Read Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) for Free Online

chocolate-espresso mousse cups. Add that to the menu for my last meal on earth. The Lodge baker’s tiramisu made with wild raspberries. Blasphemy for a half-Italian girl to admit she doesn’t like tiramisu, but it’s never seemed worth the calories. Huckleberry-peach tartlets from the Bayside Grille and miniature cheesecakes with huckleberry glaze from Applause!
    The evening brought to life my motto: If it’s made in Montana, it must be good.
    Tara and Emma Baker sat on the stone wall that embraced the patio, each holding a small plate. Tara, in her usual black, looked almost relaxed in her daughter’s spritely presence. Pink ribbons had been woven into the tiny girl’s blond braids, and Tara adjusted a slipping bow, a soft smile on her face, as Emma chattered. A few feet away, Pete turned the camera toward them with a wistful look.
    I plucked a second focaccia-mushroom toast off a passing tray and mingled, chatting with Kathy Jensen from Dragonfly Dry Goods, the quilt and yarn shop next to the Jewel Inn. Liz and Bob Pinsky, my mother’s best friends and my landlords, joined us.
    “The fountain arrives tomorrow,” Liz reminded me, late-afternoon sun glinting off her diamond studs. “Be prepared for an energetic transformation.”
    Bob rolled his eyes. Both Pinskys were small, dark, and intense, and I adored them.
    The social clusters changed shape, as they always do, and I found myself standing across from Mimi and Tony George, with Gib Knox holding court. We were close to the bar, and when Ned offered a refill, I gladly accepted.
    “That’s why I think the contestants need to prepare at least three courses,” Gib was saying. “A meat dish alone is not a true test of a chef’s abilities. Steak is too bland—you need sauces to get any flavor. And outdoor grilling . . .” His expression clearly placed the favored summer cooking method in the rookie category.
    Gad. Talk about blasphemy.
    “The Grill-off wasn’t designed to crown the best overall chef,” Mimi said, exhibiting the deliberate patience of a mother of two teenagers. “It was designed to give home cooks new ideas for grilling good Montana beef.”
    “What about Wagyu beef?” a man I didn’t recognize said.
    “Wagyu-shmagyu. It’s nothing special. Wagyu is Japanese for beef.” Gib cackled.
    “Besides,” Mimi said, “it’s a little late to criticize the premise of a show you agreed to host months ago.” She turned and stalked into the Lodge.
    I muttered “excuse me” and darted after her.
    “Mim.” I grabbed the sleeve of her turquoise linen tunic outside the women’s room. “What’s all that about?”
    “Mr. Big Shot and his snide comments about our one-stoplight town and cute little backward ways. Not to mention our low-brow food. He actually called sweet potato chips quaint.”
    I had other words for them. But now wasn’t the time to share that opinion.
    “This is a disaster,” she said, running her hand through her short pale hair and giving it a tug.
    “Don’t worry. He may be an ass in person, but he’ll be fine on camera.” I’d encountered people like that in the corporate world. Secret pot-stirrers whose egos kept them from misbehaving when they thought it really mattered. But as my mother would say, it always matters.
    “I wish I could believe you.” Throwing me a skeptical look, Mimi pushed open the door labeled COWGIRLS and slipped inside.
    “Humans,” I muttered, and headed for the corrals.
    Half an hour of horse-whispering later, I wound my way back to the Lodge. Stroking a horse’s well-muscled neck and scratching behind its ears always put things in perspective. Temporarily, at least.
    Show time would be over by now. Maybe I could score a few leftovers to nibble on back at the Merc while I rechecked the inventory control software.
    “One peep and I’ll make sure your career is finished. Count on it.” The voice was male, confident of his demands. I froze, a tall green thicket between me and the