by P. B. Ryan
After buying a copy from a machine, I walked down the Gulch to Dusty Deals and settled on the most comfortable seating my shop had to offer, an upholstered love seat stuffed with horsehair.
My story was in the premium position, front page above the fold. The main photo showed Blake escorting Marie Malone into the police station. Gary’s credit line ran under it. The switchboard operator at the News had done good.
My part ran directly below the picture with my name in the byline position and “assisted by staff writer Marcy Henderson” smaller underneath. I scanned to see if the copy editor had changed anything. There was just one addition—the official police statement.
“Marie Malone is not a suspect at this time. She had information to offer that pertained to the case. The Helena Police Department is still following up on a number of leads.”
No mention on their part of the keys or what the other leads were, so little ole me could more properly schedule my day. Law enforcement could be so inconsiderate. Someone needed to see about correcting this obvious lack of manners on their part. I briefly wished my mother was in town to handle it.
A sidebar piece ran next to the main story. It outlined who Crandell was and what he was doing in Helena. Under it was the same type of information on the Malones.
I refolded the paper and rested my head on the arm of the loveseat. I was back in print. It felt good. A rush built inside me as I thought about the day to come and what I’d have to write for tomorrow’s edition. This was the part I loved. Actually interviewing less-than-friendly witnesses and dealing with Ted? Not so much.
After rolling around in my glory for a few minutes, I dug into my purse for a couple of bucks and some change. Time to play reporter.
Cuppa Joe’s was full, but the line had disappeared. The upstanding citizens of Helena were all properly tucked away at their desks, and Joe was wiping down the counter with what might have been a clean rag.
“Hey, hey, Lucy. Saw your piece this morning. Didn’t know you were back at the News.”
After briefly explaining my temporary position at the paper, I ordered my usual cappuccino and stated my other business. “So, did you see Crandell around here on Monday?”
Joe, God bless him, was always friendly and easy with his answers.
He waited for the frothing machine to do its thing before replying. “Yeah, he was here that morning, probably around 10 or so. He was sitting with some fancy-looking guy. Looked and sounded like he was from back East.”
“Back East” had a lot of meanings, but in this case I thought I knew who he meant. I described Andrew Malone.
“That’s him. Little guy, fancy clothes, fancy accent, acted like he had a burr under his saddle.”
“Was there a woman with them?”
“Not that I saw. I wasn’t staring at them the whole time, you know, but if there’d been anybody with them for long, I would have seen ‘em.”
Interesting. Malone had acted like only his wife had met with Crandell. I wondered if the police knew of his deception.
“Have the police been in here asking around any?”
“Yeah, yesterday. Pete stopped by.”
It took me a beat or two to realize he was talking about Peter Blake. To me he was just Blake or that pain-in-my-ass detective. Apparently, Joe saw “Pete” differently. “Did you tell him about the man with Crandell?”
“Sure did. It’s hard to tell with Pete whether he thought it was important or not though. What do you think?”
I thought Blake was a step ahead of me. It was his job, but still annoying. “Oh, I don’t know. Right now everything Crandell did on Monday could be important.”
I paid for my coffee and trotted back to Dusty Deals. Betty had the front door unlocked and was working on the computer. She was dressed a little more subdued today, but still looked like Al Capone’s Sheba, in a drop-waist dress and a close fitting hat that completely covered her hair.
“I like the hat.”
“Thanks. I picked it up in a vintage shop in Butte last weekend.” She stopped in front of a Miller High Life mirror and adjusted the brim a little. “You know a hat like this would look good on you. Are you going to the festival?”
I enjoyed the music at the jazz festival, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you went to alone, and so far, no one had invited me along. “I might. I haven’t made any plans yet.”
“Well if you decide to go, let me know. I can get you some wristbands. We usually have a couple extra. I’d love to get you gussied up.”
Armbands were required to get into the different shows around town.
The front bell, signaling a customer, sent Betty into our standard spiel. While she did her best to earn her and my keep, I scurried to my office.
It was only a little after nine. Marcy usually didn’t get to the News until 11 or so, leaving me plenty of time to do a little sleuthing at Crandell’s hotel. I was sure Blake and company had rooted out all the good leads from his room, but a little personal sniffing around never hurt. You never knew what might turn up.
o0o
The Antebellum was Helena’s biggest hotel and the only one that offered multiple convention rooms. Today, their parking lot contained only about 20 cars. By Friday, it would be bustling with jazz fans.
I parked the Cherokee near the conference area and walked in past white columns that flanked the main doors. Straight ahead, a sweeping Tara-style staircase led to the second floor of rooms. The burgundy carpeting was dotted with flowers surrounded by vines. A restaurant overlooked the indoor pool.
The check-in area was to my right. A man of about 40 stood behind the counter, shuffling papers around. The badge pinned on his tuxedo shirt read “Steve.”
Switching into “get info” mode, I approached with a smile and my head tilted slightly to the right. “Hi, I’m Lucy Mathews from the News.” Technically, I was from the News. I was there on News business. “I understand the man who was found dead near the Gulch the other night was staying here. I wondered if I could talk to anyone who might have seen him.” I gave my best effort at an eye flutter.
He looked me over for a moment before answering. “I don’t know that he talked too much to anybody. I checked him in.”
My smile faltered just a little, but I was still riding the high from seeing my article. I soldiered on. “He didn’t say anything about what he was doing in town?”
Steve shrugged. “Not to me.”
Okay, the sweet bit wasn’t working. I dropped my act. “How about how long he was staying?”
He wrinkled his forehead and stared at me again for the count of five. “I guess I can tell you that. It’s not like he’s going to care. He checked in Saturday and was originally booked through Sunday night. Sunday he extended it until Monday night. Monday afternoon he checked out early.”
“Sounds like he was indecisive.”
“I guess you could say that. To each his own.” He went back to sorting.
“Is there anyone else who might have talked to him? How about the maid who cleaned his room?” Envisioning myself in antlers, my voice rose a bit.
Steve glanced up as if annoyed to find me still standing there. His gaze dropped back to his papers. Deciding I wasn’t going anywhere, he looked up and said, “He was in a suite on the second floor. The maid is Susie. You can ask her if you like. She should be up there now.”
After thanking Steve with what I hoped wasn’t desperate gratitude, I passed the elevator and took the stairs.
A few small meeting rooms sat at the top of the stairs. I walked past them and into a wide hall with guest rooms on both sides. Parked halfway between where I stood and the red “Exit” sign was a housekeeping cart. Slightly out-of-tune singing echoed toward me.
Mama scrubbed our clothes on a washboard ever day I’d seen her fingers bleed.
I stopped in front of what was obviously a smoking room. The acrid aftereffects of the last guest greeted me at the door. Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside.
&nbs
p; A bony woman of about 55 in a gray polyester pants suit stood over the toilet, brush in hand. She scrubbed to the rhythm of her song.
Still holding my breath, I said, “Excuse me. Are you Susie?”
She paused mid scrub. “Yeah, what do you need?”
I gave up on not breathing. I swallowed a lungful of rancid air, ran through my reporter bit, and asked about Crandell.
“Not much to tell about that one. He was neat. Pretty much kept everything picked up. He did run up quite the total for the mini-bar though. You know they sell that same four-dollar bag of nuts for a dollar fifty at the guest shop.” She looked at me as if she’d just passed a state secret.
I tried to look appreciative.
She looked around—for spies, I guessed. “From the paper, it didn’t sound like he was from around here,” she added, her voice low.
I lowered mine too. “No, he was from Denver.”
She shook her head and returned to normal volume. “Now, see that’s funny because I really had the feeling he knew people here. First, there was an empty envelope lying on the table with a Bozeman return address. I started to throw it out, but when I saw it was from a month or so ago, I figured he saved it for some reason.” She gave the toilet bowl a couple of absentminded strokes. “Monday afternoon, before he checked out, I walked in on him—I didn’t know he was in there. He was talking to someone on the phone. Sounded like it was some kind of family. I heard him say something about his aunt and uncle.”
“How about the missing medicine man outfit? Did you see it?”
“I wouldn’t know a medicine man if he came up and snapped me on the ass with a dirty towel, but there was a bunch of feathers lying around. I gathered them up and left them in a pile.”
“When was that?”
She sprinkled some more cleanser into the bowl. “Must have been Monday afternoon. I only remember seeing them the once.”
I gave her a Dusty Deals card and asked her to call if she thought of anything else.
“Will do. I better go now. I got about six more rooms to clean before lunch.” She gestured widely with the scrub brush.
I stepped back, but a few splashes of toilet water still landed on my cheek. Lovely.
Chapter 10
Sitting behind the wheel of my Cherokee, I scribbled a few thoughts in my notebook. It sounded like Crandell had money. Not only did he purchase the medicine man outfit for 40,000 dollars, but he’d also been staying in a suite and gobbling up four-dollar bags of nuts.
Helena had affordable room rates compared to big cities, but not so cheap your average working stiff would stay in a suite and empty out the honor bar. Casino workers didn’t exactly pull down the big bucks. So where’d his cash come from?
There was also the Bozeman/family connection to mull over. Was it possible he had two connections to the area, a friend in Bozeman and family somewhere else nearby, or were they one and the same?
The easiest task would be to find his family. Hopefully, Marcy could help with that.
I glanced at my watch. Ten. Maybe she’d be at the paper. I put the Cherokee into gear and turned onto Prospect. Traffic was light, and I made good time.
The News building was about as nondescript as they come. The square, gray brick building looked like a lazy 3-year-old constructed it out of Legos. No decoration of any kind broke up the monotony of the masonry. Even the Daily News sign was in simple, black, block letters on a white background. I drove by the front and weighed my options. I could park on the street and enter through the front, or I could park in the News lot and try to sneak in the back. I hated to waste a quarter on a meter. I parked in the lot.
After strolling up the cement ramp to the backdoor, I leaned against the metal rail to wait. Anyone could come and go un-accosted through the front, but you had to know the “secret key code” to get in the back. I was no longer privy to the number. If I wanted in the back, I’d have to wait. I knew it wouldn’t be long though. Newspapers are busy places, with reporters and advertising reps constantly coming and going.
Just as I suspected, within a couple of minutes a compact import pulled into the lot. Out of it popped my advertising rep for Dusty Deals, Laney Washington. Laney was a tiny, bubbly, sweet girl of about 22. There was definitely cheerleading in her past. She wasn’t the most knowledgeable ad rep at the News, but people bought advertising from her because she was just so darn cute. To tell her “no” would be like kicking a bunny.
It took a real hard ass or a total cheapskate to turn her down. No one had ever accused me of having a hard ass, but cheap, yes. When I saw her start up the ramp, I remembered seeing her card attached to a flyer for some kind of downtown special section lying on my desk.
Her whiskers twitched when she saw me. “Hi, Lucy. What are you doing here?”
I briefly explained my involvement with the Crandell story and tried to look poor.
“That’s great. I can’t believe he was killed right by the Gulch. When does your story run?”
Obviously, another employee who didn’t read the paper. The newspaper industry could save a bundle on promotions if they could just get their employees to subscribe.
“The first one ran today.” I frowned in disapproval. Why let Laney know I didn’t read the paper either?
“Guess I should have known that.” She giggled. “I just look for my ads.”
She began punching numbers into the keypad that controlled the backdoor. “Oh, did you get the flyer I dropped off on the Jazz Festival section? There’s going to be a special page with free color for downtown businesses.” She stood in the doorway blocking my way. I swear I saw horns poke up out of her hair.
“Oh, yeah. I guess I should do something small.” I shuffled my feet, hoping she’d get the message that what I really meant was no, a big capital I-have-a-malamute-to-feed no.
“Great! The deadline is today, and I have a two-column by two-inch space left. I’ll put you down for it.”
I did a quick calculation in my head. A two-by-two ad was billed as four inches. The rate for a downtown page was 25 dollars an inch. So I saved a quarter at the meter and lost 100 dollars on an ad—story of my life.
Disgusted with myself, I grabbed the door behind Laney. “Okay, just stop by and see Betty. She can work something up.”
The backdoor opened into the graphics department. A cluster of computer stations with an artist at each occupied the majority of the floor space. People shouted back and forth. “Has anyone heard yet on that Chevrolet ad?” “Where’s Janet, we need to get that proof back.” I weaved through the bustling bodies and into the newsroom. The volume instantly dropped about five decibels.
Most of the action in the newsroom happened in the late afternoon. The copy editors didn’t even come in until three or so. The first pages of the next day’s paper would start going to press then and keep going until the front page printed at midnight. Changes were made right up to press time; sometimes, to the publisher’s chagrin, past it.
I walked past Ted’s office on my way to Marcy’s desk. Good news—he was out. Bad news—his door was closed, making it impossible to see who was under the antlers today. Both relieved and miffed, I kept moving.
Marcy’s desk sat under a big crank-out window. She had it open and was sitting on her desk, face to the breeze. Beside her was a group of pictures in ruffled frames. Everything on her desk was neatly stacked and in order. Even the pictures were evenly spaced.
When she saw me approach, she jumped off her desk. “They keep it so hot in here I just can’t stand it.”
“Thanks for getting those quotes last night.” I plopped down in the space she had vacated. “And the sidebar was great too.”
Marcy nudged her coffee cup an inch or two away from my side.
“I have a couple of other things I was hoping you might be able to follow up on for me,” I continued.
She moved the pictures too. Then stared at me, her arms crossed over her chest. I stared back, completely at a loss as to what
she was doing. Eventually, she sighed, slid the drawer of her desk out and removed a notebook and pen.
I shared what I had discovered that morning. “How do you want to go about this? Researching the Bozeman connection, I mean.”
“I could call his wife. She’s in Denver. I have her name in here somewhere.” She sighed again, this time louder and longer, but then she thumbed through her notebook. “Here it is, Bonnie Smith. She must have gone back to her maiden name. I guess you want me to give her a call.”
Choosing to completely ignore the sarcasm in her tone, I flashed her a smile. “Thanks for offering.” Then to show her I could be considerate too, I pulled a rumpled sheet of paper out from under my fanny and handed it to her. “I’ll try and get a hold of Bill Russell. Rhonda saw him with Crandell Monday. He might know something.” I couldn’t bring myself to call Bill a suspect.
“He might have killed him.” Frowning, Marcy ironed the wrinkles out of the paper with her hands.
Et tu, Marcy? You got no points for being a nice local boy anymore, did you?
“How about the police? Are you going by there today?” Marcy tugged on the remaining papers buried under my rump.
Go by the police? Be humiliated? That was tempting. “I wasn’t planning on it. Why?”
“We need the official statement. You want me to call again?”
Finally, she was starting to get the idea. I hopped up and left her to rescue her papers.
o0o
It was still early, but my stomach started to grumble. I swung by a little hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop, then hightailed it back to my office to enjoy a hard-earned break. The portabella sandwich was warm and gooey and just downright delicious. Hunger sated, I popped the tab on my Dr. Brown’s and took a sip. Leaning back in my chair, I almost purred with contentment.
A knock on the door brought me back to a more dignified sitting position. Betty stuck her head in. “I thought I heard you in there. Are you going to be around for a while? I thought I’d go out to lunch with Everett.”
I waved her on and got up to take charge of the shop. The sales spawned by the discovery of Crandell’s body were beginning to dwindle. The shop was quiet for the moment. I decided to take advantage of the lull and try to get ahold of Bill. I needed a cover story though. I wasn’t comfortable just calling him up and saying, “Hear you were talking with the dead guy. Did you kill him?”
