by P. B. Ryan
A strange vibration, coupled with a humming noise, increased my apprehension. I opened one eye, then the other. Two eerie green orbs blinked back. A short moment without a heartbeat, and I realized it was Nostradamus come to call. Apparently, he had decided Kiska was no threat. Thinking of Kiska, I turned my head to look. He was lying about four feet from the bed. Both eyes open, he made no move to rescue me.
What a watchdog. I was about to be suffocated by a giant ball of cat hair, and he didn’t even bother to stand up.
For some reason, I didn’t feel I could just push Nostradamus off onto the floor. Instead, I tried blowing at him. One puff. Two puffs. He leisurely reached out a giant paw and placed it on my left eyelid.
Great. I hoped Rhonda kept the kitty litter box clean.
I shook my head back and forth until I dislodged his foot. He stood up. Finally. He was going to leave.
Instead, he stretched and began turning in a circle. After five or six turns, he started kneading. Claws were going in and out of my stomach. Satisfied I was properly tenderized, he closed his eyes and dozed.
At least I had an empty bladder. With a nose full of cat hair, I drifted back into a restless sleep.
Chapter 5
Tuesday morning, I woke to find Nostradamus gone. He had left behind a trail of cat hair that clung to my face like dust on a TV screen. I lay there a minute pondering my pathetic inability to stand up to a cat—he was a big cat, but still.
Not pushing Rhonda harder last night was understandable, good even. She had a right to privacy. Sure, it hurt that she didn’t share with me, but I’d get over it. But allowing Nostradamus to make me into a catbed? Come on.
Maybe Ted was right. Maybe I was a wuss.
I resolved to be more forceful. No more pushing me around. No siree Bob, next time a 16-pound fur ball tried to pin me down, I’d be ready.
Feeling bold and ready to face the day, I glanced around the room in search of my similarly pathetic canine companion.
Kiska was still lounged against the wall, showing no interest in stirring. I knew he had endured a harrowing night. My safety and well-being under all that cat hair had to have weighed on his mind.
I took mercy on him and left him to snooze.
In Rhonda’s porcelain palace of a bathroom, I sped through my beauty ritual, taking about 10 minutes to shake out my hair and slap on some make-up. After pulling on the micro fleece pants and hooded sweater I kept in my gym bag, I was armored for the day.
Rhonda was holding the newspaper over a steaming cup of what my nose said wasn’t coffee when Kiska and I got downstairs. She seemed chipper. “You have to read this.”
I held up a finger, letting her know I’d be back in a second. Then I took care of Kiska, letting him out and assuring he had a full food bowl, for at least a second or two, before plopping down at the table next to Rhonda.
“Do they mention anything new?”
“Not really. In fact, I’d say this is about as bare minimum as a story can be. It certainly leaves you wanting for more.”
I supposed that was good in some things—like burlesque—but a news article? Not so much. As a reporter, I might have been a wuss, but I was a thorough wuss.
I scanned the front page. There was a big picture of the two officers measuring and photographing the alley. By the lump next to the Dumpster, I could tell Crandell’s body was still there, but the photo wasn’t detailed. It showed nothing to disturb people over their breakfast cereal, which I for one appreciated.
The article started right under the photo with Marcy’s byline. It covered the bare facts: who, (Crandell), what (killed), where (the alley), when (approximately between 4 and 5:20 last night). The why was still unknown, as was the whodunit.
The only real “news” to me was the time of death. The police were able to narrow it down to between 4 and 5:20 based on the last time someone from Cuppa Joe’s took trash out to the Dumpster to when I discovered the body. The story also mentioned Crandell, a resident of Denver, Colorado, had been in town for the auction.
“Well, I don’t think it’s Pulitzer material, but it doesn’t make me want to take a snooze in my Cheerios either,” I commented, setting the paper down.
“You haven’t seen the morning news yet.” Rhonda switched on the only TV she had in the house, a 13-inch with a digital converter box sitting on her kitchen counter.
Usually, the best reason to tune in to the local news was to see what horrendous thing the female anchor had done to her hair that morning. Today her side-swept do gave me only a small chuckle before I focused on what she was saying.
Crandell had been staying at the Antebellum. It was Helena’s biggest hotel and the only one that could boast a hat trick of a pool, restaurant, and bar. He’d checked out around 3:30 yesterday. The police found his rental car in the parking lot behind Spirit Books sometime late last night. They also confirmed that the murder weapon was the elk antler knife I had previously seen strapped to his waist. According to the cops, there were no fingerprints besides Crandell’s on the knife, and there was reason to believe robbery was a motive in his death.
I looked at Rhonda. “A lot of details there Marcy missed. Ted Brown’s going to have her wearing antlers for sure.”
On that surprisingly cheery note, we loaded ourselves back into the Trooper and headed to the Gulch. As Rhonda bumped into the lot, I checked for signs of the police or Crandell’s car. Nada. Apparently, some efficient police detective had been busy hiding things from prying eyes, like ours.
Yellow tape still corralled my Cherokee, blocking the back entrance to Dusty Deals. Kiska and I took a shortcut through Spirit Books. At the front door, Rhonda handed me a bundle of what looked like dried herbs.
“What’s this?” I took a sniff. The fragrance was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Suddenly, I had a craving for cranberry sauce—right out of the can, the way God designed it.
”Sage,” she replied. “It’s for cleansing and purification.”
I tried to look properly appreciative. “For cleansing what?” I was a little concerned I’d left too thick a ring in the tub that morning.
“The alley.” She grasped my wrist and waved the bunch around. “Burn it to cleanse and purify the area where the trader was killed. It’s called smudging. It’ll drive out the negative feelings and spirits left behind. It’s very effective.”
Okay. Sometimes Rhonda and I operated on different planes. “Uh, huh.” I nodded my head.
“Just do it.” With that, she shoved Kiska and me out the door.
Betty Broward, my part-time employee, had already unlocked the shop. She used to be an artist at the Daily News, but after some disagreements with the management—which I totally sympathized with—she struck out on her own. Now she worked for me and did freelance graphic and web design on the side.
I entered to see what appeared to be Big Bird gone bad. Betty was sitting behind the counter wrapped in a brilliant yellow feather boa. She was an avid jazz fan and frequently dressed the part. Her husband, Everett, played the clarinet in a local band, and Betty never missed a “gig.”
This coming weekend was the annual jazz festival in Helena. Hundreds of couples, men in two-toned spectator shoes and panama hats and women in colorful, fringed flapper dresses and feather boas, would boogie their way through area hotels before the weekend was over. Betty was apparently doing an early dress rehearsal.
Under the boa, she wore a short beaded number. I could hear the beads snap against each other as she shifted on the stool to grab a giant cappuccino from the counter. I didn’t even comment on her outfit. For Betty, it was only a little over the top.
“‘Bout time you showed up,” she greeted me. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook.” Before I could reply, she noticed my bundle. “What do you have there? Sage? Good idea.”
Sometimes Betty’s worldliness amazed me.
She didn’t wait for my reply. “Every Tom, Dick, and Grizzly in town’s been calling here, Ted Brown
included. He wants you to call as soon as you get in.”
Interesting, but since I didn’t work for Ted anymore I decided to take care of my own needs first. Betty’s coffee had inspired me, and since Rhonda had nothing but herbal tea to offer, I was suffering from major caffeine withdrawal. I dumped my bag and sage in my office and left Kiska with Betty while I went next door.
Cuppa Joe’s was kind of Seattle meets Texas. Cowboys in Ropers and Wranglers and mountain bikers in Tevas sandals and thick-seated shorts filled the mismatched tables. The chairs all looked like something John Wayne might have broken over another actor’s head in an old Western. The music varied from country western to rock depending on who was working and Joe’s mood. Today Zydeco was playing. I tapped my foot as I waited my turn.
”Lucy, what can I do you for?” Joe boomed out.
“Double, non-fat cappuccino, please.”
“So what do you think of all the goings on around here?” He measured the milk and began frothing.
“Not much so far. I wouldn’t have minded if whoever did this had picked somewhere else though.”
“Oh, I don’t know. We’ve been hopping all morning. Not that I’m happy the guy got killed, you know—” He looked at me from under bushy brows. “—but if it had to happen... .” He let the rest go unspoken.
I smiled weakly and paid for my coffee. After sprinkling a liberal amount of cinnamon on the top, I turned to leave.
“Ted wants to talk to you.” Gary grinned at me from beneath a Colorado Rockies cap.
Gary was looking very good this morning. A few blond curls poked out from under his hat, and a speck of shaving cream clung to the cleft in his chin. Resisting the urge to rub it off, I took a sip of my cappuccino. “You know what he wants?”
“I think he wants you to come back to work at the News—at least for this story.”
Ted wanted me. I fought off a wave of nervous nausea.
I stirred my coffee, making shaky circles in the foam. “I already have a job. Besides, what about Marcy?”
“Marcy is only working on the story because Ted doesn’t have anyone else. He hasn’t filled your position yet, we’re down a copy editor, and the stringer he usually uses announced today that he was moving to Washington State. “In other words, he needs you. You should take advantage of him.”
I had less than zero desire to take advantage of Ted in any way whatsoever.
“Plus, we would get to work together again.” Gary reached out and brushed cappuccino foam off my upper lip with his thumb. “That could be fun.”
He stared at his thumb for a moment, then, glancing at me, he licked it clean.
I froze. “Fun,” I parroted.
“Call him!” he said, dropped his paper cup into the trash and left.
o0o
A few minutes later, I was back in Dusty Deals—neither Gary’s promise of fun nor his advice that I “take advantage of Ted” forgotten.
The first was tempting, the second not at all.
Sure, knowing Ted needed me was good for my ego, but not so good that I wanted to work for him again—or do the job again. I’d barely survived the interaction I’d already had with Blake, and that was with me playing innocent witness. Someone he should have been motivated to be nice to.
I said as much to Betty.
She grunted.
“What?” I knew that grunt. I didn’t like that grunt. Realizing I didn’t actually want an explanation for it, I made a move to scamper into my office.
“You need to do it.”
I stopped and prayed she would stop there. Of course, she didn’t.
“Heaven knows, I’m no fan of Ted’s, but you left under bad circumstances.”
I hadn’t. I’d quit, but Betty knew that. I turned, my mouth opening.
She held up a hand. “You ran away.”
My lips closed. Then they opened. Then they closed.
As I stood there, doing my best imitation of a deranged goldfish, a customer walked up to the counter with box of antique marbles. I took advantage of Betty’s change of attention and hurried into my office.
With the door closed, I sat down to pay some bills, but my mind kept going back to Betty and Ted.
I hadn’t run away. I had quit. I hadn’t even been in the building at the time. I’d sent an email. Very casual—no running at all. Ted had just left on the first vacation I’d ever known him to take. So I’d emailed him. Very thoughtful, if you asked me.
The phone rang. I stared at it. Betty could pick up in the front.
It rang four more times. The radio went on in the main shop—the ag report, not an interest of Betty’s I’d been aware of.
Five more rings and I admitted defeat. I picked up the phone.
“Did you watch Channel 4 this morning?” Ted wasn’t much for niceties.
“I caught it.”
“Then you know how bad we missed this one.”
“There were a few facts missing.”
“A few?” His voice raised to just below a roar. “You could’ve driven a herd of buffalo through the holes.” I could hear him shifting papers on his desk. “Here’s the deal. I need someone to cover this thing, and you’re already sitting right in the middle of this story. It’s right up your alley.” He chuckled. “No pun intended.”
“What about Marcy?”
He snorted.
A brave me would have quoted my last performance review... “But I’m a ‘wuss,’” or “I’d ‘pee myself before I asked a hard question,’” or maybe “There are ‘girl scouts with bigger balls’ than me.”
But I didn’t. I stared at my desktop and tried to think of a polite way out of this.
There wasn’t one. I was either going to have to agree to do the job or tell Ted no.
Ted didn’t give me time to do either.
“You can start today. I’ll pay you double my normal stringer rate.”
Double nothing was... let’s see... I did some quick calculations in my head...nothing.
He spent another five minutes or so spitting out details on pay, deadlines, and equipment. “And Marcy will help. Between the two of you, surely you can come up with something that won’t embarrass us.”
I stared at a spot on the wall in front of me until my eyes crossed.
When I was pretty sure my mother was right, and they would get stuck that way, he blasted one final order. “Article. Five.” Then he hung up.
I dropped the receiver onto the cradle and tore a page off my cartoon “quote of the day” calendar. I’ve developed a new philosophy…I only dread one day at a time. —Charlie Brown.
Seemed like as good of a life philosophy as any.
It was 11 a.m. Which meant I had six hours, if I skipped lunch (not likely), to find out anything new and news worthy (not always the same thing). If I was lucky, I could wrap this thing up today and get Ted out of my life for good.
With that golden motivation in mind, I got to work.
First, I needed to follow up on what the TV news had reported this morning. That meant a visit or call to the police station. I decided to try the phone first. Maybe George would answer. He would probably be willing to leak a few details if it wasn’t obvious he was talking to “the press.”
My luck was turning; George was back on phone duty.
”You haven’t found another body have you?”
“Not yet.” I stammered for a moment. “I... uh... I... .”
”Lucy?” Concern and confusion, quickly followed by suspicion. “Why’d you call?”
I hesitated for a moment, but I couldn’t lie to George. Besides, working for the paper should be a mark in my favor. “I’m helping the Daily News out.”
I could almost hear George weighing what he should say next. “Well, I’m not too surprised. Marcy wouldn’t have the sense to run with an avalanche on her tail.” He inhaled loudly. “Hold on a sec, will ya?”
Silence filled the other end of the line. I guess the Helena Police couldn’t afford Muzac.
“Had to change phones. You called on the line we record.”
I adjusted my weight in my seat.
This was it. George was going to spill everything, I was going to write the story of the year, and Ted would take back every nasty unfair thing he’d said about me.
Or not.
“I can’t believe you went back to work for Ted. What were you thinking?”
Great, a lecture.
“I... .” I had nothing. No explanation, no excuse.
“You need the money?” Understanding. “That shop can’t be making you much.”
He was right. It wasn’t, but, of course, I hadn’t been making much at the paper either. “It isn’t,” I replied, forlorn.
He sighed. “Well, if you need the work... “ Almost a question, but not quite. I felt no compulsion to answer. Finally, he sighed again. “You didn’t hear any of this from me, right?”
I sat up a little straighter. Why did I leave this job? It is so easy. “Right.”
”Seems this Crandell had just made a big purchase at that auction this weekend.”
”He bought the medicine man outfit,” I confirmed.
“That’s it. Well, part of it is missing.”
My heart raced a little. Denton Deere’s medicine man outfit missing. I felt sick.
“His luggage was in the car. He checked out of his hotel around 3:30, but the only signs of this ‘outfit’ he’d bought were a few feathers and some kind of dried up rodent on a string.”
“You mean the dried weasel?”
“I guess that’s what it is. Looks more like a turd on a rope to me.” George chuckled.
I pulled an old reporter’s notebook out of my lap drawer and flipped it open. “Do you think the rest of it was stolen?”
“We don’t know for sure. He could have dropped the rest off somewhere before he got killed, or he could have had it with him and the killer took it.”
“So his clothes were there... was anything else missing?” I picked up a pen and made a few notations on the pad. Getting information out of George was almost as easy as getting it out of Rhonda. I really should have played the starving reporter thing earlier.
