by Rae Davies
Not too dirty to check out Tiffany’s bedroom and closet though. Sock drawers were where everyone hid their secrets.
In Tiffany’s, there was a set of six neatly folded tennis-type socks and that was it.
Maybe it was the underwear drawer.
Nada. Although Tiffany did have a few items in there that made me look around for assurance that I was alone. Little strips of lace that for the life of me looked more like something a child would use in the old game of Cat’s Cradle than anything I would put on my body.
I slammed the drawer shut and took a moment to assure myself that I wasn’t a prude. I was practical. Men appreciated practicality. At least Peter did... or he should.
Frustrated with myself and my fruitless mission, I pulled out the next drawer. I was ready to immediately push it back in, but my hand stilled.
At first glance, the drawer seemed empty, but something about how it moved, or didn’t, caused me to hesitate. Something was stuck or caught in the slide.
My heart sped a bit as I carefully pulled the drawer out of its slot. The drugs? A bill from Tiffany’s supplier? A suicide note?
Any of those would do.
Halfway out, the drawer caught again. I jiggled it and got it to move another inch. Whatever was holding the drawer was stuck good. Which, of course, made me want to dislodge it even more. Another jiggle and—
“Lucy? Are you up here?” Phyllis’ voice called from the stairs.
Guilt immediately struck and struck hard. Looking in someone’s medicine cabinet—which, by the way, it occurred to me I had yet to do—was bad enough, but poking through their underwear drawer?
What would Phyllis think?
I leaned into the drawer, trying to shove it back closed, but the damned thing wouldn’t budge.
“What are you doing?”
Phyllis stood to the side, her head tilted as she tried to comprehend the image of me slamming my body into a dead woman’s bureau.
“Oh.”
I prayed to the gods of all termites for the floor to weaken and let me drop through.
“You checking her drawers? Good idea. You never know what a girl will stick in with her undies.” Phyllis stomped over, grabbed the drawer with both hands, and jerked.
It flew free, sending Phyllis staggering backward and a pair of torn, white cotton boxer shorts soaring onto my face.
“It’s empty.” Phyllis turned the drawer upside down, disappointment clear on her face. “What are those... oh.”
As I pulled the boxers from my face, her expression changed from disappointed to knowing. “Tiffany had a friend.”
“Yeah.” I held the item between thumb and middle finger, wondering where to deposit it.
“Or an interest in menswear,” Phyllis added. “Although she was bit small for these, don’t you think?” Undisturbed by what to me was the horrific reality of holding an unknown man’s underpants, she took the boxers and held them up in front of her. “At least a forty-four inch waist on these.”
I jerked them from her hands and tossed them into Tiffany’s underwear drawer. Phyllis folded her arms over her chest and watched as I tried to work the drawer that we’d removed back in place.
“Speaking of underwear…” Phyllis walked to Tiffany’s beside table and opened another drawer.
Feeling defensive, I shoved the first bureau drawer back in place and walked toward her to push the one she’d just opened closed too. “I don’t think—”
“According to Betty, your brother isn’t wearing any.”
My mouth hung open. “What?”
“Underwear. Betty called to say Everett can bring the trailer, but she also thought you’d want to know that your brother and his funny friends are marching around the Capitol naked.”
She couldn’t be serious. But looking at her face, I knew she was.
My mother was going to kill me.
Chapter 10
The protest was at the Capitol. It wasn’t hard to find, what with all the gawkers, police, and naked bodies.
Cattle too. I’d forgotten that the historic breeds show was today. Temporary pens had been set up, filling the street that ran between the History Museum and the Capitol building.
Inside the pens were big, not so big, and good Lord what is that monster cattle, steers mainly, I guessed. There were gray, black, and brown cattle. Cattle with horns. Cattle without horns.
In other words, there were cattle and the droppings they left behind. I discovered the latter after rolling down my window to search the crowd for Ben.
Not that it was all that hard to spot him.
My brother, Hope, and Xander led five other protesters on a slow trek around the sidewalk that surrounded the 100-plus-year-old Capitol. By the time we had parked and jogged across 6th Avenue, they were taking a right, heading toward the Historical Museum and the bevy of historic bovines.
Betty had been right. They were naked. Or mostly naked. Their most pertinent parts were covered with notebook-paper-sized signs with classy messages like “Bite Me,” “We are one!” and “Parts is Parts! Go Vegan.” The rest of them were walking butcher diagrams, with cuts like “chuck,” “rib,” “sirloin,” and “round” written in the appropriate spaces.
Eric Handler, fully dressed in HA! shirt and jeans, stood directly in front of the statue of Thomas Francis Meagher, once acting governor of Montana Territory. Meagher, depicted on horseback, held a saber over his head appearing to lead a charge. I had to wonder if Eric imagined himself in the same light.
Richard Danes and a group of what I guessed had to be beef ranchers were gathered in a group, arms over their chests and stomachs and scowls on their faces.
I knew now what had pulled Danes away from the Antlers. I was just happy there was no way for him to know what my relationship with the nakedness was.
The News was there too, in the form of Gary Richards, photographer extraordinaire, and Marcy Henderson, a writer for the Daily News who, last I heard, specialized in advertorial fluff pieces. Marcy moved from foot to foot, carefully keeping her back to the protesters as she scribbled down whatever wisdom Handler was sharing.
As I watched, Pauline waddled from the other side of the statue, fluttered her wings, and took a spot right in front of Meagher’s horse, showing who the goose thought was truly in the lead here.
For the record, she, too, was dressed in a HA! shirt, along with a tiny red bandanna.
“That your brother?”
I looked up to see George Pearson, friend and police officer, squinting against the morning sun as he watched Ben and the other HA! members walk down the sidewalk.
“They picked a nice day for it anyway,” George added, shaking his head. He patted his front pocket and pulled a pair of sunglasses out, which he placed on his face.
“Are you going to arrest them?” I asked, panicking. If Ben got arrested on my watch...
Gary turned away from Handler and Marcy to point his camera at the protesters. I could tell by the angle of his lens that he was zooming in on the man in the front: Ben.
“Looks like that Handler guy is getting what he wanted. Front page news,” George commented.
Front page. Which equaled website. Which equaled a call from my mother.
I hesitated for a moment, caught between two possible plays. Photographer or source? Gary was closer, but that would only be minimizing the risk. I had to take out the source.
I took off in a jog.
“Lucy? Where are you going?” Phyllis called after me.
As I ran, I jerked off my jacket. It was small, but it would cover enough, I hoped.
With less than six feet to go, the group turned again, this time a U-turn, so they were headed right at me. I huffed out a relieved breath and launched myself at Ben in my best imitation of a pro football tackle. My shoulder slammed into his bare gut and my arms wrapped around his waist. Then, in one slow motion moment, I felt my body slide downward. The sign hanging from his waist went with me until it and I were lying face d
own on the concrete.
“Lucy! What are you—?”
The rest of whatever Ben was saying faded into a distant hum as I looked up and into the dark circle of Gary’s lens.
“No!” I held up my hand, then groped around for the sign, or my jacket, or something, but it was too late. I could tell by the light in Gary’s eyes, he’d gotten the shot.
I fell back onto the sidewalk, defeated.
“Well, now, I’m not sure exactly how to handle this.” George crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. “Looks like a case of indecent exposure, except the exposee didn’t do the exposing. What do you think, Detective Blake?”
I found my jacket and placed it over my head.
o0o
Ten minutes later, I was propped against the Meagher statue while Peter, George, and what felt like half of the Helena Police department discussed what wide variety of laws I might have broken when I pulled Ben’s sign down from its strategic job of hiding his privates.
“Assault for sure,” one uniformed officer offered.
“Battery? She hit him pretty hard.”
“Defamation of character?”
“I’ve got it! Tackling in the end zone.”
Oh, they were a riot this group, but I had bigger issues. Somehow, in the confusion of stripping my brother of his only concealing garb, I’d lost track of Gary and his camera.
Marcy was gone too, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Daniel. He was far from my favorite News employee, but if he could help me with my little digital issue, I’d be willing to make nice.
I looked up at Peter. “Are you done?”
His lips curved into a smile. He hadn’t added any to the conversation that I’d noticed, but he hadn’t stood up for me either.
Under normal circumstances, I would have held that against him, but at the moment it seemed a small offense weighed against my need to get moving.
He held out his hand, and I allowed him to pull me to my feet.
“You’re lucky Stone wasn’t around. He would have found something to charge you and Ben with, just to get you into the station.”
I flicked my hair and tried to look dignified. “Detective Stone needs to get over his fetish of seeing me behind bars. It’s embarrassing.”
The smile turned to a grin, and for just a second I felt Peter’s body brush against mine. “I’ll talk with him,” he murmured.
My body went warm, and for a moment I lost track of my thoughts. Then Peter stepped back, and his hands dropped to his sides. He looked at George. “So, is Ms. Mathews free to go?”
Still grinning, George shook his head and then made a show out of checking his notepad as if there was some list of my possible offenses there that he was ticking off.
“I think we can let her go with a warning this time,” he parroted.
I didn’t wait for any more permission or jokes. I grabbed my jacket, jumped from the statue, and went to look for Daniel.
The lawn surrounding the Capitol was pretty much empty now. After securing what they were looking for—news interviews and photographs, sure to go viral—the HA! group had left. The beef ranchers were clearing out as well, walking their cattle to trailers and taking down the fencing.
Even Ben, the traitor, had left. Of course, I was happy to see him go. My leap had at least accomplished one thing: he hadn’t been arrested. Of course, considering none of the police had been showing all that much interest in Ben or his practically nude companions until I ripped off his sign, one could argue that this was not so much an accomplishment as an I-didn’t-screw-up-too-bad.
I found Phyllis not too far from where I’d left her, interrogating what looked to be a tourist about the contents of her home.
“Have you seen Daniel?” I asked after pausing to smile at the woman caught in Phyllis’ web of acquirement. Which, by the way, I wanted to point out to my kind-of employee, maybe partner, we didn’t need to be doing at this time. Once the things from the Antlers arrived, Dusty Deals floors would be groaning under the weight.
“He was talking to some of those funny people earlier. I didn’t see him leave.”
Funny. HA! But they had all gone. At least, I assumed they had. I couldn’t see any of them and, what with the body paint and nudity, they were kind of hard to miss.
“Maybe he went inside the Capitol to use the bathroom.”
It was a long shot, but it was all I had. I trotted toward the front entrance. Halfway there, while passing a low-growing shrub, I tripped. I muttered a curse and did what any rational human being would do at such a time: I looked for the offending root or rock as if finding it would justify my clumsiness.
Except there was no root and there were no rocks.
Instead, there was a pair of well-used tennis shoes attached to two legs. Whoever owned them was lying face down, or at least the tennis shoes’ toes were pointed in a generally downward position.
I swallowed hard. My gut instinct was to assume the worst. I was, after all, on my third body. But logic told me I was over-reacting. Calm. That’s what I needed.
“Hello? Are you okay?” I shook the closest branch. “Do you need help? The police are right over there. I can call them.” I glanced over at the statue to assure myself that my claim was true, and it was, at least partially. With the protest over and their fun with me done, the officers were vacating the grounds too.
“Hello?” I called with new urgency. Then I shoved my hands into the shrub and forced myself into a closer position. I stared down at a face—the pale, closed-eyed face of Daniel Rowe.
I leapt out of the bush and screamed.
Once again, I was surrounded by police, but this time no one was cracking any jokes.
Fortunately, my scream had done as I’d intended and brought the two closest police officers running. George and Peter had been a bit slower to react. I told myself it was because they were further away and didn’t hear the urgency in my voice, but I had a sneaking suspicion that there was an element of “not again” to their speed or lack thereof.
Unfortunately, my vocal efforts had not stirred Daniel.
After an initial check for injuries and life, paramedics had been called.
I closed my eyes in relief when I realized what was happening. Not dead. I was still on body number three.
“How did he get under the bush?” I asked Peter, who stood by my side like one of the Terracotta Army, silent and strong.
Too silent. He didn’t bother to reply.
I tried again. “Is he hurt?”
This got a cocked brow. Which, since Daniel was obviously unconscious and, as far as I knew, not in the habit of napping under shrubs on the Capitol grounds, was completely fair.
“I don’t see any blood...”
A warning look caused me to turn my head and pretend interest instead in who else was arriving, or returning in most cases.
Marcy was back, as was Gary. I twisted my lips, wanting to ask him about the photo, but also realizing now was most definitely not the time.
Then, on the new arrival front, there was Stone. He parked his car right on 6th where I couldn’t miss it and stalked toward us like a pissed off mountain lion.
I glanced at Peter to find him still watching me, still warning.
I slumped forward in defeat.
“Ms. Mathews.” Stone’s smile was as sincere as a snake’s whisper. “I understand you’ve changed your m.o. a bit at least.”
I looked a question at him.
“Mr. Rowe is, fortunately, alive.” He squatted down in front of me. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
I looked up at Peter. Like his terracotta friends, he stood still and silent.
Left on my own, I decided to handle things my way. I stood up and busied myself with brushing dead grass and leaves off of my jeans.
Stone stood too.
After what felt like enough time that I’d at least regained a certain amount of upper hand, I crossed my arms over my chest and said, “No.”
“You asked if there was anything I’d like to tell you, and I’ve answered. No.”
“You aren’t cooperating?”
Assessing my risk here, I thinned my lips. “What is there to cooperate with?”
“Mr. Rowe is...” He gestured to where Daniel was being loaded onto a stretcher. “Not at his best. Do you know anything about it?”
“I know that approximately...” I calculated time passage in my head. “…twenty minutes ago, I tripped over his feet, determined something was not right, and called to these police officers...” I swung my arm out to encompass the men standing around me. “…and now I am talking to you.”
The paramedic lifted Daniel’s stretcher so it rolled across the grass. I suddenly realized just how young he was. A stab of something horribly akin to guilt lanced through me.
Maybe I did know something. But if so, I sure as hell didn’t want to tell it to Stone.
Petty? Maybe, but you reap what you sow and all that.
I looked back at him, resolve straightening my spine. “I want to talk to—”
“An attorney? Already? Isn’t that a bit—”
“George,” I interrupted. “I might know something, but I want to tell it to George.”
My announcement was not met with pleasure, not by Stone or George, who looked horrified when he was dragged over to talk to me and told he was required to perform real police work.
I waited for Stone to walk away, but he just stood there, arms crossed and eyes focused on me.
I started to object, but George stopped me with a whispered, “Don’t make this worse.”
Disgruntled, but wanting to get this over, I turned my back to Stone, forcing George to turn too, and started talking.
“I saw Daniel this morning, and he told me something that might be related to Tiffany’s death.” I could hear Stone shifting his weight behind me. George’s gaze slid to the detective, but I kept my back turned and kept talking as if I hadn’t noticed.
“I don’t know if he mentioned it, but the night of the opening, after everyone else had left, he talked to Tiffany.” I paused for effect.
