by Rae Davies
“You think they’d leave it there all night?”
She shrugged. “You said it was a cash drawer? No computer? Did you see her keeping track of any sales?”
I hadn’t.
Betty raised her brows. “What percentage of this...” More shuffling of the bills. “...do you think the feds know about?”
Probably not a lot, especially if the money I’d seen was just from one day. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Rachel was incredibly trusting and an all–around bad businesswoman who didn’t know better than to keep a week or more of earnings in a metal drawer in her kiosk.
How much the IRS knew wasn’t my concern. However, despite the fact that I’d seen no signs of any kind of business that would raise an eyebrow, much less a shirt, I couldn’t believe just selling coffee would bring in this kind of cash.
Maybe Rachel had seen the “light,” but I wasn’t ready to declare that. And I guessed, even if I did, the WILers (with the possible exception of Kristi) wouldn’t buy it anyway. So the job that had been pressed upon me was far from done.
o0o
After assuring Betty that she’d get to keep Rachel’s money for the website I’d committed her to creating and work on it while I was paying her hourly wage at Dusty Deals, I headed down the street to visit Joe at Cuppa Joe’s.
It was noon, and Joe didn’t serve lunch, but it was still sad to see empty tables that were way too clean to have been used in the last hour.
Actually, the whole place shined. I’d never realized how depressing clean could be.
He beamed when he saw me. “Lucy! How are things?” Without asking, he went about grabbing a cup and making my standard extra–large latte. I’d already had two at the kiosk. Rachel had insisted, and I’d marked it up to research. (Good, but not “wait in line half an hour” good.) But there was no way I was telling Joe that. I just hoped I didn’t hop out of his shop like a possessed pogo stick.
“So, that detective came by,” he said, sliding the cup toward me.
My hand froze. “Oh.” I’d forgotten that I’d told Detective Klein about Joe’s lost business and my desire to help him discover what the Cuties were offering to lure it away.
“Nice guy.”
I must have looked shocked or something.
“Not as nice as Peter, of course.”
I nodded as if the worry that he preferred the Chicago detective to my boyfriend had been the cause of my expression.
I wanted to ask what Klein had spoken to him about, but I couldn’t think of a subtle way to work around to it. Instead, I took a sip of the latte and asked, “Is business any better?”
The light in his eyes faded. “The day after...” He stopped.
“After the Cartel owner was found dead?” I prompted.
He nodded. “You found her, didn’t you? You seem to have a record going. Maybe I should quit letting you in here.”
He looked solemn enough that my mind stuttered.
Then he laughed. “Just kidding you. I know it isn’t your fault. You just have a knack. Besides, I can’t afford to turn down any business. Typhoid Mary could walk in and I’d offer free refills for a month, just to get her to sit down and fill a spot for a while.” He motioned to the empty tables that were usually full of a mix of cowboys, hikers, and other locals.
I glanced around, doing some quick calculations in my head. “How many people do you serve in a day, when things are good?”
“Depends on the season. A big event like a parade and I do better. Middle of winter with nothing to bring tourists downtown, things can be slow.” He frowned. “But not this slow.”
“So...” He had twenty tables that seated from two to four people. During an event like he’d mentioned, all of them might be full with other people standing in line for coffee to go. A normal winter day, I might come in to find half the tables occupied and see a dozen or so people come in and out while I chatted with whomever I’d bumped into while picking up my own morning jolt.
“Maybe 100 a day?” I guessed.
He shrugged. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t know the answer himself, or if he just didn’t see any reason to share the information with me.
His next question made me guess the latter.
“Why do you want to know?”
He didn’t sound angry or resentful, just curious. Still, guilt instantly washed over me.
I flushed. “Just figuring how many people we needed to get back in here to get things back to normal.”
His expression relaxed. “No need to stop at normal. I’ll take all the business I can get. Except...” He twisted his mouth to one side. “You aren’t the only one to ask me about that this week. That detective did too. He seemed to know the kiosk had put a dent in my bottom–line. He didn’t accuse me of anything...” The line between his eyes deepened. “You don’t think he could think I’d kill that girl over lost business do you?”
I assured him Klein wouldn’t, but as I walked back to my shop, I couldn’t help but do the math in my head. One hundred customers at five dollars a head. Over a year, that was over $180,000, and that wasn’t taking into account the tourist season that was just around the corner. If the kiosk was still around then, how much more would Joe lose?
$180,000 plus was a pretty big amount and a pretty big motive.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As I walked back to the shop, I mulled over my math. Did the kiosk have 100 customers a day? Maybe. Maybe more. Did that mean the thousand plus that Rachel had had in the till was reasonable? It didn’t seem like it, but there was no way, aside from parking outside the kiosk and counting every customer and their purchases, that I could think to confirm my suspicions. I was still turning this over in my head when I walked in the front door.
Betty greeted me with a parakeet–eating grin. There weren’t actually feathers sticking out of her mouth, but the overall impression held.
“What?” I asked, stopping just inside the door.
“Your mom called.”
I rolled my head back and stared at the ceiling. “Why?”
“She heard about the Cutie. She wanted to know if you found the body.”
Argh. I wasn’t sure what my mother thought of my talent for stumbling over dead people. Honestly, it was a topic I tried to avoid.
“And that Kiska was poisoned.”
Double argh. Did I have no secrets?
“And about the window contest.”
I lowered my head to stare at my employee. “Seriously? How did she find out about all of that?”
It was a rhetorical question. My mother had discovered the joys of the social media site FriendTime and the opportunities it gave her to follow every aspect of my life.
“She called the bed and breakfast. They’re expecting you in the next hour.”
“What?”
“She wants you to take pictures. She said their website was a disgrace and she wasn’t staying anywhere until she’d seen it.”
“If I win the prize, she’ll stay there, especially once my dad finds out it’s free.”
Betty raised a brow. Her silent way of say, Yeah, right.
Fine. It wasn’t like I had anything else to do... like help Joe get his business back on track, prove the Caffeine Cartel was offering more than hot drinks, find Phyllis, figure out who poisoned my dog, or even, say... catch a killer.
And then there was the window contest itself. My few efforts to get items of local significance to feature had fallen flat.
Of course, if my mother didn’t find the bed and breakfast’s accommodations acceptable, winning the contest would lose a big part of its appeal.
But there was another reason to go. The original Deere mansion was right next door. It had gotten caught up in the legal dispute between Darrell and his siblings. It was, last I heard, sitting empty.
I couldn’t exactly walk in and help myself to any artifacts I found, but I could take some pictures outside and maybe even get a look inside through a back window. If I had something specific to ask f
or, maybe Cindy or Darrell or someone would take pity on me and let me borrow… something... anything.
The possibilities were endless. I knew for a fact Ruby had owned a near priceless ruby. (At least on my scale of near priceless.) Somewhere there was a painting of her too, wearing said ruby. I’d never seen it in person, but I’d bet it was huge. Huge enough that it would fill most of my front window, cutting the number of other artifacts I’d have to gather in half.
With that in mind, I grabbed the digital camera that we kept at the shop for photographing merchandise for our website and auction sites and went to do my mother’s bidding.
o0o
The B&B was a restored Victorian with a rose granite and painted wood front and a partial wrap–around porch. A stone retaining wall separated the elevated yard from the street and uneven stone steps led up to the front door.
I couldn’t see that it was handicap accessible, but since both of my parents were still agile and as capable of climbing the stairs as I was, I didn’t put that as a mark against it.
Of course, as a possible alternative to having my parents living with me in my small quarters for two weeks, there wasn’t much that I could think of that would work as a mark against it in my book.
Realizing my mother might not be as broad minded as I was, I took a few extra moments on the street to frame the pictures I was taking so the bigger cracks in the retaining wall didn’t show and the shrub that was growing a bit out of control next to the porch looked artistically wild rather than lazily unkempt.
Not that the outside of the place was in disrepair. It was just relaxed.
Relaxed was good. My mother could use more relaxed.
After twisting the key that activated the old–fashioned doorbell, I stood on my tiptoes and tried to see into the yard next door where the Deere mansion was located.
I had grabbed a hold of the wooden railing and was hoisting myself up for a better view when the owner came to the door.
“That,” she announced. “... is the Deere mansion. They were a founding family of Montana.” Her tone and expression said she had made this speech many times. Probably not to someone hanging halfway off her porch, but practiced hotelier that she was, she didn’t appear disturbed by my pose.
Still, I hopped down, tugging my shirt back over my stomach and smoothing my hair. “I know the family. They’re friends of mine.” Considering how both Darrell and Cindy had treated me at our last meetings, this was arguable, but it sounded better than saying I was a stalker hoping to get a glimpse inside.
“Really.” She smiled. Kind of. Then she held the door behind her open. “Are you Lucy? Your mother said you’d be coming by.”
Just the mention of my mother made me feel shamed. I grabbed hold of the camera, ready to do my duty, and followed the owner inside.
She pointed to the left, up the oak staircase. “First door on the left.”
Then she walked off and left me standing in the foyer. I looked around, confused.
Panic hit.
My mother isn’t here, is she? She wouldn’t do that. It’s still technically winter, and she hates the cold. No... no... no...
The last was a bit of a silent scream. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see my mother. I did. I mean I loved her, but... I just needed prep. And alcohol. Lots of alcohol.
I looked around again. No alcohol. Not even of the rubbing variety. Not that I would have drank it. I wasn’t that desperate. Yet.
Just in case this was some kind of a trick, I snapped a few pictures of the entry way and hall before making my way, slowly, up the stairs. They were oak too, with a strip of carpeting that ran down the middle, cushioning my steps.
At the top was another hall with six closed doors, four on the left, two on the right.
My hostess had said first door on the left. I stopped in front of it and pulled in a deep breath.
And knocked.
The door didn’t fly open, which gave me hope. Of course, my mother could just be on FriendTime or lounged out on her bed savoring my discomfort.
I knocked again.
This time there was a response. A sweet Southern “Just a minute.”
The door opened.
There stood Phyllis.
o0o
My partner/employee seemed surprised to see me. Not upset or shocked, but her eyes widened enough that I knew this meeting had not been expected or planned by either of us.
I didn’t wait for an invitation. I stomped into the room.
“Is she here?” I asked, spinning in a circle and studying every inch of the space. One plush area rug over polished wood floors. One pair of velvet drapes pulled closed over the window. One neatly made bed.
I checked the last two for possible bodies... or one body: my mother’s.
Nothing under the bed, not even a dust bunny and nothing lurking behind the drapes more nefarious than a dead fly.
I picked him up between two fingers and carried him to the en suite where I flushed him down the toilet. Odds were low he worked for my mother, but I had learned that I couldn’t be too careful.
After brushing off my hands, I stomped back into the bedroom, sat on the bed and stared at Phyllis.
She, looking comfortable and relaxed in an over–stuffed armchair, stared back. “I understand you went to the WIL meeting. I’m glad to hear that you’re getting active in the community. It will pay off.”
She said this as if she was my elderly aunt making polite conversation, not a friend holed up and hiding out because she was a suspect in a murder.
I folded my arms over my chest. “That is not why I went to WIL.”
She sighed and shook her head. “I was afraid of that. Really, Lucy, when are you going to take your business seriously and start networking? How do you expect to grow?”
She, the woman on the lam, was lecturing me. My mouth fell open. I blurted out, “What are you doing here? You realize the police think you killed Missy, don’t you? Why are you hiding? If you hadn’t hid, they wouldn’t have given you any more attention than anyone else at WIL.”
I had more in me, but the disapproving shake of Phyllis’ head got me off track.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. I am not in hiding. I simply decided to take a little me time. I wasn’t on the schedule, was I? I didn’t miss any work. There’s no law against stepping away for a few days.”
She tched. Then tched again.
I almost lost it. “Stepping away? From what?” The Texas native had one of the cushiest lives I could imagine. At least I assumed she did. She was always well dressed, her hair and nails professionally done, she drove a nice car, and she had enough free cash to pull my business out of a tough situation I’d faced a year or so ago, securing her spot as my quasi–partner.
“Life,” she said, with enough angst to shame any teenage drama queen.
“So, this...” I motioned to the flocked wallpaper–covered walls and polished wood floors. “...has nothing to do with WIL or Missy’s murder?”
“Missy’s murder? You mean that poor deluded girl at the Caffeine Cartel? She’s dead?”
“Of course, she’s dead. How could you not...” I looked around the room. No TV. No computer. No newspaper on the floor, but she’d heard that I’d been at the WIL meeting. I wasn’t buying any of this.
Trying to appear believing, I looked back at Phyllis. “You didn’t know? How couldn’t you know? Surely other people here have been talking about it.”
She sighed. “I told you. This was me time. They only serve breakfast, which I had them leave at the door. And the rest of my food I’ve had delivered.” She brushed some hair off her forehead. “There were no notes slipped in with my lunch salad. Girl dead.”
She made it sound as if I were the crazy one here. I still wasn’t sure I bought it... the part about her not knowing that Missy had been murdered, not the me not being the crazy one. I knew I wasn’t the crazy one... in this pairing at least.
“So, how’d you know I went
to WIL?”
“Eve. She’s so sweet. She’s been watching my house too. Watering my plants. That kind of thing.”
“And she didn’t tell you about Missy?”
“Why would she?”
Because WIL had been stalking her? Because WIL had been stalked in return by Ken Klein?
I didn’t say either. It was obvious that Phyllis had her story and she was sticking with it.
“So,” she said, rearranging herself in her chair like the true Southern lady that she was, or convinced people she was. “How did you find me?”
I started to play her game, telling her I hadn’t been looking for her at all, that I’d just stumbled across her, but even though that was true, it also wasn’t. “My mother,” I admitted.
Her eyes widened, then, “Oh. Damn.”
Pretty much my sentiments exactly.
“How’d she know?”
I shrugged. I was sure FriendTime was involved somehow, but aside from that I had no idea, and honestly, I didn’t even really want to know. I was afraid knowing the extent of my mother’s spy network would just paralyze me with guilt every time I ate an extra box of fries or burped in public.
“So, does anyone else know?”
I could see her brain calculating. Wondering if her gig was up or if she could bully me into covering for her.
I liked the idea of letting her sweat. I licked my lips.
She exhaled loudly. “Oh good. I’m really not ready to go back. Especially if what you say is true. The police suspecting me? Can you imagine? Well, of course you can. They’ve suspected you before, haven’t they?” She shook her head. “And of course my dear Stanley. You know how he was persecuted.”
Since I’d been one of the people who’d suspected her son in the death of a rodeo queen last July, I didn’t feel a response to that was warranted or wise.
“But since no one knows...” She glanced around. “I had planned on only staying another day or two, but I could stand staying longer. Let me get you a list.” She popped up, grabbed a notepad from a nearby table and began scribbling. A few seconds later, she ripped off the top sheet and held it out to me.
