by Rae Davies
Kiska gave me a sniff before wandering into my office, letting me know my advances weren’t completely unwelcome, and Betty greeted me with a wave. She was on the phone while typing on the computer and in general looking more industrious than a colony of beavers gifted with a forest full of downed trees.
I stood around staring aimlessly and wondering what it was exactly that I should be doing.
The front bell ringing saved me from my confusion.
Ken Klein, of the Chicago Kleins and Helena P.D., strolled in. Still sporting his trench coat and suit, he looked as out of place as a reindeer at a rodeo.
“Heard your dog got poisoned.”
He wasn’t much for small talk it seemed.
I nodded. “He’s fine though. Vet said just to watch him.”
He lifted his head in acknowledgment and pulled out his tiny spiral notebook. “Any idea what happened?”
My knowledge of the Helena P.D. job assignments wasn’t vast, but I was pretty sure detectives didn’t investigate potential pet poisonings, especially when the pet was fine and there was no obvious culprit to finger.
“Peter thought maybe one of my neighbors.”
“You have issues with your neighbors?”
I shook my head adamantly. The last thing I needed was to turn Detective Chicago onto my neighbors. We got along. I wanted to keep it that way. “No. He thought maybe it was an accident, that they set something out for pests and one of them crawled into my yard to die.”
“Things do that a lot?”
I blinked at the question. “No... but.. I live in the National Forest...”
He nodded. “You have any prescriptions, Ms. Mathews?”
“No.” I was getting tired of this line of questioning. First the vet...
He looked up at me, his gaze sharp. “You sure?”
Of course I was sure. I stared back.
“What about anyone your dog might have come in contact with. Say, Ms. Cox. Does she take any medication?”
Betty, who had finished her phone call, looked at me.
“Not that I know of.” Honestly, wound as tight as Phyllis was, I could see her having a prescription for some kind of anxiety med. Or maybe that was proof she didn’t and just needed one.
Reading my thoughts, Betty jumped in. “She could use some.”
Klein lifted a brow. “Why do you say that?”
Betty, realizing what she’d done, paused. “No reason. Just a joke.”
“Betty and Phyllis don’t always get along,” I offered.
Again with the nod. “I see. And you say you haven’t seen her since when?”
He was laying down snares. Waiting for me to step in one. But I wouldn’t because I was telling the truth. I folded my arms over my chest. “Tuesday.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right. A few days after your friend’s protest at the kiosk. Did you say you knew about that?”
His weaving conversation was making me dizzy. “No.”
“Hmm.” He looked at Betty.
The feather on her hat dipped into her eyes. She flipped it out of the way. “I only saw her when Lucy did.”
“And?”
Betty took her time, checking out her reflection in an old mercury mirror and pressing the feather flatter against her head. “She didn’t mention it.” Then she looked at him sideways. I couldn’t tell if she was flirting or challenging him. Knowing Betty, probably both. Knowing Betty, I probably needed to intervene.
“Have you talked to the other members of WIL?” I asked.
He turned his attention back to me. “The church group?”
“Non–denominational,” Betty offered, as if it mattered.
I nodded. Then realizing I had something to offer that might get his attention off me and mine, at least for a while, I motioned to Betty. “Do we still have Wednesday’s paper? The one with the picture?”
She pulled it out from under the counter and waved it at me. “I saved it for Phyllis. She’ll want to know she made the front page.” She looked at Klein. “Doing good works is very important to her.”
The words came out prim and very un–Betty like. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought she was channeling Phyllis herself.
She slipped the paper into my hand and whispered into my ear. “I may not like her, but she’s one of us, and we both know she didn’t kill that girl.” She leaned back, her face smooth and innocent as a 6 month old’s.
I faced Klein with the paper held out in front of me and pointed at the picture. “I saw this woman at the Caffeine Cartel. She was wearing a cheese shirt and yelling at a man in a red pickup.”
“A cheese shirt.”
I waved my hand. “Not made of cheese. It said cheese... ‘I heart cheese.’ to be exact.”
“And this was when?”
“Tuesday morning,” I replied, just as primly as Betty.
“Tuesday morning. And you were at the kiosk because?” He angled one bushy brow.
“I... drive past it on my way in.”
“You stop at all the businesses you drive by?”
This wasn’t supposed to be about me. It was supposed to take the focus off of me. “No, but Joe had been losing business to them, and I wanted to see why.”
“Joe?”
Crap. I glanced at Betty. She shook her head, letting me know that I’d stepped in it.
I let out a breath. “From Cuppa Joe’s a few doors down. I talked to him Monday and he said his business had been slow. He thought it was because the Caffeine Cartel was stealing his customers.”
“Stealing,” Klein repeated to himself as if storing it away in some deep recess of his big–city cop brain.
Before I could explain further, he continued. “So, this Joe, he asked you to check out the competition. What exactly was it he wanted you to do?”
“No, no. He didn’t ask me to check them out. I just wanted to.” I went on to explain how Joe was a friend and how long Cuppa Joe’s had been a fixture in Helena and how he was a true Montanan, that it would be a shame to have some fly–by–night operation cause him to close his doors. “Especially one that was making its money off their employees’ assets and not their coffee.”
I didn’t know why the last had come out. Maybe Phyllis was dead and haunting us. I glanced at Betty. She looked away, expeditiously.
“Assets?”
I stared at him. I knew he knew what I meant. He’d seen the Cuties. I held out my hands, ready to mime my response, but Betty broke in.
“Bubs,” she said. “Big ones. Not a Jane there under... What would you say, Lucy? A double D?” She opened and closed her eyes his direction, in a perfect Betty Boop imitation and then smiled.
A moment of confusion flitted over his face.
“Boobs,” I translated.
He nodded. “That what this was about?” He pointed at the newspaper article.
Betty shrugged. It seemed like the safest response so I followed suit. “You’d have to ask them,” I answered.
“Or you friend Phyllis, if I could find her.”
After that, he left. I couldn’t say I was sorry to see him go. If Betty was, she didn’t mention it. Instead, I filled her in on Kiska and what the vet had said. When we were done discussing that, our conversation turned back to Klein, the dead Cutie and Phyllis.
“Where do you think she is?” I asked.
She shook her head. “If she’d been going back to Texas, she would have told someone. Besides, that Chicago G–man would know if she had.”
“What about Stanley? Have you talked to him?”
Stanley was Phyllis’ son. The two had come to Helena together, or within a short time of each other.
“I’m sure Klein has.”
“Maybe, but maybe Stanley hasn’t told him everything.”
This was a possibility. Stanley had a history with the Helena police that might not make him all that open, especially if he knew they were looking for his mother in connection with a murder.
“Maybe Rhond
a can get something out of him,” I replied. He and Rhonda had been an “item” for a bit, until she’d realized he was just as flawed as the other diamonds in the rough that she’d dug up in her dating past.
“You know...” I picked up the newspaper. “That’s probably true for the WIL too. Except it wouldn’t just be them protecting Phyllis. They’d be protecting themselves too.”
“Ab–so–lute–ly. You should join them.” Betty plopped back down on the stool behind the counter and turned back to the computer.
“Me? Why me?”
“You’ll blend.”
The women in the picture were at least a dozen or so years older than me. Besides, I knew what Betty thought of Phyllis, and I’d seen the cheese lover in person. I wasn’t sure she was all that balanced mentally.
I opened my mouth to object, but my jazz–loving employee had already shoved a pair of ear buds into her ears and was bopping her head to some tune only she could hear.
With a sigh, I stared down at the picture. Just how badly did I want to find out what had happened to Phyllis? Just how good of a friend was I?
CHAPTER SIX
How good of a friend was I? Three nights later, as I walked through the deserted remains of Helena’s older mall, I had to ask myself the question again. Only one space was still occupied, by a shop that catered to tourists, and it had closed at 6. The rest of the spaces were vacant, or near vacant, with just empty, metal four–way racks scattered across their carpeted floors and the occasional forgotten plastic bag drifting around them.
Unseen doors creaked, and somehow the wind that I hadn’t noticed while outside had ratcheted up to a scream.
I crept along, wishing I’d brought Kiska instead of dropping him off at Rhonda’s house on my way. Not that my pet would have been much use against the chainsaw–massacrer that I was sure lurked somewhere in the shadows.
Behind me, someone cackled. I jumped three feet and dashed into the shadows where I cowered like a blonde co–ed hiding in the shower of her scream–filled sorority house.
“Is that wine?”
“It is.”
“Kristi won’t like it.”
“Kristi can...”
The voices lowered to a mumble before I could hear exactly what Kristi could do. Then someone tripped. Over my foot.
The someone, a woman, fell forward, directly onto a three–liter box of wine.
In an amazing example of agility, she rolled over with the box of wine perched on her belly. Images of an otter balancing a rock as he floated around foraging for shells flashed through my brain.
“And that,” the otter announced, “is why I buy box wine!” She scrambled to her feet and eyed me with suspicion. “Who are you? And why are you lurking in the dark?”
“Now, Phoebe, she wasn’t lurking. She’s probably just lost.”
Phoebe stared at her friend as if she’d eaten the last Ding Dong, or at least how I’d look at my friend if she’d committed that crime. “This isn’t exactly Grand Central Station.”
“She could be a tourist.” The woman, a brunette, who I was fast thinking of as the sweet one, smiled at me. “Helena Goods is closed. I think they open back up at eleven tomorrow morning.”
“She isn’t a tourist.” Phoebe, on her feet now, heaved the box of wine onto her hip. Her no–nonsense attitude matched her attire: khaki skirt, knit top and casual shoes that weren’t sneakers, but didn’t make the cut as dress shoes either. A mash–up that probably allowed her to go just about anywhere in Helena feeling appropriately garbed.
“How do you know?”
Phoebe of the wine looked at me. “Are you?”
“Noooo.”
She grunted. “See?”
Apparently the sweet one did. She dropped her gaze.
Getting the distinct feeling that I was about to be bounced, I picked up the paper bag that had hidden the wine and held it out. “I’m Lucy, a friend of Phyllis’s.”
Her relief obvious, the sweet one smiled. “Oh, so you’re here for the meeting? I’m Eve.” She took the bag from me and carefully folded it into a neat brown square.
Phoebe wasn’t as easily taken in. “How’d you know where we were meeting?”
Eve slapped her lightly on the arm and let out a nervous laugh. “Phyllis told her.”
Phyllis hadn’t told me, but Stanley had. Or, to be more exact, Rhonda had, after her conversation with Stanley where he denied any knowledge of where his mother had gotten to, but had shared that before her disappearance she had complained about a recent change in venue for the group.
Apparently, one or more of the members hadn’t been all that happy with the previous location. The basement of a Baptist church where wine was not invited.
I was guessing that member had to have been my new friend Phoebe.
Her suspicion obvious, Phoebe adjusted her wine and stared me down. “Is that true?”
True enough. I nodded.
Eve’s relief was palpable. “See?” she said to Phoebe, a little too brightly. “We better hurry. We’re going to be late.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes, but after one last glance at me, she started walking.
Eve and I followed behind.
“She doesn’t mean anything.”
“What?”
“Phoebe. She comes off harsher than she is. It’s just since our demonstration at the Caffeine Cartel, we’ve had some...”
“Some what?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just hard to know who you can trust.”
I, of course, was left wondering just who had violated their trust and how, but before I could ask, we were walking into the only lit space in the mall.
The now–empty space had in its past housed everything from a western wear store to a jerky shop.
Following Phoebe’s lead, I slipped under the partially rolled down metal shutter intended, during off hours, to keep people out and merchandise in.
The smell of jerky still lingered. It was unpleasant, but not nearly as disturbing as the unforgiving glow of old fluorescent lights. I thanked the mall gods that the jerky store had seen no need for mirrors. I did not need to see myself under that lighting to be reminded of just how little sleep I’d had in the last few days.
In the middle of the room, an array of folding chairs and white metal stools were arranged in a circle. Sitting on an old display case was a sign–in sheet, plastic cups and a plate of cookies.
I helped myself to two snickerdoodles and glanced around. Aside from Eve, Phoebe, and myself, there were three other women already seated in the circle. One was the cheese lover.
Hoping she wouldn’t recognize me, I walked forward to be introduced.
Tonight she’d gone formal. Her “Believe in Cheese” shirt had long sleeves.
“Laura,” she said after I’d introduced myself. “I own the dairy store on Cedar.”
I hadn’t realized there was a dairy store on Cedar, but I smiled and nodded as if I shopped there daily.
A round woman with red hair barely looked up from her knitting. “Sally.”
The last woman, of obvious Native American descent, repeated the name.
I waited, wondering if she thought I was deaf.
“No.” She pointed at herself. “I’m Sally too. We both are.”
“That must be confusing.”
She shook her head. “No, I told you, I’m Sally too.” She pointed at the knitter. “She was here first. So, I’m two.”
“Oh.” Two.
Phoebe plopped down in a chair, plastic cup of pinot grigio in her hand. “Where’s Kristi?”
Sally the knitter looked up. Seeing Phoebe’s wine, she raised a brow. “She’s bringing someone. I don’t know who, but she said she’d be on our side.”
“Side?” I asked.
Before anyone could answer, a shorter, chunkier version of Phyllis walked in, short hair with enough poof to keep it from being practical, slacks, dress shirt, and heels.
Ballsy Bev, the TV news�
� answer to Daniel, followed behind her.
The bite of cookie I’d been about to swallow caught in my throat and I choked.
Laura, who’d been walking by with a full glass of wine, pounded on my back.
“Reporter,” I croaked.
Laura shifted her gaze to Bev. “Crap.” Then guzzled down her wine. After glancing at Phoebe, she turned away and stomped back to the makeshift bar where she refilled her cup and stayed.
I looked around, weighing the cost/benefit of deserting my research and heading for the door. Unfortunately, there really was no escape without passing by the reporter.
Instead, I decided to follow Laura’s lead. I moved to the bar.
“This,” Kristi announced, “is Bev Painter. You might recognize her from the Channel 8 news.” Her smile was huge and gloating.
Phoebe lowered her cup. “We know who she is. She’s been harassing all of us.” She glowered at the reporter. “She’s a stalker.”
“Phoebe,” Kristi admonished. “Bev goes to my church.”
“They’ll obviously let anyone in,” Phoebe mumbled and drained her cup. She didn’t, however, get up for a refill. She held the red plastic cup in her hand, squeezing it ever so slightly until I heard the plastic pop.
Sally One jumped.
Eve stood, then sat, then looked around. Her hands moved the entire time, grasping and ungrasping each other.
Sally Two seemed to be the only woman unaffected by Kristi and Bev’s arrival. She leaned back in her metal folding chair and waited.
Laura bumped me in the side with her elbow and held out a full cup of wine. I took it.
“Bev,” Kristi announced. “Wants to hear our side. I explained why the protest was necessary and how much we just wanted to help those poor deluded girls, but with the death... Well, we can use a bit of sympathetic press.”
She glanced around as if expecting the women to rush forward with... I wasn’t sure what.
She cleared her throat. “I’ve also explained that from here on, we will be taking a different, more sensitive tactic.” She eyed Laura and then Phoebe as she said this.
Laura snorted.
I took a sip of the wine and tried to disappear against the glass store–case.
Like a teacher sensing the one student who most doesn’t want to be called on, Kristi spun in my direction. “Who are you?” She looked from me to my plastic cup to Laura and finally Phoebe. I knew instantly that I had been relegated to “one of them.”
