3 Loosey Goosey

by Rae Davies

  “And just where can I find your brother?”

  Busy with the table and my news, Betty, Phyllis, and I had completely missed the tall, lanky, and arrogant Detective Stone entering the store. Kiska might have seen him, but if so, he’d decided the police officer wasn’t a likely prospect for cookies and had wandered off somewhere, probably to take a nap.

  “Officer Miller said you left before giving us a contact number.”

  “I was told I could leave.”

  “By Detective Blake?”

  The insinuation was obvious. I chose to ignore it by pretending interest in the placement of the table that Betty, Phyllis, and I had nearly smashed onto the floor.

  I pushed it back a bit with my foot, then stepped away to assess its positioning.

  “What is this, body number three, Ms. Mathews?”

  It was, and he knew it. I turned to find Betty and Phyllis lined up beside me like guard dogs or geese. With Betty’s usual choice of clothing, the fowl comparison was a lot more accurate.

  Betty flicked a bit of lint off her dress. “Someone has to find them.”

  Stone glanced at my employee as if surprised to find someone else in the room with us. “True, but Ms. Mathews does seem to be developing a knack.”

  “Perhaps you’re worried she will put you out of a job?” This from Phyllis. Her Texas accent added a bit of charm to the question, but the bite was still there.

  Stone, however, missed both. He turned his attention back to me. “Your brother?”

  I met his gaze. “Is staying at Moose Creek Campground. That’s all I know.” I wasn’t lying, and I refused to grovel.

  “No phone?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t have a number.”

  “But you do have your family’s number. Surely someone knows how to reach him.”

  “They’re vacationing, camping. No phones for a week.” I could bluff with the best of them when the deal was big enough and not having Stone contact my mother before she heard from Ben or me first was one gigantic deal.

  “But you have a number...”

  “Not on me. They’ll be checking into a cabin. My mother gave me the name, but I left it at home.”

  “Really?”

  I put on my best good girl face. “I can call you with it later if you like.”

  “That would be lovely,” Stone drawled, sarcasm thick.

  I smiled as bright as a mercury mirror.

  A few minutes later, we were Stone-free.

  I turned to Betty. “Did Ben call? Or Rhonda?”

  “Nope, but I think I know where you can find them.”

  Ten minutes later, I was at HA! headquarters, otherwise known as the local organic grocery store.

  The back entrance was propped open with a cinder block. Taking that as an invitation, I waltzed inside.

  The back room, a stock room, was filled with cardboard boxes and the scent of markers. Rhonda, Ben, and six others were stretched out on the concrete floor napping. A few feet away, a stack of posters sat beside a tower of blue painters tape.

  Scattered across the floor were empty coffee cups, half-eaten tubs of hummus, and a bowl of something green that smelled suspiciously like dead fish.

  I wrinkled my nose and kicked my brother in the foot.

  He grunted.

  I kicked him again, harder.

  Rhonda sat up. “Lucy! What are you doing here?”

  Ben threw out his arms and blinked his eyes. “Yeah, sis. You here to help?”

  He’d always believed in fairy tales.

  “Get up. You need to call Mom.”

  When this didn’t elicit the race to action that I wanted, I kicked him again.

  “Hey.” He grabbed for my leg, but fear of facing my mother made me swift. I danced out of his reach.

  Rhonda, apparently not appreciating our sibling bonding, got to her feet and moved between us. “Lucy! What is going on?”

  I hadn’t spoken to her since Ben’s arrival. She’d completely broken the number one rule of female friendship, picking a man over your friend. Then she’d compounded it by breaking a second rule – no dating a friend’s ex or relative. Period.

  Or at least it appeared she was trying to break that rule.

  For a moment, forgetting everything except her betrayal, I scowled.

  Then my phone chirped, bringing me right back to the severity of my situation.

  I stepped to the side so I was looming over my brother. “Tiffany Williams, the chef, is dead, and they found her body under the Lemon.” I waited a second for the news to soak in before adding my bombshell. “And mom wants you to call.”

  Ten minutes later, we were gathered around a table drinking organic shade-grown free trade coffee, which I had to admit beat the beans out of the canned stuff I had at home, and discussing why Tiffany Williams might have felt the need to stretch out under Ben’s Lemon and die.

  “She could have been messing with your brakes,” offered a twenty-something blonde named Hope, who obviously had little “hope” or trust in her hummus-eating heart.

  “Or maybe she dropped something.” Another brain trust, this one male and named Xander, added.

  “Or maybe someone put her there, hoping to cause trouble for HA!” A middle-aged hippie type offered this.

  I gave him a skeptical look, but Hope jumped back into the conversation. “Has that happened before?” Adoration shone from her eyes.

  Before the man could answer, Rhonda gave me a warning look. “Eric is the founder of HA! He’s also the owner of Food for Our Planet.”

  “Responsible big business with a heart,” my brother explained.

  Even I had heard of Food for Our Planet. There wasn’t a store in Montana, but I had seen them on a trip to Oregon a couple of summers ago. They also had a line of frozen foods that the grocery store we were sitting in carried and that Rhonda bought frequently.

  I looked at the hippie with fresh eyes. If he owned a company that size, he had to be rich.

  Rich and a fan of recycling and reusing. And I had a whole store filled with things to be reused.

  I brightened my smile a bit and tried to look interested in his reply.

  “Not to HA!, but other animal welfare and environmental protection organizations have been targeted. There are many groups that pretend to be consumer advocates that are really nothing more than fronts for factory farming, chemical companies, and mining. They set up websites that make false claims about funding and where donations go. So it is possible, and something we should keep in mind.”

  “Definitely,” Hope added, her eyes bright and her head nodding.

  My eyes rolled to the side. A kick under the table from Rhonda kept them from making full orbit.

  “Well, before we panic, we should probably find out what she died of,” I added, feeling very prim and slightly superior. It was obvious I was sitting at a table of ozone addicts.

  Still, the idea that someone had put Tiffany under Ben’s vehicle made me feel a tad better.

  “They would be able to tell that anyway, wouldn’t they? That she’d been moved?” I asked the table in general, mainly because I hadn’t pinpointed one of them yet who seemed to have any more idea about such things than I did.

  Ben, looking bored and a bit annoyed, said, “It doesn’t matter. They just found her body under my van. We don’t even know what killed her, and I was here all night.”

  Well, then, he just had that all figured out, didn’t he?

  “Fine. Call Mom and explain the picture she saw in the paper and why a police detective may be calling her. Then call Detective Stone.” I slid my phone across the table along with Stone’s business card, which, unfortunately, I had from the last dead body I’d found.

  “I don’t use cell phones,” my brother explained, disdain clear on his face. “The mountain gorilla population has been cut in half because of mining to supply the U.S.’s hunger for new technology.”

  I glanced at Rhonda, who had helped me choose my latest phone and t
he adorable Scooby Doo cover that adorned it.

  Her gaze dropped to her bag where I guessed her own gorilla-endangering device lay.

  While Ben went to find a landline and the other HA! workers went about gathering up their supplies, I wandered out into the customer area of the grocery store.

  Rhonda followed.

  “You’re mad,” she stated as I poked at a strange star-shaped fruit with my finger.

  “I didn’t realize you were such a dedicated follower of HA!,” I replied.

  “I had the T-shirt for a reason.”

  I dropped my pretense of interest in the fruit bin to stare at her.

  She tilted her head to the side. “Okay, they were giving them away last month when you bought $30 worth of Food for Our Planet meals. But I believe in their cause.”

  At my skeptical look, she added, “I do!”

  Maybe. But she believed more in the cause of finding herself a date. Which was fine, as long as the date wasn’t my brother.

  She dropped her head. “I’ll leave him alone.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I can see it’s bothering you. So even though Ben and I have more in common than anyone I’ve met in years, I’ll leave him alone.”

  Her accompanying hang-dog sideways look was probably meant to guilt me into saying “Oh, no, that’s okay. Take my brother.” But I had dealt with better guilt slingers than her.

  I accepted her offer with a smile that showed no signs that I realized her ploy. Then, as happy as I’d been since before Ben’s arrival, I went to make sure he had done his part by calling our mother and Stone, and keeping both of them satisfied enough that neither came looking for me.

  He was back at the table, working on more posters. He said Mom had been fine once he explained that Pauline had been lucky to escape with her little feathered neck intact, and that I had been the hero of the night.

  “What about Stone?” I asked. My mother hearing I was a hero was great, but it wouldn’t get us far if Stone called her looking for her son in connection to Tiffany’s death.

  “I’ll go by later. I have to get the Lemon anyway, and Rhonda says the station is close by.”

  Also good, but not what I was worried about.

  “No, did you tell Mom he might be calling?”

  My brother, clearly obtuse, dropped his marker on the table and chose another one. “Why would I?”

  “Because he’s going to call her if he doesn’t hear from you?”

  One shoulder rose. “So?”

  So, I was the child she could find. I was the child she would hold responsible for any perceived humiliation his actions —anyone’s actions – brought upon her.

  I sputtered that out, along with a few other things that stemmed back to childhood and probably made no sense to anyone but myself, but dammit they were still important.

  He shook his head. “You need to chill.”

  I needed to chill? Easy for golden boy to say. I leaned forward, ready to reset his thermostat.

  Rhonda, apparently once again confident in my love for her, hip checked me.

  While I staggered to the side, she smiled and nodded and made polite noises loud enough to cover my mumbling comebacks. Then she grabbed me by the arm and steered me out the back door.

  She got me all the way to my rig before I was able to think straight enough to express my thoughts clearly.

  “I’m going to pluck his goose and have her for dinner.”

  “Not today.” Then Rhonda shoved me in my rig and watched me until I drove away.

  o0o

  The next morning, I awoke to a non-blinking answering machine. I took this as a sign that Ben deserved to live another day and, hopefully, that he had done as he’d promised and visited Stone early enough that the detective had not found it necessary to search out my mother’s number.

  Keeping those hopes alive, I drove Kiska and myself to the shop. I let him in through the back before making a quick detour for coffee at Cuppa Joe’s.

  The coffee shop was filled with the normal mix of cowboys and mountain bikers, but the balance today leaned way more toward cowboy than usual. Or, more accurately, rancher. At least that was my assessment of the men in expensive go-to-church boots. Cowboys, but cowboys with money.

  My favorite kind. Unfortunately, their female halves seemed to be missing.

  I had male customers, but women in general spent more money. Plus, I was counting on the women being more likely to skip the meetings the men would surely attend and do some sightseeing and shopping.

  I sidled up to one man whose bow-legged stance screamed of years riding herd, although his belly said he spent more time on the couch these days than on a horse. “Are you here for the conference?” I asked, hoping I looked friendly, but not too friendly. I didn’t want some rancher’s wife coming after me with a branding iron.

  In true Montana fashion, he didn’t question my interest, but he also didn’t seem inclined to talk. “Arrived yesterday early.” His face, I noticed, was a bit pale. I took a step back just in case he’d caught a case of some convention-born virus.

  Joe, the owner, set a steaming mug of coffee down in front of the rancher.

  He pulled a thick stack of bills from his pocket. I couldn’t help but notice that the cash was held together with a vintage silver money clip.

  Money and with a fondness for old things. Just what I’d been hoping for; forget middle aged hippies, at least for now. I turned sideways, ready to risk illness and branding-iron, to leap into a conversation that would hopefully lead back to my store and the wonderful treasures that it offered.

  I had little more than opened my lips when Phyllis rolled into the coffee shop and moved through the crowd like an ice-breaking tug navigating the frozen Mississippi River.

  Assuming that she was looking for me and that the impetus for this visit had something to do with Betty and some new disagreement between the two of them, I turned back to face Joe and tried to look small.

  She barreled forward, undeterred, until she reached my rancher. “Richard, thank you for still meeting me.” She looked around, and her gaze met mine.

  “Lucy!” She rose on her toes and grinned as if she’d just spotted a Herman Miller Potato Chip chair sitting on the curb on trash day. “This is Richard Danes. He’s the president of the Beef Ranchers and the man who saved the Antlers.”

  Reaching for the latte Joe had just set down for me, I stiffened in surprise. “The Antlers?”

  “Yes, well, we, my wife and I, thought it would be a good investment,” the rancher said, looking more than a little uncomfortable with this new attention.

  I took a sip of my coffee to hide the questions spinning around in my head.

  “I guess you saw the paper.” Phyllis lowered her voice appropriately. “Did you know Tiffany well?”

  Danes shook his head and, hat pulled low, shuffled toward the counter where Joe kept sugar and other coffee additives.

  Phyllis, eyes bright, mouthed, “He’s the one I was telling you about.”

  I raised my brows. Phyllis had said Tiffany’s landlord was interested in pieces for Tiffany’s apartment. With Tiffany dead, I supposed it made sense that he would still be interested in furnishings for the next tenant. I couldn’t imagine, though, that his purchases would add up to much. More likely just a banged-up table and a few equally banged-up chairs. Luckily, both of which Dusty Deals had.

  Still looking jubilant, Phyllis scooted after him.

  I considered following, but Phyllis seemed to have the deal, whatever it turned out to be, well in hand.

  Besides, I had research of my own to do, namely on Eric Handle and how I could get him into my shop.

  Actually, now that I thought about, I really hadn’t been supportive enough of my brother, and there was Rhonda too. I still didn’t like the idea of her dating Ben, but a nice, rich, older do-gooder? That sounded like a perfect fit.

  Yes, a little research, a few calls and maybe even an olive branch luncheon we
re in order.

  I would just have to make sure Phyllis’ rancher and my activist didn’t do their shopping at the same time.

  Coffee in hand, I walked toward the back door. My week was once again on track.

  Chapter 6

  “Your mother called, Detective Stone stopped by, and Kiska just threw up four socks—no pairs.” Betty didn’t bother to look up from the computer as she delivered her news.

  I tapped my foot and took a sip of my latte. I would not let her negative worldview bring down my sure-to-be-fabulous week.

  She swiveled on her stool to face me, her expression ominous. “And Phyllis pulled everything out of the window last night. It looks like a scene from the Dick Van Dyke Show.” She ran her hand down the necklace of jade-green beads she was wearing and then snapped their end against her palm. “She’s a real crumb, and that stuff is a bunch of clams. You have to get rid of her.”

  Translation: Betty didn’t like Phyllis or her choice of merchandise.

  I sighed. I had considered sending Phyllis on her way, I really had, but she was harder to shake free than a bur stuck in two inches of Malamute undercoat. Besides, she brought customers into the shop and merchandise, which she paid for. I just took a cut when the things sold, and somehow they always did.

  On the other hand, I loved Betty and didn’t want to lose her.

  It was a tough call. One I wasn’t up to making right now.

  “Where are the socks?” I asked.

  Twenty minutes later, there was a suspiciously clean spot on the floor outside my office, four socks were living new lives in the Dumpster out back, and Kiska was sprawled out blocking the fire exit completely unrepentant.

  “Did you see the paper?” Betty gestured to a copy of the Daily News lying on the front counter.

  I glanced at it with trepidation, wondering if whatever was on the front page today might explain my mother’s call. Ben had said that he called her and that she was fine. He’d also said, though, that he would go by to see Stone yesterday, but I doubted that the detective’s visit today had been for early Christmas shopping.

  With another sigh, I picked up the paper.

  The front page story was, of course, by my dear friend Daniel.

  Local Chef Found Dead.