Chapter Nine

Mrs. P's exceedinglypolite bum's rush sent me on my way without delay, which did have one upside.

I'd get to the ranch — the Circle B — where I'd be with Tom and Tamantha, earlier than I expected.

I texted Tom my new ETA. He'd responded to my earlier text while I was with Mrs. P with one word: Great.

As I mentioned, my leaving my father's house to go to my husband's house was not a part of the scenario for our upcoming nuptials. Though houses did figure as a bone of contention in some of our conversations over the past months.

Sort of a backward bone of contention. Instead of each of us wanting to spend max time in the house we brought into this coupling, Tom thought we should spend more time in the town house, because it was more convenient for my work and Tamantha's school. I thought the brunt of the bad-weather commuting should not fall on him, so we should spend more time at the ranch.

The topic rose tonight as we prepared dinner, while Tamantha did her homework at a corner of the table. Tom did most of the cooking. I could bake, but otherwise I was a great table-setter.

"Thought we'd stay in town tomorrow night," he said. "Tamantha has a meeting after school, so she could get the bus to the town house."

"And you? You'd have to get up at an outrageous hour to get back here to the ranch to have enough daylight—"

"Never enough daylight this time of year."

"—to do your work."

"If that's your only objection, I see the pluses outweighing the negatives. But if it's something else... I hear—" He cut his eyes toward Tamantha. "—you've taken on extra work yourself. Beyond helping Mike with changes at the station."

We hadn't had an opportunity for me to tell him about my day's activities. I wasn't surprised he already knew some.

"Not officially. Not sure there's anything there for... us." A tilt of my head away from him and Tamantha indicated my fellow sleuths. "Exploratory for now."

Proving he already knew a lot about it without needing any of my reporting, he said, "Nice guy. Different, and good with that. Sure of who he was."

Mrs. P's discourse on the history of communication across the Wild West had me thinking of these comments as telegraphic. The telegraph's speed might have killed the Pony Express, but its communication style still had impact.

"Dinner's ready," he said to his daughter, which ended even our telegraphic communication over murder or murder victims.

Afterward, Tamantha cleared the table, then pulled out the last of her schoolwork.

While Tom and I put away leftovers, did the dishes, and cleaned the kitchen, I shared some of what Mrs. P told me, figuring tales of Wild West outlaws wouldn't shock Tamantha... if she didn't know all about them already. Without mentioning murder, Tom added a few points about Keefer Dobey and confirmed my impressions of Brenda Mankin and Wendy Barlow.

I also found an opportunity to say casually, "If you happen to hear from all your sources in the county, and beyond, that the sheriff's department is about to close an active case with an arrest..."

"I'd call you immediately." He looked thoughtful. "Doesn't feel like that's going to happen."

In preparation for the drive to town, I made a pit stop in the master bathroom.

I heard Tom's phone ring, but didn't think anything of it.

His calling habits didn't match a journalist's, but with the number of organizations he was involved in, if not in charge of, he came close.

When I came back into the main area, with the living and dining rooms blended and the kitchen right off them, Tom had his phone propped up on the table, showing a video call — though I couldn't see details of the screen from here. Tamantha sat next to him.

For my first few steps from the hallway into the main living area, I thought Tom and Tamantha must be listening to those on the other end.

I only realized nobody had been talking on the other end, either, when I heard a woman's light voice said, "Oh, is that Elizabeth?"

Tom's parents.

We'd had a few video calls since we'd decided to get married. I'd expected the first one to be awkward. I hadn't expected that they wouldn't get any better.

Tamantha jumped up. "Sit here."

She offered the seat with no less alacrity than a prisoner giving up his turn in the electric chair. She also didn't wait to see if I complied before returning to her previous spot.

I found a smile and took the chair next to Tom.

It was a little spooky how much Tom looked like his father in facial structure, features, and coloring. And infinitely reassuring that you had to look analytically for that resemblance, because the first impression of the two men was not at all alike.

"We're not sure we can get all the way up there for the wedding," his father said.

He made it sound like they'd trek cross-country for months in horse and wagon instead of a few hours' flight or a day-or-two's drive.

"It's not until late June," Tom said.

His father grunted.

As I told Tom later, it was a neutral grunt. Could have been hostile or dismissive and it wasn't. Tom grunted at my comment. A grunt that had a way to climb to reach neutral. I didn't point that out to him.

Now, his mother smiled — genuine, though sandwiched around a sideways look toward her husband at his grunt.

"That's a lovely time in Sherman."

Was that a trace of wistfulness in her voice?

"Exactly why we chose June. Of course, we wanted to avoid the winter months in case of bad weather for people coming from out of town—" Not to mention my husband-to-be and mother ganged up on me to allow months for "proper" planning. "—and spring's so unpredictable with calving season, so late June was the decision."

No one said anything.

I tried again, echoing, "It is a lovely time. The flowers, the birds."

"Unless the grasshoppers hit," Vanessa Burrell said. "There were some years..."

Plagues of grasshoppers? I'd seen some around here, but that didn't sound like what she was talking about. "Of course. Unless the grasshoppers hit."

After that topic faded back to silence, his mother said, "How are the wedding plans coming?"

I cravenly pulled in Tamantha to respond there, gesturing her to return to this side of the table. Far more subdued than usual, she updated them succinctly, then excused herself.

With neither Tom nor his father filling in the next gap, I called on my best this interview is going south but at least I'll live up to the standard of the musicians who played Nearer, My God, To Thee as the Titanic sank voice and said, "We'll let you know all the details not covered in the invitation — you should get that any day — as soon as we settle them, because of course we very much hope you'll come."

"We'll try very hard to be there."

I had the feeling the hard would come from her husband, the trying from her.

We said good-bye shortly after that.

Another silence developed locally.

"Did you know the musicians on the Titanic, the ones who played music to keep people calm as the ship sank, were mostly in their twenties and early thirties?" I asked.

Tom rolled his eyes toward me. Tamantha's head popped up from her homework.

I kept going. "One was forty, the rest all a lot younger and one was only twenty."

"That's my friend Madison's older sister's favorite old movie. She says she loved Jack, even though he died."

The spray of wrinkles at the corners of Tom's eyes deepened. "Association of ideas — the call, the Titanic?" he said under his breath.

In the same tone I said, "Maybe." Then, aloud, to Tamantha, "Tell Madison her sister should try some of the really old movies about the Titanic. Like Night to Remember and another one named Titanic. Did you know there was a German propaganda film during World War II about the sinking? It told the story of a lone, brave German officer who saved everyone who survived while everyone else panicked from cowardice."

"That's not what happened," Tamantha protested.

"Homework?" Tom asked.

"I'm done. I was working ahead." The girl is remarkably mature and disciplined about some things, but I guessed this incidence of added devotion offered a preferable alternative to her grandparents.

"Good. But it's time for bed now."

She didn't argue, but she didn't head down the hall, either. She eyed me.

"You could stay tonight and take me to school in the morning," she said.

Not a command.

I barely stopped myself from placing my palm on her forehead to know if she was running a fever. Not sure I would have known using that method unless she reached a stove-hot temperature.

At the same time I caught Tom's tightened mouth, but no heightened worry in his eyes.

That translated to no fever, but, rather, a grandparents hangover.

"I can't, kiddo. Shadow's at the town house alone," I fudged, because he might be, although the odds were against it.

"Iris and Zeb could take care of him overnight."

"And they do in an emergency," Tom said. Making it clear this wasn't an emergency.

"He's my dog. Not only is he my responsibility to take care of, I want to take care of him."

A furrow tucked between her brows. Not confusion or worry, but a contraction from the wheels behind it whirring so fast. For a flash, I thought I could see her as a woman my age, with a majorly responsible job — possibly keeping the free world rolling along — and that tuck would appear and with it the comfort of knowing all of us in the free world could rest easy.

"Because that's the kind of person you are," she said.

While resisting looking at her father, I felt certain her phrase came from him, and likely in conjunction with the work I did. Journalism and the side-gig with murders.

"That's right. Like your dad, who does so many things to help people around the county."

She didn't say, Yeah, yeah impatiently, but she sped past the concept of her father because she had no sliver of doubt in the bedrock of her certainty that he loved her. But I was a newer commodity. And her grandparents reminded her to doubt.

"Me, too? I'm your responsibility and you want to take care of me?"

Okay, not quite ready to keep the free world rolling along on her own. Maybe by fifth grade. Right now, after the awkward strain of the conversation with her grandparents she needed a little reassurance.

"Absolutely."

I braced for the then-do-what-I-want argument, with another round of the neighbors can take care of Shadow and they give him more treats anyway, so he loves it there.

Instead, she said. "Okay. Give Shadow a hug for me."

"Will do." I gushed with relieved enthusiasm.

"Tell him it's my hug," she instructed, not satisfied I took my pledge seriously enough.

"I will."

"See you tomorrow. Good night." She hugged me. I hugged back, a demonstration of my skill which I hoped would allay any concerns that I would not represent her well with Shadow. "Good night, Daddy."

"I'll be in later."

She hugged him. "You don't have to do that. I'm not a baby."

"I'll be in later."

She sighed, but didn't argue further.

Tom and I kissed good-night by the door for a while. We didn't talk about Keefer.

Tom said, "Be careful" only once. Then I went out to my SUV to drive back to town, offsetting the reluctance to leave them with the pleasure of this bonus evening together.

Charles Dickens nailed it — it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.