Left Hanging

by Patricia McLinn

  Damn, I’d banked on there being only one Sonja in Cottonwood County. “I don’t know. Apparently she was involved with Keith Landry when he came through Sherman with the rodeo year before last.”

  “Oh,” she said with significance. “Sonja Osterspeigel. She was rodeo queen two years ago. Not, perhaps, the committee’s most inspired selection. I do recall her having a whirlwind romance with a competitor. Soon after, she began an association with that Keith Landry. Disgraceful. He was old enough to be her father. And he dropped her flat. She made quite a scene at the Kicking Cowboy. He left town the next day.”

  And then she had to go and move to Seattle, taking her whole family of potential suspects with her.

  Sonja Osterspeigel further stymied me when Aunt Gee denied any knowledge of a phone number or address for the decamped Osterspeigels. They had been short-timers in Cottonwood County, having arrived only five years before her stint as rodeo queen.

  I Googled Sonja as soon as we hung up. I found a couple items about her royal status, but no one by that last name was listed in Seattle or environs. Sonja was getting on my nerves.

  “TELL ME ABOUT the trip out to the Newtons’ place. Anything interesting?” Mike asked that evening.

  “Not a lot, but you can hear for yourself.”

  I played the tape while we ate. Yes, it was pizza. Yes, it was in the dismal living room of the hovel.

  Mike abruptly interrupted his considerable consumption of pizza to say, “He sidestepped there. About knowing Landry. Didn’t outright lie, but sidestepped.”

  “A definite sidestep,” I agreed. “Good catch.”

  He grinned. “I’ve done it often enough on the other side of the mic. And he lied about there being no talk about personal lives. I thought you were leading up to asking about that girl.”

  “Blue Hair? No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He would have lied with his father there. Besides, I didn’t want to ask in front of Burrell.”

  I watched as I told him about Jenny-now-Jennifer’s findings. I saw the bulldog in his eyes even before he said, “Tom might not have been given all the names. Or he could have forgotten those.”

  As a kid, Mike had developed a case of hero worship for high school basketball hero Thomas David Burrell, and it didn’t seem to be out of his system. “Convenient coincidence.”

  “Could have happened,” he insisted. But he turned the conversation. “Now, all these people out of town at the same time. That’s not a coincidence.”

  I’d filled him in earlier on what Aunt Gee had said about the bigwigs and Sonja. He had no knowledge of the Osterspeigels, since he’d been away playing pro football when the family lived here.

  “Also not a coincidence I believe in,” I agreed, with an added slice of meaning that he ignored.

  “Where do you think the bigwigs went?”

  “Somewhere underground? Like one of those bunkers for government officials. That would explain no cell coverage.”

  “Don’t have to be underground for that. Lots of places in the mountains don’t get reception. But what do you think they’re doing? All of them together, out of town at the same time.”

  “Back to the alien mothership to renew their human forms?”

  He eyed me. “You’re more interested in Landry, aren’t you? I had a feeling this morning you were considering walking away from the entire Landry story, but not now. What was going on?”

  “It’s not our story,” I sidestepped. Since I wasn’t thinking about my career, past and present, I sure wasn’t talking about it.

  “Not the official one, maybe, but the one we’re finding—that is our story.”

  Instead of answering directly, I said, “Let’s go to the rodeo. More precisely, let’s go almost to the rodeo.”

  “What does that mean?”

  IT MEANT PARKING along the highway outside the rodeo grounds gates, a hundred yards shy of the protestors’ camp.

  It’s best not to approach groups like this directly. No plowing into the center and firing questions. I slowed Mike with a gesture that we should prop ourselves on wooden sawhorses that would be in their peripheral vision as they shook their signs at cars. It’s also best not to interrupt such groups while plying their trade.

  I told Mike this as we deciphered their signs, watched interactions with spectators, and observed the group’s dynamics.

  The guy who was in his early forties—or had lived even rougher than I’d factored in my estimation of his age—was the would-be leader. Would-be, because he acted like he was the leader, while few of the others acted as if he or anyone else were the leader.

  Certainly Ms. Blue Hair didn’t accord him leader status. She kept herself apart and kept most of the group between her and Would-be Leader. He tried to circle closer. Moves not lost on a tired-looking woman in her thirties whose sign-waving was perfunctory.

  A half-dozen others appeared to be college-age kids doing their best to meld James Dean dissatisfaction, later-day-hippiedom, and a dash of Greenpeace. A gray-haired couple who smiled gently at the cars going past, asking the occupants to reconsider what they were doing, appeared to me to be the most effective.

  With the entering cars slowed to a trickle, I purposely headed toward the college-age kids.

  “Hi, I’m E.M. Danniher from the local TV station. We’re considering a story on the protests, and we’d like background. What’s your name?” I asked a redhead nearly a foot taller than me.

  “My name? Jonathan—”

  “Wait a minute, Jon,” ordered a wiry brunette with a sharp chin. “What kind of story?”

  “A piece for the evening news.”

  “Cool,” came from one of the others.

  Without removing my attention from the wiry girl, I was aware of Would-be Leader moving our way.

  “Would it be on the Internet?” she demanded.

  Which way to jump? Which answer would get me what I wanted? “Probably,” I hedged.

  “Cool,” again came from someone.

  “No,” the wiry girl said decisively. “We know what we’re doing is right, but it can be edited, taken out of context, and in this part of the country . . . no. If it goes on the Internet, it’s there forever.” She looked at Jonathan. “First, you get into law school.”

  “What’s going on,” came the rough voice of Would-be Leader, pushing to the front as the college kids melted away like ice at the Equator. Beside me, I felt Mike’s higher level of alertness.

  I repeated my spiel about TV coverage. Would-be Leader immediately switched to Major Suck-Up. Mike relaxed.

  “Roy Craniston.” He stuck out his hand.

  I hoped the griminess was only from carrying signs. Oh, well, I’ve touched worse. I met his hand without hesitation.

  “E.M. Danniher. And what’s your name?” I asked Ms. Blue Hair, tossing a pleasant smile toward where she stood a yard away.

  “None of your damned business.”

  “Is that n-u-n?” I asked sweetly.

  That drew a sarcastic laugh from the woman in her thirties.

  Roy snapped, “Shut up, Ellie.”

  She did better than that: She stalked off to a nearby camper, slamming its door.

  Mike gave me half an eye roll and deftly caught up with Ms. Blue Hair, who’d headed in the opposite direction from the camper.

  That left me with the gray-haired couple and Roy.

  “It’s about time the corrupt media began to pay attention to my work,” he started.

  Great way to sell me a story. But I nodded thoughtfully, listened for any place where what he said might overlap with what I was interested in, and kept the corner of my eye on the direction Ms. Blue Hair and Mike had taken.

  Roy Craniston had shown no signs of running out of breath when
I caught movement from that corner of my eye. Time to take control of this.

  “Do you protest only rodeos?”

  “Not at all. I believe that the panoply of society’s ills—”

  “You came into town when?” I interrupted.

  “Yesterday,” he said. The gray-haired couple had to be faster off the mark if they wanted to answer any questions. “As a symbol of Americana, this event called out to me to provide a conscience for those without one of their own. I have led protests in—”

  “So far ahead of the Fourth of July Rodeo?”

  His gaze flickered. Annoyance at not being allowed to list his achievements or something else? “I fel—”

  “All of you came yesterday?”

  “Yes. I set the agenda, the others follow.”

  Before he went on, I pointed in the direction Ms. Blue Hair had gone. “I saw her around before yesterday.”

  “Her? Yeah, I guess. She’s just a little local. She’s here all the time. I let her join us when we come in for big events.”

  “Oh, not local, dear,” corrected the gray-haired lady. Roy scowled, which she appeared to take as interest in what she had to say. “You’re thinking that because she knows where everything is, but she’s from Oklahoma. From what I gather, she roughly follows the rodeo circuit. Not every event, but always rodeo. Since Sherman has this nightly rodeo, she has been here a number of times and knows it well.”

  “Do you know her name?” I asked.

  “No, dear. She says names are stifling. We call her Pinky.”

  “Pinky?”

  “Her hair was pink when we met. I do think the blue is more becoming.”

  I bestowed a huge smile on the woman. “Isn’t that interesting,” I said, as Mike—alone now—headed toward us. I turned to Roy with flattering attention. “It must be difficult when officials try to intimidate you into leaving. I understand you’ve had run-ins—”

  “That blowhard who owns the rodeo grounds tried telling us we couldn’t protest here, but I’d researched our legal rights—” The gray-haired man made a sound that called into question Roy’s description of who’d done that work. “—and he had to back down. Another guy came around pretending to be interested, but he was only after some tail. I ran him off to protect my women.”

  I concentrated on widening my eyes and not letting my lip curl. “You did? What happened? Maybe Ellie can tell me . . .”

  “No need to talk to Ellie. Didn’t involve her. An old man going for a girl like— But I told him how things were and to get lost.”

  “I think I heard about that. There was a lot of shouting?”

  He puffed up. “Yeah, shouting. That’s all he was good for. When it got physical, he took off.”

  Mike arrived, and I dropped the wide eyes. “But that happened Wednesday, Roy, so you couldn’t have arrived here yesterday. Which means you were here when the man you argued with died.”

  Roy grumbled his next words under his breath, but I have good hearing. What he said was, “Fucking little bitch.”

  Me? Or Ms. Blue Hair?

  “NO NAME, BUT a partial thaw,” Mike reported once we were in his SUV. “Which puts me ahead of you from the expression on Roy’s face.”

  “I win friends and influence people wherever I go.” I filled him in on the shreds I’d picked up. “So, what did you get?”

  “Cautious yet cordial relations have been established. Cas was right about what she wants—all animals totally free. No leashes, fences, or other interaction with humans.”

  I considered him for a moment. “How did it end?”

  “She said, and I quote, ‘You’re not as a much of a dickhead as you look.’ She gave a slight wave, and the middle finger was not raised.”

  “Call the Nobel Peace Prize committee.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  WE WENT INTO the rodeo grounds by a side gate Mike knew about. Since we weren’t in a KWMT vehicle, the gatekeeper demanded IDs when Mike told him we were media.

  He looked at mine without interest, but did a double-take at Mike’s. “Paycik? Mike Paycik? I remember you as a kid. You were tough, man!”

  I started to tune out, because how many times can you listen to people telling your coworker how wonderful he is? But he caught my attention by extolling Mike’s skill at rodeoing, rather than playing football. Mike finally drove on, hunting for a parking space.

  “You rodeoed, huh?” That vision of Mike in the butt-and-front framing gear of rodeo competitors rose up before my eyes again.

  “Yeah.”

  “Which events?” I asked, partly to try to fight off the vision.

  “All to start. Roping events later.” He started to back into a spot, keeping his head turned from me.

  “Grew out of it, huh?”

  “No. I gave up rodeo to keep my football coach from having a stroke.”

  “You played in the NFL. You must like football better.”

  “It’s not better than rodeo. It’s different.”

  I put on the mental brakes. I’d hit a button. When you do that, it’s best to figure out what the button’s attached to before you mash down on it more. “Why’s rodeo important to you?”

  “It’s ours,” he said. “It didn’t come from anywhere else and get imported here. We didn’t adopt somebody else’s sport and try to catch up. We started it, and we’re the best at it, and we know it.”

  “We being Americans?”

  “We being Westerners.”

  I snorted as we exited opposite sides of the SUV, punctuating my next statement with the door’s closing thud. “Regionalist snob.”

  “Like the South and New England and the Coasts aren’t?”

  “Fair point. So that’s it? Pride of ownership?”

  He shook his head as we met behind the vehicle and started toward the arena. “It says a lot about the people who live out here—no, don’t start spouting those lines from the anti-rodeo nuts. I’ve heard enough of that already tonight.”

  The booming announcer’s voice indicated events were in full swing, and we were practically alone in a field of pickups.

  “Touchy.”

  “No, fed up. They call themselves animal rights backers. Wonder how many of them have stayed up all night with a sick horse, or been out in a blizzard helping a calf get born, or chased down a cow that didn’t want the medicine it needed to stay alive, or held a loyal old dog when he just couldn’t stay with you any longer no matter how much he wanted to.”

  There was no doubting his sincerity. “Point taken, Mike.”

  He cleared his throat. “Anyway, there’s another angle of why rodeo’s important.” He waited. I wasn’t sure if it was to regain the rest of his composure or to yank my chain.

  I responded only to the yank. “What is that angle, Oh Wise Western Sage?”

  He grinned. “Sage—that’s pretty good. Have you ever noticed that we say we play football, play baseball, play basketball, or tennis or golf or shuffleboard? But with rodeo that is the verb.”

  “Okay. What does that mean?”

  “It’s the same with running or swimming. They didn’t start as sports, they started as work or transportation or survival. Rodeo started with on-the-job competitions. All the events were skills needed on a ranch or on the range.”

  I would accept that for timed events. And maybe in the old days for bronc riding. As for bull riding . . . It takes courage. And skill. And, yes, there’s the thrill of danger. There’s also the question of why? It’s not like the bull will learn better manners.

  But I didn’t have the heart to point that out to Mike. Instead, I thought about Heather and said, “Even for the rodeo queen, right?”

  “Exactly. Like Needham said, they have to show skills. Barrel racing, too. It’s the ability to wea
ve a horse around obstacles at speed.”

  “You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?”

  “You think the only thing in this pretty head is how to block for an outside slant or recognize a blitz?”

  “No, I think it also holds market rankings and sports anchor openings.”

  “True, but there’s still room for philosophy and sociology and all the other –ologies. Besides, I did a paper on it in college.”

  “Oh-ho—a jock course?”

  “Was not. Senior level sociology. And I got an A. Minus, but still an A.”

  “Well, excuse me, Mr. Academic—” I stopped myself and put a hand on Mike’s arm to stop him, too.

  “Mo-om.” It was the teenager’s exasperated, long-suffering, whined moan. It came from the next row over of vehicles. I saw no one, but recognized the voice.

  “Heather,” I said in a low voice.

  “Put it on,” commanded Vicky Upton.

  “But I wore this last night. I’ll wear the red—”

  “You will not. You know we’re saving that for the Fourth of July. So put this one on.”

  “Out here?”

  “There’s nobody around.” Vicky clicked her tongue. “Well, you really, truly tore this. Took a chunk right out. We’ll have to hope I have material left and can make a repair that won’t be noticed.”

  “It’s my favorite.”

  “That’s because you look your best in that pink. Though the red will be perfect for the Fourth. What . . . take your hat off before you try to put this shirt on. You can’t go over your head with . . .”

  Mike and I looked at each other and quietly walked on, waiting until we’d reached the main path behind the grandstand, blending in with others passing by, before we both started chuckling.

  “Can you imagine trying to pull anything over that hat?” I asked.

  “I know. The tiara alone—”

  This time I wasn’t the one who interrupted him. It was a male voice shouting, “You idiot! You moron! Can’t you count?”

  Behind the concession stand counter under the grandstand, Stan Newton, red-faced with anger, had Evan Watt backed up against a pole. Two other workers pretended to be deaf and blind.