3 Loosey Goosey (7 page)

Keeping those hopes alive, I drove Kiska and myself to the shop. I let him in through the back before making a quick detour for coffee at Cuppa Joe’s.

The coffee shop was filled with the normal mix of cowboys and mountain bikers, but the balance today leaned way more toward cowboy than usual. Or, more accurately, rancher. At least that was my assessment of the men in expensive go-to-church boots. Cowboys, but cowboys with money.

My favorite kind. Unfortunately, their female halves seemed to be missing.

I had male customers, but women in general spent more money. Plus, I was counting on the women being more likely to skip the meetings the men would surely attend and do some sightseeing and shopping.

I sidled up to one man whose bow-legged stance screamed of years riding herd, although his belly said he spent more time on the couch these days than on a horse. “Are you here for the conference?” I asked, hoping I looked friendly, but not too friendly. I didn’t want some rancher’s wife coming after me with a branding iron.

In true Montana fashion, he didn’t question my interest, but he also didn’t seem inclined to talk. “Arrived yesterday early.” His face, I noticed, was a bit pale. I took a step back just in case he’d caught a case of some convention-born virus.

Joe, the owner, set a steaming mug of coffee down in front of the rancher.

He pulled a thick stack of bills from his pocket. I couldn’t help but notice that the cash was held together with a vintage silver money clip.

Money and with a fondness for old things. Just what I’d been hoping for; forget middle aged hippies, at least for now. I turned sideways, ready to risk illness and branding-iron, to leap into a conversation that would hopefully lead back to my store and the wonderful treasures that it offered.

I had little more than opened my lips when Phyllis rolled into the coffee shop and moved through the crowd like an ice-breaking tug navigating the frozen Mississippi River.

Assuming that she was looking for me and that the impetus for this visit had something to do with Betty and some new disagreement between the two of them, I turned back to face Joe and tried to look small.

She barreled forward, undeterred, until she reached my rancher. “Richard, thank you for still meeting me.” She looked around, and her gaze met mine.

“Lucy!” She rose on her toes and grinned as if she’d just spotted a Herman Miller Potato Chip chair sitting on the curb on trash day. “This is Richard Danes. He’s the president of the Beef Ranchers and the man who saved the Antlers.”

Reaching for the latte Joe had just set down for me, I stiffened in surprise. “The Antlers?”

“Yes, well, we, my wife and I, thought it would be a good investment,” the rancher said, looking more than a little uncomfortable with this new attention.

I took a sip of my coffee to hide the questions spinning around in my head.

“I guess you saw the paper.” Phyllis lowered her voice appropriately. “Did you know Tiffany well?”

Danes shook his head and, hat pulled low, shuffled toward the counter where Joe kept sugar and other coffee additives.

Phyllis, eyes bright, mouthed, “He’s the one I was telling you about.”

I raised my brows. Phyllis had said Tiffany’s landlord was interested in pieces for Tiffany’s apartment. With Tiffany dead, I supposed it made sense that he would still be interested in furnishings for the next tenant. I couldn’t imagine, though, that his purchases would add up to much. More likely just a banged-up table and a few equally banged-up chairs. Luckily, both of which Dusty Deals had.

Still looking jubilant, Phyllis scooted after him.

I considered following, but Phyllis seemed to have the deal, whatever it turned out to be, well in hand.

Besides, I had research of my own to do, namely on Eric Handle and how I could get him into my shop.

Actually, now that I thought about, I really hadn’t been supportive enough of my brother, and there was Rhonda too. I still didn’t like the idea of her dating Ben, but a nice, rich, older do-gooder? That sounded like a perfect fit.

Yes, a little research, a few calls and maybe even an olive branch luncheon were in order.

I would just have to make sure Phyllis’ rancher and my activist didn’t do their shopping at the same time.

Coffee in hand, I walked toward the back door. My week was once again on track.

Chapter 6

“Your mother called, Detective Stone stopped by, and Kiska just threw up four socks—no pairs.” Betty didn’t bother to look up from the computer as she delivered her news.

I tapped my foot and took a sip of my latte. I would not let her negative worldview bring down my sure-to-be-fabulous week.

She swiveled on her stool to face me, her expression ominous. “And Phyllis pulled everything out of the window last night. It looks like a scene from the
Dick Van Dyke Show
.” She ran her hand down the necklace of jade-green beads she was wearing and then snapped their end against her palm. “She’s a real crumb, and that stuff is a bunch of clams. You have to get rid of her.”

Translation: Betty didn’t like Phyllis or her choice of merchandise.

I sighed. I had considered sending Phyllis on her way, I really had, but she was harder to shake free than a bur stuck in two inches of Malamute undercoat. Besides, she brought customers into the shop and merchandise, which she paid for. I just took a cut when the things sold, and somehow they always did.

On the other hand, I loved Betty and didn’t want to lose her.

It was a tough call. One I wasn’t up to making right now.

“Where are the socks?” I asked.

Twenty minutes later, there was a suspiciously clean spot on the floor outside my office, four socks were living new lives in the Dumpster out back, and Kiska was sprawled out blocking the fire exit completely unrepentant.

“Did you see the paper?” Betty gestured to a copy of the
Daily News
lying on the front counter.

I glanced at it with trepidation, wondering if whatever was on the front page today might explain my mother’s call. Ben had said that he called her and that she was fine. He’d also said, though, that he would go by to see Stone yesterday, but I doubted that the detective’s visit today had been for early Christmas shopping.

With another sigh, I picked up the paper.

The front page story was, of course, by my dear friend Daniel.

Local Chef Found Dead
.

Not a whole lot on the news front there, at least to me. And there wasn’t a whole lot in the rest of the article either. It was a “safe” piece, where the paper lists the “known” information or the “known” information that the police are willing to release, which this early in an investigation usually wasn’t much.

Thankfully, though, neither Ben nor I were mentioned, aside from a general acknowledgment that a “local woman” had found the body and that the body had been discovered in the parking lot across from the chef’s new restaurant.

There were no guesses at cause of death or even if the police found the death suspicious.

As I was mulling this over, the front bell rang and in walked Detective Stone.

“Ms. Mathews.”

My hand tightened on the paper. I hid it behind my back, like a guilty toddler with a broken vase.

“Been reading?”

Self-conscious, I dropped the paper back on the counter. “It looks like you are making progress.” All good.

“You were at the restaurant two nights ago, weren’t you, Ms. Mathews?”

His question caught me off guard. I glanced at Betty. She raised her brow and tilted her head in a “beats me” motion.

“While you were there, did you order the pâté?”

It was a simple question. One I could have easily answered, but Stone had a less-than-positive effect on my personality.

“Did you talk to Peter?” I knew he would have. So why come ask me what he already knew?

“Did you eat any of the pâté?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but I didn’t like it, not one little bit.

“I’m not a fan of goose liver.”

“But you ordered it.”

That was a little difficult to explain. I looked at Betty, but she just sat on her stool and twirled her beads.

I lowered my eyes and mumbled, “I didn’t really realize what it was.”

“Or did someone tell you not to eat it?”

“No, Tiffany brought it out to us, told us what it was, and then things got... difficult.”

He smiled. “You mean your brother intervened.”

“No.” I shook my head hard. “He didn’t even know I was there.”

“The picture in the paper yesterday says otherwise.”

“He knew I was there later, but not when...” I waved my hands in what in my mind was a clear explanation of the activities that had interrupted my dinner with Peter.

“Peter was there. He’ll tell you.”

“Yes, I’m sure he will, but right now, I’m asking you.”

I breathed out through my nose, a long calming breath that kept me from muttering something that the detective would hear and surely hold against me.

“The picture was taken later. The...” I paused. The protest interrupted our dinner, but the protest was Ben.

“Yes?” Stone prompted.

I took another breath. “Ben didn’t know I was going to be there, and he didn’t tell me not to eat the pâté. He didn’t even know I ordered the pâté. I threw it away when I saw he was part of the protest.” And why exactly do you care? I wanted to ask, but I didn’t. I did, however, file the question away to ponder later.

“Interesting.” Stone’s gaze wandered around the shop as if he’d barely been listening to my response. So maybe the pâté wasn’t important. Maybe it was just a ploy to knock me off my guard. You could never tell with Stone. Sure enough, when he looked back at me, his questioning took a completely different track.

“Is your brother active online?”

“Online?” The change in conversation was so quick that for a moment I couldn’t even process what the word meant.

“On social media, sites like FriendTime?”

“I...” Ben wasn’t my friend there, but I hadn’t checked to see if he had a profile either. “I have no idea.” Then, remembering Ben’s anti-cell phone stance, I added, “I doubt it. He isn’t all that big on technology.”

“Interesting.”

I was beginning to hate that word.

After that pronouncement, Stone seemed satisfied. At least satisfied enough to leave. But I had a feeling that I would be seeing him again.

As the door swung closed behind him, Betty asked, “What was that about?”

“I don’t know.” But I did know that if Stone had interest in Ben’s activity at FriendTime, I needed to find out more about it myself.

I took over the computer and left Betty to wander about the shop, mumbling periodically about some object or another that she suspected had come to live here at Phyllis’ hand.

FriendTime was the granddaddy of social media sites. Everyone from the age of 10 to 100 had a page there. Even my mother had a page there. I had been guilted/forced into friending her. Unknown to her however, I’d put her on the “limited access” list, which allowed her to see one in twenty things that I posted.

First, I searched for Ben by name, then I checked my mother’s page to see if Ben was listed as a “friend.” The first thing I noticed was a picture of me when I was at my chunkiest, eating a tube of cookie dough. Cursing myself for not checking my notifications more often, I un-tagged myself and reported the picture as spam.

Most likely FriendTime would ignore the latter, but it still made me feel better.

With that rumbling around in my psyche, I continued with my task. My mother had 2,300 friends. I had seventy-five. This did not make me feel inadequate. Not at all.

More rumblings to tamp down. Then I continued.

Of the 2,300 friends listed, I knew thirty. None of which were my brother. My first boyfriend from the 9th grade, however, seemed to have joined FriendTime and was, of course, listed.

This time my rumbling was vocal.

“What?” Betty asked from behind a feather duster.

Even when Betty cleaned, she preferred to go old school.

There was no way I was admitting out loud that my mother was more popular than I was. “Nothing.”

Then, realizing Betty was probably more popular than I was too, and definitely more experienced with the maze that was the Internet, I said, “I was looking to see if Ben has a profile at FriendTime. I don’t see one under his name. Is there any other way to search?”

“You could run your email contacts through it, but that would mean sending invitations to everyone in your address book.”

The boyfriend from 9th grade wasn’t in my email contacts, but there were probably other ex-men, bosses, and co-workers that I’d rather not bring back into my life.

I wrinkled my nose.

“How about HA!? Do they have a page? If so, you can see who has liked it.”

Betty was a genius. I typed in HA! A page came up immediately. And there, front and center, commenting on the top post on the page, was Pauline. Pauline’s picture at least; the name under the image was “Pauline Mathews.”

I clicked through to see the profile. More pictures of Pauline, all from what appeared to be various HA! events.

So my brother didn’t have a profile at FriendTime, but Pauline did.

No, my family wasn’t crazy. Not at all.

This answered Stone’s question though. Obviously, Pauline wasn’t posting on FriendTime herself. Which meant someone else... my brother... was.

What it didn’t answer was why Stone cared. I scoured HA!’s page and Pauline’s profile for some clue, but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary – well, past a goose having a page to start with.

“Are you going to friend her?” Betty had crept up behind me while I trolled.

“Pauline?” I didn’t care for the goose that much in real life. Why would I want to be her friend in a digital one?

Then I again, I did only have seventy-five friends.

I tilted my head side to side and then clicked
Add Friend
.

“I hope she doesn’t turn you down,” Betty droned. With a laugh, she twirled her beads.