Chapter One

TUESDAY

Spring had sprungin the newsroom of KWMT-TV in Sherman, Wyoming.

At least Wyoming's version of March had sprung.

Don't think of daffodils and azaleas. More like being grateful daylight eked out a bigger share of the twenty-four hours. Maybe some stirring awe as calving season began.

To me, March in Wyoming meant trying to minimize exposure to it. At the moment, that meant cutting the elapsed time from vehicle — the station's NewsMobile — to inside KWMT's double set of glass doors.

As usual, I beat Diana Stendahl in that sprint.

She had the disadvantage of being weighed down by tools of her trade as the best cameraperson I'd worked with in a TV news career from Dayton to St. Louis to Washington, D.C., to New York, before crash-landing here.

It was a testament to our friendship that I did not plunge into the warmth and desert her. I stopped and held the door — from inside. It was awkward, but got me out of the wind.

When Wyomingites say the wind's biting, think Jaws, not a puppy.

"Thanks... It's natural people want to know about the wedding," she continued our pre-sprint conversation.

"Then they should talk to Tamantha—" That's my stepdaughter-to-be, the only daughter of Thomas David Burrell. We will make our familyhood official at the end of June. "—or my mother."

I turned left from the entry hallway into the open bullpen with battered gray desks scattered like ectoplasm from an exploded gray blob. I might have watched a vintage sci-fi movie recently with Tamantha. She'd criticized the science. I gawked at the effects. Not believable, but entertaining.

Diana followed me to the third desk from the windows, the one with the E.M. Danniher nameplate, resting her equipment bag on it. "People asking about the wedding plans is their way of wishing you well."

"Urging me to add pigeons is—"

"Doves."

"—not wishing me well. It's inviting a bird to poop on the bride. On top of which, our esteemed school district trustee was trying to drum up business for her son, the recently minted dove wrangler. One of forty-seven jobs he's had in the two years I've been here. I can't even imagine how many trees would die to print his complete resume."

After unwinding my scarf, which had held the coat's hood in place and muffled my lower face, and stashing gloves fit for the Antarctic in the pockets, I slid off my coat. People who wore jackets must not have temperature sensors in their legs. Or they went numb at the end of September and haven't felt them since.

"That's an exaggeration," she said mildly.

"Not much. And—" I stopped and looked around. "Something's wrong."

Newsrooms have atmospheres and they're seldom subtle, certainly not to those of us who've spent a lot of time in them.

In these past months, there'd been a palpable feeling of spring-like hope in KWMT's newsroom. It being a much happier place was not me projecting my state of mind — or heart — now that Tom and I were together. Instead, it was the considered opinion of every member of the staff I talked with about the subject.

Granted that did not include a couple grumpy holdouts who, no doubt, missed now-forfeited benefits accrued from currying favor with the previous regime.

In fact, the newsroom mood registered downright jovial since Mike Paycik became majority owner in November. It had nothing to do with our surroundings — he was putting money into other parts of the operation than décor. And the mood endured despite everyone working extra hours because luring new hires to Wyoming in deepest winter proceeded at an appropriately glacial pace.

Mind you, jovial in a newsroom tends to consist of dark humor. At this moment, though, I didn't pick up a hint of even the darkest, driest humor.

I scanned two fellow workers in the bullpen, with their heads down and headsets on as they stared at their screens, their expressions far from ebullient. I'd get nothing out of them. With Diana right behind me, I made a beeline for staffers clustered where the entry hallway turned left, marking the end of the bullpen and carving out an awkward triangle of space that used to be the staff breakroom, but now housed the assignment desk and news aides' station.

Audrey Adams was at the assignment desk keyboard, which controlled three monitors, instead of the previous one. Other staffers ranged on either side of her.

"What's wrong, Audrey?" Her glum expression made that an obvious starter question.

"The latest listings of towns in Wyoming are out and Sherman didn't make it. Again."

I looked around at the other long faces. "They've delisted Sherman as a town? Can they do that? When it's the county seat?" With the courthouse in the center of town to prove it.

"What are you talking about? Of course it's still a town," Audrey said.

"You said—"

"I said the listing of Wyoming towns is out — you know, cutest towns in the state or most historic towns in the state or best towns to visit in the state or best hidden gems in the state. Sherman didn't make it on any of those lists."

"Has Sherman ever been on these lists?" I could see how dropping off such a list might lower spirits. Slightly. Momentarily.

"No, but that doesn't mean we don't belong," Leona D'Amato said dourly.

She's been with the station forever, officially as the part-time social and cultural life reporter. Unofficially, she's our into-the-breach anchor.

She hates hard news. Hates anchoring. Hates full-time. All that hate is wearing on her.

Something needed to change. Though I was not fond of the most obvious fix — my becoming the anchor.

"That's right. Sherman deserves to be on there somewhere," Audrey said. "And other towns hogged multiple spots. How is that fair? Especially since..."

"Especially since what?"

She gusted out a sigh. "Mike was counting on it. He said that if we could promote Sherman and the county, maybe we could get more applicants for the management jobs and anchor. But we need something newsy to peg it off of. You know, Just named the town you'd most love to visit that you've never heard of, something like that."

The faces grew longer. After months of improved morale, I hated seeing this.

"Why should we let someone else's list stop us? Who are these people making the lists, anyway? If Sherman's not on a list other people made up, then we make our own." My speech wasn't quite Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland saying, Hey kids, let's put on a show! But it was close.

In those old movies — yes, I've also watched some of them with Tamantha — the rest of the kids bounce up and follow their brave leaders with enthusiasm.

I got blank stares.

"Like what?" Audrey asked for all of them.

"A tour of Wyoming towns named after Civil War generals. Sheridan, Sherman..." It was the best I could do off the top of my head, but I ran out of generals.

"Rawlins," Diana offered.

"Buford," Walt, one of the reporters, said. "That's the town sold for almost a million dollars back around 2010. Advertised as the country's smallest town."

Audrey snorted. "Not even Wyoming's smallest town — at least not all the time. Hartville's gone down to a population of one, bounced back up to four or five, then back to one. And it has all sorts of historical claims, too. I know because it's all over these lists." She tapped her central screen. "Just look — Wyoming's first town, longest operating bar, and that gets it the most historic town overall title, too. It's hogging all those categories."

My suggestion had not noticeably lifted anyone's spirits. "It doesn't need to be Civil War generals."

"Wilson was named after one of the first Pony Express riders," offered Jerry, who ran the studio cameras.

"Wasn't the Pony Express route in southern Wyoming, largely along the same route as the railroad — generally where I-80 is now?" I was not without some knowledge of the state and its history after nearly two years here.

More importantly, after nearly two years of acquaintance with and tutelage by Emmaline Parens. Now officially retired from a long career as a teacher and principal, she hadn't slowed down any in disseminating knowledge, whether the recipients liked it or not.

"Right," Jerry confirmed.

"So, how does that help Sherman?" Leona asked.

"It doesn't." His deflated admission dropped the mood another notch.

"At least it's not Laramie," Walt said.

"What's the matter with Laramie?" I asked. As the location for the University of Wyoming, it usually got good reviews.

"Named for a French-Canadian fur trapper who went into the mountains and never came back," Diana said. "Jacques La Ramée or LaRamie. They named the mountains and river and then the town after him. So they're all named after an explorer who you could say failed to explore."

"I read he was killed by jealous fellow fur traders," Jerry said.

"See," I said brightly, "at least Sherman didn't die. Well, until he did die, of course. But he survived the war and he's not famous because he died."

My failed attempt at cheer had everyone — including me — looking eagerly toward the sound of someone approaching from beyond the hallway's right hand turn at the door to the news director's office door. From there, the hallway led to the new break room, editing bays, studio, and deeper into the building.

Dale, a news aide, came into view around the corner, clearly more absorbed in what came through his earbuds than where he was.

He's a good kid. But seeing him makes me miss Jennifer Lawton even more.

Once our news aide extraordinaire, computer whiz, and major part of a group of us solving murders, Jennifer was living just north of Chicago, immersed in a special program at Northwestern University. A major coup for her. A major loss for KWMT... and me.

Dale said good-bye, apparently ending a call, and focused on us. "Did you hear? Someone died out at Elk Rock Ranch. Shot. I heard it on radio traffic—"

Before anyone else reacted, Leona exclaimed with spurious excitement. "I've got it! How we make Sherman stand out. We claim it as the murder capital of Wyoming."

"Sherman, Wyoming. Small town living, lots of dying," Walt immediately suggested.

"Great place to live — if it doesn't kill you," Jerry said.

"Live and die in W-Y," contributed Diana.

"Only the last one works in this case," Dale said solemnly. He does tend to be literal. "This one's out of town. Like I said Elk Rock Ranch."

"Where is this ranch?" I hadn't heard of it before. Not that I knew all the ranches in the county or anywhere close. But I'd learned some from working for KWMT-TV and more from my connection with Tom. He owned the Circle B, north and west of town, nestled partly into the mountains, where the vegetation was lusher than the eastern part of the county, which required irrigation to wrest a living out of the Big Horn Basin's semi-arid plateau.

"Way down in the southwest corner of the county, closer to Cody than Sherman, so it gets most of its business from that direction, closer to Yellowstone."

"Why does that location give them business?" Last I heard, cattle didn't care how close to Yellowstone they were. Except for being closer to Yellowstone's wolf packs. That the cattle might care about, since the wolves didn't recognize park boundaries.

"It's a dude ranch," Diana said. "Draws tourists."

Ah. A different kind of livestock entirely.

Audrey cursed under her breath as a light on her console flashed. "That's Mike. Hoping for good news."

Mike had bought KWMT-TV largely from saving and investing his earnings during an NFL career with the Chicago Bears. Wisely, he continued his job as a sports reporter/part-time anchor at a network affiliate in Chicago.

He's deservedly on the rise in his career. No reason he should give that up.

Besides, his visibility there helped get our first new hire here — Nala Choi, a December graduate from Northwestern. We had two more in line for later this year.

We had exciting changes cued up... if only we could fill the anchor, news director, and general manager jobs.

"Hey, there — good to see a crowd," he said cheerfully from the screen. He immediately caught the mood. "What's up?"

Audrey flicked a look toward me. I looked back steadily.

She'd wanted — and deserved — a position of authority in the newsroom. That included delivering bad news.

She drew in a breath. "Sherman's not on any of the town lists."

Mike's turn to mutter a curse.

As Audrey started to cover the same ground of other towns hogging spots on the lists, Walt melted away with a few words about a verdict watch at the courthouse, Jerry didn't bother with an excuse when he headed toward the studio, and Leona pointed at Mike on the screen and said, "No excuses. Get somebody," before marching off.

"I can't stay on long," Mike said after Audrey finished. "Elizabeth, if we can set up a call soon—"

"Sure." His tone didn't promise leads on those other hires.

But I couldn't be too pessimistic because, at that moment, Nala Choi came in the outside doors, reminding us all that Mike's first hire was smart, hard-working, and learning fast.

We waved her over to say hi to Mike.

After a few sentences, he started the classic meeting wrap-up. "If that's it..."

Audrey interrupted. "One more thing. I'll let Dale tell you."

She gave the news aide a look that I suspected resembled the one I'd given her — the yes, I could do this for you, but I'm not going to, because you don't really need me to look.

His Adam's apple dropped and rose, but he didn't hesitate.

"There's some other news." Speaking up was a big step for Dale, though he still flushed red into the roots of his hair. "Keif Doobie from Elk Rock Ranch died."

Keif Doobiewas how it sounded to me, anyway.

"Keith?" I asked. I didn't recall Dale using "f" instead of "th" before, but maybe I'd missed it.

"No," Mike said emphatically — clearly in response to the news, not my question. "That's a shame. A real shame. Dale's right on the first name — Keefe, not Keith. Short for Keefer. Last name's D-o-b-e-y. It's pronounced DUE-bay."

"Of course it is," I grumbled.

When I'd first encountered the fact of Dubois, Wyoming, being DUE-boys to locals, I'd balked. Though considering LAIR-ah-me came from La Ramée, I shouldn't be surprised.

Besides, learning the pronunciation of Dubois was a rebellion made me much fonder of it. At least according to legend, locals of the time disliked it being named after a senator — not even one from Wyoming — and rejected the French pronunciation.

I liked that story so much I didn't care if it was true.

"You know him?" I asked Mike.

"Everybody knew him."

As I started to roll my eyes, my gaze connected with Nala's and we exchanged a look of commiseration as Cottonwood County nobodies who hadn't known Keefer Dobey.

"He owns this ranch?"

Mike clicked his tongue. "Nah. He's worked there pretty much his whole life, though. Year-round, too, while most of the staff are college kids in for the summer."

"Staff?" I'd heard ranch workers referred to as hands, help, a rider, or — most often — their familial relationship to the speaker. Never staff.

"It's a dude ranch," Mike said. "Has been longer than I've been around. And Keefe's been there as long as I can remember, too. He's good on a horse, decent with a rope. Mostly quiet. Real knowledgeable about wildlife. Spends a lot of time alone in the outdoors. But he did love Cottonwood County High's football teams." He slid to fond sorrow in those final words.

Mike had been a star of those high school teams before playing for the University of Wyoming and the Chicago Bears. Not a star in the NFL, but smart enough to invest those earnings well and to retire when his knees threatened to give out.

In his hometown, he was beyond a star — a galaxy all by himself.

"How'd he die?" he asked. "He's not that old..."

"He was shot," Dale said.

"Shot? Accidentally? Not Keefe. So — No, no way Keefe committed suicide."

"They're not being real clear." Dale's Adam's apple bobbed again at not being able to answer Mike's question. "I just picked up enough to call somebody. They weren't talking about it openly. Shelton told them to keep it zipped on the radio and—"

"Shelton," Mike said in a that-explains-a-lot tone.

And it did.

Not only because Sergeant Wayne Shelton of the Cottonwood County Sheriff's Department would order everyone to keep a lid on chatter — and be obeyed — but also that the sheriff's department had sent their best.

"Murder?" Audrey asked, voicing what popped into all our minds.

"At least suspicious." I turned to Dale. "When did this happen?"

"Someone at the ranch found him dead real early this morning and called 9-1-1. The sheriff's department just left the scene. That's when I picked it up and contacted some people. Not that they told me much. I should have gotten it earlier—"

"Not with Shelton keeping the lid on," I said firmly.

"Why are you still there, Elizabeth?" Mike asked. "Get to the ranch. Find out what's going on. You and Diana."

"And get the story," Audrey added. "You've got time to do a package for the Five. Then, for the Ten—"

"Elizabeth needs to look into this deeper than the live story," Mike said.

"We'll get the color at the ranch. Send Nala to the sheriff's department," I said.

"With Shelton in charge? What will she get?" Audrey answered her own question. "The standup in front to sandwich around your footage from the ranch. Okay."

"I'll drive," Diana said.

We'd get there faster that way. Scarier, but faster.

I held up a hand to delay the breakup of this group and not just to put off going along for the ride with Diana driving to a breaking story. "Wait. I want to know about this ranch — this dude ranch — first."

Mike said, "Only know the general outlines. Started as a working ranch way back. Then some rich family bought it maybe in the 1950s or so. Think they kept it mostly for themselves. But then one of them came out to live permanently and he turned it into a dude ranch. That all happened long before I was born. That owner — Chester Barlow — died and his niece inherited.

"Family's rich. The other Barlows are among the billionaire set over around Jackson. And I suppose Wendy — that's Chester's niece who owns Elk Rock Ranch now — is Cottonwood County's billionaire. Did I miss anything, Diana?"

"That about covers it. I barely remember Chester dying. I tend to think of Wendy Barlow as always owning it."

"Now get going," Mike ordered.