“Keep going.”
He sat forward. “Look at the motive. What’s stronger than a mother protecting her child? That’s Vicky’s primary drive. All Heather’s life, she’s done everything in her power to make a better life for her than she had.”
His hers and shes were jumbled, but I followed him—watch out for Mama Bear if you start fooling with her cub.
“Landry was the worst possible threat, with no good outcome. If he kept pursuing Heather, Vicky could not be a hundred percent certain her daughter wouldn’t fall for it the way she had—and commit incest. So, she told Heather the truth to prevent that. But what if Landry found out he had a daughter? He could lavish all the things on Heather that Vicky hadn’t been able to.”
Mike thumped his hand on his knee. “Heather said she was yelling at him about being his daughter as he came after her. She takes off, but he’s still roped, starts thinking about what the girl said. Vicky shows up and—boom!—it hits him square between the eyes what the girl meant. He threatens to take Heather away or maybe to tell the world the truth or—whatever, and Vicky decides to put an end to it. She grabs the rope—”
“A rope she would have thought was her daughter’s rope.” I said. “In your scenario, she’d have seen Heather throw the rope. After everything she’s done for Heather, she’d use a rope traceable back to the girl? I don’t see that.”
“But it was Cas Newton’s rope,” Tom protested. I eyed Mike, who shook his head, denying he’d spilled that tidbit. “I’ve got sources, too,” Tom said, a glimmer in his dark eyes.
“Vicky wouldn’t have known it was Cas’ rope,” Mike said. “If she arrived at the end of Heather’s encounter with Landry, she’d see her daughter throw a rope and assume it was hers. She took the rope after he died because she thought it was Heather’s. She didn’t know fibers would lead to what kind of rope. She’d think taking the rope was enough.”
“Maybe,” I agreed reluctantly. There was something . . . something . . . “So, she kills Keith Landry, takes the rope afterward to protect her daughter. No, wait . . . That’s it. Remember me saying she’d told me about Heather’s roping ability? Bragged about it. Saying her daughter was even better than she was? No way would she have done that the day Landry was found, knowing Heather’s roping ability set up the murder.”
“She didn’t tell you anything you wouldn’t have heard anyway. Everyone would tell you Heather could do that trick. Besides, we didn’t know then that he’d been roped that way.”
“We didn’t. But if she killed Landry, she would have.” I shook my head. “No way would she have drawn attention to her daughter’s roping ability. No way would she have been the one to put that in my mind for when it did become known—not if she had the guilty knowledge that what she thought was her daughter’s rope had been used.”
“What if Vicky comes later. Finds Landry, but doesn’t know Heather is the one who roped him. After he’s dead, she takes the rope, thinking to protect herself. That could explain the bulls, too. Trying to disguise any evidence.”
I considered that. “Maybe. She stays on the list.”
“You go through this for anyone you think might be a suspect?” Tom asked.
“Yes.” I looked up from the list. Was he wondering if we’d done something similar when he was accused of murder? We had.
“Amazing, isn’t it—the way Elizabeth sees the holes,” Mike said.
“Yes,” Tom said evenly. “Who else is on your list?
“Cas Newton,” Mike said. “He fits the same scenario—whether Heather killed Landry or left him tied up the way she said. And he’d take the rope, too, thinking it was Heather’s.”
“Landry didn’t call Cas,” Tom said.
“No, but if Cas followed Heather—”
“Other way around,” I said. “Heather followed Cas, trying to catch him with Blue Hair, or at least get more info on her. On the other hand, there were calls to Stan Newton earlier. Maybe Cas intercepted one and went to the rodeo grounds to have it out with Landry to protect his father. Sees Landry trussed up, thanks to Heather, and seizes the opportunity.”
“That’s assuming Cas knew about the bribe,” Mike said.
We both looked at Tom, hoping for more on what Cas might know about the bribe. We got about as much response as we would from the Lincoln Memorial in D.C.
“Or,” Mike picked up, “Stan got the call—maybe he was the one Heather said Landry was yelling at to get down there. Or Landry called him for help getting free after Heather’s rope trick.”
“Why would Stan take the rope or put Landry in with the bulls?” I asked.
“To confuse the issue,” Tom said. “Same goes for anybody.”
I put my pen down. “We’re not eliminating anybody. Or zeroing in on anybody. We need more information.”
“Like what?” Mike asked.
“A clearer picture of everybody’s movements that night. See if you can pin down Zane and Watt about when they came in. More on that bribe.”
Mike nodded at the first assignment, Tom at that second.
“I still want to know why Landry wanted those bulls brought in early. It’s—”
“An anomaly,” Mike filled in.
“Yes. Mike, see what you can get from Stan on that. Ask Watt and Zane if they know anything, too. And I’ll try to get more detail from Oren Street. And those women Jennifer’s found—the ones I didn’t talk to last night, and any others she finds. I also want to talk more to Linda. But right now, I’ve got to get ready for work.”
“I’ve only got to swing by for a couple hours today,” Mike gloated, “since I worked Saturday night, and Fine’s back to not allowing me on the air. How about if we meet back here tonight to go over things?”
I grimaced. “You’re volunteering to come to the hovel?”
“It’s ugly, but it’s a lot more convenient than my place or Tom’s. And the refrigerator works. That’s the most important thing.”
Tom chuckled. “Works for me.”
“Terrific.” I stood. “Any questions?”
“Yes,” said Tom. “Who is Ms. Blue Hair?”
I turned. “You seem to know everybody around here—do you know any of the animal rights people? The protestors by the gate to the rodeo grounds.”
He shook his head. “Not from around here. Is that who Ms. Blue Hair is?”
I left Mike to confirm that. I went to get ready for work.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“I BEEN CALLING you since eight o’clock this morning,” said the grumbling male voice on the other end of my KWMT phone line.
“I’m sorry, callers were supposed to be connected to my cell phone number to reach me this morning.”
“I don’t hold with those cell phones. Told that girl if she tried it, I’d hang up. You shoulda been there. What kinda job you got that you can wait half the day before startin’ in to work?”
The kind that kept me working half the night and all morning. I dearly wanted to snap that. Instead, I repeated the phrase I’d started with: “May I help you?”
“You can tell me if you’re that ‘Helping Out’ gal using letters.”
It took a second. “Yes, I’m E.M. Danniher. May I help you?” I automatically jotted the number from Caller ID in the notebook I kept on the desk. No name displayed.
“No. But I can help you. I’d’ve told old Needham Bender if he hadn’t written those things about me a while back. But I ain’t giving him no scoop. Bring your camera out here this afternoon and see me blow a hole through some crooks.”
Excuse me?
I turned to the computer and started typing in each word he’d said. “What’s your name, sir? And address?”
“Why you wanna know?” Suspicion etched the words.
“Have to know an address to bring
a camera crew.” I jettisoned the name request without hesitation. With an address and phone number, I could get a name. I’d have a good shot with only the phone number from a reverse directory, but an address would help.
“Camera crew, huh?”
“Absolutely. If you’re going to, uh, catch crooks, KWMT wants to be on hand to bring that news to the people of Cottonwood County.” He was mulling. Drawing in a slow breath, I coached myself to go easy. “What kind of crooks are these?”
“The kind you been talking about. Calling people, saying they won a prize at some store. She told me first I won this gift card, but I had to claim it at the store by three o’clock this very afternoon. Told her I didn’t want any gift card—don’t trust those things. Give me money, real cash money. That’s the only thing that means something. And she squeaks right up with how I’d get cash instead, only I had to come into the store at three.”
I double-checked the time. Depending on where he was in the county, that might be cutting it close.
“That could be the scam I reported on last night. But—”
“Could be? It is. I don’t enter no contests. Don’t have my name on no lists. It’s them. So, are you coming or not? I got things to do around here, and I don’t have no more time to waste talking with you. Gotta check my guns and such to set a trap for these crooks.”
“We’re coming. Give me the address.”
“The Poppinger place.”
Before I could ask for a road, he hung up.
I spotted Jennifer and hollered to get Mike, who’d come in at the same time I had, and Diana—with equipment—here immediately. Heads turned in the newsroom, but no one said a word.
I dialed the sheriff’s department—not 911, because I didn’t want to try to get past a dispatcher unless I absolutely had to. I asked for Deputy Alvaro, saying, “Tell him it’s Elizabeth Danniher from KWMT, and it’s an emergency.”
While I waited, I typed the phone number into the reverse directory. It gave me Hiram Poppinger and an address.
Alvaro’s voice came on. “Elizabeth, I don’t have ti—”
“Neither do I. Listen, Deputy. I received a call four minutes ago from a man who did not identify himself.” I was writing the name and address and phone number in the fresh notebook as I spoke. “He said he received a phone call saying he’d won a prize at a store in town. He’s certain it’s those thieves who have been working the area. He was told he had to—”
“That’s great, but—”
“Listen. He has to pick his prize up by three today. He told them he would, but he plans to double back and set a trap for them.” The fresh notebook, a spare, and three new pens went in my bag, which already held my digital recorder. “He asked if I wanted to come see him—and I quote—‘blow a hole through some crooks.’ The reverse phone number says the name is Hiram Poppinger.”
Deputy Alvaro said a word that the FCC gets very cranky about having on the airwaves. “He’ll do it, too.”
Mike and Jennifer were coming across the newsroom at a good pace. “Have you got all the information, Deputy?”
“I have it. But—”
I was on my feet, said, “I have to go,” and disconnected as I grabbed my bag and went to meet them.
“Diana?”
“Said she’d meet you outside,” Jennifer said.
“What—?”
I cut Mike off. “I’ll tell you on the way. Jennifer, stay by my landline. If it’s Hiram Poppinger, keep him talking and transfer him to my cell, but don’t tell him that’s what you’re doing, or he’ll hang up. Anybody else, tell them you can’t reach me. That includes the sheriff’s department.” We were at the door. Diana drove up in the Newsmobile. “Got it, Jennifer?”
“Got it.”
I pushed Mike to the front seat, while I climbed into the back. If any navigating was required, he’d be a lot more useful than I would.
“Where to?” Diana headed toward the highway without waiting for the answer she didn’t need quite yet.
“The Poppinger place. Do you know it?”
“Hiram Poppinger?” she asked, as she and Mike exchanged a look.
“Yes. I have an address.”
“No need. I know it.”
She turned onto the highway going east and drove at a generous interpretation of the speed limit, while I filled them in.
When I’d finished, Mike said, “One question. What am I doing here?”
“Are you kidding? After all the hand-wringing you’ve done about not being on-hand when Diana and I had our little tete-a-tete with a murderer, you think I’d leave you out of this? Besides, if Hiram happens to mistake us for the crooks, you make a bigger target than Diana or I.”
MY CELL PHONE rang as we made the third turn since we’d left the highway.
Fully prepared to ignore a call from Alvaro, I saw the ID and answered. “How nice of you to call back,” I said, as Mike turned to stare from the front seat.
It was the committee chair from the Denver rodeo, and I wasn’t letting him go without asking my questions. Besides, what else could I do while Diana indulged in off-road racing? Taking notes, though, was out of the question.
Bob Lewis was chatty, but cautious. The chattiness came to the fore as I asked about the difficult situation his rodeo had encountered and heard an eerily familiar story. The rodeo had received a hard-to swallow bid from their established contractor, Keith Landry. They accepted a much better bid from a new contractor, though not Sweet Meadows. A few weeks before the scheduled rodeo, they received the startling news that the new contractor had gone bankrupt and vanished. Landry came to the rescue—for a hefty fee.
This Colorado rodeo had been held, cleared a tiny profit once Landry was paid, and the contractor headed for Sherman with fat pockets.
The Colorado rodeo committee chair’s caution took hold when he connected what he’d been telling me with the newsworthy death of a stock contractor at a rodeo in Wyoming. But I had what I needed.
Another possible pattern. Another task for Jennifer.
“Did you get that?” I asked the front seat’s occupants.
“No,” Diana said. “Concentrating on driving.”
“Thank God,” I muttered as I hit buttons on my phone and prayed for coverage.
“The gist,” Mike said. “What are you doing now?”
“Getting—Jennifer?” I interrupted my explanation when I got her. “I have another layer of research for you to add.”
“Good. I’m tired of finding rodeo queens. I’m back almost twenty years. You know, I’d find all this stuff a lot easier if I—”
“No hacking.”
“Mike read that paper upside down,” she protested.
I glared at him, but he’d turned back to face front, so the glare missed its target. “There’s a difference between looking at something that’s out in the open and rooting around for it. Have you heard of an expectation of privacy?”
“No.”
“We’ll talk later.”
“BUMP,” DIANA said by way of warning as she turned north once more.
Which was rather like looking at the Grand Canyon and saying “dip.”
Despite my tightened seatbelt, my head brushed the roofliner, and the return trip jolted me back into the seat. “Where on earth are we going?”
“Shortcut. Coming in the back way.”
I looked around. “We’re in a pasture.”
“Yup.”
“Consider this Hiram Poppinger’s back door,” Mike said. “And we’re not the only ones to think of it.”
I scootched down to look out the front windshield and saw a ball of dust ahead of us.
“The thieves?” Diana asked.
“I don’t think so. They’ve been using vans, and I can’t im
agine them driving on this.”
The road curved sharply to the right, and Mike squinted out the side window at the dust bomb. “Sheriff’s department.”
“If we can see the dust, so can the thieves,” I said.
“I suspect the deputy wouldn’t mind if the thieves took off. Better than having Hiram shoot somebody again.”
“Again?”
“Hiram got himself a horse thief when I was in high school.”
“What happened?”
“Not much. He didn’t kill the guy, and the guy was a horse thief.”
It was a true you’re-not-in-Kansas-anymore-Dorothy moment. Not in Kansas, or St. Louis, or D.C., or New York, Elizabeth. I mean, I know that. Every day when I wake up in the hovel, when I drive with the mountains as the true West on my mental compass, when I produce my packages with throwback equipment, I know I’m not—as Thomas David Burrell once said to me—anywhere I’d ever been before. But something about bumping through a pasture with Mike talking calmly about Hiram Poppinger shooting a horse thief crystallized that recognition.
The sheriff’s department four-wheel drive ahead of us slowed. The dust plume subsided, and we saw the vehicle take the right fork of a Y that divided around an abrupt rise of land.
“What’s he doing?” Mike said. “House is to the left.”
“Barn’s to the right,” Diana said. “I think it’s Shelton.”
“Oh.”
Not only wasn’t I in Kansas anymore, apparently I was in a land where Shelton had meanings hidden to me, and Oh conveyed much more than those two letters.
I checked my watch for the forty-third time in twenty-five minutes. It was twelve minutes to three.
The vehicle bore sharply to the left, so sharply it appeared the mysterious Shelton would drive straight into the hill. Instead, the vehicle disappeared from view for a moment, until we followed through a gap that opened to a gathering of ranch buildings.
The sheriff’s department vehicle had parked behind a battered blue truck, along the side of a large barn. Beyond the end of the barn, a corner of a weathered house was visible at a distance of a hundred feet or so. Diana drew up as the third vehicle in the row, leaving enough room for the deputy to get his out. We started along the line of vehicles toward the house.
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