Loose Screw (Dusty Deals Mystery) (4 page)

The EMPs were climbing back in the ambulance by the time I walked into the alley. It hadn’t taken long for them to confirm that Crandell was beyond their help. They left empty handed. Crandell still lay where I’d first seen him.

I tried not to look without making it obvious that I was trying not to look.

The police began taping off the alley, including the area around my Cherokee.

Focused on my only mode of transportation, I stepped forward. My house was not exactly within walking distance, and I had zero desire to spend the night in my shop, especially after tonight’s excitement. I waved at one of the men manning the tape, but he moved past me as if I’d just donned a cloak of invisibility.

“Until we have a chance to search the entire area, your rig will have to stay right there.”

I turned to the side. The speaker, Peter Blake, a detective with the Helena Police, stepped from the shadows.

I didn’t know him as well as I knew George, but we had run into each other a few times in the past. Truth be told, he was known for being a bit of a tough ass, and I’d avoided him as much as possible.

 Just
one
of Ted’s points of contention with me and my performance on the police beat.

Tough ass reputation aside, Blake was good looking in an unexpected way. Dark, heavy brows dominated his eyes and, no matter what the time of day, five o’clock shadow always looked like it was about 10 minutes from popping out. Somehow, all of this bundled together made him a very masculine and, under different circumstances, attractive package.

 “Would you please step back inside your shop so I can ask you a few questions?” His brusque manner tugged at the threads of my frayed nerves, but I complied, tromping back into my shop with Blake’s round-toed cowboy boots on my heels.

Kiska, energized by all the activity, emerged from my office and bounced forward two feet with his butt up and his front end down. “
Oooooo
,” he complained, followed by, “
Ow wow ow wow
.”

Kiska demanding dinner.

Like a well-programmed owner, I shuffled to the crock where I stored Kiska’s food and fished out the plastic scoop I kept inside.

Blake raised a brow.

I dropped the scoop back into the crock and slid my hands down my jeans to clean them of any telltale signs of dog food. 

Kiska nudged me with his nose; then, when I didn’t react promptly, he shoved his still empty bowl into the wall, loudly.

I hesitated, trapped between Blake’s impatient brow and Kiska’s no-patience stare.

Kiska won. Ignoring Blake, I quickly filled Kiska’s bowl and stepped away.

When I looked up, Blake’s expression was stuck on glower.

 “Tell me what happened.” He turned his back on me briefly to respond to a question from another officer who had just entered the shop through the alley door. I took advantage of his inattention to slump against the wall. I was tired, no, more than that... deflated. I wasn’t sure that I could make it through his questions and then Gary’s and Marcy’s. In fact, I was regretting my call to the paper.

They would have expected an interview anyway, but my call sealed that deal.

However, by the time Blake turned around, I was standing straight and looking professional. At least that’s how I saw things. Based on the scowl under Blake’s Resistol cowboy hat, I wasn’t sure he saw me the same way.

 “So your dog’s attention wasn’t on the corpse. Do you think someone else was in the alley? Did you see anyone?” He put both hands on his hips in what I took as an unmistakable sign of intolerance for flighty witnesses in general and me in particular.

I felt my lips begin to twist. I was tired and stressed, and Blake’s terse manner was beginning to wear on me.  Realizing this annoyed me even more.

Still, I gave his question some consideration. Maybe because I hadn’t really thought about what Kiska’s behavior, coupled with finding Crandell, meant—and I should have.

Had the killer been in the alley with us? Not a pleasant possibility.

“I didn’t see or hear anyone, but Kiska certainly acted like something was out there. I don’t think it was the body that got him so upset. He stayed turned the other way.”

Blake reached into his jacket and pulled out a spiral notebook. He scribbled a few lines. “Pearson said you were able to identify the victim. Did you know him?”

With the interview flowing, Blake seemed to relax, which allowed me to do the same.

“I didn’t really know him. He was at the auction on Sunday. He bought a medicine man set. Then today he came into my shop looking for some books on the Deeres. “The set he bought was from the Deere estate.”  I offered the last as an afterthought.

I noticed an old decal stuck on my office door. Needing to do something with my hands, I ran my thumb under a loose corner and pushed it into a little accordion-shaped pile. I scraped it off and turned to Blake.

He was looking a little tense.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and rolled back on my heels. That seemed to soothe the detective some. He returned to his questions.

After about 20 minutes of him frowning and scrawling in his notebook, he announced we were done. I could stop by the station the next day to sign a statement.

“What about my car? Can I move it now?” I posed the question nicely. I knew the tape the police had strapped around the Cherokee meant they had no intention of letting me near it, but I needed my car and who could turn down a sugary sweet smile? I turned mine up to cotton-candy, give-you-a-toothache-to-look-at-me sweet.

“Not tonight.” He turned on his heel and strode out the backdoor.

Too stunned to move for a moment, I hesitated.

I had followed all the rules and answered all of Blake’s questions. I had played nice. I deserved a reward, and what did I get? Nothing. Not even an offer of a ride home.

Before taking time to think, I started moving after him. The phone ringing stopped me mid-stride and brought me back to my senses. 

Per normal, my savior was Rhonda. “What’s going on over there? I was getting ready to leave when I saw the police cars. They barely let me step out my backdoor. Did you kill someone?” she asked.

“Well, I didn’t, but someone did. I just found Mr. Buckskin with a knife in his chest.” I gripped the phone so tightly my knuckles popped.

Rhonda inhaled noisily through her teeth. “Are you kidding? What happened?”

I quickly explained my disturbing discovery in the alley, and then asked for a ride home. I hated to do it, but my house wasn’t exactly on the local bus line, and now that I’d returned to reality, I realized that running after Blake would accomplish nothing. Besides, I didn’t want to run after Blake. I didn’t want to face him down. I just wanted him to politely offer me my car.

“Why don’t you stay with me? You don’t have to go home, do you? I’ll loan you the essentials.”

I glanced at Kiska, searching for an excuse to say no. Rhonda was my best friend, but I’ve never been big on sleep-overs. And I had a sneaking suspicion Rhonda’s idea of “essentials” after a night like this weren’t the same as mine—namely alcohol, chocolate, and anything fried.

But my house was a drive. It would have been hideously selfish of me to push her to take me home and then, what? Pick me up again tomorrow?

The other option, a hotel, was expensive, and if Detective Dark-and-Not-So-Charming wouldn’t give me my own car, I was sure he wasn’t going to spring for a room either.

Still, I hedged a little. “I have Kiska with me.”

“The more the merrier.” Rhonda wasn’t big on taking a hint.

“How about Nostradamus?”

“He’ll deal with it.”

“Oh, that’s good.” I scratched Kiska behind one ear. “Don’t you have plans with Silas?”

“We had lunch, remember?”

Damn, I’d forgotten.

“That settles it. Close up and come over.”

Kiska flipped my hand with his nose, signaling he wanted attention, and I was out of stalls.

“Sure, I can’t wait,” I replied as upbeat as I could muster. “It’ll be a couple of minutes though. Gary and Marcy from the
News
are probably waiting to talk to me. I called up there to let them know what was going on.”

 After hanging up, I addressed my dog. “I don’t know why you look so cheerful. You aren’t going to be eating any better than I am.” Giving him a final pat on the head, I opened the backdoor to peer into the alley.

The police were still milling around, measuring, photographing, and staring at the ground. Gary and Marcy stood just outside the taped area behind Cuppa Joe’s. Gary was busy snapping shots while Marcy nervously made notes, making it appear that, yes, she was the reporter on this story.

As I mulled that over, Blake walked toward them and gestured in a less than welcoming manner. I was glad to see I wasn’t the only recipient of his charming demeanor.

Gary was either satisfied with the pictures he had or he wanted to get away from Blake too. He stepped back. Marcy made another note as she followed Gary. They opened the backdoor to Cuppa Joe’s and disappeared from view. About a minute later, there was a knock on my front door. I went to let them in.

I motioned them inside.

“You learn anything from Blake?” I was, quite honestly, dying to know what the detective thought—not that I would have asked him.

Gary set his camera on a shelf that held an assortment of collectible comics. “I got the feeling he didn’t know much to tell. How about you, Marcy?”

“Well, he didn’t tell me much, if that’s what you mean.” She pulled her pen back and forth through the metal ring on the top of her notebook and spoke quickly, as if she had a limited time to get the words out. “I’ve never seen a dead body like that before. I mean I’ve seen people at the funeral home, but never like that.” Her left eye twitched as she continued. “He had a knife sticking out of him.”

Seeing Marcy’s reaction made me feel better about my own. I tugged her to a chair constructed of old cow horns. It was a little scary itself, but Marcy didn’t seem to notice. “Here. Sit.”

It was nice feeling like I was the one in control. I’d never really cared a lot for Marcy, but suddenly I felt myself warming to her.

She leaned back as far as she could without being speared by a horn. Left eye twitching, she asked, “Do you think they’ll catch whoever did this soon?”

“Who knows? Crandell isn’t from around here. I don’t think he knew many people. It could have just been a robbery attempt or something.” Thinking out loud, I continued, “Of course that seems unlikely since I’m pretty sure he was killed with his own knife. Whoever killed him must have been close enough to pull it out of his belt and stab him.” Suddenly, my own squeamishness was gone, and Crandall’s untimely demise just seemed like an interesting puzzle to be sorted out.

Marcy looked at me as if I’d sprouted a tail—out of my forehead. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

Seeing her obvious distress, I patted her hand like I might a two-year-old’s , reined in my own newly discovered enthusiasm and tried a new tack. “I’m sure this is a one-time thing, specifically targeted at Crandell. There was something a little ‘off’ about him.”

“You think?” Marcy didn’t sound sure.

Gary pulled his left hand out of his pocket and checked his watch. “Either way, we need to get moving. It’s 6:45 now. The front page has to be on the press by midnight or Ted will have our heads mounted on his wall.”

He wasn’t entirely kidding. My ex-boss found it funny to tape pictures of various out-of-favor employees onto the deer head that hung above his desk. I’d had the honor of occupying the space all of last summer.

Marcy sat up a little and pulled the pen out of her notebook.

Her face was no stranger to the deer head either.

“What can you tell us, Lucy?” Looking all prim and proper, she waited for my reply.

Still filled with understanding, I wowed them with my Crandell encounters.

Marcy tapped her pen against the notebook. “I guess we should talk to Rhonda, too.” Her enthusiasm struck me as... nonexistent. Ted had called me a “wuss” for my inability to “get the hard story,” but even I wouldn’t be afraid to talk to Rhonda. In fact, I’d used Rhonda as a “source” on more than one occasion. Her frequent gossip-gathering trips to Cuppa Joe’s is all that kept me from being fired on more than one occasion.

As Marcy struggled her way through the cow horns, attempting to stand, Gary picked up his camera. “I might as well go on back to the paper,” he said. “You aren’t going to need any more pictures, are you?”

Before Marcy could answer, the need to be helpful surged through me. “Do you want to try for a shot out my backdoor? The police said I couldn’t walk out there, but they didn’t say anything about keeping the door shut or not looking.” I raised my eyebrows.  I would have fluttered my lashes, but I am completely above that.

“That’s a great idea.” Gary smiled, his eyes crinkled, and my heart did a little flutter thing.

Marcy grunted. Tired of watching her fight her way out of the chair, I gave her a good pull.

She crossed her arms over her chest and in a world-class imitation of a petulant 12 year old, stated, “I’m not going anywhere by myself. Whoever killed that guy is still out there somewhere.”

My newfound love of her dissipated, but with no other easy/polite choice, I led both of them to the back. There was a small window there that, if I stood on my toes and a stack of magazines, offered a decent view of the alley. I made use of both.

The police were still very visible. Two officers bent over Crandell, measuring and taking pictures; a body bag sat on the ground outside the taped area waiting for its cargo.

I motioned to Gary. “This might be too close to open the door. Do you think you can get anything through the window?”

“I can try.” Gary, sans the help of toes or magazines, positioned himself with his camera up against the glass.

He brushed against me, and I caught a whiff of something woodsy. Marcy followed right behind him. I stepped back to avoid pressing into her and fell against the wall. A Kessler Beer sign clattered off the wall and onto the floor.