Left Hanging

by Patricia McLinn

I thanked him as Mike approached.

  “The question is, who could have roped him,” I said at the end of my report. Mike had whistled when I’d described the throw over the beam. “That has to be an extremely difficult throw, right?”

  “It’s not one I’d ever expect to make.”

  “Good, that narrows the field. I know we watched Cas Newton win that tie-down roping. And Heather Upton is a champion roper, her mother bragged—why are you shaking your head?”

  “The field’s wider than that. Think about it. Who taught Heather to rope?”

  “How should I kno—oh. Her mother?”

  “Yup. And Newton taught Cas. Linda’s real good with a rope. Don’t forget Grayson Zane.”

  “I don’t suppose Evan Watt’s a horrible roper?”

  He shook his head again. “Not Zane’s or Heather’s level, but good. So’s Oren Street. Most times, most places, I’d say that throw narrowed the field a lot. But these are people who know how to throw a loop. I’m not saying all of them could hit it every time, not even half the time. But every one of them would have a chance.”

  “So it’s still any one of them.” I looked at my watch. “I’ve got to go. I have an interview for a ‘Helping Out’ segment your aunt set up. Diana’s probably already there.”

  “Give me a call when you’re done.”

  I agreed and was in my car, turning to head out, when he ran up beside the driver’s side, asking something I couldn’t hear with the AC on and the window up. I opened the window.

  “Poly or nylon?”

  “What?”

  “The rope—was it poly or nylon? Knowing that would narrow it. And if they know the twist—”

  “He said rope.” Actually, he hadn’t. But I was paraphrasing. “Rope. Fibers. Hanged. That’s what I concentrated on. I’ve got to go.”

  DIANA AND THE subject were waiting.

  The subject wasn’t the least bit annoyed, because Diana had kept him talking about himself while she set up. If she was annoyed, she didn’t show it.

  The interview went great. Walking out, I told Diana she was such a good set-up person I’d have to be late all the time. She said, “No,” in her mother-of-two voice, and I apologized sincerely. She forgave me enough to let me follow the Newsmobile on a shortcut to the station that avoided what passed for traffic in Sherman.

  I called Mike, but it sent me to voicemail. I left a message.

  In the newsroom, Jennifer told me the Denver tape was in.

  Even though it consisted of a cameraman walking through a house, it had impact. The place resembled an animal carcass picked clean.

  With the interview fresh in my mind, I roughed out the package in record time. A little polish, a lead-in, and I’d have another deposit in my “Helping Out” bank. With this gang working its way through the region, I logged it in as the first to be used. And hoped the all-Thurston-all-the-time programming wouldn’t last much longer at KWMT.

  AFTER A MOMENT’S hesitation, I accepted Burrell’s telephoned last-minute invitation to lunch.

  If he wasn’t going to come clean about his editing job on the bull calls from Landry’s phone on his own, I would use this opportunity to bring it out in the open myself. It was way past time.

  But when he picked me up at the station, he announced he was glad I’d said yes because I’d have a chance to get to know somebody. So, lunch was out for raising the phone calls. And the drive to the Haber House Hotel didn’t allow enough time before joining his not-so-mysterious third party.

  In the cool dimness of the restaurant, the hostess walked us to a corner table with one occupant. Linda Caswell. Suspicion confirmed.

  Our server was Kelly. She showed no sign of remembering me.

  “Linda’s real busy with the rodeo and all,” Burrell said after reaffirming our introductions, “but like I told her, she’s got to eat. Thought you two could get to know each other this way.”

  I would have preferred to interview her without a buffering presence. But I wouldn’t let this opportunity go by. Except it became clear as the meal progressed that to get in serious questions, I’d need to make the opportunity happen.

  First, a steady stream of people stopped to say hello to Tom or Linda or both. One or two acknowledged me.

  Second, when the stream faltered, Tom fed Linda lines like “Tell Elizabeth about how your family got started in Cottonwood County” and “Tell Elizabeth how the Fourth of July Rodeo started” and “Tell Elizabeth about the state Claustel left the committee in.”

  Considering those puffy lead-ins, her responses were relatively restrained, though they covered ground I knew and took up time.

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted after Linda had refused Tom’s suggestion of dessert. I suspected that even if I ordered a slice of chocolate pie, she would plead the press of business and leave us. “I want to get the server’s attention to be sure the bill comes to me.”

  Tom frowned. “You’re not paying.”

  “Oh, KWMT will pick it up.” In the ultimate proof that I was not Pinocchio in a previous life, my nose remained its same size.

  “You are not paying,” he repeated, placing his napkin on the table and standing.

  “Really, the station—”

  “No.” He strode off in search of Kelly, whom I’d seen slip out the side door seconds before I’d started this diversion.

  “What do you want to ask me?” Linda asked.

  So she’d recognized my ruse. Good. That saved time. “How does your former romantic relationship tie in with the Sherman Rodeo?”

  She gave me a hard look. “I thought you might be going to ask me about Tom. But I’m not entirely surprised you’re curious about that aspect under the circumstances,” she said with dignity.

  It was the dignity, nothing else, that persuaded me to go for honesty. “Specifically, I’d like to know what about your relationship with Grayson Zane would make him tense up about it five years later?”

  “Grayson? I thought . . . He tensed up?” Sad eyes and a slight smile added wistfulness to her plain face. “No reason he should.”

  “But he broke it off?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was nothing—?”

  “No.” Now the eyes and mouth erected a fence with a No Trespassing sign plastered on it.

  I went around. “You thought I was going to ask about your romantic relationship with Keith Landry?”

  I couldn’t swear she’d flinched at the word romantic. There was no flinching in her answer. “Yes.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “It started quickly, lasted somewhat longer than—” She cut herself off, looking away for the first time. “Ended just as abruptly. And the same way. As you probably already know. There are no secrets in Cottonwood County.”

  Dumped by Grayson Zane. Dumped by Keith Landry. Definitely coming down in the world. “Must have been hard to see him the next year.” My him could only refer to Landry, since Zane had not returned the next year.

  “It wasn’t. What mattered then is what matters now—the Fourth of July Rodeo. So, no, it wasn’t hard.”

  “What difficulties have there been over the years with Landry? In your capacity as a member of the rodeo committee, I mean.”

  She frowned, possibly a result of trying to remember. Or not. “I don’t recall any. I was simply another committee member.”

  “You voted against Landry’s company this year?”

  “I voted for Sweet Meadows, as did a majority.”

  “But you voted against Landry, even when there was no other choice. Sounds like a personal grudge.” I caught a tall figure closing in from the corner of my eye.

  “My vote is always what I think best for the rodeo.”

  “Why did you want the livestock brought
in early this year?”

  She frowned deeper. “I didn’t. I had nothing to do with that. Why would I?”

  “That’s what I’m asking.” Tom drew his chair back, then stopped as I added, “I have a source who says you demanded Landry get the livestock in by Wednesday night.”

  “Your source is wrong.”

  “Elizabeth—”

  I ignored Burrell. “My source has no reason to lie about it.”

  “I have no reason to lie.”

  “Don’t say any more, Linda,” Burrell said. “This is over. Go on, and we’ll talk later. Elizabeth and I’ll sit here a bit.”

  She obeyed his order, I didn’t.

  After skirting tables and people in my way, I followed her out, wanting to ask more, though not at the expense of making a scene. Since she had longer legs, a head start, and a clearer and closer path to the door, she was in her truck before I hit the parking lot.

  Burrell arrived at a leisurely pace as she drove away.

  “I’ll take you back to the station,” he said in his impossibly even voice.

  When he opened the truck’s passenger door, I climbed in, grabbed the handle with both hands, yanked the door out of his hold, and slammed it shut.

  The trip to the station was accomplished in silence. His silence seemed to have the limitless calm of outer space. Mine felt like the inside of an industrial dryer—hot, jumbled, and crowded.

  When he pulled to a stop in the KWMT parking lot, I had my purse strap on my shoulder and myself under control.

  I cracked the door open before facing him. He was slewed in his seat, his back partially against his door. His mouth and dark eyes were impassive.

  “Don’t ever do that to me again,” I said.

  “You were asking—”

  “It’s my job to ask questions.”

  “Not questions like that.”

  “Exactly questions like that.”

  “It wasn’t necessary to ask personal things to protect the rodeo and—”

  “First, you don’t decide what’s necessary or not necessary for me. Second, protecting is not my job, Burrell. And it’s not what we’re doing—Mike and me, and ostensibly you. You agreed to help with this. That doesn’t mean picking and choosing what can be looked into. And it doesn’t mean erecting barriers to protect the rodeo or the people you like. It’s the truth that matters. The truth. And you can’t screw around with it. When you do, things happen.”

  He held his silence for half a beat. “Are we still talking about Landry’s death? Or are you talking about your personal past.”

  I got out, closed the truck door—firmly, but not a slam—and leaned back in the open window.

  “I am talking about the arrogance of Thomas David Burrell, who thinks he always knows best. That arrogance got you arrested for murder, and maybe that can be overlooked because you thought you were doing what was best for Tamantha—though I don’t think you were right—but this time there’s no such excuse.”

  “Elizabeth—”

  “No. You said you were in on this investigation, but you’re not. Not when you, in your infinite wisdom, have decided some people should not be considered suspects. And have—”

  “Suspects of what?”

  “—decided you don’t need to share what you know, despite saying you would. And I’ll tell you suspects of what, Burrell. Murder. Keith Landry’s death was not an accident. It was murder.”

  I pushed off from the truck, turned around, and walked into KWMT-TV, knowing that I had, for the first time, seen Tom Burrell absolutely surprised.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  INSIDE THE BUILDING, I stopped for a drink of water, and that was when the satisfaction of surprising Burrell gave way to regret that I’d told him Landry had been murdered. Damn. I should have kept my mouth closed.

  Are we still talking about looking into Keith Landry’s death? Or are you talking about your personal past.

  Both, you jackass. Both.

  The one I could do something about was Landry’s murder.

  After a moment’s thought at my desk, I dialed Mrs. Parens’ number and said I’d like to ask a few more background questions.

  I should have eased into it, letting her give me another history lesson. I wasn’t in the mood. “You’ve known Linda Caswell for a long time? I understand she had a rough time, growing up and with the death of her sister.”

  She gave me a skeletal outline of Linda’s life. Her version was basically little more than I could get from reading clips and devoid of Penny’s flourishes. Except once. When she talked about the aftermath of Inez’s death.

  “Linda and that boy held each other up in their grief,” she said. “It made a true bond. Cas Newton loves his father, but he’s a Caswell, through and through.”

  “Linda’s never married?”

  “Not as of this date.”

  “But I understand she was involved with Grayson Zane a few years back.”

  A tiny sound came from Mrs. Parens. Perplexed? Disapproving? Whatever it was, it didn’t seep into her precise, cool words. “I believe they did keep company for a short time.”

  “He broke it off?”

  “That is my understanding. What—”

  I covered the objection I felt coming with another question. “She immediately began seeing Keith Landry, didn’t she?” I gave her only a beat before I followed with, “She told me she did.”

  “What does this have to do with your inquiries, Elizabeth?”

  “I don’t know. But one thing I learned early in reporting is to follow the anomalies. Something that doesn’t make sense at first, usually will make sense if you look at it from a different angle. But you have to follow it long enough to know which different angle it needs.” I considered my words. “If that makes sense.”

  “It does, although it could have been expressed with greater economy.”

  “Yes’m,” I said before I could stop it. I redeemed myself by adding, “A woman like Linda Caswell having a brief relationship with a rodeo cowboy, then with a rodeo stock contractor immediately after, is quite an anomaly, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The silence vibrated with something I couldn’t put my finger on. Disapproval yes, but something else as well.

  “My agreement or disagreement is immaterial,” she said. “However, if you want to follow the anomaly of Linda’s personal life, you will need to do so from another source.”

  She gave me nothing more, unless you count what sounded like a sincere wish that I have a good day.

  Mrs. Parens was one of those sources a reporter loves to hate, or possibly hates to love. When she told you a fact, it was golden. She might tell you what she knew of a person’s character, but she didn’t volunteer much and rarely ventured into the oh-so-profitable realm of speculation or downright gossip.

  I reviewed Sunday’s conversation . . . and recognized one fact she had told us: Vicky Upton was not a widow.

  Interesting. I focused on precisely what Mrs. Parens had said. There was something about that conversation. I felt my forehead contracting in concentration. To hell with the wrinkles. There was something . . .

  I straightened.

  Mrs. Parens had practically volunteered the information that Vicky had never been married. At least she’d made me stand still in front of the puzzle long enough to spot the pattern.

  Why? Because there had been another puzzle she didn’t want me zooming in on? What had we been talking about?

  Heather’s father. He was dead. But hadn’t been dead for a long time. Vicky had been a rodeo queen before she was a mother.

  I snapped my head up. Jennifer was across the room, and at her fingertips were the facts I needed to test a new surmise.

  But between us stood Thurston Fine.

 
If I went to the newsroom aide’s desk, he was close enough to eavesdrop. If I called her over, he’d follow. If I messaged her, he could read whatever appeared on her computer screen . . . as he seemed to be doing this very moment.

  I grabbed the phone off the empty desk behind me—in case Fine’s eyes were good enough to read Caller ID on Jennifer’s phone—and hit the numbers for her extension.

  “Don’t say who it is and don’t look around,” I said quickly, “but if you have anything on your computer screen you don’t want Thurston to know, switch screens right now.”

  “I know that,” she said with something close to disdain, which evaporated into confusion. “But who is this?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Ohhhhh.” As if that explained everything, which apparently it didn’t, because she added, “Why are you calling me?”

  “Because Fine’s right over your shoulder, and I don’t want him to know what I’m about to ask you.”

  “That makes sense. I’d already taken care of that from this end when the issue first arose.” In other words, she’d been aware of Fine’s arrival and switched to something innocuous on her screen.

  “Good. I want to know a couple things, and I don’t want you to write this or type it—again, because of Fine. Understand?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is. And you’re not to tell anyone anything about this information. Understand?”

  “You always say that.”

  For good reason, since she’d spilled the beans to me a couple months back that Fine had spread rumors that I’d been demoted from the network because of drug use. But, as far as I knew, Jennifer hadn’t blabbed anything she’d learned from me.

  “I know. It’s important. It might be very important to figuring out why that man died at the rodeo grounds, but even if it’s not, it will be important and very private for the people involved.”

  “Got it. What is it?”

  “I need to know when Heather Upton was born. And if Keith Landry was in Sherman about nine months before that.”

  “Nine—? Oh. Oh. Okay.”

  “Can you find those things out?”