Rhonda took a sip of her tea. “Maybe Red caught the thief and the thief named Ethel.”

  I shook my head. “Why wouldn’t Red name the thief? Even if Ethel was involved too in some way, why only name her?”

  “Blackmail?” Rhonda suggested.

  I waved my hand. We were getting too far out there. “What about Carol’s husband? His snowmobile was stolen too. And Carol and Ethel are best friends.”

  Rhonda’s eyes sparked. “Maybe Carol is in on it too. Maybe the snowmobiles were worth more gone.”

  I slapped my hand onto the table. “Insurance!”

  For a moment we grinned at each other like two antique Jolly Chimp toys.

  When we were done banging our cymbals, I sobered. “But I talked to Molly and Milly’s nephew. He had a snowmobile stolen too and he said the insurance wouldn’t pay.”

  “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t the plan.”

  That was true. Heaven knew most of my plans didn’t work out like I thought they would, and Ethel and her friends being behind the snowmobile thefts fit with the connection I’d found between the crimes and members of her group.

  I pushed the remnants of my coffee away. “What about Red? Are we saying we think Peter is right? Did Ethel kill him?”

  Rhonda shook her head. “I can’t believe that.”

  “Even if he caught her in the act?” I asked. But that brought us back to where we started. Neither of us could see Ethel actually stealing a snowmobile herself.

  “I don’t think she did it,” I declared.

  “Killed him?”

  “Any of it.” Ethel took care of other people. It’s what she did.

  “So?”

  “Someone is setting her up.”

  “You said yourself there’s a connection between the thefts and her friends.”

  “So one of them is a thief. Or someone close to one of them is a thief. Or it’s just a giant coincidence.” I didn’t know, but there was no way Red caught Ethel hot-wiring a snowmobile, then let her go and waited to call the police until the next day. The entire idea held about as much water as a rusty colander.

  “There’s another thing,” I added. “Whoever killed Red let his team loose. Ethel is a dog lover and so are the rest of her group. Plus, Ethel knows huskies. There’s no way she would have let them go or let someone else let them go. She’d have known they would run off, and she would never endanger a dog.”

  Pristine, iron-clad logic that even Peter Blake wouldn’t be able to argue with.

  “So, someone is setting her up.”

  “Yep.” I just had to figure out who.

  o0o

  Before pursuing my theory more, I decided I’d take my new realization to Peter so he could be the hero and do the right thing. Namely, let Ethel go.

  My detective boyfriend, however, was not as impressed with my logic as I’d been. In fact, based on the strained look on his face, he wasn’t impressed at all.

  “Would I let a team of huskies go in below zero weather?” I asked.

  “Would you kill someone?” he replied.

  “No, but neither would Ethel.”

  He raised a brow. “Speaking of Ethel, I was planning on talking to you about your visit this morning.”

  “Really?” I glanced at my wrist, pretending there was a watch strapped to it. “Maybe later. I promised Betty I’d pick up more copies of her poster. There’s been a real run on them.”

  Without waiting for the second brow to arch, I scurried from his office.

  I had not promised Betty I would pick up more posters, and there had not been a run on them. In fact, last I checked they were stacked up behind the counter in my shop, threatening to crush some unsuspecting customer who mistakenly lingered too long at the register. But Peter and I were still fresh off our semi-break-up, and I wasn’t willing to delve into what would surely be dangerous territory.

  Besides, if he wasn’t willing to listen to reason, I’d have to find someone who would.

  George was no more receptive.

  “But George, you know what an animal lover Ethel is. Or if you don’t, call the Humane Society. I’m sure they will vouch for her.”

  He picked a fast food cup off of a stack of papers and set it next to his computer. After a second, he picked it up again and took a large slurp through the straw.

  “And huskies... she knows huskies... she’d know they would run.”

  He set the cup down and flipped on his monitor.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and stared him down.

  He didn’t seem to notice.

  The police, obviously, were content arresting the first person who tripped into their path.

  I put on my best scowl.

  It took five minutes, but finally he bowed to the pressure of my displeasure and looked up.

  “Did you need something?”

  I started to growl, but then I realized I did have other business with the police.

  “Yes,” I declared, showing my self-righteousness by rising to my full five foot three inches of height. “I found something missing from my house.”

  “Oh.” Interest shot through his eyes. He opened his desk drawer and took out a form. “What was it?”

  “Uh...” I screwed one eye shut and tried not to stutter. “I don’t know exactly.”

  Being a friend, George kept his face blank.

  “You see I found this box...” I went on, explaining how I’d found the box and where I’d left it and how the next morning it was both open and empty.

  Watching George, I didn’t notice that another member of the force had joined us. My dear friend Detective Stone leaned against the reception desk.

  “So you stole a box from your neighbor and now want to report that it was stolen from you?”

  I shoved down a growl. “Not the whole box. Just what was inside it.”

  “Which was?”

  I ground out a reply. “I don’t know.”

  “Interesting. Do you have the box?”

  “Not with me.”

  Stone sighed the sigh of the superior. “Well, then, there’s not much I can do with that, is there?”

  I knew plenty he could do with that, but politeness and a desire to not sleep in a cell that night kept me from sharing.

  “I can bring it by tomorrow,” I offered.

  “Do that,” he said. He leaned down and whispered something in George’s ear. George, his gaze still on his form, nodded.

  After Stone had walked away, he looked up. “Okay, thanks, Lucy. Bring us the box when you get a chance. Or if I have someone coming that direction, I’ll have them stop by.”

  I grunted again. My house wasn’t exactly on a high traffic route. I knew when I was being given the brush off.

  Disgruntled and totally disillusioned, I left.

  o0o

  On the way home to let the dogs out for a while, I realized that if something had been taken from the box that I’d gotten from Craig’s, Craig might need to know... Or Craig might be involved.

  I pulled over near the campground to consider the two possibilities.

  Craig had had the box in the trash for pick up. Why would he break into my house to get whatever was in it back? And why break into my house at all? If he found out that I’d taken the box and wanted it, why not just knock on my door and ask? Surely I wasn’t that scary.

  But then... how would Craig have known that I had the box? He didn’t see me take it. Had the men in the garbage truck told him? Or had they broken into my house?

  But if they had... how had they known there was something in the box worth taking? It was left for trash pickup after all.

  As usual, I had information but it all added up to nothing.

  My only option seemed to be to either ask the garbage men, ask Craig, or both. But considering I suspected one of them had trashed my house just last night, neither option seemed like the smartest plan, at least on my own.

  After my conversation with Rhonda, I also realized I needed to know more information about when the snowmobiles were stolen from Craig’s. Ethel had said the night of the fund-raiser, but was it after the fund-raiser? Had Craig gone somewhere after the event, explaining how Red might have seen something and Craig hadn’t?

  Or was our theory that Red’s death was related to the robbery at Craig’s completely off track?

  I needed a buddy and a cover story. Or a buddy who could get to Craig and do the questioning for me.

  o0o

  I approached Betty the next morning at the shop.

  “You want me to do what?” She spun on her stool and flipped her boa over her shoulder.

  “Call Craig and ask him if he has any Model T parts, and while you’re at it, pump him for details on what he did after the fund-raiser.”

  “Why?”

  “Because...” I filled her in on the box, where I’d gotten it and the theories Rhonda and I had about it, Craig’s missing snowmobiles, and Red’s murder.

  “So, you think he broke into your house, and you want me to call him?”

  “I don’t know that he knows I took the box. I want you to feel him out, see if you think he does.”

  “Sounds dicey to me.” She shrugged. “But what the boogie, you only go around the dance floor once.”

  She dialed his number while I stood next to her holding my breath.

  “Craig? This is Betty Broward. You know Everett’s been working on restoring a Model T for longer than bees have had knees, and I heard from...” She creatively inserted the name of the owner of local junk yard. “...that you might have some old automobile parts. Everett’s birthday is coming up and I’m wondering if you might have something you’d be willing to get rid of.”

  I couldn’t hear Craig’s response, but it must not have been too startling. Betty didn’t throw down the phone and scream or anything.

  “Really? That would be great. Tomorrow? Fine. I’ll stop by.”

  She hung up the phone and glared at me. “I hope you know you’re paying for whatever piece of junk I have to buy.”

  I nodded.

  “Plus gas.”

  Another nod.

  “And lunch.”

  I nodded again and then backed away. I could only afford so much.

  o0o

  Friday, while Betty and Rhonda, who’d agreed to go along, met with Craig, Kiska and I set off to learn more about the trash company.

  I’d seen their truck at least once before traveling down my road, but now that I thought about it, none of my immediate neighbors used them, or at least I’d never seen the truck stop for a pick up, except at Craig’s.

  However, if they were making the drive out there at all, I figured they had to be in the market for more business.

  So with that as my cover and with Kiska as back-up, we pulled into a gravel-covered lot next to a Quonset hut.

  There was no sign, but this was the address listed in the online phone directory.

  I got out, Kiska in tow, and wandered around.

  The front door to the hut was locked, so I walked around to the back. At the rear was a garage door, but it was shut and also locked.

  I moved back to the front. As I did, the truck that I’d seen when I left Craig’s pulled into the lot.

  I couldn’t tell if the two men in front were the same ones that I’d seen at Craig’s, but by the looks of things, this operation wasn’t that big. Chances were good that they were.

  Kiska and I waited by the front door as the driver climbed out of the truck. I noticed the back of the truck was not overly full.

  Light day, I guessed, or they were even more in need of clientele than I’d figured.

  Either way it appeared they would have plenty of time to talk to little ol’ me.

  The driver walked toward the building with his head down, checking his phone. He was so engrossed in whatever he was doing, he almost bumped into Kiska.

  “Whoa. What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Since we hadn’t exactly sneaked up on him, and my bright red rig wasn’t exactly invisible parked where it was, I had to wonder if he’d inhaled something a little more mood altering than truck exhaust on his latest run.

  It seemed rude, however, to ask. Instead, I pretended to pull Kiska closer. In actuality, I just pulled a little slack out of the leash. Kiska wasn’t getting up for anything so trivial as my demands or this guy’s attempt to run into him.

  “I wanted pricing on trash pickup,” I responded.

  He lowered his phone. “You do?”

  “Yes.” I gave him my address.

  He shoved his phone into his front pocket. “Not in our area.”

  “But I’ve seen your truck there.”

  He peered at me. “Where’d you say it was?”

  I gave him the address again and added, “Past Moose Creek campground.”

  “Oh, yeah. We do drive out there some, or did. They’re reworking things.”

  “Reworking? So you aren’t picking up there anymore?”

  “Not sure. You’d have to talk to the office and they’re not in today.”

  Not being “in” at 10 a.m. on a Friday seemed like a poor business choice, but this was Montana. I’d seen worse.

  “Is there a number I could call?”

  “Yeah...” He slid his jaw to the side as if struggling to come up with it.

  There had been a number listed online, but the way this was going, I had to wonder if it would work. I waited for whatever power source he used to operate his brain to kick in.

  It took long enough that Kiska got bored and went to sniff the concrete pad that served as a front porch to the hut.

  Finally, the gerbil wheel got rolling.

  The garbage man pulled his phone from his pocket and thumbed his way to a number. I dutifully took my own from my pocket and entered the digits as he read them off.

  “I’m Lucy Mathews,” I said, holding out my hand.

  He stared at my extended arm until I felt awkward enough that I pretended I had an itch and a need to rub my palm on my hip, but I kept my gaze bright and expectant.

  Finally, he uttered, “Larry.”

  No last name, but then I wasn’t getting the feeling I was going to be looking Larry up for a lunch date any time soon.

  He shook his head, returned his phone to his pants and pulled a set of keys out instead. Stepping past Kiska, he unlocked the door.

  He obviously thought our business was done. Unfortunately, I had yet to learn anything of use to me. I decided to be a bit more direct.

  “You pick up for Craig Ryan though, don’t you? I thought I saw this truck there the other day. It’s what gave me the idea to call.”

  His eyes moved side to side. “Could be. I just go where they tell me.”

  I described the placement of Ryan’s house and the little description I could give of where his drive met the road. There wasn’t a lot to describe besides the trash cans and his mail box, which aside from being battered wasn’t all that different from any other mail box.

  “Big green box. Looks like someone backed into it,” I said.

  He paused and looked at me. Then he moved his gaze to my rig. “I do remember you.”

  His tone said what he remembered wasn’t complimentary, but that didn’t mean he’d seen me take the box or broken into my house to retrieve whatever was tucked inside it.

  “You smashed his trash can good,” he added.

  “It was fine,” I defended. Okay, it was dented, but Larry didn’t know that. By the time I drove off it, the garbage truck had been gone.

  “Uh huh.” He looked over his shoulder. “That all? I got calls to make.”

  Considering he’d told me that I’d have to call back to talk with someone from the “office,” I wondered what kind of calls he needed to make. However, it was obvious that as far as he was concerned our conversation was over, and since I couldn’t think of a way to extend it, I nodded.

  The door snapped shut behind him. I stepped off the porch, pulled Kiska away from whatever intriguing scent he’d discovered, and tugged him toward my rig.

  On the way, we passed the trash truck. I stopped. There had been two men in the truck when it pulled up, but only one had walked toward the hut. What had happened to the other one? He wasn’t in the truck now. Not unless he was digging around on the floor of the cab for some reason.

  I glanced over my shoulder toward the hut and then looked around the lot a bit too. There were footprints in the snow leading from the truck to the street. Curious, Kiska and I followed the trail.

  It led down the street, in the direction of a pawn shop, a gas station and a dry cleaners.

  Maybe the truck’s other occupant had had some kind of dry cleaning emergency or a craving for a meat stick that couldn’t be squashed.

  I could certainly sympathize with both, but somehow I didn’t think either was truly the case.

  Kiska bumped against me, telling me he was tired or bored or both.

  I, however, was feeling energized, as if I might finally be getting somewhere.

  Looking around again to make sure the mystery garbage man wasn’t behind a bush spying on us, I led Kiska back to the lot where we stopped so I could assess the truck.

  I wanted to look inside. Very badly. But it was broad daylight, and for the life of me I couldn’t think of a cover story to explain a need for climbing into a trash truck. At least not one that any sensible human would believe.

  Still... I looked around. Maybe if I was quick.

  Pulling on Kiska’s lead, I walked past the truck as closely as I could without actually touching it. My height worked against me. I was too short to see anything more than the tops of the seats, which were gray and dirty.

  I kept moving until we were at the back. The bed held exactly what you would expect a trash truck to hold. Trash.

  Except... That was odd. There were the old wire guts of a bed frame and an old fiberglass shower enclosure, just like I’d seen in the truck when it stopped by Craig’s.

  Craig’s had been days ago. Why would the bed and shower still be in the truck?

  Standing at the tailgate, I could see more... something metal shoved into the bed. I was excited for a minute and then I realized it was just a ramp, probably for loading large objects like bathtubs and appliances.

  Disappointed and worried that one of the garbage men might decide it was time to make a run somewhere, I led Kiska back to my rig.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21