My jaw clamped shut.
“If—and I’m just saying if— his death wasn’t an accident,” she said, “Jewel Bay could take a big hit. You know we live or die—no pun intended—on how many people spend how much money between now and Labor Day. And it’s not just the tourists. The jazz festival brings in hundreds of thousands of dollars in advertising and donations. Word will spread, and we need to be prepared for bad press and the fallout.”
Especially once it became known—as it would—that Martin had been pushed to his death.
“You’re the head of the Village Merchant’s Association,” Heidi said, as if I needed reminding. “You have to do something.”
Ike Hoover was a good man and a good cop, but his job was to put someone behind bars. It wasn’t his job to care about tourism or the financial impact of an investigation on the community. That was our job. My job.
“You have to do something,” she repeated.
“Okay, I will. I promise,” I said, though I suspected Heidi was thinking press releases and a social media campaign about the virtues of the village. She wasn’t thinking I should slink around asking questions.
But every job carries hidden responsibilities. And investigating murder seemed to be one of mine.
Seven
Tanner had not seen who’d been with Gerry Martin on the trailhead. A good handful of folks—locals and outsiders—had a beef with the man.
And it appeared that, unwittingly, I was one of them. Although my only beef was irritation at being pulled into the mystery without knowing why.
I did know one thing: The secret to a person’s death always lies in their life. I didn’t know much about Martin or his music, but plenty of folks around here did.
Years ago, when Jewel Bay hit a rough patch, a core group of residents set out to give the town an economic boost. They focused on tourism, playing up recreation and the natural charm of the village, the original townsite by the bay. At about the same time, artists discovered the area and created their own community. The trends merged, and Jewel Bay became a place that nurtures potters and painters, sculptors and jewelers, along with hikers, golfers, and boaters. The Playhouse, long a mainstay, boomed. More recently, great restaurants had fired up a new nickname: the Food Lovers’ Village. The Jazz Festival added music to the mix. Many of the original shops and galleries downtown were now in their second or third iteration, new owners adding new flavor.
I strode up Front Street and pushed open the heavy door of Perspective. Not everyone likes the way Rebecca had reframed the old gallery—no more cowboys or Indians—but I found the white walls and uncluttered space soothing. Nothing but a chair or two—themselves works of art—sat in the middle of the room. Nothing to get in the way as the viewer stepped back for perspective.
I’d moved from a Roger Rink oil—a five-by-five semi-abstract of fall foliage—to a Terry Karson collage, a twist on found objects that required contemplation, when Rebecca approached.
“Erin. I heard.”
“Oh, Rebecca. What a tragedy, and right when the festival is about to start.”
Her strong jaw quivered and she blinked, her turquoise eyes damp and shiny. “None of that’s my problem anymore.”
I tilted my head, puzzled. “But you’re director. Or whatever your title is. I’m surprised to find you here. The last-minute details must be crazy.”
“Erin, you disappoint me. I thought the village telegraph ran straight to the Merc.”
So did I. Before I could ask what was up, the door opened and an unfamiliar couple walked in.
“Welcome to Perspective,” Rebecca called. “Our artists offer a contemporary take on the West. Let us know if you have any questions.”
Over Rebecca’s shoulder, I glimpsed her shop assistant at an elegant mahogany desk in the next room, opening the mail. No rotating retail clerks here—the gallery relied on a staff of professional artists who each worked a few days a week, staying visible and current. And not coincidentally, freeing their employer for copious amounts of volunteer work.
Which was now prompting a rash of questions. I asked the first. “Can we talk, in private?”
Rebecca led me through the far gallery, hung with black-and-white photographs reminiscent of Ansel Adams’s luminous landscapes. I followed her up the wide stairs, my hand trailing over the peeled-pine banister, then through a room lined with drawings. They reminded me of Chihuly sketches I’d seen in Seattle, visions of fantastical blown glass.
She unlocked a door and we entered her private office. Lush and tranquil. Not the hub of activity I’d expected.
Rebecca stood behind her desk and picked up a filigreed silver pen.
“I know you’re a great organizer, with a team of well-trained volunteers, but you’re pretty relaxed for being in charge of a festival starting in less than twenty-four hours.”
She let out a long sigh. “Because I’m not in charge. As of two days ago.”
The image of Ann Drake’s face, concern showing through the artful makeup, flashed in my mind. Of course she would have heard of her friend’s ouster.
“Grant Drake did everything he could,” Rebecca continued, as if reading my mind. “But Dave Barber convinced them—well, it doesn’t matter.”
I lagged behind her on the twisty road we were taking. Why would the board fire its director on the eve of the big event? Surely any problem short of major malfeasance could wait. What had Dave Barber said to the board, and why had they gone along?
And did any of it have anything to do with Gerry Martin’s death?
“Sorry to hear that,” I said.
“I didn’t think spreading the news would be good for the festival. I should have seen it coming.”
I pulled out one of a pair of director’s chairs, upholstered in brown-and-white cowhide, and sat. “Seen what?”
She snapped her gaze toward me. “Dave Barber wants to run this festival his way. It’s fine to make changes, but people like what they like. You change too much, you lose your core audience. The powers that be want to keep their powers, and grab more. They don’t see—”
She broke off, her harsh tone hanging in the air. She slammed the pen down and leaned on the desk, hands flat, lips tight, eyes hard.
As Heidi had said, once the news of Martin’s death spread, we’d know what the impact would be. For the village, I hoped for a quick resolution, before merchants lost sales, and hotels and restaurants lost reservations. For the festival, on the other hand, the longer the news that Martin had been pushed stayed under wraps, the better. Without the festival, Jewel Bay would lose its place as a musical hub. Teachers, students, and performers would suffer, and so would the rest of us. The village would lose its sound track.
And as president of the Merchants’ Association, I would hear plenty of sour notes.
But in the meantime, a bigger worry stared us in the face.
“Rebecca, talk to me about Gerry Martin.”
She folded her arms and faced the big west window. The sun had disappeared, and the sky had begun to gray. Even in profile, I could see her struggle to keep her composure.
“Was it personal? Were you—involved?”
She gave a sigh of resignation. “We met years ago, in Austin. I’d already started summering in Jewel Bay. The festival needed a big name, and I suggested him. The relationship always meant more to me than it did to him—typical, I think.”
Sad, I thought.
“My friends warned me he was a jerk, but I didn’t see it. After I bought the gallery, he kept coming up for the festival and the midwinter fundraiser, and I saw him in Austin a few times a year.” Eyes damp, she sniffed deeply. “He’d always traveled, so I didn’t think me living in Montana would make much difference, but … ”
Friday night, I’d assumed he was referring to business plans, but maybe not.
“Everybody has
a rough patch now and then. But Gerry—he didn’t know how to handle it. He blamed everybody else. Fired his manager, blew off his friends. I don’t know whether he changed, or I finally saw his true self.”
If he had no one left, who would claim his body? Organize a memorial? Leave flowers on his grave?
“And you thought you were next.”
Rebecca clamped her lips together and nodded. “Tickets for his concert on Tuesday night barely hit sixty percent.”
“It’s Saturday morning. The festival hasn’t started yet.”
“Every other show is sold out.” She turned toward me, arms folded. “Barber insists it’s my fault. That Gerry was washed up, and I brought him back anyway. He claimed he had a line on someone who would fill every seat and then some. Someone who didn’t want to play with Gerry.”
“The board got rid of you for that?”
“Erin, none of that matters. He’s dead.”
As I knew well. “I’m so sorry. You must be devastated. But I’ve been puzzling over what Martin said last night after the concert, about plans and false pretenses, and everyone wanting something. What did he mean?”
She stared, as if I was speaking Mandarin. Then she rolled her eyes and waved a hand. “Oh. That. That was nothing. More of Gerry twisting facts around so he could justify blaming other people when he didn’t get what he wanted.”
I didn’t believe her. If Barber had been upset with her over next week’s ticket sales, Martin might have been upset, too. I knew nothing about the artists’ arrangements with the festival, didn’t know whether they were paid a percentage or a flat fee, but open seats did no one any good, especially in a small venue. Sellouts had to be a selling point for an artist booking future gigs.
“I imagine the board will make a statement about his death, but since you were close— ”
“Rebecca?” One hand on the door frame, the shop assistant leaned in. “Customer with questions.”
“Be right there,” Rebecca called. To me, she said, “I feel terrible. If he hadn’t come here, if it hadn’t been for me, Gerry would still be alive. Please wait, Erin—I won’t be long.”
After a minute or two, I started to feel antsy. It’s hard to wait when you have a million things to do, especially when you have no idea what you’re waiting for. Gerry Martin’s face beckoned from a stack of CDs on the shelves behind Rebecca’s desk. I’d bought his new CD last night, but hadn’t listened yet. I stood and walked around her desk to reach for an older recording. A pile of files and papers slid off and crashed onto the floor.
“Criminy.” I knelt and started gathering them up. Two thick catalogs for musical gear, sporting labels from the music shop in Pondera. A third catalog lay open, facedown, at the edge of the splayed-out mess. I stretched and snared it, pulling it toward me, and finally got hold of the binding. Started to close it when I realized a loose paper stuffed inside had gotten crumpled. I laid it flat and ran my hand over it, a printout captioned Quote with a bottom line approaching six figures. I peered closer. For musical equipment, dated a week ago, listing Rebecca as the buyer. An order for the festival?
Had the story about power and direction been a cover? Was the real problem not bringing back Martin, but unauthorized spending?
A folder from a village real estate agent also lay open. I picked up a handful of pages, not sure what went where. I slipped a listing agreement and a quit claim deed, stamped DRAFT, back in the folder.
“What are you doing?”
Rebecca’s sharp tone startled me, and I scrambled to my feet, folder in one hand, loose pages in the other. “Sorry. I bumped the corner of your desk, but I’ve almost got it cleaned up.”
She snatched the papers from me. “I’ll take care of it. You can leave now.”
“Ohhh-kay.” I pushed myself up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make a mess.”
“No one ever does.”
∞
Across the street, the Playhouse lobby thrummed. A line of volunteers filed past a table stacked with class schedules, maps of festival venues, and brochures from Jewel Bay businesses and attractions, stuffing them into folders. At another table, a woman laid out name tags in alphabetical order. In the box office, Dave Barber conferred with the Playhouse manager, a woman with an extraordinary eye for details. Nothing dared go wrong on her watch.
But despite the activity and excitement, I sensed an unspoken anxiety. It peered out from hooded eyes, and lurked in the low voices fretting over bad luck and bad publicity.
I picked up a program, Martin’s face shining back at me.
“Hello, Erin,” Dave said. “What brings you here?” Had I ever seen him without his hat? My mother might frown at men wearing hats indoors, but that rule seems, pardon me, old hat these days.
“I wanted to offer condolences about Gerry Martin’s death, on behalf of the Merc, and the Merchants’ Association. If there’s any way we can help … ”
“I’m worried about cancellations,” said a woman who worked as a desk clerk at the motel on the highway, and I heard muttered agreement.
“Are you getting calls? Has this hit the national news yet?”
“Everything’s under control,” Barber said. “We’re rearranging the concert schedule and redistributing his classes. It’s a pain, but we’ll manage.”
That had to be done, sure, but was Martin’s death nothing more than a scheduling glitch?
Heaven save me from international stardom, if that’s all it means. If you don’t form true friendships along the way. If you visit a town half a dozen times and don’t touch people’s hearts and spirits.
I’d barely known the man, and I felt wounded on his behalf.
“You know, in business school, we studied companies that were hit by tampering and other tragedies, and we learned the importance of being proactive. Since not all your students have arrived yet, you might consider sending out a text or e-mail explaining what’s happened, expressing your grief and sympathies, and assuring them that the show will go on, as Martin would have wanted.” I wasn’t on the committee; this wasn’t really my place. “Just a suggestion.”
“And an excellent one,” the motel clerk said.
“I can handle that,” another volunteer offered.
“And you should get that same message out to fans through the press, and your own social media. On the personal side, I’d like to send his family a basket from the Merc, in memory of all he did for the community.”
Barber looked like I’d suggested a sunbathing trip to Mars.
“That’s a lovely idea, Erin,” Ann Drake said. I hadn’t noticed her come up. “He had no family, but we’ve been in touch with his booking agent. We’re setting up a scholarship fund, and we’ll name the first Gerry Martin guitar fellow next year.”
“That’s great.” I glanced at Barber, who frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Count on the Merc for a contribution.”
“Perfect,” Ann said.
“How is Gabby dealing with the news of her mentor’s passing?” The words die and death don’t bother me, maybe because I encountered death so personally, so deeply, so young, but Ann Drake seemed like a woman who would prefer to keep her distance from the inevitable.
“She’s shocked, as we all are, but she’ll get through it.”
“Good. I’ll let you get back to work. If there’s anything we can do, let me know.”
“Thank you, Erin. We’ll remember your kindness.”
Outside, the clouds had darkened from plain gray to pewter streaked with gunmetal. (With an artist sister, I’ve learned to see beyond the colors in the standard twenty-four-count box of Crayolas.) The sign advertising the festival whipped in the wind, metal grommets clanging loudly against the Playhouse’s awning.
I shivered. Rain is common in late May and early June—we need it, to fend off forest fires in July and August—but the chan
ge in the air hung like an omen. In the flowerbeds outside the Playhouse, a late tulip had snapped off and lay on the sidewalk.
“Poor thing.” I picked it up, twirling the blossom as I walked, its petals tutu pink with splashes of white and deep red. “A little water, and you can live happily for days on my desk.”
The lonely tulip made the reality of Gerry Martin’s death worse. No family, few friends to grieve for him. Fans like Heidi would be touched, but they’d move on. Rebecca Whitman and Gabby Drake seemed to have suffered the biggest losses. I knew from experience the guilt that lingers when your last contact with someone before his death was unpleasant.
I would do what I could to bring him justice, and to help them recover.
And to prevent long-term damage to Jewel Bay. Tucked at the edge of the wildlands, at the base of mountains formed by shifting tectonic plates, between two rivers and the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi, this town and its residents were no strangers to fire, flood, or earthquake. Even the occasional pestilence, in the form of fruit flies and drought-driven grasshoppers.
If it turned out that someone intimately involved with the festival was responsible for Martin’s death …
I shivered. Was that truly possible? It had to be. Who besides the organizers and other musicians had any connection to Martin? Unless he’d pissed off a barista but good, or provoked a bartender to a murderous rage.
“Maine, Auntie! I got—”
I spun around on the sidewalk at my nephew’s call, my brain sizing up the situation and kicking me into motion before I fully registered what was happening.
“Landon, STOP!”
Rubber ground on the pavement as a driver slammed on his brakes, the back end of his car jerking to a dead halt in the middle of Front Street.
I sprang forward and scooped up the boy, his battered brown cowboy boots kicking my thighs.
The driver climbed out of his car. “Where did he come from?” he asked, voice shaking. My heart pounded and I didn’t know whether to yell at the six-year-old, the driver, or God.
Treble at the Jam Fest Page 6