Loose Screw (Dusty Deals Mystery) (12 page)

The next thing I heard was a dial tone.

I frowned at the phone. Why did people keep hanging up on me? Didn’t they know it was rude?

I shrugged off this obvious epidemic in bad behavior and mulled over my most recent discoveries.

The most intriguing was the prints. If there were prints on the keys that matched ones found in the car, why weren’t they on the knife?

Definitely something to ponder.

The information on the alibis wasn’t as tantalizing, but I did learn that neither the Malones nor Bill had a very good one. I wasn’t sure how that helped with a story for Thursday’s paper, but it was interesting.

The bell on the front door dinged, and Betty twirled into the shop. She did a little Charleston-kick next to the cow horn chair.

“I can’t wait until Friday. They had an Earl Fuller tape playing at the Queen City Grill. I’m ready to cut a rug.” She did another move, knocking both knees together and crisscrossing her hands in front of them.

“Oh, by the way, Laney stopped by this morning.” Betty twisted over to the register. “She said you okayed an ad.” She grabbed a piece of paper that was rolled up under the keys and waved it in front of my face.

I unrolled the page and stared in shock at what I saw. A flapper bent over flashing the world a view of her garter-belt-framed nether lands. Between her knees in bold letters read,
Roar back into the 20’s at Dusty Deals…All merchandise half-price!

“Do you like it?”

Like it? What was she trying to do? I bought an ad I couldn’t afford, and she handed me this
thing
featuring half-priced merchandise and downright tacky artwork.

“When does it run?” I stuttered.

“Friday. Don’t you like it? I hope so, because they were doing an early press run on the section. Absolutely no changes.”

I gripped the ad in both hands.

It wasn’t that bad. Maybe business would be slow, or I could close early.

“So, do you like it?”

Maybe I wouldn’t have to open at all. I could hang a black wreath on the door or something.

“Lucy, do you like it?”

I blinked at her. “Oh, yeah. It’s great.”

She stared at me, an enigmatic look in her eye. “So what do you like best, the bare keister or the slashed prices?”

I didn’t really have a reply to that.

She tossed her head and plopped her hands onto her hips. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

My eyes widened at her explosion. “What do you mean? I said, I liked it.”

She grabbed the crumpled ad from my hand and pointed at the exposed flesh. “You like this?”

I stared back blankly.

“And you don’t mind that I put everything in your shop on sale half-price?”

She didn’t wait for a response this time. “It’s bad enough you let that piece of fluff, Laney Washington, push you into buying something you don’t want. But I thought for sure I’d get you to speak up when I flashed you this clinker.” She shook the ad at me. “Get some balls, girl. There’s nothing wrong with saying ‘no’ every now and then. Or even ‘you’re wrong’ or ‘I don’t like that.’ People around you will not wig out just because you assert yourself. Yowza honey, you are not the sax solo in everyone’s day.”

She flipped around and yanked a second piece of paper from under the register. “And it’s a real drag you think I’d run that trash.”

 She shoved the paper in my hand and backed off a couple of feet, watching me with glittering eyes. I glanced down. It was an ad with the same basics as the first, minus the bare buttocks and bargain buys. Betty took a lot of pride in her graphic designs. I’d hurt her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t…I mean I didn’t really think you’d…”

She laughed and dropped her head into her hands. “Lucy, what’s it take to get you to flip your lid?”

Not sure what she meant, I didn’t reply.

“Honey, I handed you the world’s worst ad, stomped up and down, and screamed at you. Shouldn’t you be pushing 98 degrees?”

I still wasn’t getting it.

“Hot?” She paused. “Angry with me? Aren’t you ticked off? Pissed? Something?”

She had a point.

“You need to break it down every now and then. Stand up for yourself. Somewhere you got the idea that saying what you want is a sin right up there with murder and sour notes, but, honey, you’ve got to get over it. You’re running a business. You can’t make everyone happy. Shouldn’t even want to.” She pointed at me with an inch-long nail. “You have to watch out for you.”

No one besides Ted had ever told me to stand up for myself, and he was, well,
Ted
. I hadn’t realized not being pushy in the real world could be seen as such a flaw.

I tried to picture myself telling Laney: “No, I don’t want that ad.” Or my mother: “I don’t wear wool.” Sweat began to bead on my upper lip, and the knot returned to my stomach.

The front bell jingled. Betty twisted around to greet the man who entered. I stole back to my office, second ad in hand.

o0o

My conversation with Betty had left me drained and confused. I tried to concentrate on my story, but I wasn’t sure where to go with it. I’d talked to just about everybody involved with Crandell, that I knew of anyway. I got some good information from George, a great lead from Susie at the Antebellum, and confirmed information with Bill Russell and Marie Malone. But nothing seemed to be clicking. Marcy still hadn’t called back with word from Crandell’s wife, and I didn’t know where else to go. I was at a stalemate and completely desperate. When the phone rang, I answered it. It was Ted. 

He was in a generous mood. “So, you’re close. Didn’t anyone in J-school ever tell you that talking to an editor’s like shooting a bear? If you don’t hit him right between the eyes, all you’ve done is piss him off.” After those words of wisdom, he hung up.

I couldn’t decide from that if that meant antlers were in my future or not, but after Betty’s tirade I was past caring.

I was beaten, and I had a story to write. I started with the official say-nothing statement from Blake and added the information from George about the keys, the prints on them and the inside of the car, and the alibis. I couldn’t quote George so I had to use the ever popular “sources say,” but at least it gave the readers a little something. I couldn’t write anything firm about Crandell having family in the area until we confirmed it. I did add that Crandell had been talking to area collectors and the Malones about buying pieces of the medicine man set. I also put in a few quotes from Marie and some background on her museum. It was a decent amount of copy, but I was afraid I was just shooting my bear in the butt. I needed more facts. With luck, Crandell’s ex would call Marcy soon.

Not feeling particularly confident, I emailed the story and checked my watch. It was four thirty.

I still had time to do some work at Dusty Deals before I needed to go home and take care of Kiska. I pulled the boxes of books from the auction out from under the counter and lugged them back to my office. I began lightly marking a price on the first page of each. Occasionally, I set aside a book to put on eBay. Halfway through the first box, Betty knocked on the door.

She seemed strangely content. Our earlier run-in hadn’t left me so at peace, not that I held a grudge. I didn’t, but I was still a little churned up.

“Can you come out and give me a hand? There’s a guy out here asking questions about the glass-fronted china cabinet. He wants to know if it’s oak or walnut.”

I spent the next hour helping in the shop. The man said he’d be back the next day with his wife. He thought the cabinet was what they were looking for. Another man came in looking for old postcards, and a woman stopped in hoping to find sewing items. I dug out two postcards, one showing the interior of a saloon and one of a little boy holding a lever action rifle. For the woman, I located a metal sewing bird clamp with a red velvet pincushion and two silver thimbles. After Betty was done ringing up the woman, I collapsed onto the horsehair loveseat.

“I forgot to mention it earlier, but for a piece of pushy fluff Laney did have a barn burner of an idea.” Betty spoke from behind the register. “She got together with the Downtown Merchants’ Association, and everyone’s going to dress up on Friday.”

I replied with a groan. “Not me.”

“Yes, you. You have to. I even have a dress you can wear. So, you have no excuse.” Betty rose up on her tiptoes and waved her hands. I was afraid she was going to lift off the ground in her excitement. She settled back down with a knowing smile.

Betty was pushing me into something I didn’t want to do. Who said self-realization was the first step to recovery? My goose was cooked. Come Friday I’d be trotting around in an outfit of Betty’s choosing.

God help me. And
goodie
, there’d be pictures.

 We spent the remaining time picking up and straightening displays. Hitting a wall in the Crandell story had gotten me down, and my most recent conversations with Betty hadn’t perked me up any. After one last call to check in with Marcy, I headed out.

What I needed was an evening of good old-fashioned fun—a cold beer or two, some good music and maybe a little harmless flirtation. Nothing stressful tonight.

Chapter 12

Everything was peaceful at my house. Kiska greeted me at the door, tail waving like a flag above his back. I gave him a kiss and a cookie before letting him outside.

Standing in front of the refrigerator, I weighed my options. What to eat before you go for drinks? You need something with some substance. Something to help soak up the alcohol, but I didn’t want to eat anything that would be particularly troublesome if it revisited me later either. (Not that I planned on drinking that much, but it didn’t hurt to play it safe.) I decided on a chicken sandwich and pretzels. Nice and filling, like a sponge for beer.

After eating my sandwich and half the bag of pretzels, I poured a giant tumbler of Diet Pepsi with milk. Drinking preparation tip number two—get hydrated.

I took my drink and headed to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror was not pretty.

Half a tube of gel, three coats of mascara, and enough foundation to spackle the Great Wall of China later, I was done. Basically, a lot of trouble to sit around in a smoky bar with a bunch of men who would either be too young, too married, or too just-not-interested.

I slid open the door to my closet and grabbed the first thing I touched, a close fitting shirt that wrapped across my chest. Not a bad choice. With the right bra, I’d actually have cleavage. For pants, I decided on the standard Montana uniform—jeans. Good for any and all occasions. I picked a low-rise pair that showed just enough to give a hint of skin under my shirt, not expose my entire backside. To really dress up the ensemble, I added a pair of red cowboy boots—the kind with pointy toes and a bit of heel, like people wore when they were trying to be Western.  Once changed, I was ready to romp.

The Bumpy Frog was hidden from view in an all-but-defunct strip mall. The two closest businesses were a lumberyard and a not-so-gentlemanly gentlemen’s club. At some point in the past, there had been a discount store and a few specialty shops in the building. Now they all stood vacant. A limited number of lights illuminated the parking lot, and some of those were burnt out. The rest seemed to have 40-watt bulbs, if that, in them. I deliberated on my safest parking choice. Dark and near the door or further away, but under a light. I chose a spot about four spaces down from the door that fell just within the radius of illumination from one of the underpowered lights.

I got out of the Cherokee and adjusted my bra straps to make sure everything that should be tucked in was, while leaving out enough to be a few steps shy of tacky. I performed the same ritual on my jeans. Everything in place, I pulled open the door.

The Bumpy Frog consisted of two long rooms. The first housed the bar and a few tables, the second two pool tables, a dance floor with a low stage, and more tables. It was early; so I was still able to see through the smoke to the bar. Rhonda leaned against it drinking a wine cooler. She wore a pair of jeans and a white peasant blouse with a lot of red and green embroidery.

I ordered a long neck Bud Light and passed on the glass. “When’s the band start?”

“Not ‘til nine. You want to play some pool?”

Both pool tables were open. We sat our drinks on a nearby table and dug in our purses for quarters. I fed the coins into the table and listened for the balls to drop. Rhonda racked them up, while I selected a stick.

“You want to break?” Rhonda asked.

I snorted. “Not likely.”

Rhonda was good at pool—not pool shark good, but good enough to not embarrass herself. I, on the other hand, was not. I had even been a waitress at a pool hall in college. The local experts were always trying to teach me, but I just couldn’t get it. I think it’s a patience thing. All that lining up and planning wasn’t my strong suit.

Rhonda broke beautifully. Three stripes rolled into the pockets. Guess I was solids. We played alone until two college boys asked to work in. They introduced themselves as Jim and Trent. They both wore chinos and button down shirts with the sleeves rolled up and were fairly interchangeable in the looks department, one with brown hair, the other with blond. They seemed to have divvied Rhonda and me up. The blond, Trent, got me.

Jim broke this time, and Trent disappeared into the bar. While Rhonda was successfully sinking the six ball into a corner pocket, Trent reappeared with another round of drinks and schnapps shots.

I raised an eyebrow at Rhonda. In college, I was quite capable of downing a bottle of peach schnapps followed by three or four beers and still getting up in time for my 7:40 class the next morning. Those days were past. I now looked at shots as something for the young and stupid. I thanked Trent, set my still full shot glass to the side and took a sip of the beer.

As Trent took his turn at the pool table, I looked around. The bar was filling up. A couple of big groups had come in while we were playing. The band came on stage and started warming up. Rhonda motioned it was my turn to shoot. As I leaned over to line up my shot, I felt someone watching me. I looked up and saw a pair of hazel eyes topped by familiar brows staring at me over the top of a beer mug. I missed my shot and stood up.