Loose Lips (7 page)

“You know...” I picked up the newspaper.
“That’s probably true for the
WIL
too. Except it wouldn’t
just be them protecting Phyllis. They’d be protecting themselves
too.”

“Ab–so–lute–ly. You should join them.” Betty
plopped back down on the stool behind the counter and turned back
to the computer.

“Me? Why me?”

“You’ll blend.”

The women in the picture were at least a
dozen or so years older than me. Besides, I knew what Betty thought
of Phyllis, and I’d seen the cheese lover in person. I wasn’t sure
she was all that balanced mentally.

I opened my mouth to object, but my
jazz–loving employee had already shoved a pair of ear buds into her
ears and was bopping her head to some tune only she could hear.

With a sigh, I stared down at the picture.
Just how badly did I want to find out what had happened to Phyllis?
Just how good of a friend was I?

How good of a friend was I?
Three
nights later, as I walked through the deserted remains of Helena’s
older mall, I had to ask myself the question again. Only one space
was still occupied, by a shop that catered to tourists, and it had
closed at 6. The rest of the spaces were vacant, or near vacant,
with just empty, metal four–way racks scattered across their
carpeted floors and the occasional forgotten plastic bag drifting
around them.

Unseen doors creaked, and somehow the wind
that I hadn’t noticed while outside had ratcheted up to a
scream.

I crept along, wishing I’d brought Kiska
instead of dropping him off at Rhonda’s house on my way. Not that
my pet would have been much use against the chainsaw–massacrer that
I was sure lurked somewhere in the shadows.

Behind me, someone cackled. I jumped three
feet and dashed into the shadows where I cowered like a blonde
co–ed hiding in the shower of her scream–filled sorority house.

“Is that wine?”

“It is.”

“Kristi won’t like it.”

“Kristi can...”

The voices lowered to a mumble before I
could hear exactly what Kristi could do. Then someone tripped. Over
my foot.

The someone, a woman, fell forward, directly
onto a three–liter box of wine.

In an amazing example of agility, she rolled
over with the box of wine perched on her belly. Images of an otter
balancing a rock as he floated around foraging for shells flashed
through my brain.

“And that,” the otter announced, “is why I
buy box wine!” She scrambled to her feet and eyed me with
suspicion. “Who are you? And why are you lurking in the dark?”

“Now, Phoebe, she wasn’t lurking. She’s
probably just lost.”

Phoebe stared at her friend as if she’d
eaten the last Ding Dong, or at least how I’d look at my friend if
she’d committed that crime. “This isn’t exactly Grand Central
Station.”

“She could be a tourist.” The woman, a
brunette, who I was fast thinking of as the sweet one, smiled at
me. “Helena Goods is closed. I think they open back up at eleven
tomorrow morning.”

“She isn’t a tourist.” Phoebe, on her feet
now, heaved the box of wine onto her hip. Her no–nonsense attitude
matched her attire: khaki skirt, knit top and casual shoes that
weren’t sneakers, but didn’t make the cut as dress shoes either. A
mash–up that probably allowed her to go just about anywhere in
Helena feeling appropriately garbed.

“How do you know?”

Phoebe of the wine looked at me. “Are
you?”

“Noooo.”

She grunted. “See?”

Apparently the sweet one did. She dropped
her gaze.

Getting the distinct feeling that I was
about to be bounced, I picked up the paper bag that had hidden the
wine and held it out. “I’m Lucy, a friend of Phyllis’s.”

Her relief obvious, the sweet one smiled.
“Oh, so you’re here for the meeting? I’m Eve.” She took the bag
from me and carefully folded it into a neat brown square.

Phoebe wasn’t as easily taken in. “How’d you
know where we were meeting?”

Eve slapped her lightly on the arm and let
out a nervous laugh. “Phyllis told her.”

Phyllis hadn’t told me, but Stanley had. Or,
to be more exact, Rhonda had, after her conversation with Stanley
where he denied any knowledge of where his mother had gotten to,
but had shared that before her disappearance she had complained
about a recent change in venue for the group.

Apparently, one or more of the members
hadn’t been all that happy with the previous location. The basement
of a Baptist church where wine was not invited.

I was guessing that member had to have been
my new friend Phoebe.

Her suspicion obvious, Phoebe adjusted her
wine and stared me down. “Is that true?”

True enough
. I nodded.

Eve’s relief was palpable. “See?” she said
to Phoebe, a little too brightly. “We better hurry. We’re going to
be late.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes, but after one last
glance at me, she started walking.

Eve and I followed behind.

“She doesn’t mean anything.”

“What?”

“Phoebe. She comes off harsher than she is.
It’s just since our demonstration at the Caffeine Cartel, we’ve had
some...”

“Some what?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just hard
to know who you can trust.”

I, of course, was left wondering just who
had violated their trust and how, but before I could ask, we were
walking into the only lit space in the mall.

The now–empty space had in its past housed
everything from a western wear store to a jerky shop.

Following Phoebe’s lead, I slipped under the
partially rolled down metal shutter intended, during off hours, to
keep people out and merchandise in.

The smell of jerky still lingered. It was
unpleasant, but not nearly as disturbing as the unforgiving glow of
old fluorescent lights. I thanked the mall gods that the jerky
store had seen no need for mirrors. I did not need to see myself
under that lighting to be reminded of just how little sleep I’d had
in the last few days.

In the middle of the room, an array of
folding chairs and white metal stools were arranged in a circle.
Sitting on an old display case was a sign–in sheet, plastic cups
and a plate of cookies.

I helped myself to two snickerdoodles and
glanced around. Aside from Eve, Phoebe, and myself, there were
three other women already seated in the circle. One was the cheese
lover.

Hoping she wouldn’t recognize me, I walked
forward to be introduced.

Tonight she’d gone formal. Her “Believe in
Cheese” shirt had long sleeves.

“Laura,” she said after I’d introduced
myself. “I own the dairy store on Cedar.”

I hadn’t realized there was a dairy store on
Cedar, but I smiled and nodded as if I shopped there daily.

A round woman with red hair barely looked up
from her knitting. “Sally.”

The last woman, of obvious Native American
descent, repeated the name.

I waited, wondering if she thought I was
deaf.

“No.” She pointed at herself. “I’m Sally
too. We both are.”

“That must be confusing.”

She shook her head. “No, I told you, I’m
Sally too.” She pointed at the knitter. “She was here first. So,
I’m two.”

“Oh.”
Two
.

Phoebe plopped down in a chair, plastic cup
of pinot grigio in her hand. “Where’s Kristi?”

Sally the knitter looked up. Seeing Phoebe’s
wine, she raised a brow. “She’s bringing someone. I don’t know who,
but she said she’d be on our side.”

“Side?” I asked.

Before anyone could answer, a shorter,
chunkier version of Phyllis walked in, short hair with enough poof
to keep it from being practical, slacks, dress shirt, and
heels.

Ballsy Bev, the TV news’ answer to Daniel,
followed behind her.

The bite of cookie I’d been about to swallow
caught in my throat and I choked.

Laura, who’d been walking by with a full
glass of wine, pounded on my back.

“Reporter,” I croaked.

Laura shifted her gaze to Bev. “Crap.” Then
guzzled down her wine. After glancing at Phoebe, she turned away
and stomped back to the makeshift bar where she refilled her cup
and stayed.

I looked around, weighing the cost/benefit
of deserting my research and heading for the door. Unfortunately,
there really was no escape without passing by the reporter.

Instead, I decided to follow Laura’s lead. I
moved to the bar.

“This,” Kristi announced, “is Bev Painter.
You might recognize her from the Channel 8 news.” Her smile was
huge and gloating.

Phoebe lowered her cup. “We know who she is.
She’s been harassing all of us.” She glowered at the reporter.
“She’s a stalker.”

“Phoebe,” Kristi admonished. “Bev goes to my
church.”

“They’ll obviously let anyone in,” Phoebe
mumbled and drained her cup. She didn’t, however, get up for a
refill. She held the red plastic cup in her hand, squeezing it ever
so slightly until I heard the plastic pop.

Sally One jumped.

Eve stood, then sat, then looked around. Her
hands moved the entire time, grasping and ungrasping each
other.

Sally Two seemed to be the only woman
unaffected by Kristi and Bev’s arrival. She leaned back in her
metal folding chair and waited.

Laura bumped me in the side with her elbow
and held out a full cup of wine. I took it.

“Bev,” Kristi announced. “Wants to hear our
side. I explained why the protest was necessary and how much we
just wanted to help those poor deluded girls, but with the death...
Well, we can use a bit of sympathetic press.”

She glanced around as if expecting the women
to rush forward with... I wasn’t sure what.

She cleared her throat. “I’ve also explained
that from here on, we will be taking a
different
, more
sensitive tactic.” She eyed Laura and then Phoebe as she said
this.

Laura snorted.

I took a sip of the wine and tried to
disappear against the glass store–case.

Like a teacher sensing the one student who
most doesn’t want to be called on, Kristi spun in my direction.
“Who are you?” She looked from me to my plastic cup to Laura and
finally Phoebe. I knew instantly that I had been relegated to “one
of them.”

Eve piped up. “Phyllis invited her.”

Kristi looked skeptical. Which told me she
didn’t know Phyllis as well as she thought she did, if my holding
the cup of wine was coloring her impression that I couldn’t live up
to Phyllis’s standards. It was totally true that I didn’t live up
to Phyllis’s standards, but not because of drinking alcohol. It was
all my other faults that made me lacking.

Bev stepped forward. “She also found that
girl’s body.”

Kristi inhaled sharply, and all eyes turned
to me.

I took another drink.

My drinking buddy Laura stepped back enough
that she could size me – or at least parts of me – up. “You don’t
look like a Cutie.”

I knew where her eyes were going. I held my
cup, the plastic one filled with wine, over them.

“She’s not,” Bev answered for me. Her eyes
lit up like one of the electronic poker machines at The Castle. She
thought she’d hit the jackpot.

“I told you. I own Dusty Deals. It was early
and my dog had thrown up and...” I went on, babbling out the same
convoluted, but mostly true, story that I’d told Detective
Klein.

“So you were actually going to buy coffee
there?” Kristi’s revulsion and judgment were clear.

“It was early and close and—”

She held up her hand, cutting me off. “This
kind of weak morals and lack of dedication will be the end of this
country.” She straightened her shoulders and shook her head,
somehow adding a little extra poof to her hair.

I took another drink of wine. A big one.

“Anyway,” Kristi heaved out. “Bev saw the
photo that the
Daily News
ran of us and then, of course,
the horrible news of that girl’s death.” She paused, in what I
guessed was a nano–second of respect for the deceased. “And, even
though she hadn’t had the
time
to cover our original
protest, she wanted to give us some support.” Another pause, this
one with a bit of judgment for dear, dear Bev. “We were chatting
about how that dreadful detective had sought me out, acting as
if
just because I cared enough about the direction this
town and country are going to participate in a protest, I might be
involved in her death.” She shook her head, obviously ashamed for
Klein that he couldn’t appreciate how upright a citizen she was.
“Then, of course, I knew he had chatted with a few of you too.” She
waved her hand as if anyone else’s conversations were trivial
compared to what she’d been forced to endure.

And maybe they were. I looked at her with
new interest, wondering just how much she had wanted to shut the
kiosk down. I also, though, had to wonder how the others in the
group felt about her oh so nicely sucking them into the reporter’s
vortex with her.

“And Bev pointed out that talking to the
entire group might offer wider interest than...” She waved her hand
again as if whatever she’d been about to say wasn’t important, but
she’d said enough that I got it. She’d wanted her friend Bev to do
a piece just on her, but the reporter’d had bigger game to hunt. Or
at least a bigger herd.

And now it seemed I was part of it.

o0o

As it turned out, Bev might have done as
well, or better, sticking to just Kristi for her “profile.”

Even after Kristi tried to single one or two
out, Laura and Phoebe in particular, the women just sat
semi–politely, minus a rolled eye here and there and a derisive
snort from Phoebe pretty much every five minutes like clockwork. In
other words, they clammed up. Completely.

So completely, I thought about stretching
out on the jerky scented carpet and sleeping off the wine I’d
consumed.