Treble at the Jam Fest

by Leslie Budewitz

  The door opened and a gaggle of customers saved her from my quizzing. For now.

  No lights were on in the real estate office when I walked up to the door. I rapped on the glass.

  “Delivery,” I said when Molly emerged from the back room and unlocked the front door. “Don’t get used to it.”

  “Thanks, cuz.” She popped the lid on her coffee and sniffed deeply, the joy of hot chocolate for grown-ups lighting up her face.

  “Hey, a coupla questions. How well do you know Dave Barber? He’s closer to our dads’ ages than ours.” And Molly was several years younger than me.

  “Get those lights, would you?” She pointed to the switch by the front door and punched on the front desk computer as I closed the door behind me. “Him, I hardly know. His daughter was in my class. Smart, nice. One older brother, one younger. All good kids. But I wasn’t close friends with any of them.”

  “Where did they live?”

  She thought for a moment. “You know that old farmhouse up behind the cemetery, where kids used to go hang out?”

  To drink and make out. I grunted agreement.

  “I think it came from Dave’s family. They sold it when they split up.”

  I sipped my latte. “Wonder where Dave lives now.”

  “Oh, right by me. Two houses down.” Molly was renting a guest house above a garage in the upper part of town. And that put Dave Barber not two hundred feet from the River Road trailhead. He could easily have seen Martin Saturday morning.

  Or seen who’d been following the man.

  “You said two questions?” Molly sipped her mocha.

  “Yeah. I ran into the Drakes at the bakery. I wonder how their house hunt is going.”

  “I bet they’re working with someone else. Happens more than you think. Buyers get anxious, so they go looking with another agent, as if we aren’t all using the same databases listing the same properties.”

  “Is every property on that database—what did you call it? MLS?”

  “If it’s listed for sale, yes. But there are private deals. Say your mother wanted to sell her house and already had a buyer.”

  “Yeah-h-h.” I set my cup on the desk.

  “Just—for example. They’d figure out the terms, then get a lawyer to write up a contract for deed. Or she’d come to us and we’d handle the paperwork for a flat fee. No official listing involved.”

  “Okay. I heard Rebecca owns rentals. What if she wanted to sell one of those?” That was three questions. Oh well.

  “She owns tons of property, residential and commercial.” Molly switched screens, clicking through files too quickly for me to follow.

  A couple of minutes later, she gave me the news. “We’ve got listings for a couple of townhouses she owns near the golf course. Rentals she remodeled to flip. But I found something else you should see.” She drew a slender file folder out from the bottom of a tall stack and slid it across the desk. I sat and read.

  “Criminy.” My dark eyes met her green ones. “Where did you find this?”

  “After you asked about them, I dug out the Drakes’ file. Finances aren’t an issue—they plan to pay cash from a vacation property they sold back East. But there was a note about civil judgments, so I dug a little further. And found that.”

  I read the printouts, newspaper accounts of a year-long fraud investigation into Grant Drake, his companies, and his sons. No charges had been filed, but a dozen investors had brought civil suits against him. After the first multimillion-dollar jury verdict, he’d quickly settled with the other plaintiffs.

  “They make him sound like Bernie Madoff, Junior,” Molly said.

  I closed the file. “You’re one smart investigator.”

  She tossed her strawberry curls. “Runs in the family.”

  Twenty-One

  That had to be why Ann Drake looked so nervous when I asked who handled the contracts and money, I thought as I jiggled the key in the Merc’s front door.

  Did the other board members know her husband’s history? Did he actually have any financial responsibility for the festival?

  The tricky part would be finding out without spreading unfounded rumors.

  Upstairs, I sipped the last of my latte and let the caffeine course through me. The restless night combined with this morning’s find on the road gave me a double dose of jitters. Add Molly’s discovery to the mix, and I felt like I’d stuck an immersion blender in my gut.

  Coffee might not help, but on the other hand, I needed the jolt.

  Too bad I never caught Gabby alone. She probably knew Martin better than anyone around, except Rebecca.

  I bit into my pastry and relaxed. Layers of buttery dough have that effect on me. As they melted on my tongue, they melted my cares.

  Momentarily, anyway. I had calls to make. A high school classmate trimmed trees. He was already at work—I could hear his partner’s chain saw in the background—but he promised to get my road cleared before I got home and move the downed trees at the big house. Then I called Bob to report on the weather damage.

  A minute later, the printer in Pondera rang to say our labels were ready. We’d been chomping at the bit to get my mother’s new pestos on the shelves, and Ray’s kraut was selling so well that I’d penciled in time to can a double batch before tourist season hit full stride.

  “I’ll be back in an hour, hour and a half tops,” I told Tracy moments after we declared ourselves open for business. Her full navy skirt and blue-and-white sailor top with a yellow tie were an advertisement for thrift store treasure hunting—and proof that she and Lou Mary had more in common than Tracy wanted to admit.

  Maybe that was the problem, I mused as I dashed out to my Subaru. Though Tracy had just hit thirty-five, her ambitions didn’t include being a sales clerk at sixty-five. But it’s good work. The retail ladies keep Jewel Bay humming.

  I grabbed the door handle. It didn’t open. I never lock my car. Nobody here does. I fished out my keys and hit the clicker.

  Still locked.

  I made an exasperated noise and glanced around, then let out a cackle. I’d been trying to get into someone else’s green Subaru. Mine was two spots away. Clearly my attention was being pulled in too many directions.

  The printer’s wife, who ran the office, was in a chatty mood, and I was way behind schedule when I drove back through Pondera, the Subaru’s back end crammed with boxes of shiny labels, each branded with the logos my sister had created. I stopped at a light on Main Street, near the glass shop. Last winter, the shopkeeper, an extraordinary glass artist, had rescued me from my mother’s wrath with hand-blown martini glasses to replace one I’d broken. We’d started carrying her glassware in the Merc, where it was a big hit.

  The dashboard clock said I didn’t have time to drop in, but I did wonder what she might suggest for a wedding gift. Did you buy your mother a wedding gift? Where was the etiquette guide? My sister sure didn’t have a copy, and I felt a bit unmoored myself. I had no idea what my brother might think, out in the wilderness tracking wolves and their new pups. Until last winter, the likelihood of him revealing anything remotely like a confidence had been slim, but he’d changed.

  We’d all changed. When she’d told us about their engagement, my mother had said that they hadn’t decided where to live. Bill spent a fair amount of time at the Orchard, but he had his own home on a river slough north of Jewel Bay. What it lacked in family history, it made up with the riverfront and bird watching.

  Come on, turn, I silently urged the light. Then I realized that the bank was on the next corner.

  The light changed. Ahead, a car pulled out and I zoomed into the empty spot. Dashed down the street before I could change my mind.

  What are you doing, Erin? She’s a perfect stranger.

  Sometimes you luck out. The sign outside the first office, its door open, read Pamela Barber,
Loan Officer.

  I introduced myself and told her that Ned Redaway remembered her fondly. “And your ex-husband’s name came up.”

  She sighed deeply, an attractive woman with a full figure, her short silver-streaked hair beautifully cut.

  “Let me guess. I heard about Gerry Martin’s death. Poor man. That raises problems for the Jazz Festival, and gives Ned an excuse to drum up old stories about Dave.” She didn’t say “again,” but I heard it in her tone. She closed her door.

  “That’s about the size of it,” I said.

  “You’ll understand why I’m going to ask you to keep this quiet. As quiet as you can. I don’t know what Dave is up to now, but we were married twenty-four years, and I don’t want something that never happened to be used against him.”

  Curious.

  Pamela perched on the edge of the credenza, arms folded. “Senior year, spring prom. Eileen Redaway and I were in charge. We were always in charge of social events, starting in kindergarten.” A small, memory-laden smile.

  “Ned said Homecoming. That’s in the fall.”

  She shook her head. “Prom. First weekend in May. I was starting to show and I wanted to get through graduation without anyone knowing I was pregnant, except Dave. And Eileen.”

  “Are you saying Dave didn’t take the money? That you did?”

  One hand gripped the other, her knuckles pale against her navy pencil skirt. “I needed maternity clothes, diapers, baby clothes, a crib. Everything.”

  “Your parents—”

  “Didn’t know and weren’t going to help me. When I finally told them, the day before Dave and I got married, they hit the roof. Now that I have three kids, I understand how disappointed they were, but … ” Her voice trailed off.

  “You would have let your best friend take the blame?”

  “No. Of course not. If Eileen had ever been accused, I would have admitted it. She knew the truth, no matter what her father thinks. Ned never accused Dave publicly, but I knew what he thought.” She reached out and touched the edge of her desk, a deep reddish-brown. “It was wrong, and if I have to admit it, I will. Three hundred dollars seemed like a fortune back then.”

  But it wasn’t much now. I couldn’t imagine her losing this job, more than thirty years later, if the truth came out.

  “What does this have to do with Dave, after all this time?” she asked. “You’re not suggesting he stole from the festival?”

  “No, but something’s going on. And there are rumors of money missing from a promotional campaign the merchants ran a few years back. Any reason why Dave would suddenly have had money for new guitars, speakers, all the gear?” The kit and caboodle, in Ned speak.

  “Dave would never steal. He never knew what I did, and he’d have been furious. I can hardly believe I did something so stupid.” She slid into the brown leather chair behind her desk. “Here’s the scoop. Our younger son decided to enlist. We weren’t happy, but it’s what he always wanted. I urged him to let me invest his college fund, for later, but he insisted we take half, since we’d squirreled away every spare nickel for the kids and never had money for ourselves.”

  “That’s a generous child.”

  “We weren’t good at marriage, but we raised great kids.” Elbows balanced on the arms of her chair, she clasped her hands. “Dave used his share to buy the musical gear we’d never been able to afford.”

  “And you?”

  She spread her hands, indicating the room. “I went to college. The finance and accounting classes got me this.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “I wonder how this year’s senior class fund is doing.”

  She caught my meaning in a flash, her eyes glinting. “I’ll call the principal with a donation. About Dave … That festival means so much to him.”

  “It means a lot to a lot of people,” I said. Pamela Barber had cleared up some confusion. But I wasn’t sure yet where this road led.

  ∞

  I was late. Not to mention ravenous. I punched in my mother’s number, fingers mentally crossed. Thank heavens, the stars were in alignment. She was finishing an early lunch with Bill at the Jewel Inn, and would happily pop over to the Merc to spell Tracy.

  That gave me time to find a little food for thought.

  I’d rounded the corner when what to my wondering eyes should appear but Rebecca Whitman, standing outside a three-story sandstone mansion with a curved front porch and a mansard roof. The historic home now housed the valley’s most prominent law firm.

  Beside her stood a man and woman. Her hands moved and pointed as if she was giving directions.

  To Ann and Grant Drake.

  I tucked into an open spot down the block, behind yet another Subaru, and hoped they came this way. Slumped out of view, I kept my eyes on the mirrors. Curious indeed. Yes, they were friends, but friends don’t usually go see lawyers together.

  Rebecca’s Subaru zipped by me, followed by the Drakes’ black BMW. Connecticut plates. I’d have to take Landon over to the Harbor condos to walk the parking lots with his list and his fat pencil.

  Traffic was quiet on this side street, so I hung back as we drove north. Rebecca’s car had disappeared from sight. A Suburban the size of my living room got between the Drakes and me, but I kept them in my sights as we neared a major intersection. The Suburban turned. Ahead, the Drakes parked behind Rebecca, no doubt aiming for the Irish pub in the old redbrick railroad warehouse. I made an unsignaled hard right, and the car behind me honked in displeasure.

  The luck of the Irish was with me. The threesome had already been seated, at a table by the far window. I took a seat at the bar. If I could see them, they could see me, but their attention lay on the large piece of paper Grant unrolled. A map, or a plat? The Drakes had been hunting for property, though I had no reason to think Rebecca was selling anything they might want. But sometimes an owner didn’t know she was selling until an offer she couldn’t refuse came along.

  The pubsters were better cooks than proofreaders. The “coned beef fritters” were tasty deep fried bites of corned beef, served with Thousand Island dressing and a cup of tasty cole slaw.

  Grant Drake had rolled up the mysterious map when their orders came, but now Ann unfurled it again. In the mirror, I watched her point at one spot, then another, glancing at Grant as she spoke. The scene had the air of a woman taking charge.

  I tossed cash on the bar and strolled over. “Hey. Who’s left in Jewel Bay if we’re all over here?”

  Ann tossed her napkin over the page, but not before I got a glimpse of lines and squares and tiny type. Planning world domination over Guinness and corned beef?

  Grant sat rigid, his face pale. Rebecca, usually so calm and in control, caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  What had I interrupted? And did it have anything to do with the festival or Gerry Martin’s death?

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  Twenty-Two

  1 sat in my car, hand on the ignition, thinking. If Rebecca was selling property to the Drakes for their piece of the Montana dream, had she planned to sell Gerry Martin property as well? Or create a joint venture on a parcel she already owned?

  One more stop, and then I could go back to Jewel Bay.

  In the music shop. Rocco’s white-boy dreadlocks swung as he talked. “Yeah, man. Don’t get many chances to outfit a whole studio, ’specially a class A project. Sound booths, multiple boards. Woofers and tweeters up the wazoo.”

  “Bummer. Losing a big sale must have hurt.”

  “Yeah.” He wacked the palm of his hand with a tuning fork. “We’ll make up for it. Sold a brand-new J-200 to a guy in the beginning guitar class yesterday. That’s a few thou. And a gal over in Lakeside’s buying her husband a set of keyboards that’ll send me and my lady to Hawaii for a week next winter.”

  I didn’t know his lady, but with the Rasta hair
and full sleeve tattoos, he’d be a sight on a beach.

  “So, where was this studio going to be, anyway?” I gave a seed rattle a quick shake.

  “On the lake. The woman who was fronting the project had a place she wanted to remodel. The house was too big for Martin—single guy, on the road a lot. But bands could stay there and walk out the back door to the studio. Big old metal building. Needed a ton of work and soundproofing, but like I said, they had the budget for it.”

  Bingo. Now to figure out what property Rebecca had planned to use. Knowing that would help me identify the killer, I was sure. But I had another question first. “Was she buying gear for the festival from you, too?”

  “Nah. They use the Playhouse gear indoors. And when they’re outside, I rent to ’em. Better deal all around.”

  So the brochures and catalogs in Rebecca’s office had been for the studio, not the festival.

  “There was some kind of complication,” Rocco went on. “I don’t know what, but the guy reneged. I never met him, but I heard he was pretty demanding.”

  “Demanding how? On stage?”

  “In everything. Wanted it all exactly right, but you know, there’s lots of right ways to do things—depends what sound you’re after.”

  The shop’s long wall held more guitars than I’d ever seen in my life. I stopped in front of a guitar so gorgeous it made my fingers itch, and I barely know a bass from a mandolin. “What is that?”

  “1964 Gibson ES 330. One of the finest hollow-bodies ever made,” Rocco said in a reverent tone. “Rolled neck, Adirondack spruce. The reproductions are nice, but this is the real deal.”

  An image slid into place in my brain. “Doesn’t Sam Kraus play one like this?”

  “Well, he did. Jennifer brought it in on consignment.”

  Selling guitars? At least I have my music, he’d said, in a voice consoled by the thought. Not the voice of a man hawking his treasures.