Body Brace (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 10)

by Patricia McLinn

  “Is that the only reason? You don’t think that knowing him—”

  “As far as he’ll ever know that’s the sole reason,” I said firmly. “My suspicious mind’s the only reason he gives me a shred of respect. If I went all maudlin, thinking he wasn’t capable of such a thing — of anything — he’d kick me to the curb completely. But he wasn’t antsy enough about getting into that wallet and that means only one thing — he thinks he knows who it is.”

  She frowned. “How could he?”

  “Does the county have famous missing-person cases?”

  “Not that come to mind. But if it’s from a long time ago, I wouldn’t know.”

  “Good point.” I exhaled deeply, feeling oddly unsettled. “And our best source for all things involving Cottonwood County history isn’t blabbing.”

  She tipped her head and raised one eyebrow, eyeing me with lopsided intensity. “If Mrs. Parens knows, Tom might.”

  “Next time I talk to him—” Which was sure to happen, but didn’t mean I’d rush it. “—I’m telling him you think he’s prehistoric. In the meantime, since we know the identity of the other victim, Diana, will you—?”

  “Ask around for gossip on Palmer Rennant and all who knew him.”

  “Diana—”

  “I’m not complaining. Not really. I know that face, Elizabeth. So, I knew what was coming.”

  “You mean the face that hopes you’ll use your excellent skills in talking to people and making them so at ease that they tell you things, combined with your stature in this county and far-reaching connections among its citizens?”

  “That’s the one. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  My lips parted to say something about wishing she’d be as open about what was bothering her, but the moment passed when she turned to the screen.

  “Let’s wrap this up,” she said. “Sooner it’s finalized, sooner I can get busy asking around.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “What is this,” Thurston Fine bellowed in his best overly emphatic voice — less an anchor’s than a late-night TV pitchman’s voice that woke you from a doze on the couch.

  His hand fisted around the sheet with one line of copy I’d left on the anchor desk.

  I was already set up in front of Warren Fisk’s blue screen with the weatherman’s blessing, so Diana’s footage would start behind me as I introduced the video package.

  “It’s your intro to the lead story. It’s on the teleprompter.”

  Since all it said was, We have an important breaking news story for you now from KWMT-TV reporter E.M. Danniher, the teleprompter was overkill. Except this was Thurston.

  “I will not permit your story about cowboys and Indians—”

  “Miners, not cowboys. And if you’d left the scanner on, you’d know there were two dead bodies found out there. That’s the story.”

  “I will not—”

  “Three minutes to air, Thurston, and you haven’t done sound checks,” came from the booth.

  He scrambled behind the desk, put on his mic, and earpiece. His sound check was mostly declaring to me that he should have the story.

  I was half-tempted to say, Want it? You can have it. Right now. And walk out.

  No chance on earth he’d swim. He’d sink to the bottom. Trouble was, he’d take the story and KWMT-TV with him.

  And I hated to see the increased pride in their work shown by a number of people at the station go down the drain, too.

  So, I metaphorically bit my lip.

  Until just before the countdown.

  “Read the intro, Thurston,” I said firmly, then gave him the carrot I hoped would get him past his snit. “After this one story, the rest of the newscast is yours.”

  Jerry — the sole camera operator and de facto floor manager — did the countdown.

  The camera came in on Thurston’s face. His expression reminded me of a toddler nephew when he was denied ice cream.

  “Good evening, I’m Thurston Fine, the news anchor here at KWMT-TV.”

  He didn’t usually add that description. Anyone watching would pick up that fact, but I supposed it worked as self-smoothing of his ruffled feathers.

  “We have a story for you now.”

  Caught by the short intro being cut to a third of its length, there was a slight gap before even the fleet Jerry could get the camera on me.

  After that, everything went perfectly.

  While the video package with my voiceover played, I kept my focus on that, not looking toward the anchor desk. A trick I’d learned with said ice cream-deprived nephew, who only cried when someone looked at him.

  Don’t look at him, no meltdown.

  With the camera back to me, I said into the lens, “We will bring you more on this important story in the days ahead. I’m E.M. Danniher of KWMT-TV. Back to you, Thurston.”

  “You shouldn’t promise the viewers you will have any more on this story, E.M.”

  Shock started my eyes toward him, but as he continued, I was back to the camera.

  “You can only say KWMT-TV will follow the story. But there’s no guarantee we’ll find out anything.”

  “KWMT-TV does promise our viewers that we will pursue this story with vigor and I will personally promise them that I will pursue it to the fullest extent of my ability.”

  I left the studio at the first commercial break with a brief wave to the control room and without making eye contact with Thurston, who cooperated by keeping his head down as if reading his script.

  My jaw throbbed from clenching my teeth.

  No inclination to chuckle at Thurston Fine’s foibles now.

  Heading for the exterior door to walk off my mad in the parking lot, still wearing my studio jacket and top, which was not a good idea because of how dusty the lot was, but too angry to care at the moment, I was stopped by the news aide on duty.

  “We’ve gotten calls.” Dale said that without much enthusiasm, which could indicate the calls were negative. Or his listlessness could be because Jennifer was out of town.

  “What did they say?”

  Dale looked up at the overhead TV screen, where Thurston was back on the air, repeating a news release from his country club verbatim. In the B block. As if it were news.

  “Pretty much everybody said they appreciate you pursuing the story and you’ll figure it out and tell them all about it in the end. One caller said, You go, girl. Tell that stuffed—” The phone rang. “You get the gist.”

  I stifled a grin. “Thanks, Dale.”

  It was a good enough lift that I U-turned and changed out of my studio clothes before heading for dinner — alone. I really missed Mike’s company for between-newscasts meals. And more.

  Back at the station, I tried to drag an official ID out of the sheriff’s department, the second time on-set just before I went on. No luck.

  With the Ten finished, I could really think through what came next.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Home, with Shadow curled around — and on — my feet, drinking a glass of wine on the front porch, looking out on the dark street, half of me filled with great content at the quiet, the calm, and the foot-warming presence of my dog.

  He appeared wholly filled with content.

  I liked to think some of that was my presence. I knew a lot of it was the teenage girl from down the street pinch-hitting for my vacationing next-door neighbors Iris and Zeb Undlin, my usual Shadow-care backup. Thanks to the neighbor girl, he’d eaten at his regular time and that added a whole lot of contentment and security for a dog who’d once nearly starved scrounging for himself.

  As for the half of me not filled with content, it was occupied with missing my usual cohorts in these inquiries.

  I missed Diana, gone home to her kids, like a normal person. I missed Mike and Jennifer, in Chicago, having adventures. And, yes. I missed Tom, even more out of reach.

  My phone rang. I jumped, the sound as loud as a siren in the stillness.

  Mike.

  Or
Mike and Jennifer.

  As I answered, I grabbed the wine glass and opened the door for Shadow and me. The topic of the upcoming conversation had the potential to disturb my street’s nighttime peacefulness more than the ring had.

  “Know more about the dead bodies yet?” Mike’s question confirmed my perspicacity in not answering with speakerphone.

  “Give me a second to get inside.”

  “What’s the first step to find the murderer?” Jennifer asked.

  “Gotta know who’s dead,” Mike said.

  “If you saw somebody kill somebody else, you’d know who the murderer was, even if you didn’t know who was killed.”

  “Yeah, but that didn’t happen in this case, so—”

  I didn’t try to intrude on their squabble until I was on the couch, the half-empty wine glass on the coffee table, and Shadow in the gap between the two.

  “Hey,” I said loudly. “Why bother to call when you two can go along on your own for hours?”

  “Sorry, Elizabeth,” Jennifer said.

  “We call because we want the news. The news behind the news you gave on the Five and Ten. All the news that putz declared you’d never get for KWMT — as if you haven’t done that a bunch of times already.”

  “We have,” I amended. “At least he didn’t repeat that on the Ten.”

  “He didn’t dare,” Jennifer said. “Dale messaged about the calls supporting you.” He had to be the source for their seeing the newscasts, too.

  “Thanks, guys. I have a tentative ID on the first victim. The guy run over by the horses.”

  Jennifer shuddered. “Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve had nightmares about that.”

  “Well, this time you don’t have to worry because he was probably already dead. You can see on the video that with the amount he was hit by the hoofs, there’d have been blood if he was still alive. That should make you feel better.”

  “A little sensitivity, Mike,” I urged. “Now, want to hear the ID?”

  This time they were unified. “Yes.”

  “The name’s Palmer Rennant.”

  Mike said, “There was a kid who played basketball and ran track at Cottonwood County High—”

  “His father.”

  “That’s rough. Good kid. Don’t think I met the father, but the mother’s nice.”

  “Her name’s Willa.”

  “She’s got to be a prime suspect,” Jennifer said promptly. “Spouse and girlfriend or boyfriend always are.”

  Mike grunted, conceding.

  “Diana’s checking with her friends and connections to see who knows what about Palmer Rennant and his family. Apparently, he and Willa were divorced a year ago, finalized about the time the son left for college. And remember, this ID isn’t a hundred percent.”

  “How did you get it?”

  I told them.

  Mike whistled. “Aunt Gee must be really worried about Mrs. P. How strange is she acting?”

  “She’s so contained, it’s hard to say. But with Aunt Gee thinking that…”

  “Agreed,” Mike said. “As for the ID, even with Aunt Gee being able to hold onto plausible deniability, I’d say it’s pretty darned close to one hundred percent.”

  “Not until it’s an official.”

  Jennifer came down on the side of Aunt Gee’s identification being one hundred percent accurate when she said, “I’ll do a background check on Palmer Rennant.”

  “Can you do that from there?”

  “Couldn’t have when I got here, but I can now. I’ve beefed up Mike’s system.”

  “You have? I only gave you the wi-fi password.”

  She scoffed with a click of her tongue.

  With that topic dealt with, I said, “The other thing we know is he bought the property the camp and reenactment had been held on for decades three years ago. After they used the land two years ago, he strung them along, then said they couldn’t.”

  “You think it’s significant his body was found at the new location?” Mike asked.

  “Possibly. No, I’ll go stronger than that. I don’t see how it’s not significant in some way.”

  “People in Cottonwood County know the events are held every other year,” Jennifer said.

  “So we should, what? line up all newcomers as suspects? We’d have to start with Elizabeth.”

  Jennifer retorted, “Hey, you’re the one not around there anymore.”

  “You’re not either right now. Besides, I’m still from there and I knew where the massacre was being reenacted.”

  “Skirmish,” I corrected him. “Besides, I’d have checked before I dumped a body, and then I’d have found out.”

  “You’re thinking that unless the killer wasn’t from here and wasn’t aware of Cottonwood County traditions and wasn’t smart enough to check, which led to them dumping the body where it would be found fast, then the killer wanted the body found fast.”

  “Yes. And nice recap, Jennifer. Otherwise, think of how many places the body could have been put in Cottonwood County and not found for a long, long time. Like—”

  “—that cave,” Mike and I ended together.

  “Could Rennant have been left there so the cave body would be found?”

  “Interesting question, Jennifer,” I said.

  “If that was the purpose — or a purpose — of leaving the body there, wouldn’t the killer have done a better job? It sounds like it was pretty much a fluke that you found the one in the cave.” Arguing with her own point — the girl truly was learning.

  “There might be an argument that it was a foreseeable outcome, considering the dynamics between Shelton and me, but that would rely on the certainty that I’d stand where I stood and he’d corral us toward the cave… I’d say pretty much a fluke. Still, having Palmer Rennant’s body there certainly increased the chances of the body in the cave being discovered.”

  “We keep saying the body was found there,” Mike said. “Was Palmer Rennant also killed there?”

  “That’s a good question,” Jennifer said.

  “I have another one. Since it wasn’t the horses, what did kill him?” Mike asked.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “I’ll see if I can access the postmortem,” Jennifer said.

  “That’s going to be tough, but if you got it, that would be amazing. And we’ll pursue other sources here.”

  From Chicago, Mike chuckled. “Penny, I suppose. And Diana’s contacts in the county. You know,” he mused, “if it’s shooting or stabbing, we can be pretty sure he wasn’t killed there. Same theory as the horse’s hoofs — no blood on the ground around him.”

  “True, but that’s a big if. He could have been strangled or poisoned or—”

  “Electrocuted,” Jennifer said.

  “You have that on the brain. Besides, that’s accidental.” To me, Mike said, “She was impressed by a lightning storm over Lake Michigan earlier in the week.”

  “It was amazing.”

  Reining them in, I said, “Unless and until we know a cause of death, we’re going to have a hard time knowing for sure if he was killed there or the body was left there.”

  “What about how long the body was there?”

  “Another one law enforcement won’t know for sure until they get all their forensics reports.”

  “But?”

  “But what?” I asked Mike.

  “That’s what I’m asking you. There was a definite buildup to a but in that answer about law enforcement and forensics, especially with that know for sure.”

  “Mmm,” I conceded. “We have more to go on with how long the body was there than whether he was killed there or dumped there.”

  “Like what?” Jennifer asked.

  “First, I asked the reenactors if they’d ever been to that spot before. They said they’d had a quick run-through with the miner reenactors last Sunday, before the Two Rivers Camp started. No body then. I need to check if any of the organizers were up there during the week. Didn’t have time to ask
Mrs. P before Shelton and his buddies showed up.”

  I continued, “The second major element is what Diana and I saw at the scene. Starting with the body. The paint on his back wasn’t nearly as fresh as the reenactors’ — the edges were blurred, which could be from rain last night. Or, possibly, from being there longer. But I don’t think so.”

  “Why don’t you think so?” Mike asked.

  “Shelton got us out of there before they moved the body, so I can’t be sure, but I didn’t see decomposition to indicate more than a couple days.”

  Jennifer half-swallowed an eww sound.

  “Besides, from his position and holding it after the horses, I’d think rigor mortis had to be in effect. That’s roughly twelve to twenty-four hours after death. But that’s not firm with conditions like cooler temperatures — like from last night’s rain.”

  “You’re saying twelve to twenty-four hours give or take — but how much give or take? Another twenty-four?” Mike asked.

  “I’ll check with a source tomorrow.”

  Jennifer asked, “How does this even help us?”

  “Narrows the window of how long he was there, which helps with when he could have been killed, and that ties in with alibis — if we’re lucky. We did catch one break.”

  “What’s that?” Mike asked.

  “Something to do with the body?” Jennifer asked with markedly less enthusiasm that he’d shown.

  “No. It has to do with the weather and tracks in the area. It rained most of last night.”

  “That’s why the paint was worn off,” Jennifer said.

  “Probably some. Although the body was sort of protected under an overhang of rock. Did you see it in the video?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said.

  “So, I don’t know how much the rain would have affected the paint. But it did affect tracks. There were none on the east side as I climbed up. I can’t be as sure on the west side. But I can say I didn’t see anything that looked like vehicle tracks except the utility vehicle O.D. Everett and Mrs. P came in. Which I’d think I would, even under the hoofprints. Unless the reenactor riders worked really hard to obliterate them, which I don’t believe. When they went charging in there, they definitely were not organized. Plus, the hoofprints behind the rock formation weren’t dense enough to wipe out vehicle tracks except in a couple places—”