Body Brace (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 10)

by Patricia McLinn

  Her eyes darted around before finally landing on the screen. “Oh. He wore it in the water. At the pool.”

  “That was while you two were seeing each other?”

  This time her mouth just formed the Oh.

  “You were seeing Palmer?

  “I don’t think I should answer— No, no.”

  “Jolie—”

  “I can’t.” She hurried away with her flaccid shopping bag.

  * * * *

  Journalists can spend a lot of time in parking lots, on the phone or messaging. Some lots are better than others, depending on ambience, amenities, convenience, central location. The Sherman Supermarket’s lot was one of my favorites because there was plenty of elbow room. Also cookies and pie nearby if cravings became urgent.

  I toggled off the phone’s mute button.

  “Hey, you had me on mute,” Mike accused.

  “I’m seeing advantages to this remote detecting.”

  “You did that on purpose.”

  “I did. Because you don’t interrupt a source who’s saying something important.”

  “I wasn’t aware Penny was saying anything important — or Jolie Graf. Did she say oh or no more often?”

  “You don’t interrupt a source who’s saying something not important.”

  “What about when she’s wrong? Saying something’s in Proverbs when it’s not.”

  “Not then, either. But how do you know it’s wrong?”

  “I’d remember.”

  “You know the whole Book of Proverbs?”

  “We had to memorize a certain number of verses from one of the books of the Bible for Sunday school. An older friend told me, uh, Proverbs was easiest, so I picked that.”

  “That doesn’t explain how you would think you knew the stuff about teaching someone to fish wasn’t in there.”

  “Okay, the older guy didn’t say Proverbs was easiest.”

  I eyed his face on the screen. He looked off to the side. I deduced, “He said something else that made you read all of Proverbs.”

  “He might’ve said there was sex in there. I was a kid — a boy — and I read the whole thing — carefully — looking for sexy parts. Go ahead, laugh.”

  I probably would have if he hadn’t invited me to.

  Besides I knew when I told Diana and Jennifer, their laughter would make up for me restraining mine now.

  “I gotta go. Need to call Diana.”

  We hung up with him looking skeptical.

  But I made good on my excuse by calling her, right after I laughed.

  “Diana, if you insist on going with me to Otto’s—”

  “I do. Has to be later in the afternoon. If I can finish my assignments and get the footage logged in, say, five at Connie’s? I’ll keep you posted. What have you gotten so far?”

  I gave her what Penny and Jolie said.

  Diana did laugh about Mike and his reason for reading Proverbs. We’d have to wait to test Jennifer’s reaction.

  “What do you think about Penny’s rundown of the women Palmer Rennant dated in the past year?” I asked.

  “The one who dropped him over the reenactment was Clara Atwood.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Brownies and the parent — Vicky Upton from the museum gift shop?

  “Makes sense. And the widow with three nearly grown boys?”

  There was a pause. I suspected we had the same person in mind, but neither wanted to broach it. I cleared my throat and offered, “Connie Walterston?”

  “Well, if it is, good for her. It is almost a year since Brian’s death.”

  “We have to talk to her.”

  “I suppose. But who is the Easter parade?”

  “No idea. Maybe Connie will know. I sure hope she’s more forthcoming than Jolie Graf.”

  She sighed for me. “Although you can look at it as confirmation that she was involved with him or she wouldn’t have been so scared to talk to you. What else do you have on tap?”

  “The community college next. Then the hospital and to see how Sally’s doing. Might see Mrs. P there. I’m hoping for several call backs and thought I’d show up at Willa Rennant’s house this time.”

  “Getting a gauge on the suspect by her surroundings, huh? By the way, nothing on Palmer fooling around pre-divorce. Nothing negative on Willa. And not tales about blowups between them, pre- or post-. I did pick up one item on Willa today. Last year, after Palmer locked the door, so to speak, on his property, Willa made a substantial donation to the committee that runs the camp and reenactment. It was felt to be an apology — unnecessary, but much appreciated. She’s well-regarded.”

  “And Palmer?”

  “Persona non grata. Well, not entirely. He did remain in the country club and had a regular foursome. But otherwise, definitely not part of the in crowd. It did not appear to bother him in the least. Gotta go now. At my next assignment.”

  Chapter Forty

  The Cottonwood County Community College has one main building, which is less than impressive.

  It’s a long, low structure dwarfed by the nature around it.

  A lot of buildings I’ve seen in Wyoming are long, low and unimpressive.

  That might be an expression of common sense. Not only the practicality of the structures, but the recognition that they cannot compete with the mountains, the distances, and the sky.

  I found the directory, looked for the room number my excellent source gave me. As I walked down the hall toward it, I realized the classrooms on one side had their doors open.

  When I slipped into the back of the room where O.D. Everett taught, I realized why. The hall’s air-conditioning was significantly more effective than in the rooms, where it competed with the sun-warmed windows, even with blinds partially drawn.

  But the students appeared fully engaged. Despite the warmth and, by my reckoning, this being the last few minutes of class.

  O.D. was talking. “—those who devote themselves to trying to right the wrongs of the past are on a fool’s errand. The past is not to be forgotten. It teaches us. We carry those lessons in us into the present and future to prevent the ills of the past being repeated. We bring the good of the past, also. But we do not remain in the past.”

  He paused, looking over the class members.

  “The past that is not to be forgotten, includes the lessons of this course. You certainly will carry those with you into the future when you submit your final papers in one week. That is all for today.”

  As the students stirred, gathering their belongings, I left. I didn’t want to pounce on Aleek as soon as he walked out.

  When I saw him heading for the main doors, I retreated more and waited outside.

  Paytah Everett walked out with him.

  “Hi, Aleek, Paytah. Remember me? Elizabeth Margaret Danniher from KWMT-TV.”

  They stopped, displaying no obvious enthusiasm for my presence.

  “I hoped to benefit from your paramedic expertise, Aleek.”

  That thawed a couple layers of frost.

  “I’m not a paramedic,” he said. Which I knew, but if it gave him the opportunity to explain, showing his knowledge, that was good. “I’m an EMT — Emergency Medical Technician — and taking the training for Advanced EMT.”

  “He’s already moved up one step and he’ll go for full paramedic.” Pride for his friend came through in Paytah’s words.

  “It’ll be a while,” Aleek warned.

  “That’s hard work,” I said. “And very admirable. It was clear you knew your stuff when you checked for a pulse.”

  He looked slightly wary.

  Rather than let him wonder what I might be getting at, I spit it out. “Could you tell if he was stiff?” He didn’t react, but I heard Paytah draw in a breath. “Could you tell what stage rigor mortis was at? It seemed to me the large muscles were in full rigor, but couldn’t tell about small muscles. But if the small muscles weren’t as stiff…”

  “They weren’t. Rigor mortis was starting to pas
s off. Early in that stage.”

  “The skin was cool?”

  “Yes. Something else. I couldn’t see well because of the angle, but I thought I saw marks on his shoulder, under the paint. Dark marks, then light marks below on his upper arm, like it pressed against something and stayed that way.”

  “Lividity.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  His wariness had fled with the technical talk. One side of his mouth lifted as he looked at his companion. “Just some of what I’ve gotta know. And deal with. Still think it’s so glamorous?”

  That clearly settled some old discussion in his favor.

  Paytah avoided acknowledging that by saying to me, “You never said why you did not think Jeremiah’s horse killed Palmer Rennant.”

  “Not Jeremiah’s horse, not any of yours. Because we both came to the same conclusion. He was already dead.” I squinted, studying him. “Though from different reasons. Why did you think he was already dead?”

  He thought he was going to stay quiet.

  “The horses,” I said.

  “They would have acted differently. My horse would have acted differently. He did not strike the man, but he would have acted differently.”

  “Yeah, you and that horse of yours would have levitated over a live body,” Aleek mocked.

  Forestalling Paytah’s response, I stuck in quickly, “Do you know if any of the horses landed on the body with their full weight? Your own, or Jeremiah’s, or if someone else mentioned it…”

  “Everybody said their horse cleared the body. All of them couldn’t have or there wouldn’t have been those marks.”

  “No,” Aleek said thoughtfully, “but I believe them that nobody’s horse landed full on. Jeremiah was first and he said his horse went sideways, almost cleared. Then all the horses that followed were alerted, along with the riders. We turned wider than Jeremiah did, so not right over the body.”

  “That’s right. We all tried to miss him. Like a boulder sticking up from the ground.”

  Aleek shot me a look.

  I’d bet he was thinking that boulder could have collapsed from a direct, full-weight stomp.

  Addressing Aleek, I asked, “You know why I thought he was dead before any of you rode in there?”

  “No blood.”

  While Paytah exhaled recognition of that observation, I hit Aleek with another question. “Did you have any idea of what might have killed him?”

  “Couldn’t tell with the position he was in. Can pretty much rule out he was shot or stabbed in the back. Other than that, couldn’t see well enough.”

  “What would the possibilities be?”

  One shoulder lifting an inch indicated nearly infinity.

  “Like?” I pushed.

  “Stabbed. Heart attack. Shot with no exit wound. Stroke. Poisoned. Asphyxiated any of multiple ways, including his own vomit. Not there…”

  “He probably wasn’t killed there, anyway.”

  He met my gaze again. “Yeah. Really, cause of death could have been a whole lot of things.”

  Paytah said a word I didn’t know, but recognized the tenor of it as a curse. “You’re really into this stuff?”

  O.D. emerged from the main doors. His slow, casual gaze took in everything as he joined us.

  “Thinking about going into forensics,” Aleek said. “Medical examiner and doing autopsies, except I don’t know about the med school stuff.”

  “Good for you. Another question, did either of you or people you know go up to the buttes recently to hang out?”

  “No.” Paytah’s tone conveyed that such a thing was impossible.

  In the instant my gaze met O.D.’s I thought of Mike and Jennifer saying they and their friends went up there. Was this a divide between tribes and not-tribes that Two Rivers Camp had not bridged?

  Then Aleek said, with the same note of impossibility, “Younger kids.”

  So, at least this particular divide was age.

  I said to him, “If you’re really interested in pursuing beyond paramedic, you should talk to Deputy Alvaro. Tell him I said to call him. One of his sisters works for a guy in Montana. Could give you the rundown. And thank you very much. If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

  I gave him my card after writing Alvaro’s number on the back.

  “I will.”

  We smiled at each other. It’s not everybody you can connect with over a mutual interest in dead bodies.

  The two young men said good-bye to me and O.D.

  I lingered. “They must be disappointed at the reenactment not taking place.”

  He gave a short, soft grunt.

  Thinking of his classroom comments on the past, I asked, “What’s your opinion of that event?”

  “It is natural for the young men to want to remember and bring these specific events back to life. There is no harm in that. As long as they also remember those events are ripples in the stream of history — disturbances in water that continued to flow against us.”

  A wry twinkle came into his eyes.

  “I said something similar to Palmer Rennant the last time we talked.”

  “Oh, when was that?”

  “After the meeting when he finally confirmed he would not allow the reenactment and camp on the property he bought.”

  “How did you get along with him?”

  “Other times, well enough. At that meeting not. He rode off in odd directions. For example, when I said similar to what I said to you, he replied that he wished people who participated in Civil War reenactments as Confederates remembered about the major stream of history and didn’t keep acting like the South won.” The wryness of the twinkle deepened. “He added numerous adjectives that I have not repeated.”

  “What did he have against reenactments?”

  “That I do not know. Perhaps Clara Atwood knows.”

  If I asked directly, he’d back away. Instead, I asked something I’d guessed at, and invited him to agree, “Oh, right. Because they argued about that when they were dating.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know of any connection between Palmer and Russell Teague?”

  “No.”

  But he didn’t seem surprised by my question.

  Chapter Forty-One

  A call came in as I drove toward Cottonwood County Hospital.

  Matt Lester’s voice greeted me. “Hey, Danny. How’s it going in the Wild West?”

  “Fine. When are you and Bonnie coming to visit?”

  “We wanted to leave the field clear for the Dannihers thundering through town. Bonnie said your folks were there twice this summer?”

  I understood his surprise. I’d fended off my parents visiting me until recently. When I moved to Wyoming, they drove with me from Illinois, where I’d spent time with them post-divorce. Their first impression of Cottonwood County had not been favorable.

  “This time, they liked it so much they came back, with my brother, his wife, and their four kids in tow. Mind you, a lot of what they liked was Yellowstone Park, but Sherman’s growing on them.”

  “Hey, with that kind of recommendation, can the Lesters be far behind?”

  “I hope not. It would be great to have you and Bonnie here. I do recommend doing it soon, or waiting until next June.”

  “Heck, no. We want to cross-country ski at Yellowstone. We should get you out, too.”

  “I’ll wait for you by the fire in the lodge. With a hot toddy.”

  He scoffed at my priorities. “Speaking of hot toddies, you owe me one or something comparable. I promised to take the biz reporter out for a drink and word is he’s a cognac fancier. But I don’t think you’ll complain about the price of this information.”

  My journalist antennae tingled. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. There were three more levels of successively bigger companies owning the ones you left in your message, but this cognac-swilling guy eventually got back to a name you’ll recognize. Russell Teague.”

  I whistled. Th
en I whistled again.

  “Does it fit what you’re digging into?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. But the guy who sold the company at the front of that line of Russian nesting dolls moved here after the sale.”

  “Small world coincidence? Or something more?”

  “Wait. There’s more. Same guy turned up dead Saturday.”

  “Why do I have the feeling it’s not natural causes when you’re involved?”

  “I am not involved.” Indignation faded as I added, “Natural causes aren’t officially ruled out yet, but I’m betting the other direction.”

  “Connection to Russell Teague?”

  “That’s an interesting question. There’s no sign they’ve done business together since that sale.” Even as I said it, I wondered if there was some connection through Old West history, with Russell Teague scooping up and moving historical, semi-historical, and downright decrepit buildings around the region for his personal playground, while Palmer Rennant shooed away a local history reenactment.

  But even if I had something firm, that wouldn’t interest Matt’s Philadelphia area readers — or, more accurately, the cognac-fancying business writer’s readers. Something else might, however.

  “So, what I found’s no help?” he asked.

  “Matt Lester, I’m disappointed in you. You know you never know about info until you know.”

  “Wow. You’re a regular journalistic sage.”

  “Just to prove it, I’ll give you something that should please your cognac-loving biz writer friend. Russell Teague is in a hospital in Chicago. Most likely dying. Multiple-organ failure. The Chicago Tribune had the story.”

  “Well. Well, well, well.” That didn’t obscure the sound of his typing. “I do believe he will be interested. Thanks, Danny. Give me a call any time you want some info that ends up helping me.”

  I laughed. “Will do.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I ate my lunch in the hospital parking lot, thinking about what I’d heard so far today, and trying to not sigh that it wasn’t more.

  A search on my phone didn’t produce anything new on Jolie Graf. I did see a picture of her husband, Kamden. A bulky guy with a wide smile.