Body Brace (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 10)

by Patricia McLinn

  Another call to Radford Hickam got the same message. Once again, I declined to leave my information.

  I brought the flowers and a bag carrying the fruit in a basket inside, where I found Aunt Gee in the hallway outside the closed door to Sally Tipton’s room.

  “The doctors are in with Sally right now. Emmaline’s in the ladies’ room. How nice of you to bring Sally flowers. They will brighten her room.”

  “How is Sally?”

  “Not good. Not good at all. The stroke’s damaged her heart even worse and it wasn’t good before. She can survive the stroke, but her heart’s not going to last much longer.” Gee Decker didn’t mince facts, but her voice was heavy. She shifted to her more familiar business tone. “Mike says you’re hoping to get cause of death.”

  I didn’t want to risk saying the wrong thing, so I concentrated on looking hopeful, but not desperate.

  “Far too early for a final determination,” she said. My hopes ebbed. “They’re hoping toxicology might provide answers. Obvious trauma — gunshots, stabbing, blunt force, strangulation — are highly unlikely.”

  “Thank you. That’s—”

  “I should tell you, Sally’s asked to see you.”

  She knew how to cut short a thank-you.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Though when I say she asked… She can’t really talk. There’s paralysis in the muscles in her throat and some around her mouth. When you see her, you’ll see it’s drooping on one side.”

  “The condition is dysarthria.” Mrs. Parens arrived in time to edit her friend and rival’s comments.

  Aunt Gee shot her a look that should have withered her. On the other hand, if Aunt Gee’s looks could wither her next-door neighbor, it would have happened decades ago.

  “It is part of the reason that you shall not see Sally today or likely anytime soon, Elizabeth. Gisella and I limit our time in the room and further visitors are strictly forbidden. The doctor has agreed with me about that. Even if what Gisella interpreted as a request to communicate with you is accurate, Sally does not have the strength for such attempts.”

  “Doctors said her mind seems to be working fine, but she’s got paralysis on her right side.” Gee dared Mrs. P to interrupt with that scientific term, then resumed. “She’s right-handed and what with trying to write with her left hand, much less the effects of the stroke… She’s struggling.”

  Both of these stalwart women looked worn. They had, after all, known Sally Tipton for most or all of their lives. Plus, the daunting factor of being reminded of mortality — especially your own — that most hospitals induced.

  “How about if I take you both to the cafeteria for a cup of tea?”

  There was also an outdoor patio I recalled. Fresh air might do them good.

  We left the fruit and flowers with a kind aide, who promised to put them in Sally’s room. Then we headed to the cafeteria.

  Tea, seats outdoors, and fresh air all accounted for, I searched for a topic to distract them without sparking disagreement.

  Complete and total blank.

  So, I shifted strategies and hoped distracting one directly would distract the other indirectly.

  I lobbed the first hand-grenade by saying, “Despite everything that’s happened, I can’t help but feel it’s a shame the reenactment didn’t — couldn’t — happen Saturday. You know they sold more tickets than ever?”

  They murmured, not wildly interested.

  “I was looking forward to learning more about the Miners’ Camp Fight and how it fit in with the Montana Road. I heard someone saying the Miners’ Camp Fight was a side issue and it didn’t matter if it scared people off from the west-of-the-Bighorns route, because the Army knew what it was doing staying east of the mountains.”

  Mrs. Parens’ erect backbone turned to steel. “Nonsense.”

  It was nonsense. I’d made it up, patching together pieces of what she’d told me for a theory I hoped she’d dislike.

  “If the Army had enforced the 1851 treaty, there would have been no Montana Road. Miners and others would have been forced to take routes to Bozeman that would have taken longer to travel but would have not infringed on territories accorded to the tribes by treaties, with a result of much less loss of life.”

  Mission accomplished — so far.

  “Gold fever,” I murmured knowingly.

  “Indeed, that malady prompted many to be foolhardy. They frequently paid a price for it. It is unfortunate that many others besides the gold seekers paid a horrible price, including soldiers ordered to build and occupy those forts along the Montana Road.

  “They were sent there with instructions to protect the travelers on the Montana Road, but there were few of those. Quite soon it became apparent the soldiers themselves needed the protection, which is why the three forts were constructed, requiring log stockades a dozen and more feet tall. Further, the support from the Army was insufficient. Among other things, the soldiers went without pay for extended periods, including six months at one point.

  “In addition, the combined boredom and sudden outbursts of hostilities resulted in madness — as they called it — among the troops. There are documented cases of soldiers taken to St. Elizabeths Insane Asylum in Washington, D.C. Each, of course, only after they ascertained they were not feigning the symptoms.”

  “My,” Aunt Gee said. “I knew there were a good number killed, especially when that Fetterman led a bunch of them into an ambush. And, of course, the desertions. But I didn’t know about the poor souls going insane.”

  “Fetterman?” I asked.

  Both of the older women looked at me as if I’d asked who Abraham Lincoln was.

  In that moment, I particularly missed Mike and the others. Mike, because he had a knack for saying or remembering the wrong thing and drawing attention away from my ignorance on Wyoming topics. Diana, Jennifer, and others because they often remembered pieces of whatever Mrs. P was talking about, filling me in without betraying my ignorance.

  This time it was on full display.

  “Captain William Fetterman led a contingent of about eighty men — some barely boys and others civilians — into an ambush executed by the tribes and every member of his force was killed.”

  Mrs. Parens looked around, as if expecting her packed bookcases to be nearby. Making do with a sheet from a pad withdrawn from her voluminous bag, she wrote quickly.

  Aunt Gee clicked her tongue. “He was a Civil War veteran, but didn’t know about fighting out here. It was reported he said to give him eighty men and he could ride through the Sioux nation. They proved him wrong that day. Fell into the trap and others died for it. And then the Army named a fort after him.”

  Mrs. P handed me the sheet of paper. Three book titles, authors, and dates of publication, written off the top of her head. “You will need to read these for a fuller understanding of the circumstances of that incident and the Montana Road.”

  At least she didn’t assign book reports. Yet.

  “Many soldiers suffered and died in the two years — only two years — they were tasked with protecting the Montana Road. After that short time, those forts were abandoned. Another treaty was written, this time acknowledging the reality that tribes controlled territory recognized as Native American in the 1851 treaty.”

  “The tribes beat them,” Aunt Gee said.

  “That is a fair assessment,” Mrs. P said. “It might be of interest to you, Elizabeth, that there was another element in the timeline of that period in this region.”

  “Oh?” I tried to keep it neutral. I wasn’t about to deny interest in something Mrs. P expected me to be interested in.

  On the other hand, how interested was I? Especially with two dead bodies from significantly more recent times begging for my attention.

  “This was the same period as the construction of the transcontinental railroad. Those constructing the railroad were understandably concerned about safety amid attacks by the tribes. That meant financial backers were, perforce, eventu
ally concerned, which created political support for protection to complete the railroad.

  “The construction coming from the east had reached as far as eastern Nevada in 1866, when troops were sent to protect the Montana Road, resulting in the building of the three forts. By the time the forts were abandoned and the new treaty was made in 1868, the railroad had reached western Wyoming, well past the southern terminus of the Montana Road, having suffered many fewer attacks than had been feared.”

  “Gold miners and the others didn’t need the Montana Road anymore,” Aunt Gee said. “They could take the railroad. Though, they still needed to get up north to Bozeman.”

  I’d been watching Mrs. Parens closely. “You don’t think it was ever about the miners. You think it was misdirection. Conspiracy, too?”

  “I merely note the timelines.”

  “But you suspect the forts were a decoy to let the railroad be completed with fewer attacks. That there was far less interference from the tribes because they were well occupied with their campaigns against the Montana Road and its forts. That those soldiers were sacrificed—”

  “I did not say anything of the sort,” she said severely, “nor have I drawn such a conclusion, because I have not found research that sheds direct light on any connection, much less confirms one. As with your work, one can form a hypothesis, but as long as certain facts remain out of your grasp, it remains a hypothesis, not a conclusion, nor a demonstrable fact.”

  Somewhere in that statement, we had left the 1860s, the Montana Road, and the transcontinental railroad.

  For now, it would remain one of those hypotheses — based on impressions I’d gathered — that she was talking about the identity and the story surrounding our mystery cave body. Although I wasn’t prepared to rule out Rennant completely.

  Either way, Emmaline Parens wasn’t telling me until she was ready.

  Both women looked brighter as we parted, so that ploy succeeded. I left with even more questions.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I had a message to call Wardell Yardley at my earliest convenience.

  I did. From my SUV, still in the hospital parking lot — see why journalists have favorite parking lots.

  “Wardell Yardley,” answered the crisp, professional voice.

  “Hey, Dell. It’s Elizabeth Danniher.”

  “Danny,” he said in a different voice, one that had taken off the suit, tie, and dress shirt that cost a boatload of money each and put on his jeans and jacket — they’d still cost a boatload, but he’d look slightly more like a man of the people. “How are you?”

  “Good. And you? Keeping busy?”

  “Busy, but bored. You know how D.C. is in August.”

  I did. Hazy, hot, and humid. Yet, in the years I’d lived there, there always seemed to be a day or two when the weather broke. When it was cloudy and cool. A promise that the steam bath of a Washington, D.C., summer would end someday, with the faintest threat that the longed-for end would also be the beginning of something unwanted.

  Winter.

  In Wyoming, the reference to winter was all threat, no promise.

  But knowing Wardell Yardley, he was not talking about meteorological issues.

  “All the pols escaped to more hospitable environs?” I said.

  “And all their satellites gone with them, leaving only the people who do actual work, which means this town is nearly empty.”

  “Such a cynic, Yardley.”

  “Such a veteran of D.C., Danniher.”

  I chuckled. “And did this wily veteran get anything for me?”

  “Not a thing.” He packed it with disgust, yet sounded a lot more cheerful than he would have if it had been the other way around.

  “Well, get out your ledger book, because I have something for you, which means you go even deeper in debt to me.”

  “Me in debt to you? After all I’ve gotten for you since you moved out where your sources are sagebrush and cows? No way.”

  “Put together anything you’ve shared in the past year and half and it’s a drop in the bucket of what you owed me before I came here. Now, do you want to hear what I’ve got or do you want to do a line-by-line accounting?”

  He sputtered a bit, then said, “Spill.”

  “Russell Teague is dying in a hospital in Chicago.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Tribune had a story and AP picked it up.” I did not mention my original source, because Dell was entirely capable of trying to co-opt Mike as his personal Chicago correspondent.

  He cursed fluently in four languages I recognized and another I didn’t. “How can that be when I had an alert on his name and gold coins?”

  “The stories didn’t mention the gold coins. No interest in them in Chicago or most of the country. You should have had the alert on his name alone.”

  “All those dreary business stories, every time some stock he’s associated with went up or down a penny. How close to dying is he?”

  “They’re not releasing a timeline,” I said dryly. “But word is that he has multiple organs failing — that is not for reporting.”

  “Like I’d report that. I’m the White House correspondent, not the weird rich people beat reporter.” He dropped from that lofty tone to add, “Not anymore.”

  “Not to share with your business coverage team, either.”

  He didn’t even employ words to scoff at that.

  “How will this affect the gold coins story?”

  He’d come out here last fall to report on a stash of coins found and their disputed ownership. It had been his bosses’ idea to put him in touch with flyover territory. It nearly ended in disaster — but that was another story.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Stay on that angle. Will his estate pursue the legal case? Who’s inheriting? Get those answers for me—”

  “I am not your stringer, Yardley. I have stories of my own to pursue.”

  “Like what?”

  “Never mind like what. I’m—”

  “Hah!” he crowed. “Small town nothings.”

  “I’m hanging up now, Dell. You’re welcome for the update — and don’t forget to add it to my side of the ledger.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Unlike the house Palmer Rennant kept in the divorce, Willa Rennant’s new one was not a timber behemoth making an overt nod to western heritage. No, rather than a modern take on the Ponderosa ranch house from old Bonanza shows, this was a restrained modern glass, timber, and rock structure.

  Its neighbors used the same materials, yet each was individual.

  The development definitely put the original country club area in the shade.

  Willa Rennant opened the door to my bell-ringing. She looked unsurprised to see me, but not particularly pleased.

  She also looked more like someone who’d had a shock. Yesterday she’d still been running on organizational adrenaline. Today it was gone.

  “More questions?

  “Yes. Is this a bad time?”

  “No worse than any other.” She exhaled sharply. “Come in. I’m just tired of answering questions about my ex-husband. Including where to bury him. It doesn’t seem right that this falls on an ex-wife.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  I said that with sufficient fervor — brought on by empathy while imagining taking on those duties for my ex — that she gave me a sharp look and led me inside.

  The interior displayed similar good taste to the other house with a less traditional feel. She hadn’t gone all sharp edges and cold surfaces, either. It was polished, but a home.

  “I’d understood you still have horses.” I tipped my head toward photos of her and her kids on horseback.

  “We do, the kids and I. We board them, where they have plenty of room.”

  She waved me to a chair, but paced to French doors to look out on a patio.

  “Have you made progress? The sheriff’s department doesn’t seem to have. Or else they are telling me nothing because I’m
a suspect.” Her lip curled on the last word.

  “It’s very early. These inquiries are complicated and take time and often they seem to be leading nowhere.”

  That was the perfect introduction to showing her the photo of the watch.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  She exhaled heavily, then came back to where I was and sat in a chair opposite, looking at the photo. “No.”

  “Palmer never wore one like it?”

  “Oh.”

  She was silent long enough that I nudged her. “Willa?”

  “I was trying to remember if I’d actually seen the watch. If I did, it didn’t register.” She handed the phone back. “Two or three months after the divorce, Palmer and I crossed paths at the country club. He was bursting about something. Didn’t tell me what it was and I didn’t ask. But he did say Russell Teague had given him a watch just like one Teague had to celebrate. Before you ask, I did not ask what they were celebrating or anything else. I didn’t want to know. Anyway, I wonder if that was the watch.”

  Okay, maybe I needed to let go of the idea that whatever Mrs. P was hiding had anything to do with the watch.

  She looked at me hard. “Was he wearing it … when he was found?”

  “Yes.”

  Then she surprised me by saying, “You asked about the horses. I’ve been thinking about them. More precisely thinking that I took the horses in the divorce, I could also have taken that land. I should have. He wouldn’t have fought me on it. We would have traded something else.

  “He bought it, so it seemed right— No, in all honesty, I never thought about it. I let it go. I just… I was tired. I was so tired. I should have recognized he would indulge his feelings on the subject and upset our community. Anyway, I should have fought to claim that property. I would have been happy to let the event continue.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. I interviewed organizers and they were positive about the change.”

  “Until Palmer’s murder canceled it.”

  As if searching for a more tactful subject, I looked around the room.

  “He must have done very well to be financially independent, to afford the ranch, and—” I tipped a hand to our surroundings.