A Fatal Four-Pack

by P. B. Ryan

  Holy crap. What just happened?

  Chapter 13

  The next morning I woke up, turned off my alarm, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The events from the previous night were still vivid in my mind. I reran the scene in the bar with Blake over and over. It never got better. It never got worse either though.

  That was bad. I had actually enjoyed my confrontation with the arrogant Blake.

  I buried my head under the pillow and considered staying there. How would I face him again? I’d grabbed the man and then just stood there as he laid one on me. Or maybe I’d laid one on him. I didn’t even know which, and it didn’t matter because I sure as hell hadn’t objected.

  Any way I sliced it, it was humiliating.

  And what I’d told Rhonda was true. Blake wasn’t my type. Not at all. He was too tall. Tall men made me feel small, and I didn’t like feeling small. He wore Wranglers. Stupid prejudice, but I was a Levi girl. He was bossy and overbearing—traits I’d spent my years since childhood avoiding. And most importantly, I got the distinct impression he didn’t even like me.

  I was a total loser.

  Kiska, being completely unsympathetic to my plight, walked up to the bed and released a demanding Ooo wow wow wow.

  Then he looked at me expectantly.

  I knew him well enough to realize my time to myself was over. I gave up my pity party and rolled onto the floor.

  My mouth felt and tasted like I’d been chewing old socks. I let Kiska out the front and went to brush my teeth. My reflection in the mirror did nothing to improve my mood. I had dark circles under my eyes, and my skin was a lovely shade of gray. I looked like I’d been underground for about a day, and I had to face Gary and Angie-the-biking-Barbie after work.

  Another lovely evening of humiliation to look forward to—this time on two wheels.

  After going through the normal morning rituals, I packed my gym bag, gave Kiska a quick kiss, and trudged to the garage. It took another 15 minutes to get my mountain bike loaded into the back of the Cherokee. I’d bought a carrier a year earlier but never even opened the box. I had no idea how to install the thing. So I just wrestled my bike in through the tailgate. Already exhausted, I got behind the wheel and pulled out.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was at the shop. The sound of clarinets and saxophones blaring an unfamiliar tune greeted me at the door. Betty twisted her way past a display of Victorian hair wreaths. At the cow horn chair, she stopped, did her knee knocking bit, and shimmied on. Today she wore another drop waist dress, this one lime green. In the middle of her forehead a six-inch matching feather was held by a black velvet ribbon—like a psychedelic Indian headdress worn backwards.

  “Yowza, it’s about time you rolled in here. It’s after nine o’clock.” She turned the music down a notch. “I’ve got the perfect dress for you. You’ll be the cat’s meow.”

  Feeling more like the cat’s hairball, I replied, “I don’t know about dressing up tomorrow. It just isn’t me.”

  “Sure it is. You need to cut loose a little.”

  After the previous night, I didn’t think I could survive cutting any looser. “I’m not promising anything.”

  “Who cracked your reed?” She adjusted her feather. “The dress’s in your office. I brought one for Rhonda too.”

  “Rhonda too? How many dresses do you have? We aren’t exactly all the same size.”

  “Honey, I’m the Martin Luther King of closets.”

  Against my better judgment, I raised my brows in question.

  “I have ‘wear ‘em today’ dresses, ‘in just 10 pounds’ dresses, and ‘I’ve got a dream’ dresses.” She grinned.

  I couldn’t help myself, I smiled. But I turned my back quickly so she wouldn’t know. It isn’t often I get the luxury of sinking into a grand funk. Why give it up that easily?

  She called after me. “Rhonda said to have you call her, something about lunch.”

  I figured I knew why Rhonda was interested in lunch. She’d probably been up all night planning her attack to get me to give up the details of my run-in with Blake.

  I wallowed in my foul mood for a bit before picking up the phone. While I waited for Rhonda to answer, I peeked in the travel bag lying on my desk. Inside was a dark red flapper dress. It was cut straight across the top. Spaghetti straps held up the bodice, and the entire length of it was draped in red beads. Tucked in the bottom of the bag was a feathered, black hat. I was positioning it on my head when Rhonda answered.

  “Hey, it’s me. Betty said you stopped by.”

  “Yeah, you want to get together for lunch?”

  I pulled the phone cord to its maximum length as I strained to see myself in an ornate walnut mirror that hung outside my office. “I don’t know yet. I need to check in with Marcy and see where we stand with Crandell’s ex-wife. Can I give you a call back later?”

  “Sure, I need to go anyway. Things are busy over here right now, but there’s something I want to talk to you about. Call me.” With that she hung up.

  I returned to the mirror. The hat was no bigger than my hand. I sat it on the top of my head and curled the feathers around one cheek. Not too bad.

  “It looks great.” Betty gushed from the front. “Don’t tell me you’re going to pass up a chance to wear that.”

  Betty was right. The hat looked good, and it would be fun to dress up for just one day. I found myself agreeing and actually feeling good about it—a nice change. “All right, you’ve convinced me. I’ll wear it.”

  Betty beamed and went back to dancing.

  I laid the hat on my desk and slid into my chair. Betty had left the current issue of the News lying next to the phone. On the front page was a photo of the medicine man set in its entirety, taken before it was stolen. The story below it quoted someone from the state history museum who explained the age and function of each piece.

  Apparently, dried animals or their parts were common accessories for a medicine man. This particular dried critter probably represented the weasel totem, most likely the family totem of the original owner.

  Other common items mentioned included dried otters and buffalo penises.

  That would certainly be a conversation starter.

  I couldn’t contain a small smirk. I would have to ask Rhonda about that. My totem knowledge just wasn’t what it could have been.

  A smaller, separate photo of just the weasel ran on the left side of the main story. Under the photo was a brief cut line explaining the weasel was the only item recovered in its entirety.

  My story ran above the fold down one column. The information about the fingerprints on the car and keys led. The official police statement and a rundown of who had been questioned to date and their alibis followed. It also included a quote from Marie Malone. The story seemed fairly innocuous, but I knew Blake would realize I got most of the alibi and fingerprint information from George. There was nothing I could do about that now. George was a big boy. He could handle it. I hoped.

  I folded the paper and shoved it into a grocery bag for recycling. It was a quarter til 10. A little early for Marcy to be in, but I had been lucky before. I dialed the News.

  While the phone rang, I doodled in my notebook. Glancing over my work, I realized I’d drawn cowboy hats and boots. Not going there again. I quickly scratched them out and chewed on the end of my pen instead.

  Marcy answered, and we got down to business.

  “Bonnie Smith, Crandell’s ex, called this morning.” I could hear Marcy opening the drawer of her desk. “She said Crandell has a cousin in Bozeman. He works at the university there.”

  I was getting a funny feeling when she continued, “Here’s the name. Silas Roberts. He lives in Bozeman and teaches economics. I don’t think he and Crandell were close. It sounded like they probably hadn’t seen each other in 10 years, but the family has been talking to him since Crandell’s death. This Roberts is taking care of getting the body sent back to Colorado and picking up the personal effects.”

 
Silas? Rhonda’s Silas? I sat for a moment, my mind spinning. With a name like ‘Silas’ it had to be the same guy. And he was related to Crandell? Why hadn’t Rhonda told me? My thoughts skipped back to Silas’ call to Rhonda on Monday night. He must have told her then, and she’d been sitting on it all this time. Why would she do that? Why didn’t she tell me?

  “Lucy, are you there?”

  “Yeah sorry.”

  Marcy performed one of her put-out sighs. “I asked... do you need Roberts’ number?”

  I wrote down the number even though I was pretty sure Rhonda would be able to direct me to Silas. Feeling numb, I tried to ring off. “Thanks for your help. I’ll check this out and get back to you.”

  “Don’t you want to know what else his ex had to say?”

  I pulled the phone back close to my ear. “There was more?”

  Marcy settled into her story. I could almost feel her preening over her success. “Yes, about Crandell and money. She said he never had an excess. He made a decent living but not enough to splurge on something like a plane ticket to Helena. She was surprised he was here for an auction. She said he hung out at gun and relic shows, but wasn’t really a collector. I guess he was some kind of hanger-on. He would go to the shows and put on a big act trying to impress people who knew less than he did. She thought it was some kind of ego boost for him, even though a lot of the real collectors poked fun at him behind his back.” She paused as if waiting for a cookie.

  My jar was empty.

  “Did she even know he was in Helena?” I asked.

  Another sigh, this one disgusted.

  “She knew he was here, but she didn’t know why. She said a couple of months ago he started talking about getting some easy money. He told her about the trip to Helena. It was supposed to be his weekend with their son, and he had to switch it. He told her he was going to come back with a roll of cash. She figured he was just bragging again and didn’t pay much attention.” Marcy stopped again.

  I was sitting straight up in my chair by this point, scribbling as fast as I could. It hurt me to admit it, but this was good information. Information a real reporter might uncover. Grudgingly, I said as much to Marcy. Well, not the real reporter part. I didn’t figure that would score me points, but the good information.

  She seemed to warm to me after that; we even tossed around a couple of ideas on what Crandell’s comment about the roll of cash might have meant. Marcy was of the opinion he was just bragging to impress his ex. Since I had seen his confident bidding on the medicine man set, I thought there was more to it, but didn’t have a clue what.

  Best buds now, we divided up the research for the next article. Marcy would call the police for any new comments, and I was to follow up on the cousin lead. Buds or not, I hung up without telling her about Rhonda’s relationship with Silas.

  I sat at my desk for a minute stewing about Rhonda keeping the information on Silas from me. I let myself get good and steamed. I was tired of worrying about other people. Betty was right. I needed to worry about me. Rhonda was my best friend. What did she mean by not telling me about Silas? Wasn’t I more important than her man of the month? I grabbed my notebook and stomped out the front door.

  I slammed into Spirit Books and plopped down on a low shelf that ran along the windowsill. “Why didn’t you tell me about Silas?”

  Rhonda stopped in the middle of unpacking a paper bag filled with books and gave me a “are you talkin’ to me” look. Rolling her eyes she said, “Hello to you too.”

  Annoyance spurred by righteous indignation and 29 years of suppressed anger urged me on. I slapped my notebook down and said, “Well?”

  I got another eye roll, partnered with a sigh this time. “Honestly, Lucy. What is up with you? I didn’t tell you about Silas for one simple reason—it wasn’t my secret to tell. That is until Silas gave me permission.” She went back to unpacking books.

  I weighed that for a second and decided her explanation didn’t quite make the grade. “Why did you need his permission? Why wouldn’t you just tell me? Especially when I started writing the story.”

  With her head almost hidden inside the bag, Rhonda mumbled a reply.

  “What?”

  She pulled her head out and dropped the bag on the floor. “I just couldn’t, okay? Can’t you just respect that?”

  The answer was no, I couldn’t. I was missing something here. There was something she wasn’t telling me. Suddenly it hit me.

  “You think he did it, don’t you? You think he did it, and you’re protecting him.” I glowed with pride from my realization.

  “No.” She shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. You’ve met Silas.” She picked up a stack of books and promptly dropped them on the floor.

  “Yes, you think exactly that.” I hopped up and stood over her as she scrambled to pick up the paperbacks.

  She sunk back, leaving the pile of fallen books. “Okay, it occurred to me. Are you happy?”

  Strangely enough, I was. Not that she suspected Silas, but that I had pushed her into a confession. I leaned against the front door, practically glowing with my success.

  Rhonda looked up at me. “That night at my house when he called, he told me then Crandell was his cousin. He was upset, not himself at all. I wanted to tell you. You know that. When have I ever kept a secret from you?”

  When had she ever kept a secret, period? Never.

  She continued, “Silas is such a sweetie. He didn’t want anyone to know, and I promised him I wouldn’t tell. It was hard, but I kept my word.”

  She looked so miserable plopped down there surrounded by misguided maidens and warring wastrels, I felt my anger melt.

  “What happened? Why can you tell me now?”

  “The police are involved. Silas contacted them about the body and Crandell’s things. I don’t think Blake liked the coincidence of Silas living in Bozeman and then being here right before Crandell was killed. He told Silas to come in today to answer questions.”

  “Did Silas know Crandell was in town? Did he have a reason to kill him?”

  “He hadn’t seen his cousin in years. Monday, when we were at lunch, he saw him with Bill Russell. I don’t think at first he even recognized him. It had been that long. But, after I returned to the shop, Silas went back to the restaurant and talked to him. According to Silas they didn’t talk long. Crandell had somewhere he needed to be, but he told Silas he’d call him later.”

  I bent down and started restacking the books.

  Rhonda continued, “When Silas got back home, Crandell called. He told him something had changed, and he needed to leave Helena. He wanted to know if he could stay with Silas until his flight left the next day. Silas agreed, but Crandell never showed.”

  She took a deep breath. “Then he called me, and I dropped the bomb on him. I had no idea they were related. I was blathering on about you finding a body and the knife and everything. And it was Silas’ cousin. When he told me, I felt so terrible. I was all gossipy, and it was his cousin. I had to agree not to tell anyone. Don’t you see?”

  I did see. Rhonda thrived on gossip, but she was the most caring person I’d ever met. The realization that one of the few sins she indulged in had hurt someone, especially someone she cared about, must have stung.

  “Then you were worried Silas might have killed Crandell,” I stated.

  “Yeah, it occurred to me, but he couldn’t have. He had no motive. You believe that don’t you? You’ll help him, won’t you?”

  Chapter 14

  Back at Dusty Deals, I deliberated on what to do about Silas. I didn’t know him very well. I had no reason to believe he was innocent and no reason to help him. But Rhonda did. And she had asked for my help.

  I had no choice.

  I’d do what I could for Silas because Rhonda needed me to.

  This decided, I needed to talk to Silas, and would after his meeting with Blake. In the meantime, I could call the police station and try to get an advance kernel out of them, but I knew
Blake wasn’t going to be handing me any information. Plus, as much as I wanted to help Rhonda, I didn’t think I could face Blake yet. I could try George, but, while I hoped he could fend for himself, I did feel a twinge of guilt for getting him in trouble. I’d wait to play that card.

  What to do? The best course of attack seemed to be back at Crandell. I needed more information on him. Marcy said Crandell frequented gun and relic shows in the Denver area. This gave me a direction.

  On the Internet, I found a calendar of gun and relic events that listed contact names and phone numbers. The first name on the list was Ethel Doyle. I got out my notebook and dialed the number.

  A brisk, somewhat gruff, female voice replied.

  I ran through my bio and my reason for calling. I stumbled a bit when I got to the part about Crandell being dead. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that I might be breaking the news to someone who hadn’t known before.

  “Yeah, we heard about that. Has people pretty stirred up. Not that he was a big friend of ours, my husband and I, but we knew him.” She paused. “Is it true someone killed him for some beadwork and a deer hide shirt?” she asked.

  Relieved that she was already in the “know,” I explained what I knew about the medicine man items and asked if she thought the set sounded like a motive for murder.

  “Not to me, but nowadays it doesn’t seem to take much. Plus, a lot of times people think anything old is worth big dollars. The thing is, you can’t just sell relics out of the back of your car down at the Wal-Mart. To get what it’s worth, you have to sell to a collector. Most of the big collectors know each other and what they all have.”

  She paused for a breath. “If any of the more valuable pieces from that set come up for sale, someone’s going to recognize them. So, unless whoever stole it did it just to keep for themselves, I’d say they are going find it hard to get rid of at a decent price.”

  “What about Crandell? Are you surprised he bought the set in the first place?” I tucked the phone under my chin so I could write.