Reaction Shot (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 9)

by Patricia McLinn

  “True.” Diana chuckled. “Anyway, the car we just saw could be her daughter’s. She was driving.”

  “I’ll check,” Jennifer said, only partially mollified.

  Diana described the car.

  To prevent future bad feelings, I told Jennifer we were going to O’Hara Hill to try to see Ernie and Dorrie before they got busy.

  “That’s okay. That’ll be about all that old stuff.”

  I couldn’t entirely disagree with Jennifer’s priorities.

  Odessa Vincennes’ reaction to Mike’s news of Furman York’s death had made her worth looking into. Discovering her daughter was Gable Lukasik’s serious girlfriend either made it understandable — if you didn’t agree with Diana — or even stranger.

  For now, I voted for stranger.

  “Keep on checking on Odessa Vincennes’ background, too.”

  “Will do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ernie and Dorrie greeted Diana with pleasure, me with openness, and sat with us at a table toward the back.

  Ernie reminded me of the actor Ben Johnson, with a brush mustache and eyebrows to match, a rumbly, western voice, and eye-squinting lines dug deep into tanned skin.

  Dorrie had short, determinedly dark hair with a line of girlish, short bangs across her forehead. The determination of her hair color, though, couldn’t hold a candle to her jaw. She could have shared it with three or four folks not blessed in the jaw department and had plenty left over.

  “Did either of you know Furman York back then? Before the trial and everything.” Tactful way to refer to murder, but I didn’t want to discourage them from talking to me if he’d been friendly with York.

  “Yeah, I knew him a little. Mostly from playing cards.”

  “And drinking,” Dorrie said. “Bunch of little boys acting like truants from school. Wouldn’t give ’em all the liquor they wanted, so they’d go from here to those shanty bars that popped up like mushrooms.”

  “York was one of those?”

  “Not often,” Dorrie said. “He went straight to the loose bars. Didn’t want to waste time eating when all he was interested in was getting a skin full.”

  “The lady asked me and you just said he hardly came in here.”

  “Go right ahead. Tell her all about your dear friend.”

  “He wasn’t no dear friend of mine. And you know—”

  I stepped in to keep this from completely derailing. Sometimes back and forth between sources can reveal more than direct answers. But this seemed to be heading toward revealing more about their marriage and history. Certainly more than I wanted to know.

  “What kind of card player was he?”

  Both of them blinked at me. With a second blink, a light went on in Ernie’s eyes.

  “That’s a real interesting question, Elizabeth. Most times he was kind of all over the place — no discipline, you know? But then he’d get ticked off at somebody who won a pot he thought he was going to win and Furman would turn into one of those dogs that latches on and won’t let go. All focus. All on one thing. It was like he didn’t care anymore about winning, he just wanted the other guy to lose. Sometimes it wasn’t just that night, either. He’d go days and days, following the poor guy who’d ticked him off, doing his best to make him lose. And you know, he did pretty good making some of those guys lose.”

  “But eventually he’d get over it? Move on?” Dorrie asked.

  Ernie cocked his head. “Move on, yeah. To the next guy who ticked him off. Pretty much let go of one guy because another one came along more recent like. Did it once to me and as soon as he was on to the next guy, I didn’t ever play with him again. There were plenty enough games around to get in on, no need to tangle with him.”

  The militant glint returned to Dorrie’s eyes, indicating her temporary detour into poker’s character-revealing aspects had ended. “Plenty enough games around to lose your money in, you mean.”

  Again, I stepped in quickly with a question.

  “Have you encountered him much in his years at the Lukasik Ranch?”

  “Nah. Not the type to stop in here or go to county events. Might’ve seen him in Sherman now and then, not to pass the time of day with.”

  “Did you know Leah Pedroke? Maybe encounter her in the office where she worked?”

  “Sure did. I was in there most days, trying to catch on with them right off when — if the boom hit. Good outfit.”

  I suspected he was aware of Dorrie’s scowl, but neither of us looked at her.

  “What was she like?

  “Good worker. Spoke real pleasant to just about everybody. Sweet thing. Too sweet, really, for dealing with those oil toughs.”

  Dorrie’s snort communicated her disdain for oil toughs, reminded Ernie he’d experienced a spell of madness when he tried to become one, and added that she’d like to see one of those so-called toughs coming after her.

  Ernie paused, perhaps to make sure she had no further non-verbal comment — probably a wise move.

  “She handled most of them real well,” he said. “She’d give them that cool look like they’d get from their mommas and remind them to treat her like a lady. Trouble came with those who didn’t have the right kind of momma or any momma at all. Because all they saw was a pretty face with a body that would turn an altar boy into—”

  He coughed to break it off under his wife’s stare. Then reset his conversational path.

  “Not at all sure she’d have known how to deal with someone who didn’t behave himself after one of her looks, if you know what I mean.”

  “She did,” Dorrie said abruptly.

  Ernie and Diana looked as confused as I felt. “She did what?” I asked.

  “Have a momma of the right kind. A momma, daddy, sister, and brother.”

  “How’d you know that?” Ernie gaped at her.

  “Leah told me about them. Came in here a couple times when she first arrived and saw I was near drowning.” She side-eyed her husband, a reminder that he’d caused that predicament. “After that, she pitched right in. Had no restaurant experience, but knew her way around a kitchen and caught on quick. Talked about all her parents taught her. They’d taught her well. She was a good young woman. A kind person.” Tears came into her eyes while her chin remained firm.

  “I never knew you—”

  “You weren’t around.”

  Ernie winced, as if he felt the impact of those three flat words more than everything else she’d said on the topic.

  Dorrie turned to Diana and me. “Told her parents so when I went to see them at Gee Decker’s and give them the checks she’d never take for helping me. Couldn’t afford much, considering, but it was some.” She sighed. “Helped with the cost of their coming out here to see that worthless scum get tried. And then he got off. Almost like the girl dying all over again.”

  * * * *

  Dorrie told us more about Leah helping her. Both confirmed that the general sentiment was that York got away with murder through bribery, with the wide-ranging theories about how unhindered by proof. Other than that, neither she nor Ernie expanded beyond what Mrs. P had said.

  Two messages to call as soon as I was available awaited when I turned my phone back on after Diana and I left Ernie’s restaurant … with only a small carryout bag each.

  Mike and Tom. In that order. So that’s how I returned their calls.

  Mike answered with, “Where are you?”

  “Diana and I are driving back to Sherman after talking to Ernie and Dorrie.”

  “Hi, Mike.”

  “Geez, I missed that, too? Hi, Diana.”

  “Too?”

  “Don’t act all innocent. Tom told me about you going out to Lukasik Ranch, Elizabeth. And how you were talking to Lukasik, and nosing around about York’s friends.”

  “Did he?”

  “Nosing around’s my term, not his,” he added quickly.

  Another example of them sticking up for each other.

  Tom first appeared
in Mike’s childhood world as a high school basketball star, though Mike’s athletic success exceeded Tom’s. A long time ago they’d come to the equality of mutual respect.

  “Did he tell you I said I’d fill everybody in at the same time?”

  “Yeah. And he didn’t give me any details for the same reason.” He groaned. “If I didn’t have to do these lead-ins for the other stations that wanted pieces of the interview, I could have shaken free this afternoon.”

  “How many stations, Mike?”

  “Four. Plus Chicago — I knew some of those guys from when I played — wants me on live for intro and outro for the interview. So I’m tied up until five.” That would cover the end of a five o’clock broadcast in Chicago, which was an hour earlier than Wyoming. “And then I might as well stick around for the Five here. Les is grumbling around the shop this afternoon and it’ll keep him off my back a while.”

  “That’s tremendous exposure, Mike. You’ve got to be thrilled about that.”

  “Way to go,” Diana added.

  “Yeah, I know.” Underneath I could tell he was excited. “But you’re going to have this all solved before I get into it at all.”

  “Not likely. We’ll bring you up to speed — and we’ll all share what we learned.”

  “Can you wait until after the Ten, because one of the stations is West Coast and another station — I forgot about that, so it’s five total. Anyway, D.C. wants me to do a fresh lead-in for their late broadcast — in the news segment, not sports — so I’ll be working straight through.”

  “If the others can’t wait that late, I promise to fill you in no matter how late it goes.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Elizabeth. That’s when I’ll tell you what Jack said when I talked to him.” He sounded much more cheerful, probably because he’d remembered he had information to hold hostage in order to get ours. “And hope I’ll get a chance to contribute more after this rush.”

  This rush — this interview could be a career-maker for him.

  “Go knock ’em dead, Paycik.”

  He clicked off.

  We drove in silence for a few moments.

  “Is he as good as I think he is?” Diana asked.

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll leave here?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She blew out a breath. “You better find out.”

  I drove several more miles before placing the next call.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Tom answered with, “Hear you two’ve been in O’Hara Hill, talking to Ernie and Dorrie.”

  So I didn’t even need to tell him Diana was with me and listening.

  “How do you know that?” I wasn’t surprised. More curious about which branch of the Cottonwood County grapevine transmitted this time.

  “Mike messaged. Says we’re going for another late-night discussion at your place tonight.”

  “If you can’t because of Tamantha—”

  “She’s fine. Has a sleepover tonight. Already scheduled.” A sleepover scheduled the same night we’d had a date scheduled… I jerked my thoughts away from that when he added, “Remember Clyde?”

  “Your neighbor. Member of the grazing association. One of the people who had cattle rustled, presumably by York.” As well as another run-in, according to Needham. But I wasn’t bringing that up right now. “That Clyde?”

  “Yep. Wants you to come by and hear what he has to say.”

  “He wants us to or you want us to?”

  “Both.”

  “Okay. Are you going to tell us what it’s about?”

  “Nope.”

  He then gave directions to Diana that lost me after “Turn off the highway — you know where.”

  “Something else,” he said when he was done. “I talked to Badger.”

  “Great. What did he say?”

  “No way,” Tom said, at the same time Diana gave me a you-had-to-know-that-wouldn’t-work grimace. “When we’re all together, just like you.”

  “I have a question — at least an observation — that doesn’t need to wait until we’re all together.”

  His reply nicely balanced wariness and amusement. “What’s that?”

  “You’ve never been this gung-ho about investigating.”

  Before anything came through the phone from Tom, Diana said to me, “I’m betting you aren’t the only one Tamantha told to get busy.”

  “Oh-ho. And you were going to set things straight with her.”

  He sighed. “Are you two comedians coming or not?”

  “We’re coming. We haven’t even started with the jokes, but we’re coming.”

  * * * *

  Diana guided us easily to where two ranch trucks kept company along the side of the road.

  I parked behind Tom’s truck. As we walked past it, the men finished placing tools and a roll of barbed wire in the back of one truck, presumably Clyde’s.

  Tom made an economical introduction of “Elizabeth, this is Clyde. Clyde, Elizabeth,” as he pulled off work gloves. Diana and Clyde said their hellos with congenial nods. Clyde pulled off only his right glove to shake my hand.

  He was a few inches taller than me, with a chin beard growing gray and brown in a distinct pattern, like a dog’s markings. The outside corners of his eyes turned down, so when he squinted, they became crescents.

  A silence fell.

  Silence can be a powerful tool for an interviewer, pulling truths or revelations from reluctant interviewees.

  This silence felt as if it had the potential to last forever.

  “So, Clyde, Tom tells us your sharp eyes spotted some of his branded cows with calves carrying the Lukasik brand.”

  “Yep.”

  “How did you happen to see them?”

  “Went to Furman York to get my horse trailer back. Used it months ago for that ugly brute of his Bonedrin.” He shook his head. “Knew a call wouldn’t get him to bring it back, so went to get it. Came up on young Gable and he told me in general where York was.

  “Got there and didn’t see anybody. Followed this little track and there he was, off in a draw on the Lukasik place I doubt half a dozen people in the county know about. When I got there, York and a new hand they’d signed I wouldn’t trust around a polecat, much less cattle, were branding calves.

  “Never seen York work so hard. Never seen him turn so green when he spotted me, either. Wanted to know right off who sent me there. Told him I didn’t know the hand. Seemed familiar, but couldn’t identify him.”

  Clyde allowed himself a tight smile.

  “He was that eager to get me out of there, he even agreed on the spot to take me to the trailer — and for once he did what he said he would. Probably afraid I’d return to his hidey-hole. But I’d seen what he’d tried to hide. Circle B cows.”

  “When was this, Clyde?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Two days before yesterday, it was. Got with Tom right off.”

  “And I confronted York the next day at the grazing association. He’d already unloaded some of my cows with their calves branded Lukasik, but caught him with more in the hauler.”

  “Took video, too,” Clyde added.

  “Were you there?” I asked him.

  “Yep. I took the video.”

  Diana asked Tom, “Have you shown it to Shelton?”

  “Not yet. Been busy.” His head tipped toward the fence. “Did mine before we came over here.”

  I asked, “The rustlers tear down fencing to get the cattle out?”

  “Not always.” He might have left it at that, until I popped up my eyebrows sharply in impatient questioning. “A lot put the fence back so it’s not noticed right off. These thieves left it gaping.”

  Adding destructiveness to theft.

  I turned to Clyde. “You’re one of the grazing association members who had rustlers hit you here, on your home ranch?”

  “Yep. Others before. Tom and me most recent
.”

  Diana asked, “Have you talked to the others, Tom?”

  “Not yet. Was there something else you wanted to say, Clyde?”

  I waited for the story about York luring him into writing a check to the Bernie Madoff of the West, only to be saved by a fluke of timing when law enforcement made the arrest.

  “Strange thing about this? They could have hurt me a lot worse if they’d taken my registered Angus from the next pasture over.”

  He jerked his head toward an up-sloping area past the side fence, where five cows grazed peacefully.

  “They’re high-performing purebreds,” he said with pride. “Don’t get me wrong, the rustlers hurt me plenty. But it could have been worse. Could’ve been a whole lot worse if they’d taken them, too.”

  Tom nodded in silent agreement.

  “Could the rustlers have known about them in the dark?” I asked.

  “They’d have known,” Clyde said. “Rustlers don’t come blind to a spot in the middle of the night. Too risky. They know ahead of time where they’re going to hit and how they’re going to do it. That means they find the spots in daylight. Know where there’s not traffic that somebody going by could spot them, where they can’t be seen from a house, not even reflected light.”

  I nodded wisely to all this, as if I’d known rustlers cased the joint, so to speak.

  “But you’re still leaving those — the Angus — out here?”

  “Sleeping in my truck,” Clyde said. “Got a couple of the dogs out, too. They’ll raise a fuss if anybody comes ’round. It’s only ’til I can get fences up on a section near the house. The airport wants me today and with this loss I can’t say no to any work they’re willing to give.”

  “We’ll get that done, Clyde. Tomorrow suit you?”

  “More than suit, Tom. But—”

  “I’ll make a few calls. Let you know when. If you’re at the airport, get your dad to come by and keep us on track.”

  “He’ll do that. He’ll definitely do that, the old buzzard.”

  And thus was passed the danger of giving or receiving gratitude.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine