Butter Off Dead (16 page)

“I'm working on him. Love this pattern. What's it called?” I held up a place mat. Four groups of triangles in red, gold, and brown prints on a creamy backdrop, each pointing toward a corner.

“Bear paw.”

Talk about obvious. “Apparently someone tried to buy a piece that Iggy wanted the Art Center to have, but we don't know what it was. Nick wants to find out, to make sure we honor her intentions.”

She slipped on her coat and picked up the empty tote. “I'll ask the board if anyone knows. Larry might—he had quite a few conversations with her.”

A Brooklyn boy who made his fortune in Hollywood, but yearned for Montana.

Plenty of room for all kinds under the Big Sky. Which is a good thing, because there are all kinds.

F
irst stop: Taylor's Building Supply. Five minutes with the Paint Yahoo and I had a gallon of Squirrel Tail—a goofy name for a totally delish paint the color of a mocha latte—and all the associated doodah.

“Guess that shooting's got us all worried,” the cashier said as I approached. Took me a second to realize she was speaking to a man picking out signs from a spinning rack.

Neon green on black, reading
NO TRESPASSING
.

“Hey, Jack,” I said, and set my shopping basket on the counter. It's rude to not acknowledge someone. Even if they've recently pointed a gun in your general vicinity.

I chose to interpret his grunt as “Hey.”

Though I'd all but ruled Frost out as Christine's killer, I wondered what he was protecting. What had him worried. He wore his usual grubby coverall, and a cap advertising a car parts dealer.

That, and his crack this morning about guys with fancy cars, reminded me of the kids and their documentary, Kyle
Caldwell and his muscle car, and Danny Davis's offer to buy the GTO after calling it a piece of junk.

Humans
. Sometimes there's no explaining us.

Jack didn't drive a fancy car. I knew which truck in the lot was his by the cherry red plow on the front and the bumper sticker on the rear: The silhouette of a wolf and the slogan
SMOKE
A PACK A DAY
.

Whether by chance or choice, Nick had found himself in a dangerous line of work.

*   *   *

J
ack Frost aside, I sing the praises of snowplow drivers. I sing them in squalls and blizzards, whiteouts and flurries, in slip, slide, and slush. I sing them too in wet and powder, in blinding pellets, in soft snow drifting from the sky like petals from an apple tree. High above the road the plow drivers sit, in lumbering orange mastodons with chains on their tires and engines that could turn the earth on its axis. Mastodons with blades for tusks, capable of moving mountains, sand and gravel in their bellies. Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of night can stop them, though they pause to refill the gas tank and coffee cup. They march across dale and thunder over hill, cleaning up the messes Mother Nature makes to remind us that she is in charge, not we—we human few who dare cut paths through the wilderness and pave paradise.

I sing the praises of snowplow drivers, even as they hog the roads, ice and sand spitting out from under their massive wheels. Brave men and women who keep the roads clear and all us idiots safe.

Creeping the twenty-two miles into Pondera behind a plow gave me plenty of time to think. About Christine's house and someone's search for—what? Had she been killed for this missing item, that none of us, not even Nick, knew existed?

Obviously Iggy, her inventory incomplete, was not a
compulsive collector—unlike a stamp dealer with his lists or my mother's friend the former DJ who'd cataloged his thousands of albums and forty-fives on three-by-five cards.

I passed a driveway marked by a row of birdhouses, each a different style and color. By our collections, you shall know us. If clothing counts, my eight denim jackets. And my heart-shaped objects—rocks, shells, pins, cookie cutters. The entire collection fits on the bathroom windowsill where it brightens the morning. The latest addition: a pink agate heart Adam gave me at Christmas.

But while I love them—and wear my jackets often—they don't make my heart race. If you'll pardon the pun. If I come across one that catches my eye, great, but I've never spent an afternoon scouting for hearts, or wandering consignment and thrift shops for the jacket to complete my life list. Or whatever.

I'd rather spend that time perfecting a scone or a stew.

We all have our passions.

While the line between enthusiasm and obsession might be fine, there's no question which side murder falls on.

Finally, we reached a four-lane stretch and I scooted past the plow, waving my thanks.

Like the village, downtown Pondera is long on charm and short on parking. I squeezed the Subaru into a space on a side street and headed for the Main Street gallery and gift shop where Heidi recalled Fresca buying the martini glasses.

The Honeysuckle Glass Gallery building dates from the same era as the Merc. Metal stock tanks flanked the entry, live evergreens poking out of the snow. Inside, exposed brick walls, maple floors, and painted tin tiles set off luminous handblown hanging lights.

I'd met the owner, Trish Flynn, at a state tourism office event on promoting the arts. Her stained glass workshop fills the back of the shop, but she also carries glasswork by artists from across the Northwest.

Soft sax-y jazz drifted around me. Amid the floor lamps, table lamps, night-lights, chandeliers, windows, bowls, plates, jewelry—anything that could be made of glass—would I find what I was searching for?

“You look like you're on the hunt.” Trish emerged from her office, running a chapped hand through short, dark curls. “We've met—remind me your name.”

“Erin Murphy. From the Merc in Jewel Bay. What a magical place.” I pulled Chiara's sketch out of my blue tote. “I'm hoping to find a glass like this.”

“Mmm, yeah.” She led me to a corner where goblets and martini glasses sparkled in the gallery's medley of light. “Each one is different. Part of the beauty of handmade.”

I fingered them. Raised one as if to drink—a light but solid feel. “The colors are so clean and pure. And the swirls of color around the bowl and stem. They look like they're—dancing.”

Like potato chips, it was impossible to pick just one. So I chose three, telling myself they were future gifts. Or I could keep two for myself, replacements for the plain glass jobbies I'd found in a liquor store for two dollars apiece during a martini emergency. With any luck, my mother would see in this gift a shimmer of my love and admiration.

Trish wrapped them carefully in heavy paper. “Every medium has its appeal, but when I started working in glass, I found my soul work. Glass combines all the elements: earth, fire, water, metal, and air. You're never completely in control of the outcome, no matter how hard you work.”

“Sounds disheartening.”

“It can be,” she admitted. “When a piece you've sweated over for hours, sometimes days, breaks. Teaches us detachment. I love the element of surprise, of co-creating with the Divine.”

She'd lost me, but not by the explanation of her artistic process. My eyes were riveted on the corkboard behind her. “Community Baby Shower,” a poster read. “Give
young mothers and their babies a warm, fuzzy start. Bring new, unwrapped clothes and baby items, and stay for an afternoon of games, gifts, and baby-whispering.”

The date: Last Saturday, here in Pondera. “Contact: Sally,” followed by a Jewel Bay phone number. I whipped out my phone and checked the number. Puddle Jumpers.

“Forgot to take that down.” Trish tore it off the board and was about to toss it in the recycling when I held out my hand.

“The contact person. Sally Grimes?” I tucked the poster in my bag. “Part of the crew?”

“Worked as hard as the rest of us,” Trish said. “From midmorning coffee and setup to teardown. The mothers arrived at noon for lunch—fifteen of them. Part of a special program the school district runs for girls who've decided to keep their babies, to help them stay in school. They left at three p.m. We finished around five.”

A mental slide of the property tax records dropped into view. “Sally's your landlady.”

Trish nodded, snapping open a sturdy brown paper shopping bag. “She donated a diaper bag for every mother. A few had already had their babies, and she made sure each little one got a plush toy. And I gave the mothers a glass keepsake.”

“How did you two get involved?”

“Because of Sage. We're related, through my son, Nathan.” The glow on her face had nothing to do with all the lamps shining around us. “And my granddaughter, Princess Olivia. Enjoy your glassware.”

Next door, in another building Sally owns, is a bakery almost as sweet as Le Panier, so I popped in for a latte and a chunky peanut butter cookie.
Research
, I told myself, silencing the voice of my mother commenting on calories. The potential sources of mother-daughter tension are endless, but at least ours are benign—unlike the struggles between Sally and Sage.

“Because of Sage,” Trish had said. I puzzled over that as I picked my way back to my car, careful of my fragile bounty and the icy sidewalks. Sage had to be thirty, and Sally over fifty. No teenage mothers there, unless I had misjudged Sally's age along with everything else.

The Google search for the house in Missoula had identified the residents as N. and S. Flynn. Suspicions confirmed: Nathan and Sage lived in the house her mother owned.

My horn beeped and the lights flickered as I clicked the lock open. Very useful in a valley where every fourth vehicle is a Subaru.

Through no fault of my own, I'd established Sally's alibi for the shooting. Witnesses galore could swear to Sally's whabouts—witnesses with gifts attesting to her presence and generosity. In the process of buying my mother a gift, I had unintentionally proven the woman I liked least in town innocent of murder. The woman convinced of my own brother's guilt.

Talk about the law of unintended consequences.

Accompanied by a lesson in mistaken assumptions. The skin on my face warmed with shame. I had wanted to believe Sally guilty, no matter how unlikely it seemed. When it came to planning—for the village, anyway—she prefers whining to action, and murder is the ultimate action.

I had let my own feelings override my logic. Exactly as I'd accused her of doing when it came to Nick.

The drive home took half the time of my trip to Pondera, thanks to the freshly plowed roads. Winter days here can be gloomy, but not this one. Fresh snow sparkled on the mountains that ring the valley. A little ditty we'd memorized in second or third grade floated into mind: “I'm glad the sky is painted blue, the earth is painted green, with such a lot of nice fresh air all sandwiched in between.”

Substitute white for green, put on your shades, and be glad.

Back in Jewel Bay, I turned off the highway and drove
down Hill Street into the village, the frozen bay on my right. Jack Frost had done his work, scraping the streets smooth. They wouldn't be bare and dry for weeks, but at least they were safe to walk and drive.

I passed the public dock and boat launch—a launch to nowhere, this time of year—then reached the narrow alley that separates the Front Street buildings from the greenbelt surrounding the bay. A whitebelt, today.

A heavyset man in a blue parka puffed up the alley behind the Playhouse, headed my way. Danny Davis?

No time for a closer look, or to stop and chat, as a delivery truck churned up the slope behind me. Ahead, a teal blue van with front-wheel drive and bad tires lost its grip on the road and slid sideways toward me.

Another day in a paradise of tranquility.

I
parked behind the Merc, breathing quickly after my near miss with the van.

It probably speaks ill of me to say I felt greater relief at finding a replacement glass for Fresca's collection than at proving Sally's innocence. Not that I'm shallow and petty—or not
just
that. Proving her innocence left me one less suspect, and dozens of new questions.

The Merc smelled heavenly. Like coffee, but our bags of fresh-roasted beans are delivered on Fridays.

Like pie. Pumpkin pie.

“Mom? What are you doing here? This isn't your day in the kitchen.” Wednesday mornings, a woman treks in from the edge of the wilderness to stir up soup and salad dressing mixes, but the afternoon slot is open. Add filling that to my list.

“This morning over coffee, I remembered that blend you sent me when you lived in Seattle. From Fancy Jim's, or whatever it's called. Thought I'd try making my own.”

“Trader Joe's Pumpkin Spice Coffee,” I said. “You hated it.”

“No. Well, maybe at first.” She slid a mug across the counter. “Try this.”

I sniffed, then sipped. “Cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and cloves.” All the pie spices and none of the overly sweet pseudo-pumpkin flavors often added to coffee drinks. “And a dash of cardamom.”

She beamed. “I knew I raised you right. We can add it to your new drink line.”

Customers would love the blend. Adam would hate it. He could eat pizza every night—and often did, before he started hanging out with me. But when it comes to coffee, he is a purist. Cream and sugar he acknowledges as acceptable additions—but none for him, thank you. Add even a hint of vanilla or chocolate, and he rolls his eyes. “Spoils the fun.”

Or so he says. I can never tell when he's teasing me about my foodie ways.

I perched on a red-topped stool and warmed my hands on the heavy china mug. “So what prompted the kitchen session?”

She picked up her own coffee. “I needed a distraction from all this . . . gossip about your brother. It's hard enough to see him grieving. On top of that, the finger-pointing, the questions—I remember it all too well.”

The front door chimed and I heard Tracy greet the mail carrier.

“I'm torn between wishing you'd stay out of it and praying you'll identify the killer before something else happens.”

My hands froze, mug halfway to my mouth. My mother had refused to acknowledge my unofficial investigations over the last few months, let alone encourage them.

“Erin, there's mail for Nick, but he's out.” Tracy said.

“Thanks. I'll take it.” I glanced at my mother, but she'd
returned to her spices and bowls, and the yellow pad where she'd scribbled measurements.

I hung up my coat and set my bag on the loft stairs. Nick had used the Merc as a mail drop for years. I scooped up the delivery and trotted downstairs.

For a guy who claims to love fieldwork and hate academia, his winter den is as chaotic as any professor's office I've ever seen. Stacks of books and journals covered the desk, the floor, the chair. I scooted a pile of scientific journals aside to clear a space for the mail.

And there, underneath
The Journal of Wildlife Management
lay a stone chop. I reached out, tentatively, and picked it up. About the size of a granola bar—a flat slab, a carved lion's head on top, Chinese characters carved along one flat side, and more characters carved on the narrow bottom. Heavy, but it fit in the hand beautifully, as it was meant to do, so the owner could stamp his signature on a document or drawing.

Was the basement always this cold?

One hand out, I groped for Nick's chair, shoving the stack of papers back and perching on the edge.

Oh, Nick. You knew—and you never said.
The “shop,” she'd told me with her dying breath. Or so I'd thought.

Had he told Ike and Kim what Christine meant? Had he taken this from the church studio, or from her house?

Images raced through my brain, a PowerPoint presentation on fast-forward. Christine on the altar, eyes wide, skin pale, the color seeming to leak out of her red hair as I watched. The trickle of blood. Zayda, crumpled against the wall. The shock and anger mingled on Nick's dear face.

Was this chop what the killer—and the burglar—was searching for?

What was it doing here?

Above me, the floorboards in the back hall creaked. The brass doorknob rattled in its fittings and the hinge on the heavy basement door squeaked.

My fingers gripped the chop.

“What are you doing, messing with my things?”

“Why do you have this, Nick? The last thing a dying woman thought about?”

“Stay out of it, Erin.”

Nick reached for the chop, but I jerked it away. “I'm already in it, Nick. Neck deep. And if the killer suspects you have this, we're all in it.”

I had never seen my brother afraid. I've seen him elated, angry, grieving, worried. Nervous. Hopeful. Anxious. Annoyed.

But never frightened.

“Erin, I don't know what's going on. I don't know who killed Christine, or what that old Chinese relic has to do with it.” He gestured with a trembling hand. His voice shook.

I stood. “Where were you Saturday, Nick? That's got to be part of this.”

“What are you talking about? That has nothing to do with the—with Christine.”

“Then tell me where you were.” There were connections, somewhere.

“Erin. I can't. I've made promises.”

I slammed the chop down on the desk. The stack of journals slid onto the floor. “Fine. Keep your secrets. Get arrested and charged with murder and who knows what else. You're so determined to do things yourself, you get out of jail yourself.”

And then I did what I, Erin Margaret Murphy, would have sworn mere minutes ago that I would never, ever do. I walked out on family.

*   *   *

M
y boots crunched on the cold dry snow of the Nature Trail, aka the River Road. Hard to imagine now that this dirt path, eight feet at its widest, was once the loggers' and homesteaders' wagon trail into town. Replaced eons
ago by the state highway on the south side of the Jewel River—the Cutoff Road—it had been an overgrown tangle when my grandfather Murphy and his sons led the volunteer effort to establish an easement and reclaim it for the community.

Hard to imagine Jewel Bay without it.

When my mother needs to work out her emotions, she cooks. My sister paints. Kathy quilts, and thanks her lucky stars that other women find their refuge in knitting and sewing.

I drive. Or walk.

In summer, the calm waters of the Jewel River slip over the concrete dam built more than a century ago, then rush over rocks and fallen logs, through twists and turns and underwater cliffs, creating Class IV rapids that summon whitewater maniacs from all across the West to try their luck and test their pluck on the Wild Mile.

In summer, baby osprey watch the crazy humans from their nests, from platforms built by the power company to keep them alive and off the lines. They learn to fly over the river and to chirp and shriek and whistle.

In summer, children race bikes down the trail, laughing and shouting. Parents push cooing babies in sturdy strollers. Old friends chit and chat and call hello to neighbors they haven't seen since last winter, or yesterday. Black Labs and Golden Retrievers splash in the shallows, bark at unsuspecting geese, and spray river water on their people. Bill Schmidt leads folks on herb walks. Birders raise their binoculars and tourists hope to spot a bear and wonder what will happen if they do.

But in winter, the River Road falls nearly silent. At the top of the first rise, a gray squirrel dashed across the trail, then perched on an algae-stained rock warmed by the sun, chattering like an old pal. Seeking company, or warning me off his cone stash?

A little farther on, a tree branch creaked under the
weight of ice and snow, and the grinding of a semi shifting gears on the highway echoed across the river canyon.

But mainly, it was me, my footfalls, and the committee inside my head. Lively debate is healthy, good for the soul. It clarifies one's thinking. It's good to hear to all points of view, consider all the possibilities.

It was driving me nuts. What if I didn't do what I said I'd do, what everyone expected? Save the Festival, track down the missing movie, plan an alternate program, make sure this got done and that showed up and this person was where they needed to be and this and that and that and this.

If just this once, I kept my mouth shut and my hand in my pocket, would the village, and the Merc, and my family fall apart?

I stomped down the trail, swinging my arms, hoping the increased blood flow would go to my brain.

Other employers might draw the line when a salesclerk needs time off for her sick dog. They might not create a job for a young vendor desperate for cash.

What if I didn't stick my neck out, put my head on the line, put my right foot in and left foot out? What if I weren't always trying to be the perfect sister and the perfect daughter, boss, building manager, volunteer coordinator, blah blah blah?

What if I did what I wanted to do, and the heck with everybody else?

A shadow flew across the white trail and I raised my face, shielding my eyes from the sun. A raven, wings four feet across, circled slowly overhead. “What do you want, Grandfather?” I said, using the Indian title my own grandfather had taught us when the majestic scavengers cruised the orchard.

The bird perched high on a snag, not moving a feather.

“Okay, you're right.” I pulled off my glove and wiped my runny nose on the back of my hand. “Truth is, I want to help people. But it gets to be too much sometimes, you
know? Things were settling down nicely, and then Iggy died. I got used to that, and then Christine gets killed. And now the anniversary is coming up. After fifteen years, I thought I was okay with it, but every time somebody else dies, it's like my skin gets ripped open, you know?

“And Adam's not here, and I don't know if I could tell him all this anyway. He'd probably think I'm a blubbering idiot.

“I can't solve everybody's problems,” I told the empty trail. “I can recommend jam and cheese, and suggest the perfect hostess gift. I can help a husband pick out scented lotion or wine and chocolates for Valentine's Day, but I can't fill every void in the village. I can't even find a home for the darned cat.”

Grandfather Raven remained silent. Only I could answer my own questions.

And, I realized as I headed back toward town, only the individuals involved could solve their problems. It wasn't up to me to take on their grief, their guilt, their fears and anxieties. I could listen, make suggestions, offer to help. But I had to let Nick, Tracy, and Luci decide what to do.

That didn't mean turning my back on them. It just meant remembering their problems were theirs. I always want things to go smoothly, thinking that if I dive in, if everyone does what I say, all will be peaches and cream.

I could almost hear my mother saying,
Darling, don't be so sensitive
.

Or in my sister's words,
Don't be such a bossy pants
.

The raven circled three times, let out a single caw, and flew down the canyon, wings wide, riding the currents of air.

“Next festival,” I said to a particularly attentive Douglas fir, scarlet mahonia leaves peeking out of the snow at its roots. “I'm saying the Merc will contribute food or cash, but I'm busy. Call someone else.”

My little buddy sat in the road, holding a cone in his tiny pink hands. Bright brown eyes stared up at me.

“As squirrel is my witness.”