I’d left Kiska at Rhonda’s while we performed our sting on Phyllis. I picked him up and went to find Laura’s dairy store. Turned out it was snuggled in between a car wash and a fast food place that specialized in “healthy” choices. Needless to say, I hadn’t seen the need to visit either in my recent past.
I left Kiska in the Jeep with the windows partially down and went inside.
The place was tiny, with fluorescent lighting that was a little too reminiscent of the vacant jerky store where WIL had held its last meeting. There were also two full displays of bagged jerky sitting to the right as I entered.
I had to guess that cheese was not Laura’s first or only love.
Laura was helping a man in cargo shorts and hiking sandals pick some cheese out of an open–front cooler. Today she was wearing a T–shirt that proclaimed: “I love Jesus, but I drink a little.” I had to wonder if it was targeted at Kristi.
When she saw me, she waved and motioned that it would be a minute.
I maneuvered to a spot beside the jerky and stared out the front window at my dog. He was sitting in the driver’s seat, looking for all the world as if he might at any moment put it into reverse and pull out.
Which, of course, would never happen, because he’d seen where I’d gone.
Cheese was one of his top three favorite things. I didn’t make the list until somewhere way south of that.
The man left, and Laura greeted me with what appeared to be a sincere grin. “Gotta love tourists. He bought one of every Montana cheese that I had.”
Montana had cheese? I’d thought all the cattle here got eaten.
I wasn’t here to discuss Montana agriculture, however. “Yes, you do,” I agreed. I followed her to where a couple of stools sat near the register.
“So, you didn’t get anything on the Cuties,” she said.
“I kind of wanted to ask if you did.”
She tilted her head in question.
“I talked to Phyllis. She told me about your visit with her, Kristi, and Phoebe.”
She blinked and for a minute I thought she was going to play dumb. Then she sighed. “We didn’t find anything. At least nothing worth knowing.”
“Was there a lot of cash there?” I asked, still wondering if robbery could be a motive.
“Cash?” She looked shocked that I would ask. “I didn’t go into the till.”
Seriously? I held her gaze.
She dropped hers. “Okay, Phoebe looked. There was some, and assuming someone had dropped off the day’s earnings at five before the banks close, it was a lot for a coffee kiosk, but it didn’t really prove anything.”
This pretty much matched my own conclusions. Still, I made a mental note to prod George or maybe Daniel for information on what cash was still in the kiosk after Missy’s death.
“What about Missy?”
“What about her?”
The question was obvious. “Was she alive when you left?”
Laura’s outrage was obvious too. “Of course she was. We didn’t kill her. I thought you believed that. I thought you were on our side.”
“So, you went back into the kiosk too? You saw her?”
She made a pained face. “I talked to her outside the kiosk while Phoebe snuck inside. She was fine. She wasn’t even knocked out. Just groggy. Nothing a cup or two of coffee wouldn’t have fixed.”
I could see Laura was losing patience with my questions, but I wasn’t done yet. “So, why drug her at all?”
She sighed, a big annoyed sigh. “I don’t know. Phyllis suggested it. It sounded like a good idea.”
Great. My partner was back in the suspect seat.
“How many pills did you give her?”
“I don’t know. Two, maybe three. She let me into the kiosk because she recognized me from some other times I’d stopped by.”
Like when I’d seen her banging on the truck window.
“She didn’t want me to make a scene, so she let me inside. While she was flipping that light of theirs to yellow, I dropped the pills into her cup.”
“And then what did you do with the bottle?”
“The bottle?” Guilt danced across her face.
I leaned forward, ready to pounce.
“I don’t know. I think I dropped it. Either then or when Phoebe and I went back. It was late and I was keyed up.”
I raised an eyebrow.
She made a face. “I might have bought a coffee when I talked to Missy the first time.”
That hadn’t been why I’d raised my brow, but still...
“Don’t tell Phoebe,” she added.
“So, you talked to Missy. For how long?”
“Fifteen minutes or so. Not long. We were worried—” She snapped her mouth shut.
“What?” I asked.
“We weren’t the only ones watching the kiosk,” she admitted.
“Really?” I didn’t know why she looked so long faced. Another suspect was good news. “Who?”
She sighed. “I don’t know who it was, but someone pulled in with their lights off and waited. They were parked behind the Dumpster. I couldn’t really make out what kind of car it was.”
A lead that didn’t route its way back to me or Phyllis. Finally.
“We left right after that.”
“You didn’t drive by to get a look?”
She widened her eyes. “Actually, we kept our lights off and backed away. We didn’t want whoever it was seeing us. We were just glad he didn’t get out and go to the kiosk while we were there.”
“So, it was a he?”
She scrunched up her face. “Maybe. I guess I just assumed. It was late and I figured whoever it was, was there to give Missy a ride. A boyfriend. It could have been a woman though.”
Which narrowed things down not at all.
o0o
I had a date with Peter that night.
It started fine enough. He brought beer and burgers, and I supplied the grill.
Kiska sat politely next to the sizzling meat, willing it to fly off the grate and into his mouth.
Our conversation was fine enough too, for the first twenty minutes. Then, when we’d used up everything we had to say about the weather, Peter’s son and how Peter had heard strangles, a horse disease of some sort, was going around the county, we fell into silence.
My news of what I’d learned about Phyllis and the WILers and most definitely the extra car at the kiosk the night Missy was killed was bubbling inside me like a volcano cake that was about to blow, and I really wanted to know if he knew too. And I really wanted to know what else he knew.
I glanced at Peter. He gave me his “don’t do it” look.
I weighed my options. If I told him, and he didn’t know what I knew, he wouldn’t be able to sit by and nod and give me sage advice that made me feel better. He’d have to take note, make some calls, haul me in, haul my friends in, and in general make life difficult for all of us. I was including Laura and Phoebe in the friends category, because while I didn’t embrace their crusade, I had come to like them. And if Peter did already know what I knew, he wouldn’t share any new tantalizing details. He’d lecture me about minding my own business, how there was a murderer on the loose, and how I was already more involved than I should be, what with having found the body and everything Phyllis had done.
After a couple more minutes of silence, he sighed. “Do you know anything Detective Klein should know?”
I twisted my lips some more. Did I? My guess was Klein would be very interested in knowing about Missy’s early morning visitors the day she died. My mouth parted.
Peter held up one hand.
“So... I should call Klein?” I asked.
He paused, and his jaw tightened.
I could see the struggle inside him. The police in him wanted to say yes, but the boyfriend in him was afraid of what I would say, afraid it would wind up getting me into more trouble.
That had certainly happened before.
“Or I could call Gregor,” I suggested.
His jaw relaxed, just a little. “As a police officer, I could never advise you against consulting with your attorney.”
“And as a boyfriend?”
He walked toward me, not stopping until the tips of his cowboy boots touched the tips of my sneakers. He reached down, wrapped his hands around my upper arms and pulled me to a stand. “Did anyone confess?”
I shook my head.
“Did you find the murder weapon, or pictures, or any hard evidence that should be turned over?”
I shook my head again. Just hearsay. Sweet beautiful hearsay.
His lips softened and curved into a smile. He leaned down and brushed them against mine. “Then, as your boyfriend, I’d say we need to get these burgers off the grill and get inside...”
I couldn’t have agreed more... except... the pills. I knew Laura had given them to Missy. That was a big thing. Not hard evidence. I hadn’t seen her give them to her and I didn’t have video of it happening or anything. But it was still big.
My conscience struggled with my libido. He kissed me and my toes melted, and all thoughts of Caffeine Cuties started to drift away.
And then, with intense relief, I realized something. Murder weapon. He’d asked if I’d found one. Which meant Missy hadn’t been poisoned, at least not by Phyllis’ pills. She’d been killed some other way and the weapon was still out there somewhere, waiting to be found.
His kiss deepened and he pulled me closer against his form.
Tomorrow. Waiting to be found tomorrow.
o0o
Tomorrow came a lot earlier than I would have liked. Not just because it meant Peter rolled out of bed while owls, raccoons, and other nighttime critters were still rollicking through the forest, but also because it meant I had to make good on the commitment that I’d made to myself the night before. I had to find the weapon that had been used to kill Missy.
Having not clue one what that weapon might even be, I was going to have get creative.
In preparation for that, I told Peter I was going to be busy the next couple of days going through the Deere items for my display and hunting down a few non–Deere things to round things out. At least Darrell had said the rest of the items would be delivered today.
“Darrell’s helping you?” he asked, looking less than trusting.
I sat up in the bed, as primly as a girl could with morning breath and the remnants of a late night snack – corn chips – clinging to her cheek. “Yes.”
“Did you threaten him with something?”
I snorted. “With what? You know my power level.” Minus 30 on a 100 point scale.
He stared at me for a second or two longer, but finally either decided I was on the level or that he couldn’t waste any more time waiting for me to come clean. After a quick peck on the cheek, he pulled on his boots and left.
After waiting to hear his key turn in the lock, I leaned against my pillows, scraped a chip off my cheek and plopped it into my mouth.
Kiska watched with interest. With a grunt, I retrieved the almost empty chip bag from between my mattress and night stand and held it out to him. While he licked it clean, I reviewed my options.
1.) Stomp into the police station and demand to be told, as a tax–paying citizen of this county, how Missy had been killed.
The simplicity of this held a lot of appeal. But even my corn–chip fueled brain knew the reality would be a lot more complicated.
2.) Find Missy’s killer and ask him/her.
The obvious flaw here was that I needed to find the weapon so I could eliminate my friends and myself as her killer. If I knew the killer... well, then I wouldn’t need to find the murder weapon to find the killer...
3.) Suck up to, confuse, trick... rob... some person who was in the know of the needed information.
This, of course, was the answer. But which person in the know?
I made another mental list.
Peter. I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it.
Moving on...
George? Most likely to be in the know, aside from Peter of course, but also most likely to get in hot water for sharing such a tempting tidbit with me.
And George was my friend. I really didn’t want him losing his job for me.
For similar reasons, all other police types were out. Since I’d given up reporting and lost the power of “protecting my source,” my ability to get anything good out of any of them had dissipated. Dating a detective hadn’t helped my cause much either.
Which left those still with the power of a “protected source.”
Two such people came to mind: Daniel and Bev.
I knew both would be more than happy to sit down and chat with me, but which would be most likely to share something with me in return, without me wanting to shove a pencil in my eye?