Fine. Message received.
It still took Jack another couple beats to start talking.
“Ernie got oil fever. Told Dorrie he was closing the place because he was about to make his fortune in oil and no reason for a millionaire to work as hard as he did. She said he was loco. A few other things, too. He said things back. Pretty soon he signed somethin’ that gave her fifty-one percent if she kept this place running, but with something in there about he could buy back to even.”
“He was back with his tail between his legs soon enough. Course Dorrie’d worked like crazy all that time with all the business during the boom. Nobody wanted to work ordinary jobs because they were all going to make their fortune in oil — trying to find a hand worth a nickel during those crazy days…” He shook his head.
“Ernie comes back, but with no money to make it even. She reminded him ’bout every day, along with all she’d done to hold onto the place. Until one day, about five years after, he went pure haywire and starting pulling down every last one of the pictures on that wall and slamming them into a pile. Dorrie comes tearing in from the back screaming at him. Makes him pick up those pictures and take them off to be fixed and framed.” A slow grin pulled one side of his mouth. “Somehow the photos from those couple years got lost and never did make it back on the wall.
“The two of ’em never have spoken on it since to my knowing.”
Chapter Fourteen
After Jack left our table, I said we should try to talk to Ernie and Dorrie.
Both were very busy — Ernie in plain sight behind the bar as he supplemented the bartender and handled payments, Dorrie identified by a voice in the kitchen from glimpses when the door swung wider than usual.
Solely to stretch our time in hopes they’d become free, we all ordered dessert except Diana, who showed a lamentable tendency to not view our sacrifice in its true light.
In the end, though, we admitted defeat. Neither Dorrie nor Ernie would have free time to chat any time soon.
“Still, this visit to O’Hara Hill gave us plenty to think about,” I said when we were all buckled up in Diana’s truck.
“Yeah,” Jennifer said, “like who Scott is and why everyone talks about him getting free.”
“It’s scot with one t, like a person from Scotland. But without a capital S. It has to do with an old word for taxes. It comes from getting away without paying a tax.”
“How do you know all this stuff without Googling, Elizabeth?”
“Let’s get back to what Jack said,” Mike said from in front of me.
I’d asked to switch seats, thinking I wouldn’t see the road with his broad shoulders ahead of me.
“Right, motive,” I said. “It could provide motive to anyone he might have rustled from — if, in fact, he did rustle. How do we find out who might have had cattle rustled?”
“Most would report it to law enforcement, the brand inspector,” Mike said.
“Which?”
“Either or both, depending on circumstances. If there’s physical evidence to be processed, say, the sheriff’s department would be better. Brand department’s often underfunded. Still, worth reporting.”
“I’ll check the records,” Diana said before I could ask.
“Great. Tell me more about this East River, West River stuff.”
They did for much of the drive, expanding on what Mike had said.
As we neared the station, I said, “So, we need to talk to Ernie and Dorrie, check who might have been victims of rustling lately, take another run at getting information from Lukasik, and—” I watched Mike. “—get with Gee about the murder of Leah Pedroke.”
A sigh lifted his shoulders, but he said nothing.
Asking Gee to relive the pain of that time wouldn’t be fun.
Diana pulled into the KWMT-TV parking lot so the rest of us could retrieve our individual vehicles before reconvening at my house.
“Wait. Before we split up, tell us about Lukasik’s son, Diana. What’s his name?”
“Gable. Nice kid — well, not a kid. He must be in his mid- to late twenties.”
“Mid-twenties? Lukasik looks like he could have grandchildren that age,” Mike said.
“Yeah. His wife was a whole lot younger.”
“Was?”
“She died several years— No, must be getting close to ten years ago. Car accident, I think.”
“You knew her?”
“More like knew who she was, recognized her if I saw her in town,” Diana said. “She wasn’t involved in activities, so Leona wouldn’t be much help.”
Leona D’Amato covered KWMT-TV’s version of the society beat, which meant she worked part-time and some of that time went to filling in as anchor. Because Thurston Fine knew she hated covering hard news, he didn’t worry about her taking his job. She could have if she’d wanted it.
“Her death was really hard on Gable. I heard he doesn’t have a good relationship with his father.” Diana’s brow wrinkled. “Even while Gable was volunteering, helping the kids out — and they adored him — you could tell he was down. Then I saw him, oh, a month ago? Maybe two. And he looked happy. Genuinely happy. And I was happy for him.”
“What changed?” Mike asked.
Diana flashed a grin at him. “A woman, of course. I don’t know who. Want me to ask around, see if I can find out? Though why Gable’s dating life would be of interest—?”
“Yes, ask,” I said. A love interest might be another way to approach Gable if the Lukasik family front united under the stress of Furman York’s apparent murder.
At the same time, Jennifer said, “Gary will know.”
Diana looked around at her in surprise. “My son? He doesn’t care about dating, especially not who a former coach might be dating. He barely notices Russ and me.”
“Oh, he notices. And he’ll know,” Jennifer repeated, her toes curled around the line of smug without quite crossing it.
Diana gave her a long, thoughtful look before taking out her phone and hitting speed dial.
Gary Junior answered, “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi. I’ve got you on speaker with Elizabeth and Mike and Jennifer.”
We all called Hi and he replied. “Gary, remember Gable Lukasik?”
“Sure. Is this about the foreman from his ranch getting killed?” His young voice drew taut. “Gable didn’t have anything to do with it. He’s a good guy.”
“Don’t worry. We’re trying to clear up some background. What I’d actually like to know is who he’s dating.”
Matters of innocence and guilt, of murder and justice faded beneath the teenage lament of “Oh, Mom.”
His older sister’s voice came from the background. “Don’t be a dweeb. Tell her, so they can figure things out.”
“You should talk, all the hysterics you had because of some purse—”
“Gary. Jessica,” Diana said in her Mother Voice. “Do you know who Gable’s dating?”
“Yes.”
Before Jess, who must have come closer to the phone to make her voice that much clearer, could say more, her brother jumped in.
“Some new teacher at Sherman Elementary. Came in mid-year.”
“Asheleigh. Her name is Asheleigh with an ‘e’ in the middle. And they’re really serious,” Jess added, asserting her superiority on this sibling battlefront. “They’re going to get married.”
“You don’t know that,” Gary declared. “You don’t know them.”
“I hear things. And I listen. Unlike some who—”
“Jessica. Gary,” Diana said. “Stop squabbling. Thank you for the information. Are all your chores done?”
They unified momentarily in a, “Ye-es.”
“Great. Don’t stay up late. You both have things in the morning.”
“We know. We’re not babies. Well, I’m not.” Last point to Jessica.
“Go to bed. Both of you. Good night. I love you.” She hung up as their good-nights started to degrade toward bickering. “They used
to get along so well.”
“It’s the age,” Jennifer said. “Adam and I were like that at their age. We got over it after a few years.”
Diana’s mouth twitched. She said solemnly, “Thank you for that hopeful prediction, Jennifer.”
* * * *
Iris opened my own back door to me with a smile. “We heard you drive in. Pity you still can’t park in the garage.”
Between the previous owner’s furniture and mine brought from the East Coast, closing the garage door counted as a miracle, much less getting my SUV in. At least the house wasn’t jampacked.
I planned to sell much of the spillover at a neighborhood yard sale coming up later this summer. Already, I’d contributed more than my share to a neighborhood storage facility in anticipation of the sale.
“Someday, I’ll live that dream. Others are coming behind me, Iris. Probably to the front door.”
“Don’t fret. Zeb’s at the front to let them in. We made coffee for you all — decaf and regular. And there’s a platter of doughnuts on the counter.”
“Thank you. That’s kind of you. Thank you and Zeb for everything. Is Tamantha asleep?”
“No thanks necessary. We had a grand time. She’s in bed. Don’t know about asleep.”
“I’ll just check on her.”
As we wished each other good night, Iris stepped back to let me pass her. But I had another obstacle to overcome.
My dog.
Shadow was stretched out on his side with his back to the closed door to the guest room.
His head rose at my approach, checking who came, while repositioning to jump up if necessary.
“It’s okay, Shadow,” I said, barely above a whisper.
He stood, walking under my free hand for a stroke as I used the other to quietly turn the door knob.
The faint hall light striped across the dark room.
Tamantha Burrell was not a girl to fear the night.
Or the brilliance of her bag, which formed a kaleidoscope at the foot of the bed.
Even in sleep or pretend sleep, she presented a determined presence. Was I a chicken for being grateful she was asleep or feigning? Either way I was grateful.
Because we hadn’t accomplished nearly enough to satisfy Tamantha.
Tomorrow wouldn’t be any better, I feared, unless we came up with enough plans tonight to hold her off.
* * * *
“We have lots of people we need to talk to, starting tomorrow. In the meantime, let’s organize what we have,” I said as I passed the others in the living room — comfortable around the coffee table in front of the unlit fireplace — on my way to pour myself a coffee from the pot on the kitchen counter.
It’s a small house, making it easy to talk from the kitchen to living room at a volume that won’t stir anyone in the guest room.
And, yes, it’s worth mentioning a fireplace being unlit even at this time of year. It was Wyoming.
Mike answered, “We’ve got doughnuts — they’re great — nuts, chips, and coffee. I think this’ll hold us for a while.”
“She meant what do we have about Furman York being shot.” Diana held out the doughnut platter, its contents noticeably diminished, as I sank into the upholstered chair next to her. Mike and Jennifer occupied opposite corners of the couch.
“Not sure we’ve got much,” he said.
“The history Mrs. P told us, especially with so many people believing he killed Leah Pedroke,” Diana offered.
“Yeah, but why would that get him killed after all this time?” Jennifer asked.
I tipped the half of the doughnut I hadn’t yet eaten — they were excellent, if not perfectly shaped — at her. “Exactly. Not to mention who would have killed him because of that.”
“Hiram,” Mike said immediately. “Sounds like he’s maintained Norman Clay Lukasik bought someone on the jury and York got away with murder.”
“There’s a fundamental flaw with the theory,” I said. “One person on the jury being bribed could have prevented Furman York from being convicted, but how could one person get him found not guilty? It would be eleven and one — a hung jury.”
“You mean to get him off, Lukasik had to bribe all the jurors, which would mean Hiram was bribed, too?” Jennifer asked.
“Possibly there’s something in between. But—” I groaned. “—we’ll have to talk to Hiram.”
“We’ve got the prime suspect in jail, where we can’t talk to him, not to mention we have no idea why he might have chosen to kill Furman York after all these years. What does that leave us?” Mike asked.
“Prime suspect? Tom doesn’t think Hiram’s guilty,” Diana protested.
“Oh, yeah, those telepathic communications you guys had out at the grazing association. I got the impression you didn’t think Hiram was the prime suspect, either, but no idea why. Not to mention there’ll be folks who consider Tom a strong suspect. What he thinks won’t carry much weight with them, including some we know who wear a certain uniform.”
Frowning, Jennifer protested, “If Tom’s a suspect, people should pay more attention to him saying Hiram Poppinger didn’t do it, because it would help him to have people suspecting Hiram.”
“That might be logical, but people don’t always think that clearly,” he said gloomily, then popped a piece of a doughnut in his mouth.
“If all these doughnuts are making you negative, we’re going to have to cut you off.”
At my threat, he grabbed two more from the platter and put them on a napkin by his elbow as far from the rest of us as possible. “Facing the facts,” he said when they were secured and he’d swallowed his mouthful.
“The facts include that we can hope Tom has more to tell us when he’s done talking with the sheriff’s department—” I refused to consider the alternative I saw flicker across their faces. “—and in the meantime we have at least one other place we can start. Jennifer, you’ll do a full workup on the victim?”
She snorted. “Some victim.” Before I said more, she added, “Yeah, yeah, it’s on my list. The quick look I took shows a lot of coverage during the trial. Besides—”
“Which reminds me,” I said, “did you put following up with Ernie and Dorrie on the list? And Aunt Gee when she gets back.”
“Besides,” she repeated with emphasis as she typed, “we know where Furman York’s been and what he’s been up to for years. No mystery there to follow up on. He’s been here, pissing off people in Cottonwood County. For-ever. If that was going to lead to murder it would’ve happened way back then.”
“We’ve dug into other people who’ve spent decades pissing off people.” Diana continued, “Jack Delahunt’s reaction when Elizabeth asked about Lukasik possibly being involved in the rustling was interesting.”
“It was.” I put down my coffee mug. The better to reach for another doughnut before Mike emptied the platter. “He seemed to want to put big distance between York and Lukasik over this — particularly his making any accusations — with the question being why. Sense of justice? And—”
“Jack’s a real fair man,” Mike said.
“—he’s sure Lukasik isn’t involved? Or—”
“Afraid the lawyer will sue his ass off.” After a beat of silence, Jennifer looked up from typing. “What? Wasn’t that what you all were thinking?”
Pretty much.
She had another point to make. “I want to go back to why York didn’t move on after he was found not guilty. Oil was a bust here, then why not go elsewhere? Oil guys can earn big money.” She’d briefly dated an “oil guy,” who’d been a long-time friend. “Why switch to cattle? Working on a cattle ranch isn’t known for bringing in big bucks.”
“Yeah, and sudden change from oil to cattle at — what? — late twenties? Doesn’t happen much,” Mike said. “Sometimes, maybe, if somebody wants solitude, wants to hide away from the world… But this guy was thumbing his nose at the world — the world that believed he’d killed Leah Pedroke. Put down Not the brightest bulb in
the lamp, Jennifer.”
Against the tide of chuckles, I said, “It sounds like he was bright — at least cunning or crafty — about a lot of things. With a blind spot in assessing other people. So the interesting question is why.”
Possibly catching my seriousness, Diana said, “Or not caring. All the way back to Leah. When he attacked her, he probably thought she’d keep quiet. She fought back.”
“That’s good, Diana. What we need now is to find who knew Furman York well. I wonder if Jack would have ideas about who he associated with.”
“I’ll give him a call tomorrow,” Mike said.
I nodded, acknowledgement and thanks. “Lukasik Ranch should be a source of information. His close friends on the ranch and people there should know who his friends are off the ranch.”
“How about Lukasik himself?” Mike asked. “He sure seemed to be trying to pull off his version of the Mark Anthony burying Caesar speech today. What? You didn’t think I had Shakespeare in school?”
“Mrs. P,” Jennifer murmured wisely.
“Putting Shakespeare aside for the moment — sorry, Mrs. P,” I said to the ceiling. “—I had another question. What about tire tracks at the scene? Could the sheriff’s department—”
A knock at the front door stopped my words.
“Tom?” Mike asked.
I was already on the way to the door.
I opened it without looking — I was becoming a true Shermanite.
“Tom. How are—?”
He stopped me with a slightly raised hand. I shut my mouth, stepped back, and let him in.
Chapter Fifteen
Tom dropped his cowboy hat on the bench in the mini entryway. Without that brim’s shadow, his tiredness showed as sharpened grooves around his mouth without any of the lightening usually provided by lurking amusement.
This change wasn’t solely from today’s events.
They’d triggered memories of another time, other questionings by the sheriff’s department. The same ones that had frightened Tamantha enough to call me.
Yes, frightened that redoubtable personage.
Before he had to ask, I said, “Tamantha’s fine. Sound asleep in the guest room. I checked on her not long ago.”
Reaction Shot (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 9) Page 9