Loose Screw (Dusty Deals Mystery) (25 page)

“What about the fight you said he was talking about right before Betty hit him? Couldn’t that have been the killer?”

I rubbed some salt off the edge of my glass and licked it off my finger. “He made that up. Who else was going to stand out in my alley and meet Crandell? No, Darrell killed him. There’s no doubt about it.”

Chapter 25

At home, I took Kiska for a well-deserved and, after consuming a pepper full of cookies, much-needed walk.

After he’d trotted off a peck or so of the treats, I texted Peter Blake. While I waited for his callback, I curled up on the couch with the futuristic romance novel Rhonda had given me earlier that week. The heroine had just discovered the hero had some very interesting mental powers when my phone rang. I folded back the corner of the page and got up to answer.

I didn’t wait for the niceties. “What did Darrell say? Did he admit to killing Crandell? Did you book him for attacking me?”

Blake inhaled loudly. “I shouldn’t tell you anything…”

“But?” I prompted. All need to be polite had been scared out of me by Darrell. There was a fire under my behind that wouldn’t be put out easily.

“No buts. I don’t want to read about this in the paper tomorrow.”

“You mean nobody else from the paper’s called you yet? You have to be kidding.” I let out an exasperated puff.

Fine, Ted thought I was too close to cover this one, but
really
, somebody had to. “Ted took me off the story and didn’t send anybody else down there?”

“Ted took you off it?” Blake asked. I was suspicious he was grinning. “That explains Marcy doing her best to blend into the walls out in the reception area.”

 
Ha
. Ted had sent Marcy. I felt bad for her, but pretty darn satisfied Ted wasn’t going to get much for tomorrow’s run. I did the unthinkable and, for a split-second, hoped the TV news scooped him.

 “As long as you promise you won’t call your buddy Marcy and fill her in on what I tell you, I’ll share a little with you. I can’t risk the details being in the paper tomorrow though.” Blake paused, obviously waiting for some kind of commitment from me.

“I promise. I will not call Marcy tonight.” I couldn’t promise past that. By tomorrow my guilt at having an inside scoop might push me to spill all, or I might be able to change Ted’s mind and write a follow-up myself.

“Darrell admitted breaking into your shop. We found the rest of the Indian gear in a closet in his office. That tied him to the murder. He got an attorney, and we cut a deal.” Blake inhaled again.

“What do you mean you cut a deal? He killed Crandell. Aren’t you going to do something about it?” My voice rose as I talked. The fire under my behind was roaring. “Plus, he broke into my shop and threatened Kiska and me with a horse-head cane. How can you just let him go?”

“We aren’t just letting him go,” Blake said, calm—too calm.

“Sounds like it to me.”

“You’re lucky, you know. As part of the deal, we got him to not press charges against you or Betty.”

“Not press charges against us? Is he completely off his rocker? He attacked me.” Unable to contain my agitation, I paced back and forth.

“You’re not the one with two baseballs growing out of your head. He looks like someone smacked him with a bat. The bump between his eyes is particularly nice. It went from red to purple to black while I talked to him. If he’d had a mirror, I probably couldn’t have talked him into laying off you.”

My hero
. I snorted.

“So, if I were you, I’d be happy and leave well enough alone.”

Well there you had it. He
wasn’t
me, now was he? And certainly not the new, enraged me. I hung up and went back to stewing.

I pondered the Darrell dilemma until around midnight.

The police must have believed his fight story. Did Darrell give them a name? Who could it have been, or was I right, and Darrell had made the whole thing up?

Kiska didn’t seem to have much of an opinion on any of it. Finally, I took my book and went to bed. After the fourth round of mind-boggling orgasms (in the book), I fell asleep.

o0o

I’m a fairly clean person. I mean, I practice the normal amount of good hygiene. That’s why it was such a shock when I tripped over my shoes at six a.m. and realized the thick treads were full to the brim—with horse poop.

I’d been traipsing around the day before tracking horse doo everywhere I went. I knew it had to have been there most of the day because I was only around a horse once, at the race.

Helena is in Montana and all, but horses aren’t just running around dropping pellets all over the place. If you step in it, it isn’t too hard to figure out where you picked it up.

That is when it hit me.

My mind flashed through the events of the week: helping the customer out to her car with the magazines, my first look at the group interested in the medicine man set, Crandell leaving the auction, my phone conversations, my trip to the mall, and, of course, the feather.

I knew who had killed Crandell, and Blake was right, it wasn’t Darrell.

I ran to the phone and called Blake. He didn’t answer his cell, and I didn’t have time to wait for him to return a text. The killer could be leaving Helena anytime now. I left a message and dashed to the Cherokee.

Driving fast on gravel takes talent and nerves of steel, or maybe just a total lack of sense. Whatever the case, I pushed the Cherokee to 50, praying I wouldn’t come across a moose on an early morning stroll.

I kept my speed high as I wove through town in the direction of the airport. Thankfully, 6:10 on a Sunday morning in Helena there isn’t a lot of traffic.

The killer was probably already at the airport, maybe on the plane. Helena had a small terminal. A limited number of flights made their way in and out each day. The early morning ones left at 6:30. I didn’t have to look it up. I’d taken the flight myself on occasion. I had 20 minutes to get there. By the time I made it to Prospect Avenue, it was down to five. I peeled into the loading zone and ran inside.

Helena’s airport was basically one big room with a hallway that leads to luggage return. The airline reservation desks were to the right, the passenger loading zone straight ahead in a small glassed-in area where the few security guards on duty seemed to hang out. I lurched around couches and past stuffed animals (the used-to-be-alive variety, not the cuddly children’s toys) on my way to the check through.

“Ticket, please.” A guard halted my progress. “No one is admitted past this point without a ticket.”

“But I have to stop that….” I pressed my face up against the glass and watched as the small propeller plane left the runway.

Chapter 26

Dejected, I walked away from the glass wall and plopped down next to a stuffed coyote with an unfortunate mouse dangling from his mouth. Since they’d both seen better days, I wasn’t sure it was fair to term only the mouse as unfortunate. Of course, the coyote had at least caught his quarry—more than could be said for me.

Studying the vignette of predator and prey, I realized I was truly disappointed that the plane had left. I had made my mad dash without any planning and very little thought, but I was ready for a confrontation, one bigger than sniping at Blake through a phone line.

I was tired of playing nice. I was tired of giving in. I wanted to write this story, and I wanted somebody to pay for something. If Darrell was going to get off the hook for breaking into my shop and threatening Kiska and me, I’d be damned if the killer was going to fly away scot-free.

I stood up to go talk to a ticket agent, and to my surprise, noticed Marie Malone standing next to the auto rental booth.

“We left the car in the slot.” Marie handed some paperwork to the girl behind the counter.

I searched for her husband. He appeared in the doorway of the men’s bathroom with two plane tickets in his hands. I grimaced when I saw they were for United. I’d watched a Delta flight leave. Three airlines operated out of Helena, and I’d focused on just one—the wrong one. I took a moment to form a plan. None came. I couldn’t just let them get away. My best and only alternative seemed to be action.

I hurtled over the back of the vinyl bench in front of me and landed two feet from a very startled Andrew Malone. I grabbed both tickets and sprinted down the hallway toward the baggage claim. I dug in my purse for my cell phone as I ran.

Shouts and the sound of pounding feet echoed behind me. I managed to punch in Blake’s cell number as I searched luggage return for a hiding place. Flinging my right foot up onto the waist-high conveyer belt, I grabbed the metal edge and pulled myself over. Crouched down, I whispered into the phone, “I’m at the airport. Malone’s trying to leave. He killed Crandell. Get here now.” I didn’t wait for Blake’s response. I hit end and peered over the top of blue Samsonite.

Marie Malone stood, holding onto her husband’s arm, six feet from where I squatted. “What is going on? Who is that woman?”

Andrew Malone sputtered something in return. Spotting me behind my carryall fortress, he took two steps in my direction.

Marie Malone pulled his arm. “What are you doing? Why did that woman grab our tickets? Why is she trying to stop us?” She paused for a second and gripped his arm tighter.

Her husband hesitated. “Marie, I don’t know. Just let me get the tickets.” He managed to sound apologetic and angry at the same time. I was afraid I knew which emotion he would direct at me.

I frantically sorted through the luggage looking for something,
anything
, to serve as a weapon.

“This is about that man, Crandell isn’t it? You killed him didn’t you? You killed him and now this woman is trying to stop us from leaving. Why didn’t you tell me?” Marie’s shrill voice vibrated through the cramped space.

Andrew faced his wife, and, prying her hand off his arm, replied, “It was an accident. He wouldn’t leave you alone. I was afraid he was going to cause you to relapse. I offered him a reasonable amount for the weasel and whistle, but he was just greedy. I told him to sell it to someone else then, but he wouldn’t let it go.”

Malone rubbed his hand across his eyes and forehead. Looking back at his wife, he continued in a tired voice, “He pulled out a feather and started waving it around. I got angry. Somehow that damn knife of his was there, and before I knew it, he was dead.” He pleaded with her now. “Please, Marie, let’s just get the tickets and get out of here.”

He took two steps my direction. I grabbed a tote and heaved it over my barricade. He kept advancing.

Marie stood where he’d left her, her face ashen. “I knew when you came back from meeting him without your blazer and gloves something was wrong. Then I found the feather in the car. I just couldn’t make myself believe you killed him.” She stumbled to the wall and put a hand on it for support.

Malone looked back at his wife and paused in his advance. I whipped open the closest bag and began pelting him with a barrage of toiletries. He held up one hand to protect himself against the onslaught of miniature soap bars, shampoo bottles, and sunscreen and moved toward Marie.

Before he could reach her, men carrying guns filled the space. Peter Blake entered through the sliding doors that led to the parking lot. Two other officers appeared in the corridor that connected to the main terminal. One more popped out of an office across from where I crouched.

I hadn’t heard any sirens.

It was almost like they were here all along.

A flicker of suspicion began to grow in my mind. I stayed hidden, but watching, as the officers cuffed Andrew Malone and began herding him and Marie toward the doors.

Blake turned my direction. The flicker jumped to a roaring blaze. Staring down my Samsonite, he picked his way across the soap and shampoo dotted battlefield.

I swear the man had x-ray vision.

“Lucy, is that you?” His tone was not amused.

I poked my head above the case and watched him with caution.

“What do you have there?” He pointed to the tickets that I had squashed in one fist.

After pressing out the wrinkles, I handed them over. “Malone was going to get away. I didn’t know what else to do, so I grabbed the tickets and ran.”

Blake stared at me with no expression.

He was getting me flustered. I stuttered out a description of my early morning revelation and mad trip to the airport. “I didn’t want them to get away, and you didn’t answer your cell phone. I left you a message.”

Blake said nothing.

“How did you get here so quickly?”

This time he blinked.

I tried again. “Malone killed Crandell. He told me he was tired of scraping horse crap off his shoes. The only way he would have had horse poop on his shoes was if he’d been somewhere there were horses. Since he doesn’t strike me as the dude ranch type, I realized he got it in my alley the afternoon he killed Crandell—when he said he was at the hotel with his wife.”

Blake looked like he was softening—a tiny bit.

“And the feather. Marie couldn’t have got it from Crandell when she met him outside Spirit Books. Crandell didn’t even have the set yet. Frankie told me he didn’t pick it up until after she had left for class, and that was at 10 or later. Around that time, he met Andrew Malone at Cuppa Joe’s. Then he went to Rhonda’s and saw Marie outside. He couldn’t have picked up the set until after lunch. So Marie Malone got the feather sometime between him picking the set up that afternoon and when he was killed, but she claimed she didn’t see him again after that morning.”

Blake lifted both eyebrows.

“Come on. What is going on? You must know something, or you wouldn’t have them in cuffs.” I pointed to where the Malones were being helped into a squad car outside the sliding doors.

Blake took a breath and replied. “You know I should arrest you for interfering? And you should have more sense than to make a scene like this in an airport. You could have been shot.”

Not the response I was hoping for. I stayed silent.

He continued, “I’m going to take the Malones to the station. When I’m done, we’ll talk.”