Left Hanging (19 page)

I went around. “You thought I was going to ask about your romantic relationship with Keith Landry?”

I couldn’t swear she’d flinched at the word
romantic
. There was no flinching in her answer. “Yes.”

“Tell me about that.”

“It started quickly, lasted somewhat longer than—” She cut herself off, looking away for the first time. “Ended just as abruptly. And the same way. As you probably already know. There are no secrets in Cottonwood County.”

Dumped by Grayson Zane. Dumped by Keith Landry. Definitely coming down in the world. “Must have been hard to see him the next year.” My
him
could only refer to Landry, since Zane had not returned the next year.

“It wasn’t. What mattered then is what matters now—the Fourth of July Rodeo. So, no, it wasn’t hard.”

“What difficulties have there been over the years with Landry? In your capacity as a member of the rodeo committee, I mean.”

She frowned, possibly a result of trying to remember. Or not. “I don’t recall any. I was simply another committee member.”

“You voted against Landry’s company this year?”

“I voted
for
Sweet Meadows, as did a majority.”

“But you voted against Landry, even when there was no other choice. Sounds like a personal grudge.” I caught a tall figure closing in from the corner of my eye.

“My vote is always what I think best for the rodeo.”

“Why did you want the livestock brought in early this year?”

She frowned deeper. “I didn’t. I had nothing to do with that. Why would I?”

“That’s what I’m asking.” Tom drew his chair back, then stopped as I added, “I have a source who says you demanded Landry get the livestock in by Wednesday night.”

“Your source is wrong.”

“Elizabeth—”

I ignored Burrell. “My source has no reason to lie about it.”

“I have no reason to lie.”

“Don’t say any more, Linda,” Burrell said. “This is over. Go on, and we’ll talk later. Elizabeth and I’ll sit here a bit.”

She obeyed his order, I didn’t.

After skirting tables and people in my way, I followed her out, wanting to ask more, though not at the expense of making a scene. Since she had longer legs, a head start, and a clearer and closer path to the door, she was in her truck before I hit the parking lot.

Burrell arrived at a leisurely pace as she drove away.

“I’ll take you back to the station,” he said in his impossibly even voice.

When he opened the truck’s passenger door, I climbed in, grabbed the handle with both hands, yanked the door out of his hold, and slammed it shut.

The trip to the station was accomplished in silence. His silence seemed to have the limitless calm of outer space. Mine felt like the inside of an industrial dryer—hot, jumbled, and crowded.

When he pulled to a stop in the KWMT parking lot, I had my purse strap on my shoulder and myself under control.

I cracked the door open before facing him. He was slewed in his seat, his back partially against his door. His mouth and dark eyes were impassive.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” I said.

“You were asking—”

“It’s my job to ask questions.”

“Not questions like that.”

“Exactly questions like that.”

“It wasn’t necessary to ask personal things to protect the rodeo and—”

“First, you don’t decide what’s necessary or not necessary for me. Second, protecting is not my job, Burrell. And it’s not what we’re doing—Mike and me, and ostensibly you. You agreed to help with this. That doesn’t mean picking and choosing what can be looked into. And it doesn’t mean erecting barriers to protect the rodeo or the people you like. It’s the truth that matters. The truth. And you can’t screw around with it. When you do, things happen.”

He held his silence for half a beat. “Are we still talking about Landry’s death? Or are you talking about your personal past.”

I got out, closed the truck door—firmly, but not a slam—and leaned back in the open window.

“
I
am talking about the arrogance of Thomas David Burrell, who thinks he always knows best. That arrogance got you arrested for murder, and maybe that can be overlooked because you thought you were doing what was best for Tamantha—though I don’t think you were right—but this time there’s no such excuse.”

“Elizabeth—”

“No. You said you were in on this investigation, but you’re not. Not when you, in your infinite wisdom, have decided some people should not be considered suspects. And have—”

“Suspects of what?”

“—decided you don’t need to share what you know, despite saying you would. And I’ll tell you suspects of what, Burrell. Murder. Keith Landry’s death was not an accident. It was murder.”

I pushed off from the truck, turned around, and walked into KWMT-TV, knowing that I had, for the first time, seen Tom Burrell absolutely surprised.

Chapter Twenty-Two

INSIDE THE BUILDING, I stopped for a drink of water, and that was when the satisfaction of surprising Burrell gave way to regret that I’d told him Landry had been murdered. Damn. I should have kept my mouth closed.

Are we still talking about looking into Keith Landry’s death? Or are you talking about your personal past
.

Both, you jackass. Both.

The one I could
do
something about was Landry’s murder.

After a moment’s thought at my desk, I dialed Mrs. Parens’ number and said I’d like to ask a few more background questions.

I should have eased into it, letting her give me another history lesson. I wasn’t in the mood. “You’ve known Linda Caswell for a long time? I understand she had a rough time, growing up and with the death of her sister.”

She gave me a skeletal outline of Linda’s life. Her version was basically little more than I could get from reading clips and devoid of Penny’s flourishes. Except once. When she talked about the aftermath of Inez’s death.

“Linda and that boy held each other up in their grief,” she said. “It made a true bond. Cas Newton loves his father, but he’s a Caswell, through and through.”

“Linda’s never married?”

“Not as of this date.”

“But I understand she was involved with Grayson Zane a few years back.”

A tiny sound came from Mrs. Parens. Perplexed? Disapproving? Whatever it was, it didn’t seep into her precise, cool words. “I believe they did keep company for a short time.”

“He broke it off?”

“That is my understanding. What—”

I covered the objection I felt coming with another question. “She immediately began seeing Keith Landry, didn’t she?” I gave her only a beat before I followed with, “She told me she did.”

“What does this have to do with your inquiries, Elizabeth?”

“I don’t know. But one thing I learned early in reporting is to follow the anomalies. Something that doesn’t make sense at first, usually will make sense if you look at it from a different angle. But you have to follow it long enough to know which different angle it needs.” I considered my words. “If that makes sense.”

“It does, although it could have been expressed with greater economy.”

“Yes’m,” I said before I could stop it. I redeemed myself by adding, “A woman like Linda Caswell having a brief relationship with a rodeo cowboy, then with a rodeo stock contractor immediately after, is quite an anomaly, wouldn’t you agree?”

The silence vibrated with something I couldn’t put my finger on. Disapproval yes, but something else as well.

“My agreement or disagreement is immaterial,” she said. “However, if you want to follow the anomaly of Linda’s personal life, you will need to do so from another source.”

She gave me nothing more, unless you count what sounded like a sincere wish that I have a good day.

Mrs. Parens was one of those sources a reporter loves to hate, or possibly hates to love. When she told you a fact, it was golden. She might tell you what she knew of a person’s character, but she didn’t volunteer much and rarely ventured into the oh-so-profitable realm of speculation or downright gossip.

I reviewed Sunday’s conversation
 . . .
and recognized one fact she had told us: Vicky Upton was not a widow.

Interesting. I focused on precisely what Mrs. Parens had said. There was something about that conversation. I felt my forehead contracting in concentration. To hell with the wrinkles. There was something
 . . .

I straightened.

Mrs. Parens had practically
volunteered
the information that Vicky had never been married. At least she’d made me stand still in front of the puzzle long enough to spot the pattern.

Why? Because there had been another puzzle she didn’t want me zooming in on? What had we been talking about?

Heather’s father. He was dead. But hadn’t been dead for a long time. Vicky had been a rodeo queen before she was a mother.

I snapped my head up. Jennifer was across the room, and at her fingertips were the facts I needed to test a new surmise.

But between us stood Thurston Fine.

If I went to the newsroom aide’s desk, he was close enough to eavesdrop. If I called her over, he’d follow. If I messaged her, he could read whatever appeared on her computer screen
 . . .
as he seemed to be doing this very moment.

I grabbed the phone off the empty desk behind me—in case Fine’s eyes were good enough to read Caller ID on Jennifer’s phone—and hit the numbers for her extension.

“Don’t say who it is and don’t look around,” I said quickly, “but if you have anything on your computer screen you don’t want Thurston to know, switch screens right now.”

“I know
that
,” she said with something close to disdain, which evaporated into confusion. “But who is this?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Ohhhhh.” As if that explained everything, which apparently it didn’t, because she added, “Why are you calling me?”

“Because Fine’s right over your shoulder, and I don’t want him to know what I’m about to ask you.”

“That makes sense. I’d already taken care of that from this end when the issue first arose.” In other words, she’d been aware of Fine’s arrival and switched to something innocuous on her screen.

“Good. I want to know a couple things, and I don’t want you to write this or type it—again, because of Fine. Understand?”

“Well,
yeah
. It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is. And you’re not to tell anyone anything about this information. Understand?”

“You always say that.”

For good reason, since she’d spilled the beans to me a couple months back that Fine had spread rumors that I’d been demoted from the network because of drug use. But, as far as I knew, Jennifer hadn’t blabbed anything she’d learned from me.

“I know. It’s important. It might be very important to figuring out why that man died at the rodeo grounds, but even if it’s not, it will be important and very private for the people involved.”

“Got it. What is it?”

“I need to know when Heather Upton was born. And if Keith Landry was in Sherman about nine months before that.”

“Nine—? Oh.
Oh
. Okay.”

“Can you find those things out?”

“Easy. As soon as
 . . .
as soon as I can.”

“Excellent. The last thing, Jenny—”

“Jennifer.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Jennifer—be careful when you give me the answers. For the same reasons.”

“Sure thing.”

TRIANGLES APPEARED beside the names I’d written on a pad.

The names were Vicky Upton, Sonja Osterspeigel, and Linda Caswell with a question mark. Also the name Keith Landry, surrounded by lots and lots of triangles.

I wrote
rodeo queen.
Then
not every year.
Finally,
Oren Street’s list of three things that mattered to Landry: money, women, and power. I wrote one on each leg of the biggest triangle around his name. I drew a triangle around each word: money, women, power.

I had my hand on the phone to redial Jennifer, when it rang.

“I’m on my way to the station to get you,” Mike said.

“Oh? Are we going somewhere?”

“Yes. I finally got Lloyd Sampson off by himself, fed him lunch. And got some info about the beam. The experts think the straight marks were made before—probably shortly before—the angled ones. They hedge it around with a lot of scientific stuff, but that’s what it amounts to. Also, they believe the angled marks were from when Landry was hanged.”

“Good work, Mike.” A far more productive lunch than mine.

“There’s more, and it’s better. I told Lloyd that I saw what they found caught in the wood post. Told him I saw a piece of green string held in tweezers.” He drew in a breath. “He said it wasn’t green. It was pink.”

“
Very
good, Mike.”

“Just wait. A shred of pink shiny cloth, like it was torn off a piece of clothing. Like maybe a girl’s fancy shirt.”

I recalled the conversation we’d overheard between Heather and her mother Saturday night. “The famous torn pink shirt.”

“My thoughts exactly. So do we tell Richard? Or what?”

FROM DOWN THE street, we watched Cas Newton’s truck pull into the sun-dazzled Upton driveway, Heather emerge, an exchange of waves, Cas drive away.

Vicky was at her job as a guide at the big museum in town. Heather was home for her customary break between her part-time job at the Sandwich Shop and her evening duties as rodeo queen. As always, Aunt Gee’s reconnaissance was one hundred percent accurate.

Heather swung the door open with an air of impatience. “I told you—” She broke off when she saw who was at the door.

“Hi, Heather. We want to talk to you for
 . . .
for a story.”

Her eyes sharpened. “This is in addition to the one Leona is doing for next weekend, right?”

“Yes.” And it was not a lie. Leona D’Amato was KWMT’s fluff specialist. If a story came out of what Mike and I were pursuing, it would be completely separate from what Leona did.

“I don’t have long. I need to rest before tonight’s rodeo or I’ll look as old as
 . . .
” She let it die after flicking a look toward me. Clearly, tact was not a required element on the rodeo queen committee’s checklist.

The house seemed familiar. From the front door, we looked straight ahead into the kitchen where an ironing board was set up. It was the only element out of order. To the left was a hallway that presumably led to the bedrooms. To the right, the living room.

Heather led us three steps to a couch under the front window. An out of date TV sat across from it. On the end wall, surrounded by plaques and awards, was a two-by-three-foot framed photo of Heather, complete with tiara. Vicky had wasted no time.

“How can you do a story with no camera. Not that I’d be on camera like this.”

“You look great,” Mike said with his smile. “But this is background, so no camera.”

She nodded wisely. “Background. Like about me growing up and how hard I’ve worked to be rodeo queen.”

“That’s more for Leona,” I said, keeping my tone light. “What we’d like to know is what you saw and did Wednesday night at the rodeo grounds.”

Her eyes flickered, and the color in her face washed out. But she did not buckle at the knees. “It was like any other rodeo night. I did my run-through for the queen, because my first warm-up queen’s ride was the next night—Thursday. Though I won’t do it for real until the Fourth of July. That’s the important one. That’s—”

“On Wednesday—”

“I placed second in barrel racing.” She emitted a dissatisfied huff. “Should have won. My concentration wasn’t—”

“Later that night, Heather. Much later. After everyone else was gone.”

“I wasn’t there. I left and came home like always—”

“You and Keith Landry were by the bull pens.”

“—and stayed here. I—”

“We know you were there, Heather.”

“You’re wrong. I wasn’t. I told you—”

“The tear in your pink shirt proves it.”

She froze with her mouth open.

I kept on. “A piece of fabric the sheriff’s department found at the scene will precisely match that tear.” It was a bit of a gamble, but not much.

She closed her mouth, her eyes remained wide.

“You have a choice, Heather. You can tell us what happened for background, with no camera, just as we said. Or we can take what we know to the sheriff’s department right now, and you can tell them, a conversation that will
not
be on background, and certainly will be on the news.”

I didn’t mention that no matter what, at some point very soon, we’d have to tell Alvaro about the matching torn shirt. Especially if he went public with discovery of the pink fabric. Because then we could not pretend we didn’t know what he didn’t know we knew.

“That shirt is not the only item that shows you were there.” I avoided the word evidence for now. “And what you did.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did. But why you did what you did can make all the difference in how this plays out, Heather. We want to know why. Why you did it.”

“I
 . . .
I was caught.”

“Caught?” I repeated when it seemed she might not say more.

“On that pole, the old one, the wood one.”

It took me a beat to realize she was answering my
why you did it
with an explanation of how her shirt ripped. “What were you doing there?”

“It was because of the bulls. I couldn’t go straight through, because the bulls were in those pens. I don’t know why. They shouldn’t have been there
 . . .
and he was coming at me.”