Loose Screw (Dusty Deals Mystery) (2 page)

 “Are you bidding?” My hands tightened around my soda as I asked. I didn’t know Darrell really well, but I liked him. He always took time to talk to me, even when he would stop in to the newspaper, where I used to be a reporter, to meet with the much more important powers-that-be there.

He glanced around the room before answering. “No, I’m going for a ride.” He gestured at his biking gear. “But Ed asked me to stop by.”

Of course he did. Seeing Darrell had reminded everyone that what Ed was selling had real Helena ties, even if Darrell had arrived looking like a BMXer instead of the rancher his father and grandfather had been.

We chatted a few more minutes, but I could tell Darrell’s mind was somewhere else. On his ride, I guessed.  He glanced at his watch more than once and then around the room.

When some boxes came up that I was interested in, I lifted my hand.  By the time I’d been declared the winner of two boxes of books, Darrell had wandered out the door.

I had just returned to my seat with the books when Ed’s helpers picked up the Roseville.  Ed reached into the box and rubbed some dirt off a pinecone.  My heart took a leap.

It was getting close to one though, and, lucky for me, Ed was in a hurry. He opened the bidding at 30 dollars, I flicked my card, and he called it sold.

Thirty dollars for a 400-dollar pot. My day—my week, actually—was complete.

Ed still had a few more items to get through, though, before moving to the day’s big draw, and he churned through them just as quickly. By the time Rhonda strolled in, I had the Roseville, a nice Minnesota Stoneware bean pot, my boxes of books, some fishing lures and a couple of china doll heads.

Satisfied, I kicked back to watch Ed’s helpers arrange the Native American collection. In addition to the grinding stones and medicine man items, there were beaded items, saddles and several pipes.

The medicine man pieces were to be sold as a set, which included a deerskin shirt with long fringe on the sleeves, a red Calamite pipe with bag, a bone whistle, a twisted bit of something that Ed called a dried weasel, and the original receipt showing Denton Deere purchased the items in April of 1930 in Oklahoma.

Since it was illegal to sell anything with parts from an endangered species, one of Ed’s helpers had clipped off the eagle feathers and grizzly bear claws that decorated the shirt and set them in a pile to be “given” to the winning bidder.

I guess “giving” them away made all the difference—to the law. I doubt it mattered much at all to the eagle or bear.

With the future ownership of the feathers and claws explained, Ed started bidding with the items of least interest, the grinding stones, and he took his time with those, working in a joke after every bid.

“This is going to take forever,” Rhonda complained.

I shifted in my seat. Everyone in the room seemed restless. People caressed the beaded bags and stroked the pipes or just wiggled in their seats, waiting for the big show to start. Only those actually bidding on the stones seemed oblivious to the tension.

But after a few more minutes of Ed’s machinations to up bids, his efforts stopped working, and people stopped bidding. And, lucky for us, the winner took all but one of the grinding stone sets. As the second to highest bidder, Rhonda won the remaining set for 20 dollars.

“Not a steal, but at least I feel like I got something.” She shoved the stone under her seat and collapsed onto her chair.

With the small items sold, Ed moved onto the bigger, crowd-pleasing part of the collection.

The lines at the concession stand and bathroom disappeared, and not a person spoke.

The moccasins, squaw saddle and tobacco bag sold quickly. Then it was time for the medicine man outfit. Bill Russell opened the bidding at five grand. The well-dressed couple came back at 55 hundred.

Decent money, but not unexpected.

The bidding was far from over though and continued at a steady pace with no signs of weakness from either party for about 10 more rounds.

The female half of the couple sat upright, her back stiff, and twisted a tissue as she bid.

I whispered to Rhonda, “She looks nervous.”

Rhonda leaned closer. “I heard she owns a museum.” As people glanced our way, Rhonda lowered her voice. “Eileen Black said she’s part Native American, but she doesn’t look it to me. What do you think?”

“She couldn’t have much Native American blood in her. With that hair she looks more like the bride of Casper.” Unchristian of me to say, perhaps, but I was rooting for Bill.

“She’s not especially friendly either. According to Eileen she has ‘issues’... ” Rhonda made air quotes with her fingers. “... with dealers and collectors. She calls them
opportunists
.”

I considered this for a minute. I couldn’t think of anything from my ancestral past I’d be willing to put out 20,000 dollars to recover. There weren’t even that many things in my
current
life I valued that much—just my house and my dog.

Just then, new money entered the bidding. The stranger who had sat through round after round without a single bid jumped into the fray by upping the current bid 5,000 dollars.

“Looks like Mr. Buckskin decided to join the fun,” I said.

“He has Bill’s attention,” Rhonda commented.

Bill stepped back and shook his head. He was out.

The bidding shot back and forth between the couple from D.C. and the man in buckskin. By the time the price passed 30,000, even Ed looked nervous. He gripped the head of the gavel so tightly his knuckles turned white as he swung it from bidder to bidder.

The woman had moved from stiff to downright rigid, and the tissue she’d been twisting was now little bits of paper on the floor around her. Her husband raised their bid card at 35,000, but kept his eyes on his wife. Mr. Buckskin didn’t even pause; he jumped the bid to 40,000.

The man from D.C. put his number down and shook his head. The woman leaned forward, talking to him in hushed tones, but he just stared in Ed’s direction. With one last intense look at the couple, Ed hit the gavel down. The medicine man outfit was sold.

Relief washed over me. I hadn’t realized it, but the tension had gotten to me too. My hands were wrapped around my chair’s seat so tightly my fingers ached as I straightened them.

While the man in buckskin gathered up his purchases, Ed urged the crowd into a round of applause. Mr. Buckskin apparently enjoyed the attention. His walk changed to a swagger. At the payment table, he stopped and gave the crowd a bow.

I looked in Rhonda’s direction. This was more performance than I could stomach.

Looking way too pleased with himself, Ed twirled his gavel, and announced a 10-minute break. His daughter, Frankie, was working the payment table. She held up an arm, signaling him.

Most of the crowd took advantage of the time to visit the food booth, go to the bathroom, or check out the items still waiting to be sold. Rhonda and I stretched our legs and watched the activity at the payment table.

At the payment table, Ed slapped the man in buckskin on the back. Then he pointed from the check the winning bidder had just written to the set. The man in buckskin nodded, took a slip of paper from Frankie and left.

Rhonda and I stood. I fought to balance the weight of my boxes and shot a covert look at the D.C. couple. The action seemed to have taken a toll on the woman. She was even paler than before. As I watched, she popped a pill in her mouth and washed it down with a tentative sip from a cup her husband held out.

Rhonda interrupted my thoughts. “I thought Darrell might bid on something.”

“I talked to him earlier. He said he wasn’t going to. I don’t think he’s into relics. He stopped by because Ed asked him too.”

“That’s a dull way to spend a Sunday. I wanted something, and I still couldn’t stand sitting here all day.”

“Shows how nice he is.” I was happy Darrell had made a quick exit, but it was nice of him to stop by, especially since it was obvious he had other plans.

I jostled my boxes into a more comfortable position and glanced at the door. 

Apparently sensing I was about to make my escape, Rhonda picked up her grinding stone set and stepped in front of me, cutting off my exit. “You want to have lunch with Silas and me tomorrow?”

Rhonda had been dating Silas for about a month, but I’d only met him once. She had a talent for collecting unlikely men, dating everyone from a tattooed biker complete with chains and a waist-long beard to a performance artist who painted himself blue and balanced on a giant red ball like a seal.

I had given up trying to understand her taste in men and just enjoyed getting a look at the latest candidate. Silas was a mild addition to her collection, a soft spoken econ professor with a small twist. He ranched. Normal enough in Montana, but Silas had an unusual herd.

“Is he going to talk about his worms again?”

On our first meeting Silas ventured extensively into the eating and breeding habits of night crawlers. Listening to their diet wasn’t too bad, but when he strayed to their reproduction preferences my stomach swayed.

“It isn’t that bad. Don’t be a sissy.”

In other words, yes, expect worm talk
.

Trying to think of some polite way to avoid answering, I peeked at my cell. The numbers glowed three o’clock. If I left now, I’d still have time to take Kiska, my Alaskan malamute, for a walk up the mountain and fix dinner before a new, highly publicized reality TV show began. The ads promised a very intellectual look at two families forced to choose between large amounts of cash and daredevil acts—like pushing their mother into a giant vat of chocolate pudding (a secret fantasy of my own).

Luckily, my ploy worked. Rhonda got sidetracked into a conversation with a woman who frequented her shop, and I was able to beat a fast track to the door without having to commit to a lunch fraught with worm talk.

Outside, the afternoon sun hit me with a blinding glare, and I almost smacked into the man in buckskin for the second time that day.

He stood with his back to the Civic Center talking on a cell phone in that too loud voice people always use. Still, thanks to a wind that had picked up since my arrival this morning, I could only catch fragments of what he said. “Tomorrow, after…funds…verified…You better…first thing…morning.”

Exhausted, I didn’t even have the energy to hang close and pick up more tidbits of his conversation for Rhonda. Instead, I clutched the Roseville in my arms and headed home to my dog and a night of reality T.V.

I might not have won the big prize today, but my life really could not have been better.

Chapter 2

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into my garage. I left my purchases in my rig to take into the shop the next day and hauled myself up the hill to my house.

I lived about eight miles out of Helena in an old mining community. Tulips bloomed between the original settler’s cabin and my house, and the acrid smell of smoke from a neighbor’s stove spiced the air. Water rushing through the creek across the road drowned out most other sound.

Most, but not all. There was a distinct ruckus coming from my home.

Kiska stood with both paws pressed up against the glass of my front door, howling and complaining about the lousy treatment/lack of food he had endured in my absence. Slipping my key into the lock, I apologized to him profusely. Once inside, I attempted to buy my way back into his good graces with a cookie and a promise of a walk. The accusing expression in his Pepsi-colored eyes told me I wasn’t getting off that easily.

I tossed him another cookie, and while he did his imitation of a land shark in pursuit of a milk bone, I gathered up his harness and lead. We traveled up the road to the old town. In the early 1900’s, this had been a booming mining community. Now, I was one of 21 year-round residents. The remainders included an eclectic mix of would-be miners, retired couples, young families, and a certifiable crazy or two.

We walked until we reached the edge of the original settlement. Here the road became rougher and climbed more steeply up the mountain. It continued on, winding past waterfalls and beaver dams, until it eventually came to a stop. At the end sat a reservoir. It was a beautiful sight, but tonight Kiska and I made do with a short stroll.  We had, after all, other plans.

Back at the house, Kiska settled in for a snooze and I flipped on the TV. I watched mesmerized as a family slowly picked each other off in a food fight for cash. When the mayonnaise-smeared victor pushed the final competitor, his mother, into the vat of chocolate pudding, I stood up and cheered.

I never tired of seeing what people would do for money.

o0o

The next morning, I woke eager to get to my shop and make a little money of my own. After wolfing down our breakfasts, something that came almost as naturally to me as it did Kiska, I snagged a Diet Pepsi and poured it, plus a generous dollop of milk into a thermal mug. My caffeine requirement for the day provided for, I let Kiska out and went to shower. Forty minutes later, I was dressed in my standard unimaginative work garb: jeans, a long-sleeved tee, and hiking boots. I grabbed Kiska’s leash and struck out for the car.

One of my favorite things about owning an antique shop in Montana was taking Kiska to work.

I loaded all 110 pounds of him into the Cherokee, an adventure in itself. At some point in his puppyhood, Kiska decided malamutes do not jump. No matter how short or tall the vehicle, he stood with just his front-end inside, looking over his shoulder, waiting for me to pick up his rear end and help him in. Strange as this was, Kiska had brought me around to his way of thinking. I heaved his furry hindquarters in through the passenger door, hopped in behind the wheel, and we left for the shop.

I parked in the alley behind Dusty Deals and waited while Kiska made his mark on the Dumpster. Inside, he settled into my cubby-sized office, and I went back out to carry in my purchases from the auction.

I had just started sorting the books by topic and age when my front bell rang. The man in buckskin stepped through the door. He glanced around the shop, giving me a chance to hide my surprise and study him a bit.