“Not only did she have the presence of mind to get Haeburn to sign before coming to Burrell’s, but she actually had the form in her van. I’ll tell you, that woman is frightening.” Haeburn and Fine had stuck around after the meeting officially ended to have Diana shoot promo stuff with them looking involved in the community. “Anyway, Widcuff’s departure from O’Hara Hill, confirmed by Aunt Gee as well as Diana, would have given him time to reach the trailer, shoot Mona and get out of there before we arrived.”
“It would have been awfully close.” We’d gone over these calculations.
“Only if he stuck to the speed limit,” Paycik said. “And he doesn’t.”
I spread my hands, palms up, in acquiescence, and he went on. “Judge Claustel. Same as Sheriff Widcuff.”
“Except both would have run the risk of being seen by the other or anyone else coming from O’Hara Hill.”
“The road curves around the base of Jelicho Mountain just before the turnoff to the trailer, so unless someone’s right behind you, they wouldn’t see you turn. They could have parked in back.”
Something about that didn’t set right, but I couldn’t pinpoint it.
“Brent Hanley,” Mike continued. “Says he was fishing. Alone. On Jelicho River, about five miles from the trailer.”
That was new. “When did you talk to him?”
“This morning. He was as charming as ever. And kids on the track team say Hanley’s beat up two kids who made comments about Rog possibly being gay. Hanley has a mean temper.”
“Don’t I know it.” I could still hear the sound of that shot put passing through my air space.
“Plus, he admits to being in the vicinity of the trailer.”
“Everyone was. My God, there should have been a traffic jam. With all those pickups, it should have looked like an old TV commercial with Bob Seger singing ‘like a rock.’ And none of them has an alibi worth even trying to crack, and that includes Burrell.”
Irritation had driven me upright, but now I flopped back.
Paycik waited a couple seconds, as if to make sure I’d finished. “Okay, let’s listen to the tape again.”
I groaned. I’d heard Mona’s voice in my dreams. I almost wished Paycik hadn’t thought to copy it before handing over the original to the police.
He played it again. And again.
“Mike? Mike Paycik?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Mona Burrell. I want to talk to you. You’re still doing this reporting stuff on Foster being murdered, aren’t you?”
“Elizabeth Danniher and I are looking into the story, yes.”
“Yeah, you and her. Well, I might have something to tell you before I go. There’s something—well, I didn’t get it right off. Not ’til they found Foster, but then it made sense. I thought I could . . . . But Foster thought that, too. Maybe this is better. I can still get something. It doesn’t mean I can’t. But this’ll be my cushion. Like some insurance, you know?”
“What are you talking about, Mona? If there’s something you want to tell me—”
“I’ll tell you . . . I’ll tell you, but not on the phone. Not now. Meet me at Tom’s office. I gotta get something. It’s the trailer, you know? Out Yellowstone Street. You know where it is?”
“Sure. I know it.”
“Okay. Meet me there. One hour.”
“Okay. But, Mona, tell me what—”
Click.
“She knew something,” Mike said. “That part about not getting it until Foster’s body was found, but then it making sense. She had to know something.”
“Or think she did. But even if she knew something for sure, we have no idea what. So we’re right back where we were before Mona’s death. Except . . .” I slid down until the small of my back rested on the seat cushion, despite my mother’s voice echoing in my head with predictions of permanent spine injuries. “Mona was talking around town that she was getting out of here and taking Tamantha with her, and that gives Burrell another motive.”
“As if the guy didn’t have enough pointing to him.” Paycik leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And it doesn’t even seem like he’s fighting for himself. Before all this, I would have said Tom Burrell was the hardest fighter I ever knew. I would have thought he wouldn’t ever give up, if only for Tamantha’s sake, because he wouldn’t want her to have a killer for a father.”
I sat up so abruptly I knocked the legal pad off the couch on one side and a depleted bag of chips on the other. “For Tamantha’s sake. Of course . . . . C’mon, Paycik.” I piled the pad and chips on the coffee table and tossed an extra pen into my purse. “We have places to go, people to see.”
“Where are we going, Elizabeth?” he asked as I herded him out.
“To jail. Directly to jail. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”
But maybe we’d collect some answers.
Chapter Twenty-Six
BURRELL’S LAWYER HADN’T liked the idea of his client talking to the media, but he’d agreed to ask. The word came back “yes.”
Mike had been patient while we waited for the lawyer to arrive to make sure his client didn’t say anything incriminating to the media. He’d even put up with the lawyer’s suspicious questions about hidden microphones.
I was the one pacing.
The lawyer, James Longbaugh, glared at me and rubbed his temples as I passed for the third time.
Mike, seated opposite the lawyer at the rectangular table in the center of the bare room, said “What makes you think he’ll tell us anything now when he wouldn’t before?”
The creak of the door opening provided instrumentation for the last part of his speech, and I spun around to face Thomas David Burrell, handcuffed and accompanied by a thin, balding deputy. The deputy muttered something apologetic about not taking off the handcuffs, attached in front this time, and being right outside the door, then left Burrell standing just inside the door, watching me.
I broke the silence, answering Mike by addressing Burrell. “Because there’s no reason now not to tell us everything. Is there, Tom?”
He looked like a man who’d come through a terrible storm—exhausted, battered by forces greater them himself, but relieved. “No, there’s no reason not to tell you everything now.”
Without releasing my look, he took two steps to the empty chair near where I stood and pulled it back. I sat. His handcuffs clinked as he pushed the chair in. He went around the table and sat across from me and next to his lawyer.
“Ask your questions, E.M. Danniher.”
“Let’s start with an easy one. Why do you think Mona was at your office?”
One side of his mouth lifted slightly. “You want my thoughts, or the sheriff’s theory that she went there expressly to be killed by me?”
“Your thoughts.”
“Passports.”
“Tom! Don’t say anymo—”
Burrell stopped his lawyer’s protest by raising one large hand, palm out. “It’s like she said, James. There’s no longer any reason not to tell everything.”
“Even though it gives you a stronger motive?” I asked.
“You’re a little late there, E.M. Danniher. The sheriff’s already added that motive to his collection.” This time both sides of his mouth lifted. “There’s not a soul who passes through Sherman Supermarket who doesn’t know Mona’d made noises about leaving town and taking Tamantha. And Widcuff tells me the passports were out of the office safe.”
I nodded. “Okay. What was your real reason for telling Redus to stay away from Mona and Tamantha?”
“Tamantha saw Redus hit Mona. He’d told them both he’d beat Tamantha if she told anyone, but she told me. I tried to get Mona to press charges, but she wouldn’t. He’d done it before, but she said he’d promised not to hit her again, and she swore she’d never let him hurt Tamantha. I told Mona if she kept seeing Redus, I’d go for sole custody, and I’d use his abuse as cause.”
“Tom, I don’t think
—”
Burrell waved off the lawyer. He already knew he was describing a stronger motive for murder than any the sheriff’s department had so far.
“So, Mona told Redus, and he came to your ranch to confront you.”
He confirmed my supposition with a nod. “I’d counted on that. I told him to his face what I thought of a man who beat on a woman and threatened a child. That’s when he swung. Everything else happened the way I said.”
“And when Redus disappeared, you thought Mona had made good on her oath not to let him hurt Tamantha.”
“Mona?” The shocked word came from Mike on my left, and I heard a sound from the lawyer.
Burrell met my look and nodded. “Tamantha let it slip the next day that her mother had been gone several hours that night. But after it came out that Redus was missing, I couldn’t get her to talk about it. Not about that night or Redus or any of it. Mona must have told her not to talk about it, and Tamantha was being loyal to her mother. It was the only way it figured.”
“And you thought that meant Mona had killed Redus.” I watched him closely as I added, “But it could also figure that Mona was busy accusing you of involvement in Redus’ disappearance, and it was loyalty to her father, not her mother, that kept Tamantha quiet.”
He didn’t look startled at the thought. I wondered if it had occurred to him before Mona’s murder, or if a night in jail had done the trick.
“Maybe.” His tone implied he meant to find out.
If Tamantha decided she didn’t want to tell him, I would buy a ticket to that battle of wills.
“Why didn’t you tell the authorities you thought Mona killed Redus?” demanded Longbaugh. “Or me, when you were charged last winter?”
Tom flicked a look at the lawyer, not quite apologetic. “I didn’t have proof.”
“You had this information about Redus abusing Mona, and his threats.”
“I didn’t know Redus hadn’t just lit out for bright lights somewhere. He talked about it often enough. Besides . . .” For the first time, his eyes dropped, apparently focusing on his folded and handcuffed hands.
“Besides,” I picked up, “you didn’t want your daughter’s mother convicted of murder.”
Silence confirmed my words.
“But what if you’d been convicted?” objected Mike.
“I couldn’t see how they could convict me as long as they didn’t have a body. When they found him . . .” He shifted, and I figured that was probably as close to an admission as we’d get that Tom had wondered if he’d made the right decision.
“Did you have any other reason for thinking Mona might have been involved in Redus’ disappearance?” I asked.
“Yes.” Something too dry to be called a grin tugged at Burrell’s mouth. “Why don’t you just say it, E.M. Danniher? This isn’t Jeopardy, you don’t have to make everything a question.”
“Okay. Redus’ disappearance so soon after he’d had a fight with you seemed to point to your involvement. Presuming you weren’t involved, it was either planned that way or a very convenient coincidence. Convenient coincidences aside for the moment, to plan it someone had to know Redus was going to confront you, and probably know why.”
“That’s how I figured it,” Burrell confirmed.
“You didn’t tell anybody about Redus hitting Mona?”
“No.”
“Who could Mona have told?”
He sat still and calm, returning my look with his dark eyes knowing, slightly sad, but understanding. It could have been simply a smart move on his part to pick up on my theory and indicate it had been his motive all along. Someone who murdered two people sure wouldn’t balk at a little opportunism.
Did I think the man looking back at me could have done that? I didn’t know, did I?
“I don’t know who Mona could have told,” he said. “I have wondered.”
“Have you asked Tamantha?”
“No.” His full-force glower returned. “And I don’t want you asking—”
“Don’t tell me not to ask questions, Burrell.” I met his look. After a few seconds, the hardness in his eyes eased slightly. “I won’t scare her,” I promised, trying to keep the thought that I probably couldn’t scare Tamantha Burrell from showing. Maybe he saw it anyhow, because his eyes lightened.
“I’d like to see you try,” he murmured.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
WE DROVE NORTH to Red Lodge, Montana directly from the jail. Longbaugh had promised to call Tom’s sister and let her know it was okay for us to talk to Tamantha.
“My daddy’s in jail,” Tamantha accused as soon as she saw me. “You’re supposed to help him.”
“I’m trying. But for me to help him, I need you to tell me some things, Tamantha.”
In small increments, I took her back over the day Redus disappeared—almost surely the day he’d died.
Redus had hit Mona on Sunday after she’d interrupted him watching football on TV. That’s when she’d told him what Tom had said.
In a monotone Tamantha told how Redus said he had a friend who’d make sure Burrell didn’t bother him. Tamantha hadn’t heard—or Redus hadn’t said—who this friend was or what he would do.
Tamantha also said Mona had stayed home all that Monday, preparing a special dinner for Redus. When he didn’t come by five-fifteen, Mona left, presumably looking for him. Tamantha didn’t know when her mother returned, because she had put herself to bed and went to sleep.
She didn’t know if her mother had told anyone else about being hit.
Tamantha sat straight on the chintz-covered sofa in a glass-enclosed porch, her eyes solemn and intelligent. She shed no tears in our presence, though her aunt had said Tamantha knew of her mother’s death.
As we rose to leave, Tamantha tugged at my hand. After exchanging a glance with Mike, I sat, and he maneuvered the aunt out of the room.
Tamantha’s hand turned in mine, clasping it.
“My Daddy needs me.” The end of the sentence lifted slightly into a question. She turned to look at me. “I want to be with my Daddy.”
My throat tightened. “I know you do. He wants to be with you, too.”
She studied me a moment longer, then nodded. She released my hand, and I joined Mike in farewells with Jean-Marie Burrell Watson.
Tamantha had given no orders this time. She’d asked for no pledges. But I felt her expectations and hopes more heavily than ever.
Mike and I mulled over what she’d told us as we started back toward Sherman. Mona could have spoken to someone on the phone that day, telling them about the situation with Burrell and Redus, but no one had come forward with that tidbit in the intervening months. A better bet was that Redus, who’d spent the day out and about, had contacted his “connection,” which gave him the confidence to confront Burrell.
Unless all this was a smokescreen thrown up by a very clever man who knew there was no sense trying to hide what was already in the open. Burrell could have knocked Redus unconscious in that famous fight, driven him up Three-Day Pass Road in Redus’ truck, arranged his victim, cracked him on the head with the butt of the shotgun, then pushed the truck off the edge, and walked home, carrying Redus’ shotgun in case it came in handy later.
I shivered.
“Turn right, Paycik.”
“What? Why?”
“Turn right. We’re stopping in O’Hara Hill.”
* * * *
“MRS. PARENS, IS TOM BURRELL capable of murder?”
She shook her head and gave me that teacher look that said she was shaking her head not in answer to my question, but at my asking it.
“Elizabeth Margaret—” My spine automatically straightened. Paycik had stayed in the car, probably to avoid that tone. “—I’m surprised at you.”
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, I—”
“I am not on the spot. I could give you an answer from my observation of Thomas David.” Her eyes narrowed. “Indeed, also of Gina and Roger and Myrna Johnson
. But my answer would be worthless. It is not possible to look fully into another human heart. Perhaps after years of a certain type of friendship or marriage one can see a great deal, but even then there are shadows of secrets. There must be. And I believe that is what you fear, Elizabeth Margaret.”
“I don’t fear—”
“Yes, you do,” she cut me off neatly. “We all do. You fear that the truth you seek might not be a truth you like.”
For someone who’d said it wasn’t possible to look fully into another human heart, she’d done an uncomfortably creditable job with a new acquaintance.
I didn’t know if Thomas David Burrell was innocent. I wanted him to be. For Tamantha. For himself. Yes, and maybe a little for myself. There was something . . .
But I didn’t know. And I needed to.
Or did Mrs. Parens mean other shadows? Fears beyond this case?
Shadows of secrets left despite years of a marriage? Yes, I knew about those. How could they not make me question my judgment? How could they not make me mistrust what I thought I knew—or thought I wanted?
The case. That’s what mattered. That’s where I had to keep my thoughts.
“What if he did it?” I said bluntly. “What about Tamantha?”
“We cannot know how Tamantha’s life might unfold. But consider if Tamantha never knows the identity of her mother’s killer and if a portion of her community believes her father was responsible. Would knowing a horrible truth be worse than never knowing?”
“So you’re saying a bad answer’s better than no answer at all?”
“On some tests it is preferable. For all concerned.”
* * * *
THE PHONE WOKE ME Monday morning. I don’t know why I bother to own an alarm clock.
I do, however, know why I own an answering machine.
It was to capture calls such as the one that had awaited me last night. My parents and assorted family had been together for Sunday dinner and decided to call. I listened to voices coming on one by one to say hello, to the instructions and remonstrations and laughter in the background. I listened to it twice. It was too late to call back, nearly midnight in Illinois. I listened a third time.
Sign Off (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 1) Page 19