His eyes lightened, as if he’d stepped out of a cave. “What’s she ordering you to do, besides pester me?” That almost sounded human.
“Prove you’re innocent.”
Back to the cave. “Of what?”
“Killing Sheriff’s Deputy Foster Redus.” My diplomacy in saying “killing” instead of “murdering” was lost on Burrell.
“How do you know he’s dead?”
“I don’t know. I made that assumption for the sake of—”
“You know what happens when you assume—makes an ass of you and me.”
It was journalism teachers’ favorite saying, along with the three most important rules of reporting being accuracy, accuracy, accuracy. Having it drawled back at me by him was downright irritating.
“It would be redundant in your case.”
For a moment I thought what my mother called my Irish tongue—fast and sharp—had gotten me in real trouble. It caught me off guard, because I thought I’d put a permanent curb on it years ago when Wes and I moved into TV news. Now a lurid image popped into my head of Burrell’s strong arms swinging the ax toward the block.
“Be careful, E.M. Danniher.” His soft words sent atavistic shivers along the fine hairs on my arms and up the back of my neck.
He then turned away. I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“What does E.M. stand for?” He moved into the L of a kitchen off to the left, probably figuring he had me cowed enough to ease up on guard duty.
“Elizabeth Margaret.”
“Elizabeth Margaret Danniher. That’s a mouthful. What do they call you at the television station?”
“Mostly her.”
A sound came from him that might have been a chuckle. “What will they be calling you after you’ve been here a while?”
I pushed back my uncertainties about whether I would—or should—be here a while, and said, “Some will stick with Elizabeth. Mostly it’ll be Danny. That’s what it’s been other places.”
“You’ve been a lot of other places?” he asked as he poured a cup of coffee the color of sin. With his back to me, his voice sounded almost casual. Maybe it was the eyes that gave him such intensity.
“A few.”
“I haven’t been any other places. Only here.” He imbued it with neither pleasure nor regret, simply recognition of a fact. “You think you’ll get accepted by doing this story? A scoop?”
Letting him see that Job had nothing on me in the patience department, I sighed.
“In case you didn’t notice, no camera. That means no story. And in case you haven’t watched KWMT, this isn’t my story. My beat’s consumer affairs.”
“Not your story, but you came out here to ask questions? Why?” He drank down a good mouthful of coffee, though heat curled steam above the mug.
“Don’t think I haven’t wondered that. I keep getting sucked into it—by your daughter, by Mike Paycik and his aunt and a deputy who doesn’t look old enough to shave and—I admit it—curiosity about things that just don’t fit.”
He looked at me for forty seconds with those Tamantha eyes. Abruptly he poured another mug of coffee, handed it to me and gestured that I was to sit at the built-in booth to the left of the door. I sat.
“Sugar? Don’t have cream, but there’s milk.”
Milk for Tamantha, I guessed. When I declined both, he sat opposite me. We shifted around to sort out knees in the confined space.
I didn’t wait for an invitation. “What happened the Monday after Thanksgiving?”
“Redus came here. A few minutes before five. We started shouting—” I tried to imagine this man shouting. “—he threw a punch. I landed one. Few more punches. A little blood spilled, and we didn’t do that table any good.”
He jerked his head toward an end table beside the muted green plaid couch. One of its front legs was a lighter color than the other three, as if recently replaced.
“When Redus had enough, he stumbled out the front door, shouting.”
“What about?”
“When he left? My parentage.”
“What was he shouting about at the start? Why did he come?”
“Mona and I had words. Redus stuck his oar in. I preferred it out.”
“What were the words about between you and Mona?”
“None of your business.”
Did he think that would stop me? Very little of what I asked about was strictly my business. “Give me some idea.”
“You know anything about the way things get twisted around and confused when a man and a woman who once were married go their separate ways? Sex and loyalty and rusted-out old arguments?”
“Some.”
He raised his head slightly, as if adjusting his angle on me. I had the feeling that, for the first time, he was looking at me as more than an annoyance. “Maybe you do.”
“Who started it?” I saw the glint of dark humor in his eye, and before he could say something about Adam and Eve, I added, “Your fight with Redus.”
He hitched one shoulder. “Not much of a fight. He took a swing at my gut. I blocked most of it. He’d left himself open. I landed a right to his eye and a left to his nose. Maybe broke it.”
Those hands engulfed a coffee mug now, the knuckles like knobs of rock. Certainly capable of breaking a nose and splitting the skin above an eye. But wouldn’t his knuckles have bled as well?
I looked up to meet the bleak, unrevealing eyes of Thomas David Burrell, and knew he had no trouble reading my thoughts.
“You missed your chance to see the bruises, but Sheriff Widcuff took pictures. The skin didn’t break, not from a couple punches. That’s all it took. Redus hollered about assaulting a sheriff’s deputy. I told him I’d start hollering about a sheriff’s deputy using his position to add to his income, along with messing with other men’s wives, especially when he still had one of his own.”
“Did he?”
“You’re not much of a reporter if you haven’t heard about Redus’ womanizing.”
“I meant did he use his position to add to his income.”
He returned my look, giving nothing away, including words.
“You have no proof, but you have suspicions, is that it?” I asked. Maybe the fact that I’d heard that line too often came through in my voice, because his expression grew even blanker. “Okay. So, he hit you, you hit him back. He’s bleeding, and you’re shouting at each other. Then what?”
“He left.”
“He just turned around and left?”
Burrell spoke with studied patience. “He shouted some more—backing up all the way—got in his truck, ran over a bush and high-tailed it.”
I didn’t try to hide my frown. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Maybe I could have gotten more out of him if I’d had the equipment and leisure for torture. I started to rearrange my legs under the table in preparation for standing.
“Now, I have a question, Ms. E.M. Danniher.”
Warily, I settled back.
“What are the things that don’t fit that made you curious about this?”
I went with the obvious. “The limited investigation into Foster Redus’ disappearance. Why didn’t they have a full-scale search? Why didn’t they call in the state crime lab and state investigators to handle the inquiry? When one of its own is involved, law enforcement pulls out all the stops and never gives up. At least that’s the way it’s been everywhere I’ve been before.”
“You’re not anywhere you’ve been before,” he pointed out.
“That’s for sure.”
Driving away, I knew I hadn’t answered any of the questions I’d gone there to resolve. But I knew with absolute certainty that Tamantha was her father’s daughter.
Chapter Twelve
Judge Ambrose Claustel wasn’t hard to find. He had a corner office on the third floor in the old section of the Cottonwood County Courthouse.
The Sherman Chamber of Commerce brochure makes a point that the fou
r-story courthouse, complete with stone turrets, was nineteenth century—the dawn of “civilization” in these parts. It was built in 1899.
Eighty-five years later, when they needed more space, they left the original building, tore down a 1950s wing and put in a two-level addition on the back half of the courthouse square shaped like a staple, with the two open ends inserting into either side of the old structure. It created a central courtyard, furnished with benches and plants. The sheriff’s office, Sherman police department and jail occupied most of the long side of the addition, farthest from the broad front steps of the old building and facing Basin Street, like the service entrance of a grand old hotel.
I’d been waiting ten minutes in the anteroom crowded by his assistant and a clerk, when Judge Claustel arrived, a bulky man with a lumpy nose and cratered skin under a hat identical to a Stetson I’d seen marked at three thousand dollars at a store in Cody.
He’d been one of the suits I’d seen lunching yesterday with Ames Hunt and the sheriff.
“Judge, this woman says she’s from KWMT,” started the assistant, who made it sound as if the identification were extremely suspect.
“Come in,” he said heartily to me, ignoring the woman. He swept me before him into his office.
None of the addition was visible from this third-story office. The side window, which might have offered some view of that area, was covered by drawn blinds. So the view was strictly to the front of the building, looking down on small figures walking up the wide path across the stubble of grass valiantly greening after a hard winter.
He hooked his nearly shapeless sports jacket and his well-tended hat on a coat rack made of a fence post and antlers. His robe already hung there. The big wooden desk, matching leather desk chair, couch against the side wall and two guest chairs were standard judicial trappings. Book cases, filing cabinets, a side door that probably allowed a side exit completed the setup. But the hoof ashtray, Remington and Russell prints on the walls, and horn frame around a school photo of a good-looking teenage boy blared his geographic loyalty.
“Judge Claustel, I’m—”
“I know, I know. You’re the new reporter for the TV station, and you made an appointment to get background on the Wyoming political situation. You came to the right place, even if it is blowing my own horn.”
I’d simply said “background.”
“That shows initiative, young lady. I wouldn’t ordinarily take the time for this sort of thing, but I believe in rewarding initiative, making sure that worm goes to the early bird. So let me get right down to brass tacks. We got a state senator retiring, so his seat’s up for election come fall.”
I reminded myself not to underestimate him, just because he was condescending to me. Sure I’d dealt with Washington politicians for years, while he was a minor player in the least populated state in the country. That didn’t mean he wasn’t smart or sneaky or both.
“This area has quite a little reputation for sending its men on to bigger and better things—a couple U.S. senators, three governors and more than our share of U.S. representatives. So whoever wins this state senator election could be setting his feet on the path to the governor’s mansion in Cheyenne or the Capitol in Washington, or both. It’s been done, it’s been done.”
He leaned back until his chair groaned.
“That’s why in choosing the candidate you got to look beyond the trees to the forest. We owe it to ourselves, we owe it to our county, and we owe it to our state to look for the right man.”
“Or woman.”
He didn’t blink, didn’t pause and didn’t respond.
“And that means we can’t be tied to our first impressions. When circumstances change, we must change with them. Choosing a candidate is like buying a truck, you might have to test-drive a few before you settle on the one you’re ready to put down cash for.”
Mixing talk of candidates and cash didn’t strike me as particularly tactful, but I had other objectives to pursue—or fish to fry, as Judge Claustel would probably say.
“So you backed someone else before you endorsed Ames Hunt?”
His eyes nearly disappeared as his heavy lids lowered and his full cheeks drew up in concentration.
I’d goofed. He’d thought I already knew who he’d backed. I shouldn’t have let on I didn’t. I should have faked it until I could find out, until—
Then it clicked. Of course. Mike had said something about it.
The silence had gone extra beats, but I went on as if there’d been no pause. “But when Thomas Burrell got arrested, that changed everything.”
“I hadn’t committed to Burrell,” Judge Claustel said instantly. “When others mentioned his name, I felt I owed it to his standing in the community to consider him. His people had been in this area a long time. Tom’s done well, until . . . . Not that he was a shoo-in. No, sir. He’d raised some hackles with that commission of his on the sheriff’s department. There were some who didn’t take kindly to a youngster like Burrell sticking his nose in. Not by a far sight. Bob Widcuff has friends. Influential friends. I tried to drop a hint to Burrell that he’d do better to build bridges than enemies. A word to the wise, you know.”
He shifted his weight to one side, smiled and went on in the hearty tone he’d started with. “Well, I don’t suppose you came to talk about Tom Burrell.”
“No, sir.” Though it hardly made any difference. Whatever I intended to talk about, it always came back to Burrell.
“What you’re wanting is background on how Ames Hunt is likely to stack up in the election come fall. Ames Hunt has been a fine—”
“Actually, Judge Claustel—”
“—county attorney here, a fine attorney, and—”
“—what I wanted to ask you about was your son. I understand Frank was with Roger Johnson Junior the night he was arrested by Deputy Foster Redus, the night before Roger committed suicide.”
Claustel retreated far beneath the surface. “Frank wasn’t arrested.”
“No, but he and Roger Junior were together that evening, weren’t they?”
His chair came forward. “Just what are you nosing into, Miss Danniher?”
“The disappearance of Foster Redus. I’m looking into some of his cases.”
“But those files . . .”
“Have been burned,” I finished smoothly. And he’d known it. “I hope your son can clarify what happened when Roger Junior was arrested.”
“He wasn’t there. And he’s away at college.”
“But he and Roger Junior were good friends, perhaps Frank talked to him. Or he might know if Roger had had other run-ins with Redus. Or maybe Frank had trouble with Redus himself. Or—”
Claustel was on the move, heading to the door. “My son cannot help you. That boy’s death was hard on my son. I won’t have that wound re-opened. We’re out of time, Miss Danniher.”
“But—”
“Good afternoon, Miss Danniher.” He was holding the door open. That sort of hint even a reporter found hard to ignore.
* * * *
A glimpse of what might have been a slightly less skinny dog disappearing around the garage as I emerged from the back door with refilled bowls was the high point of my night. There wasn’t much competition for that honor since the rest of it was spent chipping off green paint from the bathroom light fixture, then falling across the bed in my work clothes only to be awakened by sunrise and a lingering scent of old paint—who says I don’t have fun?
I was back at the Courthouse the next morning for two hours of light reading. I had searched through ordinances to answer a viewer’s question about whether her neighbor had to keep the goats she raised off a shared access road. I considered the viewer’s contention that the neighbor was selling the goats to a satanic group a side issue.
Coming down the hall toward me were Thurston Fine and Sheriff Widcuff. My lucky day.
Fine set himself in my path. “We want to talk to you.”
“Good morning,” I said with
a big smile, just to annoy him. It worked.
“What are you doing talking to people all around the county?” Fine demanded, while Widcuff leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
It figured that word would filter back. And I wasn’t particularly surprised at his attitude. Even bad journalists can be extremely territorial. Maybe especially bad journalists.
“That’s what reporters do, Thurston.”
“You’re not going to find out anything.”
“Not if I don’t ask.”
“You’re trying to dig up dirt, but Haeburn won’t use it. You won’t get around him like you have with the lead-ins.”
The lead-ins? What about the lead-ins? I sure wasn’t going to ask Fine.
“You can’t go bothering important men like Judge Claustel,” Fine added.
Ah. “A friend of yours?”
“Yes, I’m proud to say he is. Around here we treat men like Ambrose Claustel with respect. Maybe where you’ve been before they don’t, but—”
“I’m not anywhere I’ve been before,” I supplied, quoting Tom Burrell.
“What?”
“Never mind.” I flipped a hand. “If that’s all you have to say, I have more dirt-digging to do, so I’ll say goodbye.”
But Widcuff pushed away from the wall and took Fine’s place. If these men insisted on having hash browns for breakfast, I wish they’d skip the onions.
“You shouldn’t mess in things that don’t concern you.”
“That’s the definition of journalism, Sheriff. If we mess with things that do concern us it’s conflict of interest. You’re familiar with that concept, aren’t you?” I stepped around him. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
First Burrell and now these two. The curb on my tongue apparently had rusted.
Rounding the corner under a head of steam of undispelled anger, I spotted a charcoal gray suit straightening from the water fountain, but too late to avoid impact.
“Ooof,” protested the suit as I connected with his ribs. A mist of water sprayed from his mouth.
“Sorry! I didn’t—oh, hello Mr. Hunt. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“That’s quite all right, Ms. Danniher.” From the chill in the air, the water should be turning to icicles.
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