Loose Lips (9 page)

She waved the bills like a fan in front of
her face. “A coffee kiosk had this kind of cash?”

I nodded. “And there was more. A lot
more.”

She looked at the clock on the computer.
“And it’s what? Not even noon. What time did they open? Don’t they
deposit their cash every day?” She shook her head. “That’s bad
business, especially in a kiosk. No wonder that other girl got
murdered. It had to be a robbery attempt.”

She looked pretty convinced, but I couldn’t
share her conviction. “But I don’t think anything was taken.”

She waved the bills again. “Maybe Missy was
better with the cash than this Rachel, but if someone thought they
had this kind of money on hand, that would definitely be a
motive.”

“You think they’d leave it there all
night?”

She shrugged. “You said it was a cash
drawer? No computer? Did you see her keeping track of any
sales?”

I hadn’t.

Betty raised her brows. “What percentage of
this...” More shuffling of the bills. “...do you think the feds
know about?”

Probably not a lot, especially if the money
I’d seen was just from one day. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Rachel
was incredibly trusting and an all–around bad businesswoman who
didn’t know better than to keep a week or more of earnings in a
metal drawer in her kiosk.

How much the IRS knew wasn’t my concern.
However, despite the fact that I’d seen no signs of any kind of
business that would raise an eyebrow, much less a shirt, I couldn’t
believe just selling coffee would bring in this kind of cash.

Maybe Rachel had seen the “light,” but I
wasn’t ready to declare that. And I guessed, even if I did, the
WIL
ers (with the possible exception of Kristi) wouldn’t
buy it anyway. So the job that had been pressed upon me was far
from done.

o0o

After assuring Betty that she’d get to keep
Rachel’s money for the website I’d committed her to creating
and
work on it while I was paying her hourly wage at Dusty
Deals, I headed down the street to visit Joe at Cuppa Joe’s.

It was noon, and Joe didn’t serve lunch, but
it was still sad to see empty tables that were way too clean to
have been used in the last hour.

Actually, the whole place shined. I’d never
realized how depressing clean could be.

He beamed when he saw me. “Lucy! How are
things?” Without asking, he went about grabbing a cup and making my
standard extra–large latte. I’d already had two at the kiosk.
Rachel had insisted, and I’d marked it up to research. (Good, but
not “wait in line half an hour” good.) But there was no way I was
telling Joe that. I just hoped I didn’t hop out of his shop like a
possessed pogo stick.

“So, that detective came by,” he said,
sliding the cup toward me.

My hand froze. “Oh.” I’d forgotten that I’d
told Detective Klein about Joe’s lost business and my desire to
help him discover what the Cuties were offering to lure it
away.

“Nice guy.”

I must have looked shocked or something.

“Not as nice as Peter, of course.”

I nodded as if the worry that he preferred
the Chicago detective to my boyfriend had been the cause of my
expression.

I wanted to ask what Klein had spoken to him
about, but I couldn’t think of a subtle way to work around to it.
Instead, I took a sip of the latte and asked, “Is business any
better?”

The light in his eyes faded. “The day
after...” He stopped.

“After the Cartel owner was found dead?” I
prompted.

He nodded. “You found her, didn’t you? You
seem to have a record going. Maybe I should quit letting you in
here.”

He looked solemn enough that my mind
stuttered.

Then he laughed. “Just kidding you. I know
it isn’t your fault. You just have a knack. Besides, I can’t afford
to turn down any business. Typhoid Mary could walk in and I’d offer
free refills for a month, just to get her to sit down and fill a
spot for a while.” He motioned to the empty tables that were
usually full of a mix of cowboys, hikers, and other locals.

I glanced around, doing some quick
calculations in my head. “How many people do you serve in a day,
when things are good?”

“Depends on the season. A big event like a
parade and I do better. Middle of winter with nothing to bring
tourists downtown, things can be slow.” He frowned. “But not this
slow.”

“So...” He had twenty tables that seated
from two to four people. During an event like he’d mentioned, all
of them might be full with other people standing in line for coffee
to go. A normal winter day, I might come in to find half the tables
occupied and see a dozen or so people come in and out while I
chatted with whomever I’d bumped into while picking up my own
morning jolt.

“Maybe 100 a day?” I guessed.

He shrugged. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t know
the answer himself, or if he just didn’t see any reason to share
the information with me.

His next question made me guess the
latter.

“Why do you want to know?”

He didn’t sound angry or resentful, just
curious. Still, guilt instantly washed over me.

I flushed. “Just figuring how many people we
needed to get back in here to get things back to normal.”

His expression relaxed. “No need to stop at
normal. I’ll take all the business I can get. Except...” He twisted
his mouth to one side. “You aren’t the only one to ask me about
that this week. That detective did too. He seemed to know the kiosk
had put a dent in my bottom–line. He didn’t accuse me of
anything...” The line between his eyes deepened. “You don’t think
he could think I’d kill that girl over lost business do you?”

I assured him Klein wouldn’t, but as I
walked back to my shop, I couldn’t help but do the math in my head.
One hundred customers at five dollars a head. Over a year, that was
over $180,000, and that wasn’t taking into account the tourist
season that was just around the corner. If the kiosk was still
around then, how much more would Joe lose?

$180,000 plus was a pretty big amount and a
pretty big motive.

As I walked back to the shop, I mulled over
my math. Did the kiosk have 100 customers a day? Maybe. Maybe more.
Did that mean the thousand plus that Rachel had had in the till was
reasonable? It didn’t seem like it, but there was no way, aside
from parking outside the kiosk and counting every customer and
their purchases, that I could think to confirm my suspicions. I was
still turning this over in my head when I walked in the front
door.

Betty greeted me with a parakeet–eating
grin. There weren’t actually feathers sticking out of her mouth,
but the overall impression held.

“What?” I asked, stopping just inside the
door.

“Your mom called.”

I rolled my head back and stared at the
ceiling. “Why?”

“She heard about the Cutie. She wanted to
know if you found the body.”

Argh. I wasn’t sure what my mother thought
of my talent for stumbling over dead people. Honestly, it was a
topic I tried to avoid.

“And that Kiska was poisoned.”

Double argh. Did I have no secrets?

“And about the window contest.”

I lowered my head to stare at my employee.
“Seriously? How did she find out about all of that?”

It was a rhetorical question. My mother had
discovered the joys of the social media site FriendTime and the
opportunities it gave her to follow every aspect of my life.

“She called the bed and breakfast. They’re
expecting you in the next hour.”

“What?”

“She wants you to take pictures. She said
their website was a disgrace and she wasn’t staying anywhere until
she’d seen it.”

“If I win the prize, she’ll stay there,
especially once my dad finds out it’s free.”

Betty raised a brow. Her silent way of say,
Yeah, right
.

Fine. It wasn’t like I had anything else to
do... like help Joe get his business back on track, prove the
Caffeine Cartel was offering more than hot drinks, find Phyllis,
figure out who poisoned my dog, or even, say... catch a killer.

And then there was the window contest
itself. My few efforts to get items of local significance to
feature had fallen flat.

Of course, if my mother didn’t find the bed
and breakfast’s accommodations acceptable, winning the contest
would lose a big part of its appeal.

But there was another reason to go. The
original Deere mansion was right next door. It had gotten caught up
in the legal dispute between Darrell and his siblings. It was, last
I heard, sitting empty.

I couldn’t exactly walk in and help myself
to any artifacts I found, but I could take some pictures outside
and maybe even get a look inside through a back window. If I had
something specific to ask for, maybe Cindy or Darrell or someone
would take pity on me and let me borrow… something... anything.

The possibilities were endless. I knew for a
fact Ruby had owned a near priceless ruby. (At least on my scale of
near priceless.) Somewhere there was a painting of her too, wearing
said ruby. I’d never seen it in person, but I’d bet it was huge.
Huge enough that it would fill most of my front window, cutting the
number of other artifacts I’d have to gather in half.

With that in mind, I grabbed the digital
camera that we kept at the shop for photographing merchandise for
our website and auction sites and went to do my mother’s
bidding.

o0o

The B&B was a restored Victorian with a
rose granite and painted wood front and a partial wrap–around
porch. A stone retaining wall separated the elevated yard from the
street and uneven stone steps led up to the front door.

I couldn’t see that it was handicap
accessible, but since both of my parents were still agile and as
capable of climbing the stairs as I was, I didn’t put that as a
mark against it.

Of course, as a possible alternative to
having my parents living with me in my small quarters for two
weeks, there wasn’t much that I could think of that would work as a
mark against it in my book.

Realizing my mother might not be as broad
minded as I was, I took a few extra moments on the street to frame
the pictures I was taking so the bigger cracks in the retaining
wall didn’t show and the shrub that was growing a bit out of
control next to the porch looked artistically wild rather than
lazily unkempt.

Not that the outside of the place was in
disrepair. It was just
relaxed
.

Relaxed was good. My mother could use more
relaxed.

After twisting the key that activated the
old–fashioned doorbell, I stood on my tiptoes and tried to see into
the yard next door where the Deere mansion was located.

I had grabbed a hold of the wooden railing
and was hoisting myself up for a better view when the owner came to
the door.

“That,” she announced. “... is the Deere
mansion. They were a founding family of Montana.” Her tone and
expression said she had made this speech many times. Probably not
to someone hanging halfway off her porch, but practiced hotelier
that she was, she didn’t appear disturbed by my pose.

Still, I hopped down, tugging my shirt back
over my stomach and smoothing my hair. “I know the family. They’re
friends of mine.” Considering how both Darrell and Cindy had
treated me at our last meetings, this was arguable, but it sounded
better than saying I was a stalker hoping to get a glimpse
inside.

“Really.” She smiled. Kind of. Then she held
the door behind her open. “Are you Lucy? Your mother said you’d be
coming by.”

Just the mention of my mother made me feel
shamed. I grabbed hold of the camera, ready to do my duty, and
followed the owner inside.

She pointed to the left, up the oak
staircase. “First door on the left.”

Then she walked off and left me standing in
the foyer. I looked around, confused.

Panic hit.

My mother isn’t here, is she? She
wouldn’t do that. It’s still technically winter, and she hates the
cold. No... no... no...

The last was a bit of a silent scream. It
wasn’t that I didn’t want to see my mother. I did. I mean I
loved
her, but... I just needed prep. And alcohol. Lots of
alcohol.

I looked around again. No alcohol. Not even
of the rubbing variety. Not that I would have drank it. I wasn’t
that desperate. Yet.

Just in case this was some kind of a trick,
I snapped a few pictures of the entry way and hall before making my
way, slowly, up the stairs. They were oak too, with a strip of
carpeting that ran down the middle, cushioning my steps.

At the top was another hall with six closed
doors, four on the left, two on the right.

My hostess had said first door on the left.
I stopped in front of it and pulled in a deep breath.

And knocked.

The door didn’t fly open, which gave me
hope. Of course, my mother could just be on FriendTime or lounged
out on her bed savoring my discomfort.

I knocked again.

This time there was a response. A sweet
Southern
“Just a minute.”

The door opened.

There stood Phyllis.

o0o

My partner/employee seemed surprised to see
me. Not upset or shocked, but her eyes widened enough that I knew
this meeting had not been expected or planned by either of us.

I didn’t wait for an invitation. I stomped
into the room.

“Is she here?” I asked, spinning in a circle
and studying every inch of the space. One plush area rug over
polished wood floors. One pair of velvet drapes pulled closed over
the window. One neatly made bed.

I checked the last two for possible
bodies... or one body: my mother’s.

Nothing under the bed, not even a dust bunny
and nothing lurking behind the drapes more nefarious than a dead
fly.