by P. B. Ryan
He didn’t reply, but he didn’t relax either. I took a few steps past him and tripped... over two moccasin-clad feet. My pulse surged, and I grabbed the Dumpster to keep from falling.
Feet tended to be attached to bodies, and my alley was not a place many would consider ideal for a nap. Trying to remain calm, I moved my gaze upward, over denim-covered legs and a homespun shirt. There my resolve and my gaze stopped, locked onto a blood-covered chest and the knife protruding from it.
Chapter 3
I stood staring, my mind whirling, my eyes frozen on the knife. Kiska pushed against my leg and broke my trance.
I ran my fingers through the wiry hairs of his overcoat for reassurance. Calmer, I forced myself to look back at the body. My eyes locked onto the bloodstained chest. Body in the alley. Not good.
Take a breath. Stay calm.
I forced my eyes to the face—the surprised face of James Crandell.
I took a step back, but my attention stayed focused on the body. Crandell was lying on his back about a foot from the Dumpster. His mouth and eyes were wide open, his arms at his sides. His clothing was rumpled, as if he’d been in some sort of scuffle, and an elk antler handle protruded from his blood-soaked chest. It appeared to belong to the knife he had worn on his belt earlier. Based on the quantity of blood surrounding it, my first assumption—that he was dead—seemed accurate.
I pushed at his leg with my foot. “Mr. Crandell, are you okay?” I didn’t expect a response, but I wasn’t exactly experienced in talking to dead men.
Kiska was now thoroughly engrossed in Crandell’s fate. He shoved his way closer, preparing to give Crandell a good sniff. I pushed Kiska to the side, took a deep breath, and bent over to place trembling fingers on Crandell’s neck. No pulse.
He was dead.
I grabbed Kiska’s collar and tugged him back into Dusty Deals.
I twisted the lock behind us and pressed my back against the door. My heart was pounding, and I could hear every bit of blood in my body swooshing through my veins.
Someone had murdered a man in my alley while Kiska and I were working only a few yards away.
I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.
Helena didn’t have a lot of murders, and most that they did have were of the domestic dispute or drunken fight variety.
Not random tourist stabbings.
The whole thing seemed nearly impossible.
And, for a moment, I convinced myself that it was. Edging the door open, I peered out. Crandell was still there. In fact, now he couldn’t have stood out more if a giant cartoon arrow had pointed at him from above.
I closed the door again and leaned against it.
The reporter still inside me said “call the newspaper,” but as I headed for the phone, I realized this instinct was misplaced. I wasn’t a reporter any longer. Police had to come first.
Strangely morose about the realization, I made the call.
“Helena Police.”
“This is Lucy Mathews. I just found a body.” The facts and just the facts.
“A what? What are you talking about, Lucy?”
The incredulous voice on the other end shook me out of my fog a bit. I had run into George Pearson frequently when working the police beat. He was a big, friendly kind of guy who preferred working at a desk to driving around checking out the usual Helena crimes.
I could tell by his tone he thought I was pulling some gag on him, a gag he didn’t find particularly funny.
The words spilled out then, coming so fast I stuttered a bit between each one. “A body, George. A dead, human one to be more exact. I think his name is James Crandell. He’s lying out behind my shop with a knife in his chest. There’s blood, lots of blood.”
My near hysteria must have convinced him I wasn’t playing. He switched to a new, professional persona and took down my street address, name, and phone number. Then, in an almost fatherly voice, he told me to stay where I was. Another officer and an ambulance would be there shortly.
By the time I hung up, sirens were already approaching. I checked my watch, 5:30. The editor at the News, Ted Brown, would already be gone for the day. This was a relief. Ted was a major reason for my recent departure from the paper. I had no desire to talk to him, not even as a prized source who had just found a body.
“Daily News, Gary Richards speaking.” Gary was one of two photographers at the paper. He was tightly built with blond, slightly curly hair that always seemed just a little too long. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled just a little, and my insides did a little flop.
I had developed a bit of a crush on him a few months back, but failed to pursue it after a rather embarrassing night on the town with the newsroom. Gary had pulled me out of an awkward position involving a lilac bush and one too many Fat Tire ales. After seeing me like that, I didn’t think any amount of eyelash fluttering or coy smiles would seduce him to my charms.
Any thoughts I’d had of romance had disappeared almost as quickly as that ale.
“Lucy, what’s going on down there? A police call just went out listing your shop.”
“You might want to tell someone to plan on reworking the front page. I just found a dead body.”
Gary didn’t even try to hide his excitement. “You’re kidding. I’ll get Marcy and be right there.”
I had no idea why he would be getting Marcy Henderson. She was a part-timer who specialized in fluff pieces for the advertising department, but my head was too much of a jumble to ask, besides, he had already hung up.
In a daze, I drifted into the office and sat down next to Kiska.
The police, Gary and, apparently, Marcy would be here soon. They were going to ask questions—going to expect answers too.
My mind drifted back to Crandall’s bloody chest; my head swam.
My fingers clutched onto Kiska’s ruff.
This was not going a good direction.
If I wanted to look like a rational human being and not a weak-kneed schoolgirl, I had to get my mind around what had happened.
I took a breath and tried to pull back a bit—to see things a little less personally.
It was hard, but after closing my eyes and pulling in a few cleansing breaths, I managed to pull up an image of Crandall lying in my alley, and this time I didn’t shake, at least not as much.
As I memorized the image, preparing to share it with the police and Gary... or Marcy... a realization hit.
Crandell hadn’t been wearing his buckskin pants, and his pouch had been missing too. He still had on his moccasins and homespun shirt, but the jeans were definitely new.
This breakthrough, trivial as it probably was, made me feel better and more in control.
The wail of sirens, now in the alley, brought my attention back to the present. I ran my fingers up against my scalp, pushed my hair away from my face for a second, and took a deep breath. This was as good as I was going to get. Then I slunk to the backdoor to greet the police and emergency medical personnel.
The EMPs were climbing back in the ambulance by the time I walked into the alley. It hadn’t taken long for them to confirm that Crandell was beyond their help. They left empty handed. Crandell still lay where I’d first seen him.
I tried not to look without making it obvious that I was trying not to look.
The police began taping off the alley, including the area around my Cherokee.
Focused on my only mode of transportation, I stepped forward. My house was not exactly within walking distance, and I had zero desire to spend the night in my shop, especially after tonight’s excitement. I waved at one of the men manning the tape, but he moved past me as if I’d just donned a cloak of invisibility.
“Until we have a chance to search the entire area, your rig will have to stay right there.”
I turned to the side. The speaker, Peter Blake, a detective with the Helena Police, stepped from the shadows.
I didn’t know him as well as I knew George, but we had run into each other a few times in the pas
t. Truth be told, he was known for being a bit of a tough ass, and I’d avoided him as much as possible.
Just one of Ted’s points of contention with me and my performance on the police beat.
Tough ass reputation aside, Blake was good looking in an unexpected way. Dark, heavy brows dominated his eyes and, no matter what the time of day, five o’clock shadow always looked like it was about 10 minutes from popping out. Somehow, all of this bundled together made him a very masculine and, under different circumstances, attractive package.
”Would you please step back inside your shop so I can ask you a few questions?” His brusque manner tugged at the threads of my frayed nerves, but I complied, tromping back into my shop with Blake’s round-toed cowboy boots on my heels.
Kiska, energized by all the activity, emerged from my office and bounced forward two feet with his butt up and his front end down. “Oooooo,” he complained, followed by, “Ow wow ow wow.”
Kiska demanding dinner.
Like a well-programmed owner, I shuffled to the crock where I stored Kiska’s food and fished out the plastic scoop I kept inside.
Blake raised a brow.
I dropped the scoop back into the crock and slid my hands down my jeans to clean them of any telltale signs of dog food.
Kiska nudged me with his nose; then, when I didn’t react promptly, he shoved his still empty bowl into the wall, loudly.
I hesitated, trapped between Blake’s impatient brow and Kiska’s no-patience stare.
Kiska won. Ignoring Blake, I quickly filled Kiska’s bowl and stepped away.
When I looked up, Blake’s expression was stuck on glower.
”Tell me what happened.” He turned his back on me briefly to respond to a question from another officer who had just entered the shop through the alley door. I took advantage of his inattention to slump against the wall. I was tired, no, more than that... deflated. I wasn’t sure that I could make it through his questions and then Gary’s and Marcy’s. In fact, I was regretting my call to the paper.
They would have expected an interview anyway, but my call sealed that deal.
However, by the time Blake turned around, I was standing straight and looking professional. At least that’s how I saw things. Based on the scowl under Blake’s Resistol cowboy hat, I wasn’t sure he saw me the same way.
”So your dog’s attention wasn’t on the corpse. Do you think someone else was in the alley? Did you see anyone?” He put both hands on his hips in what I took as an unmistakable sign of intolerance for flighty witnesses in general and me in particular.
I felt my lips begin to twist. I was tired and stressed, and Blake’s terse manner was beginning to wear on me. Realizing this annoyed me even more.
Still, I gave his question some consideration. Maybe because I hadn’t really thought about what Kiska’s behavior, coupled with finding Crandell, meant—and I should have.
Had the killer been in the alley with us? Not a pleasant possibility.
“I didn’t see or hear anyone, but Kiska certainly acted like something was out there. I don’t think it was the body that got him so upset. He stayed turned the other way.”
Blake reached into his jacket and pulled out a spiral notebook. He scribbled a few lines. “Pearson said you were able to identify the victim. Did you know him?”
With the interview flowing, Blake seemed to relax, which allowed me to do the same.
“I didn’t really know him. He was at the auction on Sunday. He bought a medicine man set. Then today he came into my shop looking for some books on the Deeres. “The set he bought was from the Deere estate.” I offered the last as an afterthought.
I noticed an old decal stuck on my office door. Needing to do something with my hands, I ran my thumb under a loose corner and pushed it into a little accordion-shaped pile. I scraped it off and turned to Blake.
He was looking a little tense.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and rolled back on my heels. That seemed to soothe the detective some. He returned to his questions.
After about 20 minutes of him frowning and scrawling in his notebook, he announced we were done. I could stop by the station the next day to sign a statement.
“What about my car? Can I move it now?” I posed the question nicely. I knew the tape the police had strapped around the Cherokee meant they had no intention of letting me near it, but I needed my car and who could turn down a sugary sweet smile? I turned mine up to cotton-candy, give-you-a-toothache-to-look-at-me sweet.
“Not tonight.” He turned on his heel and strode out the backdoor.
Too stunned to move for a moment, I hesitated.
I had followed all the rules and answered all of Blake’s questions. I had played nice. I deserved a reward, and what did I get? Nothing. Not even an offer of a ride home.
Before taking time to think, I started moving after him. The phone ringing stopped me mid-stride and brought me back to my senses.
Per normal, my savior was Rhonda. “What’s going on over there? I was getting ready to leave when I saw the police cars. They barely let me step out my backdoor. Did you kill someone?” she asked.
“Well, I didn’t, but someone did. I just found Mr. Buckskin with a knife in his chest.” I gripped the phone so tightly my knuckles popped.
Rhonda inhaled noisily through her teeth. “Are you kidding? What happened?”
I quickly explained my disturbing discovery in the alley, and then asked for a ride home. I hated to do it, but my house wasn’t exactly on the local bus line, and now that I’d returned to reality, I realized that running after Blake would accomplish nothing. Besides, I didn’t want to run after Blake. I didn’t want to face him down. I just wanted him to politely offer me my car.
“Why don’t you stay with me? You don’t have to go home, do you? I’ll loan you the essentials.”
I glanced at Kiska, searching for an excuse to say no. Rhonda was my best friend, but I’ve never been big on sleep-overs. And I had a sneaking suspicion Rhonda’s idea of “essentials” after a night like this weren’t the same as mine—namely alcohol, chocolate, and anything fried.
But my house was a drive. It would have been hideously selfish of me to push her to take me home and then, what? Pick me up again tomorrow?
The other option, a hotel, was expensive, and if Detective Dark-and-Not-So-Charming wouldn’t give me my own car, I was sure he wasn’t going to spring for a room either.
Still, I hedged a little. “I have Kiska with me.”
“The more the merrier.” Rhonda wasn’t big on taking a hint.
“How about Nostradamus?”
“He’ll deal with it.”
“Oh, that’s good.” I scratched Kiska behind one ear. “Don’t you have plans with Silas?”
“We had lunch, remember?”
Damn, I’d forgotten.
“That settles it. Close up and come over.”
Kiska flipped my hand with his nose, signaling he wanted attention, and I was out of stalls.
“Sure, I can’t wait,” I replied as upbeat as I could muster. “It’ll be a couple of minutes though. Gary and Marcy from the News are probably waiting to talk to me. I called up there to let them know what was going on.”
After hanging up, I addressed my dog. “I don’t know why you look so cheerful. You aren’t going to be eating any better than I am.” Giving him a final pat on the head, I opened the backdoor to peer into the alley.
The police were still milling around, measuring, photographing, and staring at the ground. Gary and Marcy stood just outside the taped area behind Cuppa Joe’s. Gary was busy snapping shots while Marcy nervously made notes, making it appear that, yes, she was the reporter on this story.
As I mulled that over, Blake walked toward them and gestured in a less than welcoming manner. I was glad to see I wasn’t the only recipient of his charming demeanor.
Gary was either satisfied with the pictures he had or he wanted to get away from Blake too. He stepped back. Marcy
made another note as she followed Gary. They opened the backdoor to Cuppa Joe’s and disappeared from view. About a minute later, there was a knock on my front door. I went to let them in.
I motioned them inside.
“You learn anything from Blake?” I was, quite honestly, dying to know what the detective thought—not that I would have asked him.
Gary set his camera on a shelf that held an assortment of collectible comics. “I got the feeling he didn’t know much to tell. How about you, Marcy?”
“Well, he didn’t tell me much, if that’s what you mean.” She pulled her pen back and forth through the metal ring on the top of her notebook and spoke quickly, as if she had a limited time to get the words out. “I’ve never seen a dead body like that before. I mean I’ve seen people at the funeral home, but never like that.” Her left eye twitched as she continued. “He had a knife sticking out of him.”
Seeing Marcy’s reaction made me feel better about my own. I tugged her to a chair constructed of old cow horns. It was a little scary itself, but Marcy didn’t seem to notice. “Here. Sit.”
It was nice feeling like I was the one in control. I’d never really cared a lot for Marcy, but suddenly I felt myself warming to her.
She leaned back as far as she could without being speared by a horn. Left eye twitching, she asked, “Do you think they’ll catch whoever did this soon?”
“Who knows? Crandell isn’t from around here. I don’t think he knew many people. It could have just been a robbery attempt or something.” Thinking out loud, I continued, “Of course that seems unlikely since I’m pretty sure he was killed with his own knife. Whoever killed him must have been close enough to pull it out of his belt and stab him.” Suddenly, my own squeamishness was gone, and Crandall’s untimely demise just seemed like an interesting puzzle to be sorted out.
Marcy looked at me as if I’d sprouted a tail—out of my forehead. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
Seeing her obvious distress, I patted her hand like I might a two-year-old’s , reined in my own newly discovered enthusiasm and tried a new tack. “I’m sure this is a one-time thing, specifically targeted at Crandell. There was something a little ‘off’ about him.”
