“I don’t agree,” Aunt Gee said briskly. “In these times, perhaps Sally would have had justice, because people understand more about abuse — physical, mental, and emotional. They know what a man like Luther Tipton truly is. Although they get it wrong sometimes. Still, in these times, perhaps. Back then? No.
“If you’d made her face the consequences, you would have consigned her to a far greater hell than she deserved or than her silliness led her into during her life.”
“Thank you, Gisella.” Mrs. Parens’ solemnity was a tribute to the solace of Gee’s logic, as was the moisture in her eyes. She blinked it away and stood even straighter. “But I will not alter my stance that if ever a man did not deserve a proper burial, Christian or otherwise, it was Luther Tipton.”
I heard Needham’s voice again.
If ever a man deserved getting killed…
“That’s okay, Mrs. Parens, Sally gave me that job.”
“No, Elizabeth, that is not your duty. Sally did what she did to force my hand, with you as an impartial witness, even going as far as being recorded by Diana.”
Unspoken was that Gee wouldn’t have forced her hand. In a choice between fulfilling Sally’s wish and accepting Mrs. P’s decision, she’d have backed Mrs. P.
Body braces came in all configurations. Mrs. P for Sally Tipton, Gee for Mrs. P … and vice versa, as I knew.
“Are you going to see to it he gets one?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Aunt Gee put an arm around her neighbor’s shoulders. As if that contact renewed her resources, Mrs. P added with her usual decisiveness, “But I will not see that man in their family plot. He’ll be as far from Sally and her mother as possible.”
DAY NINE
FRIDAY
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Another phone call.
After these past few days, I needed therapy to overcome phone call aversion.
This one was Mrs. Parens, asking me to come to her house at my earliest convenience.
Diana, Audrey, and Jennifer — all working with me on a special report for KWMT — and I translated that as immediately.
Mrs. Parens welcomed me in and directed me to a chair in a small sitting room.
She sat as upright as ever. And it wasn’t that she’d added white hair or wrinkles overnight. She’d had both as long as I’d known her. But the white and the wrinkles had altered with the subtlety of observing the passage from one day to the next. Until one day it’s not late summer anymore.
“I received a letter in yesterday’s mail. The envelope came from James Longbaugh’s office with an enclosure addressed to me from Sally.”
I felt my eyebrows climbing.
“James included a brief note saying that by sending me the letter, he was fulfilling a commission from Sally.”
She held out an envelope with faded pink flowers around the edges. Handwriting filled a sheet with the same flowers splashed diagonally across the top left and bottom right corners.
Saw the news last night with that smart lady reporter on TV and then read it in the paper just now, so I suppose it’s true.
They found Pa.
My stepmother and I never did care for each other. That was entirely true. Didn’t ever love her and she didn’t ever love me. And people knew it. Didn’t try to hide it, neither one of us, from the start. Wasn’t with a plan or anything. Just was.
I remember my mama and she did love me. I still remember what that felt like. Never anything like that with my Pa or my stepmother or anyone else.
I’ll give my stepmother this, she never whipped me. Never hit me at all. And she’d let me eat when I was hungry. Pa didn’t always. Depended how he was feeling. Oftentimes, he wasn’t feeling generous to other folks, including his family.
He hit my mama and he hit my stepmother.
One night he hit me, too. And he grabbed me where he shouldn’t have and said something. I don’t remember what it was precisely, but he made himself clear. My stepmother and me looked at each other, just for a second. Guess there was a lot in that look, because when she came up behind him with the cast iron pan, I was ready with the next size down on the other side of him and hit him back to her. We each hit him a couple times with the edge of the skillet and then he crumbled down out of his chair, taking a good plate with him, and we waited a bit, getting our breath back and to see if he’d get up, but he was dead.
After a spell, I said the Butte Cave, just like that. She nodded, even though I don’t think she could have known where it was. But she was trusting me. We didn’t have any choice except to trust each other then.
Neither of us said a word other than the name of that cave the whole time. Not when we heaved him up into the back of the wagon, not while we took that long, slow trip. It was even harder getting him out of the wagon and into the cave. I suppose we were both real tired by then.
Never could recall the trip back to the house. I suppose our old horse Pearl did the navigating.
Back at the house, we had to rouse up to scrub real good. Wouldn’t have done any good with the kind of things they show on TV these days, but back then it was plenty. It started raining during the night and went well into next morning, so we used that as we cleaned out the wagon. And it wiped out our wagon tracks good enough from the night before.
She did say a few words then, that we were going into town to the sheriff and to say as little as possible to him. Took us a while with Pearl and the wagon, because Pa wouldn’t let her, let alone me, drive his truck. Not to mention it wasn’t there.
Sheriff didn’t seem the least bit worried about it when we came in and my stepmother said Pa was missing, and neither of us had seen him, and with me backing up her story when everybody knew we didn’t like each other, nobody gave a thought to it being other than we said.
Turns out his truck was found on the highway and there was blood in it from a fight with another man hurt so bad they weren’t sure he’d live. He didn’t, not beyond a week, anyway. With Pa nowhere to be found, they figured he and the other man tried to kill each other, and if Pa wasn’t dead, he was long gone.
That let them hurry things through in the court, making the property half mine and half hers, and the money the same after the place was sold.
Couldn’t come fast enough for my stepmother. Don’t think she could look at me after. With things settled, she packed up and left real fast. Not a word.
I didn’t mind her leaving. Not at all. But I didn’t feel the same. Not entirely. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have let other people see as much — that let them know or guess.
I looked up at Mrs. P. “Mildred and Avis?” I said of two contemporaries of Sally’s.
She declined her head in a single nod of confirmation.
I said, “Wormed it out of her and used it as leverage.”
Another single nod of confirmation.
I resumed reading.
Some that guessed have kept their guesses and their thoughts to themselves, which I do appreciate, no matter what they might think.
Now it’s over. He’s found. It will all come out.
I can’t say it’s a relief. I could have gone on along without him ever being found, without it ever coming out. But can’t change what is.
I wrote this all out, so it was clear. Sometimes I get off track with talking. If the truth doesn’t come out and the sheriff’s department doesn’t come to arrest me, I might need this to set things straight later on.
It was signed and dated Sunday, the day she’d had the stroke, while reading the Independence’s special edition on the discoveries of Palmer Rennant’s body and the body in the cave.
“You told me a studded belt didn’t mean anything to you,” I said abruptly.
“I do believe what I said was that I could not say and I could not, for Sally’s sake as well as to not involve you more deeply. He hit her and her stepmother with it, as you no doubt gathered. I once saw him do so, until my father stopped him.”
Which was why she t
ook on the burden of Sally.
I refolded the letter. “She never named you as one of the people who guessed.”
“That is an unexpected display of discretion on Sally’s part. She leaves no instructions for or wishes concerning the disposition of this document or the knowledge it contains. I shall determine what to do in that regard as events unfold.”
She straightened, took the pages from me and returned them to the envelope.
If Shelton and Company got a wild hair someplace it didn’t belong and decided someone other than Sally and her presumably long-dead stepmother were responsible for Luther Tipton’s murder, Emmaline Parens would not sit idly by.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Parens.”
“There is nothing for you to be sorry about, Elizabeth.”
“I know Sally was a friend of a kind and—”
“She was not a friend, not of any kind. She was a responsibility. I took it on willingly long, long ago, without recognizing all that it entailed or that it inevitably involved moral and ethical uncertainties. Once taken on, it could not be put down until the end.”
“I was also thinking of Nadine Hulte.”
She held silent a moment. “I have been fond of her for some years and that has not changed. She remains important to me for the good she achieved in the past.” She turned toward me. “But I do not, in any way, condone her actions. I am sorry for what she has done, including what she has done to herself. I am not sorry that you have proven instrumental in bringing her crimes to light. I respect your actions, and I thank you for them.”
Hot tears pinched at the bridge of my nose. I blinked hard.
She reached over and put her hand on top of mine.
“Doing the right thing is often not easy. It is, however, always right.”
* * * *
My time in O’Hara Hill meant working late on the special report.
When I reached my middle of the night quiet street, a familiar pickup was parked in front of my house. A tall figure sat on my front porch.
He rose as I approached and gestured me to the chair. He sat on the top step, turned sideways so his back rested against the post and we could face each other. Or not.
“Good piece tonight,” Tom said.
“Thanks. The special will be tomorrow night. Saturday night’s not great for airing it but Sunday’s worse, and didn’t want to push it to Monday.”
We spoke quietly, not intruding on the hush.
“You — you and the rest — make us viewers feel it’s the most important story you’ve ever told. That’s a real talent.”
“Needham said something similar. About chasing the next story for its own sake, not as a step to the next job.”
“Not exactly what I said.” He studied me. I held still under the survey, but didn’t open up. “You’ve done that — what Needham said — as long as you’ve been here.”
I thought about him on his ranch. I thought about Needham. I thought about Diana. I thought about Mrs. Parens, Aunt Gee, Deputy Shelton… Not aiming for careers in the sense so many used it in the TV news business, but doing the work. For its own sake.
I thought, too, about news people I’d known at numerous stations. The ones not looking to go anywhere else, who’d found their home. Yet they weren’t shellacked, not even lightly. Because career wasn’t their motivator. The work was.
It was about the work.
Satisfying.
I examined the word. It fit.
Because I was good at it?
Yes, partly. But if that were the complete answer, I’d play Free Cell all day.
I thought back through the investigations we’d done.
And Mrs. P’s words on doing the right thing.
I heard my exhale.
So did Tom, judging by his, “Worked out all the puzzles?”
“No. There’s still why Teague made the museum the backup beneficiary.”
“Suppose there is.”
“As well as why he agreed to let them use the butte property.”
“That, too.”
“Don’t give me that. You know all about it. And the strange behavior of Emmaline Parens. You two are thick as thieves. Plus, you being at James’ office right after Teague’s death and right after I learned you were his Wyoming executor.”
“Somebody talked out of turn.”
“Not here. Mike dug it up in Chicago from people on the non-Wyoming side.”
“Hear Mike’s doing real well in Chicago. Hear you could be, too.”
“He’s doing great, as expected. As for me, I’m still here. And still waiting for answers. C’mon, Burrell. How did you get Teague to make the museum his backup beneficiary? Why did he go along with it? You know I’ll find out. It will be easier on you if you tell me.”
“Threat?”
“Truth.”
“Wasn’t me. Mrs. Parens went to him. Said she’d leave her entire historical collection to him instead of the museum if she died before he did, if he’d make the museum the beneficiary to his Cottonwood County possessions if he died first. Also, he’d agree to the camp and reenactment using the butte property until one of them died and settled the matter for good.”
“She… Why? And the museum was only his backup beneficiary. If he was her first ben—”
“He said he had more at stake. He slid in Palmer Rennant and pushed the museum second. She adjusted her will, too, excluded prime articles, including some on the Teague family. The haggling between those two…”
“But why? Why would she? Why would he? It’s like those old tontines. A gamble you never know the outcome of because you’re dead.”
“I’d say she thought it was a chance to rescue his ranch while getting a home for the reenactment and camp. He thought he’d outlive her and scoop up her collection at nearly no inconvenience to himself.”
“How did she know he wouldn’t outlive her? I mean in the ordinary turn of events…”
The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “You’re not thinking Emmaline Parens had anything to do with Teague’s death.”
“No, of course not.” Not even Mrs. Parens could manage a hereditary disease that caused multi-organ failure, even if she’d wanted to.
“She didn’t know she would outlive him. But I’d say she thought she had a decent chance, knowing her family history of longevity and his of not. Plus, her collection would be — will be — a terrific addition to the museum, but what she’s won with her gamble sets up the museum for a long, stable future.”
“But when word came Teague was seriously ill — terminally ill — she became uncomfortable,” I theorized. “And, knowing the consequences of Rennant predeceasing Teague and Teague predeceasing her, she worried that someone who cared about the same things she did murdered Palmer Rennant to benefit the museum.”
“She was at least partly right.”
She was.
Another question rose. “Tom, do you think she did the deal with Teague because she knew Luther Tipton was up there?”
“No.”
“Because she had an inkling he was up there?”
He paused, looking toward the dark tree tops against the sky. “No.”
“But you wonder.”
His eyes came back to me. “I can live without knowing.”
Was he telling me I should do the same?
And then he said something more.
“I’m getting better at living without knowing.”
Epilogue
Monday morning, I walked into the KWMT-TV newsroom feeling drained but satisfied.
Without Mike around, Diana and I drew in Audrey to help with our in-depth report on the murder of Palmer Rennant. Jennifer took on expanded duties, too. Including learning more about structure and editing.
KWMT had a limited time to benefit from her advancing skills.
She’d decided to start at Northwestern after the first of the year.
Outwardly, I was gung-ho. Inwardly, contradictory reactions butted heads.
Then I encountered Jennifer’s mom, Faith, at the supermarket and her expression reflected exactly what I felt. She must have felt the same about my expression, because right there in the laundry detergent aisle and smiling the whole time, we hugged and teared up.
Audrey was good and getting better, but she hadn’t been along for the whole ride as Mike had for our earlier reports. Plus, we taught her as we went, not to mention a new member of the team slows things down.
Also, we just plain missed Mike.
Even though we continued to talk to him a lot. We made him the first viewer of the rough-cut and he had good thoughts about clarifying for anyone who hadn’t followed the story as it developed.
Radford Hickam contacted me, saying he might have answers to my all-encompassing question in a year.
Forensic anthropology does not work at TV news speed.
In the report, we dealt with the case of Luther Tipton by reporting the Cottonwood County Sheriff’s Department’s official position that he perished after wandering off while inebriated and possibly concussed following a barroom fight.
Nobody said anything about how long a wander it was from his truck to the butte.
The special report aired Saturday night.
One of my first tasks after wrapping was to sign up for a course being taught by O.D. Everett on contributions and inventions of Native Americans. Seemed like good things from the past to bring with me to the present and future.
I’d spent the rest of the weekend on high glamor necessities like laundry, cleaning, and giving my dog two extra-long walks.
I also consumed baked goods, now that Iris and Zeb Undlin were home and the flow of those calories had resumed. The flow of calories from the Sherman Supermarket continued, along with Penny’s Delphic annunciation that something was coming that would open my eyes wide.
But I’d already seen Sally’s letter, so that was covered.
Sally Tipton’s funeral was scheduled for this afternoon.
Mrs. Parens handled most of the arrangements, with Aunt Gee helping as she could around her job.
With Russell Teague dead, the museum’s lawyers moved for a summary judgment in its favor in the disposition of the gold coins.
Body Brace (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 10) Page 32
