by P. B. Ryan
I ran through the possibilities. Obviously, everyone I made plans with: Rhonda, Betty, Gary, and Silas. People we ran into: Angie, plus Dean and Lynn from the News. Who else had I told or seen? Bill Russell, I had mentioned it to him on the phone, and I’d told Darrell Deere at Cuppa Joe’s that morning.
Did any of these people have a reason to break into Dusty Deals?
I didn’t think any of them would pry open my backdoor for estate jewelry or cash. The only other possibility was the weasel—it did have ties to Crandall. But everyone seemed to agree the weasel had little monetary value.
While I considered this, I finished de-furring my borrowed dress. With it clean and hanging in my bathroom to dry, I took care of getting myself ready for the day.
There was no way around it. I needed to get into the shop and straighten things out, both in my head and at Dusty Deals. I loaded Kiska and my ancient vacuum cleaner into the Cherokee. If I had to spend the morning cleaning up, I might as well go the whole way.
Blake had kept his word. The backdoor was securely nailed shut. It was a concrete reminder that someone had broken into my shop last night. Hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. Glancing at Kiska, I gave him a quick hug, and we walked around to the front, dragging my Hoover behind us.
Dusty Deals looked almost normal, a little messier than usual, but there was no dark, ominous cloud filling the space. After my reaction to the nailed door, I expected to walk through the front and feel the violation burglary victims always talk about. I didn’t.
Maybe it was because it wasn’t my home. Maybe it was because nothing was taken. Or maybe it was because Kiska was pressed reassuringly against my leg. Whatever the reason, I felt comfortable being there. I picked up the few things that were knocked over and plugged in the vacuum.
I roared along, dodging Kiska who barked and jumped toward my Hoover every time I made a pass. Vacuum hunting was one of his favorite sports. The big loud machine was no match for him. It came on strong but always retreated and inevitably gave up the battle to his superior might. With all the noise, I didn’t notice anyone had come in until I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I jumped about a foot.
The locksmith from earlier in the week peeked at Kiska and me from behind the cow horn chair. “Peter Blake said you needed a locksmith?”
I did, but I hadn’t given it any thought. Surprised that Blake had, I nodded and explained my problem. The locksmith went back out to pry the nails out of my door and replace the lock. I put Kiska in my office to speed up my vacuuming.
Finished with the main shop, I dragged the Hoover into the small space with Kiska. “Go out into the store. There isn’t room for you to attack the vacuum in here.” I herded him out of my office. It was knee deep in malamute fluff, especially around the walls.
The fur tended to form big tumbleweeds that rolled around until they hit a wall or piece of furniture. I took the nozzle off the vacuum and used just the hose to suck up fur piles. I was cleaning the area around Kiska’s bed when a loud slurp announced the nozzle was clogged. I tipped it up and looked inside.
Lodged into the end was a torn, white cloth. I yanked it out and looked for identifying marks. There were none. I could tell from its wrinkled shape that Kiska had held it between his paws while he worked on destroying it, but nothing indicated what it was from.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t of much use now. It was even too thin and torn up to use as a rag. I threw it into the trash.
When the locksmith finished with the door, I wrote him a check and thanked him for the early Saturday morning visit. Like the two hundred bucks I gave him wasn’t thanks enough. I was stowing the vacuum in my Cherokee when Rhonda walked in the front door.
“What’s going on? Where are you, Lucy?” she called.
I picked up my horse anchor and carried it to the front of the shop.
“There you are. How is everything? I see Kiska’s fine. I’d have called last night, but it looked like you were in good hands.” I could see Rhonda was having a hard time deciding whether she was more concerned about the break-in or nosy about Blake. Nosy won out.
“So how was Blake? Did he take care of you?” She gave me a conspiratorial smile.
I opened the front door and positioned the horse anchor to hold it ajar. “Actually, he did. He was surprisingly helpful.” I refused to play. “Nothing was taken.”
Rhonda gave up on matchmaking with a sigh. “Well, that’s good. Do they think it was kids or what?”
I told her what the uniformed officer had said the night before. “They weren’t after cash. The register wasn’t even touched. They also didn’t take any of the obvious things, like the silver or jewelry.” I pointed to a display case near the front that held a selection of estate brooches and rings. “Blake seems to think it might be someone who knew I was going to the jazz festival.”
“Really? Why would someone you know break in?” Rhonda looked as confused as I felt.
“I don’t think they would.” Worrying over the question myself, I twisted my lips. “I think he’s just thinking that because nothing was taken.”
Rhonda nodded. “Makes sense. Kids would have taken something, even if it was just the first thing they grabbed.”
I didn’t like the direction her thoughts were going, but her logic made sense. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a break-in on the Gulch before,” I replied, hoping she would jump forward with a list of 20.
“There haven’t been many.” Peter Blake stood inside the doorway. Rhonda and I had been so involved in our conversation, we hadn’t noticed him enter. I quickly reviewed our conversation. What had Blake heard?
“Look at that dog, Daddy. Can I pet him?” A small boy of around six squeezed past Blake. Kiska approached him, tail wagging and tongue ready.
Blake looked at me. Startled by the “Daddy” bit, it took me a couple of beats to answer. “Just let him smell your hand first.”
The boy dutifully held his hand out to Kiska, who gave it a perfunctory sniff before going in for the lick.
“He likes me.” Giggling, the boy grabbed Kiska around the neck in a bear hug. Kiska was thrilled to have a new playmate, just his size—well actually 50 pounds or so smaller than him.
“Jeremy, let him go. You can’t roughhouse like that in here.” Blake pulled Jeremy away from Kiska, who sat down and looked at his new friend expectantly. He had no problem with indoor roughhousing.
“Don’t worry about it. They’ll be fine.” I waved my hand. Blake gave Jeremy a few quiet instructions before releasing him. Jeremy plopped down next to Kiska who immediately rolled over for a belly rub.
“I thought I’d stop by and make sure everything was okay,” Blake said.
Rhonda watched us with curious eyes as I assured him everything was fine. “Thanks for nailing my door shut and sending by the locksmith. I didn’t even think of calling him.”
“I didn’t want to get paged twice in one night’s all.” He put his hands in the front pockets of his Wranglers and leaned against the jewelry display. “Jeremy wanted to come down for the big race. So, I thought we’d drop in and check on you.” He shifted his weight from one flat-heeled boot to the other.
“I can’t wait. The horse’s going to win. Isn’t he, Daddy?” Jeremy chimed in from the floor.
Daddy. There it was again. Rhonda returned my glance. She cleared her throat and replied to Jeremy. “You must mean the reenactment.”
Rhonda caught my confused look. She explained. “As part of this year’s jazz festival, the automotive dealers are sponsoring a race between a horse and a vintage car. It’s based on an old movie with a similar contest in the early days of cars. The horse gets to take shortcuts through alleys and parking lots. The car has to stick to the street.”
Now I understood the two cowboys I’d seen earlier in the week. They must have been scouting shortcuts around the Gulch.
Rhonda smiled at Jeremy. “You must have come early to get a good seat. The race doesn’t s
tart until 11. So you’re rooting for the horse, are you?”
Jeremy answered, “You betcha. My mom says nothing can beat a good Quarter Horse. She’s a barrel racer.” He glowed with this last statement.
Striving to look uninterested (for Blake) and marveled (for Jeremy), I said, “Oh really. That’s very impressive.” It was weak, but the best I had.
Blake shifted his feet again. “Shelia’s my ex. You might have noticed her at the Antebellum last night. She tends to stand out.”
Oh, I noticed her all right.
Blake reached into his pocket and removed a small wax paper packet. He unfolded it and pulled a toothpick out. The smell of cinnamon drifted my way.
Cinnamon toothpicks. I remembered being tormented on the school bus by a fifth grader who made his own flavored toothpicks in a medicine bottle with cinnamon oil. There seemed to be a parallel there somewhere.
Rhonda didn’t appear diverted by the toothpicks. “I didn’t know you were divorced.” She smiled sweetly, prying devil that she was. Gotta love her.
Blake cut his eyes toward Jeremy. “Yeah, for about five years. Jeremy lives with Shelia. I see him when I can during the week and on weekends. It’s pretty much all he’s known.”
Rhonda smiled down at Jeremy. “You wouldn’t be interested in books, would you? I just dug out a bunch of kids’ books I was going to put on my bargain table. Why don’t you come next door, and see if there’s anything you like. It’ll save me from having to re-price them.”
Jeremy looked torn between leaving Kiska and getting free books. After I assured him Kiska would still be here when he got back, he took Rhonda’s hand and tugged her next door.
“Have you heard anything from anyone at the station yet today?” Blake used his tongue to move the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.
I watched the splice of wood ping pong back and forth. “Not yet.”
“Well, you probably won’t, unless there’s another problem. A break-in with nothing stolen isn’t very high priority, even here.” He moved the toothpick to the right side of his jaw and kept it there. “Did you give any more thought to who knew you were going to the jazz festival?”
“Yeah, but I don’t see how any of them had a reason to break-in. None of them are the crowbar and ski mask type, and, as you pointed out last night, everything with resale value was left behind.”
Blake rolled the toothpick a little between his teeth. I started to mention my thoughts on the weasel when Jeremy reappeared carrying a bag full of books. “Daddy, she had books on dinosaurs and horses. Look at this one.” He pulled out a book with a T-Rex tearing into some poor helpless herbivore pictured on the cover. “Isn’t it great?”
“It’s terrific. Did you thank Miss Simpson?” Blake tousled his son’s hair.
“I did. I invited her to come to the race with us. She said she wouldn’t miss it for all the herbs in China. She’s bringing your friend too.” He nodded in my direction. Turning to me, he asked, “Can you bring your dog?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. Did I correct him on the “friend” front, on going to the race, or explain why Kiska wouldn’t be exactly welcomed by anyone but me and him?
Blake rescued me. “I don’t think she can bring Kiska. You know how skittish some horses get around dogs.”
Jeremy looked at me sagely. “Yeah, that’s too bad. You’ll have to bring him out to the ranch. The horses there are used to dogs.”
The simplest thing seemed to be to let it go at that. I mumbled, “That sounds good.”
Jeremy gave Kiska a hug and picked up his bag of books from where he’d dropped them near the door. “We’ll see you at the race. Don’t be late.”
Blake gave him a good-natured smack on the rear as they left the shop.
Chapter 23
When Rhonda appeared on my doorstep at 10:50, I didn’t fight the inevitable. She could be as tenacious as a terrier after a rat, especially when it came to “fixing” my love life. Rhonda was one of those women who always had a man. Not that she needed a man. She just always had one. I, on the other hand, didn’t. That is, I didn’t need nor always have a man. This last part was foreign to Rhonda, and she was on a constant quest to remedy this obvious hole in my existence.
So when she showed up, I meekly turned my sign to closed and followed her. It wasn’t that I wanted to go. I just knew it was a losing battle—live to fight another day and all that.
“So, what do you think?” Rhonda prodded me.
“About what?” I knew where this was headed, but why make it easy for her?
“About Peter Blake, with son and ex-wife. You know he’s interested. Are you?” She looked at me expectantly.
“First, I don’t know that he’s interested. How could I know that?” I stubbornly trudged along.
“Please. I know you aren’t that dense. The man fixed your door, called the locksmith, and came by, with his son, to check on you. Of course he’s interested.” She flipped her hair, a gesture reminiscent of a cat’s tail twitching with anticipation as it watched an unwary mouse. “Now, the question is, are you, and if so, what are you going to do about it?”
Feeling like I was 8 years old and just had the infamous “So-and-so likes you. Do you like him?” note handed to me, I handled her question in a mature adult way. I avoided it.
“Wow, there’s quite the crowd here. I don’t know if we’ll even see Jeremy and Blake.”
Rhonda sighed loudly. “They’re over there.” She pointed directly at Jeremy who sat on Blake’s shoulders on the other side of the Gulch. Ropes cordoned off where the horse and auto would begin their race. I looked around for an open area so we could cross the street.
A bandstand, complete with red, white, and blue streamers, was set up close to where the Jazz Festival tent had been the night before. In front of the bandstand, ready to take off down the Gulch towards Dusty Deals, stood a buckskin quarter horse with cowboy and a bright blue Model T with driver.
The cowboy had a hat pulled low over his eyes blocking out the late morning sun. His tan duster coat looked a little warm for the day, but the overall appearance of it paired with a red bandana was pure working West. The driver of the Model T also wore a long coat. Goggles, pulled up onto the top of his head, completed the look. All three of them, driver, cowboy, and horse, were facing the bandstand where Darrell Deere once again stood in front of the microphone.
Darrell seemed to have lost some of his usual sparkle. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his overall appearance was borderline unkempt. He’d lost the pocket square and cane and exchanged the top hat for a wide-brimmed fedora. Today, he sported the same iron-gray suit, but it looked a little rumpled, and some kind of lint clung to both of his legs. He handed the microphone to the head of the Automotive Association and climbed down into the crowd.
“It looks like they’re getting ready to start. Let’s get out of the way.” I pushed my way through the crowd in an effort to get closer to the bandstand and behind the racers.
Not making much progress, I leaned against the bandstand and waited as the Auto Association president droned on about the importance of the automobile in the making of our great nation and the incredible number of deals available right now at the closest car dealership.
Darrell stood next to the bandstand steps with his back to me. I absently noticed the lint on his legs was actually dog hair. He turned to face me, and I blurted out, “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
He looked at me like I’d sprouted whiskers and a tail, both of which I sometimes long for, but doesn’t everybody?
“I don’t,” he answered.
I blinked at him for a minute, taking in the white dog fur and the missing pocket square. He blinked back. Darrell had been around a dog recently. A shedding dog—like Kiska.
A roar started in my ears. It couldn’t be. My mind wasn’t operating right. I had to get out of the crowd and think this over. People closed in and space disappeared. I twirled around looking for an escape j
ust as someone shot a revolver, signaling the start of the race. I jumped like someone had stuck me in the butt with hot poker. The horse and Model T surged forward, and the crowd pushed after them.
The rush of people shoved me along like an empty inner tube on the Missouri River. I bobbed up and down searching for Rhonda, Blake, and Darrell.
“Lucy, where are you? Lucy?” Rhonda popped up out of the crowd. “Lucy, where are you going?” She disappeared.
I went down for the third time. That was it. I wasn’t making it back up. My vision was filled with unidentifiable backs, legs, and feet. I tried not to panic as the movement of the crowd swept me down the Gulch.
Suddenly, the pressure from the throng squirted me onto the curb. I landed on all fours, hard. Someone reached down and grabbed me from behind, pulling me to a stand. Unsure who held me, I screamed, “Rhonda, Rhonda, Blake. Where’s Blake?” I fought for my release, arms and legs flailing like a Jumping Jack Doll whose string was being pulled by a demented toddler.
“I’m right here,” a voice murmured quietly in my ear. “What is wrong?”
Blake set me down on my feet and turned me to face him. Jeremy was no longer on his shoulders. He stood next to his father, watching me with rapt interest.
“Darrell, Darrell Deere… dog hair… pocket square…” I stammered.
“Slow down, Lucy. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” Blake pulled me by the elbow out of the crowd. Jeremy followed, his gaze still locked on me in fascination.
Rhonda huffed up next to me, her eyes filled with annoyance. “There you are. What happened? One minute, you’re standing right next to me, and the next, you’re on the ground, scurrying around like a frenzied squirrel searching for fall’s last nut.”
I took a deep breath and grabbed Blake’s arms. “Darrell Deere has dog hair on him, but he doesn’t have a dog. And his pocket square’s gone. But it can’t mean anything, can it? I mean Darrell wouldn’t…would he?”
