Treble at the Jam Fest

by Leslie Budewitz

“What’s so funny?”

  “Only me making an idiot of myself with a customer,” I said.

  “Oh.” Tracy let out a breathy grunt and rolled her eyes, her enameled cat earrings swaying. I thought of the guitar pick earring so out of place, but not clearly evidence. “Happens to me at least once a day, rain or shine.”

  Lou Mary gave me a wink.

  “Erin, half the people who’ve been in here this week say the sheriff thinks Sam killed Gerry Martin,” Tracy said. “That Martin was flirting with Jennifer, and Sam snapped. I can’t believe it.”

  “Jennifer is very attractive,” Lou Mary said. “A runner’s legs.”

  “I agree—I can’t picture Sam as a killer. But Martin rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.”

  The front door opened and we all straightened, expecting a customer, though not the one who jumped over the threshold, feet rattling in his hand-me-down brown cowboy boots.

  “Auntie Erin! Mommy says you can give me a marshmallow for an afternoon snack.”

  “You bet.” Candy’s specialty does have its fans, Landon among them. I handed my nephew his treat and gave my staff an apologetic look. “Mind if we step out for a few minutes? I can’t get far—Zayda took my car.”

  My two very different employees gave me nearly identical smiles.

  “Are you investigating?” Lou Mary whispered.

  My turn to wink.

  ∞

  “You can let go of my hand now, Auntie,” Landon said. “We’re not on the street anymore.”

  I let him loose. He dashed to the Playhouse door and tugged on the handle, but it didn’t budge. Before I could help him, the door opened from the inside, and a tall man in his sixties, guitar in hand, beamed down.

  “Welcome, little man.” He flashed me a grin I couldn’t help but return. “And you, pretty lady.”

  “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

  “Jackson Mississippi Boyd, at your service.”

  Landon’s eyes widened, then he started jumping up and down. “Mississippi! I’ve got Mississippi!”

  After I explained the game to our new friend, he invited Landon to sit with him and play a song or two while he waited for his sound check.

  “We came to town to see, That old tattooed lay-dee,” the older man sang, Landon bouncing in his boots.

  I leaned against a pillar, watching. Somewhere, maybe back in Mississippi, Jackson Boyd had raised children, or sang songs with happy grandchildren.

  “Isn’t he great? He’s on the bill tonight. A mix of jazz and blues, old Southern style.” Michelle the barista stood beside me, a plastic tub in her arms.

  “I’m sorry I’ll miss that. You need a hand?” She gave me the tub and brought in the last load. At the concession stand, I unpacked napkins, straws, and stirrers while she set out paper cups. Those ubiquitous white paper cups.

  Across the lobby, Landon sat with his new friend, the center of attention and lapping it up.

  “What next?” I said, and Michelle pointed to the beer bottles waiting by the fridge.

  Job done, I took a shot in the dark. “Michelle, you worked at Red’s Friday night during Gerry Martin’s last concert, didn’t you?” Part-time barista, part-time bartender—the food and drink equivalent of the retail ladies.

  She straightened, fingers gripping the neck of a wine bottle. “Ye-ahhh.”

  “So, Martin acted pretty upset that night, and I’m trying to figure out why.”

  “Ask Jenny Kraus, not me.” Her empty hand flew toward her mouth, but she stopped it part way and started fiddling her hair, rubbing the back of her neck. Darned if she wasn’t wearing guitar pick earrings, too—elongated black-and-gold picks.

  “What did you see, Michelle? Or hear?”

  She blinked rapidly, as if she could make this nightmare go away. What had her so nervous?

  “I know what people are saying, that Sam suspected Jenny of fooling around on him with Martin, and he lost it. Sam, I mean. I can’t believe that. I mean, I don’t know what was up—if he broke it off and she was begging him to take her back. Martin, I mean. Or—or—I don’t know, Erin. Every break, Jenny was after him, trying to get him to talk to her. But that’s all I know. And Sam—he would never.”

  Behind me, a chorus of musicians and crew joined for the final lines: “What we liked best was upon her chest, the shores of Waikiki!”

  When I turned back to Michelle, she was dumping coffee beans into a grinder, brows furrowed, lips pursed. I rested my hand on the counter. Why her observations had been difficult to reveal, I didn’t know, but I wasn’t going to push her. “Thanks. ’Preciate it.”

  “Auntie, he’s fun!” Landon said. “I gotta pee.” He clattered off toward the men’s room.

  “Thank you,” I told Jackson Mississippi Boyd. “He’ll be talking about you for weeks.”

  “He’s a pistol. Says you’re like a grown-up Hank the Cow Dog, sniffing around Gerry Martin’s death.”

  My mouth fell open. “Where did he hear that? Not from me.”

  “Little pitchers have big ears. Are you? Investigating?”

  “Unofficially. Did you know Martin?”

  His black eyes narrowed and he poked his cheek with his tongue. “Our paths crossed a few times this past year, on the club circuit.”

  “And?”

  The tongue moved to the other side. “An SOB. Unofficially.”

  “Not talking about me, I hope,” a wiry man with a wispy red goatee said.

  “Leo Patrick! Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays.” Boyd enveloped the younger man in a bear hug. They released each other and Boyd made introductions. “You heard about Gerry Martin, I s’pose. Fell off a cliff. Or more likely, got himself shoved off. That’s why the performance schedule’s all cattywampus.”

  So, speculation was spreading, despite official silence.

  “Yeah. Bummer.” Patrick wrinkled his nose and sighed heavily. To me, he said, “Jackson’s right. The guy could play, but he didn’t think anybody else could.”

  “Believed his own press?”

  “When somebody hits the big-time young, like he did, it can be hard living up to all the potential everyone claims to see,” Patrick added. “I’m kinda glad nobody thought I had any talent when I started.”

  “Peaked early and he knew it.” Boyd rested his hands on top of his guitar case. “That’s why he was such a pain in the a—sorry.”

  My nephew was back, waiting impatiently for his new friend. I pulled cash out of my pocket. “Landon, will you buy Mr. Boyd a Coke or an iced tea? As our thanks for teaching you a new song.” One guaranteed to stick in my ears for days. “And whatever Mr. Patrick would like.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Boyd replied, though the other man declined. “Iced tea, son. No lemon, lotsa sugar.”

  Landon headed for the concession stand. I had one more question for Boyd and his friend. “Did either of you hear anything about plans Martin had to build a recording studio in the area?”

  “Izzat what he was talking about?” Boyd said. “Last winter, where were we? Blues festival in Tallahassee. He was bragging about a studio, saying we were all gonna wanna come play and stay. Some woman footing the bill. We got here, and I didn’t hear one peep about it. Bet she figured out he weren’t a big draw no more, and got out while she could.”

  That made things clear as Mississippi mud. Who broke with who? Were those the false pretenses?

  And had they led to murder?

  “Everybody’s talking about recording,” Patrick said. “Heard a board member say they’re this close to bringing in a big name next year for a live concert album. Wants students to record with him, go on tour.”

  News to me. The artist Dave Barber had hoped to recruit?

  Landon returned with Boyd’s iced tea.

  “Thank you, little man.” The music
ian crouched and held out his hand. “It’s sure been a pleasure to meet you. You come by and sing with me again, you hear?”

  We thanked both men and wished them good luck this week. They’d given me a few more pieces of the puzzle. If only I knew what picture they made.

  “Em-EYE-ess-ess-EYE-ess-ess-EYE-PEEPEE-EYE,” Landon chanted as we strolled out the Playhouse door. Saturday’s close call fresh in my mind’s eye, I grabbed his hand. “Auntie, I’ve got twenty-seven states already.”

  “At this rate, you’ll have all fifty by the Fourth of July.”

  “Forty-nine.” His voice drooped. “I’ll never get Hawaii.”

  In the gallery, Landon allowed his mother to hug him, then ran to the back room for his Fifty States Coloring Book. He wanted to finish it in time to show off at the kindergarteners’ end-of-school party.

  I stroked the soft leather tri-fold bag.

  “Sorry I made such a fuss the other day,” Chiara said. “About Mom and all.”

  “What? A Murphy girl overreacting? That’s never happened before.”

  One corner of her lips twitched, and our eyes met.

  “Mom wants Nick to walk her down the aisle.” I swung the bag over my shoulder, then bumped it around with my elbow and hip to see how it fit the curves. “I don’t know the chemo schedule yet. Or if Adam can be here.”

  “Little sis, if you want Adam to be sure you want him to come back, ’fess up. Shoot straight. Choose your metaphor, but speak your mind. Expecting him to know without you coming clean is the road to disappointment.”

  I hugged myself, rocking back on one foot. The bag slipped over my hip and hit me in the tail. Loaded with all my gear, it might do some damage.

  In my Seattle days, every man I dated had been more fascinated by his work than by me. I responded by diving into my own work as deeply. If instead, I’d played the field and gone out on the town every weekend, would I have a teensy bit better understanding of the opposite sex?

  It was no sure thing. I hung the bag back on its tree branch hook. Because as wonderful as they are, men just aren’t like other people.

  Twenty-Five

  Adam eased the boat into the Pinskys’ floating dock like an old salt. His steady hand on the tiller and his balance on the waves gave him a confidence I found most attractive.

  Not to mention his shapely legs and firm backside.

  Last summer, Bob had handed Adam the helm on a test run, and quickly pronounced that we could take the power boat out anytime we wanted—as long as we replaced any beer we drank.

  Line at the ready, Tanner jumped on to the dock, ready to crouch and tie off. Adam cut the engine, and for a moment, all I heard were the waves lapping the gravel shore.

  And the osprey shrieking in a tall tree, high above us.

  I closed my eyes. The waves rocked the boat gently, like a lullaby.

  “All ashore,” Adam called, in a teasing tone. I stood and took the hand he held out, then stepped on to the long gray dock.

  “I can’t believe that shoreline,” Tanner said. “I thought I knew lakes, but this is gorgeous. And those cliffs by the park and the public boat launch. Wow.”

  I shuddered. Adam squeezed my hand.

  The dock led to a stone patio and an area Liz called “the outdoor kitchen.” The only cooking I’d ever seen anyone do there was char a slab of beef or grill a hunk of salmon, exactly what I was about to do.

  Adam fired up the grill while I got out the salads and fish, complete with Ray’s best marinade. Thank goodness for take-out, the perfect side dish for a busy day investigating.

  In minutes, we were seated around a swanky glass and metal table, toasting a glorious evening, despite a hint of May chill. Clear skies to the west. Tonight’s concert was indoors, at the Playhouse, and long before the murder, I’d given the Merc’s tickets to our produce suppliers as a thank-you. But I didn’t want rain on anyone’s parade.

  “So I’m good to head back with you next week,” Adam was saying. “Just need to make sure the kitchen boss finishes up her orders so she can get the base camp stocked. And nail down my assistant. And hire a new wrangler.”

  “It’s not like you’re going to the moon, man. You can text, and e-mail. Or call.”

  Adam leaned back in his chair, beer bottle in hand. “I admit, I did not appreciate what a pain hiring is back when I was one of those college kids who’d drop a job in a flash if a friend got a permit to float the Smith, or needed a fourth for a week in the wilderness. Notice, shmotice.”

  Not exactly like needing a fourth at bridge. My appetite for the outdoors didn’t match Adam’s, but I couldn’t see either of us curling up with Hoyle in our golden years.

  “This salmon is terrific, Erin. You and your family are spoiling me with good food.”

  “I’ll send a care package with your staff gifts. Although you might not have much appetite.” Cancer, the unwanted guest who won’t take a hint and go away. “Not that you do now.”

  “No worries.” He speared a couple of farfalle—bow ties—dressed with basil pesto, tomatoes, and pine nuts. “I’ll never be too sick for your mother’s pasta.”

  We ate and drank, chatting about hiking and music, Minnesota and Montana. Adam and Tanner cleared the table while I packed up the leftovers. Adam set the basket on the slate counter and wrapped his arms around me.

  “I’m going to miss you,” he said in a low voice.

  “I know,” I whispered as I worked. “But you need to go. He needs you. And I’ll—”

  His breath was warm on my ear. “I was hoping—”

  “Hey, you two, take a load of this sunset.”

  We grabbed our beers and strolled down the dock to watch the colors. A few light clouds had moved in, those long, stretched-out clouds that so often tint the western sky in glorious shades of purple and orange. I sat between the guys, feet safely above the chilly water.

  I’ll be here when you get back, I hadn’t gotten to say. What had Adam left unsaid? Something like I was hoping you’d say you need me, too? But he knew that, didn’t he? I smiled up at him. He slid his arm behind my back and tucked the top of my head beneath his chin, then shifted his gaze to the horizon.

  He knew.

  ∞

  Wednesday morning dawned uneventfully, always cause for celebration. I celebrated with a double latte and a croissant. I’d worked off the calories in advance, walking into town—the guys had driven me home the night before and my car was parked out back, wherever Zayda had left it. The birds didn’t seem to mind me singing along.

  I was busy brewing chai for our daily sample when Tracy arrived, bleary-eyed, her outfit lacking the usual panache. She plunked her breakfast on the counter.

  “Feels like I never left. I made truffles till ten p.m.”

  “A cup and a half,” I sang out, then stuck the scoop back in the canister. “A cup and three-quarters.”

  She waited patiently, amused. I finished with the spices and reached for the water pitcher. “Making dreams come true takes work, and risk,” I said. “But you’ll get there.”

  Her eyes turned serious. “Thanks.”

  Mid-morning, I decided to follow up on Molly’s intel and my questions about the festival board. I found my car in the next block up Back Street, between the antique shop and Rebecca’s gallery. Zayda must have run into parking trouble when she came back from the post office. Festival events did bring folks back into town early, for dinner before the concert. I hopped in and zoomed up the highway.

  “He’s on the phone.” Marv Alden’s wife stood inside the heavy wooden door, a dark finish I couldn’t identify. “Is he expecting you?”

  “Erin! To what do we owe the pleasure?” Alden appeared at his wife’s shoulder. To her, he said, “Crisis averted. They’ll honor the contract.”

  “I was hoping we could chat about Gerry Martin.”
/>
  He ran his fingers over his smooth head. “Popular subject this morning. I’m late for a meeting at the clubhouse. Ride down with me, and we’ll talk on the way.”

  The Aldens lived near the golf course, in a small development of gracious homes with grand views. Wood, stone, and sky—the Montana dream.

  He returned a moment later, jingling his keys, and gestured for me to follow. I assumed we were headed for the garage. Instead, he unlocked a small stone-and-stucco building I’d passed without noticing. Too small for a guest house. A potting shed, or a pottery studio, maybe.

  Inside, a gleaming maroon-and-silver golf cart revealed him as a University of Montana grad with a passion for sport. I hopped on and off we zoomed.

  “I was on the phone with a trio in Missoula,” he said above the sounds of the whirring engine and the small wheels spinning on the asphalt. “They were scheduled to play with Martin in the finale Saturday night, along with a few other artists. They’d been hoping to cut a record, or whatever they’re called these days, with him.”

  “Meaning record in his studio, or record with him?” I pointed at a squirrel darting into the road. “Watch out.”

  Alden slowed down, the squirrel sped up, and we drove on. “Both, I think. They wanted the boost his name would give them, and they wanted to use his fancy equipment and engineers, once he got up and running. So with him gone, they had questions.”

  “A lot of questions going around.” I gripped the side rail as he aimed the cart down the hill. A twenty-seven hole golf course, a marina, and hundreds of homes lay between the highway and the lake, once farm country and wildlife paradise. Paradise not fully tamed—homeowners were well-advised to fence their roses and geraniums, and grow their herbs and tomatoes in pots on their patios, away from nipping deer.

  “So you’re responsible for keeping the artists on the schedule?” I asked. “Aren’t you the treasurer?”

  “And contracts manager.” He slowed to make the big curve, then turned south toward the club’s main entrance. “Dave’s board chair, but he’s hands-on.”

  “So you’ve been working closely with Grant Drake,” I said.