3 Loosey Goosey (11 page)

I had found a stash to outdo the Lost Dutchman’s Mine, Atlantis, and Blackbeard’s treasure combined. At least in my world.

And, most importantly, every antique shop owner, auctioneer, and collector in a four-state region was going to be Jadeite green with envy. Especially Carl Mack.

I took a moment to lean against one of the toilets and gloat. Then I reached for my phone to dial Betty.

I needed to get this stuff out of here fast. Finders might not be keepers, but possession was as close to law as I was going to get. And I wanted every last dead or dirty piece currently crammed into this space crammed into my space where I could pet it, call it George, and love it as only I could.

My hand on my cell, I paused as I remembered that it was for the moment a brick. I didn’t want to risk a minute of someone else getting wind of this bounty, though. So I returned to Tiffany’s section of the apartment in search of a phone.

I found one, a red circle thing that I was sure Phyllis would want to add to her haul if she saw it.

Betty answered on the first ring, a bad sign that told me business was slow. Of course, considering Phyllis and I had gotten to the Antlers at seven, it probably wasn’t even nine yet.

I silently cursed my brother and his early morning commitment, and then went about asking Betty if she could track down her husband Everett to see if he would be willing to loan us his truck, trailer, and a few members of his jazz band to do the actual lifting.

“Not a problem on the trailer. Man power might be an issue. Everett’s band isn’t made up of spring roosters.”

“Ben can help.” He owed me after my 5 a.m. wake up.

Not wanting to waste any time, I wandered around the apartment while I talked. I felt a bit like a ghoul, but I overcame that and checked to see if any of Tiffany’s things had Dusty Deals resale potential.

“And maybe Peter.” I added the last with some trepidation. Not only was I not all that keen on putting Ben and Peter together in any way, but the idea of bringing Peter, the police detective, to help clear out the property of a woman Stone seemed to think my brother had a hand in killing felt like a less than stellar idea.

Except maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Peter would see something here Stone had missed, something that would put Ben completely in the clear.

Betty agreed to call Everett, and I hung up with thoughts of Peter and some clue the other officers had missed at the top of my mind. Who needed Peter? I was here. Yes, the police had surely been through Tiffany’s home, but they might have missed something. Besides, I was more motivated than they had been. I had a brother and a goose to get out of my house.

I started in the kitchen. I didn’t know much about illicit drugs, but I kept my metabolism-boosting vitamins in my cupboard next to the coffee. Maybe Tiffany did the same with whatever drug Daniel had seen her on.

I found vitamins and a bottle of pain relievers. I also found a bag of premium coffee, the same kind that I’d had at the organic grocer. I wondered for a minute or two if I could justify taking it under Richard Danes’ permission to take whatever and give him a list, but the whole ghoul feeling returned. I shut the cupboard with a snap, feeling guilty and more than a little dirty.

Not too dirty to check out Tiffany’s bedroom and closet though. Sock drawers were where everyone hid their secrets.

In Tiffany’s, there was a set of six neatly folded tennis-type socks and that was it.

Maybe it was the underwear drawer.

Nada
. Although Tiffany did have a few items in there that made me look around for assurance that I was alone. Little strips of lace that for the life of me looked more like something a child would use in the old game of Cat’s Cradle than anything I would put on my body.

I slammed the drawer shut and took a moment to assure myself that I wasn’t a prude. I was practical. Men appreciated practicality. At least Peter did... or he should.

Frustrated with myself and my fruitless mission, I pulled out the next drawer. I was ready to immediately push it back in, but my hand stilled.

At first glance, the drawer seemed empty, but something about how it moved, or didn’t, caused me to hesitate. Something was stuck or caught in the slide.

My heart sped a bit as I carefully pulled the drawer out of its slot. The drugs? A bill from Tiffany’s supplier? A suicide note?

Any of those would do.

Halfway out, the drawer caught again. I jiggled it and got it to move another inch. Whatever was holding the drawer was stuck good. Which, of course, made me want to dislodge it even more. Another jiggle and—

“Lucy? Are you up here?” Phyllis’ voice called from the stairs.

Guilt immediately struck and struck hard. Looking in someone’s medicine cabinet—which, by the way, it occurred to me I had yet to do—was bad enough, but poking through their underwear drawer?

What would Phyllis think?

I leaned into the drawer, trying to shove it back closed, but the damned thing wouldn’t budge.

“What are you doing?”

Phyllis stood to the side, her head tilted as she tried to comprehend the image of me slamming my body into a dead woman’s bureau.

“Oh.”

I prayed to the gods of all termites for the floor to weaken and let me drop through.

“You checking her drawers? Good idea. You never know what a girl will stick in with her undies.” Phyllis stomped over, grabbed the drawer with both hands, and jerked.

It flew free, sending Phyllis staggering backward and a pair of torn, white cotton boxer shorts soaring onto my face.

“It’s empty.” Phyllis turned the drawer upside down, disappointment clear on her face. “What are those... oh.”

As I pulled the boxers from my face, her expression changed from disappointed to knowing. “Tiffany had a friend.”

“Yeah.” I held the item between thumb and middle finger, wondering where to deposit it.

“Or an interest in menswear,” Phyllis added. “Although she was bit small for these, don’t you think?” Undisturbed by what to me was the horrific reality of holding an unknown man’s underpants, she took the boxers and held them up in front of her. “At least a forty-four inch waist on these.”

I jerked them from her hands and tossed them into Tiffany’s underwear drawer. Phyllis folded her arms over her chest and watched as I tried to work the drawer that we’d removed back in place.

“Speaking of underwear…” Phyllis walked to Tiffany’s beside table and opened another drawer.

Feeling defensive, I shoved the first bureau drawer back in place and walked toward her to push the one she’d just opened closed too. “I don’t think—”

“According to Betty, your brother isn’t wearing any.”

My mouth hung open. “What?”

“Underwear. Betty called to say Everett can bring the trailer, but she also thought you’d want to know that your brother and his funny friends are marching around the Capitol naked.”

She couldn’t be serious. But looking at her face, I knew she was.

My mother was going to kill me.

Chapter 10

The protest was at the Capitol. It wasn’t hard to find, what with all the gawkers, police, and naked bodies.

Cattle too. I’d forgotten that the historic breeds show was today. Temporary pens had been set up, filling the street that ran between the History Museum and the Capitol building.

Inside the pens were big, not so big, and
good Lord what is that monster
cattle, steers mainly, I guessed. There were gray, black, and brown cattle. Cattle with horns. Cattle without horns.

In other words, there were cattle and the droppings they left behind. I discovered the latter after rolling down my window to search the crowd for Ben.

Not that it was all that hard to spot him.

My brother, Hope, and Xander led five other protesters on a slow trek around the sidewalk that surrounded the 100-plus-year-old Capitol. By the time we had parked and jogged across 6th Avenue, they were taking a right, heading toward the Historical Museum and the bevy of historic bovines.

Betty had been right. They were naked. Or mostly naked. Their most pertinent parts were covered with notebook-paper-sized signs with classy messages like “Bite Me,” “We are one!” and “Parts is Parts! Go Vegan.” The rest of them were walking butcher diagrams, with cuts like “chuck,” “rib,” “sirloin,” and “round” written in the appropriate spaces.

Eric Handler, fully dressed in HA! shirt and jeans, stood directly in front of the statue of Thomas Francis Meagher, once acting governor of Montana Territory. Meagher, depicted on horseback, held a saber over his head appearing to lead a charge. I had to wonder if Eric imagined himself in the same light.

Richard Danes and a group of what I guessed had to be beef ranchers were gathered in a group, arms over their chests and stomachs and scowls on their faces.

I knew now what had pulled Danes away from the Antlers. I was just happy there was no way for him to know what my relationship with the nakedness was.

The
News
was there too, in the form of Gary Richards, photographer extraordinaire, and Marcy Henderson, a writer for the
Daily News
who, last I heard, specialized in advertorial fluff pieces. Marcy moved from foot to foot, carefully keeping her back to the protesters as she scribbled down whatever wisdom Handler was sharing.

As I watched, Pauline waddled from the other side of the statue, fluttered her wings, and took a spot right in front of Meagher’s horse, showing who the goose thought was truly in the lead here.

For the record, she, too, was dressed in a HA! shirt, along with a tiny red bandanna.

“That your brother?”

I looked up to see George Pearson, friend and police officer, squinting against the morning sun as he watched Ben and the other HA! members walk down the sidewalk.

“They picked a nice day for it anyway,” George added, shaking his head. He patted his front pocket and pulled a pair of sunglasses out, which he placed on his face.

“Are you going to arrest them?” I asked, panicking. If Ben got arrested on my watch...

Gary turned away from Handler and Marcy to point his camera at the protesters. I could tell by the angle of his lens that he was zooming in on the man in the front: Ben.

“Looks like that Handler guy is getting what he wanted. Front page news,” George commented.

Front page. Which equaled website. Which equaled a call from my mother.

I hesitated for a moment, caught between two possible plays. Photographer or source? Gary was closer, but that would only be minimizing the risk. I had to take out the source.

I took off in a jog.

“Lucy? Where are you going?” Phyllis called after me.

As I ran, I jerked off my jacket. It was small, but it would cover enough, I hoped.

With less than six feet to go, the group turned again, this time a U-turn, so they were headed right at me. I huffed out a relieved breath and launched myself at Ben in my best imitation of a pro football tackle. My shoulder slammed into his bare gut and my arms wrapped around his waist. Then, in one slow motion moment, I felt my body slide downward. The sign hanging from his waist went with me until it and I were lying face down on the concrete.

“Lucy! What are you—?”

The rest of whatever Ben was saying faded into a distant hum as I looked up and into the dark circle of Gary’s lens.

“No!” I held up my hand, then groped around for the sign, or my jacket, or something, but it was too late. I could tell by the light in Gary’s eyes, he’d gotten the shot.

I fell back onto the sidewalk, defeated.

“Well, now, I’m not sure exactly how to handle this.” George crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. “Looks like a case of indecent exposure, except the exposee didn’t do the exposing. What do you think, Detective Blake?”

I found my jacket and placed it over my head.

o0o

Ten minutes later, I was propped against the Meagher statue while Peter, George, and what felt like half of the Helena Police department discussed what wide variety of laws I might have broken when I pulled Ben’s sign down from its strategic job of hiding his privates.

“Assault for sure,” one uniformed officer offered.

“Battery? She hit him pretty hard.”

“Defamation of character?”

“I’ve got it! Tackling in the end zone.”

Oh, they were a riot this group, but I had bigger issues. Somehow, in the confusion of stripping my brother of his only concealing garb, I’d lost track of Gary and his camera.

Marcy was gone too, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Daniel. He was far from my favorite
News
employee, but if he could help me with my little digital issue, I’d be willing to make nice.

I looked up at Peter. “Are you done?”

His lips curved into a smile. He hadn’t added any to the conversation that I’d noticed, but he hadn’t stood up for me either.

Under normal circumstances, I would have held that against him, but at the moment it seemed a small offense weighed against my need to get moving.

He held out his hand, and I allowed him to pull me to my feet.

“You’re lucky Stone wasn’t around. He would have found something to charge you and Ben with, just to get you into the station.”

I flicked my hair and tried to look dignified. “Detective Stone needs to get over his fetish of seeing me behind bars. It’s embarrassing.”

The smile turned to a grin, and for just a second I felt Peter’s body brush against mine. “I’ll talk with him,” he murmured.

My body went warm, and for a moment I lost track of my thoughts. Then Peter stepped back, and his hands dropped to his sides. He looked at George. “So, is Ms. Mathews free to go?”

Still grinning, George shook his head and then made a show out of checking his notepad as if there was some list of my possible offenses there that he was ticking off.

“I think we can let her go with a warning this time,” he parroted.

I didn’t wait for any more permission or jokes. I grabbed my jacket, jumped from the statue, and went to look for Daniel.

The lawn surrounding the Capitol was pretty much empty now. After securing what they were looking for—news interviews and photographs, sure to go viral—the HA! group had left. The beef ranchers were clearing out as well, walking their cattle to trailers and taking down the fencing.