Loose Lips (5 page)

“You like coffee?”

Yes, I liked coffee. What kind of psychopath
didn’t? I clamped my jaws together, keeping the response in my mind
and tore a page from his unmarked notebook. I nodded.

“Brownies?”

Again, did he have to ask? I nodded.

He responded with one of his own, this one
smaller and more pensive.

“How about money? Do you like it?”

“I—” It was a trap. I could feel it closing
in around me, but I couldn’t see an escape. “I... do, but—”

He held up a hand, cutting me off. “That’s
all I have for now. I’m assuming we have your contact
information?”

I nodded again, this time dumbstruck.

“We’ll be in touch.” He spun, his trench
coat flapping against his legs as he went. Stone stayed behind for
a minute, grinning.

I dropped my gaze and shuffled off, moving
as fast as I could past the reporters and into my Jeep.

When I got back to my Jeep, Kiska was passed
out in the back. The cupcakes taking their second toll, I
guessed.

I drove to my shop and led a somewhat
resistant malamute inside. Once there, I huddled with him under an
old Indian blanket on the loveseat and waited for the numbness to
pass.

The phone rang a few times, and there was a
rap on the door, followed by Daniel’s face peering in through the
front window. I’d kept the lights off in the shop, meaning I could
see him, but he couldn’t see me.

I pulled the blanket up over my head and
waited. After two more loud pounds and a few tries at yelling my
name, he gave up and went on his way, probably to terrorize some
other poor innocent sap.

Another half an hour passed before the door
rattled again. This time it was Betty, unlocking the door and
slipping past it before slamming it shut behind her. She stood with
her back against the wood, panting, her feather boa spread out
behind her like a cat bristling its coat.

I sat up.

She squealed.

“Sorry—”

She waved her boa at me to be quiet and
wandered to the front window to look out.

Intrigued enough to give up on my
self–indulgence, I wrapped the blanket around me and followed.
Kiska stayed on the loveseat.

“Two of them!” Betty declared, clucking her
tongue in disapproval. “What did Helena do to deserve that?”

“Two what?” I couldn’t see anything past her
feathers.

“Daniels,” she declared. “The new one is
even younger, and female, but still a Daniel.”

“Oh, her.” I hobbled back to the loveseat
and plopped down. Kiska, who had taken my momentary absence as
surrender of the space to him, grumbled. He didn’t, however, move.
I shoved him to the side as best I could and worked my body back
into position, this time with his head on my lap.

Betty turned to look at me, boa swishing.
“What do you mean, ‘Oh, her?’ And why was she so interested in
where you were?”

I grimaced. “Well, you see... There was an
incident
this morning and I found—”

Betty fell back against the wall and her
hand flew to her forehead.

A bit over the top dramatic if you asked
me.

“You didn’t!” She narrowed her eyes at me.
“You did! You found another body.”

Her judgment did nothing to lighten my mood.
It did, though, break through the shock fog or whatever it was that
had enveloped me.

“It isn’t like I was looking for one,” I
retorted.

“Of course not.” She tossed her boa into its
place over her shoulder and sighed. “Who was it this time?”

“A Cutie.”

“As in Patootie?”

My mind stuttered for a minute. “As in
coffee. You know, the kiosk.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, one of the coffee
girls.” Her mouth twisted. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking,
but I could see that she was weighing this information. “That’s not
good. That’s not good at all.”

Of course it wasn’t good. Someone dying was
never good, but something about her tone told me she meant more
than that.

She reached under her arm and pulled out
that morning’s
Helena Daily News
. “Apparently this
happened Sunday night. After church, I’m sure which means before
our chat with a certain Texan yesterday. I don’t know how I hadn’t
heard about it before or why the
News
waited until today
to run the story.”

On the front page was the headline:
Caffeine Cuties Too Cute For Some?

I glanced at Betty. “It’s a feature story.
Daniel’s probably been working on this for a week or more.” Feature
stories didn’t have to be tied to some big event, but Betty seemed
to think this one was. I raised a brow in question. She motioned
for me to unfold the paper.

Below the fold was a photo of ten
well–dressed women lined up in front of the Caffeine Cartel’s
kiosk, apparently blocking traffic to its window. The woman front
and center, holding a sign that read
James 1:15
, looked
horribly familiar.

“Phyllis?” I asked, surprised, and then
again, not so much. The former Texan was always pushing me to get
involved. I just hadn’t realized her idea of involvement included
picketing coffee stands with Bible quotes.

I frowned. “What’s in
James 1:15
anyway?” I’d spent my time in Sunday School, but a biblical scholar
I wasn’t.

Betty it seemed was, or maybe she’d just
already looked up the quote. “Then when lust hath conceived, it
bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth
death.”

I could feel all the blood in my body
swirling down to my feet. “Death?”

Grim, but not exactly distressed, Betty
replied, “Yep, death.”

“Maybe they’ll think she has ESP,” I
offered. Daniel too. He’d scored big with the morbid timing of this
piece.

My employee hmphed.

Looking back at the paper, I asked, “What is
WIL
?”

“Women’s Improvement League.
Non–denominational, I think, but all about stomping out fun... I
mean sin.” She fluttered her feathers in disgust and trotted behind
the counter to turn on the computer and check voice mails.

“So, Phyllis is like what? Carrie
Nation?”

Betty hmphed again. “I haven’t noticed her
turning down a glass of wine.”

Okay, so maybe temperance wasn’t Phyllis’
thing, but there were still similarities. I glanced at the picture
again. A woman standing to the right of Phyllis caught my eye.
“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing at the middle–aged blonde.

Betty shrugged. “I don’t know her. The
WIL
ers aren’t exactly my crowd.”

I peered at the woman again. She was missing
the cheese shirt, but she was definitely the woman I’d seen at the
kiosk a couple of days earlier. “She might not be one,” I murmured.
Her interest in the cause might be a whole lot more personal.

The front door rattled again. Betty looked
at me and shook her head. Then she strode to the door and shouted
through it. “Go away! I already told you Lucy doesn’t come in until
the afternoon, if then.”

Not sure whether to be thankful that she was
covering for me or insulted that she was painting me as a slouch, I
raised a brow.

A gruff voice with a Midwestern accent
called back. “Ken Klein, detective with the Helena P.D.”

Betty turned to me, eyes wide in
question.

“He’s new. Taking over for Stone until they
get a replacement.” I waved my hand, telling her to let the
detective in.

He stepped inside, nonchalant and completely
unsurprised at my presence. “Ms. Mathews,” he acknowledged with a
nod. He shifted his attention to Betty. “Ms....?”

“Broward,” Betty responded. Then she
twittered.

I tilted my head and gave her a “what are
you doing?” glare. She didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy
flipping her boa over her shoulder and looking up coyly at the
Chicago import.

“I’m looking for a Phyllis Cox.”

Someone else would have at least pretended
to have to search for Phyllis’ name, but not Detective Klein. He
said it with the total confidence of someone who already knew more
about Phyllis than Betty and I put together.

“I understand she works here.”

“When she feels like it,” Betty blurted.

I gave her a shushing stare, only to look up
and see Klein watching me with his steady gaze.

“Phyllis,” I explained. “Doesn’t have a set
schedule unless Betty or I are going to be gone.”

“Was she here yesterday?”

“We saw her yesterday morning, next door at
Spirit Books. I don’t know if she worked after that. She has a key
and I wasn’t here all day.” If Phyllis had told the police she was
at the shop, I didn’t want to be the one contradicting that, at
least not until I’d talked to her myself.

Betty, however, had no such concerns. “She
wasn’t. I got here at eight and left at eight. My...” She seemed to
reconsider what she’d been about to say. “I didn’t have any other
plans, so I stayed to do some work on the computer. I’m an artist.”
The last was unnecessary. As was the flutter of her boa.

“And neither of you have seen her today, or
heard from her?”

I started to shake my head no, but then
realized what his question indicated. “Is she missing? Have you
been to her townhouse? Talked to her son?”

I would have blathered on more, but
Detective Klein cut me off with a curt nod. “Thanks for your help.”
He turned and walked toward the door, but stopped about two feet
short of it. “If you do see Ms. Cox, tell her I’m looking for her.
You have my card.”

After the door had closed behind him, Betty
relocked the door. Then the two of us shared a look. Mine must have
been unsure. Betty shook her head. “She wouldn’t. Killing someone’s
way too close to real work.”

She left to turn on the lights in the back,
leaving Kiska and me alone.

Kiska. I stared down at him. Still sound
asleep.

He never slept this deeply.

o0o

An hour later, I was sitting in the vet’s
waiting room, trembling and trying not to break down. Betty had
helped me carry Kiska to my Jeep. A veterinary assistant had
carried him inside the clinic. I’d followed along feeling helpless
and sick and on the verge of losing it. This was obvious enough
that after the initial exam, the vet had herded me out of the exam
room and told me to wait.

And so I had. Was.

I glanced at the receptionist. She avoided
my eyes. Through tears, I looked back at my phone. I’d texted
Peter, but gotten no response. Rhonda too. Betty was at the shop
and no one seemed to know where Phyllis was, not that I would have
called her, but it seemed everyone was out of reach, just when I
needed them most.

My finger hovered over my mother’s avatar.
She’d be sympathetic, but she’d ask questions too. Questions I
couldn’t answer and that would make me, despite her good
intentions, feel all that much worse.

If Kiska wasn’t okay, I’d...

“Lucy?”

The vet stood in the doorway, looking
grim.

I swallowed hard and put down my phone.

He looked around. The waiting room was empty
except for the receptionist and us, and on seeing his face, she’d
made a quick exit.

He sat down next to me on the bench.

“First, you need to know—”

My heart pounded and my head swirled. If I’d
been standing, I’d have landed on the ground. As it was, there was
still a good chance that I would. My distress was so complete, I
barely heard the rest of his sentence.

“... he’s going to be fine. I’d like to keep
him the rest of the day, maybe overnight, but he’ll be fine.”

I blinked. “Fine? Really?” The way the vet
had acted, the way Kiska had acted...

He nodded. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.
It’s just... What did you say he ate?”

I told him the ugly tale, leaving out the
part where I’d been so angry. “It’s my fault. I should have known.
He eats everything, even wood pellets. How could he resist all
those cupcakes?”

The vet shook his head. “He couldn’t, and
you should have, but I don’t think the cupcakes were the
problem.”

“You don’t?”

“No.” He shook his head again, looking even
more serious this time. “I think someone poisoned him.”

o0o

An hour later, I was back in my Jeep sans
malamute. The vet had assured me that Kiska was fine, but he’d
still insisted on keeping him overnight for observation.

A night alone with the knowledge that
someone had tried to kill my dog was more than I could face.

I did something that I didn’t do too often.
I headed to Peter’s unannounced.

He lived out of town on about fifteen acres
of mainly grass. He had a barn and corral and kept a couple of
horses. The views from the back porch of the three–bedroom ranch
were pleasant enough, but the lack of trees always made me feel
exposed.

It was yet another difference between Peter
and me. He was a “big sky, open spaces” type. I was a “snuggled
into the mountains with a view of trees” type.

Still, exposed and not alone was a lot
better than snuggled in and missing my dog.

When I arrived, Peter was walking Tweety,
his son’s sorrel, into the barn. I leaned against the front of my
Jeep and waited for him to do whatever horse care duties he had to
do. Less than five minutes later, he was back.

I glanced around him at the barn, surprised.
“That was fast.”

He held out his arms. “What’s wrong?”

I both loved and hated that I was that easy
to read. Of course, he was a professional detective.

I walked into his embrace and began
blubbering.

Patient as always, he stroked my hair and
listened. Until I got to the part about the vet saying someone had
poisoned Kiska. He took a step back then and frowned.

“Did he say with what?”

I shook my head. “He didn’t seem to know. He
said it wasn’t serious, just...” I searched for the right word.
“...disturbing.”