Treble at the Jam Fest

by Leslie Budewitz

I reached for the tag tied to a peg, and my eyes widened. “Can she get that much for it?”

  Rocco pooched out his lips and raised one shoulder. “If she’s lucky, right buyer comes along. It’s a long shot.”

  “Is this guitar one Dave Barber might lust after?”

  “Doubt it. He’s got one real similar. He came in with his kid a coupla years ago, upgraded everything. It was fun—the kid buying guitars and mics for the old man, paying him back for his raising.”

  Just as Pamela Barber had said.

  “’Course, a music guy can never have too many guitars,” Rocco added. “Like Adam and his skis and kayaks.”

  Every obsession has its equivalent. Woe to anyone who counted my spatulas. “Thanks, Rocco. See you at the festival?”

  “I’m enjoying being in the audience. But I’m running the sound Saturday for the finale in the park.”

  “Great. See you then.” The triangle hung over the door rang crisply behind me.

  ∞

  “Oh! A foal.” I craned my neck to watch the baby, a day or two old, struggle to her feet. Her mother, a handsome bay, stood close by. Behind them in the pasture, half a dozen other horses grazed on the newly green grass.

  As I drove, I considered what I’d learned in Pondera. First, that professional printers are worth far more than their weight in paper and ink.

  Second, that Ned Redaway had drawn the wrong conclusions all those years ago about his daughter’s friends. I tended to believe Pamela Barber. She hadn’t sugar-coated their marriage, or her own teenage crime, but she hadn’t blasted Dave, either. So many exes do that, and it always makes me cringe.

  From her perspective, Dave was trying to create the career he’d never had, or at least the fun. Bringing in more international artists—promoting the festival’s brand and expanding its reach, in business speak—brought him a little closer to the limelight, even if he didn’t get center stage.

  Nothing to kill over. What was I missing?

  I rounded the last curve and the mountains seemed to jump out at me, carved from ice and snow and set against the crystal sky. Dang, it was good to be home.

  What about the Drakes and Rebecca Whitman? Surely there was nothing suspicious about her selling them property for their new house. With so little undeveloped lake frontage, Molly’s explanation of a private deal made sense. Cutting out the middlemen and women could easily be to everyone’s advantage.

  And Rebecca liked to be in the middle of her deals. She’d wanted an active part in Gerry Martin’s studio, working with Chuck the Builder and Rocco the Music Man.

  I slowed in front of the Playhouse for two kids crossing the street, one carrying a trumpet case, the other a bumpy black duffle shaped loosely like a sax.

  Jewel Bay was alive with the sound of music.

  ∞

  “Darling, at long last.” My mother’s eyes twinkled as she zoomed in to kiss my cheek.

  “Uh-oh. Did they kill each other? Is there blood?”

  “What? Oh, no.” She waved a hand. “It’s a big change, but she’ll get used to it.”

  She meant Tracy, settling into her role as part-time sales clerk and full-time chocolatier, feeling displaced by the presence of another woman, but I hoped my mother’s prophecy held equally true of my sister.

  “Hey, sorry for the short notice, and for being so late. Go ahead and get cooking. I’ve got an urgent call to make.”

  “Roasted Tomato Pesto.” She made it sound like ambrosia. I’d had a bite of her sample batch—it tasted that good, too.

  “The new labels are super-spiff,” I called as I started up the stairs. “You’ll swoon.”

  “My little business queen,” she said and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Their vintages have done well,” the wine buyer at SavClub said a few minutes later, after I’d wound my way through the voice mail system to her. “Especially the dry cherry. But Jennifer doesn’t get that these aren’t a national product. National distribution is doomed to fail.”

  “Why? Because no one expects fine wine from Montana?”

  “They’re regional and seasonal.”

  I rubbed the corner of my eye with a finger. “So what makes a wine regional? I mean, Champagne and Asti grow in specific regions, but people drink them worldwide. Their regions have become a mark of distinction.”

  She launched into a mini lecture on wine varieties, terroir, history, and tradition—all highly sophisticated and largely incomprehensible. But she made abundantly clear that national distribution of Monte Verde wines was not an option at SavClub.

  “She’s threatening to go to the competition,” the buyer continued, “and I’m half ready to let her. Overreach can kill the brand.”

  I thanked her and hung up, irritated. I’d gone out on a limb for Jennifer, getting her in the door at SavClub. If her actions damaged my credibility, I’d be seriously peeved.

  Talking wine gave me another idea. Did I dare sneak out again? I wouldn’t go far.

  I swung downstairs to make nice. My mother, clad in her vegetable print bib-front apron and the red Keds she calls her cooking shoes, had the kitchen smelling like my version of heaven: plum tomatoes roasting, pine nuts cooling, the air redolent with fresh thyme and garlic. She blew me a kiss. All was forgiven.

  On the shop floor, Tracy huddled deep in conversation with a cocoa-

  maniac, debating the merits of seventy-two, eighty, and ninety percent cocoa solids, single-origin or blends, and other delectable details that make the passionate chocolate lover drool.

  I love experts.

  Lou Mary stood by Luci’s soap and lotion display, studying the products.

  “Don’t look so worried,” I said. “You’re learning faster than I’d expected.”

  She glanced up. “What? Oh, no. This is fun.” She waved a hand at the display, then reached for a tester bottle of lotion. I caught a whiff of lavender.

  So what was worrying her? “I’m counting on it. I’m running to the liquor store. Back in two shakes.”

  Few villagers seem to enjoy life more than Donna Lawson, and not just because she enjoys tasting her own products. Or because liquor stores can be lucrative.

  “I’ll say this much, because it’s you, Erin: it’s not gossip if it’s for a good cause.” Surrounded by cases of wine and spirits in the closet-like back office, she peered over her glasses. Donna is the only woman I know who makes rhinestone-studded cat eyes look stylish.

  “Works for me.”

  “Jennifer came to me last fall begging for help. I know all the distributors, so I made a few calls. We sent out sample bottles, took the product to trade shows. But … ” She opened her hands in a no go gesture.

  “Let me guess. Regional and seasonal. A novelty wine.” That last bit I’d heard from a few of my customers, but in a specialty market with a sideline in gifts, that wasn’t a bad thing.

  “I prefer the term niche.” She drew it out, rhyming with sheesh. “We got nibbles from two distributors, but their debt load sank the deals. Jennifer simply could not understand.”

  But I did. A classic Catch-22. You struggle and get into debt, which keeps you from expanding the business, and mires you deeper in debt. Why would any distributor voluntarily take on a supplier it couldn’t count on to stay afloat? Even on the Merc’s small scale, taking on a vendor is expensive. I have to be sure the vendor is committed, and that the market will justify my expense of time, space, signage, and more. Tracy and I had tussled over that last winter, when I said no to an oil and vinegar maker she championed.

  “Did Sam get it?”

  Donna sat back, arms folded. “Don’t know. She came in alone. Even when she came asking for an investment.”

  Which was a puzzle. I had no idea what careers they’d had in California, before they traded their backyard vines for a Montana hillside full of fruit
. But wouldn’t Sam want to be fully involved in financing the future of his dream?

  “You turned her down, too. Same reason?”

  “I have no desire to buy into a winery. I’d rather buy and sell the fruits of someone else’s labors.”

  Speaking of labors … “Gotta run. Thanks for the insight.” A much nicer word than gossip. Halfway out, I remembered my other questions, and poked my head back in.

  “Donna, you remember an incident a few years ago, when the merchants put together a promotion campaign and ran out of money? The Chamber ended up taking over.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Billboard company jerked us around. Nearly doubled the prices they’d quoted.”

  “So there was no question about embezzlement?”

  She adjusted her rhinestone glasses. “At first, yes, but when we got the invoices and called the company, we could see what had happened. I know Ned suspected Dave Barber, and he should have gotten a quote in writing, but it wasn’t his fault. Chamber hired an ad agency and it’s been smooth sailing.”

  “Great. You were on the festival board for a while, right? Who is the treasurer?”

  “Marv Alden. Good choice—he was the money guy for a big oil company for years.”

  “Not Grant Drake?”

  “No. Grant joined the board when I was president. He said he was through counting other people’s money. But he and Ann are great fundraisers, a good role for someone who doesn’t live here.” As she should know—she was the best fundraiser in town.

  “Barber okay to work with?”

  Her dark eyes narrowed slightly. A trick of the light on her lenses, or a hint of distaste? “He wants what he wants. But I suppose we all do, don’t we?”

  “That’s the truth. Hey, do you still have that yummy J. Lohr Cab?” I bought two bottles. Donna had given me information worth paying for.

  On my way back to the Merc, I wondered what Jennifer had wanted from Gerry Martin that Friday night when she chased after him. An investment? Had he hit the big-time, financially?

  Had she been angling for an endorsement of their winery? A buyer for that pricey guitar? Or, despite Sam’s reluctance to consider the possibility, had his wife been looking for love in all the wrong places?

  Twenty-Three

  I breathed a sigh of relief, happy to be back in the Merc. Lou Mary cocked her head toward a tall figure standing by our drinks display, a bag of our custom-blended Cowboy Roast in his hand.

  “Good stuff,” Tanner said at my approach. “I’d like to ship a case of coffee back for my employees. Huckleberry jam, too, and those pemmican bars.”

  “Blackfeet Naturals. Made on the reservation from grass-fed buffalo.”

  “Got time for a walk?”

  So much for my plan to spend the afternoon cocooned in my office, catching up on details. But I relished the chance to get to know Tanner better.

  Lou Mary made shooing motions with her hands, and Tracy handed us each a truffle. A double chocolate Kahlua gesture of friendship.

  “Adam pop into work?” I said as we ambled up Front Street. “What did you think of the base camp?”

  “Yep. The camp is amazing.” Tanner ducked to avoid a hanging flowerpot. “Reminds me of the lodge in the Northwoods where we spent the summer we were sixteen, the summer before … before I got sick. We always loved running around outdoors, but that’s when the wilderness bug bit Adam good.”

  I knew the story. A high school coach feared the two boys were headed for trouble, and got them summer jobs as camp counselors in training—unpaid interns. But when they got home, Tanner’s latest foster parents had moved without leaving a trace, and the social workers struggled to find a placement for a teenage boy. So he’d moved into Adam’s family’s basement, across the hall from the quarrelsome Cain and Abel.

  And then, leukemia struck.

  What had it been like, sick and alone at sixteen? Memories of the pain and anger I’d carried after my father died flooded through my body, hot and swollen.

  I’d made the turn toward the River Road without thinking. I paused, Tanner halting beside me.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Seeing a man fall to his death was shocking, but I’m not going to let it stop me from taking a walk with a beautiful woman on a beautiful day.”

  Though it’s not a stretch to call me cute, beautiful is pure BS. But who cares?

  At the trailhead, I ran a hand over the top of the gate, where someone had hung a bouquet of silk flowers, a tiny plastic guitar tied into the ribbon.

  Who left it here? I peered in for clues, but saw none.

  A sign of remorse? Maybe. Or a sign that Jewel Bay would remember Gerry Martin for more than the manner of his death?

  The trail had leveled out when Tanner spoke. “Thank you for letting Adam come back to Minnesota with me.”

  “He doesn’t need my permission.”

  “But he wants it. Not permission exactly, but your blessing. I want it, too.”

  Blast him for being so nice.

  And so important to the guy who was so important to me. I couldn’t entirely squelch my fear. Would Adam go back to Minneapolis and get sucked into running Tanner’s company while he was in treatment? Then, because Adam did own half of it, end up staying?

  He didn’t own anything out here, except a good chunk of my heart.

  A gray squirrel skittered across the trail. It’s a slippery slope, trying to hold on to another person. That old line about loving someone enough to let them go makes a great poster in a college dorm room, but it’s hard to put into practice.

  So I did the chicken thing and changed the subject. “Did he find out if the assistant camp manager can start work earlier?”

  “Not yet. And the wrangler fell in love with a guy from Australia and skedaddled. So he’s got to find someone to handle the horses, or cancel the pack trip.”

  “The pack trip’s the reason half the kids come.”

  “Erin.” His somber tone pricked my ears. “Adam’s not worried about the camp. He’s worried about you.”

  “Me? I’ll be fine. It’s only a few weeks.” I reached out and plucked an early leaf off a paper birch. “It’s you we’re concerned about.”

  The tall man beside me came to a stop. “I went into foster care at eight, after my mom died. Some years, I saw my dad once or twice, some years not at all. When I see you with your family, and how you’ve welcomed me, it gives me hope. And you put up with my goofball buddy. That says a lot.”

  I wasn’t going to tell him he’d thrown a monkey wrench into my life. I was going to work it out. I sniffed back a tear and hugged him.

  When we got to the spot where Gerry Martin had plunged to his death, we saw that the yellow barricade had been moved to the side of the trail, to keep the looky-loos from the same fate. Martin seemed an unlikely man to get distracted by the scenery, the amazing Wild Mile where the river runs through the rapids, curves sharply, and races past the village into the bay.

  If you aren’t careful, you could lose your footing—and your life.

  “Tanner, did you notice what kind of shoes Gerry Martin was wearing?”

  He ran his fingers up the side of his face, eyes closed. I clenched my jaw, sorry to have asked, but hoping he’d dredge up a useful memory.

  After a long moment, he opened his eyes, staring into the distance. “The body was pretty beat up. One foot was bare. When we came back on the raft, one of the EMTs found his boot.”

  “What kind of boot? Hiking boot, cowboy boot?”

  “Ankle boot. Black. Lots of guys wear them instead of dress shoes.”

  City boots. The kind Martin had worn on stage Friday night. The kind you might wear to the airport—easy to slip off and back on.

  My hunch had been right: Gerry Martin hadn’t meant to take a hike.

  So who had been with him? Who h
ad pushed him, whether with malice aforethought or in the heat of the moment?

  Mortification finally overcame my curiosity, and I came to my senses. “Tanner, I am so sorry. You are the last person I should be quizzing about another man’s death.”

  He draped one arm over my shoulder. “No worries, Little Miss Murphy. I’m not leaving this planet quite yet. Not without a hell of a fight.”

  ∞

  “That way.” I pointed my thumb left. “A little more.”

  Despite the Merc’s open front door, Tracy couldn’t hear me. With one hand, she gripped the top of the pony wall separating the display window from the shop. In the other, she held a heavy black music stand. She needed to move it two inches, to avoid crushing a box of Candy’s pink marshmallows.

  “Got it,” I called. Inside, Tracy added sheet music, then climbed down the step stool and came out to join me. We’d borrowed old clarinets, a dented bugle, even a plastic ukulele for our tribute to the festival. Nothing the sun could damage.

  Only a hurricane could touch Candy’s marshmallows.

  The other window held our DIY picnic baskets. So popular a couple of other village joints now offered them. I didn’t mind—one shop with a new offering is a gimmick. Two or three make a trend, and trends make money.

  “How’s Lou Mary coming along?” I asked as we surveyed Tracy’s handiwork.

  Tracy grunted. “She can almost tell truffles from fudge. For her next trick, maybe she’ll figure out the difference between black cap preserves and raspberry.”

  “We’ll make a foodie out of her yet.” Funny to hear a woman who washed down grocery store maple bars with Diet Coke grouse about another woman’s lack of taste, but we all have our blind spots. “She’s got a good eye. She can help with the displays.”

  “That’s my job.”

  Tracy’s insecurity was starting to wear on me. “We’re all in this together, Trace. Lou Mary rearranging the pottery isn’t going to cost you a job. Hiring her means you can do the job you wanted, as the resident chocolatier.”

  Her jaw quivered and she nodded rapidly, then swept inside, her long skirt swooshing behind her.