Left Hanging (31 page)

Mike’s mouth twitched. “No, not even Evan Watt. Which means there’s a murderer loose. And—” he added with a jerk of his head toward KWMT-TV. “—Cottonwood County’s brain trust isn’t looking for him.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

“I’VE GOT TO GET to the rodeo grounds.” Diana grimaced. “Haeburn wants shots of the case wrapping up, the rodeo returning to normal.”

“Normal.” Mike snorted. He stretched, arms overhead, yawning hugely, impressive abs pressing against the front of his clean shirt. “More like figuring out how to go about calling off the Fourth of July Rodeo for the first time. The rodeo committee’s getting cancellations left and right. They’re meeting with Street this morning about how to pull the plug.”

“Then everyone will go their separate ways—taking different routes from the crossroads,” I said. “So, we’d better get back to the rodeo grounds, before we run out of time.”

He groaned. I didn’t blame him. I felt like groaning, too. The hovel had never seemed so alluring.

MIKE DROVE US to the rodeo grounds, pulling in behind Diana.

On the way, I’d filled him in on the substance of my patio encounters with Linda and Grayson from the previous night. He told me what little he’d learned while chauffeuring rodeo committee members to their vehicles, though he suspected one of them of being one of Tom’s sources on the bribe.

“So, what now?” he asked as he parked his four-wheel-drive.

There were new holes among the ranks of parked pickups and campers, and I saw a few groups who appeared to be packing up. Beyond the rodeo office, police tape encircled Watt’s pickup truck and the picnic table.

“I think it’s time to hit Zane harder. He’s—” My cell interrupted. Caller ID said Mel Welch. At this time of the morning? “I’ve got to get this.”

“I’ll tackle Zane,” he offered, and headed off as I answered.

Mel sounded frantic. “Are you all right? I tried and tried to call you last night, but you didn’t answer, and you didn’t return my calls.”

“I’m sorry, Mel, I was at the hospital and—”

“
Hospital?
You’re wounded. Oh, my God, I’ll never forgive myself. We can get a flight out and—”

“No! No, Mel. I’m fine. I was at the hospital’s waiting room. A suspect in—” I edited myself in time. “—a crime might have tried to commit suicide.”

“In jail?”

“No, in a pickup.”

“But they were arrested.”

“Who was? Mel, what are you talking about?”

“That horrible shootout you were in the middle of yesterday.”

It took a couple beats to remember the episode at Hiram Poppinger’s ranch. That couldn’t possibly be just yesterday afternoon
 . . .
but of course it was. What also threw me off were the words
horrible
and
shootout
.

“How on earth did you hear about that?” Another implication hit me. “You
cannot
tell my parents, Mel. If you say—”

“Good God, no.”

That held such genuine horror, I didn’t press the point. “How did you hear about it?”

“I saw your report. A very nice young lady at KWMT-TV sends them to me electronically.” I was impressed he knew how to watch them. “That was an excellent story. Frightening, but excellent. And that other reporter with you
 . . .
he’s, uh, quite good-looking, isn’t he? Do you work together a lot?”

I heard the echo of Mel’s wife Eileen behind that probe. “Paycik? He’s sports. I’m consumer affairs.”

“Oh, yes, of course, of course. I was shocked they tried to pull that scam after you’d aired your first report the evening before. How foolhardy.” He made other comments that proved he’d not only watched those reports, but others. It was touching. Less touching was when he segued to a familiar strain. “Are you really staying there? I know you said so, but
 . . .
What will you do with yourself?”

“My job. The job you got me.”

“I wish I hadn’t. You know that talk show in St. Louis—”

“Mel. I’m staying to work out my contract, and to sort out
 . . .
things.” Like what kind of reporter I truly was. “Maybe eventually I’ll decide talk show is a direction to go, but I’m not ready to commit now. Tell them I don’t want the job.” I’d have loved to add
tell my parents
, too, but I wouldn’t foist that on him.

“If I were a better agent—”

“Hey, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have a job.”

“Some job for E.M. Danniher. Twice a week? You’d be climbing the walls if it weren’t for these burglars and that murder in the spring.”

“How do you know
 . . .
Never mind. What matters is that you cannot tell my parents.”

He snorted. “You think if your mother knew I’d still have any skin?”

“You make her sound like Hannibal Lecter.”

“Scarier. But I can’t blame her or your father, since I sent you out there.”

“No, you didn’t, Mel. I’m responsible for my being here and what I do while I’m here.” I said that off the top of my head.

A beat later I realized its truth. I’d been numb when Mel set out my options last winter, so I couldn’t claim coming here as an active choice. But I
had
chosen to stay.

And I was responsible for what I did here. Not Wes the Ex. Me. Wes had pushed me, and for that, I might thank him—at least in my head—at some point when I thought of him without grinding my teeth. But
my
ability had made the most of each new situation.

I laughed.

“Sure, you can laugh,” Mel said morosely. “You’re several large states away from your mother.”

I laughed more. “Not only that, but it’s a sunny, blue-skied Wyoming day, and I’ve been doing some damned fine reporting. I’m doing you the favor, Mel, of not telling you any more about it, so you have full deniability.”

“Oh.
Oh
. Thank you.” Catherine Danniher would never fall for that ploy and would give him heck for it eventually. Mel, poor baby, was caught between a rock and a hard place—two Danniher women. “Well, you sound good. But how will you keep yourself occupied?”

“There’s that dog I’ve acquired. And my job and attending the local rodeo.” No sense mentioning I was attending because of a murder, an attempted murder, and a give-it-a-shot try aimed at me. “And I might take up cooking.”

“You’ve always been a great baker, but do you think that’s wise? Your father is concerned about that house’s oven.”

“Poor Mel—I told them it was my choice entirely. But as a matter of fact, I’m talking about cooking, not baking. Go to the Farmers’ Market each day for fresh ingredients, grow my own vegetables. Real Earth Mother. I might stop coloring my hair and let the gray show.”

“You color your hair?”

“Oh, Mel,” I said through laughter, “Eileen should not let you out alone.”

STILL SMILING after hanging up, I checked my messages, phone and email, guiltily deleting the ones from Mel. Among all the usual detritus was an email yesterday from Jennifer with the subject line of
Rodeo Queens Complete List
.

As I looked around for Mike or Zane, I opened the message and skimmed down the list, starting with the familiar names of the women from the past eight years, then unknown names before spotting Vicky Upton near the beginning.

I was poised to close the list when a niggle of delayed recognition hit. I scrolled more slowly back up the list.

And there it was. An entirely unexpected connection.

I whistled softly.

I looked around again, saw plenty of activity, including a glimpse of Richard Alvaro talking to someone on the rodeo office porch, but no Mike or Zane.

Before I decided where to try, I heard shouting from near the arena and headed that way. Raised voices guided me, though no words came through. The next shout was either a man or a woman who shouted like a man.

“Go to hell!” came another shout, this one definitely female. Pauline’s blue-streaked hair showed as she ran away from the concessions stand area toward the front gate.

I took off after her. With less speed, but a better angle, I cut her off before the gate and grabbed her arm.

“Get off me, bitch!”

“I see you’re your usual charming self this morning, Pauline.”

She froze at the name. Then she resumed snarling, “Let go of me.”

“First, I want to know what you were doing by Evan Watt’s pickup last night.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“The guy who almost died of carbon monoxide poisoning in his truck, behind the rodeo office. I saw you there.”

“Yeah? So what? Everybody was there. Wanted to see what all the excitement was about.”

“You disappeared. Didn’t stick around to help.”

“Wasn’t anything I could do. He—Somebody was pulling that thing out of the exhaust pipe. People were all over. That Newton guy who owns the place, the cowboy, and that TV guy. So I split.”

I was a little slow in responding because I was taking in something I should have spotted earlier. “The police want to talk to you, Pauline.”

“Don’t call me that. And why would they wanna talk to me?”

I debated pursuing the animus toward her name, but decided for this first girl-talk session I should avoid more conflict. “Your buddy Roy Craniston got in a shouting match with Keith Landry last Wednesday. What was that about?”

She sneered. “That old man came sniffing after me, like I’d ever let anybody that creepy touch me.” She and Heather had more in common than they knew. “I had it handled, but Roy butted in like always. Assholes.” That dispensed with both males.

“Do you remember anything they said?”

“Roy shouted some stuff about telling the world the creeper’s history if he didn’t leave Roy’s women alone. Made me gag.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do the police want to know about that?”

“Landry was killed the next night. They want to know about any disputes he had.”

“From what I heard that’s all he had.” Gee, I wondered who her source was on that? “The police can go—”

“They want to talk to everybody who was around last night.”

“Shit.”

It was uttered in such a resigned, disinterested tone that I dropped her arm. “You should go see Deputy Alvaro now. He’s by the rodeo office.”

“I’m not supposed to be in here,” she said with curled lip. But beneath the curl, there was more. Hurt? Or was I hallucinating from lack of sleep?

“Was somebody yelling at you about that? Is that what sent you running?”

“Yeah.” Lie.

“Or is there trouble with love’s young dream?”

She looked up. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

That was a genuine reaction. “You and Cas. I notice you didn’t mention him, though he was around last night, too. Protecting your love?”

She made a derisive sound. “Love. Yeah, right.” She sidestepped me and headed toward the gate.

“Police still want to talk to you.”

She gave me the finger without turning around. Or maybe the finger was for law enforcement. That thought gave me a nice cozy feeling about the progress of our relationship.

AS I HEADED back toward the rodeo office by another route, I spotted Stan Newton supervising removal of crime scene tape from where Landry’s body had been found. It seemed the man might have wadded up a bunch of tape himself. Instead, he was supervising two other men doing it.

Richard Alvaro stood a few yards away, dressed in the Wyoming uniform—jeans, boots, plain shirt, and black cowboy hat—rather than his deputy’s uniform. He looked glum.

“Deputy Alvaro, I’m glad to see you. There’s something—”

“I’m off duty and off the case. In fact, there is no case. Except an attempted suicide.”

“I heard. I’m sorry, Richard.”

“Not your fault.”

“What are you doing here on a day off?”

He still didn’t look at me, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “Same thing you’re doing here. Trying to solve the damn case.”

“I have something you might be interested to hear. Pauline—she of the blue-streaked hair—just went out the front gate and is likely to be with her fellow protestors. Unless she’s fleeing the law.”

His head jerked around toward the gate.

“I told her,” I continued, “the cops want to talk to her. I didn’t happen to mention that some idiots think there’s no longer a case.”

He gave a quick nod, strode toward the gate.

At the same time, Oren Street appeared at the edge of the warren of pens.

“Good morning, Oren.”

“Good for some,” he snapped. “Oh, yeah, this time they’re fine with letting the bulls move, since they belong to the
regular
contractor. But mine they kept separate like they’d got a disease or something. A day or more it was they kept ’em isolated. But since it’s the
regular
contractor, it’s all hunky-dory to take ’em back and let ’em rest. I’m not saying they shouldn’t rest after they got run like that—they should. But my stock got—”

“I’m fine, thank you for asking.”