Death Al Dente by Leslie Budewitz Page B

her.”
    A blue button-down may be favored by salesmen to project sincerity, but it also complemented his Big Sky blue eyes.
    â€œI brought samples,” he said, indicating a sturdy carton labeled MONTANA GOLD . “We’ve also got baking and cereal mixes, and we just launched a line of ready-made breads and crackers. All grown and milled in Montana, mostly in the Golden Triangle.”
    The north-central part of the state, fine farming country. No wonder he looked so—well, wholesome, though that is not a word I often use to describe an attractive man.
    â€œLet’s finish that tour.” I showed him some of my favorite products, described our philosophy, and explained the certified kitchen. He paid attention, asked questions, watched me closely.
    Tracy interrupted with a customer’s question about sulfites in the wine. While I talked to them, Rick continued scanning our shelves, reading labels.
    â€œIt’s the only place like it in the state,” I told him a few minutes later. “We’re giving small producers a chance to break into the market, without breaking the bank. At the same time, we’re helping customers find the real Montana food they want.”
    â€œIt’s got potential.”
    That word again. I felt my guard go up, unsure of his meaning.
    â€œSo here’s a sample of what we’ve got,” he said, unpacking on the kitchen counter bags and boxes that bore the company’s simple but uninspired logo.
    I looked it over. “I’ll have to say no to the bread, with a bakery next door. And flour won’t be a big seller, with so many of our customers tourists, but I’d like to give it a try. The mixes will be popular.”
    â€œThey do well at the gift shops around Yellowstone.”
    â€œWe’re more than a gift shop.” I gestured at the meat and dairy case, feeling a little defensive. “You saw that luscious produce cart outside. Our focus is local and regional, sustainable, farm-to-market. It may not be possible to eat an all-Montana diet—not if you consider chocolate an essential food group, like I do—but we aim to show that even in this climate, a community can do a lot to feed itself.”
    He met my gaze, his tone more businesslike than it had been. “If that’s your goal, Erin—and it’s a good one—then you need to go beyond the specialty items you’ve got right now. Fewer treats, more staples. You’ve got some produce and meat, but no eggs, milk, or butter. And there’s a world of wild game and ranch-raised beef, pork, and poultry out there.” This time his smile felt a touch patronizing. “We’d love to do business with you, though I suspect your sales volume will be fairly low.”
    I felt my Jell-O rising. I had worked groceries for years. High-end, but SavClub sold more apples and chicken than champagne and filet mignon. Yes, we needed to provide for the daily table, but we also needed to get the business in the black.
    And we were just getting started. “There’s some truth to that. Ordinarily, we do carry local eggs and poultry, and more of my mother’s products. We had a terrifically busy weekend, hosting the village Summer Kickoff, and we’re wiped out of a lot of things. In fact, our kitchen will be in full steam this afternoon.” At least, I hoped so. No sign of Fresca since midmorning.
    The back door creaked—I’d deliberately not oiled the hinges, so we could tell when it opened—and heavy footsteps pounded in. A short black-haired Asian man in faded fatigues stopped where the back hall met kitchen and shop, a five-gallon bucket brimming with morels in each work-worn hand.
    â€œMiss Erin,” Jimmy Vang said. “Bad time?”
    â€œAlways a good time, Jimmy. Be right with you.” I extended my hand to Rick Bergstrom. “Glad you stopped in. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to see a man about