Let Loose (17 page)

The house was small, with just a carport, no
garage. I could see an older model 4x4 truck with its engine block
heater plugged in to the wall. Behind it was an empty space, about
the size of a snow mobile.

A man of sixty or so answered the door.

Not what I’d expected when Daniel had said
“nephew,” but I realized if the twins were Ethel’s age, sixty for a
nephew was about right.

I used my go-to cover story.

“Hi! I’m Lucy Mathews, a writer. I’m doing a
lifestyle piece on snowmobilers. Frank Kelly gave me your name as
someone who might be good to interview.”

He slid his chin to one side as he studied
me. “Frank, huh? I’m surprised he’d give my name.”

I’d known that throwing out Kelly’s name was
a risk, but since he was the only person I knew for sure who was
connected in the snowmobile world, I’d gone with it. Now I had to
follow through.

“Oh? Why is that?” I tried to make the
question appear casual by digging in my bag for a pen and pad of
paper while I asked it.

The man grunted. “He knows.”

I looked up with a broad smile. “Well, he
spoke highly of you. Do you mind answering a question or two?” Not
giving him a chance to object, I started walking toward the empty
spot where I guessed a sled had been. “What do you ride?”

He folded his arms over his belly. “Nothing
right now.”

I rounded my mouth in shock. “Oh?”

“Got stolen and the damn insurance won’t
pay.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Something about lack of
security or due diligence or some such. Wife got the letter.” He
waved his hand at his house. “I got two big dogs and a pistol in
every room. How’s that not security?”

Not one to argue with a man who bragged about
his fire power, I lifted my shoulders. “Do the police have any
leads?”

He muttered something that I didn’t think I’d
be repeating to Peter.

“So do you know anyone else who had a
snowmobile stolen?” I asked.

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared
me down. “I thought this was a lifestyle piece.” He added air
quotes to lifestyle. Which, if he wasn’t so intimidating, might
have been amusing.

“It is... but you never know when one story
will lead to another one...”

“You sure it’s not a slam piece?”

My eyes widened.

He nodded to my Jeep. “I see the sled dog.
You connected to that Silver Trail group?”

I turned to look at Kiska who had made his
way into the driver’s seat and sat watching us with his usual
touristy amount of interest.

“Who? Him? He’s not a sled dog. I mean his
breed is, but him?” I laughed, and then glanced at Kiska again,
hoping he hadn’t heard me.

“So you’re not connected to the race?” he
asked.

I shook my head. Technically, not a lie. I
wanted to be connected, but sadly, aside from the snoozing dogs in
my living room, I wasn’t.

“A lot of Skyers have lost their sleds
recently.” He looked at me from under lowered brows. “You should
ask Frank about that.”

I paused. Was he insinuating that the head of
the Skyers was involved with the thefts? I tapped my pen against
the pad, thinking.

“Not that I’m throwing out accusations, but
every time we had a meeting, seemed like one person or another got
hit.

“Course I heard they arrested someone,” he
added.

“Ethel Monroe,” I offered. “Do you know
her?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Nope,
but I saw her picture in the paper this morning. Seems an unlikely
candidate, if you ask me.” He gave me another under-the-brows
look.

I licked my lips and resisted the urge to
look around. “You don’t think...” I said, letting my sentence fall
dramatically.

He shrugged. “Somebody’s stealing those
sleds. And I don’t see that lady sneaking into my yard in the dead
of night on a sled of her own to do it.”

“A sled of her own?”

“Yep, there were tracks. One set coming in
and two sets going out.”

So no trailer. “And you didn’t hear
them?”

“I was out of town.” He paused. “On Skyer
business. Frank...” He emphasized the name. “...sent me to check on
a trail. He even made sure I had a sled to borrow once I got there.
Told me to leave mine here. That it would save me on gas.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t go around posting my comings and
goings online. Whoever stole my sled knew I was going to be
gone.”

His insinuation was obvious, but in case I
missed it, he added, “Ask me, I think they arrested Frank Kelly for
the wrong crime.”

After that, I followed up with my cover
story, taking notes on when and where he liked to ride when he’d
had his snowmobile, the best part of being on the trail, and even
what he liked to wear when not out on the trail.

That last part caused an eyebrow raise, but
it entertained me. After writing down his favorite jeans: boot cut,
color choice for flannel: blue and his feelings on all things
boots, I thanked him for his time and asked if he had a suggestion
for anyone else to interview for the piece.

“You might drop by Craig Ryan’s. He probably
has a thing or two to say.”

I didn’t ask about what, but somehow I didn’t
think it was going to be about snowmobile fashion.

o0o

Finding Craig Ryan was easy enough. His house
was halfway between the campground and my house.

I had to polish my act a bit though. While I
didn’t know Craig well, I did know him in that “nod when we see
each other at the grocery store” way, and I’d even talked with him
a time or two at an auction. Never about anything personal, but
still, our paths crossed on a semi-regular basis. So any lies I
told would likely catch up with me.

His house, a small cabin that looked like it
might have been original to my town’s mining past, was a hundred
yards off the road. A couple of dented metal trash cans sat at the
entrance, filled with what looked like construction debris.

We didn’t have city trash pickup out here,
but there were private companies some people hired. Personally, I
was too cheap to pay someone to haul off my trash. I just made the
every other week trip to the landfill myself.

His sedan was parked under a makeshift
carport constructed of scrap lumber and what looked like the roof
off of some other older structure. Actually, thinking about it, I
doubted it was makeshift. In fact, I sincerely doubted that my
neighbor ever had any intention of creating something more
long-term.

The whole yard had that look to it. Craig was
part of what I called the rusty metal club. Men, usually older than
my middle-aged neighbor, who showed up at auctions and bid on
whatever collection of rusty tools and trash that became
available.

I sometimes wondered what they did with it.
Craig’s yard told me. Not much.

I stepped over a pile of rebar and knocked on
the front door.

Kiska watched eagerly from the driver’s seat.
Not at me, but at the piles of “treasures.” I knew him well enough
to know he had no interest in the metal and debris stacked around,
but he had plenty for the small furry critters that surely called
the stacks home.

Sadly for him, I had no intention of letting
him out to investigate.

It took three knocks to get Craig to the
door. The smell of canned chili wafted out from behind him,
reminding me it was lunchtime.

He stood in the door, in a not all that
welcoming fashion. He didn’t, however, reach for the pistol
strapped to his hip. I took that as a good sign.

I went into my spiel, explaining once again
that I was doing a piece on the snowmobile lifestyle and hoped he’d
have some input for me.

“Lifestyle? What’s that supposed to mean?” he
asked. His voice was gruff, but not angry.

I kept going. “Well, you’re a member of the
Skyers, right? What’s that like? What kind of friends have you
made? What events do you go to? That kind of thing.”

I saw skepticism in his eyes.

“Who’s going to read that?” he asked.

I laughed. “Someone I hope. Otherwise I’ll
have a hard time selling it.”

He stared at me, apparently not seeing the
humor like I was.

“Can I come in?” I asked. We were neighbors
after all.

He debated for a second, but finally stepped
back.

A wood stove sat against one wall, cranking
out heat. A saucepan, filled with what I guessed was the chili I
smelled, bubbled on top of it. A little too hard, since bits of
chili flew out and sizzled on the stove.

“You might want to check that,” I suggested,
being neighborly, but also as a way to get his attention off of me
so I could scope out his place a bit more unobserved.

While he went to the stove, I looked around.
Afghans covered most of his furniture. Animal traps and snowshoes
hung from pegs on the wall.

I walked to a table where a map of snowmobile
trails was laid out.

“Planning a ride?” I asked.

Craig, in the process of pouring his chili
into a bowl, paused. “I’m not in the Skyers anymore.”

I wasn’t sure if his response connected in
some way to my question or was just a delayed reaction to my
earlier comments.

“You aren’t?”

“Nope.” He finished pouring his chili into a
bowl then, after a somewhat guilty look at me, asked. “You want
some?”

After turning down his offer, I waited for
him to continue.

He sat on the couch and started eating. After
a couple of spoonfuls, he looked up at me. “Tired of the
rules.”

“Oh.”

He took another bite. “Losing the trail was
it. I was done.”

“To the Silver Sleds?”

“Yep. Frank should have handled that.”

“Some people think he did,” I replied before
realizing the words were about to come out of my mouth.

Craig raised his eyes. “You think Frank
killed Red?”

I licked my lips. I’d stepped in it now. “The
police arrested him for it.”

Craig seemed to accept my answer. He went
back to his chili.

“Of course, they arrested Ethel Monroe for
stealing snowmobiles too and that’s obviously ridiculous.” I
laughed. Craig didn’t laugh with me.

“Are you friends with Ethel?” he asked.

Thrown by the question and the insinuation
behind it, at least in my mind, I stumbled. “I’ve been driving her
around some. I took her to the Expo in Bozeman last week.”

He jerked his head upward in a short
affirmative motion. “I saw you there.”

“Carol was shopping for a new snowmobile for
her husband. His got stolen.”

“Uh huh.” He dipped his spoon back into his
bowl.

Dressed in my winter gear, I was getting hot.
I pulled the zipper on my burrito down a few inches.

“What were you doing there?” I asked. He
hadn’t been shopping. He’d been behind a table.

“I work on sleds,” he replied.

“Oh. At a shop?”

He lifted one shoulder. “Used to. Now I
freelance. Buddy of mine had the table. I was just filling in for
him.”

“And Allen Kelly? I saw him there too.”

He peered at me. Suspicious. “Allen’s a good
kid. His dad doesn’t appreciate him.”

Frank Kelly had seemed like an interested
father to me, but based on how Fitz McGowan had acted, and now
Craig, I had to wonder how much of how Frank seemed was an act.

Craig looked at me again, seeing if I was
going to challenge him on this, I guessed, and then, apparently
finished with his chili, he disappeared for a second with the
bowl.

When he was back, I decided to get more to
the point. “So do you think the snowmobile thefts and Red’s murder
are connected?”

He looked startled. “Connected? Why would you
think that? You date that detective, don’t you? Did you hear that
from him?”

As if Peter would share anything involving a
case with me. “I just talked to someone else who seemed to think
Frank’s behind the thefts, and since the police arrested him for
Red’s murder...” I let my words sit, hoping they would spur him to
some confidence or another.

They didn’t.

“Who told you that?” he asked.

I flapped the open sides of my coat, trying
to let some air in. “I can’t say, but he seemed to think you might
feel the same, about the thefts anyway. He said when his were
stolen, he’d been sent off on Skyer business.”

He stared at me for a second, intense. “I
don’t know about that.”

“I heard you had some sleds stolen too, the
night of the fund-raiser. Is that true?”

He looked toward the door. “I need to get
going. I got traps to check.”

At the mention of traps, I suppressed a
shiver, but I didn’t move. He hadn’t answered my question. It would
have been rude to rush out without giving him the opportunity.

He opened the door and waited. I waited too.
He made a windmill motion with one arm, indicating it was time for
me to vamoose.

I knew when I wasn’t wanted. With a sigh, I
left.

Craig stood in the doorway watching as I
shoved Kiska out of my seat and started my Jeep. Once I put it into
reverse, he went back inside and shut the door behind him.

Annoyed, I spun my steering wheel and looked
for a place to turn around. There was none. The yard was a
minefield of metal that with my luck would puncture a tire or get
wedged in my Jeep’s undercarriage.

I looked at Kiska in the rearview mirror.
“I’m going to have to back out.”

I was a decent driver... going forward. Going
backward for 100 yards? Where I’d wind up was anyone’s guess.

Thirty minutes later, I was almost to the
road. I let out a sigh of relief and twisted the wheel to get my
back tires on the road and my front pointed toward home.

As I hit the gas, I heard a crunch. A
jolting, ugly, what-is-this-going-to-cost-me crunch.

I looked at Kiska. “Don’t say anything.”

Supportive as always, he didn’t.