Left Hanging

by Patricia McLinn

  “I have plans for lunch and a call coming in right after. From back East,” I added, bolstering the fib with detail, even as I wondered why I’d bothered.

  “After lunch, then. Two-thirty? I’ll come by the station.”

  “Fine.” I smiled, professional and neutral, because further delay made no sense.

  He stood.

  “There’s something else for you to check on,” I said.

  He stopped, looking at me politely.

  “We have reports that Keith Landry was shouting at nearly everyone he came in contact with Wednesday. Yet he had what appeared to be a cordial lunch at the Haber House Hotel with Stan Newton, Cas Newton, and Heather Upton. What was different about that lunch from Landry’s other encounters Wednesday?”

  “Ask Stan and Cas this afternoon,” Tom said.

  “I want a better idea of the situation before I ask them about it. Think you can find out, what with all your connections?”

  Tom lowered the front brim of his black cowboy hat in a leisurely nod—one motion that said yes, he understood the assignment, and yes, he expected to fulfill it, and yes, he recognized my undercurrent of snideness, and no, it didn’t rile him any. He started for the path.

  “Burrell?” I called, not prepared to be left with the laconic Westerner’s nod. No reaction. “Tom?” He turned. “Do you know where the county’s bigwigs have gone?”

  “No.”

  I squinted at him. “But you knew they were gone.”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Can’t reveal my source.” He said it deadpan.

  “If your source knows where the big shots are, or how to get in touch with them, it might be a good idea to get them back here.”

  One finger nudged up his hat’s brim. “You know,” the drawl came thick and slow, “we talked about that, my source and I, and we think it’s better to leave them where they are. Give Richard and you folks a chance to see what you can find out.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I WAITED UNTIL I was sure Burrell was out of earshot, but not a second longer. “Paycik, did you tell him about Richard’s doubts about this being an accident?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know what you think can be achieved with this—”

  “Like you said yesterday, asking questions, searching for inconsistencies.”

  “Yesterday I was fed up with Fine and more than a little bored.”

  “Has either condition changed?”

  No, but maybe other things had. Damn. If not even my family believed I’d built my own success . . . No. I wasn’t going to think about that now.

  “If Alvaro confirms foul play, it’s an official story. That makes it Fine’s. Fighting that could mean a quick end for both of us at KWMT. And if Richard confirms it’s not foul play, it’s not a story. Yesterday we had wiggle room. Now we don’t. It’s going to be cut and dried very soon. Fine’s story or no story.”

  “Soon, maybe, but not yet. Let’s keep digging and see where it takes us.”

  “Paycik.”

  “Elizabeth.” He gave me that smile the camera loved, with just enough self-deprecation to make you not hate him, even as you recognized everything he had going for him. “I learned more from you on the Redus story than I had in all the years of being interviewed and taking classes and my months here put together.”

  “I’m glad. Really. But, Paycik, you have got to realize modeling your career after mine is not a good plan. I had a husband rising through the exec ranks who brought me along for the ride and—”

  “That’s bull.” He winced belatedly at his word choice, but kept going. “If anybody was along for the ride, it was him.”

  “I appreciate your loyalty, Mike, I do. But—”

  “It’s facts, Elizabeth. Look, I’m not an idiot. I did some digging in my own untutored way when Haeburn said you were coming here. I know your asshole ex-husband has you riding out your contract in the worst place he could think of. I can only imagine what it felt like for E.M. Danniher to show up as KWMT consumer affairs reporter, working with a dickhead anchor like Fine. But—”

  “Oh, I’ve worked with dickheads before,” I murmured.

  It didn’t slow him. “But,” he repeated, “I also know you’ve refused to stay down. By doing good, professional work on this bullshit assignment, you’re raising the work of everyone around you. What you did about Redus, and what you can do now is beyond what this station has ever seen. Or I’ve ever seen.”

  So one person thought I could do this work. Though the fact that his basis of comparison was KWMT didn’t exactly put me in the ranks of world-beaters.

  “WHY, ELIZABETH, fancy you being back. I see you’re picking up lunch.” Without a breath, Penny added, “I was thinking about you and those calls on Keith Landry’s phone. The ones the bulls—”

  “How do you—?” I paused while unloading a salad, mini packet of dressing, mini-er packet of cheese, and can of green tea that had rattled around in a cart meant for cowboy-sized meat and potatoes.

  “Oh, I heard last night about the bull calls.” Of course she had.

  I resumed unloading as slowly as possible, leaving long, empty gaps on the belt conveying my purchases to Penny. With so few purchases, I had no time to waste on subtlety. “What do you know about Keith Landry?”

  “Now, I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, even one who drank that way, and I’m not saying he didn’t do things that looked real nice at the time. It was only when folks came out the other side and looked back that they took to realizing what happened. Even smart women with a good head on their shoulders.

  “And there I gotta give Heather credit for the sense to see what was what before she got sucked in like the others. I woulda thought ambition outweighed her sense, but there’s the evidence. It mighta been her mama keeping that girl from following a path walked by a number before her.”

  “What path are—?”

  “He wouldn’t’ve had half the success he had with girls, even ones near half his age these days, if he hadn’t polished that routine of his up bright. Act like he’d heal whatever ailed a girl to rush her off her feet, got what he wanted, then left her flat. Seen him do it here time and again, and I suppose other stops on the rodeo route, too,” she said. “River don’t stop being wet just because it’s out of your sight.”

  It took me a beat too long to process that last statement.

  “What is it that some women think a man who’s been eatin’ buffet all his life will suddenly settle in for the same menu every night once he tastes their cookin’?” She clicked her tongue. “Sonja was foolin’ herself, that’s all. ’Course she’s not the first. But I’ve got a sight more sympathy for others than Sonja.

  “Well, good to see you again, Elizabeth. Bye now. Hi there, Lisa, haven’t seen you since your youngest got the measles. How is that red-headed scamp? Now, when Carol Sue’s boy’s oldest had the measles . . .”

  I wanted to shout Wait a minute! Tell me the rest! You can’t leave me hanging. But she could. She had. And the next customer in line appeared prepared to run me over if I didn’t move along.

  There was only one way to get more information. A reporter, a real reporter, not one whose career was built by a Svengali-wannabe husband, is not deterred by obstacles. I would pay the price for cookies.

  JENNY-JENNIFER came through. It wasn’t her fault that Tom had given us the headlines first.

  She’d also shown initiative by using her phone to snap pictures of the documents while the friendly deputy was out of the room—faster and more complete than note-taking. I thanked her profusely to offset not recognizing “okay” as a blood oath. With a smile, she scooted back to her desk to email me the images.

  I chomped down on a cookie from Round Two with Penny. She had given me a
few details on Sonja, Landry’s conquest in Sherman two years ago. Sonja and her immediate family had moved to Seattle last year, hadn’t been back to visit, and hadn’t left a supplanted boyfriend nursing a grudge against Landry. Penny had said there’d been no Landry liaison last year. I’d run out of time and cookie purchases before I got a last name for Sonja.

  I opened the file with the images and scanned the list of times, numbers, and names. Partway down the first page, I stopped, refocused and started over, ticking off calls to various names.

  Burrell had been absolutely accurate—twenty-eight calls to Stan Newton, nineteen to Oren Street, fifteen to my scruffy cowboy acquaintance Evan Watt, fourteen to Thurston Fine, thirteen to someone named Baldwin from a town in Montana that was to have been Landry’s next stop.

  And yes, he’d been accurate in saying there were more than ten each to another half-dozen contacts. They included Landry’s bank, Street’s home number in Enid, Oklahoma, and former Judge Ambrose Claustel with eleven calls each.

  The remaining three were more interesting. Twelve calls each to Caswell Newton and Grayson Zane. And fifteen to Linda Caswell, chair of the rodeo committee. Burrell, not knowing I had another string working on the phone records, had left her out of his litany, even though she should have tied with Watt.

  Bingo. Something personal in this for Burrell.

  The good news was my instincts hadn’t atrophied into mush.

  The bad news was that I saw another visit to Penny’s checkout line in my near future, and that meant more cookies. The sacrifices I make for journalism.

  “I’LL DRIVE,” I told Burrell as he held the door for me to exit KWMT.

  I’d made him wait. But not long. The sight of him sitting patiently in an uncomfortable break room chair had worn me down.

  “No.”

  “I’m working. I’ll drive my car.”

  “It’s dirt roads, and I don’t want to be stuck when that tin can of yours has its underside ripped out by a rock. We’re taking my truck. If you want to drive, drive my truck.”

  I snapped my mouth closed.

  “Unless you can’t drive a shift?”

  “I can drive shift.” And I’d driven a pickup, along with Jeeps, and once—memorably—a tank. But that had been a demonstration. The pickup driving had not been for years. Nor had it been a brand new truck with the owner sitting next to me. “I’ll take you up on that another time,” I said smoothly. “You drive this time. I’ll prep for the interview.”

  Once on the way, I asked, “Why’s Newton willing to have me come out asking questions?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He stayed silent half a beat, cut me a look, said, “A lot.”

  I felt as if this conversation had hit a patch of ice. It could go anywhere from here. I tried to bring it back onto the main road safely. “What did you say to Newton to get him to say yes to my coming?”

  “I said, ‘Newt, how’s about I swing by this afternoon with that smart lady reporter from the TV station and we talk about this some.’ And he said, ‘Okay, Tom.’”

  “Smart lady reporter?”

  “Yup.” He cut me another look. “Which one you objecting to? Smart? Reporter? Or lady?”

  I rolled my eyes and opened the file of material the newsroom aide had printed out for me.

  The facts and figures confirmed what Penny had said. Stan “Newt” Newton had built an even greater success atop a foundation laid by his father. The file added dates to the family history, along with a couple pictures of Stan and Inez, who had stood straight and tall and three inches higher than her husband.

  Other items showed Newton had bought the rodeo grounds four years ago from Cottonwood Drive. I learned that was the name of the Caswell family business, including a ranch, a small rodeo stock operation, and other enterprises. A sampling of letters to the Independence showed a general feeling that the rodeo wasn’t what it had been under previous ownership. Between the lines I almost heard the mutter of money-grubber.

  A series of articles followed Newton’s effort to bar protestors from the gates of the Sherman Rodeo. He’d failed. Because the protestors weren’t on rodeo property. Unless they found their way under the grandstand.

  There were a dozen clips of Cas Newton’s athletic exploits. Two included photos with the proud father beaming beside his son.

  I closed the file.

  “I’ve read the dry, boring stuff. Now tell me what this family’s really like.” I looked around and saw that by heading generally southeast, we’d come into high-desert-looking country. Arid range land stretched wide, broken occasionally by sharp hills, some with steep sides the wind had eroded into rust and dun stripes.

  “Don’t know them well enough to do that.”

  “If you’re going to be discreet, you won’t be one bit of use.”

  He flicked a look at me, but said nothing.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ve gathered, and you tell me if I’m wrong. Stan is proud as all get-out of his son. He’s determined that Cas, being half Caswell, will give the Newton name the gloss, tone, and standing the Newtons haven’t been able to acquire with money. Cas, being half Caswell and a teenager, wishes his father would drop into a hole. Except when Cas needs something, such as a slot in the Fourth of July Rodeo.”

  More nothing from Burrell. Although the very optimistic could view the new tilt of his cowboy hat as impressed.

  “You’re saying nothing, so I have it right,” I said.

  “All I know is that father-son relationships make me glad I’ve got a daughter.”

  “You don’t want a son following in your footsteps?”

  “Most sons don’t follow in their father’s footsteps. They run the other direction or do their damnedest to rub those footsteps out.”

  His voice held enough undercurrent that I steered a neutral course. “You’re saying Wyoming isn’t immune to teen rebellion?”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “But you’re not saying I’m wrong. And—” I turned to his profile. “—you’re not saying what you know about the Caswells. I hear you’re friends with Linda. Surely you know the family dynamics.”

  He did respond to that. He said, “We’re here,” and tipped his head as he turned left under a chopped-off goalpost structure like the one at the rodeo grounds, this one with a sign dangling from it reading “Newtons.”

  Chapter Twelve

  HERE WAS AN exaggeration. But I didn’t realize that until a good fifteen minutes worth of road had brought us to a compound that looked more like Hollywood’s idea of ranch buildings than any Wyoming ranches I’d seen. For one thing, all the buildings were the same vintage, rather than historical strata that, like rings of a tree, showed an established ranch’s years of necessity, boom, and bust.

  It took a couple moments longer of peering at the set-up to realize another difference. The house was in the center, flanked by the ranch buildings. On most ranches, the ranch buildings stuck together while the house sat to one side, presumably to limit the impact of smells, dirt, and other potential inconveniences.

  “Are the Newtons high-siders or low-siders?” I asked. I’d learned that residents in Cottonwood County’s western part—closer to the mountains—were designated high-siders. Low-siders lived in the eastern area, where the land was flatter, drier, and tougher.

  “Low-siders geographically. But Newt’s got one of the biggest spreads in the county, along with the other businesses. Some would say high-siders for that.”

  “I’d have expected Stan would want high-side property.”

  “Nothing available when he bought. And he wanted big.”

  Tom steered the truck to the left, honked twice, and stopped.

&nb
sp; Cas Newton emerged from a building that appeared to be a stable, with a trio of dogs trailing him. Tom raised a hand in greeting out the open truck window. Cas returned the gesture and started toward us. I read reluctance in his lack of speed.

  “What breed are those dogs?” I asked. “They look like Shadow.”

  “Those are top-notch cattle dogs,” Tom said as he opened his door, “and if Newt hears you likening that stray of yours to them, he’ll throw you off his place before you can say another word.”

  I huffed, but contained myself.

  As we approached each other across open ground that gave off a strong smell of sun-heated dirt with each step we took, I watched Cas. But all I got was that he had the Stoic Westerner demeanor pegged. Or else he didn’t recognize me as the person who’d spotted him and Ms. Blue Hair under the bleachers. That was possible, considering the lighting and that my head had been thunking on the footwell like a dummy in a simulated car crash, which would make it hard to recognize anyone.

  Tom said, “Hey, Cas.”

  He responded, “Mr. Burrell.”

  “Cas, I understand you met Ms. Danniher yesterday.”

  He confirmed with a “Ma’am.”

  “She’s hoping you have more time to answer questions now.”

  “I got work, Mr. Burrell.”

  “I know. But the lady respected your time before competing last night, and she drove out here, so you can take a few minutes to answer some questions.”

  A few minutes? I’d have to set ground rules for Burrell being part of this, and that included not committing me to a deadline I might not keep. There was also the matter of how Tom knew I’d met Cas last night, as well as the tidbit about respecting the kid’s time.

  “I don’t know anything,” Cas mumbled with traces of sullenness.

  “We won’t know that until you hear my questions, and I hear your answers. You don’t mind if I record this to make sure I get things straight, do you? For my use, not for broadcasting.” I ran it together, wrapped with a cheerful bow, as I pressed the pocket recorder’s button. “Has there been any trouble at the rodeo grounds in the past week or so?”