Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) by Leslie Budewitz Read Free Book Online Page A

Bob, decorated by Liz, it’s as sweet as any place on earth.
    But I needed to go where I always go in times of trouble. The orchard. Where Murphys have lived for a hundred years, on the downslope of Trumpeter Mountain, high above the lake. Where the gentle winds make life—and the cherries—sweeter.
    Where my mother still holds court.
    Gravel crunched under the deputy’s tires as he followed my directions and pulled into the carport next to the house. I did not want her to see an official sheriff’s rig before she saw me, safe.
    But there’s no fooling Francesca Conti Murphy. Or her faithful companion, Pepé, the only Italian Scottie dog. (Biscotti, my brother Nick calls her.) Alerted by the unexpected sound—not many drop-in visitors after 10 p.m. in these parts—my mother dashed out the front door, barefoot, her long silk kimono flapping as she ran.
    I flew to her. No matter how old you are, there is nothing so comforting as your mother’s arms. Pepé circled us, barking, her stubby black tail upright.
    Outside, in the warm breeze and underneath the stars, I gave my mother the news. “Oh, darling.” She cupped my face in her hands, her long fingers cradling my damp cheeks. I held her trembling shoulders, the familiar scent of her washing over me.
    Inside, I slipped out of my dress, now speckled with dirt and bits of pine needles, and found an old pair of my brother Nick’s gray-and-black-checked flannel pajama bottoms and a faded gray-and-maroon UM sweatshirt. No doubt I’d shed them both during the night, but right now, Comfort R Us.
    “What about her family?” my mother said when I’d curled up on the couch, Pepé beside me. She handed me a steaming mug.
    “Kim will call the police where the husband lives. They’ll send a team to make a visit.” I inhaled the velvety scent of cocoa spiked with a dash of Bailey’s, and took a sip.
    Fresca gestured with her Chianti. “Petty question at a time like this, but what about the filming?”
    “They’ll have to cancel. They need someone to manage all the details. Especially since they’ve already lost their regular cameraman.”
    Stacia’s death wouldn’t have any effect on Summer Fair itself. In thirty-five years, the Fair had seen plenty of major and minor disruptions. Rain. Forest fires. One early year, a fugitive in a stolen red Mustang convertible led sheriff’s deputies on a chase and got caught when he detoured into the village. The Fair goers thought he was part of the entertainment.
    “We’ll start a memorial fund for her son,” Fresca said. “It’s the least we can do.”
    I spent that night in the rocket-shaped twin bed my mother had built for Landon. The room had come a long way from the Strawberry Shortcake and Blueberry Muffin decor it had endured in my childhood. Lego spaceships and Hank the Cowdog books had bumped my Little House collection off the shelves, and a Star Wars mural covered the wall where posters of The New Kids on the Block had once hung.
    But sleep eluded me. A mental slide show—PowerPoint brain—looped over and over: pictures of Landon; of Stacia’s son, Luke; and of his namesake, Luke Skywalker. Images of Stacia crumpled by the side of the road, the gray tabby I’d run over, my own father. Losing a parent at seventeen was one thing, at three another.
    I clutched Landon’s left-behind teddy bear—or was it an Ewok?—and pretended everything would be all right.

•  Five  •
    M y Subaru waited next to the cabin, as if I’d parked it there myself. I waved thanks to my brother-in-law Jason for dropping me off, and headed inside to salvage my relationship with the main guy.
    Mr. Sandburg couldn’t decide whether he was happy to see me or PO’d that I’d been out all night. He sniffed my PJs.
Eau de dog
. His nose twitched and he took a half step back. I’d inherited the sable Burmese cat from an elderly friend in Seattle, and he’d adjusted to our move well, except for the occasional testy encounter when