All the Old Lions (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book One)

by Carol Caverly

  All The Old Lions

  The Thea Barlow Cozy Mystery Series, Book One

  Carol Caverly

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 1994, 2015 by Carol Caverly. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep

  www.ebookprep.com

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61417-730-2

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Before You Go…

  Frogskin and Muttonfat

  Also by Carol Caverly

  About the Author

  For Midge, with fond memories of those wonderful early years of Wyoming Writers.

  One

  I felt duty-bound to rebel.

  Being a born and bred city person, Chicago was my security blanket and I resented being sent out to the western wilderness on a fool’s errand—Roger should have gone himself.

  Of course, my rebellion meant nothing to Roger Sweeney, President, self-serving head honcho, overweening Grand Muckity-Muck of the Sweeney Publishing Group. As the tides of fortune would have it, Roger was also my boss and a distant, but reluctantly claimed, cousin.

  I’d barely had a chance to say a word before he started bellowing.

  “Look here, Thea Barlow, I didn’t give you a job so you could sit around on your butt deciding what you will and won’t do. You work for me, remember?”

  Nepotism is not all it’s cracked up to be.

  Roger had been obnoxious as a child and hadn’t improved much with age. Taller, of course, and the baby fat had solidified decently enough, though he was still soft around the middle—something I liked to remind him of, now and then. Whatever had made me think we could work together?

  I like to believe my opinion of Roger has nothing to do with his being three years younger than my twenty-eight, and a hot-shot MBA in complete control of his own little world. A year ago I could have honestly said there wasn’t a jealous bone in my body. Now, I’m as unsure about that as I am of everything else in my life.

  “Uncle Charlie doesn’t want to see me,” I said stubbornly. “He wants to see you.”

  “Ha! He set you up as the protector of his precious magazine, didn’t he? And you can bet he’s just itching to get his two cents worth in about this new project. He’ll give you the big bear hug and ho, ho, ho, then load you down with advice and directives. You can count on it.” Charlie’s constant meddling really rankled with Roger.

  Uncle Charlie hadn’t given up the reins easily when he handed over the foundering Sweeney Publishing Group to Roger, his nephew. Charlie hied himself off quickly enough to retirement in his beloved Black Hills of South Dakota, but he kept the phone wires burning, and demanded his full share of cosseting.

  Western True Adventures, a rather tacky, old-style pulp magazine, was Uncle Charlie’s pride and joy. Begun as a hobby, it became the base of the Sweeney Publishing Group and remained a small but steady money-maker for forty years, which is more than can be said for his other projects. Now he was afraid Roger would dump the magazine or try to turn it into a fancy slick.

  “Besides,” Roger went on, “Uncle Charlie doesn’t care who he sees as long as he has a live audience once a year. I’ve made the visit twice. It’s your turn.” Roger tried to put a magnanimous look on his handsome face. Handsome, that is, if you like the sleek and oily type. “For someone with no experience, you’ve done a better job with that damn magazine than I expected.”

  Roger didn’t offer praise without a purpose. I waited for the double-whammy I knew would follow.

  “You could use Charlie’s input on your whorehouse project. I shouldn’t have given you full responsibility in the first place. I might have to turn it over to someone else.”

  “Of all the rotten…” He knew what that project meant to me, but his not-so-subtle threat worked, as he knew it would.

  “You can fly into Rapid City,” he said, “spend a few hours with the old man and fly back. And don’t snap those big brown eyes at me, either. Hell, Thea, I’ll even throw in a few extra days, if you like. A little vacation will do you good.”

  “You’re all heart, Roger, but no thanks,” I wasn’t going to be appeased by a bit of bribery.

  However, later in the afternoon, a surprising call from Minnie Darrow changed my mind. Minnie Darrow was a crucial part of what Roger disparagingly termed my “whorehouse project.” Minnie, a Little Old Lady from Ioway(as she put it), had first proposed an article for Western True Adventures about an old time Wyoming bordello called Halfway Halt. Minnie had found a journal kept by the house’s notorious madam, Jersey Roo. I may be a neophyte in the publishing business, but I’m smart enough to know that choice bits of primary source material don’t surface all that often. I thought her idea was worth more than a magazine article and approached Roger with a proposal of my own for a series of soft-cover books that would sell on the racks next to Western True Adventures. Minnie’s history of Halfway Halt would be the first book in the series. Roger liked the idea and told me to follow up on it.

  That afternoon when Minnie called I could barely hear her. The line was full of static. “You’re calling from where?” I yelled. “Wyoming? Hijax, Wyoming? You’ve moved? You’re living where? In Halfway Halt?” I sounded like a parrot, squawk and all.

  An hour later I staggered into Roger’s office and plopped into a chair.

  “I’ll take those extra days, Roger,” I said. “I’m going to spend a day with Uncle Charlie, then rent a car and drive to Wyoming to see Minnie Darrow.”

  “Wyoming? I thought she lived in Iowa. What are you chasing off to Wyoming for?” The parrot syndrome was breaking out all over.

  “Minnie has moved from Iowa to Wyoming and says she’s living in Halfway Halt.”

  “The whorehouse? It’s still in business?”

  “Of course not,” I answered automatically, but I hadn’t thought to ask, just assumed she’d bought what had once been…Hadn’t she said something about renovation?

  “Anyway,” I said, “I told her I’d be out in the area. She seemed eager to see me and invited me to stay
with her a couple of days.”

  Roger raised an eyebrow. I ignored it.

  “Look, Roger, something weird is going on out there and I want to know what it is. When I reminded Minnie that her manuscript is due by the end of the month, she got evasive. She sounded scared, and I could swear she was crying. Said something about making a big mistake. If she doesn’t meet her deadline I’ll be in a hell of a mess.”

  Roger shrugged. “You can always call her.”

  “There isn’t a phone in Halfway Halt. She said she was calling from town.”

  Roger glared at me. “You better not foul this up, Thea. I’m counting on that book.”

  One of the unexpected pleasures of my job was a new-found fascination with the Wild and Woolly West, so Uncle Charlie’s enthusiasm found a ready audience in me. He, in turn, was fascinated by the little I could tell him about Halfway Halt, and eager to see Minnie Darrow’s completed manuscript. He assured me the book would find a solid group of readers in the small, but faithful, Western market.

  So after an enjoyable day of listening to tales of daring-do and touring the Black Hills, I set off for Wyoming in a rented Ford Escort. Images of midnight campfires, strawberry roans and cowboys in tight jeans filled my head. But not for long.

  By afternoon I felt as if I’d been driving forever. I wasn’t prepared for the vast stretches of emptiness that seemed to be all that Wyoming contained.

  Hours earlier, the air-conditioning in the little Ford had given up the battle and left me to swelter in the blazing July heat. Perspiration trickled down my neck and between my breasts. I drew my white gauzy skirt as high up my thighs as possible and undid another button of the matching blouse. I’d already discarded the woven sash, and tossed it in the back seat.

  Frequent signs announcing NO SERVICES FOR 68 MILES, or something equally appalling, left me hunched over the wheel alert for further indications of rebellion from the Escort.

  Chalk hills, and buttes capped with blood-red rock erupted like pustules from earth baked to an unhealthy gray. Periodically, thunderheads passed overhead, bringing momentary relief from the glare, but with the creeping shadows came an overwhelming sense of aloneness. For the first time I understood the true meaning of “in the middle of nowhere.”

  The small town of Hijax, dismal though it was, seemed like an oasis when I finally got there. I needed a long cold drink and a restroom. It was also time to check the map and make sure I knew how to get to Minnie’s from Hijax. Halfway Halt, according to Minnie, was way out in the country somewhere.

  I pulled into the nearest parking place and stepped out into gritty, boiling heat that was no worse than the inside of the un-airconditioned car. Holding my limp skirt away from my legs to catch the breeze, I surveyed my choices. There weren’t many. I could see all of the few blocks that comprised the business district from where I was standing. Lots of bars, a clothing store, a hotel, Bev’s Beauty Hut. The only building that looked as if it had been built within the last forty years was a pretty nice bank on the far corner. At least it had a tree—or maybe shrub was a better word—in front, and a planter that didn’t have any flowers in it now, but might some day. Across the street was a brick store in slightly better shape than its mates on either side. It sported a Walgreens sign and two slick red circles announcing Coca Cola was sold there.

  I started to cross the street, then decided that I hadn’t come all the way from Chicago for another Walgreens. Instead, I headed for the Clarion Hotel, which looked like it could have been one of the town’s original buildings.

  A cafe adjoined the old red stone building, but curiosity led me through the hotel’s main entrance. Three old men in overalls sat in front of the large window, puffing cigarettes and watching the street. Their weathered faces were as dark and cracked as the chairs they sat on. An oscillating fan on the registration desk fought a losing battle with the biting drifts of smoke that wafted through the lobby.

  A pleasant-looking woman with one of those sculptured looking hairdos (Bev’s Beauty Hut?) sat behind the desk reading a newspaper. Business was not hopping. The woman stood when I came in and eyed me with bright curiosity. She looked surprisingly crisp and fresh in a navy and white dress.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  I smiled wanly. “I’m looking for a restroom and a big glass of iced tea—in that order.”

  She smiled sympathetically and directed me down a dingy hallway, and when I returned, pointed me to the door of the restaurant, saying, “It’s hot out there all right. Have you come a long way?”

  “A million miles at least.” Another time I might have stopped for a chat, but not now. I needed that drink.

  The restaurant contained nothing that could have been called decor, and smelled nicely of charred beef. It was empty except for five men of various ages gathered in the large corner booth. Across from them, a man in a brown and tan uniform sat on the end stool with his back to the lunch counter, clearly a part of the group. The good-natured joshing flowing between them slowed as I walked across the bare boards. I sat a couple of stools away from the man at the lunch counter. A sheriff, I saw, reading his badge. We exchanged smiles and nods. He was tall, not fat, but bulky-looking, with sandy hair that was beginning the march back to the sea. He had inquisitive eyes, and one of those round, guileless faces that never seem to age.

  “Hello. Hot enough out there for you?” he said. “You must be new in town; at least, I haven’t seen you before.”

  “Aw, come on, Hank,” one of the men at the table called out. “You can do better than that!”

  “That line’s older than Hickam’s barn,” chimed in another, followed by hoots of laughter from all of them, including the waitress who strolled over and took my order for iced tea.

  The sheriff was unperturbed. He turned his back to the jibes and continued.

  “On the other hand,” he said, “you could be lost or something. We don’t get many tourists passing through here. And if you are lost, well I’m just the man to help you. Sheriff Henry Beesom, here. Otherwise known as Hank.” He stuck out his hand.

  I shook it, and received some friendly catcalls from the peanut gallery. “I’m not lost yet,” I said with a laugh, rather enjoying the teasing, “but I don’t want to get that way, either. Do you really know everyone in town, Sheriff?”

  “You better believe it—county, too. Try me.”

  “Maybe you can help.”

  I took a long drink of tea, then fished the road map out of my bag and spread it out on the counter between us. “I think I know where I’m going, but it never hurts to be sure. Do you know where Minnie Darrow lives?”

  “Darrow!” the waitress said with an incredulous squeal. “Minnie Darrow?”

  Startled, I glanced up from the map. “Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”

  She shrugged and replenished my tea, sloshing some in the process. The men’s conversation had stopped; their attention was palpable. I glanced over my shoulder in the other direction and saw the woman with the stiff dark hair standing in the doorway, watching us.

  “Is there a problem with Ms. Darrow?” I asked again, this time of the sheriff.

  “No. Not at all. And of course I know where she lives. As I said, I know where everyone lives.” His tone was light, but neither it nor the big grin he gave me hid the fact that the high-spirited fun had disappeared from the room, and a hard edge had crept into the back of the sheriff’s eyes.

  “Let me see what you have,” he said. He slid the map closer, found Hijax with his finger and traced the road out of town. “Here we go. You drive about fourteen miles north of town and take this county road—yep, you’ve got the right one marked—and it’s another fourteen, fifteen miles to her place. You’ll find the turn-off with no problem.” He shoved the map back toward me and asked, “Minnie a relative of yours?”

  His face was bland and still puppy dog friendly, but I wasn’t fooled. I could play this game, too.

  I said, “No, Minnie’s not a
relative.” And nothing more.

  “You’re going to be around these parts awhile, then?”

  The room practically vibrated with curiosity, all ears out on stalks. I’d heard about the nosiness of small towns, but this was beyond belief.

  I drained my tea, rose, and smiled excessively at everyone. “Thanks. I’ll be on my way.”

  The sheriff held out his hand again, which I took.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said with another ingratiating smile. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t, Sheriff. And thanks so much for the directions. Goodbye now.”

  I just wish I hadn’t looked back, but when I got outside the urge was too great. They were all there, standing at the window, watching me. The woman from the hotel stood with shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tightly around her middle and a scowl on her face. The sheriff leaned against the glass on his elbow, chewing his thumb. The waitress seemed to be arguing with two of the men, her neck stretched toward them, spitting out words, her finger jabbing in my direction. Something chilling about the silent tableau sent a shiver through my body. That’s the devil dancing on your grave, my mother would have said. Not exactly a welcome thought at this point.

  Minnie, what is going on?

  At least the sheriff was right about the turnoff; I found it easily enough. The map indicated a gravel road. Ruts and boulders would have been more accurate. Odd pinkish-colored stones, some larger than a fist, covered the roadbed. The Escort bucked and bolted over the rough surface, shooting out of control when least expected.

  It took all my strength to keep the car from being tossed onto the loose piles of gravel gathered on either side of the single set of tire tracks that ran up the middle of the road. Either the road was seldom traveled, or no one else was bothered by blind curves, but when the single track began a steep climb up and around a hill I knew I had to move to the right edge.