Body Brace (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 10)

by Patricia McLinn

  Truck keys?

  Old-fashioned truck keys?

  My mind jumped to Shelton. So uncharacteristically telling me about the wallet in the back pocket of the cave body, yet I’d known — absolutely known — he was holding something back.

  Something like vehicle keys also being found?

  I said, barely on the polite side of bored, “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. Even before the flat keys with a rectangular or half-moon cutout for putting them on a ring — kind my Dad had — that open area looked sort of like a two-ball snowman that mostly melted. Never had seen them before, but when I kept looking, back and back, there they were.” He ducked his head. “Not that you’d be interested in that. Sorry.”

  “Not really,” I fibbed. But he’d not only clam up completely if I asked any of the questions buzzing in my mind, he’d know he’d given something away. The flip side, though, was he wouldn’t believe it if I gave up too easily. “But I would like to know if the department’s made progress on when Palmer Rennant was last seen alive?”

  “Can’t tell you that. Can’t talk about it. Sheriff’s department business. Can’t talk.”

  I exhaled deeply, a thwarted journalist. “Okay, Lloyd. You have a good night.”

  “You, too, see you later, Elizabeth.” He left with the vaguely guilty expression he often seemed to have around me.

  And this time I hadn’t even dragged anything out of him. All I’d done was say hello and ask about his day.

  I would not feel guilty about making him feel guilty. Especially since I had research to do — soon — on General Motors vehicle keys.

  But I would do him a favor.

  I called out, “Lloyd.”

  He stopped and waited for me to let the SUV roll forward to put the driver’s seat even with him again, looking even more pre-emptively guilty.

  “Lloyd, you better have that rash on your wrists checked out.”

  He glared at his wrists suspiciously. “Poison ivy. Should’ve known. So busy today, I didn’t pay attention to the itching. Where in blazes—?”

  “Since you don’t have it on your hands. I’d say you got it when you were wearing gloves. Best guess would be from the bush by the opening to the cave when you wrapped police tape around it. It did have three leaves. Have you had poison ivy before?”

  “Yeah.” He groaned. “I’m real sensitive to it. Usually watch for it like a hawk, but…”

  Under the excitement of a dead body and the pressure of Shelton’s exacting eye, he hadn’t paid attention to the triple leaves of that bush.

  He thanked me glumly.

  As I tapped the accelerator, he took out his phone and connected with someone. “We still have any of that cream from when I had poison ivy last time?”

  * * * *

  Once more proving you could buy anything you didn’t want on eBay, I found entire collections of “vintage” keys for sale, though most of them looked just plain old.

  And I couldn’t see detail well enough on my phone, as I discovered when I pulled over on a random street between the sheriff’s department and the Benders’ house. I’d have to wait until after dinner, when I got home to a larger screen to explore the keys thoroughly.

  Still, I was inclined to look kindly on the crumbly old things and that put me in a particularly cheerful mood … which immediately aroused Needham’s suspicions.

  I assuaged those suspicions by expressing delight that Shadow’s first wariness of a new place passed when he recognized Needham and Thelma as established friends. His universe of trusted places kept expanding.

  We had a lovely dinner of roast beef, fresh vegetables, and fresh peach cobbler, with a side order of thrust and parry between Needham and me.

  Thelma scolded us while slipping treats to Shadow.

  In other words, a good time was had by all.

  * * * *

  I fudged the time of the scheduled call with Mike and Jennifer to leave the Benders’ without exacerbating Needham’s newshound instincts.

  That gave me just enough time on my laptop, using Lloyd’s descriptions and Internet search tools, to find the pre-electronic keys with the half-moon and rectangular openings he described. They were listed as being used from the mid-1960s well into the mid-1980s.

  I went farther back in search of his melted snowman description, and there they were, meeting the newer type in the mid-’60s and extending back into the ’30s at least.

  * * * *

  With Mike and Jennifer on the video call from Chicago, and Diana connected from her ranch, they pounced on me, proclaiming they could tell I’d found out something.

  I explained the trail from Lloyd to the Internet to my conclusion: “Shelton saw a key with the body in the cave that must have had that melted snowman kind of opening.”

  “Why?” Jennifer quickly added, “Oh. Because Lloyd wouldn’t have kept searching farther back if the rectangular and half-moon keys were what Shelton had him looking for.”

  I pointed at her on-screen image in acknowledgement. “Exactly.”

  “That’s good, Jennifer,” Diana said, “but still leaves us with thirty or so years.”

  “That’s better than the hundred and fifty I thought we were looking at when I left Mrs. P and Aunt Gee. Plus, it makes it less likely our mystery corpse is connected to Palmer Rennant. Unless—”

  “Want me to check if he had relatives or connections here from that period, when I get back?”

  “That would be great. Also see what you can find out about local people missing from the Thirties into the Sixties. And Lloyd said truck keys, so anything connected with a truck in particular. I know,” I said in response to her groan. “That’s a long period, but there weren’t as many people in Wyoming then, so that should help.”

  Before she told me it wouldn’t, Mike asked, “Couldn’t it be some poor guy passing through?”

  “Possible, not likely. Not if I’m right about Shelton having an idea of who it is.” I added, “I also think Mrs. P is holding out on us.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “You think Mrs. P suspects who the cave body is?” Jennifer asked.

  “Good luck tackling her if she’s decided not to tell you,” Diana said.

  I ignored that spurious encouragement and told them about her mini-reaction to the studded belt. That led to a complete report of the lunch, plus the news on Sally.

  “That’s too bad about Sally. Going to keep Mrs. P and my aunt so occupied we won’t have much access to them — not that that’s the only reason it’s too bad,” Mike added hurriedly.

  “Yeah, we know your priorities,” Diana said.

  “He does have a point.” I sighed. “I’d hoped to soften up Mrs. P to give me contact info for the reenactor they said is training to be a paramedic. No time—”

  “Aleek?” Jennifer asked.

  “Yes. How did you know—?”

  “I know Aleek. How many people could have been planning to ride in the reenactment and training to be a paramedic? He’s already passed some of that stuff. I’ll send you his contact info.”

  “That’s great. Still, Mrs. P being unavailable means we’re stymied to some extent on the cave body, unless Jennifer comes up with a viable missing person from the right period. But there’s lots we can do about Palmer Rennant’s death, starting with recapping what we’ve each learned today.”

  “All I’ve learned is that the Cubs are weak in left-handed pitching, but so far the fielding is offsetting it.”

  “Thanks, Mike. I’ll be sure to tell my dad. I saw Clara and Nadine again today.”

  That was a short report.

  “You consider them suspects?” Jennifer asked.

  I exhaled. “They’d have a lot better motive if this were a year ago or anytime in the year before that, because of Palmer Rennant kicking their events off his property. But once they found this better location with the cooperative secret landowner, their motive evaporated. Successful camp this year, more tickets sold for the reena
ctment than ever before? Why kill Rennant now?”

  “Especially since they had to refund tickets,” Mike said.

  Diana shifted our focus with a question. “What do you make of the information about the paint, Elizabeth?”

  “I don’t know that I make anything of it meaningful at this point. But it’s interesting.”

  “The red and yellow paint was there in the staging area overnight, so anybody could have used it,” Jennifer said.

  “They’d have to know it was there,” objected Mike. “Would someone who was moving a dead body around stop and root in the supplies on the off chance there was paint there? More likely somebody who knew the stuff was there. Knew exactly where to go and how to put it back.”

  “The reenactors? The organizers? Camp kids? Why would any of them kill this guy?” Jennifer asked.

  “Another interesting point,” I said, “is the marks were little more than blobs. Nowhere near the symbols the reenactors had.”

  Mike jumped on that. “If the painter made little effort to make the marks accurate, that points away from the reenactors.”

  “Or someone wanted it to point away from them,” I said. “A reenactor could have deliberately made the marks vague and unlike their usual symbols. Or someone else could have wanted to not implicate them.”

  He huh’d. “That would be clever.”

  “Or,” said Diana, “the time exposed to the rain and air overnight could have turned originally sharp marks into blobs.”

  “I won’t say no completely, but I don’t think so, because the ones up by Rennant’s shoulders were blobby, too, and those would have been at least somewhat protected under the overhang, so why would they blob?”

  “The verb to blob?” she murmured at me.

  “But if it was a reenactor, why use paint at all?” Jennifer asked. “Why call attention to themselves in the first place?”

  “Excellent question. Same goes for someone who didn’t want to implicate them. No paint at all implicates them even less.”

  “So far, you guys seem to be eliminating possible suspects. What about the wife — the ex?” Mike asked.

  “Elizabeth talked to her,” Diana said, “but before she reports, let me tell you guys what I picked up. General impressions are that she’s a pleasant woman who’s extremely smart, which makes a few people uncomfortable.

  “I talked with Shelby Wattelka — you know she’s got her real estate license now — who helped her find a new house. Palmer kept the one at the ranch. Willa wanted to live closer to town. Shelby said the settlement must be good, because Willa Rennant wasn’t worrying about money. Got a real nice house in that new area this side of the country club.”

  I felt my eyebrows rise. I’d heard about that development. Specifically, I’d heard it was making Thurston Fine and other residents of the established area around the country club pea green.

  “A friend of mine from school is on a committee with Willa Rennant at the country club,” Diana continued. “And she says that in the past year Willa has been working out, changed her hair style, and started getting regular facials, and manicures.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “Ah, what?” Mike demanded.

  “Post-divorce rehab.”

  “Exactly. My friend says she’s never looked better and she’s jumped in volunteering at the library, working as a voting judge, and on the board for her new development, as well as the country club.”

  “Is she seeing anybody?”

  “Word is she’s playing the field. Not anybody special.”

  Good for her.

  “I’ve got something else,” Diana said, “but, first, tell them about your conversation with Willa Rennant before we switch topics.”

  When I finished, Diana said, “The Jolie that Willa mentioned must be the same person I picked up rumors about today. Jolie Graf.”

  She filled in Mike and Jennifer on that aspect.

  I was trying to follow a jangle in my memory. “Why is that name so familiar…?”

  “Which—?”

  I held up a shushing finger to the screen. It was there… right on the edge of my mind… Got it. “Jolie Graf. She was one of the women who had a fling with that guy with the thing for rodeo queens, Keith Landry.”

  “That’s right, she was. I’d forgotten that. Good for you, Elizabeth,” Diana said.

  “Not sure it has any connection, though. Sure would be interesting to know more about her. I’ll see what Penny has to say on that and several other topics tomorrow.”

  “You can’t possibly be out of sea salt caramel pie,” Diana protested.

  “I’m not.” There were at least two slices left — for tomorrow’s breakfast. “I’m going to the supermarket for the good of our inquiries.”

  “Wish I could sacrifice like that,” Mike lamented.

  “How much did you eat at Wrigley today?” I asked.

  “That’s not the point—”

  He was hooted down.

  “I miss Tom,” he said. “At least I had one on my side.”

  A lull hit. Diana stepped in.

  “You want to share what you’ve found, Jennifer?”

  “Not yet. Finish what else you got.”

  “A motive that’s not from a year ago and wiped out by subsequent events,” Diana looked around her screen, saw she had all our attention. “Palmer Rennant ran down Otto Chaney’s dog. Remember him?” The last was directed at me.

  “He didn’t have a dog.”

  “I wasn’t asking if you remembered a dog. I meant, do you remember Otto Chaney?”

  “I do,” I said with great dignity. “Met him into the deaths at Red Sail Ranch. So, is Rennant on the Red Sail Ditch with Connie Walterston, the Chaneys, and the rest of them?”

  I’d learned a lot about the politics and intricate interpersonal relationships of the enforced community that grows out of sharing water from the same irrigation system.

  “Rennant’s property is on Red Sail Ditch, but he rents most out and wasn’t involved with the ditch. To get to his place, you go past the little road that dead-ends into Otto Chaney’s for about another mile. But the houses are much closer together than that. Imagine something like this.” She held up her hands, like she was framing a shot — fingers straight up, thumbs at right angles to the fingers and pointing at each other, then she tipped her forefingers toward each other, not quite closing to form a triangle. “Rennant said the dog was always on his property.”

  “He didn’t have a dog when we went to his place,” I protested again.

  “Must have been a rare time between dogs for Otto, because he always has a couple,” Mike said. “Usually sad cases. Always rescues.”

  If I’d known the crusty older man had that particular soft side to his personality, I would have warmed to him more.

  “Was this an accident with the dog?” Mike asked.

  “Otto doesn’t think so,” Diana said, “and that’s what matters.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Diana returned to the point of her narrative. “He adopted this dog not long ago. It was mostly lame and was dumped by somebody before Otto took him in. Apparently, he barks. A lot. And loudly. He also chases cars. Not a whole lot of cars out there, but when Palmer Rennant drove along the road, the dog chased his car part of the way, then cut through the brush and beat Rennant to his own front door, then he’d bark and bay and howl at him.

  “Also, the dog would make a racket when Otto let him out when he got up. Which is considerably earlier than Palmer Rennant got up. Rennant called and complained. Otto lectured him about lazy people who were still in bed when the sky started to lighten. It went downhill from there, including a call to the sheriff’s department. Apparently, Shelton told Rennant to get ear plugs and it was an old dog, who wouldn’t be around much longer.

  “According to Otto, Palmer Rennant wasn’t willing to wait for nature to take its course. Otto found the dog hit over on the road to Rennant’s ten days ago. Shelton found evidence on P
almer Rennant’s vehicle. Rennant said it was an accident, that the dog ran out in front of him.”

  “He didn’t call anybody?”

  I shared Jennifer’s indignation.

  “Said he thought it was a coyote until the sheriff’s department showed up. Shelton told Otto there wasn’t enough evidence to prove it was deliberate, but Otto had no doubt. Also, no forgiveness, even when Rennant paid the vet bill.”

  “The dog survived?” I was glad Jennifer asked. I hadn’t because I wasn’t ready to hear the answer.

  Diana’s mouth listed. “He did. Had surgery and he’s even more lame than before, but he gets around.”

  “How’d you hear all this?” I asked her.

  “Connie. Also, some from Hannah Chaney.” Hannah’s husband was Otto’s nephew.

  “Even if Otto proved it wasn’t an accident, is that enough of a motive for murder?” Mike mused.

  “Yes,” the rest of us said together.

  “Palmer Rennant lost a whole lot of sympathy from me.” Jennifer’s mouth and eyes tightened. “I know. We can’t let not liking the victim stop us from finding murderers because it’s wrong no matter what, and I’ll keep working, too, but really. Somebody who’d run over a dog? Especially an old, lame dog who’d finally found his forever home? That stinks. And,” she added defiantly, “I don’t mind anymore that Rennant was run over by the horses. Kind of poetic justice.”

  “As long as you’re thinking like that, let me tell you what I found out about rigor mortis this morning.”

  Jennifer made no noises during my account of my conversations with Dex, then with Aleek, Paytah, and O.D. But when I finished, she asked, “Why are you so interested in this stuff?”

  “Trying to get to the time of death,” Mike said.

  “Some. But it’s also the gaps.”

  “Gaps?” Jennifer repeated.

  “Intersections, really.”

  Mike snorted. “Oh, that explains it.”

  “Okay, listen. Try backtracking. Because Palmer Rennant’s body maintained that tipped-on-its head fetal position when it was found, it makes twelve-thirty Saturday afternoon about twenty-four to thirty-six hours after he was killed. Although that’s rough because cold slows the process and it was definitely chilly Thursday night, all day Friday, and Friday night.”