by Rae Davies
“And we don’t know that he put the stockings in there,” Betty added, not all that helpfully.
“Who else could have?”
She grimaced. “The box has been sitting here for awhile, and Joe did deliver it.”
Joe again. I really wished that I had access to him. I would love to have heard his side of the stocking story.
But he was still safely locked away from me.
Betty was right though. The world’s access, or at least anyone who had entered my shop in the past few days access, to the box was another reason not to yell “Darrell” to the police once again. Not without evidence.
It was late enough, so we closed up the shop and the three of us, Betty, Kiska, and me, went to find Darrell.
“Do you think he killed Missy?” Betty asked.
I stumbled a bit. I’d thought him capable of murder before. “According to Laura, he was sleeping with her.”
“With Missy?”
I considered that. “A Cutie. It could have been Missy. And there was...”
Sensing gossip, Betty turned in her seat to face me.
I told her about the “toy” that Cindy and I had found at the mansion.
“Ooooh. Maybe it was an accident then.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but she was right. If Darrell was into things “off the grid” then maybe things went just a little too far.
“And he’s been trying to frame you ever since.”
The calls. “And I had my Jeep parked near the mansion twice. He could have somehow snuck the pill bottle inside.”
“How’d he get it?”
“Found it? Maybe Laura dropped it, and Darrell found it when he went to see Missy.”
It worked. I was definitely convincing myself that this time Darrell had “dunnit.”
We parked in the alley behind the mansion and walked the short distance to the house. It was dark.
“Should we break in?” Betty asked.
“For what?”
“To look for clues.”
I shook my head. One potential charge of breaking and entering in a week was enough for me, especially for the same address.
“What else can we do?”
Betty’s husband was out of town on a “gig.” Being left behind always made her antsy. I just hoped it didn’t get us both arrested.
“Do you think he skipped town?” she asked next. “You said he wasn’t here when you met Cindy either.”
“If he doesn’t own the mansion...” And Cindy certainly didn’t seem to think that he did. “Then he must have another house.”
“Yep, this is probably just his—”
I cut Betty off before she could put whatever term she was thinking to the Deere mansion. I loved the place. I didn’t need my thoughts of it sullied any more than they already had been.
After directing her and Kiska away from the mansion and back toward my Jeep, I pulled out my phone and did a quick search. The only address for Darrell that showed up was his office downtown. I called the number. No answer.
“We could try it,” Betty suggested.
I shook my head. It was after six on a Sunday. Even if Darrell was inside, the building would be locked up tight.
Settling in the Jeep, Betty asked, “Any other ideas?”
Besides going home and thinking about this tomorrow? No.
Betty’s determined expression told me there would be no sleep for me. I sighed. “Cindy?” I was beginning to suspect Cindy knew a lot more about a number of things than I had considered before.
Plus, she might have cake.
Sadly, Cindy’s bakery was locked up tight too. No lights. No sign of life.
After a short argument with Betty where I insisted that no, I was not breaking into the bakery either, I drove her back to her car, and then Kiska and I drove home.
The night felt like a waste and while I ate my dinner and tried to focus on the latest “hot” reality singing contest, I couldn’t keep my mind from drifting back to the stocking and wondering if was doing the right thing by not calling the police.
o0o
The next morning, I was still debating my decision.
I coped with my indecision by eating some frozen cookie dough and then going back to bed. Two hours later, an hour after I would have normally been at the shop, I loaded Kiska into the Jeep with every intention of making the decision in person.
When we arrived, Betty was in the office.
Mondays were always slow, but I went in to make my mea culpas anyway.
Betty waved me off. “No worries. We had one customer. A WILer. She was looking for Phyllis.” She expressed her disgust with a grimace. I wasn’t sure if it was for WIL or her co–worker.
“Which one?”
“I didn’t get her name, but she was a Phyllis clone.” Instead of a grimace, this time she shivered. “She wasn’t here long. And Rachel called. She had some revisions for the website.” Betty’s expression shifted to joy. “She loves it. Just a few tweaks. Then she’ll drop off the rest of the payment.”
It had seemed to me that Rachel hadn’t been all that interested in the website after all, but if she’d told Betty she was, and if Betty was getting paid and was happy... well, it was all good on my end.
While she was in a good mood, I announced my intentions of doing the right thing: telling Peter about the stocking.
Shaking her head and clucking like a chicken, she followed me into the store. “No good will come of it.”
Ignoring her, I looked around for the box. It was just where we had left it. Kind of. It seemed more visible than I remembered leaving it last night.
“Did you move it?” I asked.
Betty flicked an imaginary piece of lint off her shoulder and shrugged.
Fine. That’s how it was going to be.
I opened the box and made a stack of newspaper–wrapped items on the floor.
The stack grew, and then it grew some more.
“Betty!”
My employee and my dog tilted their heads in identical expressions of interest.
“It’s... I don’t...” I started unwrapping the paper and tossing it onto another spot on the floor. In seconds, I had two stacks one of antique treasures that in other circumstances I would have languished over for hours and one of discarded paper.
No stocking.
“It’s gone.”
o0o
Ten minutes later, Betty and I were sitting on the loveseat, staring at each other and once again going over our options.
“Are you sure there weren’t any other customers in the store this morning?” I asked for the fifth time.
“Yes! I’m sure,” Betty replied in a completely uncalled for volume.
Kiska, who had positioned himself next to the front door, jerked.
“I have to ask, because if Kristi was the only customer, then that means...”
“She’s a do–gooding killer,” Betty proclaimed with more than a little joy.
“Not necessarily. There could be some other explanation.” I wasn’t sure why I was having such a hard time pinning the deed on Kristi. No. That wasn’t true. Fingering Kristi would be as bad as fingering Darrell to some people. Worse, to some. I’d already gone through the discomfort of naming one of Helena’s respected citizens a killer. I didn’t want to repeat the experience unless I was 100% confident.
Betty crossed her arms over her chest. “And that would be?”
I chewed on my lip for a few seconds. “She likes stockings?”
“And knew we had one tucked away inside a closed box?”
The sarcasm was worse than the volume. I scowled my disapproval.
Betty scowled back. She was better at it than I was. I dropped my gaze to the hem of my fleece jacket and picked pieces of white Malamute hair off it and my jeans.
I was trying hard to be reasonable, to handle this the way Peter would, but Betty was speaking to my true, reactionary self.
“Okay, she’s the killer,” I agreed and sto
od.
Betty grabbed me by the arm and jerked me back down to a sit. “Don’t.”
I didn’t have to ask what. Betty knew me too well, knew my growing relationship with Peter was getting in my head, stirring up guilt and causing me to act in ways I never would have before.
“He doesn’t need to know. Not yet.”
I waited for the reasons that would allow me to justify the action, or inaction, that I was already sure I was about to take... or not take.
She held out a finger and began ticking them off one by one. “You didn’t tell him when you found the stocking. So, if you call him now...” She gave me a knowing look.
I nodded. She was right. That wouldn’t go well.
“You didn’t tell him about the stocking in the first place because too many people had had access to the box. That hasn’t changed.”
Again... valid point. “And while we think Kristi took it, it is possible we left it somewhere else or someone else came into the shop,” I added helpfully.
She hesitated for a second. Weighing, I guessed, her annoyance at me offering the possibility that she had missed some other customer’s entrance and exit today, but finally she nodded. “True.
“And you aren’t even supposed to know that the murder weapon was a stocking,” she added.
This was perhaps the best point. This pushed the whole topic into the category of plausible deniability.
I shared that with Betty. She looked appropriately impressed.
“Exactly! So...”
“We have no choice...”
“We have to...”
“Find Kristi ourselves...”
“And prove that...”
“She’s the killer!”
Kiska, who had managed to fall asleep during our exchange, let out a snorting grumble and then scrambled to his feet.
He was ready. Betty was ready.
Time to catch a killer.
o0o
Betty and I had locked up the shop, packed up Kiska, and gone to look for Kristi. She’d wanted to take her car, with the idea that Kristi might know mine, but I didn’t see how a bright red and white, retro–looking sedan was going to help us blend.
We were now sitting outside of Kristi’s church, a small surprisingly unassuming building, hidden behind what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse.
“Is this right?” Betty asked.
“According to Laura, Kristi does the books here every Monday.”
Except Kristi wasn’t here. No one was here. We’d parked, gotten out and walked around. Twice.
I couldn’t even say, honestly, that I believed the place was a church. There was no sign, no cross, no anything that said religion to me.
Maybe I got the address wrong. But since I was once again questioning our decision to hunt down Kristi and accuse her of being a cold–blooded killer, I thanked whatever heavenly power might be looking out for me right now, and put the Jeep in reverse to leave.
A car pulled in behind me, blocking my exit. A car I recognized, driven by a cheese–lover I recognized as well. In seconds, Laura was out of her car and knocking on my window with her fist.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that calling a fellow WILer might not have been the best idea. Maybe Kristi hadn’t acted alone. Maybe the whole “when we left she was alive” thing was a lie.
And Laura was the one who had told me to come here, to the empty, deserted church parking lot.
I glanced at Betty. Her eyes wide, she shook her head.
Realizing we had both come to the same conclusion, I moved the Jeep into drive and floored it.
We peeled out and away from Laura. She jumped back. Internally, I chortled. I foiled her plan, whatever it was. Betty, Kiska and I were free to—
I circled the parking lot. Trees. Building. Dumpster. Shed.
No other exit.
We were trapped.
I jerked the steering wheel to the left, sending Betty and Kiska both slamming into the passenger doors and faced down Laura.
She was still standing where I’d left her, mouth open and eyes rounded.
I put the Jeep in park and revved the motor. A clear warning on my part.
Betty righted herself. “What are you doing?” she sputtered.
Somewhere under my seat, my phone rang.
I looked back to see Laura with her phone in her hand.
Interesting. After glancing around to make sure no one else was about to sneak up beside us, I groped under my seat and pulled out my phone.
“What are you doing?” Laura sputtered, not all that differently from Betty.
“Leaving.”
Except I wasn’t because I couldn’t get my car out, but it didn’t feel like that needed to be said.
“I need to show you something.”
I just bet she did.
“Pull up to the building. It’s inside.”
Without another word, she hung up and got back in her car. A few seconds later, she rolled past us and parked in front of the building.
“Now what?” Betty asked. She didn’t seem worried. Just curious.
Which immediately made me suspect that Betty had not reached the same conclusions I had.
I carefully explained what she was obviously missing.
“Hmm.” She nodded. “Let’s see if you’re right.” She hopped out of the Jeep and bopped toward the building. Within seconds, she was inside with Laura.
With a groan, I parked the Jeep, put Kiska on his leash and followed.
CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO
The front door opened into a hall. A dark hall. There was, however, some vague feeling of light coming from the end of it. I wrapped Kiska’s leather lead more tightly around my hand and walked toward it.
At the end was a door, open just enough to let out more hope of light to come. Holding Kiska’s leash in my right hand, I pushed the door open with my left.
I was greeted by the sight of a desk, lit by one lone lamp.
There was no sign of life other than Kiska and myself.
“Hello,” I called. “Betty?”
There was a click and the room lit up. Betty, Laura, and Phoebe stepped into view. I sucked in a breath and resisted the urge to bolt.
Betty, completely unaware of the scare she’d given me, shook her head. “Do they have some tricks to show you. And I do mean tricks.”
Twenty minutes later, we were in an adjacent room, seated around an 8–foot long folding table, the kind most often seen at church buffets and yard sales.
Plastered on the walls around us were pictures. Lots and lots of pictures.
Laura, it seemed, had been busy.
“Here’s a picture of two Cuties going into...” She named an apartment building known for housing not–from–Helena politicians when the legislature was in session.
“And here’s one of three more at last month’s...” This time she named a well–known charity soiree also frequented by politicians and Montana’s elite.
“And here...” Phoebe held another picture, back to us, tantalizing us with what this one might hold. “...is Kristi talking with Rachel at 5 a.m. on a Sunday morning.”
The image showed the two women sitting at what appeared to be a kitchen table drinking coffee. There were more, of Kristi walking around inside the kitchen, of her leaving, and finally, of her getting inside her car.
“So, Kristi knows Rachel?” This was interesting, but I wasn’t getting the importance of this fact. At least not the level of importance that Laura and Phoebe seemed to feel it had. “Was she trying to get her to rethink what she was doing? Go to church? Find God?” Or whatever else a woman of Kristi’s convictions might do when faced with someone so far off, in her mind, the moral path.
Phoebe dropped the picture onto the table in front of me and announced, “She’s the madam.” Then she leaned forward and stared at me.
Without the box of wine to add that winsome touch, Phoebe scared me a bit.
“A madam,” I repeated, as if I actually got wha
t she was saying.
And then I did.
“A madam?” Not like Madam President or Excuse me, madam, may I take your coat? But... “A madam? The madam?”
Betty picked up the picture and then dropped it down too. “What do you know. She’s running a cat house.”
Out of a coffee kiosk.
Laura and Phoebe gave us a minute to let this revelation soak in before continuing with their plan. A plan that now included us it seemed.
“We aren’t sure how long she’s been leading a double life. Maybe since she moved to Helena,” Phoebe said.
“She’s new to Helena?” I asked.
Laura answered. “Yes, not long before the kiosk opened. We aren’t sure where she was before that. We aren’t even sure if Kristi Whitmore is her real name.”
Betty riffled through the pictures of Kristi with Rachel. “Do you have any more proof than this? This really isn’t going to hold notes.”
Laura and Phoebe looked at each other. Laura sucked in a big breath. “We were hoping you did. We assumed that’s why you wanted to talk to her? Did Rachel tell you something?”
Mirroring Laura and Phoebe, Betty and I looked at each other too.
I sucked in my own breath. “Not exactly.”
Then I spilled why we had been looking for the WILer and what we suspected.
Laura seemed surprised. Shocked even. “Murder? You think she killed Missy? Why would she do that?”
Phoebe took it more in stride. “I can see it.”
Betty tapped the edges of the photos on the table and waited for me to answer.
Fine. “We thought she was... you know... angry over the...” I motioned to my chest.
“You thought she’d kill someone over that?” Laura shook her head. “Then you must have thought all of us...”
I flushed.
She raised her brows.
Again, Phoebe took it in stride. “I’ve been accused of worse.”
We all stared at her, wondering to the person, I was sure, just exactly what that worse might have been.
Phoebe lifted a shoulder. “I went to college.”
Okay...
“Anyway,” Laura said, bringing us back on topic. “That is weird. Why would she steal the stocking?”