A Fatal Four-Pack

by P. B. Ryan

  “Well, yeah, I guess so. He didn’t have much of a reputation here. People pretty much saw him as some kind of blowhard. He talked a big game, but he didn’t seem to own much worth having.”

  “Did you notice anything different about him in the last couple of months?”

  “That I couldn’t tell you. I never really talked to the man. If you want someone who did, I’d suggest you get a hold of Sam Redfeather. He sells supplies and clothing patterns to re-enactors and other people who go around dressing and living like it was 150 years ago. Crandell bought a lot of stuff from him. Sam probably knew him better than anyone at the shows.”

  I took down Redfeather’s phone number and thanked her for her time.

  Ethel Doyle had confirmed what Crandell’s wife said about Crandell not really being a collector. His wife had also said he didn’t have an excess of money. To me, 40,000 dollars was a pretty big chunk of change.

  I thought back to the auction. Crandell hadn’t left with the set. He’d given Ed’s daughter, Frankie, a check, but she’d called Ed over. Crandell left a few minutes later, empty handed. It made sense Ed would want to verify Crandell had the funds to cover a personal check.

  Obviously, Crandell got the set sometime the next day, since the weasel and feathers, at least, had been found, but it wouldn’t hurt to call Ed and just make sure they checked on Crandell’s account balance. I looked Ed’s auction service up in the phone book.

  Frankie’s spirited voice answered. I started off casually, asking how things were going.

  “Things are great. The auction last weekend was huge, plus all the publicity got us a bunch of new leads. Dad’s out looking at an estate right now. They said there was a truckload of Red Wing.”

  Frankie knew my weakness for stoneware from the numerous times she had added up my bidding tickets. Ed had trained her well. She wouldn’t miss an opportunity to get a bidder at an auction.

  “Thanks for the heads up. Let me know when the sale is.” Knowing I was being manipulated didn’t stop me from wanting to be in the front row if a big lot of crocks came up for sale. “The reason I’m calling, though, is to ask about James Crandell—the guy who bought the medicine man set.”

  “That was some bidding war wasn’t it? We knew there were going to be people interested, but Dad didn’t expect anything like that.” She paused for a second. “It was a real shock to hear that man was killed.”

  I gave her a short version of my involvement, both in finding Crandell and now covering the story for the News. “I noticed at the auction that Crandell didn’t leave with the set. Why was that?”

  “He wrote a personal check. We don’t normally worry about that, but 40,000 dollars is a lot of money, and it was written on a Colorado bank. Dad wanted to make sure there were enough funds to cover it before we let go of the merchandise.” She took a sip of something through a straw. “We gave him a receipt for payment, and I called his bank the next morning. They confirmed he had the forty thousand, so I left a message at Crandell’s hotel that he could pick up the stuff whenever he liked.”

  “When did he pick it up?”

  “I don’t know. I was only in the office for an hour or so that morning. I’m taking classes at Tech. My first one’s at 11:20. Dad gets all tense if I miss a class.” She managed to convey an adolescent eye roll through the phone line. “Anyway, he picked it up sometime that day, because the receipt where he signed for it was on my desk Tuesday when I got in. He must have stopped by while Dad was here.”

  We chatted a bit more about upcoming auctions and her classes at Tech. When I felt I’d talked enough to get off the phone politely, I made an excuse and said good-bye.

  So I was right. Crandell picked the set up on Monday. But Frankie said it must have been after she left for school. Her first class was at 11:20, and the drive to Butte, where Montana Tech was located, took about an hour, depending on your speed. That meant Frankie had to have left by 10:30 at the latest. Something here didn’t fit.

  Rhonda had seen Marie Malone arguing with Crandell before lunch. That was when Marie claimed she got the feather from Crandell. Was there time for him to have picked up the set before he came down to the Gulch and saw her? If not, she was lying. Why? Was she the killer?

  I had a hard time imagining Marie Malone wrestling Crandell’s knife out of its scabbard and shoving it into his chest. Plus, what would her motive have been? The medicine man set? If so, why didn’t the police find it when they found the feather?

  I needed to let this marinate a while.

  It was 11:30, almost time for lunch. Before I’d left Rhonda’s shop earlier, we’d decided to meet at the Brass Spur around quarter till 12. She was going to meet Silas at the police station before his interview; so we were driving separately. I took a minute to let Betty know when I’d be back and gunned up the Cherokee. It was a quick drive. I parked in a lot on the other side of Broadway and hurried inside.

  The Brass Spur is in a restored building built sometime in the early 1900s. The basic layout is shotgun style. Straight and narrow, one room right behind the other; if you stood in the front door and fired a shotgun, the shot would go all the way through the building and out the backdoor—or at least, that’s the theory. I’d never tested it personally.

  The hostess told me Rhonda was waiting upstairs. I clomped across the polished oak and wound up the stairs. Rhonda sat at a table for two that overlooked the main dining area. She waved as I approached. True to form, she had put our earlier disagreement behind her.

  “So, I forgot to ask you something.” She took the lemon off the side of her glass and squeezed it into her water. “Silas wanted to know if you could help him get a value on whatever was left of the medicine man set. I think it’s pretty much just the dried weasel and some of the feathers.”

  ”Why does he need a value?” I took a sip of my water.

  She shrugged. “The family wants to know. They don’t know anything about Native American relics and would just as soon sell it here as mess with it back in Denver.”

  “I don’t mind helping him, but it certainly isn’t my area. Why don’t you help him?”

  “First, I have no idea what a dried weasel is worth.” She grimaced. “Second, you have the experience, dealing in antiques. This isn’t that different, and I thought you might even be interested in buying it yourself, for resale.”

  “I appreciate the thought, but I think I’ll just stick to helping him with a price. Dried weasels aren’t my thing either.” We both laughed. “I’ve been meaning to ask you though. Do you know what it was used for? I’ve never seen one before.”

  ”I don’t know exactly, but I can tell you about weasel totems.”

  “They mentioned totems in the paper. I’ve heard of the poles, of course, but how does that relate to the weasel?”

  ”In Native American culture there are a lot of totems. They symbolize the connection between people and animals. Each has certain characteristics.” Rhonda fished her lemon out of her glass with a spoon and bit into it. “The weasel is known for stealth and the ability to see beneath the surface. They know more than what’s visible to most people, like consequences.” She dropped the lemon rind onto her bread plate. “It’s a very difficult totem to have.”

  I nodded my head. I never knew how much of this stuff Rhonda actually believed.

  She continued, “I dated a weasel once. It was unnerving. I always felt like he knew something I didn’t.”

  I assumed she was talking about a man whose totem was a weasel. She had dated some strange men, but as far as I knew they’d all at least been human. Either way, I decided it was time to drop the topic.

  The waitress came and took our orders. I followed Rhonda’s lead and had a Greek salad. I’d indulged myself a little too much lately. Ordering a bowl full of feta cheese and olives with a dab of lettuce tossed in didn’t seem like too much of a penance.

  I was eyeing the breadbasket when Rhonda exclaimed, “Well looky who’s here.” She nodded her h
ead toward the main dining area below. Being seated at a table against the far wall were Peter Blake and a woman. Blake removed his cowboy hat and sat down. The woman across from him was an attractive brunette in her early thirties. She had on Wrangler jeans and low-heeled cowboy boots that matched Blake’s. Even from this distance, I could see she had a 5,000-dollar smile and a 100-dollar manicure. She tilted her head up and laughed at something the waiter said.

  “Rodeo queen,” Rhonda said.

  “What?”

  “She screams rodeo queen. Don’t you think?” Rhonda stared at me as she put her straw in her mouth and took a sip of water.

  Rhonda was right. The woman had the look of someone who reveled in being noticed. Like she knew, whatever the competition, she would come out on top. That confidence, combined with her perfect grooming, would usually make me guess beauty queen, but after I factored in the Wranglers and ropers, I adjusted it to rodeo royalty.

  “Probably. She certainly has that look.” I feigned disinterest.

  “Detective Blake is looking well, as usual. Don’t you agree?” Rhonda added, her eyes shifting sideways.

  “I didn’t notice.”

  I had noticed though, and again, Rhonda was right. Blake looked good, really good. I watched as he handed the waiter his menu and smoothed his pants with his hands. The woman leaned toward him. Blake made some reply and shook his head. They seemed to have the kind of easy rapport people only have when they’ve known each other a long time.

  The waitress arrived with our salads, and I concentrated on eating and not looking at Blake. Rhonda occasionally made a comment about him and watched me for a reaction. I ignored her.

  “Well that was a short lunch.” Rhonda commented as Blake and the woman stood to leave.

  “He has to stoke up the barbecue to grill Silas, remember?”

  “Oh well, it’s a shame we didn’t get to say hello. If we hurry and pay, maybe we can catch them.” She stood as if to leave.

  “Don’t you dare.” I grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled her back into her chair. Noticing her smirk, I added, “You think you’re real funny, don’t you?”

  “My, you are testy today.” She smiled and lowered her eyebrows, briefly more serious. “This Blake thing has you freaked out doesn’t it?”

  I picked up our check and studied the balance without bothering to answer. “How much tip do you want to leave?”

  Rhonda sighed, but pulled out her wallet. When I was sure I’d given Blake enough time to get out of the building, I stood up and followed her down the stairs into the bar. “Have Silas call me or stop by Dusty Deals when he’s done at the station. I’ll be happy to help him. I want to hear how his interview went too.”

  As Rhonda stepped off the last step, she stopped suddenly. I bumped directly into her. “What are you doing?” I looked up to see the answer to my question looking back at me.

  Peter Blake stood next to a small table where two men in Western gear sat drinking beers.

  Damn, I’d thought he was gone. He said his goodbyes and took a step our direction.

  Rhonda grabbed the bill and money out of my hand. “I’ll go pay.” Before I could object, she was at the bar waiting to be rung up.

  “Hello, Lucy. Saw your article today.” He smiled with lifted brows.

  I nodded my head slightly and replied, “Hope you enjoyed it. Good to see you, again.” I started to walk around him, toward Rhonda.

  He stopped me with a slight pressure on my arm. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt that today’s story was turned in long before our little conversation last night.”

  He put an unusual emphasis on the word “conversation,” and his eyes grew darker. I felt myself flush. Suddenly the temperature in the bar seemed to jump 20 degrees. Flustered, I answered stupidly, “Yes, it was.”

  He released my arm and grinned. “Glad to know we have an understanding.”

  How could I let someone so arrogant get under my skin? Now the clod thought he’d beaten me. I gave him my best doe-eyed look and replied, “The thing I understand is that I have a job to do, and I’m going to do it the best I can. Excuse me.” I turned on my heel and stomped out the front door.

  Rhonda caught up to me in the parking lot. “Thanks for waiting for me.” She breathed heavily. “How was Blake?”

  “His usual charming self.”

  She smiled. “Did you find out who his friend is?”

  “No, I didn’t. I don’t really see how it’s any business of mine.” I attempted to sound indifferent, but sensed Rhonda wasn’t buying it.

  She gave me a quick hug and climbed into her Trooper.

  On the way back to Dusty Deals, I berated myself. I was an adult. I could handle a run in or two with Blake. I decided to take a more Zen approach the next time I saw him.

  I parked in the alley and practiced a tranquility exercise. “Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.” Feeling calmer, I hit the automatic lock and got out.

  As the door swung shut, I saw my keys lying on the seat where I had dropped them.

  Crap!

  So much for a more Zen approach. I clomped into Dusty Deals and called a locksmith.

  Chapter 15

  An hour and 50 dollars later, I’d recovered my keys but not my inner peace. Betty watched me warily from the cash register. “Having a rough day?”

  “I’ve had better,” I replied twirling my recently retrieved keys by the ring—a perfect enamel replica of Scooby Doo’s dog tag.

  “Well, maybe this will make you feel better.” Betty told me the man from the previous day had returned with his wife and placed a deposit on the china cabinet. They were coming back on Saturday to pick it up.

  “Oh, and Gary called,” she continued. “He told me to remind you that you’re meeting at 5:30 behind the Cook Nook.” The Cook Nook was a gourmet cooking shop located at the far end of the Gulch.

  I looked at a walnut mantle clock perched on a shelf behind the counter. “It’s already two o’clock. I’m never going to get everything done today.” I rubbed my forehead with the pads of my fingers. “I need to call Redfeather, write tomorrow’s article, and go home and let Kiska out before I meet Gary.” Kiska could go a long time without peeing, but if I didn’t go home and let him out I would be worried about him the entire time I was on the bike ride.

  “Why don’t you ask Marcy to call this Redfeather, or I could go let Kiska out for you. Except for the guy who’s buying the china cabinet, we’ve been really slow. You could watch the shop while you make your call and write the article,” Betty suggested.

  I really wanted to talk to Redfeather myself, and Kiska liked Betty. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind? It’s a long drive to my house.”

  “It’s not that long a drive. Just give me your keys.”

  I thanked Betty and handed over my key ring. “You may have to give him a cookie to get him to go out. There’s a stash in the three gallon Western Stoneware crock on the front porch.”

  “I can handle it.” She gave me a wave as she left.

  Alone, I dialed the number Ethel Doyle had given me. A melodious male voice answered the phone.

  I introduced myself and explained my reason for calling.

  “James was all right. A lot of the dealers and collectors didn’t like him, but I got along with him. You just had to take a lot of what he said with a grain of salt. I was really sorry to hear about his death.”

  I made some sympathetic noises.

  Redfeather continued, “On his money situation, I know he didn’t have an excess. I never knew him to buy anything at the shows except some patterns for shirts and such, from me, and those aren’t expensive.” He paused like he was thinking. “He did mention he had some kind of job coming up.”

  I flipped open my notebook and began making notes. “Did it have anything to do with an auction?”

  “He didn’t mention an auction. Just said he’d met someone at a show we were at in March, and that they had a big paying job for hi
m. I got the impression it involved relics of some kind, but with Crandell you never knew when to take him serious. He could have been making the whole thing up.”

  “Did he say if it was a man or a woman?”

  “You mean who offered him the job? I guess I assumed it was a man.” He paused. “I don’t know that he really said. Seems like he said some guy, but I could just be remembering it that way.”

  I asked a few more follow-up questions, but Redfeather didn’t seem to know anything else. After thanking him, and hanging up the phone, I paged through my notebook.

  Silas was Crandell’s cousin and was being interviewed by the Helena police right now. He told Rhonda he hadn’t seen Crandell for years prior to spotting him at lunch on Monday. According to Silas, he only talked to Crandell briefly then and again, one more time, that afternoon on the phone.

  According to Frankie, Crandell had picked up the medicine man set sometime after she’d left the auction office for Butte. Since her class started at 11:20, she had to have left before 10:30. Rhonda thought she saw Marie Malone arguing with Crandell sometime around 10. This made it almost impossible for him to have picked up the set before the scene outside Spirit Books.

  According to Ethel Doyle and Sam Redfeather, Crandell didn’t have a lot of money or a collection of his own. Crandell told Redfeather he met someone at a show in March who offered him a well-paying job. Redfeather assumed it was a man, but wasn’t positive. Could it have been Marie Malone? Redfeather also had the impression the job involved relics, but there was no guarantee it had anything to do with Helena or the auction.

  I turned to a fresh page in my notebook and jotted down what I saw as the big points:

  1.) Silas was Crandell’s cousin, and he’d asked Rhonda to keep this quiet.

  2.) Marie Malone lied about when she got the feather.

  3.) Some unknown third person promised Crandell some kind of big money job just a few months ago.

  Did any of this fit together? Or was it what it seemed, a big tangled mess of loose ends that, sewn together, created zip?

  I was not inspired to start writing. I called Marcy in the hope she had new information, but she wasn’t at her desk. I pressed 0 and had her paged. After about 45 mind-numbing seconds of the Bee Gees singing “Staying Alive,” Marcy came on the line.