Chapter Thirty-Seven

SUNDAY

"You got anotherdog?" my neighbor Zeb Undlin called over from his driveway.

Before I could answer — it was morning and I wasn't fast with an answer — he directed another call in the opposite direction. "Iris. Come see, Elizabeth has another dog."

"That's Keefer's Suzie Q," Iris declared.

So, I sat on the kitchen floor feeding Suzie Q breakfast, with Shadow impatient but cooperative with his portion being doled out slowly to keep her eating, while explaining the dog situation to the Undlins.

They agreed with Tom.

That was mildly irksome, but after seeing Suzie Q repeat her fence routine like a prisoner of war allowed only a tiny portion of space and sky, I was inclined to agree, too.

On the other hand, she wouldn't starve, thanks to having Shadow around.

The Undlins more than compensated for agreeing with Tom by volunteering to feed Suzie Q — and Shadow — small portions several times during the day any time I was away from the house.

"We'll have to get her a dog bed," Zeb said.

"I don't think she's used to a dog bed." Though I wouldn't go out on a limb to say she hadn't slept on Keefe's bed.

"It's only fair," Zeb said firmly.

"Fair? How—"

Iris interrupted me. "Didn't we tell you? We got Shadow a bed."

"He has a bed." In fact he had one on each level of the town house and another at the ranch house, though, I strongly suspect he spent more time on Tamantha's bed than his own when they slept in the same house. I steadfastly didn't look.

"Not at our house, he didn't. And that floor can get hard and cold on the bones. He's not an old fella yet, but he's not a young chicken, either."

"That's right," Iris said in full support. "So we got him one that fits right by where we watch TV. Gives him a good view, too."

"He likes to watch the birds," Zeb told me. "I can tell you which shows are his favorites."

I was really falling down on this paw-parent stuff. I watched what I liked on TV without considering Shadow's viewing preferences. He had seemed to enjoy the Andy Hardy movies we watched with Tamantha. I liked the spirit and the music. Tamantha viewed them as historic artifacts.

****

Tom and Tamanthapicked me up to attend Mass at the Catholic church in Cody.

I don't remember how this worked its way onto our schedule. I know there was talk about familiarizing Tamantha — or was it Tom? — with the church's practices. I just know it wasn't my talk or my idea.

I didn't fight it, either.

So we sat in a pew about a third of the way back that Tamantha picked.

"This is your church?" She looked at the statues, the details of the altar, then zeroed in on the Stations of the Cross around the perimeter.

I would have let the question slide by, except I suspected the alternative would be her demanding a detailed explanation of the ardors depicted. "This is the Catholic church that also serves Cottonwood County," I said carefully. "What you'd call my home church — where my family still attends — is in Illinois."

"Does it look like this?"

"It's bigger. Fairly modern. It was built during one of the intermittent modernizing Kumbaya periods."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that aesthetically — how it looks and how I react to how it looks... well, I prefer historic churches. There's one in Ireland that—"

A woman in the second row turned and gave me a look that made me think she either was a nun — hard to tell these days with habits gone freelance — or a shaming lay person.

Either way, I lowered my voice. "I'll tell you later."

After Mass, with Tom joining in on the kneeling, but not the signs of the cross, Tamantha doing both, and me revealing my rust, we were out in the parking lot when Tamantha gave her verdict.

"I like it," she said firmly. "I'm glad the first wedding's going to be here."

"Is that because you have persuaded the priest to let you do cartwheels down the aisle?" I'd seen how he'd greeted her just now as parishioners filed past — like an old friend, when they'd only met once, when we made arrangements after the first of the year.

Of course, Tamantha is unforgettable.

She grinned.

"Just one cartwheel. But I mean today — the Mass. I like it."

Tom gave nothing away by expression or sound, but his slight stillness did convey a reaction.

"Why do you like it, Tamantha?" I asked.

"The singing sounds better." She dashed ahead to get to the truck, ready for a promised waffle breakfast in Cody.

I dug an elbow into Tom's side. "Relax. It's acoustics, not conversion."

The lines around his eyes deepened and the stillness dissipated.

****

We stopped atElk Rock Ranch on the way back, since it was practically on the way.

Tamantha opted to stay in the truck, reading. The absence of animals in sight probably tipped the scales for her.

Wendy and Brenda were just getting out of a truck.

"Just back from town?" I asked cheerfully.

"Waste of time," Wendy grumbled. "Couldn't even pick up supplies with everything closed for Sunday morning."

Brenda grunted. "Everything closed except the sheriff's department. Did that formal statement they wanted. That was a waste of time, too. Told them the same thing as yesterday. That young Richard Alvaro said he was recording it, so don't know what they needed from me saying it again, anyway."

She clearly wasn't wise in the ways of law enforcement — or journalists — wanting things on the record. At the same time on the lookout for any discrepancies between Version One and Version Two.

Apparently, Brenda hadn't had any such discrepancies, because it sounded like an efficient trip to the sheriff's department.

The vulnerability of the previous day was gone. Both women had returned to their impregnable selves. At least outwardly.

Wendy said, "I got paperwork to do. You never trouble yourself with it and—"

"Why should I? I'm not the high-and-mighty owner."

"—if it doesn't get done, we close up faster than a cardboard suitcase and we'll all be out of a home."

"Keefe's already out of a home. Out of a life, too, and—"

Brenda broke off and we all turned at the sound of a vehicle clattering over the bridge like someone sweeping a hand over piano keys.

Randall Kenyon's rental truck careened up the drive toward us, bouncing from one side to the other as it hit end-of-winter ruts and gullies.

Why was Randall available to arrive at Elk Rock in this or any other fashion?

I'd expected Shelton to have all those ducks lined up by now and be grilling Randall on the planting of the letter that pointed suspicion toward Wendy. Plus, using the planting of the letter as leverage on possible murder charges.

The motive still needed work, although—

"That girl," Brenda clucked. "Rides a horse the same way."

"Not any of my horses," Wendy said. "Never letting her on another Elk Rock animal."

RobinKenyon driving the truck.

Ah, that made more sense.

The truck skidded to a halt in the middle of the drive. The door flung open and Robin stumbled out.

Before anyone could react to try to catch her, she righted herself.

Okay, before Tom or I could react, because neither of the older women showed any sign of moving to her aid.

With tears tracing her cheeks, Robin shouted at us, "You have to do something. You have to stop them."

Stop who from doing what?

The question was right there, begging to be asked. No one asked it. Probably not surprising in the case of Brenda and Wendy. But me, professional question asker?

Sometimes it's important to not ask questions. Asking can make you a participant, when you can learn different things by remaining an observer.

I felt Tom's look on the side of my face. He, too, remained silent.

Not getting an answer, Robin repeated, louder, "You have to do something. Right now."

Wendy clacked her tongue and said with her usual snap, "What are you talking about?"

"My father. They have my father at the sheriff's office. They came to the BB and they took him away in one of those marked cars—"

Probably an SUV or truck — but I wasn't participating, so no throwing in corrections.

"—and they didn't say a lot, but the little that short guy said — I know what they're thinking. But he didn't. He couldn't have killed Keefe. I know he didn't."

Not the same words as Brenda's They got it wrong, but with as much conviction.

It didn't carry the same weight.

Nobody could imagine Brenda making up a story to clear Wendy. They weren't exactly enemies — or if they were, the enmity had aged so long that its sharp edges were worn off, leaving habit — but they weren't sisters of the heart, either.

And, yes, Robin and Randall had issues, but everybody could imagine her lying to clear her one remaining parent.

"How do you know he didn't?" Wendy asked.

Robin gaped at her, so shocked that her tears stopped.

With the silence continuing, Wendy made a get-away gesture with her hand toward the young woman. Instead of waiting to see if it would be obeyed, Wendy spun around and walked toward the main house.

Robin came back to animation with a gasp that let loose a new gush of tears and words. "She's awful. Just awful. What a horrible, horrible thing to say to me."

"Well, she does have a point," Brenda said judiciously. "Your father tried to frame her. Unless you saw who killed Keefe or did it yourself—"

"Me?"

"—you can't say for sure your father didn't. Nobody can say that about anybody else. 'Less they did it themselves or saw it. That's all I'm saying. The logic of it."

"My father didn't kill him. I know he didn't."

Brenda said, "Look at the bright side. If they arrest him and keep him in jail, you've still got a nice enough place to stay at the Wild Horses BB, with us not open yet for the season."

Robin's focus stuck on an earlier word. "Arrest...? Arrest?"

"A nice place to stay and plenty of money for food. You'll be fine."

With Brenda's bracing personality threatening to knock over Robin, I slid in, "Perhaps you should call you father's lawyer. Get him to get in touch with someone local, just in case."

"In case what?" Robin demanded with flared eyes and nostrils.

Brenda gave me an exasperated look as if I'd been the untactful one. "Never mind that," she told Robin. "Come with me. I need another pair of hands anyway to reposition a stall door while I fix the hinges."

With the promise of that take-your-mind-off-your-father-being-suspected-of-murder treat, Brenda reached for Robin's arm.

Robin yanked away. "Hold a door? Hold a door? I'm not—"

She half ran back to the truck and roared away.

Brenda shrugged and turned toward the barn.

Tom made a what next sound.

I checked the time. "Town, so I can get to the station."

I was anchoring the Five today while Leona covered a charity event. She'd be back in time to do the Ten — which would no doubt lead with her charity event no matter what hard news tried to push to the front. But my taking the Five gave her time to prep for the event and, possibly, get a little more rest.

As Tom drove us toward Sherman, I thought about Robin. I felt sympathy for her. At the same time, there was one thing I found interesting.

When Brenda explained her logic to Robin about how no one who hadn't been a witness or the killer him-or-herself could be certain that someone else wasn't the killer, I'd immediately heard in my head the expected, natural, automatic response from Robin:

Why would my father kill Keefer Dobey? He had no reason to kill Keefer Dobey.

She hadn't said that.