by P. B. Ryan
“Not a steal, but at least I feel like I got something.” She shoved the stone under her seat and collapsed onto her chair.
With the small items sold, Ed moved onto the bigger, crowd-pleasing part of the collection.
The lines at the concession stand and bathroom disappeared, and not a person spoke.
The moccasins, squaw saddle and tobacco bag sold quickly. Then it was time for the medicine man outfit. Bill Russell opened the bidding at five grand. The well-dressed couple came back at 55 hundred.
Decent money, but not unexpected.
The bidding was far from over though and continued at a steady pace with no signs of weakness from either party for about 10 more rounds.
The female half of the couple sat upright, her back stiff, and twisted a tissue as she bid.
I whispered to Rhonda, “She looks nervous.”
Rhonda leaned closer. “I heard she owns a museum.” As people glanced our way, Rhonda lowered her voice. “Eileen Black said she’s part Native American, but she doesn’t look it to me. What do you think?”
“She couldn’t have much Native American blood in her. With that hair she looks more like the bride of Casper.” Unchristian of me to say, perhaps, but I was rooting for Bill.
“She’s not especially friendly either. According to Eileen she has ‘issues’... “ Rhonda made air quotes with her fingers. “... with dealers and collectors. She calls them opportunists.”
I considered this for a minute. I couldn’t think of anything from my ancestral past I’d be willing to put out 20,000 dollars to recover. There weren’t even that many things in my current life I valued that much—just my house and my dog.
Just then, new money entered the bidding. The stranger who had sat through round after round without a single bid jumped into the fray by upping the current bid 5,000 dollars.
“Looks like Mr. Buckskin decided to join the fun,” I said.
“He has Bill’s attention,” Rhonda commented.
Bill stepped back and shook his head. He was out.
The bidding shot back and forth between the couple from D.C. and the man in buckskin. By the time the price passed 30,000, even Ed looked nervous. He gripped the head of the gavel so tightly his knuckles turned white as he swung it from bidder to bidder.
The woman had moved from stiff to downright rigid, and the tissue she’d been twisting was now little bits of paper on the floor around her. Her husband raised their bid card at 35,000, but kept his eyes on his wife. Mr. Buckskin didn’t even pause; he jumped the bid to 40,000.
The man from D.C. put his number down and shook his head. The woman leaned forward, talking to him in hushed tones, but he just stared in Ed’s direction. With one last intense look at the couple, Ed hit the gavel down. The medicine man outfit was sold.
Relief washed over me. I hadn’t realized it, but the tension had gotten to me too. My hands were wrapped around my chair’s seat so tightly my fingers ached as I straightened them.
While the man in buckskin gathered up his purchases, Ed urged the crowd into a round of applause. Mr. Buckskin apparently enjoyed the attention. His walk changed to a swagger. At the payment table, he stopped and gave the crowd a bow.
I looked in Rhonda’s direction. This was more performance than I could stomach.
Looking way too pleased with himself, Ed twirled his gavel, and announced a 10-minute break. His daughter, Frankie, was working the payment table. She held up an arm, signaling him.
Most of the crowd took advantage of the time to visit the food booth, go to the bathroom, or check out the items still waiting to be sold. Rhonda and I stretched our legs and watched the activity at the payment table.
At the payment table, Ed slapped the man in buckskin on the back. Then he pointed from the check the winning bidder had just written to the set. The man in buckskin nodded, took a slip of paper from Frankie and left.
Rhonda and I stood. I fought to balance the weight of my boxes and shot a covert look at the D.C. couple. The action seemed to have taken a toll on the woman. She was even paler than before. As I watched, she popped a pill in her mouth and washed it down with a tentative sip from a cup her husband held out.
Rhonda interrupted my thoughts. “I thought Darrell might bid on something.”
“I talked to him earlier. He said he wasn’t going to. I don’t think he’s into relics. He stopped by because Ed asked him too.”
“That’s a dull way to spend a Sunday. I wanted something, and I still couldn’t stand sitting here all day.”
“Shows how nice he is.” I was happy Darrell had made a quick exit, but it was nice of him to stop by, especially since it was obvious he had other plans.
I jostled my boxes into a more comfortable position and glanced at the door.
Apparently sensing I was about to make my escape, Rhonda picked up her grinding stone set and stepped in front of me, cutting off my exit. “You want to have lunch with Silas and me tomorrow?”
Rhonda had been dating Silas for about a month, but I’d only met him once. She had a talent for collecting unlikely men, dating everyone from a tattooed biker complete with chains and a waist-long beard to a performance artist who painted himself blue and balanced on a giant red ball like a seal.
I had given up trying to understand her taste in men and just enjoyed getting a look at the latest candidate. Silas was a mild addition to her collection, a soft spoken econ professor with a small twist. He ranched. Normal enough in Montana, but Silas had an unusual herd.
“Is he going to talk about his worms again?”
On our first meeting Silas ventured extensively into the eating and breeding habits of night crawlers. Listening to their diet wasn’t too bad, but when he strayed to their reproduction preferences my stomach swayed.
“It isn’t that bad. Don’t be a sissy.”
In other words, yes, expect worm talk.
Trying to think of some polite way to avoid answering, I peeked at my cell. The numbers glowed three o’clock. If I left now, I’d still have time to take Kiska, my Alaskan malamute, for a walk up the mountain and fix dinner before a new, highly publicized reality TV show began. The ads promised a very intellectual look at two families forced to choose between large amounts of cash and daredevil acts—like pushing their mother into a giant vat of chocolate pudding (a secret fantasy of my own).
Luckily, my ploy worked. Rhonda got sidetracked into a conversation with a woman who frequented her shop, and I was able to beat a fast track to the door without having to commit to a lunch fraught with worm talk.
Outside, the afternoon sun hit me with a blinding glare, and I almost smacked into the man in buckskin for the second time that day.
He stood with his back to the Civic Center talking on a cell phone in that too loud voice people always use. Still, thanks to a wind that had picked up since my arrival this morning, I could only catch fragments of what he said. “Tomorrow, after…funds…verified…You better…first thing…morning.”
Exhausted, I didn’t even have the energy to hang close and pick up more tidbits of his conversation for Rhonda. Instead, I clutched the Roseville in my arms and headed home to my dog and a night of reality T.V.
I might not have won the big prize today, but my life really could not have been better.
Chapter 2
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into my garage. I left my purchases in my rig to take into the shop the next day and hauled myself up the hill to my house.
I lived about eight miles out of Helena in an old mining community. Tulips bloomed between the original settler’s cabin and my house, and the acrid smell of smoke from a neighbor’s stove spiced the air. Water rushing through the creek across the road drowned out most other sound.
Most, but not all. There was a distinct ruckus coming from my home.
Kiska stood with both paws pressed up against the glass of my front door, howling and complaining about the lousy treatment/lack of food he had endured in my absence. Slipping my key into t
he lock, I apologized to him profusely. Once inside, I attempted to buy my way back into his good graces with a cookie and a promise of a walk. The accusing expression in his Pepsi-colored eyes told me I wasn’t getting off that easily.
I tossed him another cookie, and while he did his imitation of a land shark in pursuit of a milk bone, I gathered up his harness and lead. We traveled up the road to the old town. In the early 1900’s, this had been a booming mining community. Now, I was one of 21 year-round residents. The remainders included an eclectic mix of would-be miners, retired couples, young families, and a certifiable crazy or two.
We walked until we reached the edge of the original settlement. Here the road became rougher and climbed more steeply up the mountain. It continued on, winding past waterfalls and beaver dams, until it eventually came to a stop. At the end sat a reservoir. It was a beautiful sight, but tonight Kiska and I made do with a short stroll. We had, after all, other plans.
Back at the house, Kiska settled in for a snooze and I flipped on the TV. I watched mesmerized as a family slowly picked each other off in a food fight for cash. When the mayonnaise-smeared victor pushed the final competitor, his mother, into the vat of chocolate pudding, I stood up and cheered.
I never tired of seeing what people would do for money.
o0o
The next morning, I woke eager to get to my shop and make a little money of my own. After wolfing down our breakfasts, something that came almost as naturally to me as it did Kiska, I snagged a Diet Pepsi and poured it, plus a generous dollop of milk into a thermal mug. My caffeine requirement for the day provided for, I let Kiska out and went to shower. Forty minutes later, I was dressed in my standard unimaginative work garb: jeans, a long-sleeved tee, and hiking boots. I grabbed Kiska’s leash and struck out for the car.
One of my favorite things about owning an antique shop in Montana was taking Kiska to work.
I loaded all 110 pounds of him into the Cherokee, an adventure in itself. At some point in his puppyhood, Kiska decided malamutes do not jump. No matter how short or tall the vehicle, he stood with just his front-end inside, looking over his shoulder, waiting for me to pick up his rear end and help him in. Strange as this was, Kiska had brought me around to his way of thinking. I heaved his furry hindquarters in through the passenger door, hopped in behind the wheel, and we left for the shop.
I parked in the alley behind Dusty Deals and waited while Kiska made his mark on the Dumpster. Inside, he settled into my cubby-sized office, and I went back out to carry in my purchases from the auction.
I had just started sorting the books by topic and age when my front bell rang. The man in buckskin stepped through the door. He glanced around the shop, giving me a chance to hide my surprise and study him a bit.
Today he wore some kind of rough, probably homespun, cloth shirt and a new set of buckskin trousers. He had his leather pouch strapped across his chest, and his knife dangled from his waist. My lips twisted at bit when I saw the knife. I preferred my customers unarmed. Not that I would say that to him.
“The gal next door said you had books on local history.” He made a move like he was hitching a ride, his thumb pointed toward Spirit Books.
I wasn’t sure how Rhonda would feel about being called a “gal.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about her being called a “gal.” My lips twisted a bit more.
He raised a brow, and, afraid I’d alerted him to my thoughts, I smiled.
It was a free country after all. If he wanted to use the word gal, who was I... the linguistics police? And the knife...? I stopped that line of thinking with a bigger smile.
His brow rose a little higher.
Still smiling, I replied, “A few. Was there something specific you were interested in?”
He angled his neck a little to the side as if he wasn’t 100 percent sure I was right in the head. “The Deere family.”
One of my favorite topics, and from a potentially paying customer. Gal really wasn’t that bad... and his knife? I grew up with boys who used bigger blades to clean under their nails. The smile was now, I was afraid, permanent.
“I have one book with quite a bit about the family, but most of it’s about Garrison and his wife Ruby. I don’t think there’s more than a sentence or two on Denton and probably nothing on his collection.” Realizing the smile didn’t fit with my disappointing news, I forced my face into a frown, at least the top half. My lips continued to curve.
“That’s fine,” he replied, lowering his cheek toward one shoulder and taking a step back.
Glad I could drop the frown, I unceremoniously plopped down beside the bookshelf in front of my counter and pulled out a blue cloth-covered volume. “This has a lot of local stories in it, and there are two decent chapters on the Deeres.” I peered up at my customer. “I have a book on call girls who crossed over into ‘polite’ society too. Ruby’s mentioned in there.” My smile this time was completely sincere. I loved Ruby Deere’s story.
He didn’t reply or show any expression, so I continued. “Before she met Garrison, Ruby was a gold camp follower.” The term didn’t seem to register. I added, “a prostitute.”
His brows formed a V on his forehead. “I thought the Deeres were a big deal.”
I nodded. “They are. In the late 1800’s, there weren’t a lot of single women around here. I guess Garrison didn’t want to go back east to get a wife. Or, if you’re a romantic, you can believe he just fell in love.”
The V of his eyebrows remained unaltered.
His lack of enthusiasm was disappointing and annoying. My smile dimmed, just a bit. “Anyway, they got married. He already had a ton of money from cattle, and together they made more. According to the book, she was a pretty smart cookie.”
I waited, giving him a chance to redeem himself with at least an appreciative nod. I got a dead fish stare instead.
My lips were tired, and I was ready to end my act. I sighed. “Anyway, their romance is kind of legendary around here. He even spent a small fortune on a 12-carat Burmese ruby for their tenth anniversary.” I opened the book and pointed to a photo of Ruby Deere with a gleaming jewel nestled atop her breasts. “She wore it constantly, at least until Garrison died.”
He still didn’t seem overly impressed, but his frown lessened. “Guess that will have to do.”
Still not sure what he’d been looking for, I brushed two months’ worth of dirt off my knees and struggled up.
Books in hand, I stepped behind the counter.
He took out his wallet and handed me a Visa. I took note of the name, James Crandell, before running it through.
“Thanks for stopping by.” I managed to pull out a final high-wattage smile.
He returned it with a two-fingered salute before striding out the door.
Shaking my head, I muttered an expletive under my breath.
Apparently stirred from his job holding down the floor of my office, Kiska ventured into the main shop.
I jerked my head toward the front door. “He was a keeper, wasn’t he?” I asked.
My sarcasm seemed lost on Kiska. He swished his tail and sniffed the air a little. Then, sure there was nothing going on that needed his attention, he headed back to bed.
I muttered a bit more and got back to work, logging onto Ebay to check the going rates there for the items I’d bought at the auction. Aside from the Roseville, it didn’t look like anything I had was going to start a bidding frenzy.
Disappointed, I grabbed a sandwich from a nearby shop, returned to Dusty Deals, and spent most of the day boxing up items I’d sold the week before off my web site.
Around three, I finally had a real, in-person customer. She heaved two boxes of old magazines onto the counter. I rang her up, grabbed a box, and followed her out the backdoor to her car, which was parked in the alley.
In the shadow of the building, it was dark and cool, like an air-conditioned library on a hot, sunny day—relaxing.
I turned to thank her, but was startled by a new, unexpected so
und: the clomp of hooves hitting pavement.
Two quarter horses, one black, one buckskin, wandered toward us. On their backs, men in cowboy gear swayed with the horses’ steps. The men reined their mounts around the back of my Cherokee and nodded in greeting.
They were a pretty sight, at least until one of the horses, the buckskin, moved past, dropping giant pellets of manure with each charming, clomping step.
I gave my customer a weak smile and prayed the manure would magically disappear before quitting time—and Kiska’s appearance in the alley.
He had a dog’s love of all things disgusting, and a dog’s hatred of all things soapy. Giving him a bath after a roll in horse dung was not my idea of a great night. I even went so far as to consider picking it up myself, but sadly I had left my mucking clothes at home.
So, with my customer and the horses gone, I went back inside.
The remainder of the day dragged. Kiska and I had the place to ourselves, and he just slept. Finally, tired of (not) dusting and (not) straightening, I gathered up my dog and headed toward the back entrance.
As I locked the door behind us, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled, like someone was watching me. I turned toward the alley. It was dark outside, but a light right above my backdoor lit the area around me. Kiska stood a few feet away, not far from the Dumpster, his legs stiff. He pointed his nose up and sniffed the breeze. Then the ruff of hair around his neck slowly began to rise.
“Kiska, come here.”
He stood firm, staring down the alley past Rhonda’s shop.
“Kiska come.” I used my “do it now or no treats for you” voice. He looked my way and then turned back to his original pose, concentrating on something or someone down the alley past Spirit Books.
A chill crept over me. Kiska approached life in a pretty easygoing manner. Something bad had to be up for him to react like this. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to face it alone, and I didn’t want him to face it alone or otherwise. I took a tentative step toward him. With my hand resting on his back, I asked, “What’s the matter? Do you see something?”
