Frogskin and Muttonfat (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Two)

by Carol Caverly

  We wove our way to the maze of corrals that held the animals for the upcoming events. Horses and cowboys were everywhere. Kendall knew them all.

  “There’s Jimmy,” Kendall said. “He’s my partner. We own Clover together.” He pointed to a group standing by a big wooden gate. A girl wearing purple cowboy boots and short short cut-off jeans clung to the gate, swinging out with it whenever it opened, and stretching up and over the top rail when it was closed to talk to a cowboy who leaned against the fence on the inside. The view she provided was greatly appreciated by the onlookers.

  “My, my,” Kendall said under his breath. “Look what Jimmy’s found.” When we got closer he called out, “Hey, Jim.”

  The man on the other side of the fence turned and acknowledged the greeting. His striking oriental features took me by surprise. This seemed to be my day for ethnic comeuppances. First an Indian Tarot reader, now a Chinese cowboy. Or maybe he was Japanese.

  “Ken,” he said, “where’ve you been, man? I’ve been lookin’ for you. Hear you drew Sundog.”

  “Thea, this is Jimmy Chin, the best damn steer-roper in these parts.” Jimmy Chin was older than Kendall, more my age. His straight black hair was cut short and close to his head and showed a few flecks of early graying. Not overly tall, he had the flexible, lean-hipped shape that give jeans a good name. Attractive. And I figured my first guess was right. Chin sounded like a Chinese surname.

  “This is Thea Barlow,” Kendall continued. “From Chicago, if I remember right. I flew her in from Casper this morning.”

  “Chicago?”

  I nodded.

  “You wouldn’t be Max Holman’s friend, would you?”

  “You know Max?”

  “Sure. We do some pick-up steer-roping together out at Buster Brocheck’s now and then.”

  That name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t think why. He must have sensed my question.

  “Max is drilling his well on Brocheck’s place. As a matter of fact, that’s old man Brocheck, over there.” He pointed to a rider in the arena, herding a group of calves to the other end. There was no mistaking the man or his belly. He was much more in his element here on an enormous horse than in the gimcrack-filled gift shop where I had first seen him.

  “No wonder the name sounded familiar. I met him a bit ago at a store in town.”

  “Yeah, you don’t forget someone his size easily. Old devil’s still hell on a horse. He works all the rodeos around here. Contracts the calves for them.” He turned his attention back to me. “Anyway, Max is drilling on Brocheck’s ranch. In fact, I saw him there this morning. He’s not a happy man about having to stay on the site.” He laughed and added in an exaggerated drawl, “Yep, I learned some new words I ain’t never heard before.”

  “Hey Mavis, is that you?”

  I looked up at the girl still perched on the gate. She wore a too-large cowboy hat that hung over her ears, but there was no mistaking those guileless blue eyes.

  “Mavis?” Kendall asked.

  “Sorry about that,” she said. “A little in-joke among us girls.”

  “We’re both staying at Racy Ladies,” I explained. “Our rooms are named after the Ladies of the Night who plied their trade there. My room’s Mavis.”

  “And mine is Big Boobs Lu.” She laughed as both men’s eyes went directly to those accoutrements. “My real name is Phoebe Zimmerman,” she said, directly to Kendall.

  “Give me my hat, honey-love,” Jimmy Chin said. His sardonic tone seemed to escape her. She giggled as he reached up, took the hat from her head and put it on his own.

  Her brown hair was cut in one of those short-in-back, longer-in-front styles with the top layer glazed with some kind of bronzy red dye. Henna, probably. I guessed it was way, way cool.

  Jimmy Chin pushed through the gate and joined us.

  Phoebe rode the gate through its swing, then jumped off, flashing her exposed butt cheeks at an appreciative Kendall. Cheers and catcalls rose from the other cowboys lounging around the fence. Phoebe laughed and joined them in a good-natured exchange of insults.

  Jimmy Chin shook his head and grinned at me. “Buckle bunny heaven around here.”

  “Buckle bunny?”

  “Rodeo groupies. Looking for the guys with the biggest championship buckle. Come on,” he called over his shoulder to Kendall, who’d slung his arm casually over Phoebe Zimmerman’s shoulder. Her glimmering red head came up to his armpit. “Let’s get a look at that horse you drew to ride.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the loudspeaker voice rose above its usual drone. “The bucking stock will be out in a few minutes, but now we’ve got a treat for all you out-of-towners here to help celebrate Wild West Days. A special guest. None other than Kid Corcoran.” The name was drawn out and milked for every bit of pseudo-excitement possible. “Last of the old-time bandits. This is a real piece of history, folks. Stand up, Kid. Let’s give him a big hand.”

  At the mention of the Kid’s name, Jimmy Chin stopped in his tracks. He and Kendall exchanged a long look over Phoebe’s bright head. Kendall took off his hat and ran his fingers nervously through his dark curls before replacing it and tugging the brim farther down on his forehead.

  “Shit,” I heard one of them say in a near whisper.

  It was just a brief moment, a tiny stoppage of time, then everything continued as before. I hadn’t even noticed if Phoebe had reacted to mention of the Kid. She had her back turned, flirting with a cowboy coiling a rope. Still, there seemed to be some kind of a nasty undercurrent.

  “Let’s go,” Kendall said. “Coming with us?” he asked Phoebe.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I chimed in, curious. “Tell me about this Kid Corcoran. Do you know him?”

  “Yeah, I’ll go with you,” Phoebe said, as if I and my question didn’t exist. She glanced at the large-faced watch on her wrist. “But only for a minute,” she said breezily, “then I’m out of here.” She took both Jimmy and Kendall by the elbow and walked off.

  “Tell me about Corcoran,” I insisted, catching up and taking a place by Jimmy’s side. “What did he do?”

  He seemed reluctant to speak, but finally said, “He’s just a two-bit ex-con, who made a name for himself around here a long time ago. Now they’re trying to make a celebrity out of him.”

  Kendall added, “Pretty stupid, if you ask me.”

  “What did he do?” I asked again.

  “Hell, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask some of the old-timers.”

  “He never should have come back here.”

  “It’s his home, too, isn’t it?” I said, feeling a twinge of sympathy for an old man nobody wanted.

  Jimmy didn’t answer the question. “It’s one thing I hate about this town,” he blurted with exasperation. “At the drop of a hat someone goes off on a wild hair about some fool thing that happened a hundred years ago and it’s like the Hatfield’s and the McCoy’s again. Families fightin’ families; old lies and old hatreds rarin’ their ugly heads.”

  We approached the corral and the two men broke away from Phoebe’s hold, glad to change the subject and get on to more important things.

  Jimmy slapped Kendall on the shoulder and said, “You are one unlucky son of a bitch to draw that sidewinder. You’ll need to rake him high for the points. That might keep him from spinning.”

  An unusually silent Phoebe trailed reluctantly behind with me while Jim and Kendall played out their strategies.

  “How’s your story coming along?” I asked her casually. “Are you getting some good material?”

  “Shit, I’ve got to kiss the old fart’s ass before—” She stopped, remembering her tale about doing a rodeo story, and glared at me.

  I laughed, then offered a flag of truce. “Don’t worry, I knew you had to be here for Kid Corcoran. I wasn’t exactly up front with you, either. I’m an editor for Western True Adventures magazine. I’m interviewing Kid Corcoran, too, for one of those last-of-the-living-legends kind of things. At any rate, I’m no
t competition,” I said, trying to reassure her. “In fact, I might be a market. If you have some other kind of an angle, I could be interested in seeing your story.”

  Of course, there was a healthy dab of curiosity mixed in with my altruism. Was she aware of the undercurrents that surrounded the Kid? Had she talked to Hildy, the jade lady? It seemed obvious to me that even Jim and Kendall knew more than they were telling, but I was a stranger here, and small town Wyoming tends to be very protective of its own, even unwanted ex-cons.

  I was also well aware that, rightly or wrongly, writers tend to salivate in the presence of editors, and I was ready to take advantage of it. But Phoebe didn’t respond as expected; she didn’t jump on my offer; in fact, she ignored it.

  “You were really pumping those guys,” Phoebe said. “I’ve already done one human interest piece on Corcoran for a Riverside, California, paper,” she said, totally pleased with herself. “My first by-line. The paper had me doing all their trash work, covering stupid community stuff, but I found Corcoran in an old folks’ home.”

  I remembered the piece. “Yes, I’ve seen it. I have it in my file.”

  “A San Francisco paper picked it up and ran it, too.”

  Which really was a coup. “And you said your paper sent you here for a follow-up?” I couldn’t help sounding incredulous.

  She made an ugly little snort. “They wouldn’t pay shit for anything.”

  “So you came on your own?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  I shrugged. “Just wondered if it would be worth your while, is all.” Plane tickets don’t come cheap.

  “The paper promised to buy the story,” she said defensively. “I need more by-lines; I don’t plan on being their gofer forever.”

  “Well, let me see the piece when you’re finished. It might mean another sale for you. What’s your angle going to be?”

  “Oh, the usual old-geezer-goes-back-to-the-homestead kind of thing,” she said, mimicking my earlier statement. She gave me another one of those wide-eyed guileless looks she did so well.

  I didn’t believe a word of it. Either she knew more about Kid Corcoran than I did, or she was incredibly stupid. And not for one minute did I think she was stupid.

  Six

  Jim and Kendall had joined a serious group of cowboys clinging to the wooden slats of a corral, weighing the various merits of the bucking stock. Phoebe and I climbed up beside them. The horses didn’t look very fierce to me, but what did I know? The guys were still deeply involved in how Kendall was going to handle his ride, and speculating on which way the bronc would turn when he came out of the chute. The heat and dirt and droning loudspeaker beat down continuously, turning my brain to a numb mush.

  Phoebe lost interest now that everyone’s attention was on the horses rather than her. She looked at her watch pointedly and said she had to leave for an appointment. I inferred from the smug, satisfied look she threw at me that she was off to interview the Kid. Good for her.

  Tiredness descended on me like a crushing weight. I felt committed to stay and see Kendall’s ride, but after that it would be a nice soak in the tub for me, and bed no matter how early it was.

  I must have looked pathetic. Jimmy broke away from his discussion with Kendall and said, “Had enough? You don’t have to hang around here if you don’t want to.”

  “Oh, yes she does,” Kendall broke in with a hoot. “She’s my lucky charm.”

  His boundless good humor was endearing. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m just going to look around a bit and get something cold to drink. Anybody want anything?”

  They both declined, and I set off for the concession stand, thinking I might even have another barbecue sandwich if they were still serving. I opted for homemade apple pie instead, with a big glob of ice cream on top. Straddling a picnic bench, I leisurely forked the wonderful mess into my mouth and watched the action.

  The loudspeaker squawked and crackled. “Just a reminder, folks, that we’re drier than sin around here, so watch your sparks and butts. While you’re at it, be sure to take in the display put on by our local county fire department. All volunteers. Let’s give those boys a great big hand.”

  Cars and pickups still inched their way in and out of the entrance gates, mostly ignoring the ineffective hand signals from the kids directing traffic. With squealing tires, an impatient driver in an open brown Jeep swung wide around the stalled line of vehicles waiting to leave the grounds. The Jeep rocketed into a small opening at the head of the line. I recognized the driver instantly, no mistaking that strangely colored hair. Kid Corcoran sat beside her, hanging on to the seat, his plastic oxygen hose flapping in the wind as they turned out of the grounds and accelerated down the street.

  Well, well, well, I thought, where were they going? Lois Lane looked pissed. Was this what she meant by having to kiss his ass? I tried to remember the conversation I’d overheard this morning between the kid and Florie. He had wanted her to take him somewhere. What had he said? “I want to see the old place”? Was that it? Had he conned Phoebe into taking him there? Could be.

  The thought of Phoebe having to deal with Kid Corcoran’s orneriness made me smile. Ha! And she thought her paper treated her like a gofer.

  I dumped my paper plate in a trash bin, and circled a stationary horse and rider blocking the way to the drink stand. Garland Caldwell stood on the other side of the animal, close to the horse, an arm on either side of the saddle, smiling up at the rider. A female, of course. Surprise, surprise. She wore a shocking pink Stetson and matching riding pants. I couldn’t read what was on the sash that crossed her blouse. A rodeo queen of some kind.

  Caldwell nodded at me with a conspiratorial wink. I didn’t see his wife anywhere. Was there a name for male buckle bunnies? I quickly purchased a large lemonade with extra ice and headed back around the arena.

  Jimmy Chin met me more than halfway. “I was looking for you,” he said. “I didn’t want you to leave before I had a chance to talk to you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, Max asked me to fix you up with some kind of wheels. I should have mentioned it earlier.” He had a slow smile and flashing dark eyes. Very attractive.

  “Yes. Max said something about a car when I spoke to him on the phone.” I wasn’t about to tell this buddy of his just how uninterested in Max Holman I was at this particular moment.

  “You must be dead on your feet, but would you be up for a late dinner? I won’t be finished here until around seven, but after that, say eight o’clock, I could round up those wheels for you, and we could grab a quick bite.”

  “That sounds great.”

  “Do you like Chinese? It’s too late to get a reservation at Racy Ladies, but—”

  “Racy Ladies?”

  “It’s the best place in town to eat.”

  “It is?” I don’t know why that surprised me, but it did. I guess I was remembering Florie Dunn’s rather pathetic eagerness for customers, and the general impression of nobody ever being around.

  “Best food in town. Everybody hangs there, particularly on a night like this.”

  I suppose these were big doings for Rawhide.

  “I adore Chinese,” I said.

  “I hope so.”

  “Food,” I added quickly, with a grin that matched his. Nothing like a mild flirtation to chase the blues away. But I couldn’t compete with the flash that sparkled in his dark, dark eyes.

  “You know, you don’t really have to stick around for Ken’s ride if you don’t want to. He will survive.”

  “Of course I’ll stay. How could I pass up an opportunity to be someone’s lucky charm?”

  By five-thirty I’d witnessed Kendall’s Ride of the Century and been duly amazed. Now Kendall was off somewhere, and Jimmy was getting ready to go help someone else prepare for a chuck wagon race. A good time to exit.

  Jimmy touched his finger to my cheek. “I’ll pick you up at eight at Racy Ladies. Okay?”

  I nodded. Fish your heart
out, Max Holman.

  I welcomed the walk back to Racy Ladies; it eased some of the guilt I felt about the pie and ice cream. The approach by foot and from a different direction also gave me an interesting side view of the bed and breakfast and its small parking lot.

  The building was much deeper than one would have thought from the front. It looked as if several additions had been randomly tacked onto the back of the house with little attempt at harmony. Odd portions of rooms jutted out here and there from the side of the building, making it look like a three-story rabbit warren. At the rear, facing me, a flight of rickety stairs led to an open wooden porch. Another, shorter flight of stairs led from the porch to a door in a dormer. The door’s window was curtained, leading me to believe it might be a separate apartment of some kind.

  Web Corcoran sat on the porch watching my progress. I waved, and impulsively crossed the lot to stand at the base of the porch.

  “Hi,” I said, looking up at him. “Out for a smoke?”

  He was silent, his gaze cold and calculating. He took a long, slow drag on his cigarette. His small frame appeared tougher, harder, more vigorous, sitting out here in the old spring-based metal chair, one foot propped on a low railing. Maybe because he didn’t have his oxygen. Strange how that small length of plastic tubing could disguise, or diminish, a person’s personality. I wondered how badly he needed it. I didn’t see his cane, either.

  “I was at the rodeo and heard you get introduced,” I said. “Did you enjoy the show?”

  Silence. Another long drag, but his eyes never left my face. Trying for intimidation? Or was it just his manner? Social skills are probably not something one feels obliged to hone during forty years in the pen. Or maybe he was always this way, an antisocial child, an antisocial adult. Not a bad description of most criminals, I suppose.

  I remembered my conversation with Hildy in the gift store. She’d called Corcoran a murdering thief, said he’d slit his own mother’s throat if he had to. It might well have been a figure of speech, but at this moment he looked capable of committing crimes much worse than those he’d been convicted of. I knew I’d fallen into the familiar trap of assuming that a quaint piece of history dredged up from crumbly old newspapers was the whole story. When dealing with the living rather than the dead it pays to remember that your little piece of history isn’t history to them, it’s their life.