Left Hanging (4 page)

“Yes, I hear it’s a fine family. The
 . . .
” I dangled it for her to fill in a name.

She slid right by. “One of the county’s first, and such a history with the rodeo. Cas’ aunt, of course, owns Cottonwood Drive.”

That was supposed to mean something to me. I wondered if the unknown aunt owned a road. “And what is Cas’ last name?”

Her eyes widened, which might have been what allowed me to see the wheels turning behind them, as she considered evading, then quickly realized it wouldn’t take me long to find out by other means. But why hesitate at all?

“Newton.”

“Thank you.” I wrote the name in my notebook—not to remember it, but to see her reaction.

Caution slid over the honey. “Why’d you want to talk to Cas?”

“We’re reporting on Keith Landry being found dead here.” Her mouth twisted, likely a response to the circumstances of that death. “I understand Cas was here this morning.”

Okay, so I’d pushed the truth. I didn’t understand that at all. I guessed it, wondered it, hypothesized it. But sometimes pushing works.

She pushed back. “Oh, no, surely not.”

I gave a you’ve-got-your-story-I’ve-got-mine shrug. “I won’t know until I talk to him.” That line led directly to an impasse, so I shifted focus. “Your daughter is the rodeo queen?”

That explained the tiara, I supposed.

Her smile broadened into the genuine article. “Yes. We’ve worked so hard for this, and now she’s Queen of the Sherman Fourth of July Rodeo. She’s an even better roper than I was, or am. But the most important part of being rodeo queen is the scholarship. Biggest one for any rodeo queen in the state of Wyoming. It’ll make a difference when she goes off to college next year.” Pride gave her a glow, though it was too fierce to be entirely attractive. “And now she’s rodeo queen.”

Before I needed to produce a suitably impressed response, she looked up as if hearing the voice of God. But only if the voice of God came through the PA system of the Sherman, Wyoming Rodeo Grounds and He concerned Himself with the tie-down-roping competition beginning.

“Got to go cheer on Cas,” she said with a big smile. “It was nice to meet you in person.”

“Nice meeting you,” I parroted.

I’d started away when “Oh, Ms. Danniher” brought me back around to face her. She gave a little grimace, as if in sympathy. Yet I thought I caught a whiff of malice. “You have to watch where you walk around here, what with all the horses coming and going.”

I hadn’t, and there was no question about the whiff I caught now.

Chapter Four

I’VE WORKED IN Boston, where the brave muster true belief every year, while the rest pray to be proven wrong by the Red Sox.

I’ve worked in Washington, where the Redskins beat is second only to the White House. That’s when the Redskins are losing. When they’re winning, the President has to wait his turn.

And I’ve worked in Chicago, where the biggest gusts come from bellows of delight or sighs of despair according to the fortunes of the Cubs, White Sox, Blackhawks, Bears, and Bulls.

But I have never encountered a community whose identity is wrapped as tightly around a sporting event as Sherman and its rodeo. The Fourth of July Rodeo is religion, patriotism, and sex, rolled into four days of cowboys and beasts.

You’d never get that, though, from looking at the Sherman Rodeo Grounds. The grandstand has concrete block foundations, and the arena has sturdy structures. Other than that, there’s a general air of impermanence, like an open, dusty campground whose character changes depending on its current inhabitants.

The nightly rodeos are local workaday events. On weekends and other special occasions, the vehicles flowing into the Sherman Rodeo Grounds show more out-of-state plates, the competitors’ outfits flash added bling, and the concession stand flourishes.

Actually, I base that observation on experiencing two rodeos: the preview for locals back in May and this Thursday night regular rodeo. Not much of a sample, but Mike grunted agreement with my assessment. A grunt achieved from the distance he’d established after initially sitting right beside me. We were the only two in the grandstand’s upper reaches, with a gap of a good ten rows before the spectators below us.

I held myself in dignified isolation and watched the action in the arena. The structure of rodeo competition is uncomplicated.

A man gets on the back of an animal—bull or horse—which takes exception to a passenger. The man tries to hold on for at least eight seconds. If the trip lasts that long, style points figure in. But first you have to last that long.

That’s bronc riding (saddle or bareback) and bull riding. These are called roughstock events.

In the other events, man and horse are allies. That’s tie-down roping, team roping, and steer-wrestling. Plus barrel racing for “girls.” Mostly one man and one horse work together, but in team roping there are a pair of man-horse combos all going against one cow, which hardly seems fair.

In these events, time comes first, style earns no points, though infractions can earn time penalties or even disqualification. Not surprisingly, these are called timed events.

Apparently, the nuances beyond that rudimentary understanding are infinite to the initiated.

I’ve toyed with working rodeo into a consumer affairs report.

One pitfall I’d been warned about in doing consumer stories is the dearth of good video, and yes, we still call it video. Even though most stations on the planet shed video decades ago.

It’s hard to capture the drama of a senior citizen being scammed by a telemarketer last month. Rodeo, though, has built-in drama. Man vs. beast. Man and beast in union. Man vs. the clock. Man vs. himself. It also has color and emotion and action. Triumph and dejection. Great video. Now, if I found a barrel racer or roper with a consumer problem
 . . .

“Particularly that one,” I said aloud, as I spotted Cowboy Number Three, now identified as Cas Newton. He was among the final riders waiting to compete in tie-down roping.

I reached across the distance Mike had put between us.

Getting his attention wasn’t easy, since whatever attention wasn’t focused on the arena was on the hot dog rapidly disappearing into his mouth. I saw a potential career for him in hot dog-eating contests if this TV thing didn’t work out.

I tugged on the hot dog wrapper.

“Hey, it almost fell,” he protested.

“Know anything about the one on the far right, beside the light pole?” I asked. “I’d say the one in the black hat, but they’re all wearing black hats.”

Mike gave me the eye, silently demanding to be told why I was interested before he forked over information.

“I won’t shout it,” I said.

“I’m eating, and you smell like horse—”

“It’s my shoe, not me. Besides, I wiped it and wiped it and wiped it on the dirt. I hardly smell it at all now.”

“That’s because you’re used to it.”

“C’mon, weren’t you raised around this stuff?”

“That’s why I know not to step in it. Especially not in shoes like that with all that tread and grooves for it to get stuck in.”

“You want to know why I want to know?”

“You want to know what I know?” he shot back.

“I can find out what you know by other means. You can’t find out why I want to know from any other source.”

“You couldn’t find out what I know right now, though.”

I raised my brows. No one out-stubborned a Danniher.

He heaved a sigh, put the final bite in his mouth, and scooted closer. After chewing, he said, “I know I’ve said I wanted to learn by sitting at the feet of someone who’s built one of the great TV news careers, but I didn’t think they’d smell like this.”

“It’s an appropriate smell for where my career has landed.”

“Elizabeth—” Paycik started, all serious.

“You want to hear this or not?”

“Yeah.”

So, I told him about young Cas’ disappearing act, my next encounter with him, his Rodeo Queen watchdog, and her watchdog mother.

“Oh, yeah, you don’t want to mess with Heather Upton if you don’t want her mama on you like prickly pear.”

“Voice of experience with our Miss Rodeo Queen?”

“Give me a break. She’s a baby. Besides
 . . .
” On the final word his tone shifted from serious, and he waggled his eyebrows. “. . . I’m looking for a woman with experience and ambition.”

“It’s not ambition you’re after. At least it shouldn’t be what you’re after, because it’ll clash with yours. What you want in a mentor is plenty of experience. Besides—”

“Mentor isn’t—”

“—if you’re talking ambition, I’d say our Ms. Rodeo Queen and her mama have enough to go into the export business and never run out. Is there a Mr. Upton?”

Paycik had taken a drink from a cup that dwarfed even his hand, and swallowed before answering. “Died a long time ago. As long as I can remember, Vicky’s been a widow. Never heard her connected with any man. Focus always on Heather.”

“She talked about the girl getting a college scholarship.”

“A few of them. Not a full ride. She’s no scholar and not at a level to get a rodeo scholarship.”

“Rodeo scholarship? You’re kidding.”

He looked at me with surprise that appeared to match mine. “You didn’t know there are rodeo scholarships? There’s college competition, and top schools offer scholarships, though fewer for women. But Heather’s picking up smaller, local scholarships. No individual one’s enough money, but put together several, and they’ll help. And Sherman Rodeo Queen pays out all four years, as long as the queen stays in college.”

I thought of another possible aspect of a mother’s ambitions for her daughter, returning us to the original topic. “Any idea of Mama’s feelings about the boyfriend, Cas?”

“Never heard anything negative. He seems to be a good kid. His father’s not everybody’s favorite, bit of a blowhard if you ask me. Tried to exert pressure when I was looking at colleges to get me to go to UM, University of Montana—”

“That one I might have figured out on my own, given enough time.”

“—his alma mater. His disappointment was not subtle.”

“Used to getting his way?”

“Oh, yeah. Cas’ grandfather came from nothing. Newt—”

Newt
. As in eye of a toad. As in the name my memory had dredged up in connection with the rodeo grounds’ owner.

“—is acknowledged for working hard to build on what his daddy created. When he married a Caswell, that put him up there on the top rail.”

“That would do it, naturally.”

“You have no idea who the Caswells are, do you?”

“Nope. Though I got the sense from Vicky Upton that they’re a force to be reckoned with.”

“One of the first families, one of the first white families.” He considered that qualifier and added another. “One of the first respectable white families in the county. Their ranch passed from father to son and kept getting bigger. Until Walter Caswell had two daughters.”

“Cas’ father married one of the daughters?”

He nodded. “The older one. Inez. She died a few years back. And when their father died, too, the younger sister took over the family business. That’s Linda—Linda Caswell, chair of the rodeo committee. I would have introduced you earlier, if you and Diana hadn’t gone chasing after cowboys.”

“Oh?” Most likely the woman with Burrell. But jumping to conclusions was a quick way to get a broken neck. “Why would I want an introduction?”

“Family’s been part of the July Fourth rodeo from its start. As I said, she’s rodeo committee chair. That’s what she and Tom Burrell were talking about—what’ll happen to the rodeo now.”

“What
will
happen to the rodeo now?”

“Don’t know yet. Still talking with Landry’s partner, Oren Street. If they don’t hold the rodeo, it’ll still cost a lot of money with no chance of revenue. If they do, they could look heartless.”

I made a sound acknowledging it wasn’t an easy position.

“Linda will make a good decision. She’s smart, and she looks out for the county. One of those people who never holds an elected position, but has a lot to say about who is elected.”

Not my favorite type. I’ve known my share of kingmakers. The man I’d married had come to view himself as one. With me as his primary pawn.

For years, the changes in Wes had been slow, subtle, and ignorable. Until we were promoted to Washington.

When we arrived, we bought a suburban house within walking distance of a top elementary school, with the expectation that we’d soon send our kids there. When we left Washington for New York, we got an apartment in a high rise. Sure, it had an extra bedroom. Which immediately became Wes’ office.

What happened between those real estate purchases was that Wes found his soul mates in a certain class of Washington insider. The ones you never saw on talk shows, rarely saw interviewed, but always saw at the most important private parties. The ones who consider themselves kingmakers.

Some women marry a husband hoping he’ll change. I divorced mine wishing he hadn’t.

“And to think I could have met this paragon,” I said.

Mike cut me a look. “You’ll like her.”

I dialed back the sarcasm. “Guess I won’t know until I meet her. Hey, do you know anything about a connection between her and Grayson Zane?”

“Not really. She’s chair, and he’s competing here for the first time in a while. Why?”

“I thought he had a reaction to seeing her.”

He snorted. “Linda’s a great person, but Grayson has every variety of Belt-Buckle Bunny chasing him.”

“Belt whats?”

“Belt-Buckle Bunnies. Rodeo groupies. Especially chasing guys with the biggest belt buckles.”

“Is
biggest belt buckles
a euphemism for something else?”

“No. Nice mind you have, Danniher. The bigger the rodeo, the bigger the belt buckle the champion gets for winning. Top cowboys have serious hardware around their waists.”

Or considerably below their waists, considering where their belts hit. Whether Mike wanted to acknowledge it or not, with the chaps, tight jeans, and gaudy belt buckles, rodeo attire highlighted relevant portions of male anatomy. An image of what he would look like in that attire flickered behind my eyelids.

“Hey, look,” he said, entirely too casually.

Glad of the distraction, I looked where he pointed off to the side of the grandstand.

From this angle, the design of the pens made more sense than they did at ground-level. They were like a series of tic-tac-toe boxes put together into a grid. Then someone erased the cross-marks on every third row to create corridors allowing access to the boxes. A series of gates let workers direct animals from the boxes into one end of an assigned chute. Each chute’s other end opened into the arena, released in a clang of metal and a surge of adrenaline for all concerned.

Working amid one set of pens was a man in a bright green shirt. He was wiry and short, with bandy legs and arms, like a pipe-cleaner figure molded to sit atop a toy horse and never freed from that position. Only this pipe-cleaner figure had muscles. I saw the evidence as he slung a full bale of hay over the chest-high fence, then clambered over it to break up the bale. The bulls inside the enclosure appeared to appreciate the results, munching away.

“Uh-huh,” I said neutrally.

“That’s Oren Street. Keith Landry’s partner in the stock contracting business.”

“You and Jenks talked to him, right?”

“He clammed up on me,” Mike said with self-disgust. “I must have come on too strong. But we should talk to him more, right? Isn’t that one of the bases we need to cover on a story like this?”