Loose Screw (Dusty Deals Mystery) (3 page)

Today he wore some kind of rough, probably homespun, cloth shirt and a new set of buckskin trousers. He had his leather pouch strapped across his chest, and his knife dangled from his waist. My lips twisted at bit when I saw the knife. I preferred my customers unarmed. Not that I would say that to him.  

“The gal next door said you had books on local history.” He made a move like he was hitching a ride, his thumb pointed toward Spirit Books.

I wasn’t sure how Rhonda would feel about being called a “gal.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about her being called a “gal.” My lips twisted a bit more.

He raised a brow, and, afraid I’d alerted him to my thoughts, I smiled.

It was a free country after all. If he wanted to use the word gal, who was I... the linguistics police? And the knife...? I stopped that line of thinking with a bigger smile.

His brow rose a little higher.

 Still smiling, I replied, “A few. Was there something specific you were interested in?”

He angled his neck a little to the side as if he wasn’t 100 percent sure I was right in the head. “The Deere family.”

One of my favorite topics, and from a potentially paying customer
. Gal really wasn’t that bad... and his knife? I grew up with boys who used bigger blades to clean under their nails. The smile was now, I was afraid, permanent.

“I have one book with quite a bit about the family, but most of it’s about Garrison and his wife Ruby. I don’t think there’s more than a sentence or two on Denton and probably nothing on his collection.” Realizing the smile didn’t fit with my disappointing news, I forced my face into a frown, at least the top half. My lips continued to curve.

“That’s fine,” he replied, lowering his cheek toward one shoulder and taking a step back.

Glad I could drop the frown, I unceremoniously plopped down beside the bookshelf in front of my counter and pulled out a blue cloth-covered volume. “This has a lot of local stories in it, and there are two decent chapters on the Deeres.” I peered up at my customer. “I have a book on call girls who crossed over into ‘polite’ society too. Ruby’s mentioned in there.” My smile this time was completely sincere. I loved Ruby Deere’s story.

He didn’t reply or show any expression, so I continued. “Before she met Garrison, Ruby was a gold camp follower.” The term didn’t seem to register. I added, “a prostitute.”

His brows formed a
V
on his forehead. “I thought the Deeres were a big deal.”

I nodded. “They are. In the late 1800’s, there weren’t a lot of single women around here. I guess Garrison didn’t want to go back east to get a wife. Or, if you’re a romantic, you can believe he just fell in love.”

The
V
of his eyebrows remained unaltered.

His lack of enthusiasm was disappointing and annoying. My smile dimmed, just a bit.  “Anyway, they got married. He already had a ton of money from cattle, and together they made more. According to the book, she was a pretty smart cookie.”

I waited, giving him a chance to redeem himself with at least an appreciative nod. I got a dead fish stare instead.

My lips were tired, and I was ready to end my act. I sighed. “Anyway, their romance is kind of legendary around here. He even spent a small fortune on a 12-carat Burmese ruby for their tenth anniversary.” I opened the book and pointed to a photo of Ruby Deere with a gleaming jewel nestled atop her breasts. “She wore it constantly, at least until Garrison died.”

 He still didn’t seem overly impressed, but his frown lessened. “Guess that will have to do.”

Still not sure what he’d been looking for, I brushed two months’ worth of dirt off my knees and struggled up.

Books in hand, I stepped behind the counter.

He took out his wallet and handed me a Visa. I took note of the name, James Crandell, before running it through.

“Thanks for stopping by.” I managed to pull out a final high-wattage smile.

He returned it with a two-fingered salute before striding out the door.

Shaking my head, I muttered an expletive under my breath.

Apparently stirred from his job holding down the floor of my office, Kiska ventured into the main shop.

I jerked my head toward the front door. “He was a keeper, wasn’t he?” I asked.

My sarcasm seemed lost on Kiska. He swished his tail and sniffed the air a little. Then, sure there was nothing going on that needed his attention, he headed back to bed.

I muttered a bit more and got back to work, logging onto Ebay to check the going rates there for the items I’d bought at the auction. Aside from the Roseville, it didn’t look like anything I had was going to start a bidding frenzy.

Disappointed, I grabbed a sandwich from a nearby shop, returned to Dusty Deals, and spent most of the day boxing up items I’d sold the week before off my web site. 

Around three, I finally had a real, in-person customer. She heaved two boxes of old magazines onto the counter. I rang her up, grabbed a box, and followed her out the backdoor to her car, which was parked in the alley.

In the shadow of the building, it was dark and cool, like an air-conditioned library on a hot, sunny day—relaxing.

I turned to thank her, but was startled by a new, unexpected sound: the clomp of hooves hitting pavement.

Two quarter horses, one black, one buckskin, wandered toward us. On their backs, men in cowboy gear swayed with the horses’ steps. The men reined their mounts around the back of my Cherokee and nodded in greeting.

They were a pretty sight, at least until one of the horses, the buckskin, moved past, dropping giant pellets of manure with each charming, clomping step.

I gave my customer a weak smile and prayed the manure would magically disappear before quitting time—and Kiska’s appearance in the alley.

He had a dog’s love of all things disgusting, and a dog’s hatred of all things soapy. Giving him a bath after a roll in horse dung was not my idea of a great night.  I even went so far as to consider picking it up myself, but sadly I had left my mucking clothes at home.

So, with my customer and the horses gone, I went back inside.

The remainder of the day dragged. Kiska and I had the place to ourselves, and he just slept. Finally, tired of (not) dusting and (not) straightening, I gathered up my dog and headed toward the back entrance.

As I locked the door behind us, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled, like someone was watching me. I turned toward the alley. It was dark outside, but a light right above my backdoor lit the area around me. Kiska stood a few feet away, not far from the Dumpster, his legs stiff. He pointed his nose up and sniffed the breeze. Then the ruff of hair around his neck slowly began to rise.

“Kiska, come here.”

He stood firm, staring down the alley past Rhonda’s shop.

“Kiska come.” I used my “do it now or no treats for you” voice. He looked my way and then turned back to his original pose, concentrating on something or someone down the alley past Spirit Books.

 A chill crept over me. Kiska approached life in a pretty easygoing manner. Something bad had to be up for him to react like this. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to face it alone, and I didn’t want him to face it alone or otherwise. I took a tentative step toward him. With my hand resting on his back, I asked, “What’s the matter? Do you see something?”

He didn’t reply, but he didn’t relax either. I took a few steps past him and tripped... over two moccasin-clad feet. My pulse surged, and I grabbed the Dumpster to keep from falling.

Feet tended to be attached to bodies, and my alley was not a place many would consider ideal for a nap. Trying to remain calm, I moved my gaze upward, over denim-covered legs and a homespun shirt. There my resolve and my gaze stopped, locked onto a blood-covered chest and the knife protruding from it. 

Chapter 3

I stood staring, my mind whirling, my eyes frozen on the knife. Kiska pushed against my leg and broke my trance.

I ran my fingers through the wiry hairs of his overcoat for reassurance. Calmer, I forced myself to look back at the body. My eyes locked onto the bloodstained chest. Body in the alley. Not good.

Take a breath. Stay calm.

I forced my eyes to the face—the surprised face of James Crandell.

I took a step back, but my attention stayed focused on the body. Crandell was lying on his back about a foot from the Dumpster. His mouth and eyes were wide open, his arms at his sides. His clothing was rumpled, as if he’d been in some sort of scuffle, and an elk antler handle protruded from his blood-soaked chest. It appeared to belong to the knife he had worn on his belt earlier. Based on the quantity of blood surrounding it, my first assumption—that he was dead—seemed accurate.

I pushed at his leg with my foot. “Mr. Crandell, are you okay?” I didn’t expect a response, but I wasn’t exactly experienced in talking to dead men.

Kiska was now thoroughly engrossed in Crandell’s fate. He shoved his way closer, preparing to give Crandell a good sniff. I pushed Kiska to the side, took a deep breath, and bent over to place trembling fingers on Crandell’s neck. No pulse.

He was dead.

I grabbed Kiska’s collar and tugged him back into Dusty Deals.

I twisted the lock behind us and pressed my back against the door. My heart was pounding, and I could hear every bit of blood in my body swooshing through my veins.

Someone had murdered a man in my alley while Kiska and I were working only a few yards away.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.

Helena didn’t have a lot of murders, and most that they did have were of the domestic dispute or drunken fight variety.

Not random tourist stabbings.

The whole thing seemed nearly impossible.

And, for a moment, I convinced myself that it was. Edging the door open, I peered out. Crandell was still there. In fact, now he couldn’t have stood out more if a giant cartoon arrow had pointed at him from above.

I closed the door again and leaned against it.

The reporter still inside me said “call the newspaper,” but as I headed for the phone, I realized this instinct was misplaced. I wasn’t a reporter any longer. Police had to come first.

Strangely morose about the realization, I made the call.

“Helena Police.”

“This is Lucy Mathews. I just found a body.” The facts and just the facts.

“A what? What are you talking about, Lucy?”

The incredulous voice on the other end shook me out of my fog a bit. I had run into George Pearson frequently when working the police beat. He was a big, friendly kind of guy who preferred working at a desk to driving around checking out the usual Helena crimes.

I could tell by his tone he thought I was pulling some gag on him, a gag he didn’t find particularly funny.

The words spilled out then, coming so fast I stuttered a bit between each one. “A body, George. A dead, human one to be more exact. I think his name is James Crandell. He’s lying out behind my shop with a knife in his chest. There’s blood, lots of blood.”

My near hysteria must have convinced him I wasn’t playing. He switched to a new, professional persona and took down my street address, name, and phone number. Then, in an almost fatherly voice, he told me to stay where I was. Another officer and an ambulance would be there shortly.

By the time I hung up, sirens were already approaching. I checked my watch, 5:30. The editor at the
News
, Ted Brown, would already be gone for the day. This was a relief. Ted was a major reason for my recent departure from the paper. I had no desire to talk to him, not even as a prized source who had just found a body.

“
Daily News
, Gary Richards speaking.” Gary was one of two photographers at the paper. He was tightly built with blond, slightly curly hair that always seemed just a little too long. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled just a little, and my insides did a little flop.

I had developed a bit of a crush on him a few months back, but failed to pursue it after a rather embarrassing night on the town with the newsroom. Gary had pulled me out of an awkward position involving a lilac bush and one too many Fat Tire ales. After seeing me like that, I didn’t think any amount of eyelash fluttering or coy smiles would seduce him to my charms.

Any thoughts I’d had of romance had disappeared almost as quickly as that ale.

“Lucy, what’s going on down there? A police call just went out listing your shop.”

“You might want to tell someone to plan on reworking the front page. I just found a dead body.”

Gary didn’t even try to hide his excitement. “You’re kidding. I’ll get Marcy and be right there.”

I had no idea why he would be getting Marcy Henderson. She was a part-timer who specialized in fluff pieces for the advertising department, but my head was too much of a jumble to ask, besides, he had already hung up.

In a daze, I drifted into the office and sat down next to Kiska.

The police, Gary and, apparently, Marcy would be here soon. They were going to ask questions—going to expect answers too.

My mind drifted back to Crandall’s bloody chest; my head swam.

My fingers clutched onto Kiska’s ruff.

This was not going a good direction. 

If I wanted to look like a rational human being and not a weak-kneed schoolgirl, I had to get my mind around what had happened.

I took a breath and tried to pull back a bit—to see things a little less personally.

It was hard, but after closing my eyes and pulling in a few cleansing breaths, I managed to pull up an image of Crandall lying in my alley, and this time I didn’t shake, at least not as much.

As I memorized the image, preparing to share it with the police and Gary... or Marcy...  a realization hit.

Crandell hadn’t been wearing his buckskin pants, and his pouch had been missing too. He still had on his moccasins and homespun shirt, but the jeans were definitely new.

This breakthrough, trivial as it probably was, made me feel better and more in control.

The wail of sirens, now in the alley, brought my attention back to the present. I ran my fingers up against my scalp, pushed my hair away from my face for a second, and took a deep breath. This was as good as I was going to get. Then I slunk to the backdoor to greet the police and emergency medical personnel.