“The rope was there. Hanging loose like. Right there by my side. He’d pulled the loop up as far as his neck. I just . . . I pulled it. The end, I mean. I pulled it hard. And didn’t let go.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
AS RICHARD ALVARO began to lead him out, Oren Street said to his daughter, “Pauline, baby.”
She faced the wall, turning her back to him.
He headed for the door, stopping as they came even with me.
“I wasn’t aiming to kill you last night, ma’am. Hoped to slow you down.”
Maybe. But, he’d meant to kill Evan Watt. Who talked too much, remembered too much. Loosing the bulls had been a distraction, a delaying tactic to let the carbon monoxide do its work. If the bulls had done more than delay me? If they’d trampled me or Tom or both of us? An unexpected bonus, I guess.
And if he’d succeeded, he’d probably have dropped off to sleep, just as he had the day Landry’s body had been found. Yes, on the rodeo office porch when I saw him in the evening, but earlier, too. Much earlier, when Jenks had seen him. When the adrenaline of committing murder had ebbed, and he’d slept what Dex had called the sleep of the guilty.
That’s what I’d called Jenks about. Because I’d remembered a comment he made about Street being lucky to be able to sleep any place, any time. It hadn’t meant anything at the time, especially not followed up by Street himself saying he caught sleep whenever he could. But then I’d wondered if Jenks had meant something more than that nap on the porch.
So I asked my question. Bingo.
Saw him catching a few winks sitting on a bale of hay right after they removed . . . well, you know.
I knew.
And that’s when I really knew who had killed Keith Landry. It had still been iffy whether he’d admit it, but with his leaving Sherman at any moment, I’d had to take my shot.
With her father across the threshold and Richard following, Pauline Street spoke. “Where are you taking him?”
Richard looked over his shoulder. “To the jail. It’s by the courthouse. If you’d like, we’ll get you a ride, information about the process. But you won’t be able to see him for a while.”
“I don’t want to . . .” The denial faded into a whispered, “Okay,” and she followed them out.
“I always said somebody’s daddy would kill that son of a bitch Landry,” Vicky Upton said with satisfaction.
Cas started toward the door, which had just closed after Pauline.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Stan grabbed onto his arm, stopping him.
“She’s all alone.”
“That’s her problem.”
Vicky pushed her daughter. “Say something.”
The push caught Heather off balance enough that she had to step forward to keep from falling. Cas turned his head toward her.
They looked at each other for what seemed like an hour, but was probably thirty seconds.
“Go after her. She is all alone,” Heather said. “And nobody should be blamed for who their father happens to be, not even you or me.”
Cas got it immediately.
Her mother took a moment longer. She’d sucked in a breath at Heather’s first words—probably in preparation for smoothing over the misstep on her path of ambition—now it came out in a quick half-cough that turned into a real cough.
That might have done the smoothing-over trick, except Stan got it, too. And his yelling not only wasn’t hampered by a cough, but it carried over Vicky’s ongoing hacking.
“I will not be talked to that way—”
Cas didn’t try to talk over his father’s bluster, but said in a low, calm voice that came through clearly, “Gotta go, Dad.”
He easily pulled his arm out of his father’s hold, demonstrating that his father’s strength hadn’t been holding him.
On his way past, he cupped a hand around Heather’s shoulder. “I’ll call you later.”
She nodded, but didn’t believe him. And on that I think she was wrong.
Not only would he call because he’d said he would, but I had a feeling he might call because he wanted to. Because I’d started to agree with his aunt that he was one of the good ones in training and because of whom Heather had proven herself to be. Or, at least, on her way to becoming.
“If you go—”
Cas cut off his father’s threat. “I’ll call if I’ll be after midnight.” And he was gone.
Stan turned on Heather. “You should have stopped him. If you have any dream of becoming a Caswell-Newton, you better learn how to behave. And how to handle my son.”
She rolled her eyes. But she didn’t do it until she had lowered her head in what might be taken by some as acceptance of chastisement.
WE WORKED almost straight through on the package for Live at Five.
Diana had suggested Mike and I take a break, but I was afraid that if I started resting, I wouldn’t stop any time soon.
We had the package queued up for final review when Richard Alvaro knocked on the editing booth door, came in, and closed the door behind him.
That’s not as easy as it sounds.
The editing booths at KWMT-TV would be scoffed at as closets in Tokyo. I’ve seen larger booths at public high schools. Also more elaborate ones.
I have fond memories of an old-time editor when I arrived in Washington who manipulated the keys like he was playing a cathedral’s organ. Compared to that, this was a toddler’s toy piano. With four of us in the booth, it felt as if we’d been stuffed in that toy piano and the lid closed.
Mike craned his neck to see around Diana and me to where the newcomer was plastered with his back against the door. “Richard, shouldn’t you be back at the sheriff’s department while they play ‘Hail to the Conquering Hero’?”
“More like Barely out of the Sh—Dog House.”
“No,” Diana protested. “Aren’t you getting the credit?”
“I got the arrest, but from now on it’s the brass’ baby.” He grimaced. “I’m back to errand boy, and that’s why I’m here.”
“That sucks,” Mike said. “And on your day off.”
“I was sent to get statements from Ellie and Roy, but she and the camper are gone.” His mouth twitched. “Though I did deliver Roy, since he was at their campsite cursing and raving when I arrived. Now, I’ve been sent to collect the copy of Pauline Street’s driver’s license and birth certificate from you. Which—I was informed by acting Sheriff Thomason—I should have secured at the time, though how I was supposed to do that with a murder suspect to bring in . . . anyway, I’d like the license and certificate.”
“Sorry. Only license I have is creative license.”
“Holy—” Diana started, but cut it off at Alvaro’s grim expression.
His voice matched his expression. “You guessed that she’s his daughter?”
“Not entirely. There’s a resemblance if you look beneath her makeup. I did know Oren Street’s home address was in Enid, Oklahoma. And I’d been told Pauline came from Oklahoma. Then there were a lot of little things. Mike got the impression from Pauline that her family was in the cattle business—couldn’t that be rodeo, rather than ranching?
“She was in full-blown rebellion. Wouldn’t she rebel against something directly connected to her family? The other protestors hit a variety of events, but Pauline only goes to rodeos—that seemed personal. Plus, Street mentioned he and Landry worked this rodeo for the second time nineteen years ago, missing his daughter’s birth. Watt also mentioned Street’s daughter being born then—and I suspect his old memories, as well as his knowledge of Landry’s treatment of the women, persuaded Street that he was too dangerous to have around.
“Last night by the truck, Street told her to get out, trying to protect her from any association with what had happened.
Did you notice her eyes flicker to Street when I said his name the first time? She knew who he was.”
“Eye flicker,” Diana murmured.
I hurried past that. “But back to Pauline’s birth—Cas gave her flowers on Wednesday for her nineteenth birthday. Heather was suspicious, and that night she found the receipt in Cas’ gear bag. That’s when she took one of his ropes by accident.”
“Now that is a love triangle,” Mike said, clearly trying to lighten Alvaro’s glower. “The father of the girl you’re dating is murdered by the father of the girl you’ve been stepping out with on the first girl.”
“That bluff about Watt being conscious—that was a gamble,” Diana said.
“A calculated risk,” I said. “Street didn’t know he wasn’t conscious. With that and the possibility of the rope being found and a fingerprint on Watt’s truck door button, I hoped he’d give up.”
“And he did.” She gave it plenty of emphasis, sending Alvaro a look. “With Watt truly regaining consciousness now, that will fill in any gaps.”
“So timing wasn’t important to the crime, after all,” Mike said.
“Sure it was,” I said. “Just like the experts say, there was a trigger that made now the time for the murder. A two-part trigger. Landry told Cas he intended to have a fling with either Heather or Pauline. Then he found out Heather was his daughter.
“That left Pauline. And Oren knew Landry well enough to know he wouldn’t let her being the daughter of his partner stand in his way.”
Mike considered that. “Some Wyoming juries might consider that Oren Street performed a public service.”
“If he’d been interested in public service, he wouldn’t have tacitly abetted Landry for years.
“Which reminds me, Deputy Alvaro, we won’t be sending you back empty-handed. Our research assistant has uncovered the paper trail of Landry’s scheme to con rodeos that she’ll share with you. It might be another lever to work on Street.” I turned to Mike. “Remember what you said about my shoe that night at the rodeo after Landry was found?”
“That it smelled like horseshit?”
“After that—that I’d gotten used to the smell. I suspect it was like that for Oren with Landry. He’d gotten used to all the crap and stopped smelling it. Until—”
“Until it was going to touch his daughter.”
“Right. I think he was telling the truth when he said he didn’t know what he’d do in the business without Landry.”
“Something he recognized only after killing his golden goose?”
“Maybe. Although I’d tend to think he knew it ahead of time, and the drive to protect his daughter overrode it.”
Mike eyed the still-silent Alvaro. “Thank heavens it wasn’t another upstanding citizen of Cottonwood County. The mayor and commissioners and all the rest would have had to retreat to the Gobi Desert for a year to figure out their campaign after that.”
“On second thought . . .” Diana said.
“Good point. Having them in the Gobi Desert for a year would have been nice.”
“They could have taken Thurston with them, too,” she said.
“And the lieutenant,” Alvaro said.
We all looked at him. I was the one who risked a response. “Not sure his wife would like that with a new baby and all.”
He grinned, an honest-to-goodness grin, erasing all law enforcement sternness. “Oh, yes, she would. I heard her over the phone, yelling at him to go to work because that way at least she’d only have one baby to deal with.”
I INSISTED PAYCIK do the live intro for our package on the five o’clock news. It was, after all, a rodeo story, and thus sports.
Well, sports and religion in Wyoming.
Fine protested, but not with his usual vigor. The whisper around the newsroom was that even for Les Haeburn, the coverage during his absence had provided a surfeit of Thurston.
Jenks had called in with thanks after seeing how we’d credited his footage and excluded anything gag-worthy.
Needham Bender had called with congratulations and grumbling about the scoop. I told him what we knew about the county leaders’ weekend retreat. Haeburn would never let us report it, and Needham would do the story right.
The lead-in was taped for the late news, Diana was long gone, and Mike and I were headed out the door of KWMT-TV and into heat that yet promised a cool breeze once the sun finished its slow slide behind the mountains.
“Where to? Want me to take you home?” Mike asked, since my car was still in my driveway where we’d left it last night. “Or . . .?”
MIKE AND I stopped at the hovel only long enough to refill Shadow’s water dish. He came around the corner of the garage, and this time it truly was a wag of his tail. And I don’t think it only had to do with the bacon treats I tossed to him from the bag Jennifer had left.
We returned to the rodeo grounds as the evening’s competitors began rolling in.
I wondered if the regular rodeo would fill in this weekend now that the big Fourth of July Rodeo appeared poised to be officially canceled at a committee meeting starting in half an hour.
The meeting would be held without Stan Newton. He still owned the rodeo grounds, but word of the bribes had gotten around, and he’d been booted off the committee. That public punishment might be worse than whatever the legal system would—or wouldn’t—do to him for kickbacks that could be hard to prove. Somehow, I didn’t think Cas would testify against his father. No doubt it was against some Code of the West.
Linda Caswell and Tom Burrell stood on the rodeo office’s porch, in the same doorway where I’d seen them six days ago.
“Have you heard? Evan Watt’s improved and cooperating with the sheriff’s department,” Mike said to them as we approached.
I needed to talk to him about giving away what we wanted people to watch the news to learn.
“Good to hear, Mike. Evening, Elizabeth,” Tom said.
I returned the greetings before asking, “What happens next?”
“We’re meeting shortly to decide that,” Tom said. “I’ve been asked to rejoin the committee.”
“Any options other than canceling?” Mike asked.
“There are avenues we hope to explore,” Tom said.
“Like what?”
“Avenues,” he said, doggedly.
But Linda shook her head. “I don’t know how we can do it now, not without Landry or Street. The contract is clear. Legally, we can’t use their livestock without one of them signing off on it.”
Her eyes glistened. This woman had spoken openly of family tragedies, her broken heart, humiliating treatment at the hands of Keith Landry with no hint of eye moisture. But here were tears—pooling now, slipping free of her lower lashes—over a rodeo.
“Street might sign a waiver from jail. Or we’ll keep trying to get animals from wherever we can.”
“Tom.” She rested a hand on his arm. “What stock we could get wouldn’t be the caliber needed to keep top competitors. Do you know how many cancellations we’ve had? And we can’t blame them. They need to be on good stock. They’ve got their seasons to think of. Without top cowboys, we won’t sell the tickets we need to, not to mention not presenting a rodeo worthy of our tradition.”
Tom put an arm around her shoulder. “It’s not over yet.”
She pushed at a tear. “I know. We’ll do everything we can, and what happens, happens. Will you look at me, bawling like this.”
I did look. And realized Linda Caswell was one of those rare women who looked good crying. Really good. The only woman I’d ever seen who looked this good crying was a young reporter who came on when I was in Dayton, Ohio. She’d made full use of her talent by lobbying for every tearjerker story. Less than three months after she arrived, she’d parlayed her skill into marrying a top doct
or, inviting the entire newsroom. She cried through her entire wedding and reception, and looked spectacular.
Linda stopped short of spectacular, but she did look the best I’d ever seen her. I wasn’t the only one noticing.
Grayson Zane, standing across the open area from the rodeo office, had his eyes zeroed in on her.
She made another sound, this one not disgusted, and I knew she’d spotted him, too. And was staring back.
Just when the look either had to break or start one of them moving—and considering Burrell still had that shoulder lock on Linda, Grayson was the likely candidate—a truck moving at a crawl through the open area intruded.
I’d been so enthralled with the Beauty Cry and the stare-down that I hadn’t noticed the truck arriving. That was quite a feat, considering it was a livestock carrier about a block long, and eau de bulls announced its presence.
The truck paused, the engine running. A man on the passenger side appeared to lean over the driver to talk to Grayson. It wasn’t a long conversation. The passenger got out, shut the door, gave the side a thunk with the flat of his hand like a cowboy swatting the flank of a horse to get it moving. Sure enough, the truck crawled on.
The passenger—I’d tell you he was wearing jeans, boots, and a black cowboy hat, but what else was new?—walked straight toward us. Tom dropped his arm, but stayed beside Linda.
“Ms. Linda Caswell?”
“Yes. May I help you?”
“Well, ma’am, I’m hoping I’ll help you.” His thin lips spread in a slow grin. “I’m Digger Belasque, and I’m here on behalf of our stock contractors’ association. We’re real sorry to hear a fellow contractor—not a member of our organization, mind you—caused you any bother.”
Another True West moment. A murder, fraud, and a few other felonies boiled down to any bother.
“Thank you.” She spoke with her usual calm. Plus confusion.
“I’m here to make it right on behalf of my fellow contractors.”
“I . . . I don’t understand, Mr. Belasque.”
“Please, call me Digger. It’s simple, ma’am. We heard how the Sherman Rodeo was left high and dry by that unscrupulous piece of dried up cow dung, and we don’t like it. It’s not right. It’s not how we want the folks counting on another fine Sherman Fourth of July Rodeo to think of stock contractors. When we heard about this, we put our heads together.”
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