A Fatal Four-Pack

by P. B. Ryan

  “Sure. If you get me the copy for them, I can list them too. I’m almost done with this.” She gestured toward her Realtor graphic.

  I scribbled out brief descriptions of each book and at what price I wanted to start the bidding. “Just get the publishing information off the title pages.” Then I glanced at my watch.

  It was almost 10. Silas would be showing up soon. With the books I had put aside for Rhonda under my arm, I went out the door.

  Hopefully, Silas would have an interesting tidbit or two for my story. If not, at least I would get a nice up-close look at the weasel.

  What a treat.

  Chapter 18

  Silas wasn’t at Spirit Books yet, and Rhonda was busy ringing up a customer. I set my additions on top of some other books waiting to be priced.

  Rhonda finished with her customer. “Are you looking for Silas? I think he’s going straight to your shop. I plan on meeting him for lunch afterwards.”

  “I couldn’t remember. Besides, I had some books for you.” I gestured to the self-help manuals. “I guess I better go back over there and wait. I’m just feeling a little restless today.” I leaned back against the “mystery” display.

  “Writer’s block?” Rhonda picked up an inkpad and rubber stamp and started pounding the inside covers of a stack of books, leaving behind the imprint of her shop’s logo—a Pegasus soaring out of an open volume.

  “Yeah, I guess. I need a new approach and nothing’s coming to mind. Maybe helping Silas will get me back on track.” I picked up one of the recently stamped books and blew on the wet ink. Remembering my discovery earlier, I perked up. “Oh, I did find something kind of interesting this morning.” I filled her in on Denton Deere’s note to Ruby.

  “I’ll probably give it to Darrell.”

  “What makes you think he’ll want it?” Rhonda asked.

  “Well, it was from his father to his grandmother. If my dad was dead, I’d want something like that.”

  “You’re not Darrell Deere. I’d just see if the History Museum wants it.”

  Rhonda seemed a bit surly.

  “What’s wrong with you? You have a problem with Darrell I don’t know about?” I asked.

  “No. I’ve just never seen him show any interest in anything of his family’s.” She paused. “I actually had a customer bring me the Deere family Bible last year. She bought it at the auction in the 80s, in a box of other books. It had all this personal stuff in it: weddings, birthdates, even the names of the family pets. I thought for sure Darrell would want it, but he told me he had no use for it.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “Donated it to the museum, just like you’re talking about.”

  I started to defend Darrell by telling Rhonda about the ring he gave his niece, but when I glanced out the front window, I saw Silas walking by with a canvas bag. Peeking out of the top was a pair of dried weasel feet. “I better go. There’s Silas.”

  I caught Silas before he opened the door to Dusty Deals. He was wearing his usual ensemble of burlap shirt and man sandals. I suppressed a shiver at the sight of his pale, boney toes.

  “You brought the weasel with you?”

  He peered into the bag. “Yeah, it kind of gives me the creeps. I hoped you could keep it until you find a buyer.”

  I hadn’t realized I was to be the keeper of the little dried beastie. I wasn’t all that keen on it myself. While I had a few dead animal items in my shop, I didn’t seek them out. The possible exception was the cow horn chair, but who couldn’t help but love that? It had panache.

  “You want me to keep it?” I curled my lip.

  “Would you?” Silas asked with puppy dog eyes. I knew I was backsliding in my efforts to de-wussify myself, giving into Silas’s sad help-me look, but I couldn’t stop myself. Against my better judgment, I took the bag.

  Holding the handles carefully to avoid accidentally brushing up against desiccated toenails, I asked, “You want to go in Cuppa Joe’s? I haven’t had my daily allowance of caffeine today.” I motioned with my non dead-critter-bearing hand toward the coffee shop.

  Silas, free of his burden, was the picture of enthusiasm. “That sounds great.”

  I snagged us a table up front while Silas ordered our coffees. After placing the canvas bag in a chair of its own, I pushed it against the window.

  Silas returned with two foamy cappuccinos both sprinkled generously with cinnamon.

  “I really appreciate you taking care of this.” Silas looked at me with the same relief Kiska had after I let him in from a rainstorm.

  “No problem. I mean, I can’t promise you I’ll be able to sell it for much,” I mumbled.

  “Oh, the family isn’t worried about the money, and I’m just happy to be rid of the thing. I’m sure anything you can get for it will be fine.” Silas beamed at me.

  “As long as you don’t expect too much.” I held out one last hope he would grab the weasel and make a run for it. No such luck.

  “Great. And, of course, we’ll pay you a percentage of whatever you sell it for. Just let me know what you think is fair.” The problem of the weasel behind him, Silas merrily took a sip of his coffee.

  Giving up the fight, I slumped in my seat and cursed my luck. If I was stuck with the beady-eyed thing, it had better at least share some of its spiritual guidance with me. I could use the ability to see past the surface of my current situation. Hell, with the weasel’s help, maybe I’d solve the whole mystery. I smiled to myself as I envisioned telling both Ted and Peter Blake how I had cracked the case with the help of my new dried pal.

  Darrell Deere strolled up, interrupting my daydream. He carried a top hat and cane which he twirled like a baton. “Lucy, I’ve sure been running into you a lot lately.” He gave me a wide smile.

  I introduced the two, but stumbled over how much to explain about Silas. I settled on Rhonda’s friend. Silas, though, had no such hang-ups.

  “Lucy is helping me with some family issues. My cousin died recently, and she’s going to find a buyer for a few items.”

  No wonder he and Rhonda got along. They were both downright chatty. People who tell me their life story in the first five minutes I meet them always make me uncomfortable, but Darrell seemed sympathetic.

  “Oh, was that your cousin Lucy found the other night? That was terrible. A real shock for the whole city.” Darrell placed the brass tip of his cane on the top of his mirror-shiny dress shoe. “So Lucy’s helping you out? She’s a keeper.” He smiled. “What are you selling for Silas, Lucy?”

  “Actually, it’s that dried weasel from your father’s Native American collection. You don’t know of a buyer, do you?”

  Darrell laughed. “No, I don’t travel in those circles. I can’t say I even know anyone looking for a live weasel, much less one that’s been gutted and dried. Pop sure had strange taste. You think it’ll take long to find a buyer?”

  “Hard to say. It’s not like I can run an ad in the Weasel Digest.”

  Darrell tapped the nose of the horse that formed the cane’s handle against the tabletop, and I took a sip of foam.

  “So, the hat and cane for the festival?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m introducing the first band tonight at the kick-off celebration. Are you going?”

  I needed a little fun and frivolity; I nodded my reply. Silas looked unsure.

  “Rhonda and I have armbands for tonight. She planned on asking you,” I explained to him.

  Silas smiled. “Oh, in that case, I guess I’ll be going too.”

  Darrell left to pick up a coffee to go. As he exited through the backdoor, it occurred to me I hadn’t mentioned the note I found earlier.

  I’d see him again soon.

  I turned back to Silas.

  “Were you and your cousin close?”

  “Not really. I hadn’t seen him in years. James was difficult, opinionated.”

  I nodded with concerned understanding. If Silas wanted to talk to me, who was I to stop him? It wasn’t lik
e he didn’t know I was working on the story.

  “When we were teens, he decided we needed tattoos. He badgered me and badgered me. I was kind of quiet then, not really the tattoo type.” He said this like it was a major revelation.

  “Really?” I shaped my face into a shocked expression.

  “Yeah, he even went so far as to have a friend of his draw up custom art.”

  “What did you do?”

  Silas slid the sleeve of his shirt up his arm. A bug-eyed medusa stared back at me. After that uncomfortable moment, I let the topic of Crandell drop. It didn’t seem like Silas had much to add, certainly nothing that would get Ted or Blake groveling.

  We nattered on a bit more about worm ranching, antiques, and dogs until we finished our coffee.

  “If you want to come inside for a minute, I’ll get you a receipt for this.” I jiggled the bag as we paused in front of Dusty Deals.

  “Don’t worry about it. You can give it to me tonight or just give it to Rhonda sometime.” He waved his hand and moved on to Spirit Books.

  I walked into my shop holding the canvas bag at a careful distance. Betty gave me a curious look. “What’cha got there? You look like you just won the booby prize.”

  I held the bag open, with a handle in each hand, so she could peer inside. “Yowza! What is that?” She jerked back.

  This from the woman strutting around with her own dead critter snuggled up against her throat. I looked at her mink for a beat or two and replied, “I think it’s your stole without the Botox.”

  Betty patted her mink. “What’s it for?”

  “It was part of the medicine man set. The only part, except for some feathers, the police found in Crandell’s stuff. I told Rhonda and Silas I’d find a buyer for it.” I tried to exude confidence.

  “Good luck with that.” She stroked her stole and went back to work on the computer.

  Sighing, I took my little buddy back to the office. I shook him out of the bag onto my much scribbled-on desk calendar. As I stood there looking at the weasel from various angles, Kiska wandered over eyes, ears, and nose all alert and working overtime.

  “Oh no, it’s not for you.” I pushed his muzzle off the desk and sat down in the chair. “I’m supposed to be selling this thing, and I don’t want any pieces missing. Plus I’m not sure how a 100-year-old weasel would go down, not to mention come back up or out.”

  The weasel looked like a foot-long sun dried tomato. Well, if you didn’t count the toenails and eyeballs. It seemed to be on some kind of a rope, but since it came out of the creature’s rear quarters, I couldn’t swear it wasn’t a tail or something worse.

  I wasn’t eager to touch the piece, but it looked more leathery tough than brittle. I dug an old plastic bag out of a box next to my desk and used it like an oven mitt to flip the weasel over. His body was twisted and knotty, like whoever had dried him didn’t completely remove all of his inside parts. From this angle, he was even more disturbing. His front feet stuck up in the air beside his still round head.

  “I can’t wait to get rid of you.”

  Using the bag, I picked the weasel up and looked for a place to store him. Kiska watched my movements with interest, tail thumping and tongue lolling.

  I definitely needed to find a place out of malamute reach. Looking up, I spied a likely spot. I wrapped the bag around the weasel’s body and tied the plastic handles in a knot. With all his parts covered, I yanked up my skirt and climbed on top of my desk.

  Sometime in the distant past, there’d been a stove in the room that now housed my office. All that remained was an old flue. It was concealed by a hand-painted cover that resembled a tin pie plate.

  Taking care not to step on the weasel, I grabbed the flue cover in both hands and pulled.

  Nothing.

  I looked for a latch. Again nothing.

  With renewed vigor, I grasped the fluted metal edges and began to seesaw the cover off. After the first few seconds of fussing, the cover suddenly broke free.

  It went flying off, smacking me in the face before continuing across the room and landing with a clank against the side of an army-green filing cabinet. Busy trying to maintain my balance, I barely took note of the offended look Kiska threw my direction before he went to investigate the missile.

  The inside of the flue didn’t look too bad, and it certainly would keep the weasel out of malamute reach. Given the proper incentive, which anything dried and leathery was, Kiska was quite capable of reaching any of the more obvious storage places in the shop.

  Happy with my choice, I picked up the would-be-dog-treat in question and shoved him into the dark hole. After retrieving the cover and tapping it back into place, I scrambled off the desk, pulled out my notebook, and assessed my prospects for getting rid of the thing.

  The most likely buyers for the weasel had to be the people who bid on the medicine man set. Since Silas didn’t seem concerned with getting top dollar, and I wanted to be rid of the mess as quickly as possible, Bill and the out-of-town couple seemed like the best places to start.

  If I was lucky, one of them might also supply me with a new lead on Crandell’s murder.

  I started with Bill. Flipping to the page in my notebook where I had jotted down phone numbers, I reached for the phone and dialed. After five rings, the answering machine picked up. Unsure what to say, I left a quick message asking him to call.

  Next on my short list came the Malones. I called their hotel and asked for their room. Andrew Malone picked up on the second ring.

  “Mr. Malone you don’t know me, but I’m calling regarding a piece of the medicine man set you bid on at Sunday’s auction,” I stuttered out.

  “Who is this? Is this some kind of set-up?” he asked stiffly.

  “No, sir, the family of the man who bought them wants to sell the piece the police recovered, and since you bid on the set, I thought you might be interested.” I went on to explain my new tentative connection to the Crandell clan and that I owned Dusty Deals. I did not reveal that I was also the reporter who had talked to his wife the prior day or that I had any interest in him, Crandell, or the medicine man set, aside from selling the weasel.

  “I didn’t think there was much found. What was it, that old dried weasel?” He asked with a scoff. “That thing isn’t worth much. What outlandish price do they want for it?”

  “There isn’t a set price, but I’m sure the family would be amenable to any fair offers.” I was in professional mode.

  “Well, if it was up to me, I’d tell you to keep the damn thing, but my wife may still be interested. I’ll give you 10 dollars just to make her happy.”

  I knew nothing about the potential value of my little dried friend, but 10 dollars seemed pitifully low. “I’ll let them know your offer. Can I reach you at this number if they decide to accept?” I asked to buy myself time. I had no intention of calling Silas to see if he wanted to take 10 bucks.

  “No, you can’t. According to our attorney, that fascist police detective can’t keep us in this God-forsaken town any longer. I’m tired of scraping horse crap off my shoes and sleeping on cheap hotel sheets. We fly out Sunday, early. We may even try to see a few sights before we go.” He took a breath. “I’ll give you 50 dollars, but no more, and I want it today.”

  Fifty sounded a lot more tempting than his original 10, but his manner didn’t encourage me to cooperate. “I’m sure that’s a very generous offer—”

  He cut me off. “I knew it. You’re just like that guy Crandell—holding out for some astronomical amount. Well, you won’t get it from me, missy. It’s today or nothing.” His voice was tense and measured, as if he struggled to hold onto his emotions.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir. If you change your mind you can contact me here at Dusty Deals.” I reeled off my number and email address, sweetly wished him a good trip home and hung up.

  Yet another charmer. It had been my week for them. At least this one seemed in a rush to get out of town. I wouldn’t miss him.
>
  My stomach rumbled, telling me it was near the lunch hour. I put away my notebook and went to check in with Betty.

  “What happened to you?” She greeted me with a horrified stare.

  “Nothing. What do you mean?” I turned around and caught a glimpse of myself in the Miller Beer mirror. An even coat of black soot covered the lower half of my face. A clean circle marked where the flue cover had landed and apparently shielded me.

  ”Great, just great.” I ran to the bathroom and pulled a foot-long strip of toilet paper off the roll that hung tenuously next to the ancient toilet. Leaning over the pedestal sink, I attempted to rub the soot off my face. Even with only the dim light offered by the one bare bulb in the ceiling, I could tell I was just smearing the mess around. I twisted on the water and stuck a fresh wad of toilet paper under the faucet. The pipes sputtered and creaked until a sudden squirt of water shot out. With the soaking, stringy paper, I dabbed, rubbed, and scrubbed. After about five minutes, I had succeeded in reducing the black coating to something that resembled five o’clock shadow.

  There was no hope for it. I needed to strip down to bare skin and rebuild. I was halfway to my office to retrieve my emergency make-up kit from my gym bag when I remembered where I had last seen it—sitting on my couch at home. “Damn.” There went my merit badge for preparedness.

  “Nice look.” Betty smirked.

  “Thanks for your support.” I slumped against the counter. “What am I going to do about this?” I pointed at my chin and whined, “I left my makeup at home.”

  “If you ask me, you look like a girl in need of munitions.” Betty grabbed the newspaper I had discarded earlier and flipped it open to the third page. “Here you go.” She pointed with one ruby-red fingernail toward a half-page ad featuring a zippered bag loaded with expensive-looking beauty aids. “A free gift with purchase event with free makeovers all day.” She flicked her fingernails against each other and leaned back on the stool. “It’ll be a kick.”

  Most of my limited beauty budget was spent at Target rather than a pricey department store counter. I had a few upper scale products, but most of them were gifts or hand-me-downs that didn’t quite suit my sister or mother’s coloring. “I don’t know. I’m not big on discussing my pore size and exfoliation habits.” I eyed the ad skeptically.