by P. B. Ryan
It had been a long day, and my trip up the mountain must have burned at least 1000 calories. I rooted around in the freezer until I uncovered a stash of White Castle hamburgers, or belly bombers as they’re commonly called. To compensate for this dietary indiscretion, I plucked a bag of baked chips out of the pantry. With the addition of a Diet Pepsi with milk and a bowl of Heinz for dipping, I was ready to chow down.
It was almost eight o’clock, and my current favorite show, Scavenger Hunt, was about to start. Two teams were given nothing but a map and a few clues before being dropped off in some remote locale. The goal of the game was to be the first to discover a “treasure” hidden somewhere and bring it to a designated spot. The trick was knowing what held value and what didn’t. The teams could only select one of many items hidden along the way. Frequently, the game’s participants passed over what was worth the most. The team that made it back with the most expensive item won the dollar value of their find.
I carried my meal into the living room and settled onto the floor. By the time the winning team had turned in their find, an 1855 Swedish 3-skilling banco stamp worth over $1 million, I had devoured all three burgers and two glasses of Diet Pepsi. I practiced my self-control by folding over the end of the chip bag with at least three full chips and some crumbs still inside. My own special weight maintenance plan: always leave the table hungry.
With Kiska curled up next to me, I plucked out fresh tufts of his fur and constructed a tidy little igloo.
The jazz festival was tomorrow—almost a guaranteed good time.
I needed a break from the conflict in my life as of late. Just one day without any yelling, kissing, or dying.
Well, maybe a little kissing would be okay.
Chapter 17
Friday morning, I woke stiff and uneasy. I stretched my legs out and attempted to sit up. Not an easy task. Wishing for a piece of leather to grip between my teeth, I forced myself into a sitting position. Upright, I still wasn’t eager to start my day.
I reached my arms over my head and tried a light stretch to check my pain level—tolerable, or it would be after a few dozen Advil.
As I struggled out of my Scooby Doo sheets, I considered the reasons, besides hideous physical pain, for my reluctance to get moving.
Things weren’t that bad. My love life was a tangled mess, but for the first time in months, I seemed to have a love life—of sorts.
My business wasn’t booming, but it was steady.
No family problems. Kiska and I were both healthy. I was writing again. Only a couple of things were really looming over me: James Crandell’s murder and proving to Ted that I could cover the story, that he was wrong, that I wasn’t a wuss, that I was in fact damn good at what I did... or had done.
I realized then how much I wanted to hear Ted admit he’d been wrong about me. An apology with him on his knees would also be nice, but just a “good job, Mathews” would do... maybe.
I really did hate that damn deer head.
Maybe when he was done groveling, I’d grant forgiveness under one condition: that he haul the thing out to Canyon Ferry Lake and drop it in.
Busy gloating about my future success, I bumped into Kiska who lay in the doorway to the kitchen with his head resting on his front paws. He watched me with sad eyes.
I sighed. Back to reality.
“Okay, okay, I know you’ve been neglected this week. You want to come with me today?” I reached into my cupboard for a peanut butter dog cookie and waved it back and forth.
His faith in me renewed, Kiska pushed himself into his standard semi-vertical sit and thumped his tail on the floor. After chomping down his treat, he followed me to the door for his morning tree baptism.
A used coffee filter partially hid the remains of the White Castle box in my trash, but did nothing to alleviate my guilt. With a sigh, I removed the foil wrapping from a low fat cereal bar and shuffled off to the shower.
After wrestling my way into a pair of tummy-tucking pantyhose, I pulled Betty’s dress over my head and shook it into place. The beads clanked and clattered. It was like wearing one of those bead curtains from the 70s. I resisted the urge to twist and shake like a waterlogged collie.
My hair and makeup I did in twenties’ chic. Lots of gel, lots of mascara, and lots of lipstick. By the time I’d topped it all off with a long strand of pearls tied in a knot and a Marilyn Monroe beauty mark, I was feeling positively giddy. It’s amazing what a pretty dress will do for a girl’s outlook.
Satisfied with my appearance, if not everything else in my life, I kicked up one heel, twirled my pearls, and grabbed a small beaded purse. I heaved Kiska into the Cherokee, and we headed into town.
Since I was early for a record-breaking second time this week, I stopped by the vending machine for a copy of the News. With it folded under one arm, I led Kiska down the Gulch and into Dusty Deals. Kiska patiently waited for me to flip on the lights before he began oww wow wowing at me. I followed him to my office, poured out a liberal two cups of food and shut him in.
With one of Betty’s jazz CDs setting the mood, I arranged myself on the stool behind the counter. I quickly discovered a beaded dress and a wooden stool do not comfortable seating make. I gave up and moved to the marginally softer horsehair loveseat just as Betty whirled in through the door.
She had chosen an elegantly subdued dress of black, bronze, and gold. Adorning one shoulder was a dead mink frozen in time with his tail clinched in his teeth. The gauzy material of the handkerchief skirt floated around her as she twirled to a stop in front of me.
“Hey you, where’d you get that?” I set the paper down on the seat beside me. “Is that real gold thread?”
Betty looked at the gold stitching on her bodice. “Sure looks it, doesn’t it? I picked this little number up online. It was a real orchid, but worth every penny.”
She rose up on her toes and gave another turn. Settling back on her heels, she gave me an appraising look and reached out to grab my hand. “Well, let’s see you in your glad-rags. Stand up, stand up.”
I stood and performed my own little turn.
“You’re a real smarty. How’s it feel? Fun, right?” Betty glowed.
I ran my hands over my dress and replied, “Thanks, yeah it is pretty fun, but these beads can really be a pain in the ass—literally.”
“Ah, just the price of beauty.” Betty smiled and adjusted the mink’s head a little higher on her shoulder. “I read your story this morning. You think Rhonda’s boyfriend offed his cousin?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t. I mean Silas, like all of Rhonda’s boyfriends, has a few eccentricities, but I don’t think he’s a killer. And most importantly, Rhonda doesn’t think he is.” I twisted my strand of pearls. “Something’s missing. I just wish I could figure out what.”
The bell over the front door jangled, and Rhonda stepped into the shop, also garbed in flapper attire. She wore a vibrant green dress with a drop waist and delicate embroidery. Her hair was pulled back into a bun at the base of her neck. Two oriental-looking sticks held it in place.
“They’re lining up for pictures in front of the bank. The Downtown Association wants one big group shot, and Gary wants to take a few smaller groups too.”
I glanced at the clock. “Already? I didn’t think most people were even open yet.”
Rhonda motioned us toward the door. “That’s the idea. Take the pictures before the customers show up. If you ever read an Association newsletter you’d know what was going on.”
Guilty, I followed the pair out the door.
In front of the bank, three vintage cars were loaded with gangsters and their molls. The women all wore drop-waist flapper dresses, accented with feathers and beads. The men sported broad-brimmed hats, double-breasted pinstriped suits, and spats. A few brandished plastic machine guns or big cigars.
Gary stood in front of the unruly crowd waving them onto the various vehicles. I made my way toward the showiest of the three. I stepped up onto the lo
ng sweeping fender and leaned carefully against the spare tire tucked in by the front door. Betty joined me, climbing into the front seat and leaning out over the door. Rhonda chose the more conservative Model T. She posed by the front wheel, her foot resting on one wide spoke.
Gary snapped off a half dozen group shots before he waved his hands, signaling he was done. I hopped off the fender as he approached. In honor of the occasion, he’d added a straw boater to his normal look. He pulled it off with a flourish and bowed in my direction.
“Aren’t you just the bee’s knees?” He grinned.
Caught up in the fun, I put my hand on one hip and twirled my necklace with the other. “Why thank you, sir.”
“Can you take a picture of just the three of us, Gary?” Rhonda interrupted. The woman harped on me to get a man, and then when I was making progress, she worried about photos.
Gary put his hat on and turned her direction. “Sure can. Where do you want to pose?”
Not one to be a bad sport, I joined Betty and Rhonda in front of the Packard. We twisted and turned in a variety of coquettish and just downright silly poses as Gary snapped another half dozen shots.
“Can we get copies of those?” Rhonda asked.
“Yeah, you want prints or digital?”
As Rhonda and Gary worked out the particulars of the photos, I admired the third car on display. The Cadillac was the earliest of the three and boasted the flashiest paint job. It was bright yellow with red trim. I ran my hand down the fender and up over the spare tire.
“She’s a real beauty, isn’t she?” Darrell Deere took a step around the grill. “My grandfather bought her new in 1921.”
I’d never felt uncomfortable around Darrell before, but my conversation with his niece, and then Gary’s comments about Darrell’s concern with her weight, made me edgy. I wondered if beads were like a camera.
Did they add 10 pounds? I risked a look at my behind. Seemed its usual size, but who was I to judge? I backed up against the Packard just in case.
”Oh, I didn’t realize it was yours. Do you drive it much?” I held my pearls in front of me with both hands.
“I don’t own her. She was sold privately when Pop died. I’m not much for keeping up old cars. I’d rather have a new Super Duty, myself.” He patted the hood. “I saw the paper today. Sounds like this cousin might be a likely suspect in the murder.”
“I don’t think so. Silas is a nice guy.”
“You know him?”
“We’ve met. He’s dating Rhonda.” For some reason I felt guilty revealing this tidbit.
“Well, I’d trust Rhonda’s judgment.” Darrell rubbed a spot off the hood of the Packard. “Does seem like a coincidence, though, don’t you think? Him being so close by and the only person around here Crandell knew?”
I’d voiced the same questions myself, but out of loyalty to Rhonda, I’d tromped them down. “Yeah, well, there’s the medicine man set too. Most of it’s missing, you know. Whoever has it must’ve killed Crandell, and I’m pretty sure Silas doesn’t have it.”
Suddenly, I felt better. That was true. I didn’t think Silas had the set, and whoever did, probably had killed Crandell. I pushed away from the Packard and beamed at Darrell. “Guess it’s a good thing you didn’t buy it at the auction.”
“Me? I’ve got no interest in old Indian junk.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I never understood what Pop saw in it either.”
“Well, be glad you don’t. You never know. Maybe it’s cursed.” I leaned forward and wiggled my fingers at him.
He took a step back toward the grill. “You don’t believe in that kind of thing, now do you?”
I didn’t, but Darrell looked a little spooked, and it was fun poking at someone a bit. Lately, I’d been on the receiving end of that stick too much.
“You never know. Don’t old medicine men always curse things? And how about that dried weasel? No telling what that grizzled little body was used for.”
Darrell gave me a weak smile. “I think you’ve been watching too much TV.”
“Don’t be silly. There’s no such thing.” I grinned. This time Darrell joined me.
I left our conversation light hearted. Silas was innocent. I knew it. I didn’t know what I would do if someone I knew and liked turned out to be the killer. I was glad I wasn’t going to have to face that.
“So are you going to take Betty up on her offer of free armbands for the jazz festival tonight?” Rhonda asked as we walked back to our shops.
“I might. Are you and Silas going? I don’t want to go alone.” I swung around a black iron lamppost and reveled in the early morning sun. Friday nights were usually my late night at the shop. I’d stay open until eight and then spend another hour or two catching up on paperwork. But after the past week, I could use a break.
“I have to talk to Silas, but you could go with the group from the paper. Gary said they were going to meet down on the walking mall around 5:30. From there, they’ll hit the other spots.”
The jazz festival consisted of a wide variety of bands spread around Helena. Some of them set up in bars, some in meeting rooms at hotels, and some in tents thrown up everywhere from parking lots to the walking mall at the other end of the Gulch.
“Gary didn’t invite me. I don’t want to just barge in.”
“He invited all of us. I think Betty is going to meet them. Everett’s band doesn’t start until seven o’clock over at the Antebellum.” Rhonda turned toward Spirit Books and took out her keys. “I’ll give you a call after I talk to Silas.”
I waved goodbye and followed Betty into Dusty Deals. She took her place behind the register. I walked to my office to check on Kiska and plan my day. He lay on his side as if he’d been sleeping, but both of his eyes followed me when I pulled out the desk chair and sat down. Once he was sure I was staying, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
I pulled out my reporter’s notebook and waited for inspiration.
None came.
The biggest unanswered question was why Crandell came to Helena in the first place. If he’d suddenly come into some money and decided to start his own collection, why would he come all the way to Helena to do it? Why not start closer to home and use it as an opportunity to impress the people he already knew? There was also the question of the money. Where did it come from? And if he came to Helena to buy the medicine man outfit, why had he told his ex-wife he would be returning with a big roll of cash? Was the big-money job he told Redfeather about related?
I could feel something beginning to click in my brain, but I still couldn’t quite get the pieces to fit. Deciding I needed to take a step back, I pushed myself away from the desk and wandered into the shop. Kiska opened one eye to watch me before drifting back to sleep.
Betty had the computer on and was working on a graphic design for a local realtor. I could see the outline of the Helena skyline with a giant SOLD sign cropping out of it.
“Mind if I get those books? I need to do something to take my mind off of my story for awhile.” I pushed my way behind the register and pulled out the box of books from Sunday’s auction.
I set the carton on top of a display case and resumed sorting. A couple of self-improvement hardbacks I put to the side to give Rhonda. The rest I sorted into either an under-10-dollar-value stack or a look-up-the-value stack. I paused over a copy of “Spirit of the Border” by Zane Grey. It wasn’t a first edition, but it had a nice graphic frontier cover, and I was a sucker for Zane Grey.
The book actually took place in the Ohio River Valley in the 1700s, but the frontier theme still made it marketable to a Western crowd. I decided the volume would look good next to a display of trapping and hunting items. I propped it up next to a packsaddle.
The next item in the box was a book of poetry with an art nouveau cover. I thumbed through it, admiring the rough-cut pages and scanning the poems. Halfway through the book, a yellowed piece of paper fell onto the glass top of the display case. Curious, I turned it over. I
t was from a small unlined notebook. The page had been folded twice as if to fit into an envelope. I unfolded the page and pressed it out flat on the glass. It was a short letter written in a blockish masculine hand.
April 10, 1930
Mother, I hope this finds you well. Thank you for writing about Father’s condition. I leave by train tomorrow to return home. Do not worry about disturbing me here. My business has been concluded, and nothing is more important to me than your and Father’s well being.
Sincerely your son,
Denton Deere
p.s. I was able to procure the Medicine Man set I had heard about. I hope seeing it will bring Father some enjoyment.
I carefully refolded the letter and, for lack of anywhere better to keep it, put it back in the book. It was obviously a note from Denton Deere to his mother, Ruby. The mention of his father’s condition could easily have been the beginning of Garrison’s decline and eventual death.
Curious, I walked to the shelf where I kept my stock of local history books, including duplicate copies of the two Crandell had purchased. I pulled out the one with the stories on the Deeres and looked for a mention of when Garrison had died. May 1930.
Whatever “condition” Ruby Deere had written Denton about was almost certainly related to Garrison’s death the following month. At least it appeared Denton had been able to get back to Helena and spend some time with his father before he died.
Glancing at the book, I wondered if I should pass the note on to Darrell. It was clearly a family note, but I wasn’t sure the contents would interest him. There wasn’t much to it really. Maybe the History Museum would want it. I certainly had no use for it, and I would never consider selling something so personal.
There was no rush. I’d mention it to Darrell next time I saw him. In the meantime, I’d keep it.
I finished sorting the books and priced the ones I would sell in the shop. The remaining ones I handed to Betty. “Can you scan in the covers of these for me? I want to put them out on eBay.”
