3 Loosey Goosey (18 page)

Silence.

“That can’t be good, can it?” I asked my fowl and canine companions, but neither had a reply.

My hand moved toward the door knob.

Pauline snorted and Kiska lifted one brow. Derision at my weakness from a dog and a goose.

How pathetic was I?

Slowly, I lowered my hand and stepped back from the door. I gave it one more wary look, then resolve stiffened, I turned on my computer and went to work saving my brother.

I decided to start with my newest lead first—Leslie Danes. After talking to my new gossipy friend, I was pretty confident that the men’s underwear in Tiffany’s drawer belonged to Richard Danes.

Giving his wife, Leslie, the perfect motive to off the young chef. Now I just needed to establish she had opportunity.

I searched for the spa on the Internet and placed my call.

The woman at the main desk was friendly in a one-too-many-cups-of-coffee way. She was also highly efficient, barely giving me time to say the name Leslie before cutting me off with a, “I’ll put you right through.”

Then the phone was ringing, and I was scrambling for a cover story.

Leslie Danes answered promptly, forcing me to choose my lie quickly. I glanced around the room. My gaze settled on the Old West comics lying on my floor.

“This is Billie Kidd,” I stuttered out. “With
Montana Getaways
. We’re doing a piece on spas next month and women who enjoy them.”

“Billy? Kidd?”

“Uh, yes, my dad was a bit of a history buff.”

There was a pause on the other end and for a moment I thought I’d lost her, but then she laughed, a rough laugh like it was hard to muster, but still a laugh.

“Well, I bet people don’t forget it.”

I laughed in return as if my made-up name was a constant source of amusement. Which maybe if I had been named Billie Kidd, it would have been. Lucy Mathews hadn’t brought much spice to my life.

After we’d finished sharing that moment, I pushed on. “Do you mind telling me a bit about your stay at the...” Blanking for a moment, I shifted my gaze back to my computer and the homepage still on the screen. “Golden Rock Lodge? Have you been a guest there before?”

“No, actually, it was a gift from my husband.” She cleared her throat as if she had more to say about the gift but had decided to keep it to herself.

Pretending I didn’t notice the omission, I made appropriate sounds of being impressed and murmured praise for any husband who would be so generous. “When did you arrive?”

“Monday night. Richard dropped me off before rushing off to a conference in Helena. He’s president of the Beef Ranchers.”

“So he wasn’t able to enjoy any of the amenities?”

“He
could
have, but he didn’t.”

All was not paradise in the land of Danes.

“Oh, that’s a shame, but I guess being president of an organization comes with a lot of responsibilities.”

“That’s what he tells me.” There was a noise from the other end of the line, like curtains opening. “Did you have questions about the spa? That is why you called, right?”

Her directness caused me to stutter. “Uh, yeah, uh...”

“Yes?”

I went through a completely made up spiel about how Montana was completely lacking in spas and wondering what had driven her to choose the Golden Rock Lodge.

“As I said, it was a gift from my husband.”

“But the amenities? They’re nice?” I don’t know why I cared, it wasn’t like I was really writing an article on the place, but the conversation was such a downer, I felt driven to bring something good to light.

“They have some.”

After that ringing endorsement, I spent some time getting enough details about the place and her schedule to convince her that my cover story was real. But I wanted to turn the conversation back to Richard Danes some too.

“Is your husband picking you up at the end of the week too? Maybe he’ll have time then to enjoy the spa some. If he does, I’d love to get his take on the place. As rare as spas are in Montana, it’s really hard to find men to interview about them.”

“I don’t think that will work out.”

And that was it. I tried to pry a bit more out of her, but it was pretty obvious that she was done with the interview. 

I hung up, fairly certain the Golden Rock Lodge would not be getting any 5 star reviews posted online from Leslie Danes and that she had not killed Tiffany, at least if her story of being dropped off by her husband was true. Yes, she could have gotten someone to drive her to Helena to off the chef, but that added a complication, plus it was at least a seven-hour drive.

Leslie had said she had arrived on Monday evening; to leave her on my suspect list, I needed a more specific time.  

I called the receptionist at the Lodge back, going through my cover story again and asking when Leslie Danes had arrived. Apparently a trusting sort, she told me six p.m.

This meant for Leslie or her husband to have killed Tiffany she would have had to have died
after
one a.m.

For Ben’s sake, I really hoped Tiffany had rolled under his van sometime in the wee morning hours. If not, I’d just exonerated two of the most likely suspects.

Chapter 16

I opened my office door to find the shop empty. No Betty and no Phyllis. There were, however, noises coming from the alley.

Against my better judgment, I tiptoed to the back door and looked out.

The pair of them were standing between two stacks of merchandise, one stack decidedly of my personal taste—dusty and antique; the other mid-century and sleek.

They seemed to be sorting things or bargaining. I couldn’t tell for sure, and honestly, as long as they weren’t yelling or tearing the store down around them, I didn’t want to know.

Figuring this might be one of my only opportunities to exit before another wave of animosity began, I grabbed Kiska and Pauline and led them out the front.

It was a bit of a walk down Last Chance Gulch with my 120-pound dog and a honking white goose, but I braved the stares to walk around the block and enter the alley where I had left my Jeep. By the time we reached my rig, Betty and Phyllis had disappeared back inside.

I hurried my companions into the vehicle, and we pulled out.

Talking to Leslie, I’d realized there were major holes in my knowledge regarding Tiffany’s death. By now, the police had to know at least an estimate of when she had died and, hopefully, what killed her.

I needed to know those things too.

Time to go for the weak link: George.

It was lunchtime. Which meant George would be going out soon to pick up a sandwich from his favorite hole-in-the-wall shop. I pulled into the lot and waited.

A few minutes later, he arrived and went inside. I got out of my rig and went to lean against his car door.

He walked out carrying a bag and a steaming cup of coffee. When he saw me, he stopped and looked around. For an escape, I guessed.

Finally, realizing his cause was lost, he ambled toward me.

“I should have realized my luck wouldn’t hold.”

I feigned hurt. “Luck? I thought you liked me.”

He shook his head and motioned with the hand holding his lunch. “I can’t tell you anything. Especially not with your brother arrested.”

“Now is when you should most
want
to tell me something,” I replied, dropping my gaze in my best poor-little-girl look.

“Lucy...” I could see he was breaking.

I softened my face even more and waited.

With a sigh, he lowered his lunch to his side and said, “What do you want to know?”

Ten minutes later, George was back in his car, eating his lunch, and I was back in my rig digesting what he had told me.

Tiffany had died around midnight. This, unfortunately, ruled out both Leslie Danes and her husband as the killer.

George had been less forthcoming about what exactly had killed Tiffany, but I had finally managed to get him to admit that whatever they had found in Ben’s Egg that led to his arrest, it hadn’t been a weapon exactly. George had danced around my questions on this quite a bit.

Still, this info, coupled with Daniel’s observation of Tiffany’s behavior, led me to a drug overdose. Except, then why would the police be so sure it was murder?

Pondering this, I turned my rig toward the Capitol and my next stop in my gathering of information: the organic grocery, where I hoped to find HA! I couldn’t imagine my upright brother doing or dealing drugs, at least not a type that would kill someone, but I had to admit he and I had not been all that close of late, or ever.

The other members of HA! almost surely knew more about the Ben of today than I did. Plus, I wanted to follow up what he had told me about Hope and her activity on FriendTime. If she was the one posting Pauline’s pictures on Tiffany’s wall, I wanted to know.

No, check that. I wanted Stone to know.

The only signs of life in the storage room were a new stack of empty hummus containers, three open bags of pita chips and a half-eaten apple.

I found Hope out in the store, sorting through kefir bottles.

“They let us have the expired ones,” she announced, holding out a pink and green plastic bottle.

I held up one hand, warding off her generous offer of fermented milk. “Uh, no. Thanks.”

With a shrug, she twisted the lid off the bottle and tucked two more under her arm.

“I guess you heard about Ben,” I said.

She took a drink and shook her head. “Heard what?”

“He was arrested.”

“Really? Does Eric know? We thought the protest had been a bust. That guy being found took all our press.”

Her enthusiasm for Ben’s arrest and annoyance at Daniel for allowing his own head to be bashed in on HA!’s stage were both heart-warming.

“Ben wasn’t arrested for the protest. He was arrested...” I couldn’t say for murder or killing Tiffany. The words just wouldn’t come out. “...for... because of the chef.”

Hope lowered her kefir, leaving a pale pink yogurt mustache on her upper lip. “Tiffany?”

“Yes...” I looked around. I didn’t really want to have an in-depth discussion of my brother’s possible drug connections next to the dairy section.

I motioned toward the back and started walking. Hope followed, pausing along the way to pick up a bruised peach and an outdated box of organic sandwich cookies.

In the storage room, she shoved the hummus containers to one side, set her kefirs on the table and started munching on her peach.

I wasn’t sure where to start, so I dove right in. “I don’t see Ben as much as I used to.”

She nodded. “We travel a lot. Eric’s goal is to hit all fifty states this year.” She held the peach to one side while considering what she had just said. “Well, maybe not Hawaii and Alaska.”

“Still, forty-eight. That’s impressive,” I replied, hoping my expression matched my words.

“Eric is driven.”

“Yes.” I waited a minute to give the appearance of sharing in the Eric love. “But back to Ben. I was wondering if you could think of any reason the police would connect him to Tiffany.”

The FriendTime posts were the obvious connection, if Hope herself wasn’t responsible for them.

“I didn’t think he even knew her, or of her, until we got here.”

Something about how she worded her response made me think that someone else, herself I guessed, did know or know of Tiffany before arriving in Helena.

Afraid asking outright would put up her guard, I replied, “Changing the subject, but since meeting all of you and being introduced to your cause by Ben, I’ve really been intrigued by HA! and all the good work it does.” I put on my best adoring face.

“Thanks! What we do is important. It would be nice if more people recognized it.”

Feeling that a bond had been established, I moved back toward my goal. “Something you said made me wonder... did you know Tiffany?”

Hope’s gaze shifted around the room. When she looked back at me, I could tell there was some nugget of information burning to make its way out of her. “Not me, personally, but she was the
worst
.”

“The worst? You mean because of the pâté?”

Hope set her kefir on the table and leaned forward. “Oh, definitely the foie gras. That’s why we went to her restaurant, but it’s even worse than that.” Her voice hushed. “She was a founding member.”

My mind on foie gras, Hope’s confession didn’t compute. “A founding member?”

“Of HA! She and Eric were in college together. I think they dated.”

“Oh.” I could see how Tiffany switching from protesting the deaths of animals to serving their livers up on a platter might be disturbing to Hope and others. “But Ben didn’t know this?”

Hope shook her head. “I don’t think so. She was gone before he came along, and he isn’t much for... you know... talking.”

“So, the pictures of Pauline on FriendTime?”

“You saw those?” A smile flitted across Hope’s face, but she quickly stomped it down. “I should probably take those down, with what happened.”

“So you’re Pauline Mathews?”

“Not just me. Pauline is a bit of a mascot. A lot of HA! members update her profile.”

“But not Ben.” It was a statement, because I knew my brother had been telling the truth when he’d denied knowing about the FriendTime activity.

Hope’s lip curled. “No, he doesn’t do that either.” As if suddenly remembering my relationship to him, she added, “Not that everyone needs to be on FriendTime. It’s just that it’s such a great low-cost way to get our message out.”

“You’re using his goose,” I pointed out. Ben could have thrown a fit about that. In retrospect, he should have thrown a fit about that. Actually, I wanted to throw a fit now, but I knew that would just shut my source up.

“Yes.”

I could see that she didn’t think the use of Pauline’s image and my last name was much of a gift.

“So a lot of people post as Pauline. Did a lot of people put the pictures on Tiffany’s wall?”

Her face turned sly. “No. That was just me.” Quickly though, she held up a hand and said, “But I’ll take those down. It wouldn’t look good for HA! to have stuff like that up after someone died.”