by P. B. Ryan
“Just his car keys. They weren’t on the body, and we scoured the area around him and his car.”
That was interesting.
I thanked him and prepared to hang up.
“Lucy?”
I paused.
“Watch out for Blake. He’s on the war path with this one.”
“Oh.” My earlier nausea returned. “Where is he?”
“He’s out talking to some couple that was at the auction. They bid against the victim. They were due to leave Helena this morning. Last I heard he was still at their hotel.” I heard muffled sounds as George put his hand over the mouthpiece to talk to someone else. Then he spoke, his voice clear. “Listen, I’ve got to go.”
After confirming it was okay to move my Cherokee, I hung up.
Blake was with the couple from D.C. Which meant the last place I wanted to be was with the couple from D.C. Unfortunately, the only way to find out what Blake was thinking was to go where Blake was.
My mind drifted to Ted. Wuss.
Chapter 6
Wuss still echoing through my mind, I squared my shoulders and left the building. My Cherokee sat where I had left it the day before, but the alley looked different. Stray pieces of yellow crime tape were stuck to both the Dumpster and the brick wall of Dusty Deals, but it was more than that. I normally found the dark coolness of the alley comforting, but today it felt cold and closed in... claustrophobic.
Standing with my back against Dusty Deals, I could see only a small bit of sky before the office building on the other side of the alley crowded it out. This towering eyesore was mainly home to lawyers, investment bankers, and men like Darrell Deere, who had money and, for some reason, needed an office in a big building downtown. Another small bit of light spilled over through the gap made by the parking lot behind Spirit Books. This illuminated the area around the Dumpster, bringing back memories of Crandell stretched out and dead.
Maybe Rhonda’s sage burning idea wasn’t so screwy.
I hurried to the Cherokee and unlocked the door.
In a rush to leave the alley behind, I started the engine and aimed for the yellow tape blocking my path. As the last kernels of horse manure from Monday’s visitors squashed under my tires, I planned my best move. Blake was interviewing the couple from the auction at their hotel.
Helena had a limited number of hotels and only a few that out-of-state people tended to choose. Being the deductive wizard I was, I decided I should start with those.
I started with the closest, a newer place by the city center. I drove around the parking lot looking for any hint of Blake.
Seeing no indication of the police, I moved on. The second hotel was one of those chains that offers a free breakfast and caters to business travelers. Since they didn’t take dogs, I would never stay at one, but to each his own. It was only a couple of minutes away. As I approached, I saw some kind of activity in the parking lot.
Two cars were parked by the side entrance, one a dark blue that screamed unmarked police and one with an image of the Guardian of the Gulch on the door. The Guardian of the Gulch is an old fire tower that stands over Last Chance Gulch. The wooden tower is no longer used, but the police display its image on both their cars and uniforms.
A uniformed officer stood next to the marked car with the front door open. He rested both arms on the roof as if he had been waiting a long time. I pulled in at a discreet distance.
My bag with notebook and mini-recorder over my shoulder, I scurried past the officer and into the hotel. To the left of the main entrance was the front desk, currently unoccupied. To my right was the reception area where the hotel served breakfast and happy-hour drinks. A man in a polo shirt and chinos was cleaning up. Remains of half-eaten bagels, Styrofoam bowls with milk-soaked cereal, and cups with coffee dregs dotted the tabletops.
I stepped around an Oriental folding screen that shielded diners from the main entrance and tried to look innocent. “Is something going on? I saw a police car outside.”
The man in chinos looked up from wiping crumbs off a table into his hand. “Don’t know. A detective went upstairs.”
“Not on the second floor? That’s where my mother’s room is.” I went for a slight note of alarm this time.
It didn’t seem to work. His eyes narrowed. Water fell in slow drips from the dirty dish rag he held, leaving dark dots on the indoor-outdoor carpeting. “Second floor’s closed. We had a pipe burst last week.”
I took a step back. “My mistake, she’s on the third.”
With a grunt, he slapped the cloth on top of a puddle of milk and resumed his cleaning.
That hadn’t worked as I’d hoped.
I glanced at the elevator. The hotel had three floors. If Blake was upstairs, and the second floor was closed, that left only one to choose.
A real reporter, one who wasn’t a wuss, would go investigate.
The man with the dishrag picked up the bucket containing his cleaning supplies and walked toward the desk. He had just disappeared into the hotel office when the elevator dinged.
I froze. Then, seconds before the doors slid open, I threw myself behind the oriental folding screen and commando crawled forward until my eye was pressed against the crack between the panels.
Blake and the couple from the auction got off the elevator. An officer in uniform exited behind them. In his left hand, he carried some kind of small plastic bag, using the same care I would to handle a Faberge egg. The group walked to the center of the lobby and stopped about 10 feet away.
“I understand your concerns, Mr. Malone, but I can’t allow you to leave Helena just yet. Unfortunately, right now I can’t even tell you exactly when I will be able to let you go.” Blake kept his weight evenly distributed between both feet. He tilted his head down and stared Malone in the eyes.
“Is it absolutely necessary my wife go with you at this exact moment? Are you arresting her?” Malone looked flushed and harried. His white dress shirt was wrinkled, and what appeared to be a coffee stain adorned his pants.
“As I already told you, sir, your wife is being taken in for questioning. She can call you from the station to let you know when you can pick her up.”
“This is ridiculous. She already explained how she got that feather. She knows nothing about that man’s murder. We didn’t even know him.”
”Be that as it may, sir, we still need to take her downtown. We’d also like a formal statement from you. You can come now or wait until later if you need to make arrangements to stay here longer.” Blake looked at Malone with strained patience.
Malone glanced at his wife and rubbed his brow with his hand. Mrs. Malone stood stiffly at her husband’s side, her mouth ajar and her face ashen.
Malone opened and closed his hands. I could hear his knuckles pop from across the room. “I’ll come now. I assume you have some kind of list I can refer to for an attorney in this horse-driven city.”
“We have the yellow pages, sir. You’re welcome to them.” Blake turned on his heel and guided Mrs. Malone toward the door with the uniformed officer tagging behind. Mr. Malone waited only a second before he began digging in the front pocket of his pants. Not wanting to be caught spying, I waited for him to follow Blake before stepping from behind the screen.
I dug my cell phone out of my purse and dialed Gary’s number, but got his voice mail.
“Press 0 for immediate assistance.”
I complied, and the perky voice of the switchboard operator came on the line. I left a brief message explaining that Blake was on his way to the station with a possible suspect. Could she make sure Gary got the message ASAP?
Then I hurried from the building, managing to stay hidden as the two police cars and Malone pulled out.
Scooby Doo said it was 12:45 p.m., which explained the growling coming from my stomach. A quick break was called for. I was hungry, plus I didn’t want to arrive at the police station right on the Malones’ heels. Better for me if Blake was occupied when I got there. Maybe that way I co
uld get more information out of George.
After a swift pass through a drive-thru, I steered the car back toward downtown. By the time I pulled into a parking place behind the station, I’d finished my burger and half of my gallon-sized Diet Pepsi. With my purse over one shoulder, and my lunch debris and soda in my other hand, I ambled into the station.
George was behind the front desk. I shook the trash-filled bag at him and said, “I thought I better stop by to sign my statement.” I’d thought of the excuse on the way over.
“You must have ESP. Blake just got back with that out-of-town couple.” He gestured to a bullet-shaped trashcan sitting against the mint-colored wall.
I tried to look surprised as I disposed of the remains of my lunch. “Really? I thought you said they were leaving today.”
“Not anymore.” George looked around to see if anyone was watching. Seeing another officer a few feet away filling a mug with coffee, he pushed himself up from his desk. “I’ll go get your paperwork.”
While I waited for him to return, I nonchalantly scanned his desk. Under a statue of a Montana Turd Bird—a lovely keepsake sculpted roughly from cow manure—was a partially completed form. The name and address were all I could read: Andrew Malone, 1111 West Street, Richmond, Virginia. I took a loud sip of my Pepsi as George returned.
He led me to an unoccupied office. It looked like the Helena Police were doing a little redecorating. I pushed aside a drop cloth and made myself comfy in one of four chairs pushed against the wall. The report looked accurate. I signed it, but stayed in the room with the door closed, hoping one of the Malones would appear.
Through a sliver in the closed blinds, I saw a man in a blue pinstriped suit and a red “power” tie enter the front door. He stopped to flick something off his sleeve. After looking around briefly, he strode over to George’s desk and set a briefcase down next to the Turd Bird. George picked up the phone and motioned the man into an office next to mine.
I waited for George to return to his desk and tiptoed to the wall separating the two rooms. With my ear pressed against the cold paint, I slid down to a crouch. I could hear the man moving around. There was a thump like his case hit a table and the scrape of a chair being pulled out over the concrete floor. The walls were nice and thin.
I settled in to listen.
Within seconds, I heard Malone’s voice. Although muffled, the words were clear. “Andrew Malone. You must be Gregor. They have Marie in the back in an interrogation room now.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Malone. I told George to tell them I was here. They won’t question her until we go back there. Why don’t you fill me in on what’s happened so far.”
Malone cleared his throat. “That detective, Blake, stopped by the hotel this morning. He said he wanted to ask us a few simple questions. Marie just let him in. I was in the bathroom.” Malone paused for a moment. When he continued, he sounded disgusted. “Sometimes she doesn’t think. Anyway, we were in the process of packing, and our suitcases were lying open on the bed. Blake walked over and looked in.”
“Did he touch anything? Move anything inside?”
“No, he didn’t have to. The feather was lying right on top. I don’t know why she even had the damn thing, especially after the guy turned up dead. She should have dumped it.”
I heard a chair shift. Gregor replied, “Where did your wife get this feather?”
“That guy Crandell gave it to her. He called our room Sunday night and asked her to meet him at a coffee shop, Cuppa Joe’s. Said he wanted to sell part of this Medicine Man outfit we tried to buy at the auction on Sunday. He outbid us. I told her she was crazy to talk to him. He was a blowhard. I could tell that from what little interaction I had with him on Sunday. If he was selling off pieces, it wasn’t going to be at a decent price. Marie wanted that outfit though.” Malone hesitated.
“We just opened a small Native American museum in the DC area. She’s one thirty-second Shoshone and wants items from all the nations. Right now we’re working on displays for traditional ceremonies, like the ghost dance.” He paused for a second. “All he did was taunt her. Apparently, he gave her the feather and told her he’d sell her the small pieces for $20,000. A dried weasel and a whistle for twenty grand, the guy was out of his gourd.”
Gregor cleared his throat. “You said apparently. Weren’t you present when they met?”
“No, she ran into him on the street. I wish I had been with her. Maybe we could have avoided this whole mess.” There was a long silence. I began to wonder if they were done. Finally, Malone spoke. This time his voice was so soft I had to strain to hear. “My wife had a break-down a few months ago. She’s still recovering. The excitement of the sale and disappointment of not getting the set were bad enough. Then that Crandell started harassing her. Now the police are questioning her. I just don’t know if she can handle it.”
The doorknob of the office I was in squeaked, giving me just enough time to jump up from my crouch and grab the papers I had left sitting on the chair.
“You done in here, Lucy? Everything look okay?” George leaned in and frowned.
“Right as rain. Here you go, all signed. Thanks for everything.” I handed George the papers and followed him back out to his desk. Pretending to search for my keys, I asked, “So, does Blake think the Malones know something?”
“I couldn’t say.” George looked back over his shoulder toward the office where Andrew Malone and Gregor still sat.
“George, you got that paperwork ready yet?” Peter Blake materialized in a doorway halfway down the corridor. He took a few strides toward us. When he saw me standing beside George, he paused mid-step. “Lucy, you here to sign your statement?”
I nodded coolly. My success getting information from George and following Blake and the Malones to the station undetected was making me feel a tad cocky. “Yes, I just finished.” I graced George with my warmest smile.
Blake looked back at George. “So, you got Malone’s paperwork?”
Blake annoyed me to no end, but he also held the key to the castle here. If I wanted to prove Ted wrong, I was going to have to get information out of him. The poor little starving girl thing had worked with George. I wondered if something similar would work with Blake.
I made my eyes round and doe-like. Bambi had nothing on me.
“Oh, is that the couple from the auction? Are you talking to them about the murder?”
The pointy end of a toothpick popped out of Blake’s mouth and just as quickly disappeared back inside. “Now why would you be interested in the Malones?”
While I stumbled for an answer, George jumped in. “Lucy is helping out at the News. You know you scare the ink out of that Marcy.”
Blake smiled slightly, and the toothpick reappeared. “That right, Lucy?”
Outed by George, my new confidence was totally shot. I mumbled my reply, “Ted asked me to freelance.”
The toothpick waggled up and down, as if it and its owner were laughing at me. Then, without a word to me, Blake turned to George. “Get the papers together and bring them back. Looks like we’re about ready to get going.” He pivoted on his heel and started back down the hall.
As they’d say in one of Rhonda’s regency romances, I had just been given the cut direct.
Wuss... or worse... I could already see my picture on Ted’s wall, sprouting antlers. I swallowed hard and yelled, “So, do you have a comment?”
Blake stopped and turned. He stared at me long enough that I shuffled my weight from one foot to the other, like a guilty child.
“When’s your deadline?”
I was suspicious, but answered anyway. “Five.”
“We should have a prepared statement for the press ready by six, seven at the latest.” He grinned and disappeared back into the office.
George tossed me an apologetic look, but I hardly noticed. I whirled and stalked out the front door.
There was a cool breeze blowing across the parking lot. I slid behind the wheel and let mysel
f steam for a few minutes. The man was an arrogant donkey’s ass, and I’d walked right into his little power play.
I was worse than a wuss. I was a gullible wuss.
I cursed myself and Blake for a few minutes before settling in to take stock of where this left me.
The day wasn’t a total loss. I had gained some knowledge.
I knew the police had a suspect, and that suspect, Mrs. Malone, had a motive (the medicine man outfit) and at least one clue tying her to Crandell (the feather). Plus she had been seen arguing with him a few hours before he was killed (another possible motive). What I didn’t know was if she had an alibi or who else might have had a reason to kill him.
I pondered that for a moment.
Bill Russell also wanted the medicine man set, and he was seen with Crandell just hours before his death.
Squashing my collector-loving inner voice, I admitted Bill seemed almost as likely a candidate as Mrs. Malone.
I pulled out my notebook and jotted down a reminder to check out where both Bill and Mrs. Malone had been Monday between 4 and 5:30.
The bell from the Cathedral tolled the half hour, jolting me back to the task at hand. The digital clock on my dash gleamed 2:30. I was running out of time. I slammed the Cherokee into reverse and pulled out.
I still needed some stuff on Crandell and, of course, a statement from the police. Ted said Marcy would take care of background info, but that left the statement. I decided to ask her to handle it too. Dumping it on her was a gutless move on my part, but the thought of calling Blake myself made me a little queasy.
Chapter 7
The parking lot behind Spirit Books was full, a sign the extra business generated by Crandell’s murder hadn’t completely run its course, but when I walked into Dusty Deals, only a couple of customers were milling around.
Betty was talking to an older woman who was examining an egg basket with a rich brown patina. The woman nodded and handed Betty the basket. Betty stepped behind the register to ring it up.
I turned the glass knob on my office door with one hand while I pushed against the wood with the other. It opened about an inch before it stopped and refused to budge. Momentarily confused, I stepped back and looked at the door. A snore sounded from the other side.
