Treble at the Jam Fest

by Leslie Budewitz

  I did not have the brainpower to manage a conflict between my employees, or their personal problems. My spreadsheets and the calendar on my phone might keep the investigation and my shop organized, but keeping my head straight was another story.

  And though this was the worst possible time to leave the Merc, I was sitting on possible evidence.

  I grabbed my bag and let Tracy and Lou Mary know I was stepping out. The sheriff’s Jewel Bay satellite office sits off the highway, behind the volunteer fire department and ambulance service. The downside of not being an incorporated town is lack of services, like our own police force, mayor, and trash pickup. To a lot of folks, that’s also the upside. Fortunately, the current sheriff never stinted on services to the unincorporated areas, and I expected Ike to do the same when he became sheriff.

  If he became sheriff. An unsolved murder of an international celebrity might be a sticking point.

  Two official rigs sat in the rear parking area. The official seal marked the tan metal door of the office, though I could see where amateur graffiti had been covered up with slightly darker paint.

  Weird, weird, weird to walk in and see Deputy Oakland at the desk in the outer office instead of Kim.

  “’Lo, Deputy. You’re becoming quite the regular down here in the Bay.”

  “I don’t mind the overtime,” he said, “but I’m sure sorry we got a major crime on our hands.”

  “Thought I heard a familiar voice.” Ike Hoover leaned against the door frame of the inner office.

  I raised my makeshift evidence bag. “Saturday morning, on the River Road, I found this cup in the shrubbery, about fifty feet from where Gerry Martin went over. I picked it up, thinking it was trash. I still had it in my hand when I got back to the Merc.”

  He took the bag, eyes narrowing slightly as he read my notes and saw what was inside.

  “I threw it in my office trash. Then I stopped in Le Panier this morning, the bakery and coffee shop next to the Merc. The barista—Michelle is her name—said she made Gerry Martin a cappuccino around nine Saturday morning. So this cup could be his. Or his killer’s.”

  Something I couldn’t read flickered behind his eyes. “You know this could have been there for days.”

  “It rained overnight Thursday. Heavily. But the cup isn’t muddy or wrinkled.”

  He gave the bag an appraising scan, then turned his gaze on me. Did I imagine it slightly less stony?

  Our relationship had grown smoother since my father’s death had been solved. But it would always be a little uneasy, because Ike would always feel guilty about not having closed the case sooner.

  And I would always be the half-orphaned girl who reminded him of his failure. Doubly so, since I was the one who nailed the killer.

  I barged on. “I know you and your deputies have been pounding the pavement, and the dirt roads, identifying folks with a gripe against Martin. Any idea yet whether it was heat of the moment or premeditated?”

  His lips curved, but you wouldn’t call it a smile, his lowered chin saying nice try, but I’m not telling you.

  “Okay.” I rested one hand on the back of the plastic chair in front of Oakland’s desk. “We know Martin had just bought a cappuccino, and the manager of the cottages told you he’d decided to leave the festival early, despite being scheduled to play Tuesday night, work with students all week, and join in the finale Saturday. Do we know whether he told anyone about his change in plans? Besides the manager?”

  Ike continued to study me in silence.

  I changed tack. “I saw a lot of live music in Seattle. Most rock guys live in jeans and a T-shirt. Some of the hot tickets suit up. Bob Dylan wears a coat and tie. So does Paul McCartney. Gerry Martin’s in between. Friday night, it was black pants and a dressy black shirt. Short black boots. You weren’t there, but he does this kind of shuffle thing.” I bent my arms and shifted my hips, replaying the scene on stage. “Like he’s dancing to his own music. You can’t do that in running shoes or hiking boots. You need smooth soles.”

  Tiny shifts in Ike’s face told me he knew where I was taking this.

  “If he had those boots on—if they were his traveling shoes—then they might explain why he slipped in a struggle. But I don’t think he would have climbed Hill Street and started up the trail in slick-soled city boots if he’d gone for a walk on his own. I think he went up there with someone. I know it’s a long shot, but his killer might have tossed that cup away.” I pointed at the bag in Ike’s hand.

  Ike eyed me a long while, then spoke to his deputy. “Log in Erin’s evidence. Then check the trash can at the trailhead for similar cups. With any luck, it hasn’t been emptied yet.”

  “I’m on it.” Oakland’s chair squeaked as he rolled back from the gunmetal gray desk.

  “Then take another run at talking with the guests at the cottages. Those people have to be home sometime.” Ike studied me, one hand on his office door. “You know, Erin, I’m beginning to think you missed your calling.”

  Eighteen

  My heart pounded as I climbed in the Subaru and followed Deputy Oakland toward the village. I was an adult now, not the teenager I’d been when I first met Ike. But challenging a cop does make the pulse race a bit.

  At the corner of Hill and Front, the deputy continued up toward the trailhead. I toyed with traipsing after him, but Ike’s directive to do the footwork reminded me to do my own. I didn’t need another view of the scene of the crime. I knew Martin had been pushed to his death.

  What I didn’t know, I thought as I wound through the village, was who had lured—or followed—Martin up the trail, and why. Answer one question and I’d answer the other. It didn’t matter which came first.

  I parked, shouldered my blue bag, and marched down Back Street to where it met Front, then on past the library slash community center to the cottages. Midday, most guests would be out and about, but you never know when you’ll get lucky. And I was hoping to find one with reliable info before Oakland got here.

  No car stood outside the first cottage, its windows dark. I knocked on the door. No answer. I dug for an old notebook in my bag and started a list. (I love tech, but I’m good with no tech, too.) Mon, 2:02 p.m. Cottage No. 1—no answer.

  Next door, same result, same note.

  As one of my SavClub supervisors once said the difference between a sales call and a sale is making your own luck. The same holds for investigating—without a little extra effort, it’s just snooping.

  Not until the fourth cottage, the one next to Martin’s, did I find anyone home. Then came the tricky part, explaining why I was there. I’d already decided to be honest and straightforward. Lying is too much work.

  A few minutes later, I was sitting on the deck with the Carters, sipping sweet tea. I’m not fond of sweet drinks, but refusing the offer would have closed the door on confidences. That’s how hospitality works, and while Jewel Bay was my town, this cottage was theirs for the week, front porch and all.

  “Such a pretty little village. We fell in love with it, didn’t we, James?”

  “We sure did. Started to tell you, we flew out to Spokane”—he said it with a long a, the way people from other regions sometimes do, but in his Southern black drawl, it came out more like kyne than cane—“to visit an old Navy pal. Rented a car and drove over here. My Rosie had a hankering to see Glacier National Park before it melts.”

  “Didn’t know half the park would be snowed in, but what we got to see was simply gorgeous,” Rosie said. A wild rose bush bloomed in the bed below the deck, and I thought how aptly she’d been named.

  “Plows won’t finish with the Going-to-the-Sun Road for weeks,” I said.

  “I’d be tempted to stay,” James said. “But we got grandchildren back home to spoil. Our Georgia peaches. Now you asked if we’d seen your friend Jennifer talking with the gi-tar player next door after the concert.”
>
  “Gerry Martin,” I said.

  “That concert was a treat, by the way. We hadn’t heard a peep about it till we walked into Red’s to wet our whistles, and heard the hubbub. That man sure could play.”

  We were silent a moment, in unspoken agreement.

  Rosie leaned forward, dwarfed by the Adirondack chair. “Afterwards, we took a stroll down by the bay. Your friend was just leaving as we came in. The guitar player—Martin, you said?”

  I nodded.

  “—was standing on his porch, hands on the rails, watching her go.”

  “So you didn’t hear their conversation.” My hopes sank in a puddle of sweet tea. “How did she look?”

  “Not theirs, we didn’t,” James began as his wife said, “Hurt. One glimpse of her face and the way she walked, and I knew. Hurt and confused, that girl was.”

  All of a sudden, Rosie had given me a lot of information to unpack.

  Rosie gazed over the top of her glasses at me, sitting on the steps. Her dark eyes shone. “We raised three girls and a boy, all of ’em grown now. You learn to tell a lot from a little.”

  Truth to that. “Did you hear Martin talking with someone else?”

  James answered. “Yes. The man who’d been playing with him.”

  “Which man? The drummer or the guitar player?” Careful, Erin. Don’t let friendship affect your hearing.

  “The guitar player, in the cowboy hat. Played that nice long piece in the middle. Good of that Martin fellow to let him show his stuff.”

  These two, observant as they were, hadn’t picked up on the tensions between Martin and Barber on stage. “So what happened?”

  “We called out hello, and thanks for the music. I said if y’all come to Atlanta, we wanta hear. He said thank you—he was polite and all, but not real talkative.”

  Unlike the Carters, thank goodness.

  “We went inside and got ready to call it a night. Five, ten minutes later, I heard harsh words. Angry words.”

  I glanced between them, wondering if this was going where I thought it was going.

  “Put my pants back on. In case I needed to step in.” James’s voice, already deep, had dropped a notch as he remembered. “I told Rosie to keep her phone close, and I stepped on to the front porch.” He gestured with one big hand toward the empty porch of the next cabin.

  “Martin stood in that doorway. The cowboy had hold of the railing, one foot on the bottom step.” James paused for a long drink of his sweet tea. “They broke off when they saw me. I called out, ‘Evening, gentlemen.’ They both stood real straight, they did.”

  That, I believed. Even relaxing on his front porch, James had a commanding presence I was sure had served him well in the Navy, and in the family.

  “The local man, he took his foot off the step and started to leave. But before he did, he looked at Martin. ‘We’re not done,’ he said.”

  “Did Martin reply?”

  “He did. He said on the contrary, he thought they were, and the cowboy—what’s his name?”

  “Dave Barber. And he actually is a barber.”

  “You don’t say? He took off. We said our goodnights, and I went inside. I didn’t hear any more arguing. This mountain air puts us right to sleep, it does.”

  “Did you see Martin the next morning?”

  “No, young lady, I didn’t. We’re early risers. We had us a nice breakfast up at the Grille, and took a drive down the valley to the National Bison Range.” He gave Rosie a tender look. “The manager told us about it, and my wife thought it sounded like a real nice outing, so off we went.”

  Not because he did what his wife told him to do, but because he wanted to do what would please her.

  I pushed myself up. “Thank you both so much. This is all so horrible—it’s helpful to know what you heard and saw.”

  Rosie stood and took the glass from me. “Everyone’s been so kind here. Friends back home warned us about the Wild West, but we moved around a lot when James was in the Navy, and we know most people are good, ’most everywhere.”

  Her husband rose and held out his big hand. “We sure were sorry to hear what happened. I pray he was right with the world when he passed.”

  I had my doubts. “You told the sheriff’s deputies all this, didn’t you?”

  “They left a card, but we keep missing each other.” The sound of an approaching vehicle in the narrow lane drew his attention, and mine. “Looks like we’re about to get our chance.”

  “Erin,” Deputy Oakland said a minute later, as he climbed out of his big rig.

  “Deputy,” I said. “Enjoy your sweet tea.” His eyebrows squished together in puzzlement, and I strode on by.

  Visiting with Martin’s other neighbors would have to wait—I wasn’t bold enough, or foolish enough, to quiz them under Deputy Oakland’s wary eye.

  I needed to know who Martin had run into after he got his coffee Saturday morning. He had a few hours before the afternoon flight out of Pondera. Had he run into anyone from the festival? Wandered the village?

  Who else would have been out and about? Too early for shoppers, and the shopkeepers would have been busy, like I’d been. Tracking down the casual passersby—folks like the Carters—would be impossible.

  A stakeout at the trailhead was too long a shot. I’d leave that to Ike’s crews.

  I made my way up Front Street. What about the woman who walks the two pugs every morning? But she was usually heading home about the time I came in, eightish.

  The man on the unicycle? I hadn’t seen him in weeks. He’s like the stray cat you realize hasn’t been around in ages, then spot the next day.

  One more question for the spreadsheet.

  I angled across the street—taking a lesson from Landon’s near-miss and looking both ways twice—to my sister’s gallery.

  The new bags called to me. I stroked a black-and-green leather triangle with two flaps that opened into a full-sized tote.

  “You can wear it as a backpack, or”—Chiara demonstrated—“zip the straps together and sling it over your shoulder. She calls it wearable origami.”

  “I like.” I fingered another, in black and turquoise with a row of colored inserts, like piano keys, along one edge and a leather loop-and-stone closure.

  “They’re so versatile. This one’s your colors.” She handed me a tote with outside pockets and blue and green decorative patches that reminded me of sixties op art.

  I unzipped the bag and poked around inside. “The iPad would fit, easy.” Not to mention the occasional piece of crime scene evidence.

  “Her style is contemporary, local but not overly Western. You know, fringed suede or tooled leather with silver clasps that look like rodeo belt buckles.”

  The boots-and-britches West versus the hiking boots West. “I love my rodeo queen belt buckle.”

  “But you didn’t buy it in a secondhand shop, or fork over hundreds for a replica to impress strangers. You won it.”

  That I did, on a late spring day much like this one, fifteen years ago. I’d been riding for broke, fueled by grief and anger over my father’s death and my best friend’s abandonment. In the process, I’d taken the crown Kim had longed for ever since she learned to ride and rope, and alienated her further. Only last winter had I discovered that my lucky season had not been the true cause of the breach in our friendship.

  “I’ll think about it.” The bags were tempting. I stroked a buttery-soft version in a warm caramel. We were alone in the shop. “Sorry I upset you Sunday. I don’t get what’s bugging you.”

  Chiara let out a long breath. “Me, neither. Bill’s great, and he adores Mom.” She picked up a celadon green tea bowl and cradled it in both hands.

  “You just don’t want to imagine our mother having sex.”

  She shot me a big-sister glare. “And you do?”

&nb
sp; “No, but I’m willing to admit that she does.”

  She set the bowl down a little too hard, not meeting my eyes.

  “Hey, I need to talk with you about one other thing,” I said, eager to change the subject. “About Tanner.”

  “Oh, he’s a doll. If I weren’t married—”

  The front door opened and we gave the newcomers our best retail smiles. Behind them, I saw someone I very much wanted to see crossing the street.

  “Gotta run.” I kissed my sister’s cheek. “Remember, you are a spiritual being having a human experience.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Tracy’s been reading you tea bag tags again.”

  “You know it.”

  Across the street, Old Ned stood behind the bar, looking like he’d been there for decades, though he’d walked in just ahead of me.

  “Hey, girlie.” He reached into the giant cooler and by the time I’d settled on a barstool, a sparkling glass of mineral water with a fresh slice of lemon sat in front of me.

  “Quiet in here.”

  “You wait a few hours. Open mic out back tonight, after the concert.” He wiped the spotless counter. “Used to be mid June before the crowds came. The festival’s good for business. I hope it stays that way, with news of that fellow’s death spreading. Some reporter from Texas called, but I had no comment.”

  That was hard to imagine. I sipped, the mineraly taste countering the leftover sweetness of the iced tea. “You hear a lot of things, Ned. Have you heard talk about changing the direction of the festival?”

  He paused, giving me an appraising eye. “By pulling the plug on the big name. By shoving him off a cliff.”

  “Maybe that wasn’t the intent. Maybe there was an argument, and that was the result.” I gave the place a once-over, making sure we were alone. “J.D. says you don’t care for Dave Barber.”

  “That your nominee for troublemaker?”

  I circled the glass with my hands. “I’m wondering, that’s all.”

  “Well, I don’t trust him. Never have.”