Tumbleweed Weddings (15 page)

Now, unable to concentrate, he sat back with a sigh. He kept thinking about the animosity in Vern Snyder’s eyes. Why did that man think Lane was such a threat to Fort Lob? It couldn’t be just because of the library. That didn’t make sense.

Well, no matter. Lane would do his best to live for two more months in this town—for Callie’s sake.

He folded the document and took out a letter. It was dated April 8, 1899, and was written by James Thomas Lob himself.

Lane gave a soft whistle. This was just the type of thing he wanted to put in Callie’s museum. He was determined to get that organization going for her. It would be privately funded—by his money. And if Fort Lob—meaning the town council—didn’t want to donate all that stuff on the library’s third floor to Callie, Lane would offer to buy it all, no matter how much they asked.

As he began reading, the door opened. He looked up.

Miss Penwell, wearing a bright green dress with large white polka dots, stood framed in the doorway. “Please keep this door open.”

“Uh, yes, ma’am.” He smiled, hoping she would go away.

She didn’t return his smile. Instead she took a step into the room, her glance taking in the opened box on the table and the letter in his hand. She folded her arms over her gaunt polka-dotted frame.

“Where did you get that box?”

T
he next morning, Callie decided to go to work early—really early. It was only six thirty. Last night, after she had managed to sneak the box of old documents to Lane without Miss Penwell’s knowledge, he asked if she had thought anymore about his museum idea. Callie had to admit that she hadn’t; in fact, it was the furthest thing from her mind. But his question piqued her interest. Was that why he wanted to look at those old documents?

Before she opened the library at ten this morning, she would spend a few hours upstairs, seeing what was suitable. Even though a museum still seemed like an impossible dream, it wouldn’t hurt to organize the paraphernalia up there.

As was her custom on Friday morning, she stopped by the Trailblazer Café for a cup of coffee. After last night’s run-in with Vern and Blanche, she was almost afraid to be seen in public, but then her determination kicked in. Vern Snyder was not going to run her life.

However, she was still embarrassed by last evening’s fiasco.

Hmm … another fiasco. Maybe she should tell Lane to have Herbert Dreyfuss write a new book called
The Fiascoes of Fort Lob
. She smiled to herself. It would be a runaway bestseller.

She stepped through the door of the café and glanced around. Good. Vern wasn’t sitting with the other old men. Of course, this was a lot earlier than she usually arrived. Today only three men—Bruce, Ralph, and Floyd—sat at a table, eating hearty plates of bacon and eggs with a side order of toast or oatmeal.

She walked past their table toward the order window. Bruce nodded a greeting to her, and she wondered how many people in the café knew about Vern’s accusations last night.

Probably all of them.

Floyd had his nose in the morning newspaper. “Did you fellows see today’s article by Dreyfuss?”

“What’s it about?” Bruce took a sip of coffee.

“Overpopulation.”

Callie stopped at the order window.

Ralph chuckled. “We don’t have that problem in Wyoming.”

“That’s what Dreyfuss says.” Floyd folded the paper back. “Listen to this: ‘Of course, there are places on this earth that have no problem with overpopulation. As one Western citizen told me, “You could fit an entire third world country in the state of Wyoming and still have room to spare.” ’ ”

I said that
. Callie spun around as the men laughed and expressed their agreement. She marched to the table. “May I see that article, Floyd?”

“Sure.” He was still laughing as he handed her the paper.

While the men went back to their breakfasts, Callie glanced down at the newspaper and stared at the words.
“As one Western citizen told me …”
She had said that to Lane, not Herbert Dreyfuss.
Why would he say “told me”
?

Callie folded the paper and handed it back. “Thanks, Floyd.”

She left the Trailblazer without her coffee.

Callie drove down Main Street toward the library.

Was Lane writing those articles? Could he actually be Herbert Dreyfuss?

“That’s impossible,” she muttered.

A scene popped into her mind—something that happened when she was in the eighth grade, twelve years ago. She was sitting at the dining room table at home, writing a report on Abraham Lincoln. Dad sat in the living room watching TV, and one of those talk shows came on. The special guest for the show was Herbert Dreyfuss.

Callie listened to the interview for a few moments, then she left the table and cuddled up beside Dad on the sofa to watch the program with him. He had put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Herbert Dreyfuss wore a suit and tie and must have been in his fifties back then. Although from Callie’s fourteen-year-old perspective, he looked old. He sat in an easy chair talking to the television host, and they discussed his syndicated newspaper column. Callie remembered because she had asked Dad what
syndicated
meant.

So Herbert Dreyfuss was writing his newspaper column at least twelve years ago, and he was still writing it now. Obviously Lane would have been a teenager himself back then, so it was impossible for him to be writing under the Dreyfuss name. Unless …

Maybe Mr. Dreyfuss was incapacitated and Lane was ghostwriting the articles for him. Or maybe the old man was too busy writing his books to write a newspaper column, too. Or maybe Lane actually was his agent.

“It could be anything!” Callie blew out a frustrated breath as she approached the library. Lane seemed to be adept at evading questions, but she would ask what his relationship was to Dreyfuss; she hoped he gave her a straight answer.

She drove into the library’s entrance and noticed a bright green lump lying at the bottom of the steps. A green lump covered with big white polka dots.

“What in the world is that?” she muttered as she pressed the brakes.

Throwing the gears into P
ARK
, she got out and ran around the car to the bottom of the stairs. She stopped with a gasp.

“Miss Penwell?”

C
allie knelt beside Miss Penwell. The older woman was lying facedown with her right arm thrown above her head. Her hand rested in the flower bed between the marigolds. Her left hand, along with her purse, was pinned beneath her stomach. Callie grasped the wrist beside the flowers and felt a faint pulse. “Oh, thank the Lord.”

She laid Miss Penwell’s hand down and noticed that her index finger was covered with dirt. But Callie had no time to think about that now. She had to call an ambulance.

Wishing she owned a cell phone, Callie dashed up the library steps, unlocked the front door, and raced to the phone behind the desk. A minute later, the sound of sirens came from the direction of the fire station on Rattlesnake Road.

Outside, Callie sat on the step beside Miss Penwell. She barely had time to wonder what had happened before the ambulance arrived. Callie knew the two paramedics, having gone to high school with Joe Fonsino and attending the same church as Davin Traxler. They busied themselves—one checking Miss Penwell’s vital signs while the other wheeled the gurney to the front of the library.

“Oh my,” a woman’s voice spoke in Callie’s ear.

Mrs. Wimple, the landlady at the Stables, stood beside her. Pink sponge curlers dotted the woman’s gray hair, and she wore a faded blue housedress. Come to think of it, Callie had never seen Mrs. Wimple in anything but a housedress, even at church. Mrs. Wimple’s face was pale. She wore no makeup, except for bright-red lipstick. Callie had never seen her without that, either.

“Hi, Mrs. Wimple. I guess you heard the sirens.”

Mrs. Wimple worked her red lips around into a pucker. “What happened to Lucille?”

Callie shrugged. “She must have had a heart attack or something when she was locking up last night. That’s the only thing I can figure.”

Joe looked up. “She was shot.”

“Shot?” Callie stared at him.

By this time, the men had Miss Penwell on the gurney with a gray blanket pulled up to her chin.

“Davin called the sheriff.” Joe held up an IV bag, and the plastic cord trailed down.

Another siren screamed in the distance, and a moment later, Sheriff Fred Krause pulled his patrol car into the library’s entrance. The red and blue lights flashed across Miss Penwell’s ashen face as he parked by the ambulance.

Sheriff Krause hauled his large body from the vehicle. “Move along, now.” He glared at Callie and Mrs. Wimple—the only two people standing there. “We don’t need any gawkers.”

“We’re not gawking, Fred.” Mrs. Wimple’s curlers quivered. “Callie here found poor Lucille.”

The sheriff ignored them. As he strode toward the paramedics, a tan Buick pulled up and stopped beside them. Bruce, Ralph, and Floyd climbed out. They nodded to the women and then all stared at Miss Penwell.

“What happened here?” Bruce placed his hands on his hips as he frowned.

Callie hugged herself. “We’re not sure, but Miss Penwell was shot.”

Ralph raised his eyebrows. “Shot? In Fort Lob?”

Sheriff Krause whirled around, which was quite a feat for such a big man. “Yep. Looks like the bullet’s still in there, too, but it must not have hit any vital organs.”

A shiver ran through Callie. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Sure hope so.” The sheriff grabbed the waistband of his pants and hiked them up. They immediately slid back a few inches. “Right now she’s unconscious, but the boys will take her to the county hospital in Lusk.” He seemed to be enjoying this. “Don’t worry. We’ll find the culprit.”

Joe and Davin rolled the gurney to the ambulance.

“But will she survive?” Mrs. Wimple directed her question to Davin and Joe.

“Her vital signs are good.” Davin moved out of the way while Joe slid the gurney into the back. “Fortunately, she had the good sense to stick her purse beneath her, stanching the flow of blood from the bullet.” Davin waited while Joe climbed in the back before he shut the ambulance doors and strode to the driver’s side. “It probably saved her life.”

He drove the ambulance out to the road and then roared down Main Street toward Highway 270, sirens wailing.

Ralph grunted. “Lucille’s a tough old bird. She’ll make it.”

Mrs. Wimple put her hand to her throat. “Ralph! The way you talk.”

Even though the August sun warmed the morning air, Callie couldn’t stop shivering. “I can’t believe someone shot her. Poor Miss Penwell!”

“Yes, poor Lucille!” Mrs. Wimple’s pale face turned a shade paler. “There hasn’t been a murder in Fort Lob since the early 1900s. The very idea that someone would attempt such a thing …” She shook her head.

By this time, a number of other townspeople had joined them.

Sheriff Krause planted himself in front of the group and produced a notepad from somewhere behind him. “Now, before you all leave …” He pulled a pen from his uniform pocket. “Let me ask a few questions.” With his brows drawn down, he gazed intently at the crowd, as if looking for a criminal.

Callie waved her hand. “Sheriff, when I found Miss Penwell lying at the bottom of the steps, her hand was in the flower bed, and her finger was all—”

“Yes, yes, we’ll get to that… .” He cleared his throat as he wrote on the pad. “The boys think Lucille was shot late last night. Did anyone hear a gunshot around ten or eleven?”

A murmur went through the crowd as Ralph nodded. “Come to think of it, I heard a shot last night but thought it was Jamie’s car.” He looked around. “Just one loud backfire from the direction of the library.”

Several people voiced their agreement. Callie stepped to the side. She had been home last night and too far from town to hear Jamie’s car or anything else. Evidently, the sheriff didn’t think her information was important anyway.

He wrote something on the notepad. “Did anyone see Lucille last night before that time?”

“I saw her.” George Whitmore shouldered his way to the front until he stood by the sheriff. He brushed back his salt-and-pepper hair. “I was at the library last night, and I tell you, Lucille was in an awful temper.”

The sheriff tapped his face with a thick finger. “Did something happen to put her in a bad mood?”

George nodded. “She had a loud disagreement with one of the patrons. Of course, that ain’t too rare—especially right before closing time.”

“Who was it, George?” The sheriff’s pen poised over the paper.

“It was that new fella, uh, Hutchins.”

Callie’s lips parted. “Lane?”

George glanced at her. “He and Lucille were up in one of the conference rooms, and I heard her yelling at him something fierce.”

Uh-oh
. Callie pressed her fingers against her mouth.

“And Hutchins got mad as a hornet at her. They were really having a row, I tell you.”

This is terrible!
Callie’s heart sank to her toes. After she had left the library last night, her conscience bothered her. Why hadn’t she insisted that Lane wait until the morning? Instead, she had sneaked up the library’s back stairs and given Lane a box of old letters without Miss Penwell’s knowledge.