Loose Lips (6 page)

“What about timing? Did he have an idea how
much time would have passed since Kiska got the substance?”

I hadn’t asked, but it was a good question.
I told Peter I’d ask the next morning when I picked Kiska up.

“Most poisons are pretty quick. Did you see
him eat anything else strange in the past day?”

I gave him a look. He knew Kiska. Then I
remembered. “The Caffeine Cutie! She gave him a cookie.”

His face turned grim. “Which Caffeine
Cutie?”

“The one who—” I bit off my reply. I’d been
through the whole “first person on the scene thing” enough times to
know that what I’d been about to say wasn’t going to sound good for
me.

“The owner? The one you found?”

I nodded. I could see that he was thinking
the same thing I was.

“But you didn’t know that Kiska had been
poisoned until after that.”

He wasn’t exactly leading me, but... I
nodded.

“Anything else?”

I thought. Hard. “Before that, when we were
walking down the Gulch, he ate something he found outside the toy
store.”

“Something?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t see it. You know
how he is. It was gone before I could stop him.”

“And you let him outside last night,
probably this morning?”

Of course I had. When a malamute had to
go... plus there’d been the cupcake massacre element. Kiska had
been outside for a good deal of the time that I’d been dealing with
that.

“So, it could have come from your yard.”

I didn’t like the sound of that any better.
“You think one of my neighbors might have poisoned him?”

He tilted his head. “More likely poisoned
something else that crawled into your yard to die.”

I curled my nose in disbelief. It was
possible, but as undiscerning a gourmand as Kiska was, he wasn’t
much for carrion... unless, of course, as a personal hygiene
application.

Still, it was possible and a whole lot less
disturbing than the other prospects.

“I’ll come by tomorrow before you take him
home and look around.”

I nodded, grateful for his concern and help.
Although, if his suggestion was right, the evidence would have gone
the way of the cupcakes by now.

I sniffed.

Peter muttered something I couldn’t make out
and pulled me back against his chest.

The next morning at 8 a.m., I was back at
the vet’s office. My nose wasn’t quite pressed to the glass as the
receptionist unlocked the door, but it was close enough she had to
step back to keep my eager body from knocking into hers as I fell
inside.

“I’m here for Kiska,” I chirped, trying to
cover my impatience with cheerfulness.

Giving me a sideways look, she headed back
behind the desk. “I’ll page someone.”

Fine. Just fine.
I raised up onto
my toes and then back down onto flat feet. After about ten of
those, I upgraded to little bounces.

She looked at me again. “Uh, they’ll bring
him out.”

“Great!” I glanced toward the back.
I
could just go get him myself.

“Owners aren’t allowed back there,” she
announced, in a tone I hadn’t heard since my first grade teacher
caught me eating the glue fingernails I’d crafted in the ridge of
my wooden ruler.

I lowered myself to flat feet and stared at
her shamefaced. At least for a few seconds. Then Kiska came
plodding through the door and all thoughts of shame flew away. At
least shame for being so eager to see him. The guilt for allowing
him to get poisoned was still mighty thick.

I pushed it aside so I could grab him in a
hug.

He looked the other direction.

I sighed.

The vet, who’d led Kiska out, cleared his
throat. “He’s doing fine. His stomach may still be a bit sensitive,
but aside from that there’s not much you need to watch out
for.”

I nodded and pulled the leash from his
hand.

Kiska, sensing the transfer, turned more
fully away.

I twisted my lips, wondering how long this
punishment would last.

“I had a call from the police. I take it you
reported the poisoning?”

I hadn’t, but I guessed that Peter had.

“They had some questions. Unfortunately, I
can’t really tell them or you many details. I could tell what Kiska
was going through was something beyond a sugar crash, but it wasn’t
severe enough for me to suspect the usual things you see if a dog
has been intentionally or accidentally poisoned.” He smoothed his
face so that it was completely devoid of expression or judgment.
“He hasn’t been around anyone who is on anti–depressants, has
he?”

I scrolled through the list of people that I
knew Kiska had been in contact with in the last few days. I didn’t
know that any of them were taking antidepressants, but that wasn’t
something most people lead with.

“It’s a common cause of poisoning with dogs.
People leave their pills out...”

He let the suggestion hang there until
finally I caught it.

“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “Not me. I’m
fine. Not that people who take anti–depressants aren’t fine but—”
Feeling a ramble starting, I snapped my mouth closed.

He nodded. In that slow understanding way
that meant he didn’t buy a word that I had just spewed. “Of course
not, but just know it does happen and they are dangerous to dogs.
If you
do
know someone taking them, make sure they are
more careful in the future.” An empathetic, but forceful stare
followed.

I nodded back, just as slowly. Then I backed
away until the distance between us felt great enough that I could
take my malamute and sprint for the door. After paying my bill, of
course. There was no way the hawk–eyed receptionist was letting me
past without doing that.

o0o

After a spin through the drive thru to
fortify myself for the day to come and to bribe my way back into my
malamute’s good graces, I walked into Dusty Deals feeling full, but
still defeated.

Kiska gave me a sniff before wandering into
my office, letting me know my advances weren’t completely
unwelcome, and Betty greeted me with a wave. She was on the phone
while typing on the computer and in general looking more
industrious than a colony of beavers gifted with a forest full of
downed trees.

I stood around staring aimlessly and
wondering what it was exactly that I should be doing.

The front bell ringing saved me from my
confusion.

Ken Klein, of the Chicago Kleins and Helena
P.D., strolled in. Still sporting his trench coat and suit, he
looked as out of place as a reindeer at a rodeo.

“Heard your dog got poisoned.”

He wasn’t much for small talk it seemed.

I nodded. “He’s fine though. Vet said just
to watch him.”

He lifted his head in acknowledgment and
pulled out his tiny spiral notebook. “Any idea what happened?”

My knowledge of the Helena P.D. job
assignments wasn’t vast, but I was pretty sure detectives didn’t
investigate potential pet poisonings, especially when the pet was
fine and there was no obvious culprit to finger.

“Peter thought maybe one of my
neighbors.”

“You have issues with your neighbors?”

I shook my head adamantly. The last thing I
needed was to turn Detective Chicago onto my neighbors. We got
along. I wanted to keep it that way. “No. He thought maybe it was
an accident, that they set something out for pests and one of them
crawled into my yard to die.”

“Things do that a lot?”

I blinked at the question. “No... but.. I
live in the National Forest...”

He nodded. “You have any prescriptions, Ms.
Mathews?”

“No.” I was getting tired of this line of
questioning. First the vet...

He looked up at me, his gaze sharp. “You
sure?”

Of course I was sure. I stared back.

“What about anyone your dog might have come
in contact with. Say, Ms. Cox. Does she take any medication?”

Betty, who had finished her phone call,
looked at me.

“Not that I know of.” Honestly, wound as
tight as Phyllis was, I could see her having a prescription for
some kind of anxiety med. Or maybe that was proof she didn’t and
just needed one.

Reading my thoughts, Betty jumped in. “She
could use some.”

Klein lifted a brow. “Why do you say
that?”

Betty, realizing what she’d done, paused.
“No reason. Just a joke.”

“Betty and Phyllis don’t always get along,”
I offered.

Again with the nod. “I see. And you say you
haven’t seen her since when?”

He was laying down snares. Waiting for me to
step in one. But I wouldn’t because I was telling the truth. I
folded my arms over my chest. “Tuesday.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right. A few days after
your friend’s protest at the kiosk. Did you say you knew about
that?”

His weaving conversation was making me
dizzy. “No.”

“Hmm.” He looked at Betty.

The feather on her hat dipped into her eyes.
She flipped it out of the way. “I only saw her when Lucy did.”

“And?”

Betty took her time, checking out her
reflection in an old mercury mirror and pressing the feather
flatter against her head. “She didn’t mention it.” Then she looked
at him sideways. I couldn’t tell if she was flirting or challenging
him. Knowing Betty, probably both. Knowing Betty, I probably needed
to intervene.

“Have you talked to the other members of
WIL
?” I asked.

He turned his attention back to me. “The
church group?”

“Non–denominational,” Betty offered, as if
it mattered.

I nodded. Then realizing I had something to
offer that might get his attention off me and mine, at least for a
while, I motioned to Betty. “Do we still have Wednesday’s paper?
The one with the picture?”

She pulled it out from under the counter and
waved it at me. “I saved it for Phyllis. She’ll want to know she
made the front page.” She looked at Klein. “Doing good works is
very important to her.”

The words came out prim and very un–Betty
like. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought she was channeling
Phyllis herself.

She slipped the paper into my hand and
whispered into my ear. “I may not
like
her, but she’s one
of us, and we both know she didn’t kill that girl.” She leaned
back, her face smooth and innocent as a 6 month old’s.

I faced Klein with the paper held out in
front of me and pointed at the picture. “I saw this woman at the
Caffeine Cartel. She was wearing a cheese shirt and yelling at a
man in a red pickup.”

“A cheese shirt.”

I waved my hand. “Not made of cheese. It
said cheese... ‘I heart cheese.’ to be exact.”

“And this was when?”

“Tuesday morning,” I replied, just as primly
as Betty.

“Tuesday morning. And you were at the kiosk
because?” He angled one bushy brow.

“I... drive past it on my way in.”

“You stop at all the businesses you drive
by?”

This wasn’t supposed to be about me. It was
supposed to take the focus
off
of me. “No, but Joe had
been losing business to them, and I wanted to see why.”

“Joe?”

Crap. I glanced at Betty. She shook her
head, letting me know that I’d stepped in it.

I let out a breath. “From Cuppa Joe’s a few
doors down. I talked to him Monday and he said his business had
been slow. He thought it was because the Caffeine Cartel was
stealing his customers.”

“Stealing,” Klein repeated to himself as if
storing it away in some deep recess of his big–city cop brain.

Before I could explain further, he
continued. “So, this Joe, he asked you to check out the
competition. What exactly was it he wanted you to do?”

“No, no. He didn’t ask me to check them out.
I just wanted to.” I went on to explain how Joe was a friend and
how long Cuppa Joe’s had been a fixture in Helena and how he was a
true Montanan, that it would be a shame to have some fly–by–night
operation cause him to close his doors. “Especially one that was
making its money off their employees’ assets and not their
coffee.”

I didn’t know why the last had come out.
Maybe Phyllis was dead and haunting us. I glanced at Betty. She
looked away, expeditiously.

“Assets?”

I stared at him. I knew he knew what I
meant. He’d seen the Cuties. I held out my hands, ready to mime my
response, but Betty broke in.

“Bubs,” she said. “Big ones. Not a Jane
there under... What would you say, Lucy? A double D?” She opened
and closed her eyes his direction, in a perfect Betty Boop
imitation and then smiled.

A moment of confusion flitted over his
face.

“Boobs,” I translated.

He nodded. “That what this was about?” He
pointed at the newspaper article.

Betty shrugged. It seemed like the safest
response so I followed suit. “You’d have to ask them,” I
answered.

“Or you friend Phyllis, if I could find
her.”

After that, he left. I couldn’t say I was
sorry to see him go. If Betty was, she didn’t mention it. Instead,
I filled her in on Kiska and what the vet had said. When we were
done discussing that, our conversation turned back to Klein, the
dead Cutie and Phyllis.

“Where do you think she is?” I asked.

She shook her head. “If she’d been going
back to Texas, she would have told someone. Besides, that Chicago
G–man would know if she had.”

“What about Stanley? Have you talked to
him?”

Stanley was Phyllis’ son. The two had come
to Helena together, or within a short time of each other.

“I’m sure Klein has.”

“Maybe, but maybe Stanley hasn’t told him
everything.”

This was a possibility. Stanley had a
history with the Helena police that might not make him all that
open, especially if he knew they were looking for his mother in
connection with a murder.

“Maybe Rhonda can get something out of him,”
I replied. He and Rhonda had been an “item” for a bit, until she’d
realized he was just as flawed as the other diamonds in the rough
that she’d dug up in her dating past.