Butter Off Dead (22 page)

“Obviously, we can't ask you to hold it the entire evening, so Snowberry Gallery will keep its restroom available until the screening starts. And the antique shop across the street?” The owner waved her hand, signaling agreement. “If you get desperate during the show, Applause and Chez Max are the closest restaurants, both open this evening. Thank you for understanding. There's more to eat and drink, and in a few minutes, we'll move this show into the theater.”

Odd that the freeze hadn't affected the neighboring buildings—yet, anyway—but no time to dwell on that.

Ned offered his hand and I hopped off the bench. “Girlie, you got a knack for solving problems, by jingo.”

“Thanks, Ned. This town keeps me in practice.” My stomach reminded me that I'd been aiming for food when the fit hit the shan. I retraced my steps and wolfed down two crostini and a cheese pastry. I grabbed a glass of Prosecco and mingled, thanking donors. Nothing happens in Jewel Bay without donors.

So I made the rounds, mingling, chatting, sipping, and thanking. And trying to ignore the sticky patches under my armpits.

“Good job.” I snared a taste of sushi. Max had made three types of rolls, working the paddlefish caviar in after all. Wendy beamed, the white chef's toque she wears for special occasions bobbing. “Everybody loves the food.”

I stood at the edge of a small circle gathered around Larry Abrams and sipped. The bubbles tickled my nostrils, and I suppressed a sneeze.

“Collectors save history,” he said. “Or bits and pieces of it. Some things people instantly recognize as worth preservation. Journals from the Lewis and Clark expedition, for example. The gifts they gave the Indians. Amateur
archaeologists still search along the trail for physical evidence.”

“Didn't they find a military button a few years ago?” Donna said, “Near a possible campsite?”

“Wish I could find that missing cache.” The pharmacist chuckled, referring to a bit of Lewis and Clark lore.

Across the room, Zayda George stood on tiptoes, scanning the crowd. She'd piled her blond hair high and wrapped the knot in an orange band that matched her stretchy pink-and-orange top. Cute look, frazzled expression. Maybe I could talk with her tonight and figure out what had happened this afternoon. Figure out whether her parents needed to hear about it. Or the police, as she'd implied, then insisted otherwise.

“If your ancestors had lived near the trail,” Larry said, “they might have found buttons, or pill bottles, not knowing the stuff had any connection to the Corps of Discovery. Eventually, they'd have buried the finds with the rest of their garbage, or left them gathering dust in an outbuilding. Or their kids would have tossed the stuff. Admit, most of you think we savers are a bit crazy, but after we've done the legwork and spent the money, you're impressed. The way you're all oohing and aahing over my posters.”

He had a point. Though I lack the collector gene, I was learning to appreciate those who have it—whether for things they love, like my mother's martini glasses, or items of cultural significance, like Larry's posters.

“For some of you, they bring back memories or evoke another time,” he said. “But without guys like me, they'd be lost. Languishing in the back rooms of junk stores in obscure towns, where they mildew and crumble, wrapped in plastic and stuffed in a bushel basket in the corner.”

He was beginning to sound like a scold, in front of people we'd invited here to thank. “Larry, I—”

“Umm, sorry, Erin. Larry, we need you backstage.” Zayda broke in. “There's a problem with the screen.”

His brows drew together sharply and he strode off without a word, Zayda beside him, her hands flying as she spoke.

“No worries,” I called out brightly, then said “'Scuse me,” and trotted after them, winding between clusters of film lovers.
What now?

They hustled down the side aisle of the theater to the stage, where Dylan and Dana stared up at the towering white projection screen. Two huge flaps of the silver Mylar backing hung loose. I gasped. I didn't know how much we'd paid for the new gear, but the screen had not been cheap.

And it was absolutely essential, tonight and every night this weekend.

“What the hell happened?” Larry stepped back, then moved closer to examine the flaps.

“We don't know,” Dylan said. “We turned on the projector and realized the screen was all messed up. We ran down here and this is what we found.”

The trio and their advisor examined the damaged screen. My phone said eight minutes to our scheduled start time.

“Well, there's no time to fix this right. Lower the pipe and get me some duct tape.” Larry could be quite the bulldog.

The kids stood silent, flushed and uncertain, then Dylan moved toward the rail assembly on the side of the stage and Dana reached for the bottom of the screen.

“Zayda, check the ticket office for duct tape. I'll see if we have some at the Merc.” I sprinted up the aisle, the girl behind me, then dashed outside and down the street. The cold air smacked me in the face and froze my nose hairs.

I found a big fat roll behind our front counter and sped back to the Playhouse. Zayda stood outside the office, hands empty, looking ready to cry. I held up the tape in triumph, not pausing.

The big screen lay on the stage like a flat, dead whale.
Breathless, I handed Larry the tape. He peeled the end loose and stuck it on Dana's fingers, handed the roll to Dylan, and motioned the boys to back up, glancing from tape to screen as he eyeballed the length needed. He whipped a knife out of his pocket and sliced it off.

“This may not be pretty,” he said as he knelt at one end of the long slash. “But it's all we can do for now.” Dana crouched at the other end, and they lowered the tape over the rip, Larry gently smoothing it into place.

Beside me, gripping the roll, Dylan crossed his arms over his torso, shoulders curving forward.

“Glad to see Zayda's calmed down.”

He glanced up, clearly puzzled. “She's fine. What are you talking about?”

“She wasn't fine at five o'clock, when I picked her up running on the road out by Larry's place.”

Even in the dim light, he looked pale.

“One more strip.” Larry wiggled his fingers. Dylan held out the roll of tape and they repeated the procedure. “Okay, raise the pipe. Slowly. How did this happen anyway? It didn't rip by itself.”

No reply.

“Let's get a move on,” Larry shouted. “We're late.”

My right eyelid twitched as Dylan tugged on the rope that hoisted the pipe up to the ceiling.

“Fingers crossed,” Zayda said as she joined us. My thoughts exactly. We held our breaths and watched the screen as Larry and Dana guided it back into place. As the tape held.

“The images may be blurry, but better than nothing. We might be able to borrow a screen in Pondera. I'll make a few calls tomorrow. No time to test this thing,” Larry said. “Let's get this show on the road.”

I dashed back to the lobby, sweatier and stickier than before. No visible signs that the throng had noticed the delay, except for a wide-eyed glance from my sister, helping Wendy refill appetizer trays. In the ticket office, Zayda
flicked the lobby lights twice and I pasted a smile on my red face as the guests filed past me into the theater.

As Larry had said, the screen had not torn itself. I was no judge, but the tears looked like cuts. Slashes. Deliberate damage.

Simple vandalism, or a targeted crime? And who—or what—was the target?

“Thank you,” I whispered in the general direction of the stars. The damage had been repaired, at least temporarily, and no one had been hurt.

But I had one more question: How long could I reasonably wait before calling Deputy Kim Caldwell?

“T
he silver screen. A night at the movies. I'm so grateful to all of you for braving blizzard warnings and backed-up pipes to help kick off what I hope will be the First Annual Jewel Bay Food Lovers' Film Festival.” Applause from the movie lovers and festival supporters who filled most of the theater's four hundred fifty seats—a stellar turnout for opening night. “Without you, there would be no festival. And there would be no festival without our dear friend, Christine Vandeberg, the force behind the dream. You all know, I'm sure, that she died unexpectedly last weekend, leaving me to fill her shoes. It's such an impossible task that I had to wear these.”

I lifted a leg to show off my red cowboy boots, a lucky find underneath my desk.

“We are muddling on, as I think she would have wanted. I hope you all forgive us when things go wrong, because they already have.”

They laughed, thank goodness. “For this inaugural event, we've chosen five films that explore the role of food in our
lives, and the lives of those who grow, cook, and serve it. Each celebrates the discovery of truly good food and its power to transform our lives, to bring people together, to ease tensions. To express emotion. Our Saturday night special is a double feature, with a performance by the high school Drama Club at intermission.” Applying the adage that “what you think about, you bring about,” I ignored the possibility that
Chocolat
might not arrive in time.

“Complimentary popcorn, cookies, and soft drinks will be available all weekend. Other food and drink will be available at the concession stand. Proceeds support the Film Club, a hardworking group of high school students. Tonight, the kids debut for us their short documentary,
Auto Biography: Classic Car Collectors and their Driving Passion
, delving into a special obsession: the love of old cars. Here to tell you more is club president Zayda George.”

Zayda climbed the short steps to the stage. I handed her the mike, then headed up the aisle as she described the project. I paused, listening, as she mentioned the antique Rolls-Royce rally that came through town last summer and sparked the kids' fascination with fascination, as Zayda put it.

After one last glance at the audience and the girl onstage, I pushed through the door and out to the lobby.

In time to see my old friend slash nemesis slash partner in rooting out crime march in, boot heels echoing in the space that minutes ago had been a flurry of hugs and handshakes and conversation as the cabin fever that grips our community every winter finally broke. Criminy, but a lot was happening fast these days.

Judging from the black pants and jacket she'd worn this afternoon, a little rumpled now, Kim hadn't been home since I left the sheriff's office.

“Plenty of good food left.” I gestured to the tables. “Help yourself.”

“I'm not sure I should be here,” she said.

“Why not?” I handed her a plate. Applause from the theater signaled the end of Zayda's introduction. We both picked out a few appetizers, me listening distractedly for sounds of the film. When the theme music started, I took an éclair in celebration. “Yeah, so you didn't buy a ticket. I'll sic the kids on you later for a donation.”

Which reminded me that I hadn't decided what to do about the Zayda incident. Telling law enforcement would only hone their focus on her. And I didn't want to put her through that unnecessarily.

“Come on. Film just started,” I said. Kim pointed to a sign reading
NO FOOD OR DRINK IN THEATER
and I rolled my eyes.

We sat in the back row, nibbling on contraband, as Jewel Bay came to life on the screen. I'd seen a rough cut a few weeks earlier, when Larry and the kids pitched their idea to debut it as part of the Festival. Christine and I had both loved the idea. We'd also loved getting a ready-made team of enthusiastic volunteers. They'd done a super job showcasing local collectors and restorers. Show us a side of ourselves that we haven't seen before and you've got a hit.

But I hadn't paid much attention to the details.

On screen, we saw an elfin man in his early seventies, hair still dark, describing the Hudsons he'd restored. A woman and her son relayed their passion for the muscle cars of the 1960s, and how working on them together had brought them closer. The kids had found a Model A club and a pack of classic 1950s Chevys.

Then a familiar image from Caldwell's Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch filled the giant screen: a gambrel-roofed barn, a high peak over the hayloft and long sloping lines spread wide. Weathered gray-brown siding, recently rechinked. A century old, Zayda as narrator told us, predating the guest ranch.

Cut to inside, where the camera rolled slowly down the center aisle, past hand-hewn posts and beams, and panned
the horse stalls. My favorite chestnut mare, a sweetheart named Ribbons, stood patiently in one, her buddy Kintla, a tall gray-and-white Appaloosa, in the next. The sight spurred an urge in me to ride out into the hills, to shake off the winter cobwebs and catch a good, deep breath of spring.
Soon
.

Then the camera zoomed in on a dark corner of the barn. The last stall held a shadowed shape. Kyle's plaid-shirted arms came into view as he carefully drew a cover off the car.

“Here's my baby.” He stroked the hood. Light entered the frame, exposing the GTO's bold red-orange paint and racy lines. The camera picked up the figure of the man, moving steadily in on his face. A happy face, filled with an uncomplicated joy. “This car and I, we've been through a lot together.”

Beside me, Kim shifted, jaw tight, arms gripped across her chest.

The camera followed Kyle as he circuited the car, picking out the highlights he described: deep bezels that held the headlights, air vents on the hood, eyebrows above the fenders. He raised the hood and the camera zoomed in on an engine so shiny it might have been cleaned with silver polish and a toothbrush.

“My uncle had a similar model and I adored it. Worked my tail off at the Lodge for extra money. Finally, I'd saved enough, and my uncle and my dad and I went to a car auction. Found this old wreck. A buddy and I repainted it. Spent every hour we had on it.”

“What makes this car special?” Zayda, offscreen.

“Speed. Freedom. The open road. Behind the wheel, nothing can stop you. Unconditional love, because a car, you know, it only asks that you take care of it and in exchange, it will do purt' near everything you ask.” Interior shots accompanied his words. The camera operator had done some fancy angling.

“Family kept it for me when I went in the Army. Gave me something to come back to after I got shipped to Iraq. Yeah, I have my family and career—I always intended to be a chef in civilian life, and hoped to work here at the Lodge. That dream came true. But a guy needs something he loves to do that doesn't demand anything from him except his attention.”

“You park it next to the horses for extra horsepower?” Zayda asked. “How about a ride?”

“You bet. Runs great, despite its bumps and bruises. I've still got a little body work to do.” The camera closed in on Kyle, his hand pointing to several long scrapes on the front-left quarter panel.

Beside me in the dark, Kim gasped.