Left Hanging (30 page)

“Did you hear what you wanted to hear?” I asked, loud enough not to be ignored.

He turned toward me in no hurry. “Couldn’t hear the words from this end.” It was no apology, more a comment of dissatisfaction.

“Do you think Watt tried to commit suicide because he killed Landry?”

“No.” That was either honest, or very smart.

“Did you try to kill him because he saw you string up Landry?”

“No.” What else would he say?

He moved nearer, so light from inside caught him, the top of his face shadowed by the ubiquitous black cowboy hat, while the jaw showed stubble in the stark artificial light.

“You can quit following her around, wondering when she’ll tell what happened. Your secret’s out. A lot more people than me know it,” I added quickly.

“Ma’am?”

“That’s what Linda was telling me—although I already knew you’d been one of Landry’s front men. The big break Landry gave you the year you were down on your luck, that wasn’t a favor. Whatever he gave you was paid for in full, though Linda Caswell was the one who paid.”

He didn’t react to that, either. I prodded more.

“I suppose that’s how you and Watt got to know each other, being studs in Landry’s stable.” No reaction. I kept spinning speculation, hoping I’d hit something that got a response. “Landry called you, demanded you come back to Sherman and serve again as his front-man. Threatened to spread the story far and wide about what happened five years ago.

“It would be a hell of a story. Tarnish that image of yours, scare off sponsors. And he’d have done it. He was taking more risks, drinking heavily. You knew he’d do it. So, you went to meet him after you arrived here. Maybe to reason with him, maybe to accept his demands, maybe with other intentions. You found him struggling to get free of a rope. He got it from his waist, to his chest, to his neck.

“It was there—right there. So simple, and it would be over. The hold he had on you. What he was doing to those women, to the rodeos. It would all be over. A pull—not hard for a man of your strength. That’s what you did, isn’t it, Grayson? Tell me. Tell me what you did.”

Slowly he lifted his head, the hat’s shadow receding before the light. He looked like he’d aged a decade. “I told him to do his worst.”

“Landry wouldn’t give up that easily. He—”

“He didn’t. He called Watt and demanded he get his ass over to the arena because there was work to do. Watt was too drunk to hang up his phone, much less go anywhere. I’d gotten Watt into his camper when Landry called me again. He was so sure I’d bow to his threats. I told him to go to hell, left Watt’s camper, and went to bed. That’s all I did. With this happening to Watt, I wondered
 . . .
But no way he could’ve gotten to the arena that night.”

“You wondered if Watt killed Landry?”

A single shake of his head. “Saw something.” He turned on his heel, heading for the door.

“Grayson, I need to know—”

“I got nothing more to tell you, E.M. Danniher,” he said without turning back or pausing. He stepped inside and was gone.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

He’d confirmed his role—Landry pressuring him to repeat by threatening to reveal his past, the phone call—but without giving me a pry bar to use for further information.

I sat there, seeing the convention of black cowboy hats, the unidentifiable individuals under those hats coming together and moving apart in an intricate and unrecognizable pattern that became a square dance that involved Gary Cooper, John Wayne, Joel McCrea, and Jack Palance. Their hats turned white, striped, then back to black as they danced.

I WAS STILL sitting on the wall when Tom came out and handed me a cup of coffee. “You okay?”

“Sure. Where’s Mike?”

“Volunteered to run a couple of the rodeo committee to their cars at the rodeo grounds.” He tipped his head, and I could tell from the angle and gleam of his eyes that he was watching me. “I didn’t mean to intrude on anything between you and Mike.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, the extension cord was to see how a rope—”

“I didn’t mean that. Meant overall.”

I said nothing. Because there was nothing in my head. Not an answer, not a thought. Except a vague idea that if I were lucky, he would let it drop.

I wasn’t lucky.

“Is there something between you and Mike Paycik?”

Now well-worn words and phrases about colleagues and interests in common and working together tumbled through my mind. None of them came out of my mouth. “I don’t know. Maybe there could—I don’t know.”

He sat back a little, still watching. I knew the instant he decided to let it rest, even though it took another minute before he spoke.

“Okay. So, what are you doing out here?”

“Thinking.” I might have dozed, too. “About the murder. What’s been happening at the rodeo,” I added.

“Any conclusions?”

“Not one. All I see are black hats. Doesn’t anybody around here know only bad guys wear black hats? Are the bad guys the ones emulated even in cowboy culture? I thought you guys were all about the cowboy way, and being gentlemen and having honor.”

“We are.”

I threw up the hand not holding a coffee cup in exasperation at that succinct and unhelpful answer. “Then why don’t they wear white hats if they want to be thought of as good guys?”

He regarded me for a long moment. Such a long moment that I had tensed for his accusation that I’d displaced frustration onto cowboy hats. I’d started composing a devastating response to such an observation, when he said, “Seems to me you’re overthinking this, E.M. Danniher.”

“Oh, yeah?” That was not my devastating response. I had to ad lib. He’d thrown me a curveball, especially since I had a feeling he was applying his observation about my overthinking to more than the topic at hand.

“Want a straightforward answer? Ask the straightforward question.”

I toyed with allowing my bubbling anger to flare and slamming him for condescension. Instead, I asked the straightforward question.

“Why doesn’t anyone wear a white cowboy hat anymore?”

“Dirt.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

I LAUGHED. I laughed until tears started to flow. He gave me a napkin, went inside for more napkins to mop up the flow and a bottle of water to replace what I’d lost.

“Better?” he asked.

“Better.”

Definitely better. I’d said I hadn’t reached a single conclusion, and that was true, but pieces had begun to settle into loose groups. I thought I saw the murky shadow of a solution
 . . .
but was it right? I was tired. Very tired. And sore. And rattled. Still
 . . .

I blinked.

“Back?”

I blinked again, and Tom came into focus beside me. “Sorry?”

“You’d gone off some place. Pretty sure you’d come back. Didn’t want to disturb you if not.”

“Thank you.” And I
was
grateful for the time to put together my thoughts. Though it made me feel exposed that he’d sat there beside me, letting me forget his presence. I needed time to work this through. Time when I wasn’t tired and sore and rattled. And when I was alone. “I think.”

He smiled. A smile with a hint of self-satisfaction in it. “No problem.”

“ELIZABETH?”

I woke with a start. Mike sat sideways on the waiting room couch, facing me where I’d drawn up my knees and rested my head atop the back cushion. I rubbed a crick in my neck. “What’s happening?”

“Richard says to go home.”

Behind the counter that kept ravening hordes of waiting room waiters in place, there was a stir of activity. Through vertical blinds on a window facing east, the sky was startlingly brighter.

“Watt?” I asked.

“Not conscious. There won’t be an update until later today unless
 . . .
” Unless it was bad news. I rubbed harder at my neck. “They seem to think he’s got a chance. Tom left a while ago, caught a ride with a friend to pick up his truck at your place. He’s driving Tamantha to his sister’s. He said to let you sleep, but
 . . .
” He looked away from me, across the nearly empty waiting room.

“But?”

“You said something in your sleep. Like a bad dream. I didn’t want
 . . .
I woke you up.”

I didn’t remember a dream. But I certainly preferred being awakened over sleep-talking in a public place, even if Paycik was the only one to hear whatever my subconscious spewed.

“Thank you. Let’s go.”

Out in the hospital parking lot, the eastern sky was well past the first blush of dawn and into its rosy stage.

“Want to get breakfast or—”

Mike broke off his question to check his ringing phone, which he’d just turned back on. We’d all been asked to turn off our phones in the waiting room. “Diana,” he informed me before answering.

His end of the conversation consisted of “I can barely hear you,” followed by “She’s here with me. We were at the hospital all night because of Evan Watt,” a few grunts, a “Right now?” another grunt, then “Diana? Diana?”

He disconnected. “Diana says we should get to the station right now. She was whispering and talking really fast. Said she’s being sent out to the rodeo grounds to get B-roll. Then the line went dead. Go to the station?”

I straightened from an exhausted slouch. “Yes.”

I WAS SHAKEN. Definitely shaken.

Evan Watt was not one of nature’s noblemen. He was scruffy, at best. Lacked a few essential morals, as well as a crucial amount of calcium where his backbone should have been, and he chewed tobacco. But did I think he deserved to suffocate in his own ratty truck?

No, damn it, he didn’t.

The shaking of my calm shifted to a higher gear when we pulled into the KWMT-TV parking lot, where a gleaming dark blue four-wheel drive that somehow seemed to repel Wyoming dust sat in the prime parking spot.

“Oh, shit,” Mike said, expressing my sentiments precisely.

The big shots were back in town, at least our very own big shot was.

“I ORDERED THEM to leave my story alone, and they’ve been secretly reporting it. The whole time—the whole time!” Thurston squeaked in a range that should have been audible only to bats.

“Not the whole time,” I said. “There were those seven-plus minutes on Monday.”

Fine blanched.

Mike used the opening to say to Haeburn. “Are you aware that since Friday, Fine has logged almost every minute of airtime?”

Haeburn’s eyes goggled, and his mouth opened, but he caught himself before uttering anything useful. “I will review the aircheck from while I was gone, as usual.”

“I was in charge!” Fine bleated. “I was in charge, and even when I’m not, my contract says I get the top news story. I cover it, and I do the on-air. All of it. And they were doing it again, stealing my story.”

“You weren’t
covering
the story.”

“I was! I was covering the accidental death of Keith Landry, and you were ordered—”

“Deputy Alvaro has been investigating a murder—”

“Deputy Alvaro was ill-advised to take such extreme steps,” Haeburn interrupted. His pinkened scalp showed through thin hair, indicating he’d spent time in the sun lately. Golf? Swimming? Other recreation at this high-powered retreat? “When the county leaders were apprised on our return of this situation, we all agreed on this.”

I swung around to him, letting pass for now that he’d counted himself among the elected and appointed officials it was his job to report on. “Extreme? It’s only through his careful pursuit of a suspicious death that anyone knows it’s a murder.”

“You jumped to thinking it was murder because you hate men,” Fine said. We’d given Haeburn the general outline of Landry’s activities in hopes of getting the story covered adequately. Since Fine clung like a barnacle to Haeburn, that had meant telling him, too. “You and all those women who want revenge. You always stick together, dragging down a man’s reputation, spreading rumors about him after he’s dead. Just a bunch of emotional, hysterical—”

“I am not being emotional or siding with the women because those of us with ovaries always side together. My opinion has been formed based on Keith Landry’s actions. This guy was slime. What he did was the emotional equivalent of a roofie in their drinks.”

“What are the names of these so-called women who are saying this?” Fine demanded.

So-called
women? I restrained myself from addressing that. “I’m not giving you names of my sources in a murder investigation.”

“Murder,”
Fine scoffed. “It would be better left as a suspicious death.”

“Better for whom? The murderer? It’s not a matter of picking which you like. It’s a matter of what is.”

“Better for this community!” Fine’s face went blood-vessel-popping red. “Something you know nothing about. The Fourth of July Rodeo means everything to this county, to this town. And the rodeo must
 . . .
” His mouth closed, opened, and closed again, like his teleprompter had gone blank.

“What? The rodeo must what, Thurston? Go on? The rodeo must go on?”

Haeburn covered Fine’s inability to speak. “You can sneer at the rodeo all you want—”

“Not the rodeo.”

“—but you can’t get away from the fact of its importance to this community. A community that has suffered greatly from losing its civic and judicial leadership.” He glared at me, as if reporting the truth of what had been going on had been the problem.

“That was—” Mike started in our defense.

Haeburn talked over him. “The county’s leadership has put together a plan to bring Cottonwood back to its preeminent position.” So Aunt Gee’s report that the bigwigs had repaired to a mountain hideaway for a secret conclave on the county’s future appeared to be correct—no surprise there—and any recreational scalp pinkening was purely incidental. I could hardly wait to hear the details. “Having the rodeo’s reputation damaged would be harmful to the economy—segments of the economy.”

Certainly Stan Newton’s economy. I wondered how many bigwigs at the exclusive weekend getaway had financial ties to Newton or benefited from the Fourth of July Rodeo.

“Deputy Alvaro is not impeding the rodeo. He—”

“Deputy Alvaro is no longer in charge of—”

“Of all the idiotic—” Mike inserted.

“—the investigation. Because—”

“Richard Alvaro has done better work this week than all those so-called leaders produce in—”

“Because,” Haeburn shouted over me, “the leadership of this county is confident Watt’s attempt to take his own life resolves the matter.”

“What?”

“His attempt at suicide screams his guilt.”

“Suicide? With no note?”

“No need for a note,” Haeburn started.

“Because his so-called suicide attempt was busy screaming?” Mike scoffed.

“He was remorseful for killing Landry. It might even have been an accident.”

“What about siccing the bulls on me?” I demanded.

“He also felt remorse about thinking he’d killed you,” Haeburn added with ill grace, clearly not recognizing that Watt couldn’t have loosed the bulls on me. He wouldn’t have had time to get back to his truck, run it long enough to pass out and run out of gas before Zane found him.

“Or he was remorseful that he didn’t succeed in killing you,” Fine muttered.

Which, I admit, was a good line. But I ignored it and him. “It’s all wrong. If he killed Landry and made some half-hearted attempt to kill me, he would have waited to see if he succeeded before attempting suicide. No
 . . .
”

But I said no more. The gears of my brain had engaged. What was I thinking, gifting Haeburn and Fine with logic? They didn’t have the first idea what to do with it.

I turned and walked out. Diana followed. Mike remained.

Once I hit the parking lot, I turned to Diana. “Have you ever heard such absolute rot?”

She lifted one eyebrow. “Was it? Absolute rot, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Or,” she went on evenly, as if I hadn’t snapped at her, “are you reacting to the messenger more than the message.”

“I am not—” I bit it off. Forced air in and out of my lungs a few times. “It is hard to see the clowns take over again.”

“True. But we knew he’d come back.”

“A nice, localized avalanche would have improved the quality of life at KWMT. Although we’d have to get Thurston under that avalanche, too.”

“Wrong season. Is that really what has you worked up?”

I paced away, along the building’s blank side. When I made the turn to start back, I saw Mike come out, buttoning a clean shirt from the stock he kept at the station. They exchanged a few words as I neared.

“Alvaro,” I said to Diana, figuring Mike would catch up with the conversation. “He went out on a limb, and they’re more than willing to saw it off behind him.”

“You think you pushed him out on that limb?”

“Certainly didn’t discourage him.”

“Richard made his own decisions,” Mike said. “He wouldn’t thank you for taking that on your shoulders. Besides, Watt’s so-called attempted suicide can’t change the fact that Landry was murdered, and Richard was right. Nobody can say otherwise. Well, they can
say
it, but they’re idiots.”

“Do you buy that what happened with Watt was an admission of guilt?”

“He might have done it to divert suspicion.”

“Do you think Watt has it in him—that sort of fancy touch?”

“Once you know the principle, it’s not difficult. Can’t imagine he doesn’t know the principle—all winter there are reminders around here not to let your tailpipe get clogged if you get stuck in snow. Beyond that, it’s a matter of putting together the hose, funnel, and duct tape. One pass through the rodeo grounds, and you’d find everything you’d need. One-stop shopping.”

“I meant the diverting of suspicion. Do you think if Watt thought he was in trouble he’d stick around and try to divert suspicion? Or would he run?”

Paycik considered that. It was one of the things I liked about him. He listened, and he considered what other people said before giving a response.

“Run.”

I liked it even better when he agreed with me.

“Me, too. And the one-stop shopping you pointed out goes for anybody who’d want to fake a suicide to get rid of Watt.”

They both frowned, apparently assessing what I’d said.

Mike asked, “You started to say no-something in there. No what?”

“No, it wasn’t Watt sending the bulls after me.”

“Not enough time,” he said immediately.

“Exactly. Plus, the only thing that makes sense is if the bull attack was meant to scare us away. And the reason to scare us away was to give the carbon monoxide time to kill Watt.”

“You think somebody tried to murder him? Somebody who wanted him to take the fall?” Diana asked.

“If he wasn’t trying to commit suicide, that’s about the only other option. He didn’t accidentally attach a funnel onto his truck’s tailpipe and unthinkingly wrap duct tape around it and a hose that he absent-mindedly stuck into his truck’s back window.”