by P. B. Ryan
“You think?” Marcy didn’t sound sure.
Gary pulled his left hand out of his pocket and checked his watch. “Either way, we need to get moving. It’s 6:45 now. The front page has to be on the press by midnight or Ted will have our heads mounted on his wall.”
He wasn’t entirely kidding. My ex-boss found it funny to tape pictures of various out-of-favor employees onto the deer head that hung above his desk. I’d had the honor of occupying the space all of last summer.
Marcy sat up a little and pulled the pen out of her notebook.
Her face was no stranger to the deer head either.
“What can you tell us, Lucy?” Looking all prim and proper, she waited for my reply.
Still filled with understanding, I wowed them with my Crandell encounters.
Marcy tapped her pen against the notebook. “I guess we should talk to Rhonda, too.” Her enthusiasm struck me as... nonexistent. Ted had called me a “wuss” for my inability to “get the hard story,” but even I wouldn’t be afraid to talk to Rhonda. In fact, I’d used Rhonda as a “source” on more than one occasion. Her frequent gossip-gathering trips to Cuppa Joe’s is all that kept me from being fired on more than one occasion.
As Marcy struggled her way through the cow horns, attempting to stand, Gary picked up his camera. “I might as well go on back to the paper,” he said. “You aren’t going to need any more pictures, are you?”
Before Marcy could answer, the need to be helpful surged through me. “Do you want to try for a shot out my backdoor? The police said I couldn’t walk out there, but they didn’t say anything about keeping the door shut or not looking.” I raised my eyebrows. I would have fluttered my lashes, but I am completely above that.
“That’s a great idea.” Gary smiled, his eyes crinkled, and my heart did a little flutter thing.
Marcy grunted. Tired of watching her fight her way out of the chair, I gave her a good pull.
She crossed her arms over her chest and in a world-class imitation of a petulant 12 year old, stated, “I’m not going anywhere by myself. Whoever killed that guy is still out there somewhere.”
My newfound love of her dissipated, but with no other easy/polite choice, I led both of them to the back. There was a small window there that, if I stood on my toes and a stack of magazines, offered a decent view of the alley. I made use of both.
The police were still very visible. Two officers bent over Crandell, measuring and taking pictures; a body bag sat on the ground outside the taped area waiting for its cargo.
I motioned to Gary. “This might be too close to open the door. Do you think you can get anything through the window?”
“I can try.” Gary, sans the help of toes or magazines, positioned himself with his camera up against the glass.
He brushed against me, and I caught a whiff of something woodsy. Marcy followed right behind him. I stepped back to avoid pressing into her and fell against the wall. A Kessler Beer sign clattered off the wall and onto the floor.
Marcy stared at me fish-eyed. Internally, I scowled, but kept my comments to myself.
“Okay, that’s probably as much as I’ll get from here.” Gary turned back to us.
I pretended to be engrossed in picking up the sign and somehow stepped on Marcy’s toe in the process. She squeaked.
I let out a surprised, “Sorry.”
Gary grinned.
Marcy muttered something too low for me to hear and trudged back toward the front. I followed close behind, stopping at the cow horn chair.
I chirped, “Let me know if I can help any more. This is going to be an exciting story, and it’s guaranteed front page, probably for the next week.” Ted will ride your ass, but hey, you’ll get a four point type byline.
Maybe she read through my false excitement. She shot me a look not all that different from when I’d stepped on her toe. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”
Then she shuffled out into the street. Gary waited behind. “Maybe I’ll stop by tomorrow and see if I can get any more shots from your backdoor.”
All the embarrassment I thought I’d left behind returned full force. I stared and nodded, then stared again.
Finally, he left too.
I shut the door behind him and pressed my forehead against the cool wood. I could have stood there for hours. I couldn’t remember feeling as emotionally wiped, ever.
But my dog had other ideas. He shoved his way between me and the door, knocking me back a step.
With a sigh, I returned to my office, where I gave him a cookie and gathered up what few overnight supplies I had: a gym bag, food for Kiska and an old toothbrush I kept around to clean china knick-knacks.
I picked up my bag, snapped on Kiska’s leash, and locked up the shop.
Tomorrow would have to be a better day.
Chapter 4
Even during the day, Spirit Books seemed dark. Rhonda wasn’t much on wasting money on unnecessary things—like electricity. Plus, six-foot tall shelves that dominated almost every inch of floor space blocked out any natural light that might have found its way in.
But at night, walking into the shop was like driving into a cloud of fog with your low beams on. I could see about six feet before the details became murky.
The shelves, stuffed with books, mainly paperbacks, crowded around me. There were hand-lettered signs with labels such as “Mystery,” “Religion,” and “Romance” stuck to each, and most of those were accented with additional decorative statements such as a bloody dagger, Celtic cross, or—my favorite—Michelangelo’s gloriously naked David.
Rhonda stood near the cash register, illuminated by the glow of one ancient floor lamp. Prisms hung beside her, sprinkling rainbows across her as she sorted a stack of paperbacks with pictures of bare-chested Scottish knights and flaxen-haired beauties on the covers.
“There you are. How’d your talk with the police go?”
I opened my mouth, but Rhonda surged on.
“Detective Blake came by here too. He seemed pretty interested in an argument I saw between Bridger and that woman from the auction.”
It took me a minute to realize Crandell was Bridger. Leave it to Rhonda to connect Crandall’s choice in clothing with the long dead mountain man, whereas being a tad more literal, I stopped at Mr. Buckskin.
“You saw them arguing? When was that?” I pulled Kiska back from a teetering stack of techno thrillers.
Rhonda touched her hand to the wobbling merchandise, steadying it. “This morning, probably around 10. ‘Bridger’ came by looking for books on the Deeres. I sent him your way. He’d been gone maybe two minutes when I heard voices. I looked out front. He was arguing with the woman from D.C.”
“That’s interesting. I didn’t get the feeling they knew each other.” I kept my eyes on Kiska. He was showing a little too much interest for my liking in the “Montana” display.
“They weren’t friendly. She looked like she was in serious need of a good massage and maybe a stiff shot of J.D.” Rhonda raised a brow. “Do you think she killed him?”
Kiska looked up, a cellophane Kit Kat wrapper stuck to his nose.
“Someone did. Did you hear what they were arguing about?” I jerked the wrapper off his nose and crumpled it in my hand.
“No. I couldn’t make out the words, and I had another customer. She’s a regular. I had to help her.” Rhonda said this with genuine sorrow. Even if Crandall hadn’t turned up dead, Rhonda would have regretted missing out on the details of the argument.
Kiska plopped down onto the floor, rubbed his paws along the side of his nose, and prepared to inhale a second wrapper that had appeared out of nowhere. I lunged, catching one shiny red corner before it disappeared inside his furry trash receptacle of a stomach. Using my fingers to pry open his jaws, I yanked the slimy thing out.
“I don’t know why people eat that crap.” Rhonda held a more conventional trashcan out to me.
Assuming she meant the candy and not the wrapper, I replied, “It’s tasty?”
She looked skeptical. Suddenly, she grinned. “Speaking of tasty, what do you think of Detective Blake?”
Detective Blake? “I don’t know that I would term him ‘tasty.’”
“How about yummy, scrumpdillyicious, or just plain lip-smacking good?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “What about Silas? I thought you were taken.”
“I am, but you’re not.” She gave me a broad smile.
I turned to the “dollar” table and picked up a romance set 200 years in the future. When I looked up, Rhonda was still beaming at me.
“Trust me. I don’t think he’s interested,” I replied.
I could see gears grinding in her red head. “Sometimes you have to cultivate interest.”
“My plow’s in the shop.” I gave her a stern look that I was pretty sure was completely wasted. With a sigh, I asked, “You about ready to head out?”
I caught a flash of white as she grinned and disappeared below the counter. She popped back up with her purse. “Marcy and Gary came by too. Do you think that’s going to work?”
”How what’s going to work?” Marcy had seemed a little eager to stick with the photographer, but I hadn’t noticed returned interest on Gary’s part.
“Marcy covering this story. She seemed pretty shaken up. She talked so fast, it was like being interviewed by a chipmunk on steroids. I thought I was going to have to shove War and Peace in her mouth to get her to slow down.” She shook her head. “I can’t wait to read the paper tomorrow.”
“Oh.” I took a quick breath of relief. For once, Rhonda’s mind was not on my love life. “Me either, but she’ll be fine, and if not, they’ll put someone else on it. It’s too big of a story for Ted to allow it to be screwed up.” I waved the futuristic romance along with a mystery I had spied with a malamute on the cover. Rhonda ignored my attempt to pay and shoved the paperbacks into my hands.
“How about Gary? He was looking good.” She wiggled her eyebrows .
The woman just wouldn’t give up.
“Any possibilities there?”
I sighed. “With a six-pack and a prayer anything’s possible.” Even Rhonda forgetting that I was lacking what she saw as a necessity... a man.
o0o
Rhonda’s house was a cute, white brick Victorian located between the Capitol and Last Chance Gulch. She maneuvered around some trashcans set out for pick up the next day, turned onto the alley that ran behind her street, and pulled into an unattached garage. We piled out of the Trooper and into her small but peaceful back yard. A set of chairs made from unpeeled logs sat around her small patio. Near the back steps was a wooden box covered with plastic. Lined up inside were Popsicle sticks with “Thyme,” “Rosemary,” and “Catnip” hand-written on them.
I pulled Kiska away from the herbs and up the steps that led to the kitchen door. Rhonda flipped on the light and hung her keys on a hook made from old square-cut nails. “Set your stuff down on the table. You can carry it upstairs later.”
I dumped my bag and unhooked Kiska. Just then, Nostradamus made his appearance. At 16 pounds, he was a big cat, but his fur made him look even bigger—like 30.
Kiska had never had a close encounter with a cat, but, in general, he loved all animals. He considered himself human, or at least the furry equivalent, and all these other creatures fascinated him. He particularly loved cows and horses. How different could a cat be?
True to form, Kiska was thrilled. He perked up his ears and began to grin. Nostradamus was not as happy. He stopped, planted his front paws, and began to move sideways. Ears lowered, he began to hiss.
This intrigued Kiska more. He went in for a sniff. With his nose buried in belly hair, he inhaled. Before we could react, Nostradamus shot into the air and swung. He smacked Kiska on the side of his head. Everyone froze.
Kiska pulled his head back and twisted it to one side as if to say, “What’s your problem?” Nostradamus, seemingly secure he had sent his message, turned his back on all of us and snapped his tail. He sauntered over to his empty food dish, turned, and stared at Rhonda.
There was nothing in the world Kiska loved more than food. I think I even came in an embarrassing second, but he made no move toward the bowl. Rhonda poured out some dry mix for Nostradamus as I watched for any signs of lunging from Kiska. Nostradamus gave Kiska one last warning glare and settled down to enjoy his meal.
Deciding it wasn’t wise to tempt fate too much, I took Kiska through the swinging door into the living room. He found a cool spot near the front entry and sprawled out.
From the kitchen Rhonda yelled, “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“You betcha,” I replied. Thank God, I’d misjudged Rhonda on one essential at least.
I returned to the kitchen and found Rhonda using a fork to dip slices of eggplant in egg and breadcrumbs. “I hope you like eggplant parmesan.”
“Does Garfield like lasagna?” Not quite what I had in mind, but it beat tofu to no end.
Rhonda dropped the coated slice into a giant cast-iron fry pan, just like the ones my mother used to cook everything in, from cornbread to fried chicken. The ringing of the telephone interrupted the sizzle of our dinner cooking.
I could tell from Rhonda’s half of the conversation that Silas was on the other end. “I got home a little late tonight. There was some excitement down on the Gulch.”
She stretched the phone cord so she could sit at the kitchen table. “Lucy found a body.”
Using a spatula I dug out of a drawer near the stove, I flipped the eggplant. The scent of browning bread crumbs floated up around me. I inhaled deeply. Way more relaxing than the incense Rhonda was always burning.
“Really, a dead body. It was that guy we saw at the Rose. You remember. The Native American trader?” Rhonda frowned and shook her head slightly. “Yeah, I’m sure. I mean, I didn’t see him, but Lucy did, and the police talked to me too.”
With her hand over the mouthpiece, she stage-whispered, “It’s Silas.”
She removed her hand and continued her conversation. “It definitely wasn’t natural causes. Lucy said he had a knife in his chest.”
She paused. “Yeah, Lucy’s here now.” She twisted so I couldn’t see her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”
Another pause and... “It’s okay. I understand. I’ll talk to you later.”
While she hung up the phone, I finished fixing the eggplant. Instead of filling me in on the conversation, she began rummaging in her refrigerator.
“What’s up with Silas?” I prompted.
“Just checking in. He’d been trying to get a hold of me since he got back to Bozeman.” She set some cheese on the table and reached for ironstone plates.
“What’d he think about Crandell?”
She shrugged. “What would anybody think? Surprised, I guess.” From a cabinet next to the sink she dug out forks.
“Did you say you saw Crandell at lunch?”
“Yes. He was at the Rose with Bill Russell. It looked like they might be working a deal or something.” She picked up a box of CDs perched on a shelf and flipped through them.
“Looked like? You didn’t find out?” I grinned.
“No, I didn’t.” She didn’t look up. Instead she selected a CD and dropped it into her player. The sound of flute music filled the kitchen.
Confused by her lack of enthusiasm, I pushed a little. “Did you talk to them?”
“No, they were back in the bar. Bill left not long after I saw them.” She looked at me, a spark in her eye. “You don’t think Bill could have killed him, do you?”
I liked Bill. I didn’t know him really well, but he knew his relics. The idea he might be a killer rankled. “Not Bill. He’s a collector.”
“A collector, then he must be innocent. Heaven knows collectors never do anything shady.”
“You know what I mean. I like him.”
She raised a brow. “Another titanium-clad alibi.”
I dropped the spatula I was h
olding onto the countertop. It landed with a clatter. I quickly picked it back up. My voice soft, I asked, “What about Crandell? Did he talk to anyone else?”
She studied the tabletop. “No, not that I saw.”
“Was he still there when you left?”
She looked back up, but her eyes flitted to a spot somewhere over my head. “I think so. I didn’t really pay a lot of attention.”
I smelled a big, ol’, incense-burning rat. “You didn’t pay attention?” This was an unheard of possibility.
“No, I didn’t.” Her gaze flicked across me again before settling on her wine glass. “Are we missing anything? How about olive oil? Do you like olive oil? It’s great for dipping bread.” Disappearing into the pantry, she emerged with a green bottle.
There was something funny going on, but I had no urge to laugh. Rhonda was hiding something—from me. Why would she do that? I wanted to prod her more, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out. A knot tightened around my stomach as the entire evening took on a different feel.
Water dripped from the kitchen faucet, landing in the stainless steel sink with a resounding plop. Rhonda rearranged the silverware and rubbed a spot off her wine glass with a faded cloth napkin. I stood there, my brows lowering. Why was she lying?
o0o
We got through dinner by switching topics to what Rhonda had learned at Cuppa Joe’s on Sunday morning. While she skipped through Helena’s version of The Young and the Restless, I tried to convince myself she hadn’t been hiding anything. I wasn’t successful, but I didn’t dwell on it. Instead, I amused myself by rotating through images of Crandell’s dead body, Blake’s disapproving stare, and Gary’s crinkly eyes. It was a questionable improvement, but I was stuck with it.
Rhonda’s guestroom wasn’t home, but with a chunky brass bed, striped wool blankets, and puffy pillows, it was cozy and warm. Plus the bottle of wine had done its job, and despite my strange surroundings and memories of the dead trader, I fell asleep quickly.
I was standing in a field of waving corn watching Rhonda toss ears between Gary and Blake when a giant weight landed on my chest. Instantly awake, I was too terrified to move.
