Body Brace (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 10)

by Patricia McLinn

  An Army might or might not travel on its stomach, but secrets in Cottonwood County definitely transmitted through food, whether from the Sherman Supermarket or Ernie’s in O’Hara Hill.

  In the evening, the small restaurant/bar with the history of O’Hara Hill tacked up on its walls was usually packed, but not for Sunday lunch. Ernie, the owner, was sitting at the bar, reading the special edition of the Independence. It was a solid report of Saturday’s events, with background on Two Rivers Camp, the Miners’ Camp Fight reenactment, and the buttes. But it didn’t advance the story past what we’d had on-air last night.

  I asked Ernie for a quiet table. He looked at the three of us so knowingly I half expected him to wink.

  After seating us, I heard him tell the server to take our orders quickly and not to seat anyone near us.

  Perfect.

  With a firm end time on this conversation when Aunt Gee needed to be at the sheriff’s department substation for dispatching duties, I did not waste time after our orders were taken.

  “Do you — either of you — know of people who’ve been missing from around here for a long time?”

  “You are pursuing the corpse found in the cave?” Mrs. Parens asked.

  I didn’t have to answer that I was taking them one at a time, because Aunt Gee said, “There are a number of missing persons. Merry Melville from four years ago, though most everyone thinks she took off for Florida, going after a guy she’d worked with. And Joanie—”

  “More likely a man. And I think it’s someone from a while ago.”

  “That cuts the number of possibilities. More women go missing and too high a percentage of them are, in fact, victims of foul play.” Gee shook off her grimness. “How long a while?”

  “Some time after men started keeping their wallets in the back pocket of their jeans. Oh, and wearing jeans and a checked shirt.”

  The two women exchanged a look.

  “What?”

  “Cowboys and other working men have been wearing denim pants and checked shirts for nearly a century and a half in this region,” Mrs. Parens said. “In the earliest days, veterans of the Civil War continued to wear varied pieces of their uniforms, since that did not entail added expenditure. The Union shirts were particularly well-regarded for durability. In subsequent decades, mass-produced material became available, especially in checks.”

  “I thought cowboys wore plaid if they weren’t in solid colors.” Or maybe I was thinking of a specific rancher.

  Mrs. Parens said, “Plaid came along as a widely available pattern working men could afford early in the Twentieth Century.”

  I sighed. “Too bad it wasn’t a plaid shirt, then. Would have limited when this guy could have ended up dead in that cave and— Oh, wait. Sergeant Shelton said the jeans were from Sears. No, he said Sears Roebuck.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t help you greatly, either,” Aunt Gee said. “People around here started ordering from the catalog when it started — what? right at the turn of the century? — so that doesn’t—”

  “The catalog began in the mid-1890s,” Mrs. Parens corrected quietly, pretending not to notice she’d irked Gee.

  “—narrow your time period much.”

  “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. Mrs. Parens, you said cowboys and other working men. Would that include miners?”

  “The images I associate with miners more often included solid color jackets or outer shirts or coveralls, although that is merely an impression. I would not be comfortable making a positive statement on the issue without researching extensively.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” I mentally added a yet.

  “Are you thinking the remains might be of a miner?” Aunt Gee asked.

  “Even saying might be is too strong. Although, obviously, the site is pretty much on the route the miners took trying a Bozeman Trail — Montana Road—” I slid in the correction. “—shortcut. I know the cave is east of their route, but…”

  “It is not beyond reason that one might have gone astray as the group angled north and west, although accounts of the survivors do not mention that and one would think they would have included such an event. However,” continued Mrs. Parens, “another possibility might have come later. There was gold found in 1870, south and slightly west of Cody, in a place they called Kirwin. The original miners were forced to leave, since that was Shoshone territory according to the 1868 treaty that, in essence, closed the Montana Road. In that instance, the military did enforce the treaty. A decade later, the miners were back. The instances of those miners in that location, combined with the cave where you found the remains being along a natural route from Kirwin to Bozeman does raise that additional possibility.”

  Hah. I’d bet Mrs. P went home last night and refreshed her recall of where and when gold was found in the region. I wasn’t asking and risking irking her and potentially damming her information river for that detail.

  Though I’d love to know if she’d raised the possibility to Sergeant Shelton.

  “You would need to tell us more details for us to provide useful information,” Gee said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know many more details at this point. Someone who wore jeans, a checked shirt, and a studded belt. With a wallet in the back pocket,” I said.

  Mrs. Parens’ gaze sharpened. “A studded belt,” she repeated.

  Had Shelton mentioned the wallet to her? Was that why she focused on the studded belt instead?

  “Does that mean something to you?”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, Elizabeth, but I cannot say that it does.”

  Our orders arrived.

  As we ate, I switched to Palmer Rennant.

  They added little to what they’d already told me about him and his family.

  The Rennants belonged to the country club and socialized with people there — so said Gee, quoting Penny.

  That might explain Thurston Fine’s important people commentary. He belonged to the country club, too, and considered all his fellow members important people. Was that the extent of it? Or did Fine have a more personal connection to Palmer Rennant?

  They didn’t know.

  Watching Aunt Gee, I said to Mrs. Parens as casually as possible, “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize that watch of Rennant’s. It’s memorable and sitting across tables at those meetings last year…”

  “What watch?” Gee asked.

  I described it. She shook her head. “Don’t remember anything like that.”

  Mrs. P looked the slightest big smug.

  As for the conflict over Rennant kicking the Cottonwood County events off his land, Aunt Gee indicated she’d told me Thursday night what she knew and Mrs. Parens wasn’t talking.

  I shifted to a new angle. “Tell me what was going on behind the tarps during preparations for the reenactment.”

  “Organized chaos,” Gee said. “The reenactors who were going to be miners running one way trying to put together their clothes and props for the camp. The attacking reenactors — with their horses — stripping down to remarkably scant clothing and having the symbols painted on them.”

  My phone vibrated with an incoming message. I ignored it. I could feel time running out and I’d gotten so little.

  “One of the miners,” Gee continued, “split out the seam on his pants and a group was trying to fix them well enough so he didn’t moon the audience, while others were looking for a replacement pair of pants. And another one swearing someone stole his Army shirt. All this with Nadine Hulte — to give credit where credit is due — keeping everything from descending into complete chaos.”

  Another vibration, another message.

  “She is remarkable in those circumstances,” Mrs. Parens said. “She has blossomed into a capable and responsible person from the shy, uncertain girl she was when she began to volunteer. It has been most gratifying to watch her development.”

  “You have done far more than help her. She would not have blossomed without you.”
>
  Gee supporting her neighbor did not alter their rivalry one iota. It was that kind of relationship.

  “Nadine has worked extremely hard to build her confidence by acquiring skills and expanding her abilities and her willingness to take on additional responsibilities. She has become invaluable to Paige Schmidt in the estate sale business.”

  Somebody was not giving up on sending me messages. They’d just have to wait.

  I still had questions. “Was she or Clara Atwood painting the symbols on the reenactors?”

  “Nadine? Clara?” Gee said in surprise.

  Mrs. Parens, though, was less surprised, because she’d heard me asking Paytah about paint yesterday. She likely hadn’t seen the detail of the markings on Palmer Rennant’s back, but could she see they were red and yellow?

  “Members of the tribe perform that service, using the opportunity for the elders to teach the younger generation,” she said.

  If these messages didn’t stop coming in and this phone vibrating…

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “What about the paint Paytah said the reenactors didn’t bring? Who provided that?”

  “The red and yellow?” Gee asked. “The committee approved that purchase Wednesday. It was used for the campers, too.”

  “Nadine bought it?”

  My phone rang.

  “You should answer your phone,” Mrs. Parens said.

  “Or turn it off, Elizabeth,” Gee said. “I always do before a meal.”

  Another ring.

  “Did Nadine buy the paint?”

  Mrs. P wasn’t answering.

  Gee looked from me to her and back. “No. There’s no mystery. Clara Atwood bought it and took it out to the site Thursday morning.”

  Third ring.

  I broke down and looked at my phone.

  The screen said the call was from Tom Burrell. The messages, too.

  He barely waited for my hello.

  “Elizabeth, are you with Mrs. Parens and Gee Decker?”

  “Yes.” It came out breathless, because fear that flashed into my head that he’d only call me if something happened to Tamantha evaporated with his question … taking my oxygen with it.

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of them. Sally Tipton’s had a serious stroke. She’s in the hospital. She listed Mrs. Parens as her emergency contact. When they couldn’t reach her, they tried me.”

  I’d first encountered Sally a year ago. She was somewhere in age between Mrs. P and Aunt Gee, but an entirely different personality. They were smart, strong, competent, generous, tart women. She was not.

  “I’ll put her on the phone—”

  “No, wait. Where are you?” he asked.

  “Ernie’s.”

  “Okay. Will you ask Gee to drive Mrs. Parens to my place and—?”

  “I’ll drive her to the hospital. Gee has to work.”

  “No. Bring her here, if you don’t mind. I’ll take her the rest of the way.”

  “Okay.”

  I waited a beat. He said nothing.

  I held out my phone to Mrs. Parens. “It’s Tom — Tom Burrell. He needs to talk to you.”

  Aunt Gee, she had her phone out, checking messages. “Sally Tipton. Stroke,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She clucked her tongue and kept reading.

  Mrs. Parens listened silently to Tom.

  At the end, her expression unchanged, she said, “Yes. Thank you.”

  Apparently attuned to the changed mood at the table — or already aware of the news through the Cottonwood County grapevine — Ernie brought us our bill, asked if we wanted anything wrapped to go, and patted Mrs. Parens lightly on the shoulder. She nodded briefly, occupied with her purse. More occupied than she needed to be.

  I paid, quashing protests from Gee.

  Outside, Gee said, “I wish I hadn’t agreed to cover this shift for Donald.”

  “Nonsense, Gisella,” Mrs. Parens said briskly. “You are generously helping him and you can rest assured Tom and Elizabeth have my transportation covered.”

  During the short trip to their street, Gee read aloud a few of the messages she’d received, which gave no real added information.

  I asked Mrs. P if she wanted to get anything from her house, she said no, so we dropped off Gee, and headed south toward Sherman.

  “Did you know Sally listed you as her emergency contact?” I asked.

  “No, I did not.” She looked straight ahead.

  “Are you surprised?”

  “No, I am not.”

  Because Sally had no one else? Or because nothing Sally did surprised Mrs. Parens?

  At least I got to have a not surprised of my own — at Mrs. P immediately going to Sally Tipton’s side at the hospital.

  But I was surprised at her closed-off silence.

  Or maybe I wasn’t entirely surprised.

  Mrs. Parens had gone to bat for the woman before, even though there was something odd in their interactions. Not friction, exactly, because Sally mostly presented a sweet, flighty front that fended off friction.

  Mrs. Parens’ attitude to Sally was hard to pin down. Less patient, more stiff than with others. And yet an element of protectiveness.

  I had questions for Emmaline Parens.

  It would be exceedingly difficult to identify anyone under these circumstances.

  But this didn’t seem a fair time to ask.

  We reached the entrance to the Circle B Ranch.

  I drove the rising and twisting ranch road to its final curve. As we crossed the wood bridge, we spotted Tom and Tamantha coming out the front door, onto the wide porch, looking like a family portrait.

  I parked and we all met between my SUV and Tom’s truck.

  Tamantha gave me a big smile. Tom didn’t.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

  “Glad to help.” To Mrs. P, I said, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do — for you or for Sally.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Left on my own, I called the Widow Rennant.

  If an ex qualifies as a widow.

  Ex-widow? That didn’t work. Widow-ex?

  “Willa Rennant? This is Elizabeth Margaret Danniher from KWMT-TV. I’m—”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve seen your reports on murder cases.”

  “—the ‘Helping Out’ consumer affairs reporter.”

  “That, too. Though you’re probably not calling me about that.”

  I liked her directness. “I’m not. I’d like to talk to you about Palmer Rennant.”

  “You’d need to come here. Now.”

  I’d expected to need to persuade her, overcome reluctance.

  This went beyond directness.

  “Your house? That’s fine—”

  “Not my house. Palmer’s.”

  She rattled off the address fast enough that it was a good thing I already had it and hung up.

  How ex was she if she was at Palmer Rennant’s house this soon after his death?

  * * * *

  She was not alone.

  The large house, in fact, appeared to be well occupied by members of the Cottonwood County Sheriff’s Department, judging by the number of official vehicles outside.

  I’d figured they’d be here ahead of us, but being reminded of it didn’t improve my mood any.

  In contrast to the house, the corrals and neat barn appeared deserted. A red truck, new, but with the mandatory spray pattern of Wyoming dust mimicking custom flame paint along the sides, was parked on the left, beside the porch.

  A smaller SUV in pale blue was off to the right side. I’d bet that was Willa Rennant’s.

  The double front doors were mostly glass, with the wood frames around them painted bright red. Where the doors met, both had scratch marks at my mid-thigh level. Looked like animal claws to me. Not like I’d imagine a wild animal would make, certainly not a big one. More like a short dog or a tall cat.

  Willa Rennant swung open the left-hand door.

  I identified her bo
th from the Independence photo I’d seen at the station and because she wasn’t wearing a uniform, while the people in the background were.

  “Hello, Ms. Danniher. Come in.”

  “Hello, Ms. Rennant. Thank—”

  “Elizabeth, what are you doing here?”

  Even if I hadn’t recognized the voice, I would have known immediately that the law enforcement officer addressing me wasn’t Shelton. Calling me by my first name and not growling. Couldn’t possibly be my favorite sergeant.

  I turned to Deputy Richard Alvaro.

  “You can’t be here,” he said before I said a word. “You have to leave.”

  He still looked young, but he was becoming old in the way of law enforcement — say no first and ask questions later.

  “I invited her,” Willa Rennant said calmly. “You said I could have someone here with me if I chose and I choose Ms. Danniher.”

  I liked this woman.

  “A lawyer. Somebody like that.”

  “I don’t want a lawyer.”

  “Then you’ll both have to leave.”

  “I am here as the representative of my children, who inherit this house from their father. I am not impeding your search in any way. You already said I could sit in the music room while your team searches the rest. Ms. Danniher will join me there.”

  She gestured toward a room to the right of the front door with a grand piano. Good guess for the music room. There also were couches set at right angles to each other under windows. So we didn’t have to share the piano bench.

  I didn’t look toward Alvaro as I followed Willa Rennant’s gesture into that room.

  It’s best not to put up the backs of young law enforcement by seeming to gloat. Even a little.

  Besides, there wasn’t time to waste.

  He’d call Shelton immediately. And if Shelton decreed I had to go, Willa Rennant would need that lawyerly presence to get me to stay, which would interfere with me asking questions.

  Far better to get my questions in now.

  Before I had a chance to ask any, though, she asked one of her own as she closed double doors behind us.