Loose Screw (Dusty Deals Mystery) (20 page)

“Nice look.” Betty smirked.

“Thanks for your support.” I slumped against the counter. “What am I going to do about this?” I pointed at my chin and whined, “I left my makeup at home.”

“If you ask me, you look like a girl in need of munitions.” Betty grabbed the newspaper I had discarded earlier and flipped it open to the third page. “Here you go.” She pointed with one ruby-red fingernail toward a half-page ad featuring a zippered bag loaded with expensive-looking beauty aids. “A free gift with purchase event with free makeovers all day.” She flicked her fingernails against each other and leaned back on the stool. “It’ll be a kick.”

Most of my limited beauty budget was spent at Target rather than a pricey department store counter. I had a few upper scale products, but most of them were gifts or hand-me-downs that didn’t quite suit my sister or mother’s coloring. “I don’t know. I’m not big on discussing my pore size and exfoliation habits.” I eyed the ad skeptically.

“Suit yourself, but looks like your other choice is to pick up some shaving cream and a razor.” She folded the paper and stashed it under the counter.

While I considered my options, the doorbell rang, announcing a visitor.

Everett, Betty’s husband, walked in carrying a Panama hat. He wore a crisp, white linen shirt and high-waist trousers held up by red suspenders that matched Betty’s nails. He smiled kindly and nodded his head in our direction. “Afternoon, ladies. I wondered if I could escort you to lunch today.”

“I would love to, darlin’,” Betty crooned, “But Lucy has a little situation she has to see to.”

A decidedly disturbed look came over Everett’s face. “I am sorry to see, um, hear that, Lucy. Maybe next time?”

Resigned to my fate, I asked Betty to lock up and left for the mall.

Chapter 19

The mall was no bigger than the Wal-Mart super center my family practically called home in southern Missouri. It had two anchors: a JC Penny’s and a more expensive department store that sold your usual assortment of marked-up casual wear, jewelry and household goods. This is where I started my quest.

I entered through the men’s department. Amazingly, there was a big sale going on. According to the signs, it was a “Pre-view Event” for the much anticipated, “16-hour” sale. Tables stacked almost to the point of toppling were shoved in the aisles. I weaved my way through towers of Levis, Jockey shorts, and Polo shirts and followed the white tile path in what I instinctively knew was the direction of the main mall, and thus cosmetics. Emerging from Men’s, I found myself in the white and silver over-lit world of cover-up sticks, moisturizer, and the much-feared perfume girl. Watching my flank for anyone bearing a spritzer, I hurried to the make-up counter.

A girl in a black smock chatted on the phone. I pulled out various trays filled with a colorful selection of foundations, eye shadows, and blushes. “May I help you?” I looked up to see the girl on the other side of the counter eyeing me critically. Her name badge labeled her as Cammie.

“It says you’re giving free makeovers?” I pointed to a promotional sign propped next to a black director’s chair.

“What happened to your face?” She tucked a bleached blond lock behind her ear and leaned toward my chin to analyze it more closely. “Is that contagious?”

“I had a little run in with a flue pipe.” I smiled through gritted teeth.

“Oh, that’s okay then. I’m sure our ‘Night-Time Beauty Reviver’ will work wonders on those pores too.” She led me to the chair and got to work. After helping me remove my hat and giving me a headband to pull my pin curls off my face, she rubbed me down with some kind of sweet smelling oil.

“This is going to take a while.” She threw a handful of blackened cotton balls into the trash and reached for more. I sat quietly as she described each product and the life-changing benefit it would provide me.

Twenty minutes later, she whipped out a hand mirror and glowed with pleasure. “Perfect. You can hardly see those pores anymore.”

While she prattled about the bare minimum of what my purchases should be, I checked my reflection. My eyes were lined with a dark blue, almost purple liner and topped with three shades of charcoal shadow. My lips, painted a vibrant red, looked fuller than normal.

The overall look wasn’t horrible—if I wanted a part-time gig as a drag queen.

 “Don’t you love it?” Cammie cooed.

I didn’t, but the bright lights and multiple mirrors of the cosmetics department intimidated me as much as 50 Teds. I left Cammie with 65 dollars of my hard-earned cash and went in search of lunch. Poor and caked with make-up, I deserved something deep-fried and, if possible, coated in sugar. 

The food court consisted of three choices—an ice cream shop (always a possibility), a hot dog place, and a local sandwich shop that offered soups and salads. I stood in the center of the aisle between the hot dog stand and the sandwich shop. Hot dog…salad…hot dog…salad…it was a tough choice.

I had my all-American lunch shoved halfway into my mouth when Peter Blake walked out of the video store carrying a plastic bag. He stopped at the entrance of the hot dog stand to examine the menu that hung overhead. After giving the man behind the counter a dollar, he turned, a bottle of water in his hand. I gave him a grimace. With an arrogant grin, he strode over to where I stood.

“Lucy, you look…interesting today.” His hazel eyes flashed with amusement.

I casually tried to remove the mustard from the sides of my mouth. “‘Tis the season you know.”

“Yeah, the jazz festival. I didn’t realize you were such a dedicated fan.” He removed a toothpick from between his teeth and dropped it in the bag, which he set on the table. Through the thin plastic, I could see Buzz Lightyear jumping off the cover of a DVD box. Interesting choice of viewing material. Blake hadn’t struck me as the “to infinity and beyond” type.

He took a sip of water. “How’d you enjoy your ride last night?” His eyes glimmered.

“It was great. Thank you for asking.” I primly pulled a paper napkin out of the chrome and black dispenser that sat on the bar-height table and dabbed at the corners of my mouth.

“You go on those rides a lot? I see Gary out there almost every week.” He took the napkin from me, put it over the top of his water bottle and tipped the bottle until the napkin was damp. Instead of holding it out for me, he carefully wiped the corners of my mouth himself. Holding my chin in one hand, he twisted my face upward toward the light. “Nice shade of lipstick.”

“No, I mean thank you. I mean, it was the first ride I’ve gone on.” I stammered and blushed at the same time. My annoyance with him suddenly disappeared, crowded out by some feeling I wasn’t sure I wanted to investigate.

“Hmm.” His eyes lit with something new. “I have to get back to work. I just had to pick something up before the weekend.” He took another swig of water and grabbed Buzz. He’d been gone a good two minutes before I realized I was staring stupidly into space.

My appetite gone, I dropped my half-eaten hot dog into the trash. It was getting late, and I’d written nothing. I hadn’t even bothered to grill Blake about new developments. Fact was, I hadn’t even thought about my story. How weak was that? Bad, bad Lucy.

Concentration completely shot, I retrieved my bag and walked down the mall.

Flapper and gangster displays were everywhere. In the center, a local charity had even set up a scene featuring a cardboard backdrop of a jazz band at a speak-easy. A woman waited beside it with a selection of boas, fringed dresses, pinstriped suits, and wide-brimmed hats. Beside her were a camera and a sign that read, “Pictures $10. All proceeds to benefit Helena Arts and Drama Club.”

“Marie, I told you she was just like that son of a bitch Crandell. You and I both know that weasel isn’t worth much, and our plane leaves Sunday. There’s no reason to stay here on the off chance she’ll come to her senses and sell it for a reasonable price.” Andrew Malone led his wife by the hand out of a men’s shop about 10 feet from where I stood. I stepped into the display of boas and dresses before remembering the Malones had never met me face to face.

Marie Malone paused next to a leather belt display. “I just don’t understand what the big deal is. We’ll have already been here five days longer than we planned. What is one more day?”

Andrew took a deep breath and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “The big deal is, you need to get home. This trip has been hard on you, and I won’t give some penny ante antiques dealer, or that damn detective, another opportunity to upset you. You need to relax. Let’s drive to Browning tonight. We can check out the museum and see some of the countryside. It’ll help you relax, and our trip won’t have been for nothing.” Taking the small sack she carried, he guided her by the elbow out of the store.

Still cloaked between gangster suits and flapper frocks, I mulled over what I’d heard. Marie seemed confused by her husband’s rush to leave Helena, and she was obviously interested in the weasel. If she’d killed Crandell, wouldn’t she be in a hurry to get away too? And how about her interest in the weasel? Her husband certainly didn’t offer much for it. Why did she want it so badly?

It also sounded like they weren’t going to be hanging around town waiting for their plane to leave on Sunday. Were they just bored, or was there some other reason to vacate Helena for a while? I wondered if Blake knew of their plans. If he didn’t, I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. While a part of me would have enjoyed lording my knowledge over him, a bigger part wanted to steer clear until I sorted out the feelings seeing him had stirred up in me. Deciding the Malones were long gone, I parted my clothing curtain and stepped away from the rack.

“Do you want a picture?” The woman manning the Chevy display plucked a purple boa off the floor where it had dropped when I exited the rack. “Looks like you’re already dressed for the part.”

Half an hour later, I unlocked the Cherokee and tossed my makeup purchases and a picture of myself in full flapper mode onto the front seat.

Backslide, thy name is Lucy. 

o0o

At Dusty Deals, Betty had twisted the volume on the CD player up to vibrate. She sang along, “When you’re good to Mama, Mama’s good to you...” For emphasis, she stuck one knee out and twisted her rear. Putting her foot back on the floor, she slid both hands up her body until they were both over her head, added one more knee twist and picked up from the beginning. I took a quick turn into my office.

It was 1:30. I needed to address my writer’s block one way or another. I closed the door and called Ted at the
News
.

“Where are you? Sounds like that God-awful musical my wife dragged me to a few months ago,” Ted greeted me.

“Sorry, Betty is getting into the ‘swing’ of things, so to speak.” I picked up a pencil and turned it end over end. “Listen, I’ve kind of hit a dry spell on the Crandell story.”

“Uh, huh. You mean you don’t have diddly.” I heard him take a slurp of something and the squeak of his desk drawer. Based on prior experience, I knew he was reaching for a tin Altoid box he kept in with his pens. A second later, he popped one in his mouth. “You expect me to pull your fanny out of the fryer?”

At least I didn’t get the bear speech.

“I thought you were a reporter. If I wanted a blank page I could have stuck with Marcy. What do you think I’m paying you for?”

Since he wasn’t paying me anything for my time, just for what he printed, I didn’t think I needed to answer that.

“I got a paper to get out on the street, and the readers tend to expect something more than good intentions with their morning java.” He bit down on what I assumed was a candy. “I’ll give you one more day to get something new, then you’re out. You got it?

“And, in case you think I’m getting soft, let me make it clear, I’m only being this easy cause the jazz festival’s in town. We can run that crap tomorrow, but then I need something with substance. I don’t want some piddley ass TV crew beating us to the story.”

Ted, the tootsie roll center of the news game.

o0o

Betty tapped on my door a few minutes later. “Bill Russell’s on the phone. And since you’re here, can I go ahead and split?” She pointed toward the front with her thumb.

I waved Betty on and stirred up enough energy to lift the receiver.

“I got your message earlier. You asked me to call?” Bill sounded downright chipper.

It was annoying.

“Yeah, the family of that guy who was killed asked me to find a buyer for the weasel from the set. Would you be interested?” I counted the water spots on my ceiling.

“Depends on what you’re asking.” Bill quickly transitioned into trader mode.

“Well, I don’t have a firm price in mind.” The magic of working “the deal” started to pull me out of my Ted-induced funk. “I’ve had one offer, but I wanted to give you a shot at it first.”

After dancing around the issue a while, Bill offered 50 dollars. I countered at seventy-five. Bill held firm. It was the same amount Malone had offered, but Bill was a lot nicer to deal with. “The thing is, Lucy, the weasel by itself isn’t really worth much. It was everything else that made it desirable. I’m hoping though if I help you out with this, you’ll help me out if the rest of the set turns up. I assume the family would want to sell it too?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I don’t see any reason they wouldn’t, assuming it turns up.”

“And you’d put in a good word for me?”

“Sure.”

“Fair enough. So what do you say, we have a deal at fifty?”

I was giving in early, but I was too damn happy to be done with the mess to put up much fight. “Yeah, I have to clear it with Silas though.” I drew my rendition of a weasel on my desk blotter. “I’ll have a firm yes or no tonight. I’m going to see him at the jazz festival. I can give you a call tomorrow.”

“Make it Monday instead. The wife and I are heading up to Kalispell for the weekend. We’re leaving in about 30 minutes actually. Give me a call Monday when you get in. I can stop by the shop anytime next week to give you a check and pick up the weasel.” We made a verbal handshake on the deal.