Body Brace (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 10)

by Patricia McLinn

  “Rumor? Or more?”

  “I saw him with the maid of honor in the bathroom at his wedding reception.”

  “Well. Okay.”

  “I’m not telling any secrets because other people did, too, and talked about it. I witnessed another incident and Brian saw one, too — despite our best efforts not to. A number of the women talked about it right out in the open. And then the rumors… Honestly, I don’t know how Jolie couldn’t know.

  “Always seemed she was gaga over Kamden. The kind of gaga that’s never certain of their partner, always trying, straining for the security of being loved.”

  Sadness and sympathy softened her face. She’d had that security of being loved with Brian and she felt sorry for those who didn’t.

  A truly nice woman.

  “That must be what the diets and cosmetic surgeries are about, poor soul,” she added.

  “She’s not sick?”

  “No. She did that to herself.” She looked even sadder. She continued in a far more pointed way. “Hard to believe people — especially intelligent, good people could be so blind about what they do to themselves. Beyond the sort of physical things Jolie Graf has done into missing out on the opportunity for a good love. So hard for others who care about them to watch it happen.”

  “I hear you’re staying in touch with Mike Paycik in Chicago,” she added. “We’d sure hate to lose you from KWMT — and Cottonwood County.”

  This chair was really not comfortable. Or maybe it was the look she sent me.

  I stood.

  “Well, thanks for all your help, Connie. Good to see you.”

  And even better to get out of the trailer suddenly dense with meanings.

  Chapter Fifty

  One of the bits — or possibly pieces — that floated up from the nighttime churn into my daytime consciousness was a desire to see Palmer Rennant’s pickup and the dog scratches. That’s where I headed next.

  It being on the other side of the county and far from Connie’s — or anyone else’s — hints didn’t hurt.

  I drove. Alone. With the music up. Letting the bits and pieces out to play in the sunlight.

  I detoured when, on the last leg to Palmer Rennant’s house, I spotted an unlikely vehicle in front of Otto Chaney’s little house. A pale blue SUV.

  And Otto Chaney’s front porch held a most unexpected occupant.

  Willa Rennant. Sitting on the metal kitchen chair, with a grocery bag by her side.

  No sign of Otto. But there was a clue to his whereabouts, since the rusting ranch pickup usually parked to the side of his barn was gone.

  She smiled at me as I took a seat on the porch floor, with my feet down a couple steps.

  “I suppose you’re here to ask Otto questions. Can’t imagine he takes well to that,” she said.

  “He doesn’t. And you?”

  “To offer apologies. I asked around. Apparently, many people heard about Palmer hitting Otto’s dog last week, but nobody told me. Not until I asked after what you said. They’d share every detail of his dating life but not about his hitting a dog. I can’t believe— Or maybe I can.”

  Half-tempted to say she needed to change her sources of information — if Thurston was an example of the country club set’s priorities and reporting skills, she was in trouble — I withstood temptation. Partly because I realized that what she couldn’t believe might have nothing to do with people telling her things but rather with her ex hitting a dog with his truck.

  And if it was the latter, her last phrase raised another question.

  Focusing on the dog issue, I asked, “Could you imagine Palmer trying to hit the dog?”

  “Deliberately trying to? No. Not being careful out of impatience or being oblivious to other creatures in this world? Yes.”

  “While you were living there, you never had trouble with Otto’s dogs chasing your vehicle or showing up on your front porch?”

  “No.”

  “Did Palmer mention that happening to him?”

  The frown lifted, but her eyes narrowed. “No, but he likely wouldn’t. He had no tolerance for such things and he would not have invited my telling him to not be a jerk, to slow down. As for being on our front porch… What if they were?”

  “Did you happen to go to Palmer’s house on Thursday or Friday?”

  “No. I told you when I last saw him.”

  That reminded me she’d been an executive. And knew how to remind subordinates that they were subordinates. Sure glad I wasn’t one, or I might have been intimidated.

  “Would it have been unusual for no one to go by his house for a day or two?”

  “No. Last I knew, he had cleaners out Tuesday and Saturday. By the state of the house — and comments from the sheriff’s department Sunday, the cleaners kept their regular schedule last week. Other than that, visitors to his house would have been…”

  When she tailed off, I let the silence grow so she could process whatever was churning in her mind.

  “No, even with the women he saw, I don’t imagine he had them to his house regularly. He wouldn’t have been rigid or extreme about it, but he’d go to their places far, far more often than they went to his house.

  “In every house we lived in together, he had a room that was all his own. It’s where he spent most of his time. No one else was ever allowed in when he was there and rarely when he wasn’t.”

  “Was that where his computer was?”

  “Yes. Are you thinking it was taken? It wasn’t. Not until the sheriff’s department took it. They hope to get into it, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they never succeed.”

  I’d be surprised if they never got in it. But for right now, I wasn’t broken up to hear it presented them with a frustrating obstacle.

  “Was his private room where he accessed the forums where he wrote about his financial independence efforts?”

  Her face cleared. “You have done your homework. And I suppose you’ve also uncovered his posts on those forums, not that it would be much of a challenge. He didn’t hide his personal information — or mine — particularly well. Which I pointed out to him numerous times. But he never was particularly good at seeing anyone else’s point of view. His was right. Everyone else was simply not as smart as he was.”

  “You sound remarkably at peace about that.”

  “Oh, it used to make me angry. Very angry. I learned to live with it until I couldn’t anymore.” She shook her head, apparently at herself.

  “It was better for both of us. While we were married, I looked at what the marriage wasn’t and what he wasn’t. He wasn’t a partner. He spent time in the marriage only when it suited him. He wasn’t much of a father for the same reasons.

  “After the divorce, I saw more of what he was. He was a superb sperm donor.” Her mouth quirked. “I got great kids out of that marriage and that included the genes he donated. And he never interfered in my raising of the kids. Early on — I almost said in our family life, but he really wasn’t ever part of that, so I’ll simply say early on — I tried everything I could think of to involve him. He simply wasn’t interested in participating except when the mood hit him, which wasn’t frequently.

  “Gradually, I gained the perspective to see the benefits of that. As I said, he also was an excellent provider.”

  “In connection with Palmer not allowing the reenactment and camp to be held on that property any longer, you said Monday that you should have recognized Palmer would indulge his feelings on the subject by upsetting your new community — what subject?”

  She said nothing.

  I nudged. “He seemed to have strong feelings about reenactments.”

  She laughed, a sour edge to its lightness. “His whole family’s like that. Say the word — or get in the neighborhood of the topic — and they’d go off. A tirade by one feeding the next, then the next, then the next in an escalating spiral. And not one of them recognizing how crazy it was. In fact, it outraged Palmer that his kids not only didn’t share the Renn
ant hobby horse, but were inclined to laugh off the whole matter. My influence, I’m proud to say. That, too, outraged him.”

  “His whole family?” Prejudice could run in families, but prejudice against historic reenactments? That I’d never encountered before. “It seems on odd thing for a family to be so, uh, vehement about.”

  “Ah.”

  She paused after that single syllable.

  I didn’t push. Not immediately, anyway. See where silence got us first.

  After a moment she made a wry grimace. “I must have caught some of the Rennant sensitivity on the topic over the years or I wouldn’t be hesitating now. But it’s silly, really. As I told my children all their lives.”

  She drew in a long breath. “A Rennant ancestor is generally described by historians as being responsible for the loss of a battle in the War of 1812.” She produced that grimace again. “Most people couldn’t name three events from the War of 1812 and this battle would not be among the top ten. The Rennants have been refighting the battle — and the historians — ever since. But that was only the beginning.

  “That Rennant’s grandson was determined to bring glory to the name during the Civil War. Instead, he made another blunder, leading troops into a trap sprung by the Confederates in Northern Virginia. It became known as Rennant’s bridge, which became a town called Rennant’s Bridge. It became a favorite of Confederate reenactors — after all, they won that one. As fate would have it, Palmer’s grandparents settled in the next town over and that became the hub for Palmer’s branch of the Rennant family.

  “I suppose at some point the connection was made of the family name to the bridge, the blunder, and the annual reenacting of it. Instead of accepting it as history, they bridled. By the time I came into the family, it was established that the rest of the world was wrong and had it out for the Rennants, especially historians and reenactors.”

  “That must have made quite an impression on Palmer growing up.”

  “Yes. He was never one to give up. Over anything, no matter how trivial, and even when it was the only sane thing to do.” After that one-breath statement, she pulled in oxygen. “Well, I suppose it stood him in good stead with his businesses. Although it wasn’t comfortable going through our married life next to a man who could be triggered by words like history or historic or reenactment. Not that I can say I didn’t have warning.

  “The first time he took me to his family home, his paternal grandparents were there as well as his parents. His grandfather told this story about Palmer at about eleven years old riding his bike miles and miles and miles to a reenactment — not that the Rennants ever conceded it was a reenactment, because they disputed the original account. It was an event, in Rennant vernacular. Anyway, he bicycles all the way there — without permission — and proceeds to make stump speeches about how inaccurate the presentation is. He gets into a scuffle when they asked him to leave. Leading to the police escorting him away — still shouting about how wrong the historians were. The police bring him home, where his mother is frantic, but his father and grandfather couldn’t be prouder of this scion of the Rennants taking the fight to the enemy.”

  She shook her head.

  “Inside the family, it’s seen as such a righteous cause. I saw some in-laws get caught up in it, too. But when you step away and look at it from a distance…” She shook her head.

  “What about a connection to the Miners’ Camp Fight reenactment?”

  An ancient ranch truck puttered toward us from a field, catching Willa’s attention.

  “You mean other than the land? Not that I know of.”

  “Did he go over to Buffalo a lot?”

  Her faint frown cleared. “Oh. You mean that Fort Phil, uh—”

  “Kearny.”

  “Right. Fort Phil Kearny. He started in on that several years ago. I knew he’d been doing research — I think that’s why he moved us all here. First few years, he was more interested in starting another company. That company didn’t pan out and he switched a lot of his interest to genealogy. Family, but not the live one in front of him.”

  She stood with her last words to address her host.

  “Hello, Otto, I brought some treats for your dogs. And a pie from the supermarket for you. Penny recommended it.

  “Miz Rennant. Nice to see you.”

  “I’m so sorry, Otto.”

  “Not your fault,” he said gruffly. “Appreciate the treats and all. Like to meet my current roommates?”

  “I would.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  When Willa Rennant got into her baby blue SUV, Devil barked and strained against Otto’s hold.

  “You here for more questions, because I’ve got work to do,” Otto said loudly over the barking.

  “One question — or about one topic. You said Devil went to Palmer Rennant’s house late Thursday or early Friday morning.”

  “Yeah. Raised a ruckus. Heard him clear. Took him forever to come back to my whistling.”

  The SUV turned out of sight and Devil quieted.

  “You also said Rennant drove away fast from his house that night. Was that before or after Devil went over there?”

  “Had to be before, didn’t it? Or, like I said, Rennant would’ve called the deputies.”

  “You were awakened twice that night?”

  “Twice? No. Sleep like a log, except when Devil or Max—”

  He stopped. Looked from me to the dogs, then back at me.

  “You saying I heard the truck after Devil got me up and went over there? But then why didn’t Rennant…?”

  Why didn’t Rennant complain as he always did?

  Because he was dead.

  And the person who drove away fast from his house had killed him.

  * * * *

  Surprising good news and unsurprising bad news awaited me at Palmer Rennant’s house.

  The surprising good news was that one of the men at the bottom of the steps strung across with police tape was Kamden Graf.

  The unsurprising bad news was that the other was Deputy Richard Alvaro.

  I assessed the situation as I slowly rolled into the gravel area in front of the porch.

  They were arguing. At least Graf was. Richard didn’t look happy.

  I eased the wheel to the left and coasted to a stop directly behind Rennant’s truck, which was in the same spot as Sunday.

  I got out and walked along the driver’s side of the truck — no scratches — and had rounded the front and started up the passenger side when Alvaro strode over to meet me issuing a stern warning to Graf to not cross the police tape as he came.

  “This is a police scene, Elizabeth. You can’t—”

  “Behind the tape, of course, is the scene under your control. But I have the widow’s permission to be here.” I reinforced the mild fib by gesturing to the gravel below my feet and reinforced his distraction by saying, “I have a question for—”

  “I’m not answering any questions.”

  “It’s a small one and it can’t possibly hurt to hear it.”

  I’d spotted scratches on the passenger door. The same height as the ones on the front door … and the same height as Devil’s paw-reach on Otto’s door.

  “Not going to answer.”

  “Fine. Just listen.” Also scratches beside the truck door, as if the animal tried to open it. “Did you or any of the sheriff’s department’s people move this truck? I mean before you impounded it.”

  He opened his mouth then snapped it closed …

  “You did impound it, didn’t you? It’s just back here now because you’ve processed it?”

  “I told you. I’m not answering questions.”

  I held up pacifying hands. “Okay, okay.”

  Slowly, I circled him as if heading back to my SUV.

  He paused, then strode past the front of Rennant’s truck, his back to me and putting space between us as he pulled out his phone.

  I immediately detoured toward Kamden Graf, who’d remained at the bo
ttom of the steps.

  His angry face changed when he saw me approaching. He assumed an expression he probably thought of as charming and I considered smarmy.

  I put on an expression that said at this moment I craved smarmy above all else.

  “You must be Kamden Graf. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Elizabeth Margaret Danniher with KWMT-TV.” I rushed through me and got back to him. “Just the other day I heard how wonderful you are with insurance. Now, who was it…? Oh, dear, it’s just gone.” From my itty-bitty air-filled head. “But I’m sure they were telling me about Nadine Hulte getting a great deal on insurance from you or was it someone else who—?”

  “Must’ve been someone else, because I don’t recall that name.” He’d jumped the gun out of fear I’d dredge up a memory that someone else was responsible for the great deal on insurance. Then he realized he’d implied it himself and rushed in with, “I can surely give you the best deal on insurance in northwest Wyoming. No question there. You come by my office. Any time. I’m conveniently south of town off the highway.”

  “Oh, by the Kicking Cowboy?”

  His demeanor shifted to something even less charming than smarm at mention of the bar that teetered on the edge of seedy.

  “Very near. Very near. Any time you want to meet there instead of the stuffy old office, that would suit me fine. Day or night.”

  I giggled.

  In that instant, I really hoped he’d murdered Palmer Rennant so this performance proved to be worthwhile.

  I felt no guilt at wishing that on him because he clearly had never watched a segment of “Helping Out!” or he’d know this was an act.

  “I heard you know the poor man who was murdered, too. You were a friend of his? Or was it your wife…?”

  He slid right by the mention of Jolie and said, “Business associate.”

  “Oh. Only business. Not personal.”

  I glanced away from his face for the first time.

  That accomplished several things.

  I doublechecked the height of the scratches in the red paint of the front door — just Devil’s jumped up-height.