Chapter Thirty-Two

Inside, it tooka moment for our eyes to adjust, with not a lot of natural light coming from small front windows tucked under the porch's overhang.

A rock fireplace dominated, with a worn leather sofa in front of it. On either side of the fireplace, a door led to a small bedroom.

The one on the right appeared to have been Keefer's, with men's clothes hung on a metal tube between two walls, a single bed — made — and two open cabinets with shelves holding folded men's underwear, t-shirts, and socks.

The second bedroom must have been his mother's at one time, from the floral wallpaper frieze that had darkened with age. Instead of a bed, it held a desk stacked with folders and books except for an open space directly in front of the old, wooden rollable chair.

"Computer?" Diana asked from over my shoulder. "Think the sheriff's department took it?"

"Probably and probably. Ivy Short did mention a laptop. And it makes sense for the kind of research he was doing. Trying to do."

"Uh-huh. A lot of dead trees research, too," she said.

In addition to the desk, shelving cabinets like the ones holding clothes in his bedroom held more folders. Books crammed a large bookshelf that leaned slightly to one side.

"Shelton must not have thought the answer to Keefe's death was in these papers," Diana said. "I sure hope he was right."

I grunted agreement. Going through these materials wouldn't be as arduous as going through Sam McCracken's, but close. Keefe had fewer books and denser paper files.

Coming back to the main area, we passed a table for two under a triple window on the back wall that looked to the woods, with a misty peak in the distance. It was the primary source of natural light. One corner of the table showed a stain that could have been blood.

More of the stain showed on the wooden floor nearby.

With the window at our backs we could see the living area better. Not that there was much more to see. Except an unframed painting propped on the mantel. It was pleasant, but clearly the work of an amateur.

Diana looked from the painting to out the window. "Same view."

The cabin was scrupulously neat, but not clean. The home of a man who wore his dirty boots inside, but didn't kick them off in the middle of the floor.

Shelton's minions apparently respected the neatness by not tossing the place with the abandon l've seen some law enforcement do.

Just beyond the table was the kitchen area. A door across from it stood open, showing a bathroom that might have started as rustic in the fifties and now was just old.

Beside the kitchen sink, set under a small window I'd need to bend down to look out, two coffee mugs sat out by an old-fashioned coffeemaker. No French Press for Keefer Dobey. But clearly a heavy coffee drinker, since the worn surfaces said this was the most used area of the kitchen.

For a second that surprised me, since he'd shared this cabin with his mother the cook. But she'd died a long time ago, and before that, as Brenda indicated, the brunt of her cooking was done in the cookhouse.

I opened the cabinet above the coffeemaker. On the left, another half-dozen mugs whose dust coverings declared they hadn't been moved in years.

On the right, were glasses. The few in front shone clean in the light from the window — two water tumblers, two juice glasses that could stand in as highball glasses, two champagne flutes, which did add a surprising element to Keefer Dobey. Behind and above them showed groupings of those varieties, plus white and red wine glasses — all shrouded in fine dust — completing a thorough set.

I moved on, opening another cabinet door.

"Looking for something?" Diana asked.

The cabinet had dishes reflecting similar usage — regulars at the front kept clean, specialist dishes high and wide, dusted with disuse.

"No. Thinking."

A narrow cabinet next to the stove held spices, oils, and salt. The salt and oil on the bottom shelf were well-used. A double-tiered lazy Susan held small jars and tins of spices, many with the now familiar dusty film. I gave the lazy Susan a half-hearted spin, watching the names of unused spices go by.

"Because it looks like you're snooping," Diana said with mild amusement.

"You're easily misled."

"Any blinding insights?"

"He had a lot of nutmeg. Must be a big fan of egg nog, though you'd think he'd have used some of this up over the holidays."

"He doesn't strike me as a big holiday entertainer. Not to mention, you can use nutmeg in a lot of other things. Pasta sauces, potatoes — especially scalloped or au gratin, meatballs, and meat sauces, and I know people who put it in chili and tacos."

"Nutmeg? In chili and tacos?"

"Yup. I ask again, any blinding insights from your thinking, which is definitely not snooping?"

"Not blinding and not much of an insight. He'd narrowed his life to the essentials. But either he alternated his glassware or he did entertain a second person now and then."

"Brenda?"

"I'd say Brenda was a coffee mug visitor." I tipped my head toward that collection. "Or maybe single malt drinker. I just don't see Keefer and Brenda sitting here, drinking champagne."

Diana's eyebrows came up. She went to the glassware cabinet, opened it, and studied it for a long moment. "Water, juice — or, as you say, single malt — and champagne. Sam McCracken? Celebrating progress?"

"Most likely answer. Doesn't sound like Brenda and Randall's visit Monday would have had anyone breaking out champagne."

By the outside door I paused and looked back. It was dark enough to think in terms of a cave, with the true opening to it those three windows by the little table — windows looking toward the outdoors.

From all we'd heard, it reflected the man's priorities.

Coming from the direction of her cabin, Brenda transferred her frown from the NewsMobile, which Diana insisted on for her equipment, to Diana and me as we crossed the porch of Keefe's cabin.

We didn't let it prevent us from each reaching down to pat Suzie Q, in her same spot. She didn't acknowledge our touches. She seemed thinner to me.

"What are you doing here?" Brenda called out.

"No police tape anymore," I said.

That wouldn't have satisfied Wendy. Nor would my next foray have distracted her. But they worked with Brenda.

"I understand Chester was a difficult patient during his last illness."

I'd been wanting to broach this to Brenda since Wendy's comments Wednesday about Chester's groping.

To my surprise, she chuckled. "He was, right up to the end. Not that I was there at the last, because Wendy wouldn't hear of that. Oh, no. I was good enough to help in the last three, four weeks before the end, but not at the very end. No chance to say good-bye."

"It must have been difficult."

"It was. It had seemed like he'd be around forever, you know? I guess because he always had been. That last spring, I remember seeing him one day and thinking it wasn't even Chester Barlow. I suppose I'd been blind to the changes and this one day they just stepped up and slapped me in the face. And there he was, a sick old man. And lonely after Ulla died. I saw that, looking back. Wendy sure wasn't any comfort to him. Barely even company. Always wanted to be out doing the fun things with the guests, none of the work. All she'd do was complain about how he didn't understand her, how old-fashioned he was. Mocked how he ran this place — well, all I can say is it was doing fine under him. Can't say that under Wendy Miss High and Mighty Barlow."

That seemed harsh, since it seemed to have run well under Wendy for a lot of years.

Though there was that account from Tom's mom about Wendy selling her second home in Arizona. And the ranch showed no signs of new or lush or expensive additions.

On the other hand, it didn't show signs of disrepair or ignored maintenance, either.

Of course, if Keefe did all that work as part of his normal duties...

"Were you aware of Chester Barlow, uh, expecting things from Wendy? Physically."

She stared at me a moment, then snorted in disgusted amusement. "Is that what she said? Is that her excuse? That he owed the place to her because of what he put her through? I got an earful of that whining all those years ago and I'll tell you what I told her then. It was bull. Through and through. He never — you know. Not like real sex, not even if you get all shifty with your definitions like Bill Clinton. So what if he wanted a little cuddle now and then. You'd do that for any other breathing human, as sick as he was toward the end. And especially one who'd done so much for me. And her. Difference is, she thought she deserved every bit of good he or anybody else ever did for her. Not a grateful bone in her body.

"Not a generous one, either. She wouldn't let either one of us — Keefe or me — see him in those last couple days. She said he didn't want to see us, didn't want us to see him so low down. Didn't sound like Chester to me — he never thought he was low down, no matter what. Though I suppose when people get near the end like that, they can change. So maybe he didn't want us to see him, maybe he didn't want to see anybody, just like he got so cold she had a fire going in July. He'd always been a warm one, not needing so much as a sweater when others were shivering. But what with my parents dying young in an accident and no other family to speak of, I don't know how those things go at the end of a life."

She brightened suddenly.

"And then there was no will and Wendy had to be grateful to her brothers for not selling off the place, but letting her keep it all herself. She hated that. Even better, with being owner, she had to do a whole lot more than she used to. Turned her right around. You might not believe it now, but she was a real flitty thing. Having to work soured her on just about everything. Well, she was already soured on me, but sure soured her on Keefe. She'd been sweet on him to then."

She colored slightly. "I've done things for him these last years, things a friend would do. But she used to... Well, it was a long time ago and he didn't hardly notice, much less do anything about it. And it ended when she became the owner. Couldn't just be Miss La-di-da Hostess. She had to buckle down and really work."

Brenda's wrinkles conformed to her wide smile, though it wasn't nearly as pleasant as usual.

****

I picked upTamantha after her organizing meeting for the science fair.

Our next stop would be pick up her friend Madison for a sleepover at the ranch.

Tom and I would have a sleepover, too. I figured the more fun the girls had, the less we would have.

I brought the dissertation to go through again and keep my mind off our missing fun.

My first read had confirmed most of what I already knew.

There was a part at the end that described a legend that Oscar buried gold and bank notes from a robbery. Some said the burial site was in Cottonwood County.

Of course, the author pointed out, that was mostly people from Cottonwood County.

Mrs. P's mentor seemed to dismiss the legend.

Voices coming nearby warned me of Tamantha's arrival. I placed the book on the passenger seat as she climbed in the back seat and buckled up. She was tall enough now to no longer need a booster seat.

"How was school today?"

"Pretty routine," said the fourth-grader verging on forty. "But the science fair should be good. I might do something about visual effects in old movies."

After she told me about that, she asked, "What's the book on the front seat?"

"Mrs. P gave it to me to read."

"Homework," she said wisely. "You'll have a quiz."

"Yup."