Treble at the Jam Fest

by Leslie Budewitz

  Speaking of Sam, there he was, tossing broken and blown down branches on to a six-foot-high slash pile at the edge of the orchard, his faded Cal State T-shirt soaked with sweat.

  I stopped and lowered the passenger side window. “All that blow down last night?”

  “Hey, Erin.” He walked toward me, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. “About half. Long as I was out here, I figured I’d pick up what I missed over the winter and spring.”

  “Hop in. You can load up my wine.”

  He opened the door and slid in, bringing with him the scents of sweat, mud, and pine mixed with cherry wood.

  “I passed the deputy on my way in. What’s up?” Before Sam could answer, I hit a deep rut I hadn’t seen. The steering wheel jolted out of my hand.

  He groaned and stared through my dust-and-bug spattered windshield.

  “The road needs work. The trees and vines need work. Everything about this place needs work. My life needs work. My marriage.” At my gasp of surprise, Sam flicked a glance my way. “And according to the good deputy, I’m the number-one suspect in a case of murder.

  “Know any lawyers who trade for wine and cherries?”

  Sixteen

  Sam sat on the back end of my Subaru, wine boxes loaded, grip- ping a can of Mountain Dew.

  “They can’t seriously believe you killed Gerry Martin. Why—because he chewed you out over a few sour notes?” I picked up a stray pinecone off the gravel parking area in front of the winery and squeezed it, the sharp points on the scales biting into my palm. I hesitated to suggest something more.

  “They won’t say. But I can read the handwriting on the wall.” He gestured behind him at the winery’s elaborate false front. “Even if I can’t maintain the walls.”

  Wine-making, bottling, and storage took place in the old metal Quonset hut. They’d added a tasting room and fashioned it all, like the cherry house, in Spanish mission style. I squinted. The cracks in the stucco I’d thought faux-finishing were real.

  “But surely Jennifer made them see sense. You’re not that kind of guy. And you were never more than twenty feet apart all evening.”

  He took a long swig. “That’s part of the problem. They won’t actually say I need an alibi, but they keep asking where I was, when I left the village, when I got home. Who pays attention to time in that kind of detail?”

  We have clocks in our cars and on our phones, and some of us wear watches. And Red’s keeps several clocks, but bar clocks are notoriously wrong, often on purpose.

  Was it Sherlock Holmes who’d said beware of the man with an ironclad alibi, because only a guilty man needs one?

  Or maybe that was Columbo.

  I put my foot on the bumper, forearms on my knee, and leaned forward. “Sam, don’t drive yourself crazy over this. They have to track the movements of everyone who had a beef with the victim, no matter how petty.” The Whabouts, in my personal shorthand. “When that’s out of the way, they can focus on the suspects. Once Jennifer assures them that you were barely out of her sight.”

  “She can’t say that.” He rose, squeezing the empty pop can till it made a metallic clang, and I took my foot off the bumper. “She drove into town early, to talk to somebody, I don’t know who. I came in later with the gear.”

  “Okay, but you left Red’s at the same time, right? You packed up your gear and followed each other home.”

  He pressed his lips together and breathed out through his nose, a big breath rough with pain and anguish. He gave me a sidelong glance, and at his side, both hands were fists. The mangled pop can lay at his feet.

  “Tell me,” I said. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

  “After the last set, Jennifer left the stage. I thought she went inside to the bathroom, so I started packing. I kept an eye out, but I didn’t see her.” He reached for the pop can and started twisting it in his hands. The sound of aluminum grating on aluminum was like fingernails on a chalkboard, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “Finally, I had all our gear stowed in the van, out in the alley. I didn’t see her in the courtyard, or inside Red’s.”

  I hadn’t notice him searching, focused as I’d been on Adam and Tanner. But the memory of Jennifer dashing out after Gerry Martin, her blond hair flying, the skirt of her turquoise dress whipping around her strong, tanned legs, flashed in my mind. Busy wrangling speakers and soundboards, Sam must have missed that.

  A sour taste wriggled down the back of my throat, and I was afraid I knew where this was leading. Criminy. “Go on.”

  The pop can tore in half, and he stared at the pieces, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “I didn’t see her car, so I assumed she’d headed home. I came straight home, Erin, I swear. I never went near Gerry Martin. I never touched him. Even though I thought …” His voice trailed off.

  “Even though you thought she was having an affair with him.” She and Sam had seemed so solid, this place a dream come true.

  We see what we want to see.

  “Was she parked next to you?” I asked.

  “The lot was half empty when I finished unloading, so I got a good spot close to Red’s. Next to your car. She came in a few minutes later. I never saw where she parked.”

  I closed the hatchback and leaned against it, arms folded. “Sam, when did you first think she might be—involved with Gerry?” Tell me it wasn’t until after he died, so the sheriff has no reason to suspect you.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. He plucked a leaf off a Lapin planted at the corner of the building and tore it into tiny green shreds. “Friday night. When I got home and she wasn’t here. When I realized I had absolutely no idea where my wife was. She—she’s been hiding something from me for a while now.”

  “That doesn’t mean she was having an affair. With a man who’s here a few weeks a year.” And who’d been involved, until recently, with another local woman.

  “But what else could it be?”

  That was the question. Maybe I’d been right in thinking she just wanted to ease the tensions Friday night. Obviously, she hadn’t succeeded. Sam suspected her of cheating, and the sheriff suspected him of murder. Manslaughter, murder—I didn’t know all the degrees. All I knew was that one happened unintentionally and one on purpose, and that both led to prison.

  “Anyone see you between the time you left Red’s and when Jennifer came home? And when was that?”

  He scuffed the sparse gravel with the toe of his worn work boot. “Not that I know. She got home about ten minutes after I did. Erin, I swear I didn’t kill Gerry Martin.”

  If Jennifer had been involved with Martin, she’d had enough time for a quick smooch, but not much else. If “else” was even going on.

  As Sam had said, what else could it be? Love and sex may be the first things we think of when we think of tensions between men and women. But there’s a million other stories—stories of money, jealousy, anger, revenge. Stories of friendship gone wrong, of mistakes, of misunderstandings.

  “When she got home,” I said, “did you fight? Wait. We’re focusing on the wrong time. He was alive the next morning.” I nearly clapped my hand over my mouth. According to the news accounts, Ike had said only that Martin died on the rocks and had been spotted by a pair of kayakers. He hadn’t revealed Tanner’s identity, or that a second person had been involved. He’d mentioned the time of death, and asked anyone who’d been on the trail at about that time to contact the sheriff’s department.

  “They didn’t tell me that.”

  “That’s their MO. They don’t tell you everything. They make you worry and sweat, and hope you’ll say something they can use against you. What you need to show is where you were Saturday morning, between—” I thought back. Michelle the barista had served Gerry his cappuccino around nine or nine thirty, and it had been close to ten when Tanner saw him tumble to his death. “Between eight
thirty and ten, give or take.”

  “I was here, working on the cooling system. The alarm went off at five that morning—the compressor’s been acting up. Took me half the day to get it fixed.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Making wine sounded so romantic. Never figured I’d have to be an electrician, and a plumber, and a roofer, too.”

  “That’s good. I mean, it’s bad for the wine, I get that, and I’m glad you got it fixed. But Jennifer can vouch for you, right? Even if all she did was hand you a wrench and listen to you gripe.” Wrenches always make me gripe. “Where is she, anyway?”

  Sam’s face fell lower than an earthworm’s belly, as my granddad used to say. “She went for a run. She runs every morning.”

  Without an alibi, there was no way to prove he hadn’t reached the same conclusion as the sheriff’s men and gone after Martin. Sam was bigger, stronger, younger.

  “Oh, pooh. Just remembered—I forgot to send her the e-mail about the bottling equipment you guys wanted. I’ll make myself a note, right now.” I opened my car door and started to reach inside, but the expression on Sam’s face stopped me.

  “She asked you about that? I thought we’d agreed—look at this place. It’s our dream.” He gestured. Once you saw the signs of neglect, they were everywhere. “She says we need more volume, more production. I keep asking what’s wrong with staying small, making a little money. Not a lot, but enough.”

  “Sounds like your dreams took different directions.” I ached for them. But we had to solve the problem at hand, to give them a chance to work things out. “So who do you think killed Gerry Martin?”

  “I can’t imagine anyone in Jewel Bay hating him enough to kill him.”

  Hate, I had learned, isn’t the only reason people kill. It’s waaay down on the list. “I’ve gotta get to back to town. You hang in there, Sam.”

  “At least I have my music,” he said, his expression forlorn, “and my friends.”

  I gave him a hug. He was the kind of man I liked, a dreamer and a hard worker. I prayed he and Jennifer could mend the breach.

  I aimed the Subaru up the rutted road, thinking about what triggers murder. Martin had been upset with Sam for mistakes on stage. Whatever Sam had felt, he’d kept to himself. Barber, on the other hand, had deliberately stepped on Martin’s solo. If I’d understood Rebecca’s comments and the stage whispers right, Barber had wanted Martin out of the way long before the festival began. Had he been trying to make Martin look bad, costing him fan support, or to goad the man into quitting the festival?

  In that, he’d gotten his wish. Martin’s bags had been packed, ready to go.

  But wouldn’t he have worried about talk during the festival? And if he’d wanted Martin to leave, why kill him?

  Barber had never been part of my family’s circle, and I didn’t know much about him. But J.D. had said he and Old Ned didn’t get along. And Old Ned is always willing to share his opinions, at least with me.

  A movement on the shoulder caught my attention and I braked hard. A red fox sped across the road and disappeared into the brush behind a Jewel Bay Realty sign.

  Keep your eyes open, girl. As the business gurus preach, you can’t conduct a reliable analysis with a specific conclusion in mind. Doubly so for a murder investigation.

  Which meant I had to consider Sam’s motives to kill objectively.

  He swore he’d been stuck in the winery’s mechanical room till noon. That sounded plausible, and it would put him in the clear. But he had no witnesses. What would have stopped him from jumping into his van and running up to the village, tracking Martin down, following him, and pushing him over the cliff?

  Nothing, I had to admit. Not even my conviction that he was a fundamentally decent man. In small towns, we always think we know everything about everyone else, but it turns out we’re wrong. People harbor secrets, no matter where they live.

  I passed another For Sale sign, from another real estate office. A lot of these properties had changed since I’d been a kid in Jewel Bay. Older houses had been converted into rentals, or torn down and replaced with trophy homes. Orchards had been uprooted, the acreage subdivided. I wondered again where Martin had intended to build his studio, and what property the Drakes had their eyes on.

  I passed by the road to Murphy’s Orchard, and a few miles farther on, my own road.

  My hands tightened on the wheel. My mother’s remarriage had me thinking about the family homestead and its future. Tanner’s illness and his request of Adam had me thinking about my own future.

  Though the thought made me cringe, murder was a mighty convenient distraction.

  Seventeen

  You hired her? Without even talking to me?” Candy Divine made no effort to hide her dismay.

  I’d meant to stop at the Merc for two minutes to fetch the paper cup stashed in the safe, then run it up to Ike Hoover. Instead, I’d been waylaid by a sobbing pink mess in front of the customers and Lou Mary. Where was Tracy? And in front of Fresca, who’d paused her chopping and whirring to eye us. The Kalamata olive tapenade she was making smelled heavenly, and I wished I could sit at the counter with a healthy sample rather than deal with Candy, but there was no escape.

  I grabbed two bottles of Pellegrino from the cooler and led Her Pinkness to the courtyard.

  “When you said—when Luci—when Tracy—”

  “Sit.” I set one green bottle on the round tile-topped table in front of an empty chair. Candy obeyed. I took a long draft of mineral water and sat across from her.

  She hiccupped and reached for her water. I hoped she wouldn’t choke—and that I could talk myself out of another sticky situation.

  “When you and Tracy decided she could focus on her chocolates”—Candy paused for a breath and a big sniff—“I knew you’d need somebody else in the shop. And I thought … ” Another sniff, and a sob. Today’s hair bow was a darker pink than usual, almost the same deep fuchsia as the streak in her black hair. The bow flopped dangerously as her head bobbed.

  I couldn’t say I hadn’t known she needed a job. She’d said nothing outright, but homemade candy is not a career path, not when there’s already a chocolatier in town. And she’d dropped broad hints of interest to Tracy, who’d begged me not to give in.

  “You found Luci a job last winter.” Candy’s tone hovered between a plea and an accusation. “I wanted—I need—and now you’ve hired Lou Mary.”

  Lou Mary didn’t have a speaking voice that made a door squeak sound melodic. And while she had a penchant for color-coordinating, she didn’t wear pink from tip to toe, and she never dressed like Minnie Mouse on a bender.

  I gave my lucky stars a quick swipe and dove in. “Lou Mary came along at the right time. And Luci knew web design, which my brother-in-law needed to get our web sales going. Tell me your job skills, besides making candy, and let’s brainstorm.”

  My corporate experience had been buying groceries. HR was totally out of my league. But if you want to prosper in a small town, you have to be a connector.

  That’s when it struck me. “You sew, right? You make a lot of your own costu—clothing.” Her outfits appeared well-made, if on the frothy side.

  My guess hit the mark. Her face lit up, then fell. “But what could I do?”

  “Kathy at Dragonfly Dry Goods always needs women to make napkins, placemats, tablecloths. Aprons. Quilts and decorative items for display.” Candy would try Kathy’s patience, too, but at least she wouldn’t be working in the shop. “Or, you know Sally at Puddle Jumpers. She designs super-cute children’s clothing, and she always needs seamstresses. Especially with summer coming.” At least, I hoped she needed help.

  Supersweet Candy and Sally Sourpuss. A lamb to slaughter, or a mismatch made in heaven?

  Candy sniffed. “That would be fun.”

  I offered to take her across the street to see Sally, but she wanted to run home and cha
nge first.

  “If I’m going to offer my dressmaking skills, I need to show off my very best.” She pushed back her chair, hitched up her wide satin belt, and reached down to pull on a loose shoe, a black pump trimmed with a fuchsia satin shoe rose. Shoe not quite on, she stumbled across the stone courtyard to the back gate, the rosette at the small of her back in need of freshening.

  I drained my Pellegrino. One bullet dodged.

  Back inside, I spotted Tracy and asked her to join me in my office. “Be calm, and be kind,” I muttered to myself as I got the evidence bag out of the safe.

  She climbed the steps heavily and stood in the doorway, shoulders slumped.

  “Trace, I know you’re excited to focus more on chocolate and less on the sales floor. And you know me, chocolate is Vitamin C. But honestly, what were you thinking, leaving Lou Mary here alone on her third day on the job?” My words sounded harsher than I’d meant.

  Her jaw tightened and she took a long time to speak. “I always go to lunch at noon. And Fresca was here.”

  Meaning it was my fault. I hadn’t been here. I glanced at the wall clock—quarter after one.

  “I’m sorry. But it’s not enough that my mother was working in the kitchen. No one can cook and watch the shop floor—that’s why we changed your schedule.”

  She pressed her lips together, then raised her eyes to mine. “I don’t see why it’s any big deal. You keep saying Lou Mary’s such an old retail hand.”

  “It’s a big deal because even an old retail hand—and she would hate hearing us call her old—needs time to get to know the place. Lou Mary could sell ice to an Eskimo, but at this point, she barely knows a bag of lentils from a bar of soap.”

  That drew a teeny, tiny hint of a smile.

  “Next time I’m running late, I’ll check in. And if you need to leave while I’m gone, you call me. Deal?” She nodded, but I wondered what else was going on. This passive-aggressive stuff wasn’t the Tracy I knew. “The Merc needs you, Trace. I need you.”

  Jaw tight, she nodded several times, then left, her long denim skirt sweeping the wooden steps.