Free Death Al Dente by Leslie Budewitz Page A

paint-stained cuticles—“would have happened without my snob of a sister, but you thanked half the town and didn’t mention her or Glacier Mercantile. And you kept Fresca off the menu tonight on purpose.”
    â€œAt least Angelo creates his own recipes,” Linda said, her full red lips curling in a snarl. “He’s worked hard for what he has. No one’s handed him anything.”
    â€œAnd your husband. His girlfriend’s body isn’t cold yet, and he’s back with you dancing till dawn. Does that make you feel good?”
    Linda’s temples bulged, and she looked like she might slap Chiara.
    I snapped to life and pushed my way forward. I had to stop them before something terrible happened. Half the crowd had fallen silent, stunned by the spectacle. Including one unexpected witness. At the Merc this afternoon, she hadn’t known about the Gala, and hadn’t hinted that she might come.
    But the look on her face made clear that Deputy Caldwell had heard every word.

•
Nine
•
    â€œC hill,” I said in a low tone, my fingers digging into my sister’s arm. “Linda, thank you for a lovely evening. You and Wendy did a fabulous job.”
    Linda turned to Dean, blubbering. “Did you hear what that witch said to me? About you?”
    What did I say? Oh, my sister. The other witch.
    â€œI wasn’t finished,” Chiara said through closed teeth as I led her out the front doors.
    â€œOh, I think you said enough.” I tightened my grip.
    â€œThat woman. First she has the nerve to suggest they didn’t invite Mom to participate because her food isn’t up to snuff. Then she said with all your talk about honoring Claudette, she was surprised you and Mom didn’t propose a toast to Claudette’s death.”
    I stopped so fast she practically tripped. “What? She’s devastated.”
    â€œThere you are.” Outside on the paved walkway, Heidi pulled a white linen hanky out of her knock-off Prada bag, and handed it to Chiara.
    While Chiara explained what happened, I tried my mother’s landline, then her cell. Voice mail on both. Finally, I thumbed a text:
Where RU? Trouble!!
    Heidi stiffened her spine. “Do not let vicious gossip get to you.”
    â€œBut where’s Mom?” Chiara and I said in unison.
    â€œAfter that little scene,” Heidi said, “I’m glad she’s not here.”
    Agreed, but still, it wasn’t like Fresca to let gossip influence her actions. “Act as if you don’t give a fig,” and all that. So where was she?
    Time to act as if I wasn’t worried. In all the fuss, I’d abandoned a half-full plate and an untouched glass of wine. Suddenly parched and ravenous, I looped my arms through theirs. “Who needs a drink, besides me?”
    We waltzed back in, three musketeers.
    Minus Fresca, our usually fearless leader.
    * * *
    M y driveway beckoned, but I skipped the turn and continued south on the narrow, winding highway above the lake. Where it veered lakeward at the next bay, I turned east and headed uphill on an even more familiar road: the road home.
    Casa da Murphy had been an ideal place to grow up. Tonight, a week before solstice, the homestead basked in the last rays of pink and gold sunlight reflected off the lake. In the east, the waxing moon rose over Trumpeter Mountain, painting the sky a clear cerulean blue. I spotted my mother’s ancient brown Volvo in the carport, and a soft glow in the living room. Relief washed over me.
    I inhaled the scent of orchard in late spring, still my favorite perfume. An unexpected deep freeze had wiped out many of the famous lakeside cherry orchards one April years ago, but my parents had replanted, and my childhood saplings now produced tons of fruit each summer. My father had tended the cherries, apricots, and heirloom apples himself, with help from us, but like the Pinskys and many others, my mother