by P. B. Ryan
I couldn’t decide from that if that meant antlers were in my future or not, but after Betty’s tirade I was past caring.
I was beaten, and I had a story to write. I started with the official say-nothing statement from Blake and added the information from George about the keys, the prints on them and the inside of the car, and the alibis. I couldn’t quote George so I had to use the ever popular “sources say,” but at least it gave the readers a little something. I couldn’t write anything firm about Crandell having family in the area until we confirmed it. I did add that Crandell had been talking to area collectors and the Malones about buying pieces of the medicine man set. I also put in a few quotes from Marie and some background on her museum. It was a decent amount of copy, but I was afraid I was just shooting my bear in the butt. I needed more facts. With luck, Crandell’s ex would call Marcy soon.
Not feeling particularly confident, I emailed the story and checked my watch. It was four thirty.
I still had time to do some work at Dusty Deals before I needed to go home and take care of Kiska. I pulled the boxes of books from the auction out from under the counter and lugged them back to my office. I began lightly marking a price on the first page of each. Occasionally, I set aside a book to put on eBay. Halfway through the first box, Betty knocked on the door.
She seemed strangely content. Our earlier run-in hadn’t left me so at peace, not that I held a grudge. I didn’t, but I was still a little churned up.
“Can you come out and give me a hand? There’s a guy out here asking questions about the glass-fronted china cabinet. He wants to know if it’s oak or walnut.”
I spent the next hour helping in the shop. The man said he’d be back the next day with his wife. He thought the cabinet was what they were looking for. Another man came in looking for old postcards, and a woman stopped in hoping to find sewing items. I dug out two postcards, one showing the interior of a saloon and one of a little boy holding a lever action rifle. For the woman, I located a metal sewing bird clamp with a red velvet pincushion and two silver thimbles. After Betty was done ringing up the woman, I collapsed onto the horsehair loveseat.
“I forgot to mention it earlier, but for a piece of pushy fluff Laney did have a barn burner of an idea.” Betty spoke from behind the register. “She got together with the Downtown Merchants’ Association, and everyone’s going to dress up on Friday.”
I replied with a groan. “Not me.”
“Yes, you. You have to. I even have a dress you can wear. So, you have no excuse.” Betty rose up on her tiptoes and waved her hands. I was afraid she was going to lift off the ground in her excitement. She settled back down with a knowing smile.
Betty was pushing me into something I didn’t want to do. Who said self-realization was the first step to recovery? My goose was cooked. Come Friday I’d be trotting around in an outfit of Betty’s choosing.
God help me. And goodie, there’d be pictures.
We spent the remaining time picking up and straightening displays. Hitting a wall in the Crandell story had gotten me down, and my most recent conversations with Betty hadn’t perked me up any. After one last call to check in with Marcy, I headed out.
What I needed was an evening of good old-fashioned fun—a cold beer or two, some good music and maybe a little harmless flirtation. Nothing stressful tonight.
Chapter 12
Everything was peaceful at my house. Kiska greeted me at the door, tail waving like a flag above his back. I gave him a kiss and a cookie before letting him outside.
Standing in front of the refrigerator, I weighed my options. What to eat before you go for drinks? You need something with some substance. Something to help soak up the alcohol, but I didn’t want to eat anything that would be particularly troublesome if it revisited me later either. (Not that I planned on drinking that much, but it didn’t hurt to play it safe.) I decided on a chicken sandwich and pretzels. Nice and filling, like a sponge for beer.
After eating my sandwich and half the bag of pretzels, I poured a giant tumbler of Diet Pepsi with milk. Drinking preparation tip number two—get hydrated.
I took my drink and headed to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror was not pretty.
Half a tube of gel, three coats of mascara, and enough foundation to spackle the Great Wall of China later, I was done. Basically, a lot of trouble to sit around in a smoky bar with a bunch of men who would either be too young, too married, or too just-not-interested.
I slid open the door to my closet and grabbed the first thing I touched, a close fitting shirt that wrapped across my chest. Not a bad choice. With the right bra, I’d actually have cleavage. For pants, I decided on the standard Montana uniform—jeans. Good for any and all occasions. I picked a low-rise pair that showed just enough to give a hint of skin under my shirt, not expose my entire backside. To really dress up the ensemble, I added a pair of red cowboy boots—the kind with pointy toes and a bit of heel, like people wore when they were trying to be Western. Once changed, I was ready to romp.
The Bumpy Frog was hidden from view in an all-but-defunct strip mall. The two closest businesses were a lumberyard and a not-so-gentlemanly gentlemen’s club. At some point in the past, there had been a discount store and a few specialty shops in the building. Now they all stood vacant. A limited number of lights illuminated the parking lot, and some of those were burnt out. The rest seemed to have 40-watt bulbs, if that, in them. I deliberated on my safest parking choice. Dark and near the door or further away, but under a light. I chose a spot about four spaces down from the door that fell just within the radius of illumination from one of the underpowered lights.
I got out of the Cherokee and adjusted my bra straps to make sure everything that should be tucked in was, while leaving out enough to be a few steps shy of tacky. I performed the same ritual on my jeans. Everything in place, I pulled open the door.
The Bumpy Frog consisted of two long rooms. The first housed the bar and a few tables, the second two pool tables, a dance floor with a low stage, and more tables. It was early; so I was still able to see through the smoke to the bar. Rhonda leaned against it drinking a wine cooler. She wore a pair of jeans and a white peasant blouse with a lot of red and green embroidery.
I ordered a long neck Bud Light and passed on the glass. “When’s the band start?”
“Not ‘til nine. You want to play some pool?”
Both pool tables were open. We sat our drinks on a nearby table and dug in our purses for quarters. I fed the coins into the table and listened for the balls to drop. Rhonda racked them up, while I selected a stick.
“You want to break?” Rhonda asked.
I snorted. “Not likely.”
Rhonda was good at pool—not pool shark good, but good enough to not embarrass herself. I, on the other hand, was not. I had even been a waitress at a pool hall in college. The local experts were always trying to teach me, but I just couldn’t get it. I think it’s a patience thing. All that lining up and planning wasn’t my strong suit.
Rhonda broke beautifully. Three stripes rolled into the pockets. Guess I was solids. We played alone until two college boys asked to work in. They introduced themselves as Jim and Trent. They both wore chinos and button down shirts with the sleeves rolled up and were fairly interchangeable in the looks department, one with brown hair, the other with blond. They seemed to have divvied Rhonda and me up. The blond, Trent, got me.
Jim broke this time, and Trent disappeared into the bar. While Rhonda was successfully sinking the six ball into a corner pocket, Trent reappeared with another round of drinks and schnapps shots.
I raised an eyebrow at Rhonda. In college, I was quite capable of downing a bottle of peach schnapps followed by three or four beers and still getting up in time for my 7:40 class the next morning. Those days were past. I now looked at shots as something for the young and stupid. I thanked Trent, set my still full shot glass to the side and took a sip of the beer.
As Trent took his turn at the pool ta
ble, I looked around. The bar was filling up. A couple of big groups had come in while we were playing. The band came on stage and started warming up. Rhonda motioned it was my turn to shoot. As I leaned over to line up my shot, I felt someone watching me. I looked up and saw a pair of hazel eyes topped by familiar brows staring at me over the top of a beer mug. I missed my shot and stood up.
While Trent gave me a lecture on the basics of geometry and how it related to pool, I cut my eyes back to where Peter Blake sat, still watching me. He nodded his head, but didn’t smile. I turned my back on him and pretended a fascination with Trent and his lesson.
Jim was on a roll, knocking in one ball after the other. Seemed like a good time to visit the restroom. I picked up my beer and went around the corner, into the room with the bar. The bathrooms were past the bar, down a short hall. One door featured a frog in a cowboy hat and boots. Based on the caption under his picture, I gathered his name was “Tad Poles.” The other door had a picture of the same frog in a blond wig and boots. Her name was “Polly Wogs.” I chose Polly.
The bathroom was a one-seater. I sat my beer on the back of the toilet and did my thing. When I was done, I washed my hands and checked my reflection in the mirror. I reapplied lipstick and dabbed a bit of powder around. Satisfied, I left.
Blake now stood at the end of the bar looking right at me. Tonight, instead of the cop-suit, he was wearing Wrangler jeans and a red cotton shirt with long sleeves. His shirt had a slight Western cut, but it didn’t scream rodeo. A colorful horsehair belt with a large silver buckle was at his waist. Low-heeled cowboy boots were on his feet. As I approached, the disapproving look on his face said he was waiting for me, and that I probably didn’t want to hear what he had to say.
He crossed his arms across his chest. “Hello, Lucy. Having a good time tonight?”
“So far, so good.” I tipped my head up at him.
“So, how’s the writing going? Any good leads?” He unfolded his arms and raised one eyebrow.
I pretended not to notice his attempt at intimidation. “A few. I’m waiting on some callbacks.” I tried to make my way around him back into the room with the pool tables.
He swiveled and barred my way, forcing me into a space against the wall between the bar and a video game. His voice sharpened. “I don’t want you bothering George anymore.”
I’m not sure whether it was Betty’s lecture or the beers I’d downed, but something put me in touch with my temper. My spine straightened and my chin rose. “Last I heard it was still a free country. When did you get dictator rights?”
He stared down at me, not looking even the slightest intimidated or impressed. “I have all the rights I need to get George into plenty of hot water if you keep sweet talking information out of him. If he gets himself suspended, it will be on your head.”
“I haven’t been ‘sweet talking’ anything out of George. I don’t know what you’re referring to.” Now that I was getting in touch with this anger thing, I wasn’t really sure how to rein it in. I looked for an escape route, but all exits were blocked by Blake. Cornered, I set my beer on the bar and put both hands on my hips.
“Oh, and where am I supposed to think you got the information on what was missing from Crandell’s car and that Marie Malone had an eagle feather?”
He had me there. I didn’t want to get George into trouble, but I also didn’t want to admit I’d eavesdropped on conversations between Blake and the Malones, not to mention between Andrew Malone and his wife’s attorney. I was pretty sure Blake would see that as a major no-no.
He took a step closer to me and stood in my space. Anger boiled hotter inside me. He was a good 70 pounds heavier than me, at least eight inches taller, and possibly carrying a gun. The imbalance of power was too much.
Suddenly, with no specific plan or goal in mind, I reached out and slid my hands behind his neck. He stiffened in surprise. I enjoyed about three seconds of knowing I had shocked and shut him up, before my body was pressed back into the wall behind me. He pinned me with a hand on either side of my head and gave my mouth a full out invasion. I started to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.
And, despite all good sense, as the onslaught continued I felt my body relax against his.
He slipped one hand behind my back and pushed his pelvis even closer. I lost track of where we were and encouraged him as he deepened the kiss. Suddenly he pulled his mouth away from mine. Dazed, I stood there as he trailed his tongue from the base of my neck up to my ear.
Rhonda came around the corner carrying her pool cue. “Lucy, it’s your shot.”
Blake breathed in my ear, “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.” He pushed himself away, grabbed his beer off the bar, and strolled past Rhonda.
My mind was paralyzed. I stared blindly at Rhonda as she approached.
“What was going on in here?” She grinned.
Trying to recover and get myself back together, I gave her the closest I could come to a bitchy look, picked up my Bud Light and stalked back to the table with the schnapps. I downed mine and thought about Rhonda’s. Deciding I had done enough stupid things for one night, I left it alone and picked up my pool cue.
I was too busy trying to avoid looking for Blake to concentrate on the rest of the game. Jim and Trent didn’t seem to notice anything was different, but I could tell Rhonda was itching to get me alone. Since I had no reasonable explanation for what had happened, I refused to be drawn into a conversation. When the game was finally over, Rhonda declined a second match, and we went to sit at the table with our drinks.
Rhonda prodded me for information. “So did I see what I thought I saw?”
“I don’t know. What do you mean?” I started to peel the label off my beer.
“You know exactly what I mean. Peter Blake. It looked like he was about to slurp you up.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know exactly what happened.” I looked away and pretended an interest in a couple two-stepping across the dance floor. She wasn’t bad. He needed work.
“Fine, see if I tell you the next time a tall, dark, and handsome pins me to a wall in a lip-lock.”
“It wasn’t a lip-lock, at least not when you were there,” I mumbled.
Rhonda grinned in triumph. “Ha, that’s what I thought. So, you and Blake—this could be interesting.”
“There’s not going to be anything interesting. First of all, he is not my type, and second of all, he was just making some kind of a point.” I started on the other corner of my beer label.
“Oh yeah, I bet he had a point all right, and if you play your cards right, you’ll get to see it real soon.”
Nice. Rhonda could be so classy.
“Want to dance?” I looked up to see my geometry buddy Trent standing next to me.
Sweet, sweet escape. “Sure, I’d love to.” I pushed myself away from the table. Rhonda stared after me with a look of disgust.
They were playing a slow song, and Trent was a little unsteady on his feet, but I was done discussing Blake and needed to get away from Rhonda. Besides, Blake had completely disappeared from view. If, as Rhonda claimed, he had an interest in me, he’d still be here, right? A feeling strangely close to disappointment settled around me.
While I struggled with this disturbing development, Trent swayed to the music and moved his hands from my waist to my butt and back again. After I had removed them for the fifth time, the song finally ended.
When we returned to my table, Trent made no move to leave. He leaned in toward me and asked, “So you want to get out of here?”
I reached up to remove his hand from my shoulder. Rhonda looked at me, but in cases like this, actions speak louder than words. I turned, and left Trent with Rhonda.
When I returned with a Diet Pepsi, Trent was gone. He was now dancing with a bleached blond in a tank top. Rhonda lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “What can I say? Love is fickle.”
Rhonda and I stayed for another hour, enjoying the band. She didn’t mention the scene in t
he bar again, and I concentrated on forgetting it myself. When the band took a break, we decided to call it a night. I walked Rhonda to the door and went to visit Polly’s place again.
My business with “Polly” completed, I pulled my keys out of my purse and went outside. It had begun raining at some point, and the moisture added to the chill in the air. I hunched my shoulders and hurried in the direction of my car. Halfway between the bar and my Cherokee, I sensed someone behind me. I started to sprint and slipped on the wet pavement. Bam. I went down face first.
Fingers grabbed my upper arm and pulled me up. I spun around with my keys sticking between my fingers like a cat’s claws.
“Shit. What is wrong with you?” Blake grabbed the hand holding my keys and held it up above my head. “Are you trying to kill me? What are you, part bobcat?”
“I didn’t know it was you. What am I supposed to do? Let some maniac hunt me down in the parking lot?” I sputtered, spitting gravel and other things I didn’t want to think about out of my mouth.
“All right, I’m sorry I startled you. I just wanted to finish our conversation.” He held his hands up in mock surrender.
I wasn’t buying that. “I think our conversation is very finished.” I tried to look dignified as I wiped some of the mud off my shirt with my equally muddy hands. Giving up, I turned my back on him to walk toward the Cherokee.
Blake followed in silence.
At my car, I tried to slip the key into the lock, but my hands were shaking, and I couldn’t fit the key in place. Blake reached around me and unlocked the car.
Stepping back, he held my door open for me. I slid into the seat and reached for the handle. He leaned into the car and tucked a strand of sodden hair behind my ear. “Remember what I said about George,” he said.
Then he placed one finger under my chin, tilted my head up, and kissed me gently but firmly on the mouth. “And about biting off more than you can chew.” With that, he shut my door and jogged back into the bar.