Loose Screw (Dusty Deals Mystery) (8 page)

I waited for George to return to his desk and tiptoed to the wall separating the two rooms. With my ear pressed against the cold paint, I slid down to a crouch. I could hear the man moving around. There was a thump like his case hit a table and the scrape of a chair being pulled out over the concrete floor. The walls were nice and thin.

I settled in to listen.

Within seconds, I heard Malone’s voice. Although muffled, the words were clear. “Andrew Malone. You must be Gregor. They have Marie in the back in an interrogation room now.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Malone. I told George to tell them I was here. They won’t question her until we go back there. Why don’t you fill me in on what’s happened so far.”

Malone cleared his throat. “That detective, Blake, stopped by the hotel this morning. He said he wanted to ask us a few simple questions. Marie just let him in. I was in the bathroom.” Malone paused for a moment. When he continued, he sounded disgusted. “Sometimes she doesn’t think. Anyway, we were in the process of packing, and our suitcases were lying open on the bed. Blake walked over and looked in.”

“Did he touch anything? Move anything inside?”

“No, he didn’t have to. The feather was lying right on top. I don’t know why she even had the damn thing, especially after the guy turned up dead. She should have dumped it.”

I heard a chair shift. Gregor replied, “Where did your wife get this feather?”

“That guy Crandell gave it to her. He called our room Sunday night and asked her to meet him at a coffee shop, Cuppa Joe’s. Said he wanted to sell part of this Medicine Man outfit we tried to buy at the auction on Sunday. He outbid us. I told her she was crazy to talk to him. He was a blowhard. I could tell that from what little interaction I had with him on Sunday. If he was selling off pieces, it wasn’t going to be at a decent price. Marie wanted that outfit though.” Malone hesitated.

“We just opened a small Native American museum in the DC area. She’s one thirty-second Shoshone and wants items from all the nations. Right now we’re working on displays for traditional ceremonies, like the ghost dance.” He paused for a second. “All he did was taunt her. Apparently, he gave her the feather and told her he’d sell her the small pieces for $20,000. A dried weasel and a whistle for twenty grand, the guy was out of his gourd.”

Gregor cleared his throat. “You said apparently. Weren’t you present when they met?”

“No, she ran into him on the street. I wish I
had
been with her. Maybe we could have avoided this whole mess.” There was a long silence. I began to wonder if they were done. Finally, Malone spoke. This time his voice was so soft I had to strain to hear. “My wife had a break-down a few months ago. She’s still recovering. The excitement of the sale and disappointment of not getting the set were bad enough. Then that Crandell started harassing her. Now the police are questioning her. I just don’t know if she can handle it.”

The doorknob of the office I was in squeaked, giving me just enough time to jump up from my crouch and grab the papers I had left sitting on the chair.

“You done in here, Lucy? Everything look okay?” George leaned in and frowned.

“Right as rain. Here you go, all signed. Thanks for everything.” I handed George the papers and followed him back out to his desk. Pretending to search for my keys, I asked, “So, does Blake think the Malones know something?”

“I couldn’t say.” George looked back over his shoulder toward the office where Andrew Malone and Gregor still sat.

“George, you got that paperwork ready yet?” Peter Blake materialized in a doorway halfway down the corridor. He took a few strides toward us. When he saw me standing beside George, he paused mid-step. “Lucy, you here to sign your statement?”

I nodded coolly. My success getting information from George and following Blake and the Malones to the station undetected was making me feel a tad cocky. “Yes, I just finished.” I graced George with my warmest smile.

Blake looked back at George. “So, you got Malone’s paperwork?”

Blake annoyed me to no end, but he also held the key to the castle here. If I wanted to prove Ted wrong, I was going to have to get information out of him. The poor little starving girl thing had worked with George. I wondered if something similar would work with Blake.

I made my eyes round and doe-like. Bambi had nothing on me.

“Oh, is that the couple from the auction? Are you talking to them about the murder?”

The pointy end of a toothpick popped out of Blake’s mouth and just as quickly disappeared back inside. “Now why would you be interested in the Malones?”

While I stumbled for an answer, George jumped in. “Lucy is helping out at the
News
. You know you scare the ink out of that Marcy.”

Blake smiled slightly, and the toothpick reappeared. “That right, Lucy?”

Outed by George, my new confidence was totally shot. I mumbled my reply, “Ted asked me to freelance.”

The toothpick waggled up and down, as if it and its owner were laughing at me.  Then, without a word to me, Blake turned to George. “Get the papers together and bring them back. Looks like we’re about ready to get going.” He pivoted on his heel and started back down the hall.

As they’d say in one of Rhonda’s regency romances, I had just been given the cut direct.

Wuss
... or worse... I could already see me picture on Ted’s wall, sprouting antlers. I swallowed hard and yelled, “So, do you have a comment?”

Blake stopped and turned. He stared at me long enough that I shuffled my weight from one foot to the other, like a guilty child. 

“When’s your deadline?”

I was suspicious, but answered anyway. “Five.”

“We should have a prepared statement for the press ready by six, seven at the latest.” He grinned and disappeared back into the office.

George tossed me an apologetic look, but I hardly noticed. I whirled and stalked out the front door.

There was a cool breeze blowing across the parking lot. I slid behind the wheel and let myself steam for a few minutes. The man was an arrogant donkey’s ass, and I’d walked right into his little power play.

I was worse than a wuss. I was a gullible wuss.

I cursed myself
and
Blake for a few minutes before settling in to take stock of where this left me. 

The day wasn’t a total loss. I had gained some knowledge.

I knew the police had a suspect, and that suspect, Mrs. Malone, had a motive (the medicine man outfit) and at least one clue tying her to Crandell (the feather). Plus she had been seen arguing with him a few hours before he was killed (another possible motive). What I didn’t know was if she had an alibi or who else might have had a reason to kill him.

I pondered that for a moment.

Bill Russell also wanted the medicine man set, and he was seen with Crandell just hours before his death.

Squashing my collector-loving inner voice, I admitted Bill seemed almost as likely a candidate as Mrs. Malone.

I pulled out my notebook and jotted down a reminder to check out where both Bill and Mrs. Malone had been Monday between 4 and 5:30.

The bell from the Cathedral tolled the half hour, jolting me back to the task at hand. The digital clock on my dash gleamed 2:30. I was running out of time. I slammed the Cherokee into reverse and pulled out.

I still needed some stuff on Crandell and, of course, a statement from the police. Ted said Marcy would take care of background info, but that left the statement. I decided to ask her to handle it too. Dumping it on her was a gutless move on my part, but the thought of calling Blake myself made me a little queasy.

Chapter 7

The parking lot behind Spirit Books was full, a sign the extra business generated by Crandell’s murder hadn’t completely run its course, but when I walked into Dusty Deals, only a couple of customers were milling around.

Betty was talking to an older woman who was examining an egg basket with a rich brown patina. The woman nodded and handed Betty the basket. Betty stepped behind the register to ring it up.

I turned the glass knob on my office door with one hand while I pushed against the wood with the other. It opened about an inch before it stopped and refused to budge. Momentarily confused, I stepped back and looked at the door. A snore sounded from the other side.

Kiska was napping with all 100 pounds of him rammed against the door. I pushed again, but this time pressed the entire left side of my body into the wood.

Knowing I was no match for him, at least physically, I reached for the giant green pepper cookie jar I kept stocked with dog cookies. I grabbed a treat and clanked the lid down. By the time I’d turned back to the door, Kiska was on his feet with his nose pushing through the crack. I lobbed the cookie into the air and hopped out of the way as he surged forward. With my path clear, I plopped down at my desk and picked up the phone.

I was a little uncertain how to approach Marcy. We hadn’t spoken since Ted hired me to cover the murder. I let her start.

“I did not sign up for murder.”

This wasn’t actually true. She had, after all, taken on the police beat.

“And that Peter Blake,” she continued, “I don’t know who he thinks he is.”

While I agreed with her in spirit, I was sure Blake wouldn’t. He might be frustrating, but he was also the detective in charge. Still, the conversation seemed to be going the direction I needed it to, so I kept my mouth shut.

 “I told Ted no way. I’ll make some calls, but that’s it.”

Benefit of working in a small city, I guessed: job security past the point of sanity.

Sounding long-serving and put-upon, she continued, “Speaking of, he asked me to get background information on James Crandell. Are you ready?”

She didn’t wait for my reply, just started spewing.

I scribbled as fast as I could. Crandell was from a suburb of Denver. He was 48, with an ex-wife and a 12-year-old son, but lived alone. He worked full time at a Denver area casino, and hung out at gun and relic shows whenever he could. These shows featured antique firearms, usually dating from around 1850 to World War II, and Native American items. From a couple of show organizers, Marcy had learned that Crandell had a reputation for being more of a “hanger-on” than a real collector. He dressed what he thought was the part and talked a big game, but the organizers hadn’t seen any evidence he had a collection of his own or even any real knowledge.

I thanked her for the information and then asked if she would call the police station for an official statement on Marie Malone.

“When I was there earlier, it sounded like they weren’t going to release anything until six or so, but maybe if you call George you can get it sooner.”

I didn’t see any need to mention my run-in with Blake. Marcy was no fonder of Blake than I was, but chances were, she could get the statement from George. Besides, this was more her job than mine. She still worked for the paper;
I
was helping her.

After sorting through my notes, I went out into the store.

Betty looked up from the computer. “You done with your story?”

“I was hoping I could sneak behind the register and pound it out while you watched the shop.”

She vacated the stool, and I squeezed behind the counter.

With Betty keeping the customers herded away, I began my article. The words flowed quickly. I was amazed how good it felt to let them pour out. It had been a while since I’d done any kind of writing, and I missed it. It took me about 45 minutes to finish the piece and five seconds to email it to Ted.

My part was done. Ted would review it, and, hopefully, pass it on to the copydesk. Marcy would add the police statement.

There was, however, the possibility that Ted wouldn’t see things the same way. He might even call and try to get me to add, confirm, or in general tweak what I saw as a perfectly competent, if not genius, piece of work.

It was, in other words, the perfect time to get out of my office and try my hand at alley “cleansing.”

Without telling Betty where I was going, I picked up the bundle of sage and dug out a pack of matches I kept around in case the electricity went out. Kiska, intrigued by my actions, tagged along behind.

The alley still retained the chill I felt earlier. I yanked off the remaining strands of yellow crime tape and shoved them inside the Dumpster. Before getting started, I looked around to make sure no one was watching. It wasn’t that I was doing anything
wrong
; I just didn’t want an audience.

Assured I was alone, with the exception of Kiska who was seated near the door watching me expectantly, I pulled out the matches and did my best to light the sage.

After six matches, a couple of burned fingers, and a multitude of cuss words, I got the tip lit. Smoke streamed from the bunch.

Feeling like some kind of low-level mystic, I waved it around, letting the smoke flow as it would. Soon, a fragrant, thick cloud engulfed me. It was lovely. I breathed deeply, pulling all that cleansing spirit into my lungs, and waited for the promised sense of renewal to hit. 

My throat closed up.

I couldn’t breathe.

The smoke grew thicker.

I couldn’t see.

My eyes filled with tears until I knew what little mascara I’d put on that morning was streaming down my cheeks, and the tips of my fingers were getting toasty.

Suddenly, it hit me—
the thing was on fire
. What was I thinking?

I ran toward the Dumpster, intent on ridding myself of the billowing bundle, before I was completely overtaken by the smoke and became the second fatality in this alley in a week. My fingers were touching the Dumpster’s cold metal side when some remnant of good sense returned.

Dry paper, burning sage—not a good mixture.

With smoke still rolling out of the bundle, I turned to Kiska, who offered no advice. Fast getting desperate, I adjusted my grip to save my fingers and scanned the alley for a safe place to dump my torch. Past Spirit Books, I spied a drainage grate. I broke into an Olympic quality sprint, trailing smoke all the way. When I was within range, I leaped at my target and hurled the bundle. With both feet, I began jumping up and down to smother the flame.