I scanned both his wrists for a watch similar to Rennant’s and Teague’s.
It put Kamden on his smarmy mettle.
He immediately chased after my flagging interest. “Business can be personal, too. We worked closely together on a groundbreaking exposé of the wrongs so-called history has done people. Going to prove they were accused of all sort of things that weren’t true and discredit the organizations perpetuating the injustices. First of a series. Starting here in Wyoming, moving back to the Civil War, then further back to the War of 1812.”
Jolie had kept her mouth shut better than he did. Did Kamden not tell his wife what he’d just spilled to a stranger? Did Palmer tell her anything?
Kamden’s words echoed with the tenor of Willa’s accounts of her ex’s obsession.
But how did Russell Teague fit in? He hadn’t loved the way local history viewed his family. Was his the Wyoming history? Or was there something with Palmer?
“That’s fascinating. Starting in Wyoming?”
“Our major, major backer wants to start local. Once we grab them by the throat with that one, the others will follow and we’ll turn the peddling of so-called history on its head. Discredit the purveyors of the misinformation like that little museum in town and their whole house of cards comes down.”
Now, that smacked of a Russell Teague quote.
I widened my eyes. “Wow. They’ve told a lie about local history?”
“Not just one. Trying to undermine our most prominent family—”
Teague had to be the source of that.
“—and impugn a good man with allegations his ancestor deserted when it was no such thing.” His head tipped toward the front door, leaving me no doubt who he meant without his saying the name.
Desertion? That didn’t figure into Willa’s accounts.
“What will happen now with this poor man dead?” No mention of Russell Teague, because I didn’t want him to think I was aware enough of events or connections to raise his guard.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. There’s material in there that, by rights, belongs to me, but will this deputy listen? No. Too busy—”
“Elizabeth.”
Deputy Alvaro wasn’t happy with me.
I raised my shoulders and looked up at Graf. “Oh, dear, now I’m in trouble, but I just couldn’t resist talking to you.”
He reached out and squeezed my upper arm, clearly limiting himself to that because of the deputy on hand. “We’ll talk again.”
“Can’t wait.”
As I passed Richard, he gave me a puzzled look, but said nothing.
Just as well, because in a couple more steps, my phone rang.
Shelton, according to caller ID.
I waited until I was in the SUV, Richard watching me all the while.
“Hi, Sergeant.”
“What’s this about Rennant’s truck?”
“Yes, I am having a nice day, and you?”
I was learning to distinguish his growls. This one said no, not a nice day, and he blamed me, the picture of innocence. It also told me no one in law enforcement had moved the truck. If they had, he wouldn’t have bothered to growl.
“You’ve impounded it, right? Processed it already? Found anything yet that doesn’t match Rennant?”
“What do you know?”
“Me? Know? For sure? Not a thing. Yet.”
He hung up on me.
And not the way Dex did.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The ending of that conversation with Shelton put me in such a good mood that I lived dangerously and bought two brownies from Vicky Upton on the way into the Sherman Western Frontier Life Museum.
With brownies in hand, I asked, “Vicky, you dated Palmer Rennant, what did you think of him?”
“I’m not talking to you about him.”
Darn. And I thought we’d made such progress.
“You could have insight that might catch his killer.”
That didn’t work any better on her than it had on Jolie. “It was months and months ago. Has nothing to do with who killed him now. And I’m not talking to you.”
Which is why I bought the brownies first.
“Did he wear an expensive watch when you were dating? One of those that can go underwater. Complicated stuff on the face.”
I saw an answer forming on her lips.
She pressed them closed and turned away from me.
If I’d been forced to bet, I’d say the answer was yes, he’d worn such a watch. But guesses made insecure building blocks for investigations.
Still, my good mood endured. Even when Clara took one look at me standing at the entrance of her pod and said, “Oh, God.”
Nadine was there again, too. She smiled — tired and strained, but a smile — and said hello.
“I come bearing gifts,” I said.
Clara narrowed her eyes at me. “What?”
I plunked a KWMT-TV envelope on her desk. “Don’t lose that. It has a thumb drive of extra footage Diana Stendahl took Friday and Saturday, plus a release form so you folks can use it to promote the events in two years.”
“What makes you think we’ll still have them in two years.”
“Oh, now, Clara, don’t go back to being pessimistic.” Nadine turned to me. “Thank you. Truly. This will be wonderful, especially if… Well, if can expand the programs, try to draw in more kids, for example.”
Clara scowled at her. Incredulous? Or warning her? “That would be great. Not realistic, but great.”
“If the museum gets the gold coins—”
“We can’t spend them. They’d draw in more visitors, but if you think that will be enough…”
“Will be?” I asked. “Counting your gold coins before they’re adjudicated? Do you have a reason to be more optimistic about the museum’s claim now?”
She scoffed. “Like what?”
Like with Rennant out of the way he couldn’t carry on Teague’s fight to secure the coins.
“When did you last talk to Palmer Rennant, Clara?”
“There’s no reason for me to tell you that.”
“Is there a reason for you not to?”
“Really? You’re questioning me as a suspect in his murder? Why not the body in the cave, too?”
“Died before you were born, or I would.”
“Just tell her. She needs to ask these questions,” Nadine sounded muffled — not by something physical, but her own emotions.
“No, she doesn’t. The sheriff’s department, maybe, but not her. And if you question us, you might as well question Emmaline Parens and Gee Decker, too. Oh—” Clara turned to me with an unpleasant intensity. “—and Tom Burrell, since they’re on the committee and have as much reason to dislike Rennant as we do. They were as angry at him last year as we were.”
“You mean when you found out he wouldn’t let you use his land for the reenactment and camp. Because you found that out before he told the committee officially, didn’t you?”
“What if I did? That was a year ago. And not exactly a big secret, since everyone on the committee — and probably well beyond it — knew I was the source for that information.”
“How did you find out?”
“It didn’t take any feat of espionage, if that’s what you’re thinking. He just started talking about it. Delighted with himself. Absolutely delighted at planning to destroy—”
Her hand jerked toward the papers and spreadsheets on the screens.
She pulled in a breath through her nose.
She was back to cold calm when she spoke.
“Leave, Elizabeth. We have work to do. To see if we can save this, much less achieve Nadine’s roseate view of expansion. And leave Palmer’s death to the sheriff’s department.”
I did not leave her a brownie.
* * * *
As I drove toward the station, my phone rang.
“Paycik? Could you ask your aunt a couple things? But first — don’t tell me you didn’t get Jennife
r to her flight on time — her parents will have your hide.”
“Got her there. Plane took off on time. And they should be picking her up soon in Billings. Now be quiet and listen, because I have an exclusive you’ll want to hear. Teague is dead.”
“Exclusive? The wires will—”
“The wires won’t have this next part — next two parts. Guess who’s the executor for the Wyoming part of his will.”
“Guessing games? Do you know how many murders are caused by guessing games gone wro—?”
He saved both of us by interrupting. “Tom. Thomas David Burrell.”
“What?”
It was a good thing I was on a deserted stretch of road — in other words in Wyoming — because I reflexively clomped my foot on the brake.
“There’s more.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
“Oh, you are going to like this, Elizabeth.”
I pulled off the road. “No more teasing. Tell me now.”
“In the Wyoming part of Teague’s will, the provision about the ranch said that if Palmer Rennant predeceased Teague — which he did — the ranch goes to the Sherman Western Frontier Life Museum.”
“What?” I might have broken a sound barrier with that word. “Why? He hated the museum. He and Clara Atwood were knives-drawn over the gold coins.”
“And that’s the second shoe to drop. If Palmer Rennant predeceased Teague, then Teague ceded any and all claim to the gold coins to the museum.”
I felt like the British at Yorktown, when the only possible song that fit was The World Turned Upside Down.
“This is crazy.”
“Sure changes who had motive to kill Palmer Rennant, right? If his ex wanted her kids to inherit a bundle — a bigger bundle, since he was pretty well off already — she wouldn’t have killed him before he inherited from Teague.”
“It all depends on what she knew about Teague’s will. That goes for all of them.”
“What they knew and when they knew it,” he paraphrased from the famous Watergate-era question.
“Exactly. I wonder if I can get any better feel about this from James Longbaugh.”
“He won’t spill confidential information,” Mike warned.
“All I want is background on how things work in Cottonwood County,” I said innocently. “Speaking of Cottonwood County, see if you can find out from your aunt if the sheriff’s department has been looking at Rennant’s place as a possible death scene and if they have a cause of death.”
* * * *
James Longbaugh said to come by his law office at one-fifteen and he could make time for me for a few background questions. That left time for a Hamburger Heaven pit stop on my way.
Longbaugh was at least a fourth-generation lawyer in Cottonwood County. As far as I could tell, he covered every aspect of law short of international and constitutional. I wouldn’t count him out of those areas either, I just hadn’t seen him at work on them.
His law office was also fourth-generation, originally built as a combination home and office, now all office. I liked that he and most of his neighbors had kept the history in the small, square houses with touches of woodworking whimsy, all located a couple of blocks from the courthouse.
Apparently, his making time for me included rushing his lunch, because, when the twenty-something receptionist ushered me into the conference room that clearly started life as a dining room, James was finishing a steak salad at the table.
He started to clear it away, but I protested. “Please, James, finish your lunch. How about if I tell you what I’m wondering about while you take your time.”
He glanced at the clock. “That’s a good idea.”
I started my questions about how the timing of wills and probate worked in Wyoming, especially in connection with when the provisions of a will might become public.
After a swallow, he asked, “Russell Teague’s? After the report on TV that he was sick, I checked online. Sounds like it’s close to the end for him.”
Which told me James hadn’t written the will. If he had, he wouldn’t have asked. And he sure wouldn’t have speculated on the state of Teague’s health.
“Yes. Do you know if it was drawn up in Wyoming or—?”
“Only know it wasn’t drawn up in this office.” He took a final bite and chewed thoughtfully, with another glance toward the clock. “I did hear talk that he’d written a new will about a year ago, superseding one he’d had from back East.”
“Any details or—?”
“No details. Now, regarding the timing… If it’s going through probate, the first thing is to get the death certificate and then — if the family’s pushing things along — it’s about another two weeks before it starts probate. And even then, the court can put all of it or some of it under seal, so it might never be a matter of public record.”
“Ah.” That probably sounded like a tire deflating. “The upshot is that there’d almost certainly not be any public record of his will now.”
“That’s right.”
With Teague dead, the chance of more loose-lipped lawyers plummeted. Even the East Coast ones would keep quiet about Wyoming provisions now.
I slung the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “Thank you, James. I appreciate your—”
“Not so fast, Elizabeth. Because the other factor in this is the kind of setup I’d expect Russell Teague to have — whether drawn up in Wyoming or elsewhere — would not go through probate at all. It would be designed to avoid probate, along with minimizing taxes.”
I frowned, “That sounds like it’s even less likely people would know the terms of the will.”
“Maybe. But you can’t ignore the human element. Some people tell everyone they meet about their will and estate planning. Sometimes it’s just having a naturally sharing nature. Sometimes it’s to hold something over the head of somebody — or somebodies — in their life.”
Russell Teague, naturally sharing? No.
Holding something over somebody’s head, telling Palmer Rennant, if you don’t do what I want, I’ll leave it all to the museum? That I could see.
But telling the museum — in the person of Clara Atwood — that if Rennant predeceased him, they’d be very happy? No, I didn’t see that.
So, as a process for word about the will to get back to Cottonwood County, we were back to the likes of a lawyer overheard blabbing on the phone in a hospital corridor.
Unless… Unless Russell Teague told Palmer Rennant the terms and he told someone.
And I could imagine the man who’d bragged to Clara about kicking the camp and reenactment off his property also bragging that he would inherit what otherwise could have been a windfall for the museum and all its programs.
Another element remained. It felt tangential at this point, but…
“What about the landowner of the buttes land letting the camp and reenactment use that site?”
“Anonymous.”
“Surely not to you, since you work out the legalities to protect the events.”
“There were protections in place for anonymity.”
That didn’t mean he didn’t know who the person was.
“James, if Emmaline Parens is the anonymous owner, would you tell me?”
I hadn’t realized that at some level I’d thought that was the answer to that small mystery as well as her behavior until the words popped out. Though why she’d keep it a secret…
“No.” He cleared his throat. “I should have said, no, I wouldn’t tell you.”
I sucked in a breath, held it a beat, then expelled it in laughter.
“I deserved that. I can’t believe I asked that question.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right. I truly did deserve it. Well, thank you, James—”
A knock sounded on the conference room door.
“—you’ve been very helpful.”
The receptionist opened the door. “Your one-thirty is here.”
“Be right there.” H
e wiped his hand on a napkin as I came around the table and joined him at the door. “Any time, Elizabeth.”
He opened the door and said, “Serena, will you come in here and help me clean this up. I’ll be right with you, Tom.”
He said that last part to his one-thirty.
Thomas David Burrell.
Tom turned toward the door, starting on No problem.
The door closed with James and the receptionist on the far side of it before the words emerged. Leaving Tom and me, alone in the tiny waiting room.
Maybe I was overly suspicious — it is a tendency in my profession — but James Longbaugh’s clock-watching took on a whole new meaning. As did jamming me in during his lunch time. He had set this up.
Without Tom’s cooperation or knowledge, as was obvious from his expression.
“Tom,” I said neutrally.
“Elizabeth.”
Clearly not a happy accident to his mind, our meeting this way, one-on-one for the first time since he’d declared us friends only and decidedly without possibility of benefits.
He’d made the declaration for the sake of Tamantha. To keep from confusing her about a relationship that confused the heck out of me — and I suspected him — as well as the intertwining and lingering confusion about my relationship with Mike.
“How are you, Elizabeth?” Tom’s low voice turned the question into something … personal.
“I’m good. And you?” I tried for spritely. No idea if I achieved it.
“Good. Tamantha said she enjoyed talking to you Friday.”
“Yes. Heard all about Sheepherder bread. Fry bread, too.” I smiled.
That was a mistake. Because he smiled. And … Yeah, a mistake.
“I do have a question for you.” My brisk professionalism wiped out his smile.
“Ask.” No promise he’d answer.
“Who is the landowner of the property where the reenactment and camp moved to? I know you were the liaison who persuaded him to it.”
“He wanted to remain anonymous.”
I hadn’t known Tom was involved, but had guessed. Now he’d confirmed it.
He was rattled, too.
“Does he still want to be anonymous? Or doesn’t it matter anymore?”
Body Brace (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 10) Page 23
