Treble at the Jam Fest

by Leslie Budewitz

  He stopped at the yellow sawhorse. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the scene, his dark eyes pausing briefly on me. He exchanged a few words with Derek, who pointed at Adam and Tanner.

  “Erin, I didn’t expect to see you. Adam,” Ike said. They shook hands. I’m five-five, but I felt like a shrimp, surrounded by men six feet or better. Adam introduced Tanner, who described what he’d seen. Ike listened intently, then, when Tanner had finished, asked a few questions. I admired Tanner’s composure, though his voice trembled at the part about the body hitting the rocks, and I shivered involuntarily. Adam wrapped an arm around me.

  “You’re sure the other person shoved him?” Ike said.

  “Absolutely,” Tanner said. “But height, gender—no idea. Sorry.”

  “Keep that to yourselves, if you wouldn’t mind.” Ike’s face gave away nothing. “All three of you.”

  We nodded, and Ike trained his attention on the trail, as I had done, careful of his footsteps. Deputy Oakland took the same shots I’d taken, using a ruler and a big camera on a tripod. Ike directed him to get a few close-ups at the trail’s edge. I wondered if they could see prints or scuff marks that had not been visible from my rock perch.

  Ike conferred with the EMTs, then came back over to us. “We’ll need to make a water approach, to get the body. It’s too steep to safely bring him up this way—I won’t put anyone else at risk. We can come up from the bay and skirt the last rapids, but the water’s too shallow for our power boat.”

  “I can borrow a motorized raft from an outfitter in town,” Adam said. “No reason to wait for Search and Rescue to truck theirs over.”

  “Good idea.” To his deputy, Ike said, “Coordinate with Dispatch to commandeer that raft. D’Orazi, can you take the ambulance around to the bay, then bring a stretcher up with the raft? I’m going down to check the scene.”

  Deputy Oakland opened his mouth, but at a look from Ike, he closed it and handed his boss a smaller camera, which Ike hung around his neck before heading down the game trail the guys had used. Never begrudge a law enforcement department its in-house exercise gym and weight room.

  We watched him go over the edge, then he disappeared from sight and Oakland started muttering. “He’s too old for that. If Deputy Caldwell were here—”

  He caught himself and broke off, glancing at me sharply, then radioed Dispatch with an update and to request a call for the raft.

  I’d been at more than my share of crime scenes in the last year, each unique, but what made this one different was the absence of Deputy Kim Caldwell, my BFF from the sixth grade to the middle of senior year. When my father was killed in a hit-and-run that February, I’d lost my best friend, too, and hadn’t learned why until last winter, fifteen years later. The tragedy changed both our lives. She responded by becoming a deputy sheriff, working her way up to detective.

  But the discovery of the guilty driver’s identity a few months back had shaken her deeply, and she took a leave of absence from the department. To rethink things, she said. She’d spent the last few months working with horses in California. She’d returned to her family’s guest lodge and dude ranch a couple of weeks ago, and we’d gone riding on Wednesday.

  I wasn’t entirely sure that she’d finished rethinking.

  But while I trusted Ike Hoover to handle the matter well, Kim’s presence would have reassured me, in more ways than one.

  “We’ll come back up in the raft,” Adam said to his own BFF. “Lend a hand if they need us, then grab the kayaks.”

  “Sure.” Tanner looked queasy, as if he weren’t sure he wanted to come that close to Gerry Martin’s body a second time.

  Adam took my hand. “We’ll walk you back to the shop.”

  A few feet downstream, I spotted a white paper cup in a clump of snowberry. “Slobs,” I muttered and snatched it up.

  At the trailhead, the onlookers had dispersed. Both Derek D’Orazi in the ambulance and Deputy Oakland in the sheriff’s rig had left, and the gate stood locked again.

  Doesn’t seem fair that tragedy can strike as easily on a sunny day as under grim or dreary skies. Still, I suppose I’d rather my last vision on this earth be a glimpse of its beauty.

  Who had pushed Gerry Martin? Was it in the heat of an argument, or on purpose? What had been his final thoughts? Had he regretted his outbursts of the night before, his angry snipes and bitter retorts? Had the delights of a blue-sky morning on the River Road calmed him and restored his faith in his fellow man—or at least, his fellow musicians?

  I could hope.

  “All these years, the way you’ve been talking about this place,” Tanner said, breaking the silence, “I thought you were a raving lunatic. I get it now.”

  We paused halfway down Hill Street to drink in the views of the bay and beyond, Eagle Lake and the Salish Hills. We passed the handsome log building that anchors the north end of the village. Dragonfly Dry Goods quilt and yarn shop occupies ground level, the owner’s home above. On the opposite corner stands the historic chalet-style Jewel Inn—no lodging, just great eating. To the right, the recently-restored WPA steps lead uphill to an older residential area.

  And to the left, down Front Street, lies the heart of the village. I’d grown up here, gone away, and come back. The village of Jewel Bay fills my heart, and occasionally breaks it.

  No one ever expects a small town in Montana quite like this. Most days, I’m happy to go on and on about its restaurants, its art, its music, and all the amazing scenery and recreational opportunities. The rivers and lakes in our front yard, the wilderness at our back, and thirty miles up the road, Glacier National Park.

  Today, my Chamber of Commerce patter failed me.

  I gripped Adam’s hand a little tighter.

  We passed Rebecca Whitman’s gallery. I supposed I ought to stop to tell her, since she was in charge of the festival, that one of her guest artists was dead.

  Let someone else bear the bad news. Being this close to another death made me want to hide.

  In front of the Merc, Adam kissed me tenderly and said they’d see me this evening, at my cabin. I watched the two of them go down the street, their strides long and loose, perfectly matched, Tanner a little thinner. They even held their heads the same way. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see them speak; I knew they didn’t have to.

  My feet felt heavy as I crossed the threshold. The Merc, my happy place, seemed a tad less happy than when I’d dashed out the door. Less colorful and inviting. Behind the chocolate counter, Tracy’s eyebrows rose inquisitively. I mustered a wan half smile and retreated to my office.

  I was startled to realize I still held the paper cup I’d found on the trail. Your standard white cup. I tossed it in the silver mesh waste basket and sank into my black desk chair.

  Why did the death of a man I barely knew trouble me so? I’d enjoyed his music, though I lacked Heidi’s emotional connection with it. Last winter Martin had put on a private concert down at Caldwell’s Eagle Lake Lodge. He’d been pleasant, focused on his performance and the big-money donors he’d been brought to town to court. I’d barely merited an introduction, but I hadn’t minded—that’s how the money game is played.

  Arms and ankles crossed, I swiveled my desk chair back and forth.

  Martin’s death troubled me because of his behavior last night. Because I’d witnessed too many conflicts to think it an unfortunate coincidence.

  And because I don’t believe in coincidence. Most times, it’s nothing more than events with connections we can’t see.

  I brought the computer to life and opened my e-mail. Opened the photos I’d sent myself from Derek D’Orazi’s phone.

  Martin’s death troubled me because of what I’d seen—and hadn’t seen—on the trail. But Ike Hoover had seen those things, too. His actions, his furrowed brow, the camera angles he’d directed his deputy to get—all told me he had questions an
d he’d demand answers.

  And it troubled me because I’d been in this position before. I knew people would say the town was cursed. They’d sneak odd glances at my mother and Ned Redaway and me, because we’d hosted the party in our courtyard, the last place Martin had been seen in public. Because of what had happened there last year.

  Because my boyfriend and his buddy had been the first to arrive.

  Because this town depends on tourism, and anything that triggers talk and rumor and fear threatens our livelihoods. And sometimes, our lives.

  I stared at Christine’s painting on the office wall, the stenciled letters, bright spring green on a yellow backdrop speckled with purple, red, and orange. If she were here, what would she tell me?

  She’d toss that long red hair over her bony shoulder, and cackle. You’re screwed, Murphy, she’d say. You’re in this thing, whether you like it or not.

  Because I’m nosy and snoopy and committed to this town. And because the death of a guest—even a few hours later, even after his rage against me and my friends—is bad karma, bad feng shui, and bad manners.

  And my bad luck.

  Five

  Erin, are you hiding up there, or working?”

  I spun the chair toward my mother’s voice. She stood at the bottom of the half flight of stairs, one hand on her hip.

  “I want to talk with you,” she said.

  And I’d thought I had my hands full of trouble before.

  Fresca—short for Francesca—surged up the stairs and stood in the doorway. I hooked one foot around a leg of the rolling piano stool, the only spare seating we have room for, and slid it toward her. She didn’t take it.

  Her lovely oval face, barely lined at sixty-five, bore that I want you to do something look every daughter knows. She wore slim white pants and a deep coral tunic that complemented her olive skin. The skin I didn’t inherit, instead getting my father’s fair black Irish complexion, though the dark eyes that bore into me now were much like my own.

  “We’ve talked about you hiring Lou Mary Vogel. It’s time. Before someone else snatches her up.”

  This was at the least the third time my mother had mentioned the woman. I’d hesitated because Lou Mary wasn’t a foodie. And I wasn’t sure the Merc had room for another bossy woman, even if we do call it leadership skills these days.

  “She knows retail,” my mother went on. “She’s a serious connector. She’ll make the Merc the center of the town and free you up for more of your businesssy stuff.”

  I frowned. “The Merc is the center of town. Has been since 1910.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, darling, times change. Besides, Lou Mary needs the job. And you need someone who can help you when I can’t.”

  Change was afoot, both in my mother’s life and in the Merc. How it would all affect me, I didn’t quite know yet.

  “What’s going on, anyway?” she continued. “You ran out of the Merc like a house on fire, then came back and shut yourself up here without a word.”

  Your mother knows before you do that you’re about to burst into tears. At least, my mom does. Despite doing business with her for the last year, I think of her as “Mom” more often than “Fresca.” Hard to undo a thirty-three-year-old habit.

  I arched my back and sucked in air. It did not go down smoothly. Mom crossed the room, sat on the piano stool, and rolled toward me, all in one fluid motion. She reached for my hand—the one that wasn’t damp with tears and snot.

  “Darling, what’s wrong? Your brother and sister? Adam?”

  “They’re fine. But—but there’s been another death. And it might not be an accident.” I sniffed loudly and filled her in.

  Her long, slender fingers fiddled with the neckline of her tunic. “Are you sure? Who would do such a thing?”

  “No clue. He had a pickle up his b—backside last night, but it was more like he would kill than be killed. When Dave Barber took that solo—”

  “Erin?” Tracy called from the shop. “You busy? I need a hand.”

  “Be right there,” I replied, then turned back to my mother. “I know you’ll tell me not to get involved—”

  “Darling, I learned ages ago that the worst thing a mother can say is ‘Don’t do X.’ It’s a recipe for resentment all around.” She lowered her chin, giving me a long look. “Just be careful.”

  We have our moments, Fresca and I, in business and in life. I have my secrets, and no doubt she has hers. But when friends ask how I can stand to work with my mother, I think of times like this, and the trust she gives me.

  She rose. “Wash your face. Your mascara’s running.”

  But she’ll always be my mother.

  ∞

  I hadn’t seen the Merc this busy in days. Weeks. Months—not since Christmas.

  My mother was right—we needed a good hire, and soon. On our way downstairs, she’d reminded me of the reason she’d come in. “Lou Mary,” she’d said. “Think about it.”

  “No thinking needed,” I’d replied, though why push Lou Mary for the opening, I had to wonder.

  We stopped outside the restroom door and she laid her fingers on my cheek. “Don’t forget, tomorrow morning at the Orchard. It’s going to be very special.”

  The announcement. “You’ll get to meet Tanner,” I’d said. “You’ll love him.”

  In Adam’s stories, Tanner had been the jokester, the kidder. They’d been equal partners in boyhood hijinks, especially those aimed at Adam’s older brothers, whom he called Cain and Abel. They’d stayed close, despite Adam’s decision to head west, texting and e-mailing goofy pictures and tales of their adventures.

  And despite the craziness of missing his flight and coming in late, we’d had a great time last night. But seeing Martin fall would rattle anyone. I vowed to make sure he had a vacation to remember.

  Face washed and mascara refreshed, I shook off my musings. The scene in front of me called for retail triage.

  Fresca had charge of an older couple choosing pastas and sauces from the cooler and the adjacent shelf of jarred Italian specialties. I relieved Tracy at the front counter—the cash-wrap, in retail parlance—and sent her to help a family clustered at the chocolate counter, where sales promised to soar. Her boyfriend had urged her to open her own shop, but I’d enticed her to stay. The Merc needed her. Fingers crossed that she sold well enough to be happy, but not well enough to leave.

  Not my most generous thought. I pushed it away and focused on the young women in front of me. “Oh, Luci’s Spring Rain body wash. You’ll love it. Did you see that she makes a lotion, too? It goes on light, but it lasts, and it’s not too smelly.”

  “I missed that. Be right back.” The girl with the ponytail dashed away, and I started ringing up her friend’s purchases. After the soap girls came a woman stocking up on Montana Gold baking supplies and Cowboy Roast coffee. I suggested a jar of rhubarb jam for her Sunday morning scones.

  “Sold,” she said, and I grinned. One of my favorite words.

  Twenty minutes later, the tide ebbed. Tracy handed me a bottle of Pellegrino and took a long swig of her Diet Coke.

  “The chocolates are flying out of here,” she said, the black-and-gold cowboy boots in her ears doing a two-step with her long chestnut hair. The earrings matched the boots on her feet, another consignment shop score.

  “Cheers.” I tipped my bottle toward her. “But in high summer, we won’t be able to handle this without another sales clerk.”

  “Promise me you won’t hire Candy Divine,” Tracy said. “Even if she cries.”

  I made an X over my heart. “I won’t hire Candy Divine.”

  “Not to be mean, but she’s so sweet, she makes my teeth hurt.”

  I knew exactly what Tracy meant. Not to mention that Candy—Candace DeVernero to her parents—has a voice higher than the Merc’s sixteen-foot ceilings. Plus
she dresses like Minnie Mouse set loose in a lingerie shop.

  But the hordes weren’t clamoring for the job. Luci, aka the Splash Artist, had helped out during the spring, and she’d worked with my brother-in-law to fire up our new web business. Now it was time for her to focus on making soap. Her line of household cleaners using essential oils held promise.

  Fresca pitches in, too, between kitchen stints. But she had other things on her mind, maintaining the Murphy Orchard, a busy place in spring, and spending time with her sweetie, Bill Schmidt.

  Since last winter, I’d approached half a dozen retail veterans, but they’d already lined up all the hours they wanted to work at other village shops and galleries. I’d gotten so many turndowns that I’d started to wonder if it was personal, though everyone insisted it wasn’t.

  Even my cousin Molly, who, like me, had loved traipsing around the store after Granddad as a kid, had said no.

  So I had high hopes for my mother’s candidate.

  “Where is your mom?” Tracy asked.

  “Oh.” I didn’t bother suppressing a smile. “She had an appointment. I can’t tell you.”

  “What, what?”

  “I said, I can’t tell you. But I promise it’s good news.”

  She cocked her head. “Are she and Bill—”

  The door chimed and I glanced up. My smile faded when I saw who it was.

  Men with guns are bad for business.

  Deputy Oakland blinked rapidly. He scanned the shop, then settled his attention on me. “Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Murphy. I need a few minutes. In private. And I’d like to see your back yard. Outside space. Whatever you call it.”

  “The courtyard. Coffee? Sparkling water?”

  He declined, and I led the way out back. I plugged in the fountain—the soft sound of flowing water soothes both the savage breast and the savage beast.