Reaction Shot (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 9)

by Patricia McLinn

  Those final two words still echoing in the air, Dad extended a palm-out hand toward me, presumably lobbying I forget I’d heard them.

  Then he caught Mom’s glare and extended the other palm-out hand toward her.

  “Sorry, Cat. It slipped out. But I can’t be sorry it did,” he said.

  I tried. “I don’t know…”

  Mom arched her brows. “You were better at that look of innocent confusion as a teenager, Elizabeth.”

  “I had more practice then.”

  She chuckled. “Oh, yes, you did. A great deal of practice.”

  I sank to the couch, facing them as they still stood in the kitchen. With the difference in our heights from these positions, it felt like old times — me as the kid, them as the adults. I sat straight, but didn’t let myself stand. I didn’t need that to be a grownup.

  “Mel, I presume,” I said, passably calm.

  Mel Welch was a lawyer in Chicago who’d stepped in as my agent, despite no experience in that area, out of concern for me.

  More germane to this discussion, he was married to my mother’s cousin’s oldest daughter. He adored and feared my mother in equal parts.

  “Mel?” Mom’s innocent confusion wasn’t any better than mine.

  I ignored it. “How long?”

  Dad finally dropped his hands and took one of the chairs facing the couch. “Late last summer.”

  “Did Mel know he gave it away?”

  Mom sat in the other chair. “Not a clue, the poor dear. But, then, with that matter involving Bunny—”

  Someone I’d known as a kid whom I’d encountered at Yellowstone Park the previous fall. Not a happy reunion for either of us. If she’d blabbed to my parents, I would have no reluctance—

  “—it was so obvious it would have been ridiculous to carry on pretending.”

  “Mel crumbled under the strain of your mother’s asking what he was keeping from her. Like an avalanche started by dynamite.”

  “It was for his own good,” Mom said. “He couldn’t take the strain any longer. You know how he is.”

  I knew how he was around her, anyway. She was probably right about the strain on Mel. The question was when to let him know I knew Mom and Dad knew… Decisions, decisions.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” I looked from Dad to Mom.

  She folded her hands. “Because you didn’t want us to know.”

  She made it a statement of fact. And that’s what it was — a fact.

  Yet I felt their hurt behind it. I’d expected worry, concern, fear if they ever found out — and those were all there, beneath the surface. I hadn’t expected the hurt.

  “I didn’t want you to worry.” Or tell me not to. Or lecture me. Or swoop in and try to stop me. Or otherwise treat me like a delicate, not-too-bright child.

  Mom and Dad exchanged a look. “We know, Maggie Liz,” Dad said.

  “Not knowing is more worrying than knowing,” Mom said. “You’re our child and we love you. We’ll never stop worrying about you. Just as we worry about each other.”

  Just as we worry about each other…

  That gave me a new angle. As if I’d been standing in front of a painting and it pivoted to a side view, showing the foundation lines of the composition and the brushstrokes that created it. They did worry about each other. On the other hand, they didn’t try to prevent each other from doing what they wanted. Not much, anyway.

  “I’m very good at this.” No blurt alert warned me those words were coming.

  “We know. We’ve seen the special reports you’ve shared with Mel. And we’re not the least bit surprised.” Mom tipped her head slightly. “Are you?”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  “You and your friends do this together?” Dad’s worry leaked out, along with the hope that a former Chicago Bear and a Lincoln-esque rancher would protect me.

  “Yes.” I wouldn’t mention the protection often turned out mutual. “There’s no reason to be worried. We’re investigating. It’s not like we’re involved in gun battles.” Although there’d been a time or two… “We’re asking questions, talking to people is all.”

  “All,” she repeated. “And by doing that you’ve discovered a number of murderers.”

  “Yes.” Were they not going to argue I should quit this? Was I setting up for a fall by starting to hope…

  “And now there’s another, uh, situation you’re asking questions about, this shooting a few days ago.”

  “Yes.” I explained briefly, including Tamantha’s charge to fix it.

  “What you’re doing,” Mom asked, “will help Tom and ease Tamantha’s concern?”

  “I hope so.”

  “We hope so, too.”

  I blinked. Not quite ready to believe.

  Mom unfolded her hands and pressed the palms to her knees. I remembered Mom’s mother doing that as a precursor to standing up, especially as she got older and her knees bothered her.

  Her knees bothered her?

  But Mom’s—

  “We’ll get settled. We won’t get in your way. In fact, we can help. Your dad saw bushes in back he felt needed trimming—”

  “Among other things.”

  “—and I’ll cook something for your dinner.”

  Mom rose lithely, and I let out a breath. Her knees were fine.

  We were fine.

  It would take getting used to.

  Chapter Forty-One

  I made an appearance at the station, timing it so I was there just before Thurston Fine and Les Haeburn returned from one of their lengthy lunches. They’d lunched together less often lately. Their doing so today was fortunate for me, as was getting the message from Jennifer informing me of this.

  When they walked in, I was on the phone at my desk, head down, apparently typing notes.

  They had no way of knowing if I’d been here for hours or minutes.

  Just as they had no way of knowing most of my typing was responding to messages from Diana, Mike, and Jennifer telling me they had assignments that would tie them up until late afternoon. In response, I updated them on my parents being in town.

  Les and Thurston went into their respective offices, then popped out again in under five minutes, pretending they weren’t checking if I was still around.

  Four more times they popped out. The fifth time, Thurston came, but Les didn’t. Thurston had that angry rabbit expression he wore when he felt thwarted.

  He stalked into the news director’s office. Angry voices ensued. Thurston stalked out. He slammed Les’ door. Retreating footsteps. Another door slammed. Chuckles from anonymous sources across the newsroom bullpen.

  In between, most of my time went to phone calls, starting with nearly identical rundowns with Aunt Gee and Mrs. Parens. Did they know other people who’d known Leah Pedroke or Furman York at the time of the murder? Any acquaintances — asking about friends felt like an overreach — of York’s recently? Have experience with Norman Clay Lukasik? Anyone else they thought we should talk to?

  All negatives.

  I left a message for Tom with the same update as the others when he picked up.

  He’d heard my message, he informed me.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Without lifting my head, I was aware of Les opening his office door and peering in my direction. He retreated and locked his door.

  “Putting up fence so Clyde can pasture those valuable Angus within sight of the house. A few of us are here. We’re about done. If you want to meet somewhere or—”

  “Anybody from the Lukasik Ranch there?”

  “Yeah,” he said, a question in his voice. “Kesler.”

  Already standing, I messaged Diana, Mike, and Jennifer where I was going.

  “I’ll be right out there.”

  * * * *

  The workers trailed away from their completed job toward pickups parked casually off the road. I parked in the driveway, got out of my SUV, and walked toward them.

  I said h
ello to the Chaneys — Paul and his uncle Otto. Even got a look at a recent photo of Paul’s eight-month-old daughter, who looked exactly like him, before they moved on.

  Nodded to two young men I recognized from a search last fall known to me only as the Baranski boys, as well as three more I didn’t recognize.

  Exchanged a few words with Connie Walterston’s middle son. Connie ran the road paving company Tom’s father established to supplement ranching income. Tom didn’t care for the business, but he’d never let it go as long as Connie needed a job. A widow with one son in college and two to go, she’d keep the business going quite a while, I suspected.

  Last came Kesler and Tom.

  Kesler angled toward the Lukasik Ranch pickup I’d already staked out. Tom steered toward the house, not participating in this questioning.

  “Hi, Kesler.”

  He’d seen me as he came, so I was no surprise. He grunted a possible greeting.

  “We didn’t get much of a chance to talk the other day. I have a few more questions.” Watching him, I added, “Especially after talking with Gable yesterday.”

  The stoniness of his expression did not miraculously melt. Nor did he fill the opening I left.

  I kept on. “He was quite open about not having a good relationship with his father. Wonder how Gable’s mother would feel about what’s happening with her son. Course she was an outsider here, so maybe nobody would care. Probably gone and forgotten. Nobody—”

  “Not forgotten.”

  He’d opened that crack, but I resisted bulldozing into it. He’d shut down.

  “You said she didn’t know about ranching. Does Lukasik?”

  “She never tried to pretend to know more’n she did.”

  “Norman Clay Lukasik does?”

  “After years and years of playing at being the grand rancher, he knows just enough to be dangerous.”

  That differed from Lukasik’s self-portrayal as not caring about the ranch.

  “What about Furman York?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did he know ranching?”

  “Even he couldn’t help but pick up a little.”

  “Did he pretend he knew more than he did?” While Lukasik pretended to know less than he did?

  “No. Why bother?”

  Remembering what Lukasik said, I tossed in, “Could that be why the herd’s numbers stayed even?”

  I’d hit something. I had no idea what. But this was the most uncomfortable I’d seen Kesler.

  “What makes you say that?” he asked.

  “The owner of the ranch said it. I’m just repeating it. You think that was a result of York not knowing what he was doing?”

  “Hard to say. Lot of things can contribute if that’s even so. I don’t know. I don’t see reports and spreadsheets and all.”

  Oh, yeah, he was definitely uncomfortable.

  “Spreadsheets,” I repeated thoughtfully. “Even if Lukasik doesn’t know about ranching, he sees and understands the numbers.”

  Kesler’s neutral grunt neither confirmed, nor denied.

  “Just like Gable Lukasik will eventually. Was York unhappy with Gable taking on more of a role? Did he worry about his job security?”

  This time Kesler snorted dismissively. “That one didn’t worry over Gable. Cock o’ the walk. That’s how he acted.”

  “But now Gable has a clear path to running the ranch—”

  His head jerked up.

  “—or he would if his father wasn’t staying on.”

  “Now, that last part, that’s what you should be nosing into. Norman Clay coming and hanging around like he never has before in all these years, not even early on when she wanted him to. Couldn’t be bothered. But now, when it’d be better with him gone, he’s staying and staying. Why’s that?” He slashed a hand through the air. “I’m goin’. Got better things to do.”

  He stomped the few more feet to the pickup, got in, and backed out, without ever appearing to check his mirrors for where I was. If I hadn’t moved, I’d have been under the pickup’s tires.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Tom joined me. “You look pretty cheerful for somebody who could’ve been run over. I know. Worth it because you got interesting points from Kesler.”

  “I did, but I need to think it through—”

  “Think on the way to lunch.” He walked beside me toward my SUV. “If you check your phone you’ll see messages from the others that we’re supposed to meet at Hamburger Heaven.”

  We occasionally used the back room in that bastion of haute cuisine, thanks to Mike being both a local hero from his football playing days and their best customer.

  “Perfect.”

  * * * *

  On our way to Hamburger Heaven in our own vehicles, I thought of what I should have asked Tom. Then I thought how I should introduce it — probably from Diana’s influence.

  So, after we all were seated in Hamburger Heaven’s back room with our late lunches and had brought each other up to date, I turned to Tom.

  “That was a good idea asking Kesler to help with the fence. Did you ask him about the case?”

  “I didn’t ask him to come and I didn’t ask questions. We were building fence.”

  “You didn’t ask him to come? But you said you’d make calls and there he was—”

  “Clyde called him. To supervise.”

  “Why?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Because he’s Clyde’s dad.”

  “Kesler is Clyde’s father?”

  I remembered his “Like who?” when I said he should answer my questions to be sure the wrong person didn’t get charged.

  “Yep. Just like some of those boys that helped are Clyde’s nephews.”

  “Boys? The Baranski boys are related to Clyde? Kesler, too?”

  “Sure. They’re all Baranskis.”

  I looked around to include the others. “Why didn’t you tell me they were related?”

  Tom raised both hands in partial surrender. “Didn’t occur to me.”

  “If we mentioned every time someone was related to someone else and how many ways, nothing else would ever get said,” Mike said.

  “Why are you so surprised?” Diana asked.

  “Because Kesler works at Lukasik Ranch, where York was foreman, the man strongly implicated in rustling Clyde’s cattle.”

  Tom protested, “You can’t think Kesler had anything to do with that.”

  “With rustling Clyde’s cattle? Probably not. But what about if he suspected York was behind the rustling that hit Clyde? Did he know about that check Clyde wrote?”

  Tom didn’t look happy, but he nodded. “Knew at the time. Told York to keep away from his family. He also gave Clyde hell. But that was seven months ago, like I said before. For it to spark now doesn’t seem likely.”

  At some level I realized he expected me to argue with him. But my thoughts had taken a turn.

  I faced Tom. “You said Clyde said your cattle were mixed in with Lukasik’s brand. And you saw that, too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If Lukasik came to his ranch and saw another brand mixed in with his — he’s not a rancher like you guys, but surely he knows his own brand—”

  “He does,” Tom said grimly.

  “—he’d spot the brand that didn’t fit. He’d have to know something was wrong. Could Lukasik—”

  “Might think it was cattle they’d bought and hadn’t rebranded,” Tom said.

  “—be in on the rustling? Or could York be stealing from him, too?”

  “If York knew when Lukasik was coming to the ranch, he could move head around…” Mike shook his head at his own words. “Risky if Lukasik isn’t in on it. Kesler and Gable, too, along with other hands.”

  “Wait. Wait.” I raised my hand and dropped my head, eyes closed, the better to remember. Not only words. Those came easy. But intonation, body language, expressions. I raised my head, then opened my eyes and lowered my hand. “Lukasik talked about how his herd kept sta
ying the same size, not growing as he’d expect based on births and sales. Remember? It frustrated him the herd didn’t grow. Kesler was edgy about that today, too.

  “But why did it stay even? Only because York was lazy and a lousy cattleman or a more direct reason? Say he was selling those mismatched calves for his own profit or using them to keep the numbers of Lukasik’s herd from actually dropping while he sold Lukasik cattle.”

  Tom stared at me a beat. “He’d make more money the second way — selling older, bigger cattle for more money, then replacing them with calves. Calves stolen from other ranchers.” He thunked one palm on the table. “It’s time to visit some feedlots on the other side of the Missouri River.”

  “I’m going with you,” Mike said.

  “Me, too,” I said. “I want—”

  “No.” That came from Tom, Mike, and Diana.

  Diana was the one who continued. “The people they’ll want to see are not the kind to mess with, Elizabeth. Notice I’m not volunteering to go. Yes, I know you’ve dealt with hard people. But in this case you’d raise their suspicions the instant they saw you. You’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

  “I can dress like—”

  “It’s not just cowboy boots and hat. It’s a way of moving, of talking — heck, it’s a way of looking at the cattle. They’d know you weren’t right. And that makes it more dangerous. For all of you.”

  I could pull it off. I knew I could. And I wanted to be there. To—

  “Now you know how I feel when you guys tell me I can’t do things,” Jennifer said.

  That stopped me. For two reasons. When we said no to Jennifer, it was our best judgment it was a bad idea. Shouldn’t I accept their best judgment?

  Also, because I trusted Jennifer using her computer expertise to get us information without joining her keystroke by keystroke. Shouldn’t I respect the others’ areas of expertise?

  “You’re right, Jennifer. I do know how it feels.” Her hopefulness crashed with my next words. “And that’s why I’m not going. They know what they’re doing and I wouldn’t.” I looked from Tom to Mike. “But you two better bring back a word-for-word report, not missing a syllable, not overlooking a nuance.”

  “Yes’m,” they both said, with not-quite-suppressed grins.