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

Pepé visited. I mollified him with the rattle of the treat tin, and he nibbled a few pieces out of my hand. I scratched behind his ears and he meowed.
    Stacia’s death was awful. But it had nothing to do with me. So why was I reciting John Donne as I brushed my teeth? “No man is an island, entire of itself. . . . Each man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind.”
    Or womankind.
    Don’t get involved, Erin
.
    But I knew I would. I already was.
    Standing at the closet, I searched for something to celebrate a brief friendship ended in tragedy. Though I’d reclaimed many of my village ways in the three months I’d been home, I still savored my city wardrobe. I slipped on a stretchy skirt, the deep pink of raspberry cream, and a black-and-white tank with a diamond pattern and a draped front. Black leather sandals. A short stack of bracelets: brass bangles with onyx and mother of pearl, from an import shop in the Market in Seattle, punctuated by an acrylic square bracelet in fuchsia.
    Stacia would approve.
    I rubbed the magic spot on Sandburg’s forehead. “Don’t chase the squirrels. They just want to be friends.”
    On the passenger seat of my car lay the book. Julia Child had lived a long, full life. Stacia Duval had not had that chance. I touched the cover and made them both a promise.
    *   *   *
    “W hat would you do without Wendy’s croissants?” Tracy asked when I walked into the Merc, half-eaten pastry in hand.
    “Lie in the gutter and weep.” A stricken look crossed her sweet, round face. “Sorry. You heard?”
    Jaw quivering, she nodded. I stuffed my croissant back in its bag and gave her a long hug.
    Most early mornings, I have the shop to myself and relish the quiet time. Today, I welcomed the soft sounds of another human being shuffling around the place, making ready for more human beings.
    In the kitchen, I started a pot of Cowboy Roast and opened a new package of the tiny paper cups we offer customers. Spotted the Wheat Coffee we’d gotten from Montana Gold, a family-run farm-to-fork business in the central part of the state. The stuff would probably give Gib Knox the vapors. That alone was reason enough to start a pot. I no longer cared if Mr. TV Host approved of our little town or not.
    He wanted to try local foods. That’s what we’d give him.
    Thinking of Montana Gold gave me a smile. I’d suggested Rick Bergstrom share a booth this weekend with the Creamery folks. Fair goers who tasted local cheese on crackers and bagels made of Montana-grown grains were more likely to buy than if they tried the two products separately.
    Plus, I wanted the broad-shouldered, blond farm boy–turned–sales rep to think of Jewel Bay fondly.
    I’d texted word of Stacia’s death to Mimi and Tara last night and suggested we meet midmorning. Pleas for information had already been broadcast on the radio and TV. Ned didn’t text, so I dashed next door to Red’s, hoping the grapevine hadn’t beat me to it.
    “Oh, girlie.” At the news, fatherly concern filled his ashen face.
    “Kim will find the culprit. For all we know, someone’s heard the reports, realized what they did, and called in to confess. I mean, it’s a crime to hit someone, and to leave the scene, but . . .” My voice trailed off as I realized I’d put mouth in gear before engaging brain.
    “It’s all right, girlie. No need to pussyfoot around me. I’ll tell you now, don’t cancel a thing. That don’t honor the poor lass.”
    I squeezed his arm and headed back to the Merc, wishing for a way to avoid the inevitable cancellation of the broadcast. Two women stood in front of our display window, peering and pointing. “Those Breakfast Baskets are new,” I said. “Come on in and take a closer look.”
    They followed me inside, where I offered coffee and showed them basket options.
    “Such a sweet little town,” the shorter woman said, her vowels thick as Mississippi mud. They had to be sisters, with the same