Treble at the Jam Fest

by Leslie Budewitz

  A narrow, paved lane wound through the complex. A trumpet rang out through an open window. Cars parked beside the cottages bore plates from all around the country. I shuddered at the memory of yesterday’s license plate incident, but if he came down here with an adult—preferably by the hand—Landon could check off a few more states.

  I seriously needed to get back to the shop—I’d left Lou Mary alone too long—but I couldn’t stop myself from detouring into the complex. It’s odd how a building can project a mood, but I knew I’d reached Gerry Martin’s cottage before I saw the yellow tape stretched across the door.

  The deck held a pair of wooden chairs, brightly striped cushions on the seats, a small round table between them. Up the steps I went. I shaded my eyes with my hands and peered in the window.

  A black rolling suitcase stood next to the door. Beside it sat a sturdy guitar case. I squinted to scope out the rest of the living room and a tiny kitchenette tucked in the corner. No signs of occupancy. No signs of trouble.

  I walked back the way I’d come, puzzled. If the sheriff had already packed up Martin’s belongings, why keep the cottage off-limits? Had someone else packed them?

  “Thanks—enjoy your stay.” The manager, a woman I knew mainly from the Merchants’ Association, stood outside the office. A couple sauntered down the walk. I smiled and stepped aside to let them pass.

  “You’re full up,” I said. “That’s great.”

  “Without the festival, we wouldn’t be at full occupancy till mid June. I could have rented Martin’s cottage three times today, if the sheriff would let me.”

  “What’s the holdup?”

  “Don’t know. Probably tomorrow, he said.” She crossed her arms. “Martin had barely unpacked when he packed up again.”

  I waited.

  “Ike and the deputies crawled all over the place yesterday. Tried to interview the guests, but most of them were out. Quizzed me up one side and down the other, but all I could tell them was he’d been booked for the week, then Saturday morning he said he’d be leaving early.”

  So Martin had packed the bags. “Did he say why?”

  “Not a word. But he paid me for Saturday night, in case I couldn’t rent it out on short notice.”

  First generous thing I’d heard about Martin.

  “At least he didn’t die here,” I said. “That’s bad for business.”

  “You’re telling me,” she said, whistling as she headed inside. Halfway to Front Street, I recognized the tune. I’d be singing John Denver’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane” all week.

  That’s a music festival for you.

  ∞

  As predicted, the skies had cleared by evening. I was sitting on the park lawn on an old quilt my Gran had made, Tanner on my left, Adam sprawled out on my right. Chiara leaned over from her blanket and handed me a glass of rosy-pink cava, the Spanish sparkling wine.

  “Champagne twice in one day,” Tanner said. “You guys know how to live.”

  I clinked my plastic flute against his beer bottle. Around us, others spread out their blankets and picnics, popping corks and bottle caps. I recognized many of the folks who’d crowded the courtyard Friday night. The area closest to the stage had been reserved for students and faculty. Tracy and her beau, Rick, sat one blanket away from us. I waved to Kim, walking in with her parents, folding camp chairs in her arms. Each tall, slim, and blond, they could have been an ad for their dude ranch.

  Walt and Taya Thornton, who run the antique shop in the block north of the Merc, approached. One of our picnic baskets swung from Walt’s hand.

  “Fresca, Bill,” Taya cried. “We heard. Congratulations!”

  A round of kisses and hand-shaking followed. Seeing my mother and Bill so happy made me all tingly inside.

  My sister handed out plates and forks, and we started passing dishes. No mustard or mayo in my mother’s potato salad: diced potatoes, barely-cooked green beans sliced the long way, olive oil and wine vinegar, capers, and fresh herbs. Tanner handed me the tray of deviled eggs sprinkled with smoked paprika.

  “Better take one now,” I said. “You won’t get another chance.”

  He obeyed.

  Next came tortellini salad with Adam’s favorite spicy salami. Then the leftover sausages, cut in bite-sized pieces, because it’s not a picnic without some kind of burger or dog, and there was a six-year-old in the crowd.

  “Save room for dessert,” Chiara told Tanner. “We’ve got iced coffee and rhubarb bars.”

  After all, we were the Murphys.

  I took a bite. The park was filling up. Good. Music lovers were not being put off by the bad news. So far, anyway.

  We’d passed several uniformed deputies on our way in. Now, a few feet behind the ticket booth, in front of the long hedge separating the concert area from the park below, I spotted Ike Hoover and Deputy Oakland. The deputy had dressed like his boss—always good strategy—in khakis and a polo, a fleece jacket not quite hiding his gun. Not that he necessarily meant it to—they were here to see, yes, but also to be seen.

  I turned back to the crowd. I didn’t want to think about murder and motive tonight.

  Gabby Drake sat to our left with her parents. They’d brought a picnic, and Grant filled wineglasses. At the entrance, Jennifer stopped briefly at the ticket booth, then zeroed in on an open spot. Sam straggled behind her, carrying chairs and a small cooler. She never looked at him.

  Uh-oh. Trouble in winemaking paradise?

  “Do they always eat like this?” Tanner said to Adam.

  “Why do you think I hang around?” my sweetie replied and winked at me.

  Dave Barber took the stage, and the babble died down. I reached over to the cooler and refilled my flute from the magic pink bottle.

  “Welcome—welcome, once again to the Jewel Bay Jazz Festival. Our shows this year will be bigger and better than ever.” He paused and we filled the gap with applause. “We have some phenomenal, and I mean phenomenal, rising stars here this week. And our guest artists—well, the lineup is second to none.”

  More applause. Standing near the hedge, Rebecca Whitman bounced from foot to foot, a white sweater tied around her shoulders.

  “First, I need to acknowledge a loss in our festival family. Gerry Martin was a master guitarist. An innovative performer. Every one of us, from the oldest hand to the newest volunteer, valued his presence, and we all mourn his passing.”

  Adam pushed himself up from one elbow to sitting, and crossed his long legs.

  “Tonight’s concert is dedicated to Gerry’s memory, and half the proceeds from the ticket sales will be earmarked for a scholarship for an up-and-coming jazz guitarist.”

  I tucked my glass between my knees and joined the crowd in applauding. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rebecca. Arms tightly crossed, she glowered at the stage.

  “Tonight, our opening night, we offer a taste of the week to come, a sampler to whet your appetite. Put your hands together for the finest Gypsy jazz ensemble in North America.” Barber’s voice rose and he extended his arm. “From Seattle, pleeease welcome Pearllll Djang-gohhh.”

  Applause erupted as the musicians took the stage. Adam skooched closer—not easy to do on a quilt on the grass—his arm behind me. I leaned into his shoulder as the bright, swinging rhythms filled the park.

  “Mommy, I need the bathroom.” My nephew’s words rose over a quiet moment in the music, and I heard a chuckle behind me. Chiara shushed him, and they hurried out, Landon tugging at his pants with his free hand.

  A Brazilian trio took the stage next, blending American jazz and the Latin sound. Then, intermission. We all stood, stretching arms and legs, except Tanner, who folded his hands behind his head on the quilt.

  “Nap time. You wore me out on that hike.”

  “Where did you guys go?”

  “Wolf Creek. Let’s take
a walk.” Adam took my hand. As we passed the stage, the crew rolled the grand piano into place and I remembered Jennifer’s gripe about moving gear. She’d always been upbeat, until the past few days. What had changed?

  Hand in hand, we strolled through the park and out the entrance. We crossed the bridge back into the village. Adam’s purposeful steps told me he had a destination in mind. Or a conversation.

  I thought about the announcement my mother and Bill had made this morning. I thought about the ring I hadn’t been ready to wear.

  Was he thinking what I was thinking? My chest felt all fluttery. I glanced up.

  My beloved looked like we were heading for the firing squad.

  He led me to the greenbelt that lines the bay. A lawn slopes to a path above the seawall, a gravel beach below. Fed by the Jewel River, the bay flows out into Eagle Lake. The water levels hadn’t fully risen yet, and the public docks stuck out above the muck.

  Adam aimed for a bench with a view.

  “Did I tell you I heard Pearl Django once when I lived in Seattle?” I said. “Great fun.”

  “Erin, we need to talk.”

  It’s funny. Every woman I know says she wants more conversation in her relationship, but when a man says “we need to talk,” it never sounds good.

  “Adam, we went over this last winter. You said you understood my need to dive in, to protect what matters to me. You said you loved that about me. You said—”

  “This isn’t about you investigating, Erin. This has nothing to do with Gerry Martin or the festival or the village.”

  I raised my face to his, stunned. “Then what’s it about? What’s wrong?”

  For the next ten minutes, he told me what was wrong. He told me why Tanner had finally made good on his threat to visit, on short notice, and the appointment that had made him miss his flight. He told me how the leukemia that struck Tanner first as a teenager, then again a few years ago, had returned.

  He talked. I listened, my gut twisting, my hand to my mouth.

  “I wondered if he was sick,” I said after Adam finished, “when he didn’t eat. But I figured he’d picked up a bug on the plane. I never thought—he’s been in remission for years. When did you find out? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Saturday, after we left the sheriff’s office. After I’d dragged him out on the river, then up a cliff. He was out of breath, and I gave him a hard time about being out of shape.”

  That’s why they’d gone to Wolf Creek today. Stunning views, but an easy walk from a trailhead you could drive to.

  “I almost told you last night. This morning, I didn’t want to upset you at a family gathering.”

  My chin quivered and I reached for his hand. “What’s next?”

  “He starts chemo in ten days. He wants me there while he goes through treatment.”

  I twined my fingers through his, and we watched the western sky turn a muddled gray. No glowing pink-and-orange sunsets tonight.

  “We’ve been buds since the first grade. We didn’t have great childhoods—you know all that—but we’ve always had each other’s back. I said no last time. But now …”

  “Go,” I said. “Don’t worry about the camp. Let your boss figure it out.”

  “One more thing.” He took in a long, slow breath and let it out. What he was seeing with those gorgeous deep, dark eyes, I couldn’t imagine. “The business he’s so proud of, that he built from scratch. By himself.”

  The business Tanner had told me about last night, with a drive I admired, a passion I understood.

  “He’s giving half of it to me now. And if he—” Adam’s voice broke in midair. “If something happens, he wants me to have it all.”

  Thirteen

  Adam matched his stride to mine and gripped my hand. I did not let go when we left the bench and greenbelt, when we wound our way back to the bridge, when we strode through the park.

  I was not letting go.

  The clouds grew darker, denser as we neared the concert lawn. The air felt heavier, too.

  Almost as heavy as my heart.

  “S’wonderful, s’marvelous.” We’d missed the start of the second half, and the vocalist was in full swing. I tried to channel her beat, smiling broadly, swinging my hips. Acting “as if”—one of my mother’s sure-fire remedies for turning a frown upside down.

  At the family spot, Tanner glanced first at Adam, then me. He knew. They’d planned this. I dropped to the quilt, and kissed his cheek, for once unable to speak. He returned my thin smile. Over his shoulder, I saw Landon sprawled across his father’s lap, asleep.

  Sometimes I longed to be six again.

  ∞

  “What a difference a day makes.” The singer’s closing lines echoed in my mind as I parked the Subaru next to my cabin. When the thunder rolled and lightning flashed through the sky behind the concert shell, the crowd had disbanded quickly. We’d snatched up our quilts, grabbed our coolers and picnic baskets, and scurried to our cars. The first drops had fallen as we’d reached the parking lot behind the Merc.

  “I can take him home, then come down,” Adam had said, and I’d wanted to say yes. Then the sky had opened up, and Tanner had shouted “Z, get your ass in gear.”

  “You take care of him,” I’d said. “Don’t let him get a chill.” Then I stretched up for a kiss that lingered on my lips.

  Now I gathered my things and dashed to the covered porch. Inside, I toed off my shoes and dropped my blue bag on the bench. Somewhere in my misadventures, the bag’s metal clasp had torn loose, ripping the leather beyond repair. As I dug out my phone, I noticed a hole in the lining. Chiara might be right—no harm flirting with a new bag.

  Little cat feet crept up beside me. “Hey, Sandy. You two play nice while I was gone?” I bent down and rubbed the velvety patch under the cat’s chin. He closed his eyes and purred. Males are so predictable.

  Well, in some species.

  The tortellini and deviled eggs had long worn off, and I’d missed the rhubarb bars, handed out while Adam and I had gone walking by the bay. I poured a glass of Cabernet, then filled one of Reg Robbins’s red bowls with vanilla ice cream and chocolate-Cabernet sauce, a Merc bestseller. Before curling up in my comfy brown leather chair, I popped in the CD Chiara had bought me of tonight’s featured artist, the jazz singer from Denver with the smoky voice.

  “It had to be you, wonderful you.”

  At least the CD player and the cats were mine. The leather chair, the tables and lamps—they all belonged to the cabin. To Bob and Liz Pinsky, my snowbird landlords and friends. I’d lucked into a great setup—a lovingly restored log cabin with a great little kitchen and a picture-perfect bed-and-bath addition, five miles from town. And rent-free. The Pinskys called me the caretaker, but they hired a man to plow in the winter and a crew to mow, weed, and trim in the summer. Bob took care of plugged gutters and dripping faucets while they were here, and he made clear I should hire out any maintenance or repairs the place needed when they were gone. All I had to do was leave a few lights on and make sure the property looked occupied.

  Sweet deal. I licked a stray bit of chocolate off the back of the spoon.

  I was thirty-three, and what kind of life had I made for myself? I ran a shop I didn’t own in a building I didn’t own. Slept in a bed I didn’t own.

  And I’d had about enough of the unintended rootlessness.

  From her perch on the brown leather couch—another piece I didn’t own—Pumpkin ogled my bowl. “Don’t even think about it.”

  I’d thought Adam and I had a future together. I still thought so. But now … Heat pricked at my eyes, and I blinked hard. Spooned up a double bite.

  Not for one minute did I think Adam should not go to Minneapolis. “I’m all he’s got,” Adam had said.

  “He’s got me, too,” I’d replied, meaning every word.

 
The lights flickered. The music stopped, mid-beat. In the momentary silence, I heard the wind whipping through the woods. A limb from the giant spruce behind the cabin hit the logs with a deep thwack. Tiny cones and branches skittered across the metal roof.

  The lights came back on, and the music resumed with a drum roll.

  But Tanner’s plan for his company changed everything. Adam could be a silent partner from twelve hundred miles away, but he wasn’t the silent partner type. When I talked business, he always listened, and was a great brain-stormer. The solar coffee roaster intrigued him, with its combination of green technology, innovation, and coffee. A lot like Tanner’s business, minus the T-shirts.

  How tempted was he to go back and join his buddy, especially now that he was half owner? Especially now that Tanner was sick?

  I scanned the bowl for stray chocolate and saw none. Safe for cats. “Have at it, girl. Polish the bowl.”

  She hopped up on the table. Not good care-taking or cat-parenting to let her eat on furniture I didn’t own.

  “Don’t you look at me like that,” I told Sandburg, his green eyes glowing. “Besides, you don’t like ice cream.”

  Monday mornings always come too early, but in this mood, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I tossed my skirt and hoodie on to the bedroom chaise and pulled on the stretched-out black yoga pants and oversized gray T-shirt that pass for my jammies. Grabbed my laptop and headed back to the living room.

  Spreadsheets comfort me. I find solace in resizing columns and labeling rows, in the blank spaces waiting to bring order to an untidy world. Plus filling them in makes me feel like I’m in control, like I’m taking action.

  Even if I’m fooling myself.