Loose Screw (Dusty Deals Mystery)

Loose Screw

An Amateur Sleuth Mystery

By Rae Davies

Published by

Copyright Rae Davies, Lori Devoti, 2003

Cover Design: India Drummond

This book is set in the real city of Helena, Montana. However, this is a work of fiction and all people, places of business, and events are fictional. Any similarity to anyone, thing or place is purely coincidence.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or a portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others. 

If you notice any typos or formatting issues with this book, the author would appreciate being notified.

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Prologue

Where to put it? It needed to be safe but close. She clutched the object in her fist. It would be hard to part with this keepsake, a token from a life she never expected, a life some said she didn’t deserve. Only he’d believed in her, loved her, and now he was gone. So many memories, clouded by so much sorrow. Maybe later she’d be able to handle the pain, but not now.

Looking around, she spied the perfect place. She plucked a knife from where it hung on the wall and carried it to her chosen hidey-hole. With surgical precision, she cut a slit and slid her treasure inside.

Chapter 1

Biggest Sale of the Year, Items from the Deere Estate.

You won’t want to miss this one! Biggest and Best Quality Antiques & Collectibles Auction in 20 years of Auctioneering.

Sunday, June 8th, 10 a.m. Viewing 8 a.m. Helena Civic Center

An auction gives you permission to be pushy and self-centered. At an auction, you don’t have to share. You get to stand up, right in front of God and everybody, and say that’s mine, and I want it, and you can’t have it. It’s like being three again without your mother there telling you to play nice. No guilt and, if you’re lucky, a big, fat reward and maybe even a round of applause for bullying your way to the prize.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m no bully. In fact, my ex-boss was constantly pushing me to give up my marshmallow ways, but for some reason, I can’t resist the lure of an auction. It pulls me in as sure as a 10-pound line will land an eight-inch trout. And I put up a lot less fight.

My name is Lucy Mathews. I’m 29 years old and, according to my mother, smart, attractive, and highly “marriageable.” In reality, there haven’t been hordes of men beating down my door to confirm her opinion, so I don’t let any of that go to my head.

I glanced at the Scooby Doo watch strapped to my wrist. Eight thirty-five, not too bad. I whipped my rig into a parking spot and hopped out.

Ed Burrows, the auctioneer, stood near the door working hard at charming potential buyers. He put on quite the “good ole boy” act for the crowd but was pretty shrewd when it came to antiques. “Sleep in today?” he asked.

“Just a little.” I pulled off my jacket and tucked it under one arm. “Where do I sign in?”

Ed motioned me to the back where a small group gathered around a couple of card tables. As I waited in line, I scanned the room for something promising. Anything Western, Montanan, or, even better, with Helena history, sold quickly at my shop, Dusty Deals. Unfortunately, those items also brought in the big bucks at local auctions, so I concentrated more on box lots or stoneware, my personal addiction.

Bidding card in hand, I headed toward what looked like unmarked art pottery. Sure enough, I found a Roseville piece mixed in with some run-of-the-mill flowerpots. I suppressed a surge of excitement and risked a quick glance around to see if anyone else had noticed. I ran my finger over the raised image of a pinecone and scribbled the box number on the back of my card along with the maximum I would bid. With luck, Ed wouldn’t catch this slip and broadcast the value of my find to the world and competing bidders.

Eager to see what else might be lurking in a dusty box, I continued to weave through tables, making notes on my card. When I was satisfied I had viewed everything worth seeing, I looked for a seat.

Rhonda Simpson, my best friend, walked toward me. She owned Spirit Books, the used bookstore next to Dusty Deals. Rhonda was a bit of a “granola.” Her closet contained sack dresses and Birkenstocks, mine : jeans and hiking boots. Her cupboards were stocked with everything organic and meat-free; I considered ketchup a vegetable. She believed in the power of crystals; I believed in the power of TV.

In other words, on the surface we had nothing in common, but underneath our superficial differences, we viewed the world in a very similar way. The world was our oyster, but we had no idea how to shuck it.

After taking her own seat, Rhonda gathered up her strawberry blond hair and pulled it over her left shoulder. “You see anything you’re interested in?”

I let the question pass. I couldn’t get myself to reveal my Roseville find, even to Rhonda. “What do you think of this crowd?”

Busy pulling her sock-covered feet out of her Birkenstocks, she didn’t seem to notice my evasion. “Ed really pulled them in, didn’t he?”

I mumbled a vague response. Ed’s ability to pull in a big crowd was not a mark in his favor in my mind.

“It’s nice to see so many people showing an interest in the Deere stuff,” she replied.

The big draw at today’s auction was items from Denton Deere’s Western collection. Denton was the son of Garrison Deere, one of the richest men to settle in the Helena valley almost 150 years ago. Anything associated with the Deere family was a big deal in Helena, but added to that was the fact that today’s items were also Native American. The combination was a guaranteed draw.

Again, not a plus in my ledger.

I gave a noncommittal nod and turned a bit in my seat both to stop the no-win conversation and to study my rivals.

Most of the eager faces packed around the tables were familiar, but a few were a mystery. In particular, there was a man in fringed buckskin and a couple who, with his tie and her dress, were, by Montana standards, dressed for a wedding. “You know anything about them?” I pointed behind us.

Not even trying to hide her interest, Rhonda turned fully in her seat to eye them. “I heard there was a married couple here from D.C.”

Trying for subtlety, I twisted a bit more too.

The man wore driving gloves, an expensive-looking leather jacket and dress pants. The blond at his side teetered on three-inch heels. Moving toward their seats, she took small lady-like steps and clung to his arm.

They stood out like a Renoir at a yard sale. The other auction goers wore at best new Wranglers and clean boots. In my own rush to get to the auction, I hadn’t even bothered with make-up. Bad enough I had the locals to contend with, but Easterners?

I felt my brows lower.

“Lucy,” Rhonda’s voice startled me out of my huff. “What’s up with you? You look like Nostradamus when the tabby next door comes to call. Did somebody poach your mouse?”

Nostradamus was Rhonda’s 16-pound Persian and, considering his generous girth and imperious bearing, I didn’t find the comparison particularly flattering.

Before I could ponder exactly how insulted I should be, she continued.

“Did you see the guy in the back?” She pointed over her shoulder to the first stranger, the man in buckskin.

 He leaned against the wall, nonchalantly fingering something that hung from his belt. He seemed 100 percent at ease, which strangely just annoyed me more. Maybe because, as auction time approached, I felt anything but at ease. I was ready, past ready, for Ed to get this pony ride going.

 “Is he from DC too? I can’t imagine he’d blend with politicians.” My tone was only a tad begrudging.

“That’s what I heard.” She studied him as flagrantly as she had the couple.

“At least he has style,” I murmured, twisting back to face the front.

No sign of Ed. I sighed.

I peeked at my cell phone. Ed was late starting the sale by a solid five minutes.  My annoyance was totally justified. 

Rhonda continued to scan the room and make comments on who had done what with whom recently, and I continued to stew.

Finally, 10 painful minutes later, Ed stepped behind the podium. He still waited to start though, instead taking time to lean on his mallet and study the crowd. His attention settled on the couple from D.C. and then danced around a bit, lighting on Bill Russell, a local collector who specialized in all things Helena, before shifting to the man in buckskin.

Then, with a smile that said he knew he was in the money today, he launched into his spiel, telling everyone what most of us already knew, that the Deeres were big time important in Helena, and we’d all be lucky to have a little piece of anything any one of them had owned—even if the items were an owner or two removed, which these were.

When Denton Deere died, a local collector had bought his estate intact. Then a couple of months ago, the collector had died too. And now everything was back up for sale again.

Ed lived for moments like this.

“Look.” Rhonda nodded to a silver-haired man standing at the front of the room.

My gaze flickered, and for a second, a sliver of guilt shot through me. Darrell Deere was one of Denton’s children.

For some reason, I hadn’t thought of one of the Deeres being here. I’d assumed if there was something any of them wanted, they would have found a way to get it without fighting it out at the auction.

I didn’t like bidding against people for their family heirlooms. It just felt... wrong.

I pressed my lips together and watched as Ed introduced him. With Ed urging him on, Darrell waved to the crowd. I couldn’t help but notice he was wearing bike shorts and a pullover fleece. Not your standard auction-going ensemble. I hoped it meant he wasn’t staying for long.

Finally, Darrell took his seat, people settled down, and Ed got started.

As usual, mediocre goods were first up. Ed always allowed plenty of time for more money to arrive before he offered the big draw items.

Antsy, I went to check out the lunch counter. The local 4H group manned the booth. Everything was fresh, but basic and not exactly heart- or in my case, butt- friendly. My love of fast food had recently caught up with me, and I was trying, yet again, to be good.

I ordered a Diet Pepsi and calculated how many minutes I would have to jog to burn off an oversized blueberry muffin. Deciding it was more than I wanted to commit to, I grabbed a couple of cream containers to enhance my soda and turned to leave.

I bumped into the man in buckskin.

I stepped back to keep my Pepsi from splashing onto his arm. Up close I was able to get a good look at him, an opportunity I knew Rhonda would yell at me for wasting. He was about seven inches taller than my five foot three height, with thinning shoulder-length hair, and his outfit looked authentic—right down to the quillwork on his moccasins. He had a leather pouch strapped across his chest like a beauty queen’s sash, and a knife with an elk antler handle hung from the belt at his waist.

At that moment, Ed announced that bidding on Native American items would start at one.

Mr. Buckskin turned, with no comment or acknowledgement of me, and strolled out the backdoor. Aggravated, I dumped the cream into my pop, stirred it in with my finger, and stared after him.

Some people just didn’t have any manners.

I licked my sticky digit clean, wiped it on my jeans, and headed back to my chair.

o0o

When Rhonda left to grab some lunch downtown, I stayed planted and tried to stay alert while Ed auctioned off old bed linens and mismatched jelly glasses. As his assistant held up a collection of dented bed pans, Darrell Deere strolled up. He placed a how-are-you-doing hand on my shoulder.

It was hard for anyone to look good in Lycra bike shorts, but even at 60 plus, Darrell managed it. He was one long bundle of lean muscle.