Michelle set my breakfast on the table. “He came in about nine, nine thirty Saturday morning. Ordered a double cappuccino and left.”
Half an hour before Tanner witnessed his fall. The cup in my safe? I didn’t know if it was evidence or not, but I ought to get it to Ike and let him make the decision. Next chance I got.
Michelle stood behind the counter, within earshot.
“Do you remember who else was in around that time?”
She tipped her head, thinking. Pinched her lips together. “Sorry, no.”
Considering the foot traffic a downtown bakery and espresso shop gets, she probably wouldn’t have remembered Martin coming in at all if his death later that morning hadn’t burned it into her brain. I couldn’t blame her. That’s retail.
“Thanks, anyway.” I concentrated on my quiche as Heidi and Ginny chatted. Odd that Martin had gone for a stroll up on the River Road before leaving. He hadn’t struck me as a guy who’d want to see the sights one last time. Maybe he wanted to stretch his legs before the long flight home.
Or maybe he’d been meeting someone.
Had he planned a hike? What kind of shoes had he been wearing? I swallowed the last bite of quiche, scooted back my chair, and picked up my coffee. Wendy wouldn’t mind if I brought the mug back later—I needed to capture these thoughts on the Spreadsheet of Suspicion before they vanished.
“Oh, Erin, I meant to tell you.” Ginny laid a hand on my arm, keeping me in my seat. “Both Dylan and Zayda got into film school. Now the challenge is to keep them from running off and getting married the week after high school graduation.”
“You’re joking, right?”
One side of her mouth shifted, her cheek rising. “I wish I were. If you get a chance, talk some sense? They might listen to someone closer to their own age. Besides, they owe you.”
“Not that much.” Although you could argue that Zayda George owed me her life, but that argument went both ways.
Back in my pint-sized office, I booted up the system running the weekly sales and inventory figures, and opened my spreadsheet. Entered my questions about Martin’s morning walk, and made note of the man’s connections to various locals. Skipped a space below my list of suspects and started adding potential witnesses. Tanner. Chuck. Me.
Tracy would burst in any minute, eyes wide with word that I’d dropped into the Perk Up, one of her morning haunts. Then Lou Mary would rattle the door and we’d launch into a full day of retail sales and training. I’d be lucky to get the weekly paperwork done before tonight’s concert at the Playhouse. I didn’t plan to go to all the events, but Pearl Django was playing and as co-sponsors, the Merc and Snowberry had each scored two tickets.
I brought up the property tax site and clicked furiously.
But my searches for Gerry, Gerald, or Gerard Martin came up empty. I sat back. A lot of people own property under business names, but I had no idea what to look for.
Molly had been telling me yesterday how she was learning the ins and outs of all the computer systems and property records real estate agents use.
And if you can’t ask your family for help, you can’t be much of a spy.
Fifteen
It was early afternoon before I could get away.
They say fifty percent of business is problem solving. In retail, make that sixty. When you’ve got new vendors, a new employee, and an old employee changing roles, all as you’re gearing up for sales season, you’re talking seventy-five percent, minimum.
No sooner had Lou Mary tucked her bag away—a dusty lilac, to match today’s loafers—than vendor deliveries began. Thank goodness I’d run the weekly figures and could input the new deliveries without confusing myself too much. Just because the inventory system is automated doesn’t mean there isn’t plenty of work involved. Huckleberry and chokecherry syrup had somehow gotten the same product number. Each new soap scent needed a separate code—one reason I’d cautioned Luci to keep her line simple. And because her supplier had sent the wrong size bottles and she’d filled them before learning—from me—that she could insist they correct the mistake at their expense, we had to input that change and update the price list on the display.
I griped a bit but didn’t really mind. Focusing on the details kept my mind off murder, off my mother’s engagement and my sister’s bewildering response, and off my boyfriend’s best friend’s life-and-death battle.
“Well, this is the place to be, isn’t it?” A sixty-ish man in a nubby blue short-sleeve shirt strolled in behind his wife. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the scene. My jam and pickle makers were busy restocking their wares while I stood behind the counter with my iPad, updating the inventory. It’s less work for us if vendors restock their own products. But their presence also invites conversation with customers. And that leads to sales.
On the other side of the shop, Tracy fussed over chocolates. Near the front, Lou Mary tucked colorful cloth napkins from Dragonfly Dry Goods into empty spots in the wine rack, camouflaging our wine shortage.
“If we don’t have it, you don’t need it,” I said. But we needed wine. Where was my Monte Verde delivery?
Lou Mary bustled over to give the newcomers the nickel version of the Merc’s history, mission, and product line. I called Sam.
“Sorry, Erin. I’ve got the van loaded, but—well, there’s been a glitch in the matrix. We’re not going to get into town today. Is Thursday soon enough?”
It probably was, but I like my ducks in a row. “Why don’t I run down after lunch? Say, three cases?”
“Great. I owe you.” He clicked off, as if in a hurry. That’s the modern world, all of us juggling too much with too few resources and too little time.
I dashed upstairs to finish the weekly deposit. I zipped the bank envelope shut and tossed it into my bag.
Back downstairs, I spotted Gabby Drake at the chocolate counter.
“Love your earrings,” she told Tracy, whose fingers flew to her miniature Eiffel towers. Ann stood a few feet away, inspecting our hand-blown martini glasses, a new item. She flicked her eyes toward the earrings, obviously unimpressed.
“Good morning, Ann. I think it’s still morning. Hey, Gabby. You have a good run?”
Gabby jerked her head toward me, her black pony tail swaying. “How did you—yeah, thanks. Sometimes I need to get out and move.”
“You’re skipping the workshops this year?”
“I … ” Her super-short shorts showed the effect of regular runs, and her platform sandals made her nearly as tall as her mother, who wore leopard print flats with black leggings and a gold tunic. “I’d planned to, but after—what happened … Maybe later in the week.”
“Teachers are clamoring to have her join their classes. No point letting his misfortune slow you down, dear.”
Murder or accident, surely death was more than misfortune. The girl—she looked very young at the moment—glanced away, lips pushed out, eyes darkening. Ann continued to inspect the pottery and glassware, unruffled.
I wondered how much of this musical dream belonged to the daughter, and how much to the mother.
“These will be absolutely perfect,” Ann said. “I’d like place settings for twelve. And serving pieces, of course. I’m still thinking about the glassware.”
I didn’t bother to hide my pleasure. “That’s great. Reg will be thrilled. I’m sorry I didn’t get to introduce you Friday night. Do you want to take what’s in stock with you, or have all of it shipped at once back to—” I broke off. No need to reveal my snooping.
“Oh, no need to ship,” Ann said. Her left hand floated through the air. “They’re for the house here.”
A morning full of surprises. “I didn’t realize you have a house here.”
“We don’t,” Gabby said. She’d wandered over to the display of wooden crates, accented by an antique washboard and a metal tub, that held L
uci’s soaps and lotions.
“We’re in the market,” Ann said, her tone smooth and sharp at the same time. “There’s been a bit of a holdup, but I think the deal will go through now. Meanwhile, we’re renting a small condo on the harbor.”
Gabby dumped a pile of goat’s milk soaps on the front counter, followed by half a dozen bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and lotion. “If you’re buying dishes for a house we don’t own yet, I can buy the soap.” Then she grabbed two large bottles of Luci’s newest product, a nontoxic all-purpose household cleaner.
Her mother shifted her focus back to the glassware. Turned out the voice of a generation could be a little bratty.
“Isn’t the festival the most fabulous thing? Music, food, and parties.” Lou Mary spoke too brightly, as if determined to get us back on neutral ground.
“Marred by unanswered questions,” Ann said, inspecting a wineglass. “I wish that sheriff of yours would say once and for all that Martin’s death was simply a tragic accident, that he slipped and fell, so we can move on.”
Surely Ike had questioned Ann. But he’d been clever enough that she didn’t know another person had been involved. Did that mean she was on his list, too?
Gabby set a jar of lavender bath salts on the counter with a loud thunk.
“Too soon,” I said.
“It’s tragic, but people will flock to the festival.” Lou Mary seemed to realize she’d put her loafer in her mouth and tried to pull it out. “Once they know what a beautiful place Jewel Bay is, and what wonderful talent it draws.”
“Ann, that reminds me,” I said. “That recording studio Martin wanted to build here. With one foot in rock and one in jazz, he’d have been a great draw. With your contacts in the music world, any thoughts who might be willing to take that on, now that he’s gone?”
Ann took a long moment to reply. “That’s thoughtful, Erin, but Gerry Martin was truly one of a kind. I can’t imagine anyone else having the wherewithal to truly succeed with the endeavor.”
By “wherewithal,” I didn’t think she meant money alone. But Ann Drake would never say “balls” unless she was talking tennis.
“Mom, you hated Gerry.” Gabby spat out the words. “You only put up with him because you thought he was my ticket to the success you never had.” She stomped out, her heavy steps filling the silence.
Ann ignored her daughter’s behavior. “Erin, please call the potter and place the order. I’ll make arrangements to pay later, if that’s acceptable. As for these things—” She gestured at the bars and bottles covering the counter.
I flashed out both hands, in a don’t worry gesture. She thanked us and followed her daughter out the front door.
Lou Mary and I reshelved the soaps and shampoos, then I sent her on a lunch break and asked Tracy to handle the store. Much as I hated to leave again, I had a mission.
Five minutes later, I walked in to Jewel Bay Realty, crammed into a skinny space between a boutique and Rebecca’s gallery. At the front desk, Molly stared at the computer screen. Behind her, the agents’ desks sat empty.
“You eat yet?” I raised a fragrant bag from Le Panier and set two bottles of San Pellegrino mineral water on the desk.
“Oh my God, Erin, you are a savior.” Molly sniffed the white-wrapped sandwich I handed her, eyes half closing in rapture. She might not share my half-Italian genes, but she shared my devotion to Wendy’s grilled panini.
After we’d taken a few bites, I asked if she could figure out whether Gerry Martin had been trying to buy real estate in the area.
“If the purchase is pending, or just closed, it wouldn’t show on the property tax records yet.” She wiped her mouth. “I’m pretty sure we didn’t represent him, but let me see if he was a buyer on any of our recent sales.”
I watched her fingers fly over the keyboard and took a long draw on my Pellegrino. She turned back to me, shaking her head. “Erin, I probably shouldn’t ask, but why do you want to know?”
“Following a hunch.” I’d tell her my idea about the music studio later. The plans had already been drawn up, according to Chuck. If we knew what property Martin had meant to buy, Molly could help one of the agents recruit a new buyer to take on the project. Her first big deal. Meanwhile, I fibbed. “Next question—and this is my curiosity. Ann Drake ordered a ton of pottery for their new house, but I didn’t get to ask her where it is. Do you know?”
Her eyes widened. “What? They found a place? They’ve been running their agent ragged, showing them properties. They’ve got to have lakefront, but they also need mountain views. They want an orchard—”
“HA. Everyone wants an orchard, until they actually have one and have to figure out what to do with it.”
“Tax break,” she said. “Your waterfront trophy home gets treated as farmland if you have enough acreage planted in saleable fruit. I can’t believe, after all the hours and hours we’ve spent searching for listings and hauling them around, they would buy through someone else. No wonder the agents say buyers are liars.” She clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Guess I misunderstood. Maybe she got so excited when she saw Reg’s pottery that she jumped the gun.”
Molly clicked a few more keys and closed the screen. “No offer officially on file. But Ann Drake doesn’t seem like a woman who gets carried away over dishes.”
No, she didn’t. “Well, don’t tell anybody I said that. In case I’m wrong. Because I’m sure I’m wrong.”
Molly fixed her green eyes on me. “Erin, I won’t tell anybody because you asked me not to. But you are almost never wrong.”
“There’s always a first time.” I stood. “Thanks, cuz.”
On my way up Hill Street to the bank, I paused to drink in the view. We are so lucky to live here.
And then I remembered Adam, and Tanner, and Minneapolis, and felt like a cloud had passed in front of the sun, though when I shaded my eyes and looked up, not one cotton wisp obscured the big yellow ball.
Fifteen minutes later, I’d finished the banking, and was speeding down the highway toward Monte Verde Winery.
Crystal clear may be a cliché used to sell window cleaners, but it’s also exactly the right phrase for the waters of Eagle Lake and the skies overhead. The Mission Mountains on the east side of the valley were carved by the glacial hand of God, with help from the earthquake fault lines we all ignore. (In high school, we learned that a handful of quakes hit the area every day, each so small they barely disturb a pine cone, let alone an actual structure. They wouldn’t even have rattled the robin’s nest I found this morning.)
The mountains to the west always remind me of the silk screen print Kim and I made together in freshman art. Each receding layer of mountains stood a smidge higher than the one in front, each a paler shade of that amazing blue-green-black that forested hillsides become in late afternoon. We still knew how to work together then, and we’d gotten an A. My framed print, number one of two, hung in the front hall of my mother’s house.
Maybe it was time to reclaim it. Find a place of my own to hang it.
I drove with one hand and reached for the CD player. Empty, and I’d tossed the spare discs out of reach to make room for the guys yesterday. My iPod was at home. I punched on the radio. But the BBC World News clashed with my mood. Light rock, classic rock, alt rock, country—different channels, same mood.
I punched the off button.
At twenty-eight miles long and eleven miles wide, Eagle Lake is the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi, and on this late-spring afternoon, it was a vast expanse of glory. In some places, the narrow highway hugs the shore; in others, it veers away, past orchards and through woods, by small lawns starting to green and long drives sloping to the water. Cherry houses—roadside garages used for fruit storage and sales—dot the roadside. The homes, both visible and hidden, are a mix of new and old, kempt and shabby, in all sizes and s
tyles. Real estate season was upon us, and For Sale signs had begun to sprout like glacier lilies, one of my favorite wildflowers. I suspected most of the signs would have a longer life than the lilies.
People often ask me what’s different between living here and living in Seattle. Top of the list is driving, followed by shopping. Driving in Seattle is a nightmare if you have to take a freeway, more manageable if you’re staying in town. And parking is a task that would try the patience of Glinda the Good Witch.
Driving under the Big Sky is a joy. In decent weather, anyway. You do have to watch for deer, and occasionally you get stuck behind a semi or a road whale—a bus-size RV towing an expensive SUV. But mostly, it’s four wheels and happiness.
Halfway down the lake, Monte Verde Winery’s cherry house—remodeled in Spanish Mission style, with pale yellow stucco and red tiles—came into view, and I slowed at the driveway, signal on. To my surprise, a sheriff’s rig pulled onto the highway, Deputy Oakland at the wheel. A quick flicker of the eyes said he’d recognized me.
The rutted dirt road wound past an older white clapboard house, the screen door hanging loose. Beyond it, at the edge of a sparse patch of pine forest, stood three or four ancient frame houses. Cracker boxes, my granddad would have called them. The paint was peeling, the siding bare in places, though one house had recently been repainted. An old red Subaru wagon, its back quarter panel bashed in, stood beside it.
I followed the road downhill, fruit trees on one side, grapevines on the other. The bottom of my car scraped the high, hard crown of dirt at a hairpin turn, and I cringed. Even the recent rain hadn’t softened it. A few feet farther on, I held my breath, as if that would make the car lighter, and eased over a patch of exposed rock. It worked—no more scary sounds. Sam seriously needed to regrade the entire half mile of road.
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