Loose Screw (Dusty Deals Mystery) (7 page)

Ted didn’t give me time to do either.

“You can start today. I’ll pay you double my normal stringer rate.”

Double nothing was...
let’s see
... I did some quick calculations in my head...
nothing
.

He spent another five minutes or so spitting out details on pay, deadlines, and equipment. “And Marcy will help. Between the two of you, surely you can come up with something that won’t embarrass us.”

I stared at a spot on the wall in front of me until my eyes crossed.

 When I was pretty sure my mother was right, and they would get stuck that way, he blasted one final order. “Article. Five.” Then he hung up.

I dropped the receiver onto the cradle and tore a page off my cartoon “quote of the day” calendar.
I’ve developed a new philosophy…I only dread one day at a time. —Charlie Brown.

Seemed like as good of a life philosophy as any.

It was 11 a.m. Which meant I had six hours, if I skipped lunch (not likely), to find out anything new and news worthy (not always the same thing). If I was lucky, I could wrap this thing up today and get Ted out of my life for good.

With that golden motivation in mind, I got to work.

First, I needed to follow up on what the TV news had reported this morning. That meant a visit or call to the police station. I decided to try the phone first. Maybe George would answer. He would probably be willing to leak a few details if it wasn’t obvious he was talking to “the press.”

My luck was turning; George was back on phone duty.

 “You haven’t found another body have you?”

“Not yet.” I stammered for a moment. “I... uh... I... .”

 “Lucy?” Concern and confusion, quickly followed by suspicion. “Why’d you call?”

I hesitated for a moment, but I couldn’t lie to George. Besides, working for the paper should be a mark in my favor. “I’m helping the
Daily News
out.”

I could almost hear George weighing what he should say next. “Well, I’m not too surprised. Marcy wouldn’t have the sense to run with an avalanche on her tail.” He inhaled loudly. “Hold on a sec, will ya?”

Silence filled the other end of the line. I guess the Helena Police couldn’t afford Muzac.

“Had to change phones. You called on the line we record.”

I adjusted my weight in my seat.

This was it. George was going to spill everything, I was going to write the story of the year, and Ted would take back every nasty unfair thing he’d said about me.

Or not
. 

“I can’t believe you went back to work for Ted. What were you thinking?”

Great, a lecture.

“I... .” I had nothing. No explanation, no excuse.

“You need the money?” Understanding. “That shop can’t be making you much.”

He was right. It wasn’t, but, of course, I hadn’t been making much at the paper either. “It isn’t,” I replied, forlorn.

He sighed. “Well, if you need the work... ” Almost a question, but not quite. I felt no compulsion to answer. Finally, he sighed again.  “You didn’t hear any of this from me, right?”

I sat up a little straighter.
Why did I leave this job? It is so easy.
“Right.”

 “Seems this Crandell had just made a big purchase at that auction this weekend.”

 “He bought the medicine man outfit,” I confirmed.

“That’s it. Well, part of it is missing.”

My heart raced a little. Denton Deere’s medicine man outfit missing. I felt sick.

“His luggage was in the car. He checked out of his hotel around 3:30, but the only signs of this ‘outfit’ he’d bought were a few feathers and some kind of dried up rodent on a string.”

“You mean the dried weasel?”

“I guess that’s what it is. Looks more like a turd on a rope to me.” George chuckled.

I pulled an old reporter’s notebook out of my lap drawer and flipped it open. “Do you think the rest of it was stolen?”

“We don’t know for sure. He could have dropped the rest off somewhere before he got killed, or he could have had it with him and the killer took it.”

“So his clothes were there...  was anything else missing?” I picked up a pen and made a few notations on the pad. Getting information out of George was almost as easy as getting it out of Rhonda. I really should have played the starving reporter thing earlier.

“Just his car keys. They weren’t on the body, and we scoured the area around him and his car.”

That was interesting.

I thanked him and prepared to hang up.

“Lucy?”

I paused.

“Watch out for Blake. He’s on the war path with this one.”

“Oh.” My earlier nausea returned. “Where is he?”

“He’s out talking to some couple that was at the auction. They bid against the victim. They were due to leave Helena this morning. Last I heard he was still at their hotel.” I heard muffled sounds as George put his hand over the mouthpiece to talk to someone else. Then he spoke, his voice clear. “Listen, I’ve got to go.”

After confirming it was okay to move my Cherokee, I hung up.

Blake was with the couple from D.C. Which meant the last place I wanted to be was with the couple from D.C. Unfortunately, the only way to find out what Blake was thinking was to go where Blake was.

My mind drifted to Ted.
Wuss
. 

Chapter 6

Wuss
still echoing through my mind, I squared my shoulders and left the building. My Cherokee sat where I had left it the day before, but the alley looked different. Stray pieces of yellow crime tape were stuck to both the Dumpster and the brick wall of Dusty Deals, but it was more than that. I normally found the dark coolness of the alley comforting, but today it felt cold and closed in... claustrophobic.

Standing with my back against Dusty Deals, I could see only a small bit of sky before the office building on the other side of the alley crowded it out. This towering eyesore was mainly home to lawyers, investment bankers, and men like Darrell Deere, who had money and, for some reason, needed an office in a big building downtown. Another small bit of light spilled over through the gap made by the parking lot behind Spirit Books. This illuminated the area around the Dumpster, bringing back memories of Crandell stretched out and dead.

Maybe Rhonda’s sage burning idea wasn’t so screwy.

I hurried to the Cherokee and unlocked the door.

In a rush to leave the alley behind, I started the engine and aimed for the yellow tape blocking my path. As the last kernels of horse manure from Monday’s visitors squashed under my tires, I planned my best move. Blake was interviewing the couple from the auction at their hotel.

Helena had a limited number of hotels and only a few that out-of-state people tended to choose. Being the deductive wizard I was, I decided I should start with those.

I started with the closest, a newer place by the city center. I drove around the parking lot looking for any hint of Blake.

Seeing no indication of the police, I moved on. The second hotel was one of those chains that offers a free breakfast and caters to business travelers. Since they didn’t take dogs, I would never stay at one, but to each his own. It was only a couple of minutes away. As I approached, I saw some kind of activity in the parking lot.

Two cars were parked by the side entrance, one a dark blue that screamed unmarked police and one with an image of the Guardian of the Gulch on the door. The Guardian of the Gulch is an old fire tower that stands over Last Chance Gulch. The wooden tower is no longer used, but the police display its image on both their cars and uniforms.

A uniformed officer stood next to the marked car with the front door open. He rested both arms on the roof as if he had been waiting a long time. I pulled in at a discreet distance.

 My bag with notebook and mini-recorder over my shoulder, I scurried past the officer and into the hotel. To the left of the main entrance was the front desk, currently unoccupied. To my right was the reception area where the hotel served breakfast and happy-hour drinks. A man in a polo shirt and chinos was cleaning up. Remains of half-eaten bagels, Styrofoam bowls with milk-soaked cereal, and cups with coffee dregs dotted the tabletops.

I stepped around an Oriental folding screen that shielded diners from the main entrance and tried to look innocent. “Is something going on? I saw a police car outside.”

The man in chinos looked up from wiping crumbs off a table into his hand. “Don’t know. A detective went upstairs.”

“Not on the second floor? That’s where my mother’s room is.” I went for a slight note of alarm this time.

It didn’t seem to work. His eyes narrowed. Water fell in slow drips from the dirty dish rag he held, leaving dark dots on the indoor-outdoor carpeting. “Second floor’s closed. We had a pipe burst last week.”

I took a step back. “My mistake, she’s on the third.”

With a grunt, he slapped the cloth on top of a puddle of milk and resumed his cleaning.

That hadn’t worked as I’d hoped.

I glanced at the elevator. The hotel had three floors. If Blake was upstairs, and the second floor was closed, that left only one to choose.

A real reporter, one who wasn’t a
wuss
, would go investigate.

The man with the dishrag picked up the bucket containing his cleaning supplies and walked toward the desk. He had just disappeared into the hotel office when the elevator dinged.

I froze. Then, seconds before the doors slid open, I threw myself behind the oriental folding screen and commando crawled forward until my eye was pressed against the crack between the panels.

Blake and the couple from the auction got off the elevator. An officer in uniform exited behind them. In his left hand, he carried some kind of small plastic bag, using the same care I would to handle a Faberge egg. The group walked to the center of the lobby and stopped about 10 feet away.

“I understand your concerns, Mr. Malone, but I can’t allow you to leave Helena just yet. Unfortunately, right now I can’t even tell you exactly when I will be able to let you go.” Blake kept his weight evenly distributed between both feet.  He tilted his head down and stared Malone in the eyes.

“Is it absolutely necessary my wife go with you at this exact moment? Are you arresting her?” Malone looked flushed and harried. His white dress shirt was wrinkled, and what appeared to be a coffee stain adorned his pants.

“As I already told, sir, your wife is being taken in for questioning. She can call you from the station to let you know when you can pick her up.”

“This is ridiculous. She already explained how she got that feather. She knows nothing about that man’s murder. We didn’t even know him.”

 “Be that as it may, sir, we still need to take her downtown. We’d also like a formal statement from you. You can come now or wait until later if you need to make arrangements to stay here longer.” Blake looked at Malone with strained patience.

Malone glanced at his wife and rubbed his brow with his hand. Mrs. Malone stood stiffly at her husband’s side, her mouth ajar and her face ashen.

Malone opened and closed his hands. I could hear his knuckles pop from across the room. “I’ll come now. I assume you have some kind of list I can refer to for an attorney in this horse-driven city.”

“We have the yellow pages, sir. You’re welcome to them.” Blake turned on his heel and guided Mrs. Malone toward the door with the uniformed officer tagging behind. Mr. Malone waited only a second before he began digging in the front pocket of his pants. Not wanting to be caught spying, I waited for him to follow Blake before stepping from behind the screen.

I dug my cell phone out of my purse and dialed Gary’s number, but got his voice mail.

“Press 0 for immediate assistance.”

I complied, and the perky voice of the switchboard operator came on the line. I left a brief message explaining that Blake was on his way to the station with a possible suspect. Could she make sure Gary got the message ASAP?

Then I hurried from the building, managing to stay hidden as the two police cars and Malone pulled out.

Scooby Doo said it was 12:45 p.m., which explained the growling coming from my stomach. A quick break was called for. I was hungry, plus I didn’t want to arrive at the police station right on the Malones’ heels. Better for me if Blake was occupied when I got there. Maybe that way I could get more information out of George.

After a swift pass through a drive-thru, I steered the car back toward downtown. By the time I pulled into a parking place behind the station, I’d finished my burger and half of my gallon-sized Diet Pepsi. With my purse over one shoulder, and my lunch debris and soda in my other hand, I ambled into the station.

George was behind the front desk. I shook the trash-filled bag at him and said, “I thought I better stop by to sign my statement.” I’d thought of the excuse on the way over.

“You must have ESP. Blake just got back with that out-of-town couple.” He gestured to a bullet-shaped trashcan sitting against the mint-colored wall.

I tried to look surprised as I disposed of the remains of my lunch. “Really? I thought you said they were leaving today.”

“Not anymore.” George looked around to see if anyone was watching. Seeing another officer a few feet away filling a mug with coffee, he pushed himself up from his desk. “I’ll go get your paperwork.”

While I waited for him to return, I nonchalantly scanned his desk. Under a statue of a Montana Turd Bird—a lovely keepsake sculpted roughly from cow manure—was a partially completed form. The name and address were all I could read: Andrew Malone, 1111 West Street, Richmond, Virginia. I took a loud sip of my Pepsi as George returned.

He led me to an unoccupied office. It looked like the Helena Police were doing a little redecorating. I pushed aside a drop cloth and made myself comfy in one of four chairs pushed against the wall. The report looked accurate. I signed it, but stayed in the room with the door closed, hoping one of the Malones would appear.

Through a sliver in the closed blinds, I saw a man in a blue pinstriped suit and a red “power” tie enter the front door. He stopped to flick something off his sleeve. After looking around briefly, he strode over to George’s desk and set a briefcase down next to the Turd Bird. George picked up the phone and motioned the man into an office next to mine.