by P. B. Ryan
Crandell went back to his hotel where he changed into jeans, packed up his things, and made two phone calls. First, he made arrangements with Marie Malone to meet at Cuppa Joe’s at four-thirty. Then he called Silas to see if he could stay the night with him.
Blake continued, “This is when the fat got thrown in the fire. Marie asked her husband to reconsider meeting Crandell’s price. When he found out she’d arranged to see Crandell again at four-thirty, he hit the roof. Apparently, she’s recovering from a breakdown. Malone thought Crandell jerking them back and forth would cause her to relapse. He dressed for their dinner at the Brass Spur and left her at the hotel.
“Malone ran into Crandell in the alley as they were both approaching Cuppa Joe’s. According to Malone, Crandell’s death was an accident. He said Crandell waved the feather in his face, then tucked it into the outside breast pocket of Malone’s blazer. The two argued. Push came to shove, and Crandell wound up with a knife in his chest. Malone says he panicked and left.”
I jumped in. “That’s when he stepped in the horse manure, but how did he make it back to his hotel to get Marie and still get to the Brass Spur by 5:30? There had to have been some blood to clean up.”
“He likes to wear leather driving gloves. Those and his jacket were both stained with blood. He dumped them in a trashcan he saw sitting in front of a house on his way back to the hotel. He didn’t really have to take any extra time to clean up.”
“What did he tell his wife? Did she know he killed Crandell?”
“Not according to Malone. She knew he was meeting with Crandell, but he told her he had entered through the front and Crandell was a no-show. He just said he spilled some coffee on his blazer and stuffed it in the trunk. She didn’t question him, but I think she knew something was wrong, especially after she found the feather.”
“Where did she find the feather? I knew she didn’t get it that morning, because Crandell didn’t have the set yet.”
Blake answered, “She found it stuck between the car seats. Malone thought he’d thrown it out with his blazer and gloves. He didn’t check to make sure it was still in his jacket pocket when he dumped everything. When I found the feather in her suitcase, he assumed she was telling the truth, and Crandell had given it to her earlier that day. He didn’t know Crandell didn’t get the set until after lunch.”
“But she covered his alibi.”
“She’s his wife. It’s not unusual for people to lie to protect their spouse. I probably would have been more surprised if she’d turned him in.”
I was still curious about one thing. “So, did you know all along Malone did it?”
“No, but I knew something wasn’t right with them. Especially after I interviewed Ed and learned Crandell didn’t pick up the medicine man set until around three. Then I knew Marie Malone was lying about the feather. I was hung up on the motive, though. I thought for sure it was the set. When the Malones didn’t have it, I got stuck.”
“So what broke it for you?”
Blake paused. “Darrell. If you and Betty hadn’t bashed him upside the head, I never would have looked in his direction. I never would have found that damn medicine man set in his office, and Darrell never would have come forward as a witness to Crandell’s death. He saw the whole thing.”
Ah the glory, I took a minute to revel in this unexpected praise before jumping back in with questions. “So he actually witnessed the murder?”
“He was watching for Crandell out his office window. He saw Malone and Crandell arguing. When Malone left and it was obvious Crandell wasn’t getting up, Darrell hotfooted it down to the alley to look for the medicine man set. He didn’t find it near the body, so he took Crandell’s car keys and looked for his car. A rental in that little lot was easy to spot. He grabbed the bag with the set, tossed the keys into the drainage grate, and left. He was in such a hurry to get away before people started leaving work at five, he missed the weasel, which had rolled out of the bag.”
“So the fingerprints on the keys and car were Darrell’s?” I asked.
“Yes, and Mr. Deere was not too happy about being printed.”
I felt so sorry to hear Darrell had been inconvenienced. “Obviously he didn’t find any signs of the ruby in the items he had. That must have been when he realized it was in the weasel, but by then it was locked inside the police station. When he saw Silas with me and the weasel at Cuppa Joe’s he must have about split a seam.”
Blake replied, “That is a fair estimation. He broke into your shop to get the weasel before you sold it to someone else, but Kiska and the couple in the street scared him off. By the time you called him about the note, he was getting desperate. He says he came to your office to make an offer on the weasel.”
“Oh, yeah. Most people make offers with a cane poised above my head. Gives a whole new meaning to driving a hard bargain.”
“He claims he just got excited. He said he wasn’t threatening you.”
“Ask Betty. Kiska was holding him off.”
“Not according to his version. He said he was protecting himself from Kiska.”
“Kiska? Be serious. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Darrell was going to pummel me.”
“Kiska is intimidating to non-dog people, Lucy. I don’t doubt Darrell was a little worried.”
I wasn’t about to buy that. As far as Mr. Deere was concerned, my rose-colored glasses were shattered. Blake, however, refused to see Darrell’s less-savory side. We hung up on only a slightly less frosty note than we began the conversation.
The man was impossible. He admitted I helped him by clobbering Darrell, but then he chose to believe the attacker instead of the attackee. And to even insinuate Kiska might have been at fault, well, that was unforgivable. I was better off without him; Blake, that is.
I tromped back to my office and made a few notes. Even though Ted had told me I was too close to be objective, and Blake had made me swear our phone conversation was off the record, I was writing the story. I would convince Ted, and hopefully Blake would relent. Even if I had to stand in line with all the other reporters for the “official statement,” I still had my own first-hand experience to use. That would be enough to write a killer article (pun intended) if I had no other choice.
I made my notes and stared at the wall. I couldn’t get into the shop owner thing after all the excitement. My head was spinning. It was Sunday. Rhonda would be at home.
I left Dusty Deals and drove to her house. She and Nostradamus were enjoying a picnic in their backyard. I filled her in on all the developments since I’d last seen her. She, of course, was mainly interested in Blake and the details of every conversation I’d had with him. Shaking my head, I left her to her picnic and went in search of the jacket I’d left at the Antebellum Friday night.
My buddy Steve was working the front desk. I don’t think he remembered me.
“Did anyone turn in a coat the other night?”
Steve stared at me blankly.
“Can I go look for it?”
He waved me up the stairs.
It took a few minutes to find my jacket stuck between two stacks of folding chairs in the small conference room. I tugged it out and walked to the curved staircase. As I started to descend, I saw Blake standing at the bottom. I let my coat trail behind me as I walked slowly down the steps.
“How’d you know where I was?” I asked when I reached the bottom step.
“I called Rhonda.” He stood quietly watching me.
I took another step down onto the floor less than a foot away from him. He pulled off his cowboy hat as he reached for me. Before his lips met mine, he whispered, “I must have a screw loose.”
Okay, okay it wasn’t the most romantic line I’ve ever heard (well, it probably is in the top five that have actually been directed at me), but it was the best I was going to get. And, when it comes right down to it, I did get my man so… frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
Epilogue
Ted and Blake both relented. I g
ot to write the entire thing—front page on all five major Montana papers. And while Ted did not drop onto bended knee and beg my forgiveness, he did tell me what I’d done wasn’t bad for a “wuss.”
I think he was joking.
I haven’t gone back to work for him full time, but I am continuing to write—and that deer head has lost all its powers over me.
Marcy has taken over special sections for advertising, things like 101 places to spend your tax refund and countdowns to Christmas that start in July. And Ted is still looking for a crime reporter, if anyone is interested.
Rhonda and Silas are still dating. Silas made a down payment on a house with an outbuilding. His worm ranch is close to reality. Rhonda seems happy with him, but I don’t hold out a lot of hope for their relationship. She started taking a yoga class and has talked non-stop about her instructor.
Bill came back from his trip to learn he had almost bought a 12-carat ruby for 50 dollars—definitely the bargain of the century.
Gary is dating Angie. I see them on occasion pumping their way up a mountain. I have not gone back to any beginner rides.
Darrell is not in jail. He paid me the 200 dollars for my door and now avoids me like the plague. His siblings found out about the ruby, and they, along with Crandell’s family, are involved in a bitter court battle. Bill, who could argue he had a verbal contract to buy the weasel, has kept out of it. As it is, no one will probably see profit from the ruby for generations. I did a little research on the Internet and learned that Burmese rubies have sold for over 225,000 dollars a carat, making the Deere ruby possibly worth $3 million.
Blake is still cocky and a royal pain in my side. We haven’t gone on an “official” date yet, but we do bump into each other with growing frequency. Yesterday, I bought a new, unused toothbrush to keep in my purse, just in case.
-o0o-
Cut Loose, book two in the Dusty Deals Mystery Series is available now!
No one’s perfect.
At least that’s what Lucy Mathews tells herself. Except faced with her boyfriend’s rodeo queen ex-wife and perfectly trained Australian shepherd, she has to wonder if maybe this whole ‘no one’s perfect’ thing was made up by someone like…Lucy.
Lucky for Lucy though, things are hopping around Helena. It’s rodeo season, and she has a booth. It’s a great opportunity to expand her clientele and maybe even snag a cash prize for Kiska as the world’s first sheep herding malamute.
Except Kiska can’t herd, Lucy loses her wallet, and oh yeah…there’s that dead rodeo queen Lucy just stumbled over.
Good thing her boyfriend’s a detective. Except that’s not going so well either. A new detective is in town, and he’s convinced Lucy’s involved in the rodeo queen’s murder. Her boyfriend is no help at all and worse he’s spending a little too much time with his ex-wife.
Lucy finds herself out of money, out of love, and maybe this time, out of luck.
Visit Rae’s website for links to buy Cut Loose.
About The Author
Like Lucy, Rae Davies loves antiques. This book is dedicated to her own Alaskan malamute who, like Lucy’s Kiska, was full of life and love.
Contact Rae
Website: http://www.RaeDavies.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/RaeDaviesAuthor
Email: [email protected]
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/raedaviesauthor/
For romance and urban fantasy novels, visit Rae’s other persona, Lori Devoti.
Website: http://www.LoriDevoti.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LoriDevotiAuthor
Email: [email protected]
Still Life With Murder
Book #1 in P.B. Ryan’s historical mystery series featuring governess Nell Sweeney
Nominated for the Mary Higgins Clark Award
Patricia Ryan writing as P. B. Ryan
A guiltie conscience is a worme that bites and neuer ceaseth.
Nicholas Ling, Politeuphuia, 1597
September 1864
Cape Cod, Massachusetts
“It’s going to be a bad one.” Dr. Greaves said it so quietly that Nell, sitting across from him in the Hewitts’ glossy black brougham, almost didn’t hear him.
Nell squeaked an end of her paisley shawl across the foggy side window. Trees writhed against a purpling sky as they rumbled past; raindrops spattered the glass. “The storm, do you mean? Or...” She eyed the flat mahogany surgical kit on the seat next to him, the cracked leather doctor’s satchel by his feet.
“The delivery,” he said. “And the storm. Both.” Lightning fluttered across his face, making him look, for one jolting moment, strangely old. She’d never thought of him that way, despite being half his age. Cyril Greaves remained lean in his middle years, and was taking his time in turning gray. And then there were those benevolent eyes, that ready smile.
He wasn’t smiling this evening.
“There must be something terribly amiss for them to have sent that fellow to East Falmouth for me.” Dr. Greaves cocked his head toward the brougham’s front window, through which the Hewitts’ coachman, who’d introduced himself as Brady, was just visible as a smear of black hunched over the reins. “Families like the Hewitts don’t bother with physicians for mere chambermaids. Not for routine births, anyway. It’s only when disaster strikes that they fetch one, and by then it’s usually too late.”
All too true. How Nell dreaded the difficult calls—especially when something went wrong with a birth.
Crossing his arms, Dr. Greaves stared out at the passing countryside as it grew yet murkier and more turbulent. A white-hot rivulet crackled down from the heavens; thunder rattled the carriage. Nell turned to gaze out the other side window, thinking she might draw this landscape tomorrow if she wasn’t too tired after her chores. No, she’d paint it, on a sheet of Dr. Greaves’s best writing paper, in ink—great, bruising stains of it, black for the trees and a near-black wash for the sky.
Brady halted his team at a massive iron gate, which was hauled open for them by two men in Macintoshes. Snapping the reins, he drove the brougham past a shingle-sided gatehouse and up a long, undulating roadway. Nell had all but decided this couldn’t possibly be the Hewitts’ estate; there was just too much of it. But then a pulse of lightning illuminated a building in the distance—a huge, sprawling edifice adorned with turrets and a hodgepodge of steep gambrel roofs.
Her breath came out in an astonished little gust.
Dr. Greaves smiled at last; she often made him smile, but rarely when she meant to. “They call this place Falconwood. The Hewitts spend about six weeks here every summer, usually mid-July to the end of August. I wonder why they’re still here.”
“Six weeks? This...castle is for one family to live in for six weeks?”
“The Hewitts call it a cottage,” he said, “but it’s got over twenty rooms. Those in back look out on Waquoit Bay. The boathouse is larger than most people’s homes.”
Nell stared at the mansion as they neared it, at the scores of warmly lit windows, picturing the two-room hovel she’d shared with her entire family for the first eleven years of her life.
Her expression must have reflected her thoughts. “Nell,” Dr. Greaves said softly. “You, of all people, should know that life isn’t fair. And yet, somehow, you always manage to muscle through. Most people follow the path wherever it leads them. Others hack their own way through the brush and always seem to end up on higher ground. You’re of the second sort.”
The clattering of horses’ hooves drew her attention back to the house, which they were circling on a paved path. Like the gatehouse, it was sided in shingles that had weathered to a silvery gray.
“The Hewitts have been summering on the Cape for about twenty years,” said Dr. Greaves as he gathered up his satchel and surgical kit. “Not the most fashionable vacation spot, but I understand they like the solitude. Their main house is in Boston, on a Brahmin enclave they call Colonnade Row—that’s a section of Tremont Stre
et built up with mansions that make Falconwood look like a gardener’s shed.”
“Brahmin?”
“The first families of Boston—the venerable old bluebloods.” Dr. Greaves answered even the most uninformed query without smirking or seeming surprised at one’s ignorance. Nell had learned a lifetime’s worth in her four years with him. “They tend to worship at the altar of high culture, and August Hewitt is no exception, though he’s unusually sanctimonious for that breed. The wife’s English, I think—Violet. No, Viola. There are some sons. The local girls would swoon for days whenever one of them showed up in town. They haven’t been round the past few summers—except for the youngest. I see him at church every Sunday, along with his father. Perhaps the rest are off fighting Johnny Reb.”
The carriage shuddered to a stop on a flagstone court behind the house, near an attached leaded-glass greenhouse with a domed roof. Passing the reins to a waiting groom, Brady unfurled the biggest black umbrella Nell had ever seen, opened the brougham’s door and handed her down. “I’d best be takin’ you folks in through the greenhouse,” he said in a wheezy Irish brogue, raising his voice to be heard over the drumming rain. “The drive’s flooded out up ahead. Watch that puddle, miss.”
Taking a lantern from the brougham, the coachman gestured them toward an imposing arched entryway. Nell followed him through the unlit greenhouse, which she’d expected to be filled with plants, but which instead housed...
Paintings? She gawked as she wove through a forest of canvases propped on easels, each executed in loose, vibrant brush strokes. Some were seascapes featuring picturesque Waquoit Bay, and there were one or two still lifes, but most were of people—not posing formally, but lounging in opulent surroundings, exquisitely attired; jewels glinted, silks shimmered. They materialized out of the darkness, these sublime apparitions, only to dissolve back into it as the coachman’s lantern swung past. The lamplight shifted and swayed just enough to make it seem as if they were inclining their heads ever so slightly toward Nell, eyes alight, mildly curious, before looking away.