by P. B. Ryan
In the tent, rows of folding chairs were lined up before a makeshift stage. Darrell Deere stood in front of a microphone with his top hat and cane. He had added to his look since I had seen him this morning. Now, he wore a single-breasted suit with wide shoulders, wide lapels, and three buttons. A white handkerchief poked out of his breast pocket. He looked classy and authentic, like he had just stepped out of the Great Gatsby.
“Everyone, may I have your attention?” Darrell addressed the gathering crowd.
I looked for Gary. He was standing a little off stage, camera posed to take a picture of Darrell.
“There’s Gary, but it looks like he’s working. You want to get a beer before we go over?” I pointed toward the parking garage.
Rhonda took a pass on the beer, but went with me to the garage anyway. While I stood in the beer line, she bought dinner—bratwurst for me, steak fries and grilled onions for Rhonda.
“You want to eat in here?” she asked, after I paid for my Miller Lite. Just a step above drinking pond water in my opinion, but the only option offered, and after standing in line, I wasn’t going to walk away empty handed.
The cement walls were at best uninviting. “Let’s see if we can get a space in the tent. I think I saw a couple of tables.”
We managed to maneuver into a spot in the back. After a few sips of the Miller Lite, I changed my earlier opinion. A nice cold glass of pond water would be preferable, but the bratwurst was good, if not up to Midwest standards. There were a few things you had to give up for the joys of living in Montana. A really good brat was one of them. Bud Light on tap everywhere was another.
Applause broke out as Darrell announced the first group and stepped away from the microphone. Gary took a few shots of the band and turned toward the crowd. After snapping the eager few who immediately filled the small dance area, he put his camera into its bag and headed our way.
I crumpled up the wax paper from my bratwurst and tossed it into a giant trashcan. “You have to work tonight?”
“No, I just promised Ted I’d get a few shots of the opening ceremony before I quit for the day. I’m going to run up and download these. I’ll be back in a half hour or so. Will you wait for me?”
“We wouldn’t dream of leaving you all by your lonesome.” I gave Rhonda a sideways glance. “Plus, we’re still waiting for Rhonda’s man.”
“Oh yeah, the guy from Bozeman. The one related to the dead guy?” Gary looked at Rhonda.
Rhonda answered, “He should be here any time now. How about everybody else? I thought there was going to be a group from the paper.”
“There should be, but we may not see them till later, maybe not until we get to the Antebellum.” We had made plans to meet Betty at the hotel around seven.
Gary slung his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll be back. Don’t leave without me.”
Rhonda and I kicked back and enjoyed the band, a Dixieland group from Washington State. The New Orleans style music rolled over us. The songs had names like “Gimme a Pig Foot” and “Muskrat Ramble.” Silas showed up in the middle of “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” Gary didn’t make it back until they had finished “Wild Women Don’t Worry” and were setting their instruments aside for a break.
“You want to head to the Antebellum? I’m sure Betty’s already there,” I asked everyone in general.
After much discussion, we opted to ride in one car. Silas was parked closest, so we squished into his Honda Civic. Rhonda rode shotgun, leaving Gary and me to struggle into the back seat. Quarters were close, but not exactly cozy. Rhonda shot me knowing looks from the front. I hated to disappoint her, but I found it hard to flirt surrounded by what I recognized as worm food.
“Is that a box of coffee grounds?” Gary whispered
“Don’t ask,” I advised.
At the Antebellum, I managed to push myself out of the back seat with complete grace and decorum.
“Lucy, you might want to fix your skirt.” Rhonda tugged on my beads.
“Oh crap.” I pulled my skirt down from where it had lodged around my waist. Gary and Silas tactfully kept walking in the direction of the hotel.
Jazz festival events were going on in two conference rooms on the main floor and one upstairs. We checked a sign near the front door to see where Everett’s band was playing.
“Looks like Everett’s group is down here.” Rhonda pointed down the hall to our left.
People clogged the hallway, crowding around booths where merchants were selling jazz festival memorabilia and clothing.
“Almost makes you wish smoking wasn’t such a disgusting habit doesn’t it?” I posed with a black stiletto cigarette holder.
“Not to mention cancer causing,” Rhonda added. She held a black, beaded headband up in front of her forehead.
We primped and played—trying on hats, boas and jewelry. Silas stood next to the wall. He watched the jazz revelers with wide eyes. Gary had disappeared.
“Hey, when you’re done, I found everyone.” Gary appeared in front of me. He flicked a feather from the purple boa I modeled away from my face.
Rhonda motioned to Silas, and we followed Gary into the biggest conference room. This venue was a step or two above the tent downtown. Inside the room were fifty or so round tables that each seated eight people. White linen cloths covered the tables and a mobile, wooden dance floor sat next to the stage. There was a stand in the back where they were selling beer and wine, but many people had mixed drinks purchased from the hotel bar.
Betty walked up with an oversized martini glass in her hand. “It’s about time you showed up. We’ve been saving room for you at our table, but people are starting to get testy about it. Come on.” She motioned us toward the stage.
Everett’s group, the Ragtime Revelers, warmed up. The male band members all wore red and white striped jackets. The female vocalist wore a long, fitted red dress with a dramatic side slit. She sang with her mouth close to the microphone and her toe pointed, revealing a long, if slightly chubby, leg.
While Gary made a bar run, the rest of us claimed our chairs. Two News employees were already seated at our table: Dean, a copy editor and Cheryl, an artist. A few others from the newsroom sat at a table close by.
Betty and Cheryl exchanged war stories, and in general, roasted, toasted, and skewered the publisher and most of the advertising staff. Rhonda made polite conversation with Dean that was, to put it bluntly, too boring to follow, much less remember. Silas sat. I twisted in my seat, anxious for Gary to return so I could redeem myself for my lack of initiative earlier in the space-cramped Honda.
In preparation, I pulled my new compact and rockin’ red lipstick out of my purse. This broke another of my mother’s cardinal rules—do not apply make-up, even lipstick, at the table. This rule ranked somewhere between “never wear white shoes before Memorial Day or after Labor Day” and “never, ever ask a woman if she is pregnant, ever.” In my desperation to look my sultry best, I persuaded myself that I was not really breaking said rule because 1.) there was no food on the table, and 2.) the need to look my best over-ruled any and all lower rules.
Gary returned with a tray of drinks and Angie.
“Look who I ran into.” Gary set down the tray and pulled out a chair for Angie.
We welcomed Angie with varying levels of enthusiasm. I took my long neck bottle of Bud Light and decided my next drink would have to be something stronger, maybe a rum and coke—or a tequila shot.
The band was now in full swing. Betty dragged Dean onto the floor. Gary, Angie, and Lynn went to watch. I took a drink of my beer and considered following.
Rhonda gave me a swift poke in the side with her elbow.
The rodeo queen we had seen with Peter Blake entered the room, dressed in a silver, faux-fur coat that fit her like a cocoon. Under the coat, she wore a sky blue flapper dress in the same gauzy material as Betty’s. It clung to her in all the strategic places. I was less than happy to notice that she had, as my gangster friends would say, a great set
of gams.
Another elbow in my side turned my attention back to the door. Peter Blake wore his usual cowboy chic. Jeans, cowboy boots, and hat were probably as authentic as anything else for 1920s Montana. He walked over to the small bar in the back and ordered, the rodeo queen right behind him.
They left the bar and joined a group standing near the door. Blake stood a little away from the others. His eyes scanned the room.
“Go talk to him,” Rhonda urged me.
“I don’t think so,” I replied. Suddenly, I had a renewed interest in finding Gary and Angie. I spent the next two hours by the dance floor swaying to the music, drinking rum and cokes, and cheering on those braver than me who were willing to make complete fools of themselves doing dances like the Grizzly Bear, the Chicken Scratch, and the Squirrel.
“Lucy, you have to dance to something,” Betty yelled as she hopped by. “Gary, Angie, make her join in.”
The Duck Waddle turned out to be my dance. Maybe it was the rum and cokes, but I thought I showed real talent.
A little before 10, Everett’s group played their last number. Our table, minus Betty who waited for Everett, moved upstairs where a new band was ready to start.
This room was smaller with no tables, just folding chairs. I picked a seat and stashed my purse and jacket under it. Gary and Angie made another drink run. I knew I should care that they seemed joined at the hip, but the combination of three rum and cokes and the bluesy music really depleted my man-hunting energies.
Rhonda was fed up with my lack of initiative. She’d given me another nudge downstairs as we walked out of the last conference room within three feet of Blake. When Gary left for the bar with Angie, Rhonda threw a dramatic sigh my direction. “What are you doing? Or should I say not doing? Are you going to let Gary get away too?”
I hadn’t realized I had Gary hooked to start with, and who said I was letting him get away? And what was this too business? If she meant Blake, I didn’t see it so much as letting him get away as throwing him back.
I opened my mouth to defend myself just as one of the fish in question touched my arm.
“Lucy, I need to talk to you for a minute.” Peter Blake looked at me intently.
I could see Rhonda grinning behind his back.
I followed Blake into the hall. “What’s up?”
“Who knew you were coming here tonight?”
Okay, not what I’d expected. “I don’t know. What’s it matter? Is there some law about letting people know where I’m going?”
Blake put his hands on his hips and looked at me like I was an obstinate four-year-old who refused to pick up her toys. “Your shop was broken into tonight. I just got a call.” He touched the cell phone attached to his belt.
“Broken into. Where’s Kiska? Is he okay?” I grabbed the front of Blake’s shirt with both fists.
He calmly put his hands on my wrists and pulled my fingers away. “They didn’t mention your dog. I’m sure if he’d been hurt, they would have said something.”
“But is he still there?” My voice cracked. “They didn’t mention him at all? I have to get down there.”
Blake still held both of my hands in his. “Calm down, Lucy. I’ll take you. I don’t think you should be driving anyway.”
Gary and Angie appeared at the top of the stairs. “Lucy, is there a problem?” Gary asked.
I stood there mutely as Blake explained what had happened.
“I’ll go with you,” Gary replied.
“No, I’ll take Lucy. The last thing we need is a photographer getting in the way,” Blake gave Gary the same look I had seen him use on Malone earlier in the week.
Gary started to argue, but I intervened. “It’s okay. You stay here. I’ll be fine. I just want to get to the shop and see Kiska.”
I left Gary, Angie, and Blake in the hall while I went to explain to Rhonda what had happened and to get my things. I found my purse, but my coat had gotten lost in the mess of people. I left without it.
Chapter 21
I made it into Blake’s huge 4x4 in pretty much the same way I had exited the Honda earlier—with my skirt yanked up four inches higher than propriety allowed. I was too worried about Kiska to care though, and if Blake noticed, he didn’t make any comments.
The alley behind Dusty Deals was again crawling with police. An officer in uniform stopped us before we could enter. “Looks like an amateur job.” The officer pointed to my backdoor where marks from some kind of prying tool were obvious.
I interrupted him. “Is my dog here?”
“The husky? Yeah, he’s here. I think they shut him in your office.”
I didn’t take the time to explain that Kiska was a malamute or the differences between malamutes and huskies—which are numerous. I pushed past him and ran to my office. Blake grabbed my arm before I could open the door.
“Lucy, you can’t just run in here. This is a crime scene. You might destroy evidence.”
I gave him a look that didn’t leave room for argument.
“Okay, I know you’re worried. At least let me open the door.” He pulled a pair of gloves out of nowhere and put them on. Standing to one side of the door, so I could dash in, he opened it.
Kiska greeted me with a grin and wagging tail. He’d had some excitement tonight and was none the worse for it. He had the same look he had when the Jehovah’s Witnesses scaled our fence. Kiska had looked them over a few times and given them an experimental growl. To his delight, they ran. Filled with pride, he had pranced around for hours.
I dropped to both knees and buried my face in the ruff of hair around his neck. Kiska was too busy trying to see around me to return my affection.
“He looks fine to me,” Blake stated, his arms crossed over his chest.
I stood up. “I don’t know what I would have done if he had been missing or…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence.
“Does he always shed like that?” Blake pointed to my beaded dress, which now looked more like mohair.
“Only twice a year.” I tried unsuccessfully to brush the white fuzz off my front.
“You aren’t going to get it like that.” Blake stepped around me and pulled a long strip of tape off the roll setting on my desk. He wrapped it around his palm and began patting my dress. In less than three pats, it was too full of fur to be of much use, but the action took my attention away from my immediate situation. Or maybe it turned my attention to a more immediate situation.
“Ahem.” The uniformed police officer had returned. Blake shoved the furry tape into my hand and stepped out into the shop to talk with him. I sat at my desk and stared into space.
Who broke into my shop? Blake asked who knew I was going to the jazz festival. Did he suspect someone in particular? Surely, the most likely scenario was just some kid looking for cash, not anyone I knew.
Blake stuck his head back in my office. “Lucy, can you walk around and tell us if anything is out of place?”
I spent the next half hour walking around looking for anything missing. Nothing was. The shop looked a little messier than when I had left, but I didn’t notice anything broken or gone.
Another officer explained what had happened. “About nine o’clock, a couple was walking down the Gulch. They were on their way to their car after leaving the Rose. Anyway, the woman noticed a light bouncing around inside your shop. They stopped to look at it. As they were discussing what they should do, they heard a racket inside, like someone tripping over something. They tried the front door, but it was locked. By the time they got back to the Rose, called us, and we got here, the burglar was gone. We think whoever it was found your dog in the office and got scared. He, or she, must have tripped over something and knocked those books onto that silver set.” He pointed to the stack of books I had given Betty earlier. She had set them on a table outside my office door for me to store until they sold online. Now they were scattered on the floor along with a silver Victorian tea set. “That was probably the noise they heard. What I
don’t understand is why they didn’t hear your dog.” He looked at me.
I just shrugged. Kiska was not a watchdog, what could I say? A growl here or there in good fun, okay, but bark? Bite? Too much effort.
Since nothing was taken, the police didn’t stay much longer. Blake waited until I was ready to lock up. “I’ll come back and nail up your door.” He pushed the door shut and used my horse anchor to keep it closed.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask me. I told you.”
I was too tired to fight. I nodded my thanks and picked up Kiska’s rear end to help him into the Cherokee. Blake watched with one eyebrow lifted.
“You have an interesting way of doing things.” He pushed the Cherokee’s door shut and leaned in the open window. “Drive safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Peter.” I paused for a moment. It felt strange using his first name. “You asked who knew I would be at the jazz festival. Do you think someone I know did this?”
“We don’t get many break-ins, and you did just find a dead body out here.” He motioned toward the Dumpster. “Let’s just say I’m considering all options.”
“But it’s an antique shop. Don’t you think some kid probably just broke in looking for cash, or jewelry, or something?”
“Could be, but he didn’t take much then, did he?”
Chapter 22
Kiska and I woke up early the next morning. I’m not sure I was ever asleep. I spent most of the night listening to him grunt and grumble. Guess he was having some interesting dreams. Once, when he was quiet, I got up to make sure he was still there and breathing. You never knew, the burglar could have slipped him something. My foot didn’t even hit the floor before he was awake and staring at me. Feeling silly, I pretended to need a potty break, but an hour or so later, I gave up all pretenses and rolled out of bed.
I had mixed feelings about going into Dusty Deals. I wanted to see everything in the daylight, see if I’d missed anything last night, but Blake’s final comments haunted me. Someone I knew might have broken into my shop. Why and who could it be? Who knew I was going to the jazz festival?