Death Al Dente (17 page)

“He's been so angry.” Her eyes watered. “Last Sunday, he was supposed to meet me for breakfast before my shift, but he went racing by and didn't even stop. I know it's all so awful, but he's been so mean and nasty.”

And then the poisoning. That can turn a foul mood downright rotten.

“What happened? How long have you been dating?”

She took a sip of water, then coughed. “Almost two years. Since the start of my junior year, right after his parents got divorced. Last night, at his mom's house after the memorial service, he said he didn't want to see me anymore.” Tears rolled down her splotchy cheeks and she sniffed noisily. “I think he thinks one of my parents killed her.”

“Oh, honey.” I touched her shoulder, not willing to tell her I thought so, too, and so did half the town. The other half blamed my mother.

Did the Randalls suspect one of the Vincents of leaving the poisoned jar, too? I could hardly ask.

“My dad's a jerk,” Cassie said. “My mom's not bad—she's just ticked at him. I wish he'd stayed away.”

Time to go in for the kill, so to speak. “Cassie, when your dad left, was it for good—or was he coming back?”

She shook her head. “He told us he had a job lined up as Elvis. But I think he got there, to Las Vegas, and people found out he was scamming them. So now he's calling it a vacation to cover his sorry butt.”

The peaceful harmonies of home life for a tribute artist. Not even one's children appreciate the sacrifices made for art.

“Those Elvis outfits of his are—well, form-fitting. I couldn't help but wonder the other night where he keeps his keys when he goes out in costume.”

“He tucks them in his boot. In a special pocket.”

Ah. A guy could hide a knife in an ankle boot, reach down, whip it out, and stab someone in one swift motion.

“My mom never hated Claudette. People think so, but she did suggest it would be a good time for Claudette to move for good. Make a real break. She had friends in Missoula she thought might hire Claudette.”

Not many women would have helped their husband's ex-lover find a new job in another town. Linda deserved credit. Of course, if Claudette quickly moved on, that would have helped ease the embarrassment for them both.

I was beginning to wonder why one of them hadn't offed Dean.

“It's got to have been hard on her, seeing him with someone else.”

More sniffing and nodding. “But Mom and Claudette were friends first. We were all friends. And now no one is friends, not even me and Ian.”

I squeezed her hand. “This is a hard time for him. He needs his friends, whether he knows it or not—and whether you stay together or not.”

Mimi approached, looking sympathetic but ready to return to routine. “Let's get you cleaned up and back to work.” Cassie nodded. I told her again how sorry I was, and what a good job she'd done that morning.

I hurried through the pine-paneled bar, away from the watchful eyes of stuffed wildlife, and out past the Inn's bustling dining room. After the morning drama, the clear mountain air startled me, and I blinked against the sunshine.

“Hey.” Ted Redaway stepped out of the Inn's shadowed side.

“Hey yourself. What are you doing here? Everybody else is long gone.” Split like peas, in my father's phrase.

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Why wouldn't I be?” I started down the steps. When I reached the sidewalk, he fell in beside me.

“Well, she did rip into your mother, and you.”

I'd been so focused on Cassie that I'd almost forgotten her mother's tantrum. I shrugged. “You can't let talk bother you. Fresca taught me that long ago.”

“Nice of you to comfort her kid. She all right?”

“You saw that?” His interest was touching.

“I bet she's pretty upset, with all that's gone on. Probably talking off the top of her head. I guess the kids are close.”

“Actually, she seemed pretty rational, despite the tears. I thought Claudette intended to start a restaurant here in town, but Cassie says Linda encouraged her to move. If it were me, I'd have wanted to kill her.” Cassie had said the plan was Missoula, safely a hundred miles away. Oh—Angelo had cooked there. Had Claudette been asking him about opportunities? But why would that lead to an argument?

I glanced up at Ted. Beneath his Harley ball cap, his forehead was creased and his heavy reddish eyebrows tightly knit. “Why so worried?”

He startled. “Oh, nothing. 'Cept maybe Dad's right and town's going to—whatever.”

That's when I noticed. “You're not wearing your knife anymore. You've worn a knife since eighth grade. What happened?” His recent weapon of choice had been a six-inch blade in a tooled leather sheath snapped on his belt.

“Only an idiot would walk around wearing a knife in a town where a woman's just been stabbed.”

“How do you know she was stabbed? Kim wouldn't tell us, and the paper didn't say.”

Something across the street caught his eye. “She told my dad.”

Odd. Or maybe not. Maybe standard operating procedure to be close-mouthed with suspects and their families. But very little seemed standard around here anymore.

Suspicious minds.

I
n between working with customers, Tracy and I double-spiffed the Merc for the wild food demo and the weekend ahead. We brewed up pots of both our standby Cowboy Roast and the surprisingly drinkable Wheat Coffee.

Early afternoon, I slipped out for a trip down the lake to the vineyard. In other regions, April showers bring May flowers, but here, we get about six weeks of spring sunshine, followed by three weeks of heavy rain. Then, in the second or third week of June, all glory bursts forth. We were right on schedule. I drove past old homesteads guarded by lilacs, their blooms fading, and rows of iris, peonies, and poppies. You can tell what's safe to plant by what's withstood decades of browsing deer.

A few miles south of town, a single light sped toward me. It zigged and zagged across the center line as though the object were to weave in between the slashes, not stay to the right of them.

“Criminy.” This motorcycle rider acted like he had a death wish. I slowed and hugged the fog line, eyes peeled, not wanting to be the driver who helped him get it. He used the full lane and then some—not smart on these roads, with their slim shoulders, fallen rocks, and darting wildlife. As the bike careened closer, the driver leaned forward so far he seemed to grow out of the handlebars, a cloud of road dust behind him. I closed my window. When he passed me, going at least ninety, I sighed in relief and accelerated to highway speed. Bad as our roads can be in winter, summer is worse.

Wine making in Montana had long been limited to cherry and other fruit wines. But new short-season hybrids sprouted several vineyards along the lake, where soils, slopes, and warm winds combined with the other essential ingredient: gutsy people willing to work hard and pour everything they had into a dream.

Love those people.

I parked in front of the main building, a vintage Quonset hut that Sam and Jen had cleaned and dressed up by adding a facade of aged yellow stucco, red roof tiles, and a bell tower topped with a cross. From the outside, a visitor would never know it wasn't an old Spanish mission. Spanish explorers never reached Montana, but who's quibbling?

Smiling and sun-burnished, Sam emerged from between rows of vines and spread his arms. “Another day in Paradise.”

“Heavenly spot, for sure. Glad you could spare some wine for us. It's selling well.” He opened the arched wooden doors and I followed him inside. The giant fermenting tanks stood empty now, but yeasty smells blended with oak permeated the air year-round.

“You need it, you name it. The Merc's a godsend. Making wine in country that can frost twelve months a year's easy compared to selling it.” He wriggled a dolly under a stack of cartons emblazoned with the Monte Verde name and logo—the pseudo-mission outlined against the mountains, the rising sun behind them.

“I don't mean to pry, Sam”—or maybe I did—“but how's business?”

“Lots of interest, and everyone who tours the place buys at least one bottle. But we need more retail outlets.” I popped the hatchback and he began sliding boxes in. “We fell into that trap, you know? Sold a nice place in California, plunked the profits into our dream, and here we are, treading water. Shoulda bought a buffalo ranch—you can always eat 'em. You can't live on Viognier alone.”

I flashed a quick grin. “Might be fun to try.”

He brushed back a stray lock, brown flecked with gray. “Yeah, well, the bankers won't take wine and CDs in lieu of cash.”

“Folks are skeptical of products they don't associate with Montana. But I can give you a list of potential outlets. And connect you with the wine buyer at SavClub.” A small outfit like this might not meet the production minimums, but it was worth a shot.

His eyes lit up. “Fantastic. Hey, I don't see an invoice—let's check in the office.”

No luck, so Sam called Jen down at the main house. We chatted while we waited.

“Sam, you and Jen were at the Festa on Friday night. Did you see Dean and Linda arrive?”

“Oh, yeah. Linda came over to say hi, made sure we were set for playing Saturday night, too.”

Made sense. “What about Dean?”

Sam cocked his head, remembering. “He said hi, grabbed her, and they headed for the bar. I picture him coming from my left—must have come in the back gate. Like he'd dropped her off and gone to park.”

But he'd insisted they parked out front and come in together. Why lie?

“Seemed like you two were in and out quite a bit. Setup always such a pain?”

His brows furrowed and he glanced at his watch. “Where is she?” He riffled back through the stacks of papers he'd already checked.

A few minutes later, Jen arrived, face flushed, her wavy brown hair coming loose from its braid. She found the invoice, in the file drawer in a folder labeled
MERC
.

“Why would you file it, when it goes with the order?”

“I just got ahead of myself, okay?”

I hate hearing couples squabble. “Thanks, guys.” I headed out. Behind me, I heard Sam say, “What took you so long?”

“Sorry,” Jen replied. “The bank called again. That guy from California who called Friday afternoon.”

Friday afternoon, when the Krausses were prepping for a gig. Sounded like a lender who forgot the rule against giving bad news just before the weekend—or who wanted to make his borrowers sweat. The reason Jen looked rattled on Friday?

“They want to see the books. They want proof of a turnaround.” That could be good, or bad, depending on the size of the loan and how delinquent they were. If the hole was too deep, even a SavClub promotion might be too little, too late.

“Erin, wait,” Jen called, and I stopped. “We've got something we want you to try.” She led the way to the tasting room and uncorked a bottle, hiding the label with her hand, and poured three short glasses.

I raised the glass to the light and swirled the deep red liquid, watching it slide down the sides of the glass. “Good color.” Sniffed it. Blackberry and spice, with a hint of leather. Took a sip and let it move around my mouth. “Cabernet. A nice one.”

“First bottling from the experimental plot. It won't be ready to sell for a year or so, but I think it's got potential.”

Could they hang on that long? “Me, too, if the price is right. As Sam and I said earlier, people don't expect a fine local wine, so they aren't willing to spend a lot on that first bottle. I call it ‘adventure pricing'—high enough to seem competitive in quality and to give you a profit, but low enough for buyers to take a gamble.”

She poured us each another couple of fingers. “See, that's what I like about you, Erin. You work with vendors, you give us advice, but you don't treat us like idiots. And you don't keep changing your mind, like Claudette. She drove me nuts.”

A shaky business could not afford an unreliable retailer. But a retailer could not afford a disorganized vendor in financial trouble. I'd have to step carefully.

“Thanks. Claudette did great with the artistic side and with customers, but as you know, there's a lot more to running a successful business.” In truth, she blew like the wind and had been a disaster as a manager—more than Fresca had realized.

A few minutes later, I reached over the counter to set my empty glass by the sink. A case of wine stood on the floor, a knife on top. I closed my eyes briefly and pictured Sam: He carried a Leatherman on his belt, at least when he worked the vines. This must be Jen's. Everyone, everywhere, seemed to keep a blade close at hand. Except me, the lone woman out.

As I drove home, the afternoon sun dappling the road, I remembered Sam's certainty that Dean came in Red's back gate. No doubt Dean lied to divert attention from himself, thinking no one would know when he'd come in, or where, except maybe Linda. Who had plenty of reason to protect him.

That meant he either beat Claudette and her killer to the gate, or he met her there and killed her. Could I pin down the time of his arrival more precisely?

A third scenario: He'd seen Claudette meet her killer, and kept his mouth shut. Out of character, but not impossible.

The musicians had been in and out that back gate, hauling in their equipment. Had Jennifer dashed out for a forgotten cord, run into Claudette, had words, and let loose?

Or worse?

Was Jen's stress from financial fear—or criminal guilt?

A whitetail buck jumped out of the borrow pit onto the road. I braked hard and he dashed into the woods. My heart thudded against my rib cage.

Easy, girl. Eyes on the road. People are counting on you—and that load of wine.