"Did having your pipes reamed out by–"
"What?" Desireé's eyes bugged out and her mouth dropped open so wide I could see her tonsils quivering.
"Never mind, dear. Go on with your story."
"Uh, okay. So, anyway. After Rick told me that—"
Desireé's phone rang, silencing her mid-sentence. I wanted to know what Rick had told her, but she chose to take the call instead, which turned out to be the ranger himself. I eavesdropped as she responded to the caller. I was not surprised to hear it was Rick Myer calling again. She was nearly whispering as she spoke into the phone, but I could still make out her words. "Of course, I will, Ricky. Just do what I asked you to do, or I won't uphold my end of the deal, either."
She listened for a few moments, and then responded, "I realize that, but that excuse is not going to fly with me. Stop by later on. Okay? Olivia's spending the night with a classmate."
"Ricky" must have agreed to stop by her house, because Desireé went on to tell him she'd get home about six and then the two of them could go to the Bozeman Trail Steakhouse. They'd discuss the matter over supper. She'd make reservations for two at six-thirty, she informed him.
As I'd been concentrating on Desireé's side of the conversation, I'd been mindlessly picking up various packages off a shelf, trying to not look as if I was hanging on to her every word like a floating life ring. After Desireé stuffed her phone back in her brassiere, she said, "Are you interested in one of those? Good for you for being so remarkably indulgent at your age."
I looked down and almost dropped the package on the floor. I'm sure my mouth was gaping open even wider than hers had just been as I locked eyes with the soiled-rotten lady. As a refined and dignified woman of sixty-eight years, I found the "toy" to be quite offensive. Not to be too graphic about something I'd rather not mention to you in the first place, I'll just say the contraption looked as if it could have been hacked off that aforementioned elephant.
I stood motionless, and Desireé could clearly tell I had been rendered speechless. After studying my reaction for a few seconds, Desireé asked, "You just reacted like that package seared your hand. Did you really come in my shop to buy a toy, or was it just an excuse to question me about my sister's death?"
"Heaven's n-n-no! I ca-ca-came in to b-b-b-b-buy this th-th-th-thing!" I held up the package with two fingers as if trying to limit my exposure to any cooties it might be coated with. Feeling a gazillion miles out of my comfort zone, I stuttered my way through my response. "How mm-mu-much is this 'thing'?"
"It's forty-nine, ninety-five. Today only."
"Fifty bucks?" My stuttering came to a screeching halt and for a second I was afraid I might prove to the medical field a person actually could swallow their own tongue. There was no way I was paying that much for something I'd have to toss into the nearest dumpster after I exited the store. I certainly couldn't show up at home with it. Rip would take one look at my purchase and have to be resuscitated. It'd be a 9-1-1 call waiting to happen.
"No, not fifty dollars. It's forty-nine, ninety-five," Desireé corrected me, as if there was a hill of beans worth of difference between the two. Five cents wouldn't buy you a gumball these days. Even as cheap as I am, I have to think twice before bending over to pick a nickel up off the sidewalk. And, yes, I always opt to do so.
"That's fifty bucks anyway you look at it, dear. I'll have to give this a little more thought before I decide if I want to splurge on something this expensive."
"I guarantee it'll be the best forty-nine ninety-five you'll ever spend."
No, it'll be the best fifty bucks I ever saved, I thought. But I somehow managed to take a deep breath, and say, "You're probably right. I'll give it serious consideration and then most likely stop back in to purchase it."
I'd come back and purchase it right after I climbed Mount Everest, zip-lined across the Royal Gorge in Colorado, and hand-fed Killdeer eggs to a badger. Afterward, I would jump out of her ex-husband's friend's perfectly good plane.
It'd been a mortifying experience, but I had learned something at least. I learned I'd be having supper at the Bozeman Trail Steakhouse. With any luck at all, we'd be seated within eavesdropping range of the divorced couple. And if so, we might be able to find out more about the agreement Desireé had made with her ex-husband, the seemingly wholesome forest ranger. The pair might be surprised to see us, but it's not that unusual to run into people you know in a town the size of Buffalo.
After I backed the truck out of my parking spot, I drove to the restaurant on East Hart Street to make reservations for six-forty-five. I'd taken liver out of the freezer to fix with onions that evening, but I felt relatively certain Rip wouldn't balk at having to take a break from his diet to devour a mouth-watering T-bone at the steakhouse. In fact, I'd have bet a bundle on that one!
Chapter 20
As expected, Rip jumped all over my idea to go to the steakhouse for supper. His words exactly were, "Hell yes, I'd like to have a juicy steak for dinner! That gross-looking slab of yuck that's been thawing on the counter all day has done nothing to stimulate my appetite. Quite the opposite. As a matter of fact, I was planning to fake a bellyache at suppertime, and then get up after you'd fallen sleep tonight to sneak a couple of bologna sandwiches."
I'm pretty sure Rip was kidding, but don't you go thinking that the idea hadn't crossed his mind a time or two. As a matter of fact, I was so convinced, I said, "I think you've already snarfed down a couple of sandwiches while I was out."
"My lips are sealed," he returned with a smirk.
"Uh-huh. Your lips are not only sealed, you scoundrel, they also tasted like mustard when you kissed me a couple of minutes ago."
* * *
When the waitress met us at the door of the steakhouse, she asked if we'd prefer a booth or a table. I quickly scanned the restaurant and saw Desireé sitting across from a dark-haired man at a booth by the kitchen. I was sure her dining companion was the ranger, even though I could only see the back of his head. There was a vacant booth next to theirs that would have Rick's back to us. It was ideal for eavesdropping on their conversation. I requested that particular booth even though Rip always preferred a table.
"Why a booth?" He asked. "And especially one in such a high-traffic area?"
"I know it's right next to the kitchen, but it's also close to the restrooms. I'm a little concerned about the rumbling in the pit of my stomach, dear, and would feel more comfortable having the bathroom nearby in case of an emergency."
He looked at me queerly. I hadn't mentioned an issue with my stomach earlier so I figured he had doubts racing through his mind. But after an impassive "whatever", he took my elbow and led me to the chosen table.
As we approached, Desireé looked up and caught my eye. Without smiling she nodded. I adopted a "so surprised to see you here" expression and nodded back. Having never met Rick's ex-wife, Rip was oblivious to the exchange. I was surprised to see the stunning woman dressed in a conservative outfit: blue jeans and a light blue high-necked sweater, complemented by her severely toned-down eye makeup. It was if she thought it necessary to dress up like a call girl when working at her X-rated shop, and a sensible human being elsewhere. She was actually a beautiful lady with just a hint of eye shadow and the absurd tattoo on her neck concealed. She'd even excluded the facial piercings that evening. Maybe Rick was opposed to the "tramp" look and she hadn't want to squabble over her appearance that evening when they had more important issues to discuss.
Once seated, I leaned across the table and whispered, "I believe that's Ranger Rick and his ex-wife, Desireé, behind us."
"Aha! I knew something was amiss!" Rip replied. "I should have known you didn't choose this booth because of an upset stomach. Destiny is very pretty, isn't she?"
I didn't bother to correct him on Desireé's name. As long as Rip's known my brother, Seward, he's referred to him as Steward. He couldn't seem to let go of the "t" that had no place in Seward's given name. I finally gave up
correcting him when I realized it was a losing battle. Fortunately, my brother never seemed to care one way or the other.
"Yes, she is," I replied to Rip's remark about Desireé's attractiveness. "At least when she doesn't go out of her way to look like a prostitute."
"Huh? What's a hostile toot?" Rip looked puzzled. He had a hard time hearing me under the best of circumstances, much less when I was whispering in a crowded restaurant.
"A 'hostile toot' would be what you told Rick you'd like to do in an elevator full of nuns. However, what I actually said was 'prostitute'."
He still looked confused, but let it drop, and said, "I suppose I better get up and greet Rick."
"No, don't do that. Rick doesn't know we're here and will be careful what he says if he finds out we're behind him. I was curious what their tête-á-tête was all about and hoped maybe we could overhear—"
"Eavesdrop."
"Okay, eavesdrop, on their conversation. They've made some kind of mutual agreement about something important. That much I know for certain."
"Rick would never—"
"I know how you feel, dear. And I don't disagree. I'd just like to eliminate Rick from our suspect list once and for all."
"We have a suspect list? I didn't even realize we had suspects."
"Of course we do. The way I see it we have several of them. Boonie, for one. As you once told me, the spouse is almost always considered a suspect when someone is murdered."
"That's true. But I can't imagine why Boonie would want to kill his wife. He needed her help to run the campground efficiently. And if he was already seeing that woman you told me about, Janet Talley-Sands–"
"Oh, good grief, Rip. It's Janelle Tyson-Simms."
"Well, whatever her name is, my point is if he was already having his cake and eating it too, what would be the point of knocking off his business partner?" As Rip spoke I put my finger to my lips to remind him to keep his voice down. He spoke quieter as he continued. "Plus, to me, he doesn't seem the type to do such an unspeakable thing."
"Do I seem that type to you, dear? I love you more than you'll ever know, and our marriage has been fifty years of pure bliss, as far as I'm concerned. But that doesn't mean I haven't wanted to kill you a time or two along the way."
"Seriously?" With mouth wide open, Rip looked as if I'd poked him in the eye with my salad fork. "There were times you wanted me dead?"
"Well, not permanently. Only for a few hours, perhaps. Just until I'd had enough time to get over whatever had made me want to kill you in the first place."
"Good to know. I am definitely keeping one eye open while I sleep from now on."
"You know I'm only joshing you. Still, I thought coming here for dinner was too good an opportunity to pass up. There's no telling what we might learn."
"I understand. I don't necessarily agree with your methods, but I do understand why you're anxious to prove to yourself that the ranger wasn't involved. I, too, thought it odd he didn't mention his relationship to the victim the day we first met. Still, I can't imagine a fine man like Rick—"
"Me neither, Rip. I am fond of him, too." I interrupted him because he was speaking too loudly again, a tendency not uncommon for someone with a hearing impairment.
I'd been speaking softly so the man we were discussing, who wasn't two feet behind me, couldn't hear me over the clatter of dishes and several simultaneous conversations going on around us. I knew Rip was having extreme difficulty in understanding me. Unfortunately, hearing one word I said throughout our entire evening meal had not been enough incentive for him to wear his hearing aids to the restaurant. I could tell he was reading my lips more than anything. Rip confirmed that suspicion with our next exchange.
"I don't seriously think Rick was involved in Bea's death," I said. "But, as Lexie Starr once told me, one should leave no stone unturned when on the hunt for a perpetrator."
"Why would I want a purple tater? I don't see anything like that on the menu, and wouldn't want one even if I did."
I practically hissed when I responded, enunciating each syllable as if his understanding of my words was of critical importance. "I didn't ask you if you wanted a pur-ple ta-ter, Rip. I said 'on the hunt for a perp-e-trator'."
"Oh."
"Wear your hearing aids next time, for goodness sakes! Now hush up so we can hear any conversation between Desireé and Rick, or Ricky, as she calls him."
"I can barely make out what you're saying, Rapella. How am I supposed to hear anything those two are discussing?"
"You don't have to hear them. You just need to be quiet so I can. Look through the menu and decide what you want to order."
The couple behind me appeared to be focused on eating their meals and I hadn't heard any conversation between them by the time the waitress returned to take our order. I chose the grilled salmon and house salad and Rip decided on a large porterhouse with steak fries, followed by apple pie á la mode for dessert. He'd instructed the waitress to "Hold the salad and green beans, but pile on the vanilla ice cream."
It was so fulfilling to hear how seriously he was taking the diet I had him on. I really wasn't restricting his carbohydrates, saturated fat, and grams of sugar to be mean. His doctor had warned him he was a dead man walking if he didn't lose weight and eat healthier. I just wanted him to stick around a while. It was tougher than I'd imagined to save a guy who wouldn't help save himself. Rip seemed perfectly content with the notion he'd likely die with a smile on his face and vanilla ice cream dripping down the front of his shirt.
I leaned as far back in my chair as possible after the waitress shuffled off with our order. I could just make out Desireé's raspy voice. She said, "You promised me you'd enroll in that final class to earn your doctorate, Ricky. And, in return, I said I'd continue to support you in the interim. I'm giving you one week to comply. If you haven't enrolled by then, I'm pulling the plug on your monthly allowance. Like Bea suspected after you dropped out of college with one class to go, I'm beginning to think your plan all along was to be a career student. I can't afford to carry you forever, you know. Not to mention, I still have a large portion of your huge student loan to pay off."
"Yeah, I know. Sorry about that, Mom."
"The least you could do is try to become independent of me, Ricky. And your father, I should add. I know he's been forking it over to sustain you too. It's time to get your degree and an engineering job. No more screwing around. You understand?"
When Ricky didn't respond, Desireé asked him again. "I said, do you understand me, Ricky?"
"All right, all right, Mom." I heard a voice respond. The voice was similar to the ranger's but about an octave higher. "I'll sign up tomorrow, even though I think it was none of that woman's business how I live my life. By the way, how's your mother doing? Have they called in hospice yet? Put her on a morphine drip or anything?"
"Oh, my!" I said under my breath as I leaned forward toward Rip.
"What's up?" He asked.
"I had it all wrong. Ricky is not Ranger Rick, after all. I'd assumed it was a term of endearment Desireé used for her ex-husband, in the same way I heard Rick refer to her as Dez a couple of times. But in actuality, Ricky is a nickname for Richard Myer, Junior, the son the ranger mentioned to us when he dropped by that one day. I remember he said his eight-year-old daughter was named Olivia, but never told us his son's name."
"Oh, yes. Now that you mention it, I do remember. Although I thought he said his daughter's name was Olive."
"I'm sure you did. And, actually, that's closer than you usually get."
With his selective hearing electively turned off, Rip ignored my comment, and said, "And I also recall him saying his son was the result of a short-lived fling in college."
"I remember that too. I have to admit, it is very nice of Desireé to help her step-son out the way she appears to be doing, even after her marriage with his father went kaput. Sounds like she took on a huge debt to put him through college. But rather than finish the docto
rate program he was nearly through with, he decided to just bum around and let both his step-mom and father support him."
"It's nice that she cares for Rick's son as if she was his own biological mother. But I can see why she's fed up with him at this point. He had better comply with Destiny's wishes, or he might be learning a lesson the hard way," Rip whispered. I had officially given up trying to teach him Desireé's name and just nodded in response.
A few minutes later our waitress sat our plates down in front of us. Rip tore into his steak like a starving wolverine while I picked at my salmon, reflecting on what we'd just learned. I felt relatively safe now about scratching both Rick and Desireé off my list of potential suspects.
While I was propped against the back of the padded bench, in quiet contemplation, Rip devoured his apple pie and the huge mound of ice cream balanced tentatively on top of it. The sound of Desireé's voice saying the name "Janelle" brought me instantly out of my reverie. We'd just seen that very woman less than a half-hour earlier, carrying a basket of clothes to the park's laundry room as we were driving toward the campground's exit gate. Atop the pile was a shirt that resembled the one Boonie had been wearing the last time I saw him. For a widowed lady traveling alone, Jan sure seemed to have a lot of dirty laundry. And by "dirty laundry" I mean in the literal clothes-washing way, and possibly in a rhetorical way, as well.
I leaned back and concentrated on Desireé's words to her former step-son to see if I could pick up what she was saying about Janelle. There couldn't be too many women with that uncommon name in Buffalo, I thought.
"Did I tell you I ran into Janelle at her weekly hair appointment last Wednesday? I just needed a quick trim, but arrived ten minutes early for my appointment. I chatted with Jan while she was letting the highlight solution permeate."
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