and tidy. A Martin guitar stood in one corner, milk crates filled with music books and CDs beside it.
Where to start? I tried to channel Gib. He’d have picked someplace easy. A place within reach when she slipped into the bathroom. In with her music? A long shot—too hard to retrieve. I gestured and Melinda helped me lift the mattress. Nothing.
I studied the small room. Where, where, where?
“There,” I said. Not the first dresser drawer, and not the second. The dresser was old, with plywood shelves between each drawer rather than the simple slides of modern furniture. Then we slid out the third. Bingo. Three folded pages lay underneath the drawer, where no one not on the hunt would have ever found them.
I unfolded them carefully. Yes. Drew’s huckleberry filet recipe and transmittal e-mail, and Amber’s original recipe, two tiny staple holes marking it as mate to the e-mail printout in Stacia’s pile.
“Melinda, I need to get these to the sheriff. They’ll help prove what Gib did to Stacia.”
“And what he did to Drew Baker?” she asked, arms crossing her body, hands clutching opposite arms, as if to hold herself steady.
Had Gib killed Drew? It wasn’t impossible, but it would have meant quite a sprint. I’d leave that to Ike and his deputies to sort out. “Everything he did,” I told the shaking girl. “But you have to promise me you’ll tell them everything. Everything.”
She nodded. I gave her a quick hug and tucked the papers inside my boot. On my way down the narrow stairs, I called Ike Hoover. He was out, so I left a message and headed for the barn.
I was long overdue for a date with a horse and a trail.
• Thirty •
Everything looks better from the back of a horse.
For the first time in days, I could breathe easy. Stacia Duval would have justice, even if Drew Baker’s death was not yet resolved. Once Ike talked to Melinda and her neighbor, he’d piece together the timeline and rule Gib in or out. With the other evidence he had, he’d nail Drew’s killer.
Whoever it was.
Ribbons and I left the Lodge grounds and started the climb up the hillside trail. Birch and aspen branches sighed in the breeze, the horse’s breath and hoof falls the only other sounds. Riding is like meditation, the clip and clop and sway as relaxing to me as an hour on a yoga mat to other women.
We paused at the bench to drink in the vista. A bald eagle perched in a snag eyed us, decided we were neither prey nor threat, and resumed his regal pose.
“Aren’t we lucky, girl?” I patted her neck, then we turned back to the trail and moseyed on.
A few hundred yards later, I cocked my head at a small noise. Ribbons and I both searched out the source with our eyes. If a tree falls in the woods and no one’s there to hear it, does it make a sound? Depends whether you’re a Zen Buddhist who believes everything is alive and aware, or you think only humans and other animals can hear.
It had stopped. I nudged the mare forward with my knee. “It’s okay, girl. Nothing there.”
What a week. The Summer Fair committee had thought we were inviting a TV film crew to showcase a festive weekend of food, art, and fun. Instead, Jewel Bay had become the star of a soap opera tale of grudges, betrayal, revenge, and murder that no one would believe—if it hadn’t all really happened.
Meanwhile, life in the village continued. Tourists came and went. Merchants bought and sold. Reg Robbins threw pots and Kathy Jensen sold yarn. Wendy baked and Max cooked.
And I dithered between two men.
As problems go, it was a nice problem to have. Adam and Rick were opposites in many ways, and not just that one was dark-haired and the other blond. Adam loved to get out and about—to hike, camp, and kayak. Rick liked to drive. Did either ride? Didn’t know.
Didn’t matter. I liked getting out on my own.
Rick loved food. He loved the business of food. Adam considered food fuel. But Fresca had sparked a glimmer of interest at the courtyard party last weekend, when she insisted he try her arancini and he’d dueled Jason with a cheese straw for the last one.
The mare and I reached the stream. I let her drink, then turned around. I’d been away from the shop long enough—it wasn’t fair to leave Tracy there alone all afternoon on a busy Friday.
Halfway down, the crack of a good-sized branch caught my ear. Ribbons pricked her ears and we paused.
“You heard it, too, didn’t you, girl?” This was a popular route, but most riders kept to the trail, safe from the dense undergrowth and windfall that could snap a horse’s leg.
But again, I saw nothing. I urged her forward, and after a few minutes, she settled into an easy walk.
Below the lookout, more cracking. The sounds came from the thick brush on the left. A loud snap, followed by a crashing, then Kintla, the big Appaloosa that Gib had ridden last Friday, broke onto the trail, facing us.
Pete Ll
oyd held the reins, looking a little queasy. He pulled too hard and the Appie jerked, stepping back and sideways. Ribbons halted and I held her reins loosely but firmly.
“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t know you were up here. Great day for a ride.”
Bingo. The pieces clicked into place as I realized what I’d missed. What we’d all missed. We’d all assumed Pete had kept filming after Gib tasted the three steaks and took a break. The schedule had called for Pete to film the guests mingling. But he hadn’t.
And none of us noticed. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to share the video. But he’d finally given in when Mimi insisted, no doubt certain that we wouldn’t inspect every minute. Or that we wouldn’t understand the significance of what we didn’t see.
Which was that Pete Lloyd had no alibi for the time of Drew’s murder.
Ribbons sensed my energetic shift and took a step back, jerking her head. I could feel her tail switch back and forth. The Appie, often paired with her on rides, shook his big head and tried to step forward, but Pete pulled him back.
“You figured it out, didn’t you? But I can’t let you expose me.”
“Gib killed Stacia to keep her quiet, but you killed Drew, didn’t you?” I said. “Because Tara wouldn’t fight him for full custody so she could leave. You loved her so much that you’d deprive her child of a father to get what you wanted?”
“He deprived me,” Pete shouted. His horse’s ears, already alert, shot back. Kintla startled at the sound and stepped back. Clearly not a horseman, Pete shifted in his saddle, struggling to keep his balance.
And as he shifted, I saw a bulge on his right hip. Careful, Erin.
“If you wanted the job so badly, why not just go, with or without Tara?” I wasn’t sure how the mare and I could get past them, especially if Pete was armed, but the longer he talked, the better our chances. And if I died trying, at least I would know why.
“Drew made me do it. He deserved to lose everything, like I had. The chance for a family. The chance to leave this crappy little town where nobody ever lets you forget the past.” The Appie skittered from side to side, responding to signals Pete had no idea he was sending. “Tara called me a loser. When he refused to let her go, she fell back in love with him. He kept me from getting what I wanted like he’d kept Gib from getting what he wanted.”
“You knew? That Gib blamed Drew for derailing his career? And you knew Gib fed Drew’s signature recipe to Amber Stone, to disgrace him?”
“Of course I knew. I’m a cameraman. I see all and hear all, without being seen.”
It made sense in a certain perverted way. Was it Holmes who said no one’s a villain in their own mind?
If it wasn’t Holmes, it should have been.
Pete was sweating, despite the shade. “When I saw you at the Lodge just now, I knew you were coming up here. You fingered Gib, and I knew you’d nail me, too.”
“You gave it away, Pete. First by insisting you’d been filming when the evidence said you hadn’t. There was so much confusion, none of us realized you’d slipped away, too. We would have figured it out eventually, but when you followed me, I knew.”
“That’s BS,” Pete shouted, punching the air with his right fist. The Appie dropped his shoulder and stepped sideways. Pete lost his balance, slipping dangerously to his right. His left hand flailed in the air, the reins slipping through his fingers. I kicked the mare forward and grabbed Pete’s reins. The horse spun, dumping Pete into the brush alongside the trail with a loud crash and a string of swearing.
I’d told Gib not to gallop on these trails, that it wasn’t safe. But he didn’t know them. The mare and I did. I dropped the Appie’s reins and he fell in behind us as we raced downhill, cutting and turning, speeding and slowing, until we reached the flats near the Lodge grounds. I took his reins again and the three of us returned to a walk, breathing hard and heavy.
If the horses were as confused as I was about what had just happened, they didn’t show it. That’s one of the reasons I love them.
I was just reaching for my phone, glad to finally have the chance, when I spotted a sheriff’s rig parked on the main road, near the corral. Thank goodness Ike had gotten my earlier message. I really needed him now.
We skirted the corral, the two horses and I, our breathing slowing but not yet back to normal. Near the far gate, by the corner of the barn, stood not Ike but Kim, her back to me, talking to someone standing in the shadow of the building. Even at a distance, she looked tense.
We rode closer. To my amazement, Kim stood toe to toe with Kyle. She wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near him. He spotted me first.
“Erin. What’s wrong?” Kyle said. “You’re lathered. And where’s the other rider?”
“Kim, I was wrong about Gib Knox. Half-wrong anyway. He didn’t kill Drew Baker. Pete Lloyd did. He came after me, but—but we got away. He’s up on Trail One, between the fork and the vista. He might be hurt. He’s armed.” She waited, wide-eyed, for me to finish. “And a little crazy.”
Kyle took the Appaloosa’s reins and led him into the corral. I watched and waited as Kim radioed dispatch and requested immediate backup. She called to Kyle to saddle her horse, then used her cell phone to call Ike. “He’s on foot. He may be armed.” Still listening, she wriggled out of her jacket and tossed it, one-handed, over the fence rail. “I can’t leave him out there, boss. There’s houses. Hikers. Potential hostages.”
She clicked off, swung into the saddle, and took the reins from Kyle.
“Be careful,” I said to her back. “He’s a desperate loser.”
And I don’t want to lose you.
* * *
Kyle tried to convince me to let one of the stable hands groom the mare and Appaloosa—“under the circumstances”—but I insisted on staying. He stayed, too, and we brushed and combed in silence, stroking the horses’ necks, whispering words meant to comfort them and each other.
Deputies arrived and blocked the Lodge entrance. They secured the grounds, telling everyone to stay inside until the all-clear was given. Ike and other deputies, they said, were fanning out along the road and up into the woods, searching.
No telling what Pete would do when he spotted them. But the game was up. He had nowhere to hide.
They’re experts, I reminded myself. And whether it’s cheesemaking, pottery, or law enforcement, experts know what to do.
Kyle and I retreated to the main Lodge, where he marched into the saloon and poured a glass of wine for me and a stiff whiskey for himself.
The wait felt longer than it was. I was halfway into my second glass—a tall draft of water on the side—when Ike Hoover strode into the Lodge.
“Got him,” he announced with a note of triumph.
Beside me, Kyle let out a long sigh of relief.
“And Kim?” I said, not caring if anyone heard my voice shake.
“Deputy Caldwell is assisting with prisoner transport,” Ike said. “A word, Erin?”
But I was already out the door. There was a horse who needed me.
• Thirty-one •
Saturday morning I dressed with extra care, slipping on a soft coral-red-and-gray-striped skirt and a coral V-neck tee with lacey cap sleeves. The bruises on my arm had all but disappeared. I wrapped an acid lime pinspot scarf around my neck and pulled on my red boots. Sandburg meowed his approval.
At the last minute, I dumped the contents of my everyday blue bag into a lime-and-gray colorblock bag with both handles and a shoulder strap.
We may be small-town, but we do have style.
We’d make the news again, but this time, the news was good. Two men were behind bars. Pete had repeated his confession to Ike Hoover. Melinda had told Ike everything she knew, Ned, Ray, and her neighbor confirming their parts of the story. No doubt Gib would attack the timeline, but the case seemed solid. Kim called to say the lab had found Gib’s fingerprints
on Stacia’s phone and laptop, and the tech analyst had found traces of the erased e-mails and recipes. Tara had identified the bloody overshirt stuffed under the porch of a cabin near where Drew had been killed—a piece of evidence the sheriff had not revealed to the public—as Pete’s.
And I intended to let every reporter who called or dropped in know we were celebrating National S’mores Day at the Merc.
“My treat this time,” Chiara said over my shoulder at Le Panier a few minutes later. She gave me a long hug, holding my shoulders for a moment after releasing me. “You’re just like Mom, baby sis. You get going and there’s no stopping you.”
I pointed my pain au chocolat at her. “Family trait.”
Back at the Merc, I sipped my coffee and walked the floor. The store was in great shape. Tracy had managed to restock the shelves before leaving last night. Her gift for display and my talent for product selection complemented each other beautifully.
We cut a few handmade marshmallows into sample sizes. The campfire display in the window and the bags of s’more cookies, graham crackers, and marshmallows near the front counter would light a fire under plenty of customers.
“What are you singing?” Tracy said when she walked in the back door. “Is that from Mary Poppins?”
“The Sound of Music. ‘These are a few of my favorite things.’” I sashayed to imaginary strains of Rodgers and Hammerstein.
“It’s over, isn’t it?” At my nod, she grinned.
“Let’s get this shop back to normal. Whatever that is.”
As I’d expected, reporters from all the regional papers and TV stations called, plus two from L.A. and the entertainment reporter I’d jilted earlier in the week. I kept my comments brief, praised the sheriff’s office, and snuck in a plug for Jewel Bay. The Food Lovers’ Village.
Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) Page 25