Free Death Al Dente by Leslie Budewitz

sparkling. “No one knows better than I do what a great friend Fresca is.”
    The lively notes of a jazz guitar duet began, and I craned my neck for a glimpse of the musicians. Sam and Jennifer again. The local music scene had exploded since the Jewel Bay Jazz Workshop and Festival began a few years ago. Instructors and students from around the world gathered the week before Memorial Day at Eagle Lake Lodge. Another idea that ruffled some feathers—“Why do we need something new?”—then wowed everyone with its success. Sam and Jen came to town as workshop students, then moved here to buy a decrepit orchard and revive it as Monte Verde Winery.
    The lobby swung with laughter, music, and the chatter of old and new friends. Dean Vincent again sported full Elvis garb, this time a white jacket and pants with gold spangles and epaulets. He had an arm around Linda, who’d tried to outshine him in a shimmery sapphire sequined dress that was both a touch too elegant and a touch too short. The Prosecco eased the irritation she invariably provoked in me.
    A table displayed CDs from tonight’s musicians, a trade-off for asking them to volunteer their time and talents. I chose one from Jody Fisher and another from the Krausses, then mingled until the lights dimmed, beckoning us into the house. I snared a strawberry dipped in dark chocolate and found my seat next to Chiara and Heidi. But our fourth seat was empty. My sister gave me a wide-eyed, questioning look, puzzled by Mom’s absence.
    â€œShe must be sitting with someone else.” An otherwise full house. I smiled, more than satisfied.
    Linda Vincent took center stage to welcome us. A tremble in her voice and a fluttering hand betrayed her nerves. After describing the musical program, she reminded us that tonight’s event was a fund-raiser for the Food Bank. “Finally,” she said, glancing at her notes, “be sure to thank our donors and volunteers,” and rattled off a list of names, including Red’s Bar, Le Panier and Chez Max, the Playhouse and Taylor family, and Chef James Angelo.
    But not my mother or me.
    Chiara raised her eyebrows and whispered, “What’s up with that?”
    â€œNo idea.” Surely Linda hadn’t forgotten the Merc. But even she wouldn’t be so petty on purpose—would she?
    The first act, a trio with Sam Krauss on piano, Jen on bass, and Dave the Barber on drums, started us off. Then came the headliner, Jody Fisher, a small energetic man with an engaging grin who loved his reception at the Jazz Festival so much that he came back to Jewel Bay for the weekend. He opened with a lovely, smooth tune called “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most” on his curious headless guitar, his right leg bouncing in time. After another solo, the bass and drums joined him to rev things up a bit. By halftime, we were all grooving.
    In the lobby, Wendy’s crew had refreshed the appetizers and arranged desserts on tall round tables. I piled marinated asparagus and mushrooms, cheese straws, and more bruschetta on a small plate, snared another glass of Prosecco, and leaned against a square column adorned with tiny iridescent tiles in colors evoking the water and mountains surrounding town. Our little gem of a town. Juggling glass and plate, I bit into a bruschetta topped with tomato and herbed chèvre. He might be a jerk, but Angelo had created some terrific flavor combinations.
    I heard the spit and fire before recognizing the voices.
    â€œThe trays are empty. Obviously everyone loves the food. Even your snob of a sister.”
    â€œI grant the man can cook. That’s not the point.” Chiara spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to a misbehaving child.
    â€œSo what is the point?” Ten feet away, Linda stood pointy-toe to painted clog with Chiara, the fair skin on Linda’s throat red and splotchy.
    â€œNone of this”—Chiara waved her fingers with their