Loose Lips (19 page)

“He sure looked like he knew!” And besides,
thanks to Bev’s announcement on the news, he was sure to know
now.

Since returning to the shop, we’d already
seen that particular clip roll over the screen three times.

When it’d popped up for the fourth, Betty
had snapped the TV off and firmly shoved me out of my office.

She pulled a yellowed corset out of one of
Darrell’s boxes, made a face, and carefully set it to the side.
“What exactly do you think they found? Besides the trash.” I’d
already described to Betty what I had seen firsthand, and she
agreed that none of it could possibly qualify as a murder
weapon.

“I don’t know. Maybe there was something
else in the bag I didn’t see.”

Betty screwed up her face.

I hastened to clarify. “That Joe found and
didn’t realize had been used to kill Missy.”

“And what could that be?”

We both mulled that over for a bit.

“Something to do with the coffee business?”
I suggested.

“Maybe.” She shook out a length of dusty
newspaper to see if there was any prize hidden inside.

There wasn’t. Just more dust.

She sneezed. “Do you think Bev knew
something about Joe? And that’s why she wanted to talk to him?”

In retrospect, her story of wanting to hear
his take as a fellow coffee shop owner
was
weak. “But what
could she have known?”

“Rachel said she’d heard he’d gone through
their trash. Maybe Rachel told Bev. Or someone else saw him
too.”

Something clicked. “Wait... If they found
the murder weapon, then maybe it was in the dumpster when Joe took
the kiosk’s trash. Maybe that’s why he had it. Which means he had
to have been at the kiosk—”

Betty jumped in. “After Missy was
murdered!”

Except, if Rachel’d known Joe had gone
through their trash, and it had been after Missy was killed, who
had told her? Had he done it more than once? The question nagged at
me for a minute, but I set it aside. The important thing was that
this gave Joe a plausible and somewhat innocent reason for having
the murder weapon. Assuming, of course, that that was when he’d
visited the kiosk’s dumpster... But Laura had seen someone there
too.

It all fit.

Kind of.

The murderer had to be worked in there
somewhere too.

I was getting a headache.

Betty stood, looking victorious. A silver
compact glistened in her hand.

I dove forward to take it. The mirror inside
was old and foggy, but Ruby’s initials were on the top.

Now we were getting somewhere.

o0o

The thoughts that had started when I was at
the shop bubbled inside of me the rest of the day like soda in a
dropped can. Business was slow and attention from the police was
slower. I’d waited like a good citizen for someone to come talk to
me, to get my side of what had happened, but no one showed.

Smelling conspiracy that kept me and my very
valuable input out of the loop, I called in a pick–up order to
Peter’s favorite supper club. Forty minutes later, a bag of white
Styrofoam boxes in hand, I arrived at the police station.

It was after six, and the main lobby was
closed. I pushed the after–hours button and waited for a voice to
come on and listen to my plea.

No one responded.

I pushed the button again.

Still nada.

Annoyed, but determined to look like the
loving, concerned girlfriend that I was, I held the bag up in
calculated view of the camera that hung outside the door and
smiled.

I was about to give up on my stealth attack
and call Peter instead, hoping he wouldn’t ignore the call, when
the door opened with a click.

Relieved, I stepped inside.

I was confronted by my boyfriend,
stone–faced as ever. He was hat–free, and the sleeves of his shirt
were rolled up.

I held the bag up even higher. “I brought
you dinner.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and
stared down at me.

“Rib eye!

“With horseradish!”

He took the bag and reached behind me to
reopen the door that I had just breached.

I gave up my act. “Come on. I brought steak.
The least you can do is talk to me for ten minutes.”

It took a second, but he heaved out a sigh.
He was tired. I could see it in the skin around his eyes. He ran
his free hand through his hair. “Ten minutes. Then I have to get
back to work.”

I nodded solemnly and tried not to skip as I
followed him to his office.

o0o

As Peter walked around his desk and sat
down, I stayed in front of it, trying to come up with just the
right thing to say that would get me the information I wanted while
also showing my love and concern for the fact that he was obviously
being overworked.

He opened the Styrofoam box that contained
the steak and inhaled deeply. He looked so tired, so completely
beat, that all thoughts of pumping him for information fled from my
brain.

Actually, it was more like they were
smothered by a giant cloud of I–am–a–horrible–girlfriend guilt.

I sat in one of the two chairs that faced
his desk and watched him eat.

When he was done, he put everything back
into the bag and looked at me. “Thank you.”

With a nod, I took the bag and stood to
leave.

He watched me for a second, and then pulled
me into his arms. His chin resting on the top of my head, he
murmured, “No, really, thank you. With this job, it’s easy to
forget what’s important, what you care about.”

Feeling even smaller, I nodded again.

I took a step toward the door, pulling out
of his arms, but he leaned forward and pulled me back. “Now, tell
me why you’re really here.”

I stuttered and stumbled a bit, trying to
cover my previous bad intentions, but he gave me a squeeze. A warm,
accepting squeeze that made me feel even worse. “Really. I know
you. I love you. Now tell me why you’re here before the steak wears
off and you lose your shot.”

And so I did. I told him about the
WIL
ers and how Laura had seen someone parked behind the
dumpster and how if Joe had the murder weapon, he had to have found
it in the trash after the murderer left.

“Can she describe this person?”

I shook my head. “But...”

“And did they see this person leave? Did
they see Joe arrive?”

I shook my head again. I could see where he
was going with this, and it wasn’t the direction that I’d
planned.

I lowered my head. If the person they saw
was
Joe, this might be more evidence against him.

I could see the same thought in Peter’s
eyes, but he didn’t vocalize it. Instead, he sighed. “I shouldn’t
tell you this, but...”

Breath caught in my lungs. Peter never told
me things he shouldn’t tell me.
Never
.

“But...” he repeated. “We consulted with an
outside expert and he agrees. The way Missy was killed doesn’t fit
with someone angry because her business was doing better than his.
It’s more—” He cut himself off.

“It’s more...?”

But he was done.

Still, it was enough. Joe’s motive didn’t
fit the crime. Murder weapon, or what looked like the murder
weapon, or not, Peter didn’t think Joe was guilty any more than I
did. More than that. It sounded like the Helena P.D. didn’t think
Joe was guilty any more than I did.

Life was good. Everything would be all
right.

I left the station floating on the cloud
that had earlier threatened to smother me.

o0o

Unlike Phyllis and me, Joe was not released
quickly.

In fact, when Kiska and I rolled out of my
Jeep the next morning, Cuppa Joe’s was still locked tight. A TV
crew was set up out front, a different station than Bev’s, but they
didn’t seem to have any new information. After peering out my front
door at them for a few minutes, I shut the door and went back to my
office to review my “to dos” for the day.

There were still two boxes of Darrell’s
items shoved against one wall that I had yet to open. Based on the
little of value that I’d pulled from the previous ones, my
enthusiasm for unpacking the last two was low.

The painting was still AWOL. With the window
contest looming, this was a top priority.

I still hadn’t figured out what had happened
to Kiska earlier this week and felt guilty as I realized I’d all
but forgotten about investigating that rather major issue.

But, most importantly, I really wanted to
talk to Joe to see if he’d seen anything when he arrived at the
kiosk. If he had even gotten the trash that night... but if the
murder weapon was found at Joe’s, he had to have gotten the trash
that night. Otherwise... well, I didn’t want to think about the
otherwise.

Betty arrived in a cloud of perfume that was
spicy and exotic. Her hair was slicked down and a black feather
curled around her head as if created for the purpose.

I put in a call to the jail, requesting to
speak to Joe. I was quickly rejected. It seemed he wasn’t taking
visitors either, or at least not me. I hoped it was more of a
general “no visitors” thing, but I couldn’t be sure. Either way,
talking to Joe was out for at least the rest of today. I put in
another call to Gregor to see if he could work on getting that
changed. His receptionist did not put me through, but she assured
me he would call me
right back
.

While holding my breath waiting for that, I
reviewed my mental list again and decided to take the rest in order
of deadline and ease of completion. Nothing like ticking something
off your list to make you feel successful.

Painting it was.

Kiska and I left Betty working on the
kiosk’s website and went to beard the bull in his pen.

o0o

Parked in the alley behind the Deere
mansion, I weighed whether to bring Kiska with me or not. He and
Darrell weren’t exactly close, which could work for or against
me.

Kiska, awaiting my choice, sat ears perked
in the passenger seat beside me. Finally deciding it was best to go
in peace, at least this time, I cracked the windows and left him
locked inside the Jeep.

What I found at the Deere mansion, however,
was far from peace.

Cindy Deere stood on the porch, pounding
with two fists on the door. “Let me in, you old thief! I have as
much right to this house and those things as you do. And don’t
think I don’t know what you’ve been up to.”

When she saw me, she stopped pounding long
enough to give me a deadly stare, then turned back to the door. “If
I have to go down the chimney, I’m getting inside.”

Feeling more than a little uncomfortable,
but also not wanting to leave without finding out what was going on
with both Cindy and the painting, I cleared my throat.

She turned to face me again. “What are you
doing here?” She looked me up and down. “I hate to break it to you,
but you aren’t his type.”

Realizing she thought I was interested in
Darrell in the Biblical sense, I blushed. “Oh, no. Remember, I told
you, I wanted to borrow a few things for the sesquicentennial?”

“The... oh, yeah...” Her eyes narrowed and
her body stiffened. “Did he give you something?”

“Umm.” I glanced at the very closed door.
“Well... a few things.”

“What? You know that anything he gave you is
as much mine as his, right?”

I didn’t know that, and I certainly wasn’t
going to take her word for it, but I smiled and nodded.

She took a step toward me. “So what did he
give you?”

“Nothing much. Just some dishes and clothes.
You know, that Ruby might have used.”

She sniffed. “Any of it worth much?”

I shook my head. “No... Well, there’s a
compact.” I’m not sure why I admitted to the later. I default to
honesty under pressure. I blame my mother for that.

Her eyes lit. “How much?”

“Two… maybe three hundred?”

“Dollars?” Her outrage was obvious. “That’s
nothing!” She paced up and down the wooden porch. “Have you been
inside? Did you see anything in there worth more? There is, isn’t
there? There has to be.”

There was the painting, which was certainly
worth more to the right buyer, and if you added up all the
furnishings of the house, plus the house itself, you would be
talking hundreds of thousands of dollars, but I didn’t really think
Cindy needed me to tell her that.

Besides, as she wandered back and forth on
the porch she seemed to be more rambling than really looking for an
answer from me.

She held out a key. “The old bastard changed
the locks.”

Deciding changing the subject might be a
good idea, I said, “So, those cupcakes were great. I’ll have to
stop back by your bakery soon.”

Her responding expression wasn’t pretty.
“What bakery? The bakery is gone, or might as well be.”

“But... You seemed to be...” I remembered
then that when I’d visited, the only other customer was Missy, and
then the day at the kiosk, Rachel had told the teenagers that they
weren’t selling baked goods anymore. “The Caffeine Cartel quit
ordering from you,” I said. “But they can’t have been your only
source of business. I mean I’m sure that hurt, but your cupcakes
were great. Even Darrell thought so. I’m sure he told you.” Darrell
had shown nothing but anger at the manure cupcakes I’d given him,
but I thought hearing her uncle had enjoyed them might lift her
spirits.

“You gave Darrell my cupcakes?”

“Yes, I—”

“The
poop
ones?”

“I...” This wasn’t going as I’d hoped. I
strode to one of the windows that flanked the front door and peered
inside. “Is he in there? I really wanted to talk to him. He’d
promised a painting of Ruby and it hasn’t arrived. I’m hoping
he—”

Behind me Cindy broke into laughter, big
deep belly laughs.

Confused, I turned back. “I didn’t mean to.
I meant to give him the cute ones with the little coffee cups on
them, but—”