A Fatal Four-Pack

by P. B. Ryan

  Kiska was napping with all 100 pounds of him rammed against the door. I pushed again, but this time pressed the entire left side of my body into the wood.

  Knowing I was no match for him, at least physically, I reached for the giant green pepper cookie jar I kept stocked with dog cookies. I grabbed a treat and clanked the lid down. By the time I’d turned back to the door, Kiska was on his feet with his nose pushing through the crack. I lobbed the cookie into the air and hopped out of the way as he surged forward. With my path clear, I plopped down at my desk and picked up the phone.

  I was a little uncertain how to approach Marcy. We hadn’t spoken since Ted hired me to cover the murder. I let her start.

  “I did not sign up for murder.”

  This wasn’t actually true. She had, after all, taken on the police beat.

  “And that Peter Blake,” she continued, “I don’t know who he thinks he is.”

  While I agreed with her in spirit, I was sure Blake wouldn’t. He might be frustrating, but he was also the detective in charge. Still, the conversation seemed to be going the direction I needed it to, so I kept my mouth shut.

  ”I told Ted no way. I’ll make some calls, but that’s it.”

  Benefit of working in a small city, I guessed: job security past the point of sanity.

  Sounding long-serving and put-upon, she continued, “Speaking of, he asked me to get background information on James Crandell. Are you ready?”

  She didn’t wait for my reply, just started spewing.

  I scribbled as fast as I could. Crandell was from a suburb of Denver. He was 48, with an ex-wife and a 12-year-old son, but lived alone. He worked full time at a Denver area casino, and hung out at gun and relic shows whenever he could. These shows featured antique firearms, usually dating from around 1850 to World War II, and Native American items. From a couple of show organizers, Marcy had learned that Crandell had a reputation for being more of a “hanger-on” than a real collector. He dressed what he thought was the part and talked a big game, but the organizers hadn’t seen any evidence he had a collection of his own or even any real knowledge.

  I thanked her for the information and then asked if she would call the police station for an official statement on Marie Malone.

  “When I was there earlier, it sounded like they weren’t going to release anything until six or so, but maybe if you call George you can get it sooner.”

  I didn’t see any need to mention my run-in with Blake. Marcy was no fonder of Blake than I was, but chances were, she could get the statement from George. Besides, this was more her job than mine. She still worked for the paper; I was helping her.

  After sorting through my notes, I went out into the store.

  Betty looked up from the computer. “You done with your story?”

  “I was hoping I could sneak behind the register and pound it out while you watched the shop.”

  She vacated the stool, and I squeezed behind the counter.

  With Betty keeping the customers herded away, I began my article. The words flowed quickly. I was amazed how good it felt to let them pour out. It had been a while since I’d done any kind of writing, and I missed it. It took me about 45 minutes to finish the piece and five seconds to email it to Ted.

  My part was done. Ted would review it, and, hopefully, pass it on to the copydesk. Marcy would add the police statement.

  There was, however, the possibility that Ted wouldn’t see things the same way. He might even call and try to get me to add, confirm, or in general tweak what I saw as a perfectly competent, if not genius, piece of work.

  It was, in other words, the perfect time to get out of my office and try my hand at alley “cleansing.”

  Without telling Betty where I was going, I picked up the bundle of sage and dug out a pack of matches I kept around in case the electricity went out. Kiska, intrigued by my actions, tagged along behind.

  The alley still retained the chill I felt earlier. I yanked off the remaining strands of yellow crime tape and shoved them inside the Dumpster. Before getting started, I looked around to make sure no one was watching. It wasn’t that I was doing anything wrong; I just didn’t want an audience.

  Assured I was alone, with the exception of Kiska who was seated near the door watching me expectantly, I pulled out the matches and did my best to light the sage.

  After six matches, a couple of burned fingers, and a multitude of cuss words, I got the tip lit. Smoke streamed from the bunch.

  Feeling like some kind of low-level mystic, I waved it around, letting the smoke flow as it would. Soon, a fragrant, thick cloud engulfed me. It was lovely. I breathed deeply, pulling all that cleansing spirit into my lungs, and waited for the promised sense of renewal to hit.

  My throat closed up.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  The smoke grew thicker.

  I couldn’t see.

  My eyes filled with tears until I knew what little mascara I’d put on that morning was streaming down my cheeks, and the tips of my fingers were getting toasty.

  Suddenly, it hit me—the thing was on fire. What was I thinking?

  I ran toward the Dumpster, intent on ridding myself of the billowing bundle, before I was completely overtaken by the smoke and became the second fatality in this alley in a week. My fingers were touching the Dumpster’s cold metal side when some remnant of good sense returned.

  Dry paper, burning sage—not a good mixture.

  With smoke still rolling out of the bundle, I turned to Kiska, who offered no advice. Fast getting desperate, I adjusted my grip to save my fingers and scanned the alley for a safe place to dump my torch. Past Spirit Books, I spied a drainage grate. I broke into an Olympic quality sprint, trailing smoke all the way. When I was within range, I leaped at my target and hurled the bundle. With both feet, I began jumping up and down to smother the flame.

  After 20 or so hops I was winded, and the bottom of my shoes surely singed, but the sage was finally extinguished. Muttering at my own stupidity, I knelt to shove the evidence of my “cleansing” into the sewer.

  Something metal glinted back at me.

  A set of keys dangled beneath the grate. They were held in place by a black plastic key ring which was wedged between the sewer grate bars. Dumfounded, I sat back on my heels and considered my discovery.

  It didn’t take long for me to realize that I very likely had found a clue, maybe an important one. I dusted myself off as best I could and went to call the police.

  After leaving Kiska inside, I waited for the cops by the grate. Peter Blake pulled up in an unmarked car, along with the uniformed officer I had seen earlier in the hotel parking lot.

  “You think you found the keys?” He rolled a toothpick back and forth between his teeth as he eyed the drain with distrust.

  “In the grate.” I motioned with my un-singed hand and tried to look sane. It had occurred to me, after I’d placed the call, that Blake might ask difficult questions, like what I was doing with my face stuck inside the sewer.

  He stepped toward the grate and stared it down for what seemed like minutes. “What were you doing here anyway?” He sniffed.

  I slid sideways to position myself downwind. “I noticed some kind of debris blocking the grate. I was trying to clean it out.” Always the good citizen... that was me.

  I could tell by his look he wasn’t buying my act, but he refrained from further comment.

  Relieved that he seemed more interested in the keys than in how I had found them, I hung around while he pried the keys out. As Blake pulled them free, I leaned to look over his shoulder. He quickly snapped his gloved hand closed over them, but it was too late. I had seen the key ring. It was from one of the two rental companies that operated out of the Helena airport.

  Blake turned to walk back to the car. I took advantage of his departure to smile at the other officer. “Looks like they’re from a rental.”

  He grinned at me revealing white, even teeth. “Yeah, pretty big coincidence, don’t you
think?”

  “Must be. Crandell’s rental was left just a few feet away Monday, and now, keys to a rental turn up. It’s downright amazing.” I flipped both my hands palm up and grinned in return.

  Blake turned and gave us a cold stare. The uniform shot me a wink and slid behind the wheel.

  As Blake swung into the passenger seat without so much as a thank-you-kindly, a surge of boldness came over me. I wiggled my fingers in a friendly goodbye. Strangely, he didn’t wave back.

  I had annoyed him. I couldn’t help but smile.

  I waited for the car to roll out of view then returned to my shop.

  The keys had to be Crandell’s. But would they offer any clue to the identity of the murderer? Only Crandell’s fingerprints had been on his knife. It was unlikely the keys would be any different. But you never knew. Maybe I’d just solved the case.

  Maybe I’d come in tomorrow to find a big bouquet of thank-you roses from Blake on my desk.

  And maybe malamutes would learn to fly.

  Chapter 8

  When I got back inside, Betty was getting ready to close up for the night. I filled her in on my latest discovery, skimming my smudging experience. With her curiosity satisfied, I returned to the computer to revise my story. The discovery of the keys was an important detail, even if Blake wouldn’t commit to them belonging to Crandell.

  But most importantly, it was a detail so fresh Ted would have to be impressed.

  Okay, maybe not impressed, but he wouldn’t be pinning my face under those antlers tomorrow.

  With my revised story emailed, I took over tallying sales and balancing the register from Betty. It had been a good day. Betty had sold over 2000 dollars in merchandise, plus there were two cast-iron toys sitting on our 24-hour hold shelf.

  Betty searched in a beaded purse and fished out keys. “You need me again tomorrow?”

  “Plan on all week. I really appreciate you helping me out.”

  “It’s not like I do it for free. I’ll need to leave early on Friday though. The festival starts at four, but ya got me ‘til then.” She wrapped her boa around her neck. “You want me to make the deposit?” She pointed to the zippered bag with the day’s earnings in it lying on the counter.

  “Kiska and I’ll do it. With a bag full of money, it’s better to have some protection.” I grinned. I was pretty sure Kiska would trade me—and my cash—to any thief with a dog bone.

  My bank was on the Gulch. Kiska and I went out the front. The Gulch was quiet, the kind of quiet you don’t hear, you feel. Kiska’s toenails clicked against the concrete as we moved down the street. It was a peaceful night, and it felt good to relax and forget about billowing smoke, dead bodies, and a murderer on the loose. I pushed the bag through the night depository slot and listened for the thump when it hit the bottom before turning back toward Dusty Deals and my rig. After a long couple of days, I was looking forward to an evening of TV with a cool glass of White Zinfandel.

  As we approached Dusty Deals, I saw Gary enter Cuppa Joe’s. I suddenly realized a nice decaf cappuccino was really what I craved. I unlocked the shop and shoved Kiska inside. It’s commonplace in Helena to see dogs left outside places like Cuppa Joe’s. They’ll sit casually tied to a tree or bike rack waiting for their owners. However, Kiska just wasn’t that type of dog. He wouldn’t have waited patiently. He would have howled, complained, and begged every person who walked by to take him home and feed him. I just wasn’t up for the embarrassment.

  Cuppa Joe’s usual mix of clientele filled the chairs. Gary leaned against the back wall next to a counter that held sugar, cinnamon, and chocolate shakers. He was talking to an athletic-looking blonde. Her snug-fitting shirt showed off sculpted biceps and shoulders, and when she gestured with her hands, her shirt lifted just enough to show off equally developed stomach muscles. I estimated her height to be at least two inches taller than mine and her cup size to be at least one letter further down the alphabet. Suddenly home, TV and wine were calling again.

  I hesitated just a minute too long in my move back to the door. Gary saw me and motioned me over. With a stiff smile and leaden feet, I made my way past a table full of cowboys and another with a couple of women I recognized from the bakery. I nodded my head in acknowledgment and continued toward Gary and the better-than-Barbie blond.

  Gary smiled. “I heard Ted convinced you to work on the story.” He twitched his nose slightly like he smelled something strange, but seemed to shake it off.

  Relieved I didn’t have to explain my new choice of fragrance, I replied, “I guess he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” I concentrated on smiling and not staring at Miss C cup.

  Gary noticed. He introduced us, looking back and forth between us as he did. I couldn’t help but hope he wasn’t making comparisons. Feeling stupid uncomfortable, I sucked in my stomach and smiled.

  “Angie’s in my mountain bike club. She just climbed Mount Helena—the Prospects Shaft Trail. That’s an intense ride.” He touched her arm.

  Nice. She wasn’t just gorgeous; she was superwoman.

  Gary continued, “In a couple of weeks the club has a group ride planned for the North Face. I think it’s the toughest climb around.”

  Angie looked my way. “Do you mountain bike?”

  I owned a mountain bike, but my idea of a “tough” ride was pedaling the slight slope back to my house after I cruised down my gravel road for a mile or so. “I have a bike, but I don’t use it as much as I would like.” That was true. Who wouldn’t like more time for a nice leisurely bike ride?

  “You should join us. We need more women in the club.” Angie smiled, and I could tell by the enthusiasm in her eyes she was serious.

  Which, of course, sucked. What is the world coming to when you can’t hate a great-looking blonde with a perfect body? It went against all the laws of nature.

  Caught up feeling petty for being petty, I mumbled a reply, “That sounds great. I’ll look into it sometime.” I twisted the cord tie on my pants tight around my finger.

  “I didn’t know you were interested in mountain biking, Lucy. Angie and I are hosting the beginner’s ride on Thursday. Why don’t you come along? If that won’t be too easy for you.”

  Yeah, too easy. An excuse handed right to me, but staring at the rock hard bodies beside me, I couldn’t bring myself to play along with that blatant of a falsehood. I decided instead to go with something that contained at least a molecule of truth.

  “Thanks, but I’m pretty busy this week, what with the murder and all.” Smile. Nod. Take a step toward the door. The thoughts were there, but Gary cut me off mid-nod.

  “Even Ted has to give you a break,” Gary said.

  “Say you’ll come. It will be fun.” Angie looked just as annoyingly sincere as before.

  My smile froze. “I don’t know, I mean I need to spend time…” What did I need to do? “…cleaning. The shop is a mess.” God knew that was true.

  “Do it this weekend—bike with us Thursday.” The woman would not give me a break.

  “Yeah, the dirt’s not going anywhere,” Gary added.

  I bristled a bit. The shop wasn’t the cleanest place, but dirt—Gary brushed his arm lightly against my back.

  On the other hand...

  “So, what do you say? You in?” Gary smiled, flashing eyes the exact color of Fenton’s Celeste Blue.

  I crumbled. “What time?”

  We spent the next few minutes discussing where and when to meet. Angie and Gary broke into a discussion weighing the various trails. My mind wandered from the great outdoors back to my story.

  Malone told his attorney that Crandell asked to meet Mrs. Malone at Cuppa Joe’s the day he was killed. If that was true, someone here would have seen them.

  Time to put on my reporter’s hat and do a little research. I touched Gary’s sleeve to get his attention and mouthed, “I’ll be right back.”

  I tapped my fingers on the counter to get the attention of the young guy operating the steamer. “Hey,
Joe around?”

  “No, he left. What’cha need?” He adjusted the bill of his cap and leaned to one side. He had the slouchy, nonchalant attitude of a surf dude, and the worn Wranglers of a cowhand. Helena—where the West Coast meets the Old West, even with baristas.

  “Do you know who was working Monday morning? I’d like to ask them a couple of questions.”

  “Well, that would be Joe. You want to leave a message?”

  I shook my head. I’d catch Joe in person.

  When I turned around, Gary was giving Angie a one-armed hug. Angie glanced my direction as if she wanted to say goodbye and perhaps pimp the beginner ride again. Hoping to avoid both, I pretended to wait as a woman beside me bent to retrieve her toddler’s sippy cup.

  The ploy worked. Angie gave me a wave, placed her mug into a rubber bin and left.

  I sidled up to Gary, but he was already depositing his cup in the tray next to Angie’s.

  “Well, I better get going. I have to shoot headshots of some new Realtors.”

  We walked to the door. Outside, he waved good-bye and jogged across the Gulch toward the paper. Another opportunity lost. A man-trap I wasn’t. The sorriest part? I hadn’t made even the most feeble of attempts to catch his attention. Not that Angie’s presence made that easy.

  And, to add to the joy, I’d got myself hooked into a mountain bike ride. That would be a perfect time to lure him with my beauty, charm, and ability to hyperventilate with style.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning, I pulled into my usual spot in the alley. I’d left Kiska at home today. His body had decided to go into one of its twice yearly molts. The inside of my house looked like a teddy bear had exploded. There was no reason to spread the joy to the shop.

  As I got out of the Jeep, I checked Cuppa Joe’s backdoor. People flowed in and out. The morning rush was on. Knowing it would be best to let the traffic die down a little before approaching Joe, I decided to check out my story first.