Treble at the Jam Fest

by Leslie Budewitz

  “Not a word. I thought it was a cat. Until it tried to shove me into the bay.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the sheriff?” Tanner asked.

  “I already did,” I said. “As soon as I got back to the bridge, where it’s all lit up. They’re going to barricade the path, put more reserve officers on patrol. The news will spread, and it will hurt the festival. But we don’t know it’s connected—I have no idea who came after me, or why.”

  Adam’s brow darkened. “You know darned well why. Because someone knows you’re investigating. How can you not see that?”

  “I want to be strong.”

  “Do you want to be dead?”

  “Hey!” Tanner held out his hands, separating kids on the playground. “Can they find that light and get fingerprints?”

  “They’ll search in the morning. The water’s shallow there.” Heat and fear stung my throat, but I was not going to cry. No one was going to scare me away.

  “Don’t encourage her,” Adam said, and the lump in my throat swelled to the size of Texas. We’d been over this last winter, when I pursued another killer. Adam had sworn he wouldn’t try to stop me, because he knew he couldn’t, and because he loved my sense of justice. My determination to protect what mattered to me, even when it put me in harm’s way.

  Just like, I realized with a start, I loved his sense of adventure. His passion for plunging through rapids, for climbing rocks, for racing through snowy back country with boards strapped to his feet.

  Tanner slammed his fist on the table, and I jumped. I hadn’t touched my beer yet, and a swallow or two sloshed out of the glass.

  He leaned in, intent on Adam. “Don’t be an ass, Z. Don’t you dare let her get away twice.” I caught my breath. Tanner pivoted. “And you. A guy gets pushed off a cliff, and the killer’s still out there. Everybody knows you’re poking around, and you go for a walk in the dark by yourself?”

  My eyes widened and my fingers covered my mouth.

  “Hey, Adam, chow time.” J.D.’s red head poked over the top of the fence. Adam and I burst out laughing. After a moment, so did Tanner, while J.D. stood on a picnic bench on Red’s side of the fence, holding a basket of onion rings and another of waffle fries, a bottle of mustard in his apron pocket.

  Fortified with beer, starch, and fat, we settled down to business. I told the guys what I’d learned from Gabby. “I don’t think her parents killed Martin, but I’m convinced that they’re hiding something.”

  “About Martin and the festival?” Adam asked.

  “Maybe. At first I wondered if Grant Drake had his fingers in the cookie jar, but no one seems worried about that.”

  “Were they part of Barber’s plan to bring in bigger names? That could help Gabby.” Tanner bit into a fry.

  “Doubt it. They saw Martin as her ticket to stardom.” I picked up my beer glass. “I suspect they’ll stay involved regardless because they enjoy music, and being big fish in a small pond. No, I think their secret relates to Rebecca and the building project none of them wanted me to know about.”

  “But that won’t tell us who killed Martin,” Adam said. “Though you might be the only one who cares.”

  Realization struck. “Oh my God. The Drakes. They’re staying at the Harbor condos.”

  When I called Dispatch to report the attack, I hadn’t talked to an officer. I hadn’t told anyone what Gabby had told me. But it was time. I reached for my phone.

  I already knew Dispatch would do nothing more than take a message and assure me that Undersheriff Hoover or a deputy would call me as soon as they were free. I texted Kim: Urgent. Need Ike’s personal number. I laid the phone on the table, and the three of us eyed each other.

  “I suppose it could have been a woman at the top of the cliff,” Tanner said. “I can’t say, one way or another. Gabby’s small, but get a guy off balance, and it wouldn’t take much force.”

  “But if my attacker and the killer are the same person, I’m not so sure it was her,” I said. “I don’t think she could have followed me in those stupid-high platform sandals. They’re noisy, and impossible to run in, even for a kid.”

  “Is she in this with her mother? Call or text her at the condo, and say ‘now’s our chance’?” Adam asked.

  “Too complicated,” Tanner said. “Sherlock Holmes says the simplest explanation is usually the right one.”

  Adam and I stared at him.

  “I watched all the old shows last time I was sick.”

  I reached over and squeezed his hand, then cradled my glass and leaned back, scrolling mentally through the unanswered questions. After all my hard work, I was back to square one, with nothing to show for it but a long list of suspects and a bruise on my back. Maybe it was time to stop.

  “Wonder if Ike’s found a witness, someone who saw who Martin ran into after he bought his coffee. Michelle swore she didn’t remember,” I said.

  “The same Michelle who works for you?” Tanner asked Adam. “The one who has your drink ready before you give her your order? She doesn’t miss a thing.”

  I squinted at my sweetie. “She works for you?”

  “Yeah. She’s the kitchen boss at base camp. She orders all the food, cooks when we’re there, helps us get the supply packs ready for when we hit the trail. She trades for her kids’ camp fees.”

  “She’s got kids?” So much for knowing everything about everyone in a small town. “Plus she works in the bakery, tends bar, and takes on catering jobs? What’s her husband do?”

  “Single mom. Town may look prosperous,” he said to Tanner, “but a lot of folks juggle two or three part-time jobs.”

  “I can see it could be hard for working folks to live here.”

  Adam nodded. “She rents one of the cottages at the winery. Cheap, but not cheap enough.”

  I stared at him. “Have you seen them? They’re like the shack in our orchard, migrant housing built in the thirties when the cherry orchards were big business. That’s no place for kids.”

  “You live rent-free on the lake in a designer cabin. Not everybody does.”

  “I know that. But if Michelle rents from Sam and Jennifer … ”

  What had Michelle seen—or who? She’d come to Sam’s defense. What if Sam had lied to me? What if he’d run into town for a part for that compressor-heater-fan he said he’d been fixing, seen Martin, and taken a deadly detour—and Michelle had seen him?

  I’d been so sure Sam was innocent. But then, I’d been sure he and Jennifer were solid, and that the winery was slowly becoming a success.

  Turned out, I didn’t know half of what I thought I knew.

  ∞

  “No, you can’t sleep in the closet all day.” I backed out, on my knees, the next morning, Pumpkin in one arm, a long-missing black climbing sandal in the other hand. Thursdays are busy days at the Merc, and I needed comfy feet. “It’s dark and stinky.”

  Which she loved.

  Though Adam and I had gotten past our fear- and anger-fueled spat last night—the upside of talking through the investigation—I found myself feeling a little wobbly as I drove into town. A little wounded by his comment about my cabin and my lush life. Of course I knew I’d lucked out. I knew many villagers lived one paycheck away from nothing. That’s why I give the Merc’s unsold produce and other goods to the Food Bank, and created the Festa di Pasta as a fundraiser.

  A lot of poverty hides behind the well-financed fun.

  But I worried that Adam didn’t feel the same attachment to Jewel Bay as I did. If he didn’t, would he want to come back?

  Would he want to stay?

  Or was I being too sensitive? I’ll admit, that happens every time a figure darts out of the shadows to whack me in the back with a pointy-ended metal object.

  But replaying our conversation had given me an idea. One so vague that only a double shot of espresso h
ad any chance of bringing it into focus.

  ∞

  “Ah, so that’s the secret to your energy. You sneak in a double shot when nobody’s watching.”

  Michelle bounced to her feet. No customers clamored for coffee or nursed a morning macchiato. The kitchen, visible behind the front counter, stood strangely quiet.

  “Don’t get up.” I poured myself water from the big jug. “I need to catch my breath before I think about coffee.”

  She sat, fingers tight on the white cup.

  After I’d cooled down and watered up, I spoke. “You’re in a tricky spot. I see that now. And I’m sorry if the truth makes things harder for you and your children.”

  She glanced at me sharply.

  “Their lives seemed idyllic to me, too. Comparisons are dangerous—judging our insides by other people’s outsides never works. I thought they had it all: beautiful place on the lake, good marriage, successful business. Rental properties to help them through the dry spells.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.” She sounded tense, her thumb and forefinger pinching her collarbone.

  My heart sank. Had I been wrong? “You saw Sam, didn’t you? He lied about being stuck home all Saturday morning, making repairs. He came into town to find out what was going on, and that’s when you saw him confront Martin, and take him up to the trail?”

  “What? No. I didn’t see Sam.” She stared at me, wide-eyed.

  I stared back.

  “What I saw—” She broke off, afraid to continue.

  I leaned forward. “Tell me, Michelle. The sheriff suspects Sam, and half the people in town do, too. But if you know something …”

  “I know Rebecca holds the mortgage, or whatever it is. And I know she got fed up with Jenny’s broken promises of payment. And then I saw—” The espresso cup all but disappeared in her hands. “Erin, if they do what they say they’re going to do with the property, where will we go?”

  A piece of the puzzle clicked into place. The Carters had seen Jennifer leaving Martin’s cottage Friday night when they returned to theirs. But I’d added up the facts wrong.

  “You knew Sam and Jennifer were on the verge of losing the winery, and if they did, you’d need to move. So you didn’t want anyone to know why Jennifer was pleading with Martin Friday night. It wasn’t over an affair.” My mother had said Rebecca was the money behind half a dozen local businesses, but until now, I hadn’t imagined she’d been financing the winery. “She borrowed money from Rebecca and used the winery as collateral. Without Sam’s knowledge.”

  “Jenny handles all the money,” Michelle said. “We pay our rent to her. My son helped with the pruning last fall, and she tried to go back on paying him. Who renegotiates with a twelve-year-old? And I’ve heard other stuff.”

  So had I. Last summer, I’d overheard Jennifer worrying about a call from a banker. And it was all consistent with what Donna had told me. Except short-changing the boy—that was plain mean.

  Michelle went on. “Our house is a dump, but the kids can roam for hours without me worrying. The school bus stops on the highway. And Sam is great with my son—he let him help when he fixed the leaky roof, and taught him how to scrape and paint the outside.”

  I had noticed one freshly painted cottage in the bunch. The one with the bike on the porch and the rusted red Subaru parked out front. Michelle was a true nest-builder.

  “Then Jenny refused to give us credit on the rent. She’s pretty hard on Sam, too, but I didn’t believe the rumors that he was jealous over an affair.”

  “Let me guess. Sally Sourpuss never met a juicy rumor she didn’t love to spread.” I smiled in spite of myself. “So, when Jennifer got behind and couldn’t catch up, Rebecca decided to take back the property, and convert it into Martin’s recording studio.” That fit with what I’d heard from Chuck the Builder, and from Rocco at the music shop. And Landon’s new pal, Jackson Boyd. “She intended to remodel to create a retreat for him, and rent out the big house along with the studio. But why would Rebecca kill Martin?”

  “Because Rebecca gets what she wants, one way or another. Jenny idolizes Rebecca for her success, but she couldn’t pull it off. Or pull it together.” Michelle stopped long enough to swallow back tears. “Erin, we can’t afford to move. Every landlord wants first and last months’ rent, and when they hear you have kids, they double the damage deposit. My son’s growing out of his shoes every six months. My daughter wants piano lessons and hair that doesn’t look like her mother cut it in the bathroom.”

  “I might be able to help you find a place. Tell me what you saw.” I had to get her to confide in me before a customer came in and shattered the chance.

  “Last week, Friday, I think it was. In the afternoon. Rebecca drove on to the property. Then this big fancy car came in behind her.”

  “Where were you? What were you doing?”

  “In the vineyard, restretching the wires that Sam trains the vines on.”

  Good heavens. Was there any job this woman wouldn’t do?

  “Rebecca walked up the road with a couple, talking about what it would cost to regrade and put down new gravel. I was behind the pump house and they couldn’t see me.”

  “Then what?”

  “They started talking about the rentals. Eyesores, the woman called them. The man said they’d push them over as soon as they closed the deal. Clear out the trash, he said, and plant more vines. Trash, Erin. He meant us.” Her fury was hard to miss.

  “I’m sure he meant the buildings, Michelle. Not you. Not your family.” My fingertips brushed her arm. “Who were they?”

  “That’s the worst part. They sit here and let me serve them coffee every morning. They don’t even see me.” She folded her arms and gripped her elbows. “I’m the help. I am invisible.”

  “The Drakes?” I said, my voice rising, my brain racing. It fit. They planned to build their dream house at the winery. It fit with spotting them and Rebecca leaving a law office in Pondera, where they’d drawn up a contract for deed. It fit the deal-making tone of their lunch, the changes they’d discussed to the roll of papers they’d been determined no one else see. Or at least, determined that I not see. Not a map or a plat, but the plans Chuck the Builder had drawn up for the studio deal, the deal Martin had nixed. No problem. Rebecca had a better deal waiting in the wings.

  Maybe Martin hadn’t pulled out after all. Maybe she’d changed her mind. Maybe those were the false pretenses, the plans he’d derided Friday night in the courtyard.

  Maybe they’d walked on the River Road Saturday morning, and argued, and …

  Gabby had said her parents found the perfect property. They’d be tearing down and remodeling. That could apply to a hundred different projects, a hundred different properties. But it made sense of the puzzle. The Drakes’ secret, one they’d kept from their daughter, was that they were buying a piece of property whose owners didn’t know it was for sale. That they were helping hard-driving Rebecca push a hard-working couple off their land, displace their renters, and kill their dream.

  I unclenched my jaw and focused on Michelle. “Did you hear anything else?”

  “Not right then. The Drakes left. Jenny came home a few minutes later.” She looked up. Two women stood out front, debating whether to come in. “I took the wire and clippers back to the maintenance shed. The big back doors to the winery were open and Jenny and Rebecca were standing inside. Jenny said”—she rolled her eyes up, remembering—“she said, ‘You were our last hope. I can’t believe you’d throw us out after all our hard work. For a washed-up musician’s dream.’”

  “She didn’t know the studio deal with Martin was dead? She didn’t know Rebecca had another buyer?”

  Michelle slid her chair back. “No. And Rebecca didn’t tell her. She just said, ‘That’s business.’”

  The door opened and the two women entered.

&nbs
p; “Michelle.” I spoke quietly as the barista retied her apron. “I don’t know what will happen to the property. But we’ll work this out.”

  The look on her pale face said she trusted me. She stepped behind the counter and greeted the women eyeing the pastries.

  Call Ike, my inner voice said, but I put it on hold. I sat at the tile-topped table, working things out. Whether Gerry Martin had backed out of the deal or Rebecca had driven him out, I didn’t know. Jennifer had pleaded with Rebecca for more time, and she’d pleaded with Martin not to go ahead with the studio plan. Sam had said she’d driven in early Friday evening, leaving him to bring in the gear, so she could talk to someone. Later, she’d asked if I’d seen Martin. I’d bet my lucky red boots she had already gone to beg Rebecca for leniency, in vain.

  She hadn’t known Rebecca had another buyer already lined up. And Barber—he’d hammered on Rebecca to get his way, not knowing that Martin had dumped her and he wasn’t likely to return to the festival.

  No wonder she quit.

  No wonder Martin had decided to leave early.

  Had Rebecca played Martin against the Drakes, trying to get the best deal? Had she seen him Saturday morning, followed him up the River Road, and pushed him to his death?

  When my mother said Rebecca had a reputation for driving a hard bargain, she hadn’t known the half of it.

  Behind me, the cash register beeped. “I’ll bring your lattes out,” Michelle said, and the two women settled at a table on the stone patio. The espresso machine hissed.

  Michelle set a paper cup in front of me, hot and steaming. “On the house. For listening.”

  “Thanks,” I said and watched her bump the door open with her hip, hands full of lattes and plates of rhubarb crumb cake.

  What about the paper cup I’d found on the trail? According to Michelle, Rebecca had not stopped in here. If the cup hadn’t been the killer’s, was it Martin’s?

  Or a piece of trash, waiting to be cleared out, like the shacks at Monte Verde Winery?