Loose Screw (Dusty Deals Mystery) (21 page)

Now we were talking. I was pumped. I could get things done.

Enough of this writer’s block. I was going to go out there and track down a killer. Defend Silas. Wow Ted.

Well, I wasn’t going
right
out there. I’d let Betty leave early, and I didn’t exactly have a plan.

Hmm
. There was the solution. I needed a plan. If I wrote everything down, surely something would pop out at me.

I grabbed my notebook and went out to my computer. With my notebook open and my word processer on the screen, I was ready for inspiration to hit.

Nothing
.

Maybe if I typed in the cast of suspects. I listed everyone who seemed to have a connection to the case: James Crandell, Silas Roberts, Marie Malone, Andrew Malone, Bill Russell.

Crandell: Wanna-be buckskin-clad Indian trader from Denver. Not known for having his own collection or money. Told Redfeather and ex-wife he had a big dollar job they thought involved relics and possibly the Helena auction. Stayed at Antebellum where he spent a lot of money on his room and honor bar peanuts. Bought medicine man set for 40 grand. Tried to sell pieces of it to the Malones and Bill Russell.

Found dead, by little ole me, on Monday.

Silas: Crandell’s long-lost cousin. Withheld this information from Rhonda and me.

That was a crime in my book right there, but I didn’t think it would stand up in court.
Turned the weasel over to me
, lucky ducky that I was.

Marie Malone: Interested in medicine man set and weasel. Seen arguing with Crandell day of his death. Lied about when she got the feather. Husband had mentioned being concerned about her, possible health problem of some sort?

Andrew Malone: Bid on medicine man set and made offer on weasel, but didn’t seem overly interested in it. Also seen with Crandell morning of his murder, but didn’t tell his attorney. Mentioned concern over wife and eagerness to leave Helena
.

Bill Russell: Local Helena resident. Bid on medicine man set. Based on scene Rhonda witnessed in Rose’s bar and Bill’s own personal account, turned down Crandell’s offer to sell pieces of the set. Had just agreed to buy the weasel.

I looked over my work. No obvious motive leapt out. They all had alibis, but none particularly strong. Silas said he was in Bozeman when he called Rhonda’s house Monday night, but he could have been anywhere. The Malones claimed to be together at their hotel, and Bill was at his home alone.

What or who was missing from my list?

I spent the next couple of hours alternating between waiting on the occasional customer and staring at my computer screen. At one point, my frustration was so great I thumped my head against the countertop. A man holding a china teacup up to the light quietly put it down and walked out the front door.

“Scaring off the customers now, aren’t I?” I addressed Kiska, who remained undisturbed by both the thumping and the fleeing customer.

I gave up. It was five o’clock. I was to meet Gary and gang in half an hour. I needed to get Kiska walked and fed, drop off the night deposit, and apply a fresh coat of rockin’ red lipstick. I turned off the computer and flipped my sign to
closed
.

I managed everything in just under the 30 minutes. I would have been right on time if the evening air hadn’t taken on a distinct chill. Spaghetti straps weren’t really designed for Montana spring (or even early summer) evenings. I backtracked to the shop for a coat. Kiska was conked out in my office.

I grabbed my jacket and hurried back out. As I locked the front door, I hesitated a minute. I never left Kiska alone in the shop, especially at night.

I shook my head to banish my unease. I was being silly. This was Helena. Just because someone killed Crandell behind my shop earlier in the week didn’t mean we were suddenly in a crime zone. It was a fluke.

Kiska was perfectly safe. No one would bother him in Dusty Deals. 

Chapter 20

By the time I got to the end of the Gulch, I’d managed to push my concerns for Kiska away. Rhonda was waiting for me next to the brick gazebo that the Downtown Association used as an information booth. This weekend it also served as a stand for armband sales.

We traded the vouchers Betty had given us for glow-in-the-dark orange armbands that clashed nicely with my red dress.

“Have you seen anyone else yet?” I asked Rhonda.

She didn’t look up from snapping her band around her wrist. “Yeah, I saw Gary heading toward the tent.”

The downtown venue was in a tent pitched on the walking mall, positioned strategically in front of the parking garage, which was closed to cars for the weekend. Tonight it housed a beer stand and a few food vendors with some tables set up inside for those who enjoyed the ultimate in casual dining.

In the tent, rows of folding chairs were lined up before a makeshift stage. Darrell Deere stood in front of a microphone with his top hat and cane. He had added to his look since I had seen him this morning. Now, he wore a single-breasted suit with wide shoulders, wide lapels, and three buttons. A white handkerchief poked out of his breast pocket. He looked classy and authentic, like he had just stepped out of the
Great Gatsby
.

“Everyone, may I have your attention?” Darrell addressed the gathering crowd.

I looked for Gary. He was standing a little off stage, camera posed to take a picture of Darrell.

“There’s Gary, but it looks like he’s working. You want to get a beer before we go over?” I pointed toward the parking garage.

Rhonda took a pass on the beer, but went with me to the garage anyway. While I stood in the beer line, she bought dinner—bratwurst for me, steak fries and grilled onions for Rhonda.

“You want to eat in here?” she asked, after I paid for my Miller Lite. Just a step above drinking pond water in my opinion, but the only option offered, and after standing in line, I wasn’t going to walk away empty handed.

The cement walls were at best uninviting. “Let’s see if we can get a space in the tent. I think I saw a couple of tables.”

We managed to maneuver into a spot in the back. After a few sips of the Miller Lite, I changed my earlier opinion. A nice cold glass of pond water would be preferable, but the bratwurst was good, if not up to Midwest standards. There were a few things you had to give up for the joys of living in Montana. A really good brat was one of them. Bud Light on tap everywhere was another.

Applause broke out as Darrell announced the first group and stepped away from the microphone. Gary took a few shots of the band and turned toward the crowd. After snapping the eager few who immediately filled the small dance area, he put his camera into its bag and headed our way.

I crumpled up the wax paper from my bratwurst and tossed it into a giant trashcan. “You have to work tonight?”

“No, I just promised Ted I’d get a few shots of the opening ceremony before I quit for the day. I’m going to run up and download these. I’ll be back in a half hour or so. Will you wait for me?”

“We wouldn’t dream of leaving you all by your lonesome.” I gave Rhonda a sideways glance. “Plus, we’re still waiting for Rhonda’s man.”

“Oh yeah, the guy from Bozeman. The one related to the dead guy?” Gary looked at Rhonda.

Rhonda answered, “He should be here any time now. How about everybody else? I thought there was going to be a group from the paper.”

“There should be, but we may not see them till later, maybe not until we get to the Antebellum.” We had made plans to meet Betty at the hotel around seven.

Gary slung his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll be back. Don’t leave without me.”

Rhonda and I kicked back and enjoyed the band, a Dixieland group from Washington State. The New Orleans style music rolled over us. The songs had names like “Gimme a Pig Foot” and “Muskrat Ramble.” Silas showed up in the middle of “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” Gary didn’t make it back until they had finished “Wild Women Don’t Worry” and were setting their instruments aside for a break.

“You want to head to the Antebellum? I’m sure Betty’s already there,” I asked everyone in general.

After much discussion, we opted to ride in one car. Silas was parked closest, so we squished into his Honda Civic. Rhonda rode shotgun, leaving Gary and me to struggle into the back seat. Quarters were close, but not exactly cozy. Rhonda shot me knowing looks from the front. I hated to disappoint her, but I found it hard to flirt surrounded by what I recognized as worm food.

“Is that a box of coffee grounds?” Gary whispered

“Don’t ask,” I advised.

At the Antebellum, I managed to push myself out of the back seat with complete grace and decorum.

“Lucy, you might want to fix your skirt.” Rhonda tugged on my beads.

“Oh crap.” I pulled my skirt down from where it had lodged around my waist. Gary and Silas tactfully kept walking in the direction of the hotel.

Jazz festival events were going on in two conference rooms on the main floor and one upstairs. We checked a sign near the front door to see where Everett’s band was playing.

“Looks like Everett’s group is down here.” Rhonda pointed down the hall to our left.

People clogged the hallway, crowding around booths where merchants were selling jazz festival memorabilia and clothing.

“Almost makes you wish smoking wasn’t such a disgusting habit doesn’t it?” I posed with a black stiletto cigarette holder. 

“Not to mention cancer causing,” Rhonda added. She held a black, beaded headband up in front of her forehead.

We primped and played—trying on hats, boas and jewelry. Silas stood next to the wall. He watched the jazz revelers with wide eyes. Gary had disappeared.

“Hey, when you’re done, I found everyone.” Gary appeared in front of me. He flicked a feather from the purple boa I modeled away from my face.

Rhonda motioned to Silas, and we followed Gary into the biggest conference room. This venue was a step or two above the tent downtown. Inside the room were fifty or so round tables that each seated eight people. White linen cloths covered the tables and a mobile, wooden dance floor sat next to the stage. There was a stand in the back where they were selling beer and wine, but many people had mixed drinks purchased from the hotel bar.

Betty walked up with an oversized martini glass in her hand. “It’s about time you showed up. We’ve been saving room for you at our table, but people are starting to get testy about it. Come on.” She motioned us toward the stage.

Everett’s group, the Ragtime Revelers, warmed up. The male band members all wore red and white striped jackets. The female vocalist wore a long, fitted red dress with a dramatic side slit. She sang with her mouth close to the microphone and her toe pointed, revealing a long, if slightly chubby, leg.

While Gary made a bar run, the rest of us claimed our chairs. Two
News
employees were already seated at our table: Dean, a copy editor and Cheryl, an artist. A few others from the newsroom sat at a table close by.

Betty and Cheryl exchanged war stories, and in general, roasted, toasted, and skewered the publisher and most of the advertising staff. Rhonda made polite conversation with Dean that was, to put it bluntly, too boring to follow, much less remember. Silas sat. I twisted in my seat, anxious for Gary to return so I could redeem myself for my lack of initiative earlier in the space-cramped Honda.

In preparation, I pulled my new compact and rockin’ red lipstick out of my purse. This broke another of my mother’s cardinal rules—do not apply make-up, even lipstick, at the table. This rule ranked somewhere between “never wear white shoes before Memorial Day or after Labor Day” and “never, ever ask a woman if she is pregnant, ever.” In my desperation to look my sultry best, I persuaded myself that I was not really breaking said rule because 1.) there was no food on the table, and 2.) the need to look my best over-ruled any and all lower rules.

Gary returned with a tray of drinks and Angie.

“Look who I ran into.” Gary set down the tray and pulled out a chair for Angie.

We welcomed Angie with varying levels of enthusiasm. I took my long neck bottle of Bud Light and decided my next drink would have to be something stronger, maybe a rum and coke—or a tequila shot.

The band was now in full swing. Betty dragged Dean onto the floor. Gary, Angie, and Lynn went to watch. I took a drink of my beer and considered following.

Rhonda gave me a swift poke in the side with her elbow.

The rodeo queen we had seen with Peter Blake entered the room, dressed in a silver, faux-fur coat that fit her like a cocoon. Under the coat, she wore a sky blue flapper dress in the same gauzy material as Betty’s. It clung to her in all the strategic places. I was less than happy to notice that she had, as my gangster friends would say, a great set of gams.

Another elbow in my side turned my attention back to the door. Peter Blake wore his usual cowboy chic. Jeans, cowboy boots, and hat were probably as authentic as anything else for 1920s Montana. He walked over to the small bar in the back and ordered, the rodeo queen right behind him.

They left the bar and joined a group standing near the door. Blake stood a little away from the others. His eyes scanned the room.

“Go talk to him,” Rhonda urged me.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. Suddenly, I had a renewed interest in finding Gary and Angie. I spent the next two hours by the dance floor swaying to the music, drinking rum and cokes, and cheering on those braver than me who were willing to make complete fools of themselves doing dances like the Grizzly Bear, the Chicken Scratch, and the Squirrel.

“Lucy, you have to dance to something,” Betty yelled as she hopped by. “Gary, Angie, make her join in.”

The Duck Waddle turned out to be my dance. Maybe it was the rum and cokes, but I thought I showed real talent.

A little before 10, Everett’s group played their last number. Our table, minus Betty who waited for Everett, moved upstairs where a new band was ready to start.

This room was smaller with no tables, just folding chairs. I picked a seat and stashed my purse and jacket under it. Gary and Angie made another drink run. I knew I should care that they seemed joined at the hip, but the combination of three rum and cokes and the bluesy music really depleted my man-hunting energies.