Loose Screw (Dusty Deals Mystery) Read Free Page B

let Kiska out and went to shower. Forty minutes later, I was dressed in my standard unimaginative work garb: jeans, a long-sleeved tee, and hiking boots. I grabbed Kiska’s leash and struck out for the car.
    One of my favorite things about owning an antique shop in Montana was taking Kiska to work.
    I loaded all 110 pounds of him into the Cherokee, an adventure in itself. At some point in his puppyhood, Kiska decided malamutes do not jump. No matter how short or tall the vehicle, he stood with just his front-end inside, looking over his shoulder, waiting for me to pick up his rear end and help him in. Strange as this was, Kiska had brought me around to his way of thinking. I heaved his furry hindquarters in through the passenger door, hopped in behind the wheel, and we left for the shop.
    I parked in the alley behind Dusty Deals and waited while Kiska made his mark on the Dumpster. Inside, he settled into my cubby-sized office, and I went back out to carry in my purchases from the auction.
    I had just started sorting the books by topic and age when my front bell rang. The man in buckskin stepped through the door. He glanced around the shop, giving me a chance to hide my surprise and study him a bit.
    Today he wore some kind of rough, probably homespun, cloth shirt and a new set of buckskin trousers. He had his leather pouch strapped across his chest, and his knife dangled from his waist. My lips twisted at bit when I saw the knife. I preferred my customers unarmed. Not that I would say that to him.  
    “The gal next door said you had books on local history.” He made a move like he was hitching a ride, his thumb pointed toward Spirit Books.
    I wasn’t sure how Rhonda would feel about being called a “gal.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about her being called a “gal.” My lips twisted a bit more.
    He raised a brow, and, afraid I’d alerted him to my thoughts, I smiled.
    It was a free country after all. If he wanted to use the word gal, who was I... the linguistics police? And the knife...? I stopped that line of thinking with a bigger smile.
    His brow rose a little higher.
     Still smiling, I replied, “A few. Was there something specific you were interested in?”
    He angled his neck a little to the side as if he wasn’t 100 percent sure I was right in the head. “The Deere family.”
    One of my favorite topics, and from a potentially paying customer . Gal really wasn’t that bad... and his knife? I grew up with boys who used bigger blades to clean under their nails. The smile was now, I was afraid, permanent.
    “I have one book with quite a bit about the family, but most of it’s about Garrison and his wife Ruby. I don’t think there’s more than a sentence or two on Denton and probably nothing on his collection.” Realizing the smile didn’t fit with my disappointing news, I forced my face into a frown, at least the top half. My lips continued to curve.
    “That’s fine,” he replied, lowering his cheek toward one shoulder and taking a step back.
    Glad I could drop the frown, I unceremoniously plopped down beside the bookshelf in front of my counter and pulled out a blue cloth-covered volume. “This has a lot of local stories in it, and there are two decent chapters on the Deeres.” I peered up at my customer. “I have a book on call girls who crossed over into ‘polite’ society too. Ruby’s mentioned in there.” My smile this time was completely sincere. I loved Ruby Deere’s story.
    He didn’t reply or show any expression, so I continued. “Before she met Garrison, Ruby was a gold camp follower.” The term didn’t seem to register. I added, “a prostitute.”
    His brows formed a V on his forehead. “I thought the Deeres were a big deal.”
    I nodded. “They are. In the late 1800’s, there weren’t a lot of single women around here. I guess Garrison didn’t want to go back east to get a wife. Or, if you’re a romantic, you can believe he just fell in love.”
    The V of his eyebrows