Free Death Al Dente by Leslie Budewitz Page B

contracted with a manager. My sister and her family lived one place over, on the original Murphy farmstead. And my brother, Nick, used a haphazard cabin at the top of the orchard as home base. Me, I was partial to the main house, and at the far edge of the orchard, where a lilac hedge grew fifteen feet tall, I felt closer to heaven than anywhere else.
    â€œIf you come in peace, come on in.” My mother’s clear voice pierced my reverie. She leaned against the doorframe, clad in one of her many vintage silk kimono-style robes. Mom’s Scottie dog, Pepé—Italian for pepper—wagged her tongue and stubby black tail. “But if you’ve come to read me the riot act, go away. I just couldn’t face all those people.”
    â€œYou couldn’t let us know?”
    â€œYou’d have argued and insisted I come.”
    Probably true. Inside, I slipped off my sandals and relaxed in a bentwood maple chair, reupholstered in a black-and-green jungle print with a splash of scarlet flowers. My mother loved to play up the house’s 1950s modern style. I stretched my legs and put my feet on the matching ottoman, noticing that my toenail polish needed a redo. Pepé jumped in my lap and let me rub the magic spot between her eyes. “Since when do you care what people say?”
    â€œSince my friend was murdered and people are staring at me just a little too hard.”
    Pepé whined in protest at my sudden move. “They’re saying you copied her recipes and forced her to quit. They’re not saying you killed her.”
    â€œThey’re too polite—or cowardly—for that. But I see it on their faces.” She settled on the couch, slender legs folded beneath her. On the coffee table, a hand-blown martini glass held a lush coral red liquid garnished with a sprig of fresh mint. “And it’s all a little too much.”
    They say women respond to fear with tears and men with anger. They’re wrong—I was furious. I set Pepé on the floor—gently, since my crankiness wasn’t her fault—and paced, phone in hand. Texted Chiara:
At Mom’s. OK. Tell HH
.
    When I could speak, I said, “Mom, did it occur to you that maybe . . .”
    â€œMaybe what?”
    Blurt it out. “That when you didn’t show up, or answer your phone, we pictured you dead in an alley somewhere. Like Claudette.”
    â€œOh, honey.” She stood and wrapped her arms around me. My heart beat slowed to normal.
    A few minutes later, she asked the 64,000-dollar question. “Why would anyone want to kill me?”
    And my equally weighty reply: “Why would anyone want to kill Claudette?”
    She’d hear about the fight at the Gala sooner or later, so I gave her all the gory details. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror.
    â€œThank goodness her girls didn’t witness that. Hard enough to have a harpy for a mother, without watching her in action in public.”
    My phone buzzed. Chiara, no doubt. I stepped outside to answer. Even in full leaf, the orchard looked ghostly in the moonlight.
    â€œHey, Erin. Kim Caldwell here.”
    Uh-oh. “You’re working late.”
    â€œJust routine follow-up. I couldn’t help overhearing that little disagreement tonight.” So why call me, instead of the women directly involved? The perks of old friendship? “What can you tell me about the history between your mother and Linda Vincent?”
    I sat on the low front step. “Nothing, really. Linda fancies herself a candy maker and she’d like to sell through the Merc, but that hasn’t worked out.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œHer samples aren’t up to snuff.”
    â€œShe angry with Fresca for that?”
    â€œNo reason she should be.” Pepé poked my free hand with her nose. “It was my decision, though Claudette had already turned her down last fall.” The connection dawned on me. “You