Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

He couldn’t admit that. It was rude. “Uh . . . yes, ma’am?”

  She laughed. “I’m Dian Griffin. I went to high school with your parents. Your mom is one of my best friends. But I haven’t seen you since you were really little.”

  “Cool.”

  “Are your parents here?”

  “My dad.” Then Perry saw the Suburban. “And my mom, too, I guess. You want to come in while I get them?”

  “That would be great.” Dian—Mrs. Griffin?—stepped into the house. Even with her boots, she wasn’t much taller than him. “That’s a big dog you’ve got there.”

  “He won’t hurt you.”

  “How’d you get so wet?”

  “I fell in the creek.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll bet you were on your way to get dry clothes when I showed up.”

  “S’okay. You can wait in here. I’ll get Mom.” He grabbed Ferdinand by the collar and dragged the dog down the hall, his boots squeaky and squishing and water dripping from his pants. Knocking on his parents’ door, he said, “Mom. Dad. Dian, er, Mrs. Griffin is here. For Mom.” He wished he knew what to call her. It was easy with grown men. They were always mister, while a woman could be a miss or a missus or even a mizz, whatever that was.

  He heard rustling in their room, then his mom’s head appeared. He could tell she was wearing a robe.

  “Who?”

  “Um, Dian. Your friend.”

  His mom looked confused. She whispered, “I don’t have a friend here named Dian.”

  Perry was more confused than she was. Ferdinand whined and strained at his collar, trying to free himself to go show their visitor a proper welcome. “But she said. And she knew my name. You went to high school together.”

  “Dian Griffin?”

  “Yeah.”

  His mom’s face lit-up. “What’s she doing here? She lives in Texas.” Then her mouth made an O. “Your uncle Barry. He’s coming tonight. With his new fiancée.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Yes, ma’am. So?”

  “So, before he was engaged to Esme, he was engaged to someone else.” She gave him a significant look.

  “Your friend?”

  His mom nodded. Then she started laughing. “Tell her I’ll be out in a minute. But don’t tell her Barry and Esme are on their way.” More to herself, she muttered, “I’ve got to think of a way to keep their paths from crossing. And whatever it is, do it quickly.” The door shut.

  Perry sloshed his way back down the hall with Ferdinand just as the doorbell rang again.

  Chapter Six: Strain

  Piney Bottoms Ranch, Story, Wyoming

  Wednesday, December 28, 1977, 6:00 p.m.

  Ben

  Ben pushed the meatloaf across his plate with the tines of his fork, knocking it into his mashed potatoes, which spilled gravy onto his green bean casserole. Only his homemade icebox roll remained unspoiled. Vangie had made all his favorites for his farewell dinner. The smell in the house had been great all afternoon. It had been nice of her, and he felt bad that he wasn’t hungry.

  The long dining room table—which regularly sat a couple of ranch hands for breakfast and lunch in addition to the regular members of the household—was only half filled. The kitchen occupied a space as big as the dining area. It was quiet except for the crackle of fire in the wood burning stove that Vangie cooked on and used to heat the room. Baby Hank was in a highchair in front of her as she fed him tiny bites of the potatoes. He was making gurgling noises around the food, kicking his feet, and reaching for his mother’s dark hair. Henry was watching his wife and son with a goofy grin on his face. His hair was creased from the cowboy hat he’d been wearing all day, and the horizontal line matched the deep scratch across his forehead that he’d gotten when a colt he was breaking had thrown him into a fence that afternoon.

  Ben was going to miss the three Sibleys like crazy.

  Tears threatened, so he gulped down some of the Tennessee sweet tea Vangie served with every meal. He was nearly nineteen years old, and he’d only lived with the Sibleys out at Piney Bottoms Ranch for nine months, but it had been the best time of his life. The most normal time. Growing up in Cody with his real family, he’d never felt like this. Like he belonged. The Sibleys treated him as much like a son as they did Hank.

  And Hank. Who knew babies were so cool? The kid was a pistol. Henry was already taking him out on the horses—the gentle ones— in front of him in the saddle. Hank was crawling and pulling up on things, trying to walk, constantly babbling and laughing, especially when he looked at Ben. By the time Ben came back from school on summer break, Hank would be scooting around on his own two feet, and he’d have forgotten that Ben was his best friend.

  A hand reached for his under the table. Soft and small, it squeezed his, then rested on his knee.

  Trish.

  He could barely look at her. She was so pretty, it hurt his eyes sometimes. Golden hair, bright blue eyes, and the little mole beside her mouth that he called her beauty mark. She was adventurous, smart, tough, and fun, and she made him feel like he could be anything, do anything. The way she looked at him. The way she was looking at him now, which he could only see out of the corner of his eye, because he just couldn’t meet hers.

  “When is your roommate going to get to Laramie, Ben?” Vangie asked in the baby voice she was using with Hank. She did that a lot lately.

  He cleared his throat. He’d talked to Chad only once since they’d been assigned to live together. “He’s already there. His parents are on a trip to the Alps, so he decided to stay in the dorm. He’s from Los Angeles. It’s a long drive there and back, especially in the winter.”

  “Oh. That’s good. So, you won’t be too lonely.”

  Ben doubted that. Without Trish and these people he’d come to think of as his family? He couldn’t think about it. It made him too sad. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Henry held out his finger, and Hank snatched it, coating it in mashed potatoes, gravy, and baby spit. “We got the oil changed in the truck. It’s all gassed up. New tires, too. Running like a top and ready for the morning.” He paused, wincing. “Ouch, Hank. Let go.” Hank didn’t release his father’s hand. “Let go, now.” Henry finally managed to twist his finger out of the kid’s grip. “Did you make a note of your license plate number?”

  Ben didn’t understand why he needed to make a note of something that was on the front and back end of his pickup. “I will.”

  Trish’s voice broke in, musical and sweet, to Ben’s ears anyway. “My dad makes us all memorize each other’s license plate numbers, in case of emergencies, since we’ve had a lot of them.” She rattled off a series of digits and letters. “Dad’s.” She recited another. “Mom’s.” And another. “Mine.”

  “I like how your dad thinks,” Henry said.

  “What time are you leaving?” Trish asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Ben still couldn’t look at her.

  Henry said, “With these roads, I’d give it six hours for the drive. Then you have to unload. Let’s call that another hour or two. You need plenty of sunlight for that. Sun sets before five. That means you should pull out of the driveway here no later than nine.”

  “Make it eight. You’ll want to stop to eat. I’ll send you a picnic lunch.” Vangie paused with the spoon in midair, sending Hank into a tizzy, kicking and reaching for it.

  “Will you stop by and say goodbye to me and my family?” Trish said. There was a quiver in her voice.

  Ben squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Seven-thirty, then.” Vangie popped the spoon into Hank’s mouth. He gurgled, smiled, and drooled some gravy. “I heard you had some excitement today, Trish.”

  Trish said, “Yes, ma’am. Two ranch hands were murdered at the O Bar M. My dad found them. But I didn’t see them.”

  “Still, that’s scary.”

  “A little. But Ronnie and another deputy got there fast.”

  She nudged Ben’s leg wi
th her knee, a pre-arranged signal. He dreaded saying what Trish had begged him to, knew the response he’d get from Henry and Vangie.

  He said, “Okay. Could I, uh—could I take Trish to a movie tonight? Since it’s my last night here?”

  Vangie put the spoon down. Her eyes met Henry’s. The silence stretched out into an uncomfortable wall between Ben and them.

  It was Henry who finally spoke. “I wish we could say yes, but you know that’s up to Patrick and Susanne.”

  For four months, Trish and Ben had only been allowed to see each other at school or one of their homes, in the presence of adults. Ben didn’t blame Trish’s parents. He’d spent time in juvenile detention when his uncle and father had kidnapped Trish. Ben had to go along with it. His father or uncle could have hurt her. She could have died. But in the end, it didn’t matter why he’d helped them. The bottom line was, he had. Her parents had been scared to death, and the situation had put her whole family at risk. It hadn’t exactly been the best beginning to a relationship. Not to mention Trish could have dated anyone she wanted to. She was a straight A student. A good girl. She’d probably go to college on an academic scholarship, not probationary with late acceptance like him.

  If he was her dad, he wouldn’t have let Trish date him at all.

  He heard Trish swallow. She’d hoped Vangie and Henry would say it was fine with them, so she could use their approval to convince her parents to give theirs. “The meatloaf was delicious, but I’m finished eating. Could I go call my parents?”

  “Sure, hon.” Vangie’s eyes looked sad as they followed Trish to the phone in the kitchen.

  Trish dialed, then twisted the phone cord around her finger. Ben couldn’t help watching her now. He could feel her anxiety. She ducked her face, turning away from the table. “Mom? It’s Trish.” She paused. “May I go to the movies with Ben tonight? He’s leaving in the morning.” Pause. “We’re at the Sibleys eating dinner.” Pause. “But, Mom—” Pause. Her voice hardened. “Fine. I’ll see you by nine.”

  Ben cringed. He hadn’t wanted to push the issue with her parents, but Trish had insisted. Her face was a storm cloud as she stomped back to the table. Trish might be a lot of good things, but she had a temper, and she didn’t hide her feelings.

  He hoped it didn’t ruin their last night together.

  But who was he kidding? Of course it would. His stomach sank like a bag of rocks.

  Chapter Seven: Squirm

  Flint Residence, Buffalo, Wyoming

  Wednesday, December 28, 1977, 6:00 p.m.

  Patrick

  Patrick readjusted his body on the bed, pressing his ear to the telephone. Usually, he avoided any painkillers stronger than over the counter, but he was a cat’s whisker away from raiding his medical kit for some Percodan. Maybe later. He breathed deeply. It hurt, but he was pleased that it sounded normal. He palpated the soft tissue below his ribs. Nothing too sensitive there. He decided he’d been right not to inflict his injuries on the hospital staff. Time would heal these wounds.

  “Hello?” he said.

  A familiar woman’s voice said, “Patrick, it’s Ronnie. I thought you’d want an update on those murders at the O Bar M.”

  “I do. I guess you’re not calling to tell me you guys caught the killer?”

  “I wish. And no progress running down Muhammed. No evidence from the crime scene that would give us an identity. About the best we found was that blood on the switch plate.”

  Patrick gazed at his fingers. He’d washed the blood from the switch plate off his hand earlier. “And?”

  “We were able to type it. It’s the same as Bryan’s.” The younger of the two hands, Patrick recalled. “We’ll try to see if we can match it or if it belongs to someone else, but that’s going to take a while. I don’t suppose you thought of anything else you saw?”

  Patrick didn’t tell her about the Tylenol or his long nap. He was still dozy and foggy. “No. I’m sorry. Getting bucked off that ‘gentle’ horse and taking care of the Mendoza sheep sucked up all my attention.”

  “The Mendoza sheep?”

  “A doctor’s free vet work is never done.”

  Ronnie snorted. “Tell Susanne I said hello.”

  “Thanks for calling.” Patrick held the receiver to his chest, dreading rolling over to hang it up. He hoped Johnson County found the culprit soon, and that they left the Flints out of it.

  After he recovered from hanging up the phone, he walked to the door. Susanne had left it ajar when she’d followed Perry out to greet her old friend Dian, seconds before the phone had rung with Ronnie’s call.

  Dian Griffin, here in Wyoming. She’d been friends with Susanne since they were little girls in College Station, Texas. And Dian still lived in Texas. What’s she doing in Wyoming, and why didn’t she tell us she was coming? Something about the voices in the great room caught his attention. The number of them, for starters. But also, one was clearly an adult male. Perry hadn’t said anything about a man.

  Uh oh. Were Barry and his new fiancée already here?

  Trailing one hand on the wall, he walked stiffly toward the great room, gathering speed as he went. When he got there, he found quite a crowd standing around. Dian. His dark-haired brother-in-law, Barry. A woman who must be Barry’s fiancée, but whose name he couldn’t remember, darn it. Susanne. A crotch-sniffing Ferdinand. And Perry.

  Laughter exploded from the group, but it set his teeth on edge. It was the uncomfortable, brittle kind. And it seemed to be coming from everyone except the woman Barry was adding to the family soon.

  When there was a pause in the laughter, Patrick announced himself. “Looks like a 1960s Tigers reunion in here.” He had attended the same high school as Susanne, Dian, and Barry, and their mascot had been a tiger.

  “Patrick.” Barry grabbed Patrick’s hand and shook it, pulling him in for a shoulder hug and slapping him on the back before Patrick could protest.

  Despite his best efforts, Patrick gasped. His brother-in-law wasn’t bigger or stronger than him. It just didn’t take much to set off a tsunami of pain in his midsection.

  “Are you okay?” Barry released him, frowning.

  “Broken ribs.”

  “Fresh ones,” Susanne said. She didn’t look like she had as much sympathy for Patrick as he thought he deserved. “Got bucked off a horse he shouldn’t have been on.”

  Patrick arranged his face in a painful grin. “How about I skip hugs?”

  “Good to see you. Sorry you’re hurt.” Dian forced cheer into her voice. Of course. This was an incredibly awkward situation for her.

  “Good to see you, too. And thanks.”

  “Patrick, I want to introduce you to my fiancée, Esme Wheeler.” Barry put his hand on the woman’s waist. He wasn’t a giant man, but it emphasized how tiny she was. Fragile even, although her coloring was robust. With a name like Esme—short for Esmerelda, maybe?—and her dark skin, eyes, and hair, Patrick guessed she was probably of Mexican heritage, which wasn’t unusual in South Texas. Patrick looked at Dian and then back at Esme. Two Texas fiancées in one Wyoming room. While both women were small, Esme was fine featured, whereas Dian’s features were rounded. Esme seemed more reserved, or maybe that was just because of the tense situation. He’d rarely met anyone as outgoing as Dian, anyway. The woman had been born for her role as head Tigers cheerleader, and she’d continued cheering at the University of Texas. Barry continued, “This is the woman who is going to make me a husband and the father, someday, of a couple of rug rats. That’s all a man needs in life. Am I right, Patrick?”

  Dian’s eyes dropped to the ring finger on Esme’s left hand. She was sporting a whopper of a diamond. Patrick glanced at the simple gold band on his own wife’s hand. It had been all he could afford when they’d married as teens. That isn’t quite true. I couldn’t even afford that ring. His parents had lent him the money to buy it for her a few months later, after they’d confessed about their elopement. His mother Lana had said it wasn’t right for Susan
ne to be ringless. In the years since, his wife had assured him many times that it was all she needed. But sometimes he wondered. Susanne was a treasure, and he ought to do something more substantial to show it.

  Patrick nodded and smiled at Esme. “Welcome. A pleasure to meet you. We’re so glad to have you here, even if it had to be with this shyster.”

  Esme frowned. “Barry’s no shyster. He’s a very successful and highly regarded member of the legal profession.”

  Patrick clenched his teeth. Teasing had always been a hallmark of his relationship with his brother-in-law. In the silence after Esme’s words, the air felt charged, like it did before a lightning storm. There was a strange odor, too. Like adrenaline. Or fear. And it seemed to be coming from his brother-in-law.

  Barry cleared his throat. “He’s just kidding, honey. I call him a quack, he calls me a shyster.”

  “Didn’t sound like kidding to me.”

  Heat built in Patrick’s neck and cheeks. Susanne grabbed his hand and squeezed his fingers so hard that he winced.

  Barry smiled tentatively at Esme. “I appreciate you sticking up for me, Ez. But Patrick is family. And I can assure you, when he needs a lawyer, I’m the one he calls.”

  Patrick decided he couldn’t let Esme strain things any longer. “Only because your price is right.”

  Barry socked Patrick in the shoulder. He tried hard to hide the jolt of pain, given the circumstances. “What, you mean the double rate I charge you?” Barry’s voice sounded de-stressed, like someone had loosened a screw and given him a few inches of room to breathe.

  Susanne relaxed her grip on his fingers, but her voice was still tight. “Patrick, Dian is on her way to Billings from Denver. Her flight was canceled. She rented a car so she could drive through here and surprise us on her way north.”

  “Surprise,” Dian said. Her grin looked sickly.

  Patrick was glad for a change of subject. “What’s in Billings?”