Death Al Dente by Leslie Budewitz Page A

deposit, I checked my phone. I hadn’t told Kim about Claudette’s message, and I hadn’t returned Adam Zimmerman’s call. Both made me feel a little guilty. Before I could decide who to call first, I felt someone watching me, and turned.
    Linda Vincent. If looks could kill . . . No crime lab could detect that.
    She stalked past me to the next teller, the spiky heels of her black pumps clattering on the slate floor. I admired her ability to walk in them. But her heel caught in a gap between tiles and she nearly went down, catching hold of the counter to steady herself. She turned and glared, as if her fall were my fault.
    â€œHere you go, Erin.” The teller handed me my deposit bag. “What a great weekend. Loved the jazz, and all the kids’ stuff. We’re seeing lots of happy merchants this morning, too.”
    â€œThanks.” I gestured toward the other woman, who stood on one foot, clutching her twisted ankle. “Thank Linda, too. She organized the concerts and recruited the volunteers.”
    Linda’s burning stare followed me out the heavy doors. No doubt she thought I was being facetious, after her spat with Chiara on Saturday night. Or did her aggravation stem from something else?
    In a small town, it seems like everything has something to do with everything else.
    * * *
    I was on the phone with Jen at the vineyard, cadging for more Viognier, when the front door chimed. Not many men shop alone at the Merc, and never on Monday mornings. Early thirties, blond, clean-shaven, about six-two. Built like he might have played college football. The Grizzlies won back-to-back national titles while I was at UM, and I’d never gone to a game. Maybe I should have. Our eyes met, and though I was sure I had never seen him before, a flash of recognition shot through me. He stepped forward, a question on his face, then spotted the phone in my hand. I gestured to Tracy, who offered him help. On the other end of the line, Jen dithered over whether she could make a delivery or maybe she could spare two cases if I could pick them up and didn’t I want more Chardonnay and what about cherry, wasn’t that always a hit with the tourists?
    Maybe the inventory issues had stemmed from Jen’s indecision, not Claudette’s mistakes. While I listened to Jen, Tracy showed our visitor the shop and answered questions I couldn’t hear. Her animated gestures and expression made her appreciation for him clear.
    â€œSo, that’s a case of dry cherry, one of Chardonnay, and two Viognier. And a case of elderberry, to replace the bottles that got broken. I’ll pay you full retail for the broken bottles.”
    â€œOh, no, you don’t have to do that.” Her tone said she really hoped I would, despite her protests.
    â€œIt’s only fair,” I said. “I’ll run down later in the week.”
    â€œLooks like you had some trouble.” The visitor gestured at the plywood.
    â€œExpect the unexpected. My new mantra.” I held out my hand. “Erin Murphy. How can I help you?”
    He held my gaze as we shook hands. Nice gaze he had, and I felt it take me in—with interest, not intrusion. “Rick Bergstrom, Montana Gold Grain. Sorry to hear about your loss. That must have been a shock.” We both glanced at the countertop memorial. The flowers needed water. “This may be a bad time for a sales call, but you requested information through our website, and I was in the area.”
    â€œThanks. And the timing’s fine. We’re always looking for new products, and we’d love to carry organic, Montana-grown flours and grains. My mother, Francesca Conti Murphy, makes our pastas, and she’s interested in your semolina. Maybe the spelt and amaranth flours, too.”
    â€œSemolina straight or blended?”
    â€œOn the rocks,” I said with a laugh. “You’re gonna have to have that conversation with