by Rae Davies
God bless him. He didn’t yet realize just how thoroughly I had messed up.
Bev made it to her feet. She turned her back on me and yelled into her phone.
I looked back at Joe. He didn’t know what I had done, but he would. Soon.
o0o
I helped Joe gather up the evidence against him, unsure what else to do. Bev had seen too much. If we tried to destroy things in front of her, it would just make matters worse.
If they could get worse.
Joe leaned against the trunk of his car with the overflowing trash bag positioned between his feet, looking for all the world like a beaten puppy who had just had yet another accident on his owner’s prized rug.
With no other ideas of how to help the situation, I called Gregor and officially fired him as my representation, freeing him to help Joe instead. Then I pressed my back against the back wall of Cuppa Joe’s and slid downward until I was sitting on my butt in the dirty alley. I also kept my eye on Bev, channeling my inner Australian shepherd and flashing teeth when she got too close to my sheep.
I didn’t have to hold her off for long. Within ten minutes, Klein and Peter were both on the scene.
Peter got out of his truck shaking his head. I’m not even sure if he was aware he was doing it.
Klein gave me a glance and then headed to Joe who he spoke to for only a moment before ushering him back inside Cuppa Joe’s. Bev tried to follow, but Peter took care of her, sending her back to her car in a polite and efficient manner that had me gloating.
For all of thirty seconds.
Then he walked toward me.
I squished up my face and tried to look innocent.
He held up a hand. “A uniform is on his way to take statements. You can wait with her.” He swung his head toward Bev. “Or you can go back to your shop. Just don’t leave until we get your statement.”
Hard choice. Not.
Without waiting for my answer, he strode into the coffee shop and shut the door with a definitive snap behind him.
Bev was back on her phone and looking canary–eating pleased with herself.
I waited another five minutes, just until Gregor arrived and long enough to fill him in on the happenings, before power–walking as fast as I could back to the Bev–free zone of my store.
o0o
Betty was in my office when I got back. I could hear the TV and figured she was taking a break. It was just as well. I didn’t feel like reliving the last half an hour just yet.
I got back to work on Darrell’s boxes, trying my hardest not to think of what was happening at Cuppa Joe’s or what I was going to say when the uniformed officer showed up. An hour later, I’d almost convinced myself that I had overestimated the situation completely. So Joe had gone through the competition’s trash. It wasn’t like that wasn’t something any business owner might do. I mean, I would do it.
Betty whirled out of my office looking more than a little crazed. “What are you doing? You’re missing everything!” She grabbed my arm and tugged me into the office.
The TV was on, and Bev’s face filled the screen. Above her a red banner flashed “Breaking News,” and below her scrolled a line of type: “Our Own Bev Painter Breaks Coffee Kiosk Murder Wide Open.”
Something in my stomach made a squishy noise.
“That’s right, Carol. I’m standing outside longtime Helena business, Cuppa Joe’s, where owner Joe Spencer is being taken into custody.”
I glanced at Betty. She didn’t notice. She was too busy mumbling under her breath.
The screen switched back to the studio where the news anchors sat behind their desk. “Is it true you tipped the police off to Joe Spencer’s involvement?” Carol managed to sound both perky and impressed.
Bev, looking grim, responded. “It is. I know our job isn’t to make the news, but when you learn something that could help the police bring in a cold–blooded murderer.... Well, I think we owe it to the people of Helena to step away from the camera and do our part.”
Carol and her co–anchor, Brian, joined together in solemn nods.
I glanced at Betty again. She met my gaze and we both stormed out the front door.
o0o
A lot had happened fast on Last Chance Gulch. It was as busy as I’d ever seen it. Founder’s Day Parade busy.
But there were no colorful floats, or cowboys with horses dressed to the nines, or happy children waiting for candy to be thrown their direction.
Just media, police, and stunned looking residents who, based on the chatter, had as hard of a time slotting Joe into the role of murderer as I did.
“I’ve known Joe for years.”
“He’s an Elk.”
“He donated all the coffee for the fundraiser when my aunt had cancer.”
I found myself nodding and standing a little taller. Joe was good people. There was no way he killed Missy, and the truth would prevail. And what did the police have on him? A bag of trash? Weak.
But there were those ready to jump on the send–Joe–to–the–paddy–wagon too.
“He was losing a lot of business to them.”
“I heard he missed the last payment on his house. Another month or so and he might have lost everything.”
“Did you see—”
Before the pair could continue, I spun in a half–circle and pinned them with a glare.
George, who had been standing in front of Cuppa Joe’s, warding off the onlookers, spotted me and barreled forward.
The two women I’d been about to accost took the hint and scuttled out of sight.
Muttering to myself, I gave them a last warning look before spinning to meet George head on.
“This is ridiculous. Joe didn’t kill anyone.” I started to explain how any concerned business owner might do a little “research” in their competitor’s trash, but then realized I hadn’t been “cleared” by the powers that be yet. Plus, I hadn’t told Betty my part in what had happened so far. With things blowing up as they had, she wasn’t going to be too thrilled with me for holding out.
George stared down at me. It was, in all honesty, a pretty good representation of how Peter would have looked at me if he’d been present. “Peter said you were waiting in your shop.”
“I was, but...” I motioned to the craziness surrounding us. No one could expect me to stay inside during this.
George looked like he did.
I sighed. “Where is Peter?” I was ready to make my statement, and if no uniform was going to show up, Peter could darn well do it himself.
“He’s inside,” George offered. “And I don’t think you should talk to him just now.”
“Why not?”
He sighed.
Okay, I knew why. I knew I was not completely in control of my emotions at the moment, but what better time to demand justice than when I was righteously fired up?
George looked at Betty.
She was looking at me, the beginnings of suspicion flickering in her eyes. But with George’s attention on her, she shifted back to steadfast friend. “I’m with her.”
He grunted.
I started walking. George and Betty followed.
I didn’t get far. A few paces from the door, Bev jumped in front of me. A microphone bobbed before my face. “And this, Carol, is Lucy Mathews. Lucy provided me with key information that led to my conclusions and the subsequent discovery by the police of the murder weapon. Lucy, did you have anything you wanted to say?”
Angry and appalled, I stared at her mouth agape. Then her words hit. Murder weapon.
To my right, Betty and George came to a sudden and disbelieving stop.
Bev waved the microphone and then let out something akin to a giggle. “I guess Lucy is as overwhelmed by the news as everyone else who has gathered.”
The microphone disappeared and the cameraman shifted his focus from me to the crowd. Bev whispered in my ear, “I didn’t want to steal all of the credit.” Then with a noble smile, she dove into the street, waylaying oth
er innocent victims for their “take” on how fabulous she was.
I leaned forward, grabbing for her, but my hand swooshed through empty air.
I turned to Betty and George, my mouth still hanging open. “Murder weapon?” My eyes locked on George. “They found the murder weapon? Where? In the trash? It couldn’t be. There has to be a mistake. I need to talk to Peter.”
I shoved a man in plaid wool out of my way and strode toward Cuppa Joe’s.
A ripple ran through the crowd, and it wasn’t from my shove.
The door to Cuppa Joe’s opened. Two uniformed officers stepped out, followed by Klein and then Peter with a handcuffed Joe.
Peter’s gaze washed over me, stopping only for the briefest of seconds, but Joe’s... Joe’s stopped and held. His face was white and drawn and his eyes were hollow. Betrayed. I could feel the word emanating from him as surely as if he’d yelled it through a bullhorn.
He thought I had gotten him arrested.
And maybe I had.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Back at the shop, Betty assured me that I’d read Joe’s expression wrong. That there was no way he would blame me.
“You hadn’t told him yet, right? So there’s no way he could know you invited her over. And even if he did, how were you supposed to know he’d be hauling evidence out at that exact minute?” She pulled a top hat out of a box and dusted it off. “He blew his own horn on this one.”
“He sure looked like he knew!” And besides, thanks to Bev’s announcement on the news, he was sure to know now.
Since returning to the shop, we’d already seen that particular clip roll over the screen three times.
When it’d popped up for the fourth, Betty had snapped the TV off and firmly shoved me out of my office.
She pulled a yellowed corset out of one of Darrell’s boxes, made a face, and carefully set it to the side. “What exactly do you think they found? Besides the trash.” I’d already described to Betty what I had seen firsthand, and she agreed that none of it could possibly qualify as a murder weapon.
“I don’t know. Maybe there was something else in the bag I didn’t see.”
Betty screwed up her face.
I hastened to clarify. “That Joe found and didn’t realize had been used to kill Missy.”
“And what could that be?”
We both mulled that over for a bit.
“Something to do with the coffee business?” I suggested.
“Maybe.” She shook out a length of dusty newspaper to see if there was any prize hidden inside.
There wasn’t. Just more dust.
She sneezed. “Do you think Bev knew something about Joe? And that’s why she wanted to talk to him?”
In retrospect, her story of wanting to hear his take as a fellow coffee shop owner was weak. “But what could she have known?”
“Rachel said she’d heard he’d gone through their trash. Maybe Rachel told Bev. Or someone else saw him too.”
Something clicked. “Wait... If they found the murder weapon, then maybe it was in the dumpster when Joe took the kiosk’s trash. Maybe that’s why he had it. Which means he had to have been at the kiosk—”
Betty jumped in. “After Missy was murdered!”
Except, if Rachel’d known Joe had gone through their trash, and it had been after Missy was killed, who had told her? Had he done it more than once? The question nagged at me for a minute, but I set it aside. The important thing was that this gave Joe a plausible and somewhat innocent reason for having the murder weapon. Assuming, of course, that that was when he’d visited the kiosk’s dumpster... But Laura had seen someone there too.
It all fit.
Kind of.
The murderer had to be worked in there somewhere too.
I was getting a headache.
Betty stood, looking victorious. A silver compact glistened in her hand.
I dove forward to take it. The mirror inside was old and foggy, but Ruby’s initials were on the top.
Now we were getting somewhere.
o0o
The thoughts that had started when I was at the shop bubbled inside of me the rest of the day like soda in a dropped can. Business was slow and attention from the police was slower. I’d waited like a good citizen for someone to come talk to me, to get my side of what had happened, but no one showed.
Smelling conspiracy that kept me and my very valuable input out of the loop, I called in a pick–up order to Peter’s favorite supper club. Forty minutes later, a bag of white Styrofoam boxes in hand, I arrived at the police station.
It was after six, and the main lobby was closed. I pushed the after–hours button and waited for a voice to come on and listen to my plea.
No one responded.
I pushed the button again.
Still nada.
Annoyed, but determined to look like the loving, concerned girlfriend that I was, I held the bag up in calculated view of the camera that hung outside the door and smiled.
I was about to give up on my stealth attack and call Peter instead, hoping he wouldn’t ignore the call, when the door opened with a click.
Relieved, I stepped inside.
I was confronted by my boyfriend, stone–faced as ever. He was hat–free, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up.
I held the bag up even higher. “I brought you dinner.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at me.
“Rib eye!
“With horseradish!”
He took the bag and reached behind me to reopen the door that I had just breached.
I gave up my act. “Come on. I brought steak. The least you can do is talk to me for ten minutes.”
It took a second, but he heaved out a sigh. He was tired. I could see it in the skin around his eyes. He ran his free hand through his hair. “Ten minutes. Then I have to get back to work.”
I nodded solemnly and tried not to skip as I followed him to his office.
o0o
As Peter walked around his desk and sat down, I stayed in front of it, trying to come up with just the right thing to say that would get me the information I wanted while also showing my love and concern for the fact that he was obviously being overworked.
He opened the Styrofoam box that contained the steak and inhaled deeply. He looked so tired, so completely beat, that all thoughts of pumping him for information fled from my brain.
Actually, it was more like they were smothered by a giant cloud of I–am–a–horrible–girlfriend guilt.
I sat in one of the two chairs that faced his desk and watched him eat.
When he was done, he put everything back into the bag and looked at me. “Thank you.”
With a nod, I took the bag and stood to leave.
He watched me for a second, and then pulled me into his arms. His chin resting on the top of my head, he murmured, “No, really, thank you. With this job, it’s easy to forget what’s important, what you care about.”
Feeling even smaller, I nodded again.
I took a step toward the door, pulling out of his arms, but he leaned forward and pulled me back. “Now, tell me why you’re really here.”
I stuttered and stumbled a bit, trying to cover my previous bad intentions, but he gave me a squeeze. A warm, accepting squeeze that made me feel even worse. “Really. I know you. I love you. Now tell me why you’re here before the steak wears off and you lose your shot.”
And so I did. I told him about the WILers and how Laura had seen someone parked behind the dumpster and how if Joe had the murder weapon, he had to have found it in the trash after the murderer left.
“Can she describe this person?”
I shook my head. “But...”
“And did they see this person leave? Did they see Joe arrive?”
I shook my head again. I could see where he was going with this, and it wasn’t the direction that I’d planned.
I lowered my head. If the person they saw was Joe, this might be more evidence ag
ainst him.
I could see the same thought in Peter’s eyes, but he didn’t vocalize it. Instead, he sighed. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but...”
Breath caught in my lungs. Peter never told me things he shouldn’t tell me. Never.
“But...” he repeated. “We consulted with an outside expert and he agrees. The way Missy was killed doesn’t fit with someone angry because her business was doing better than his. It’s more—” He cut himself off.
“It’s more...?”
But he was done.
Still, it was enough. Joe’s motive didn’t fit the crime. Murder weapon, or what looked like the murder weapon, or not, Peter didn’t think Joe was guilty any more than I did. More than that. It sounded like the Helena P.D. didn’t think Joe was guilty any more than I did.
Life was good. Everything would be all right.
I left the station floating on the cloud that had earlier threatened to smother me.
o0o
Unlike Phyllis and me, Joe was not released quickly.
In fact, when Kiska and I rolled out of my Jeep the next morning, Cuppa Joe’s was still locked tight. A TV crew was set up out front, a different station than Bev’s, but they didn’t seem to have any new information. After peering out my front door at them for a few minutes, I shut the door and went back to my office to review my “to dos” for the day.
There were still two boxes of Darrell’s items shoved against one wall that I had yet to open. Based on the little of value that I’d pulled from the previous ones, my enthusiasm for unpacking the last two was low.
The painting was still AWOL. With the window contest looming, this was a top priority.
I still hadn’t figured out what had happened to Kiska earlier this week and felt guilty as I realized I’d all but forgotten about investigating that rather major issue.
But, most importantly, I really wanted to talk to Joe to see if he’d seen anything when he arrived at the kiosk. If he had even gotten the trash that night... but if the murder weapon was found at Joe’s, he had to have gotten the trash that night. Otherwise... well, I didn’t want to think about the otherwise.
