Page 35 of Head Room (Caught Dead in Wyoming #15)

Other than “Okay?” and a searching look, Tom didn’t ask how the conversation went.

I don’t know how I would have answered if he had.

On my second try I got enough connection to look up FMT.

In other words, FMT could mean almost anything unless you knew a context.

With the context Victor gave, it got me in the financial neighborhood.

But the Army information on the job came nowhere near providing a street address.

Lots of terms like budgeting, processing, disbursing, accounting.

And a few phrases about Financial Management Technicians technically working with the management of finances.

Yeah, real helpful.

It said math skills were required. Made sense.

It also included Nance would have been enlisted, since officers were FMOs — Financial Management Officers. Funny how that works.

Jobs it might translate to as a civilian were listed as bookkeeping, accounting, billing, payroll, budget analysts, and up to treasurer or comptroller.

Didn’t sound like Nance reached that level. None of those jobs matched with the concept of being a free agent who came and went.

“Tom, do you know a vet they call Nance?”

“Met him. No more. Why?”

“He’s not around. He had some connection to the sergeant, was curious about that land deal they’re trying to do with the museum. What else do you know about that?”

He glanced at me a moment before the road recalled his attention.

“Like I told you, they’re negotiating with the museum for acres on the west end of their holdings, up against national forest lands.

The parcel would border on the Circle B some, but it’s back where we don’t run cattle. I should have asked you—”

“No, you shouldn’t. And that’s not why I asked. Who are they dealing with? The museum board? Or . . .?”

“Clara and Mrs. Parens are handling negotiations, with final approval by the board. I don’t know the ins and outs. I understand James is involved, a facilitator, getting them past bumps.”

James Longbaugh was Cottonwood County’s most eminent member of the bar.

Don’t get too excited. There are only a handful of them. And he had absolutely no competition from Jay Haus.

James also was terminally discreet. Not quite to Mrs. P’s level, but close.

My first stop would be Clara Atwood, the museum curator. She had buttons I could push to possibly get more information.

I must have been silent for a while, because Tom cleared his throat to get my attention.

“Something else on your mind, Elizabeth?”

“Yeah. The younger guy — Zeke — said Nance is a friend of his brother’s. Then he said his brother was right. Do you know what that means?”

“Can’t tell you what he meant by right. But his brother’s married, has a family, good job in Madison, Wisconsin.”

We looked at each other for a long moment.

I swallowed. “One brother comes back right and another . . .”

“It’s not a life like his brother’s, but these guys have found a place and a life and a set of comrades who leave them the space they need. They’re a lot better off than some others.”

“I know.” And I did. It still hurt my heart.

* * * *

My parents arrive tomorrow.

Caller ID on the incoming call brought the phrase from the background to the forefront of my mind.

“Can you look at the spreadsheet I just sent?” Mom asked without saying hello.

There are stretches of Wyoming driving when you can safely look at a wedding spreadsheet. I was in one as I left the Circle B and headed toward Sherman.

Especially if you don’t look too closely at what’s on the screen.

“Uh-huh.” I glanced at it to make the words the truth, because mothers are natural lie detectors. At least mine is. “What is this on the timeline in red, Mom?”

“First look.”

“I know that’s what the words say, but what is it and why is it in red?”

She clicked her tongue. “To ask you about, of course. As for what it is, have you not stayed up-to-date with weddings at all?”

“No.” For accuracy, I added, “Other than being a guest. And there isn’t that much new or different about watching, listening, best-wishing, toasting, eating, and dancing.”

Another tongue click. “Well, the modern twist on the moment the bride starts down the aisle and the groom sees her for the first time is to set aside time before the ceremony. The groom has his back turned and the bride comes up behind him and — First Look.”

“Mom, it’s not the bride and groom. It’s Tom and me. And . . . I like it.”

She paused a beat. “You do?” She caught herself immediately. “Of course you do. If you want more time for the First Look photos, we can move up the schedule and—”

“No photos.”

“But that’s the practical reason to do it. Get them taken, then you don’t miss out on—”

“The fun of the reception or hold up the guests. Got it. But since Tom and I will first see each other in our wedding finery in Cody on Friday morning and the reception isn’t until Saturday evening, there’s no hurry for us.”

“But—”

“I’ll double-check with Tom, but I’m in favor of us having a few minutes alone together before the wedding.”

“Alone? But that’s a moment—”

She cut off her own words, but they still showed up like cartoon script between us.

A mother would love to see.

“Alone,” I said firmly. “I suspect we’ll need it. Maybe we can do it before the ceremony Saturday, too.”

* * * *

The Sherman Western Frontier Life Museum is housed in an unremarkable brick building on Cottonwood Avenue toward the west side of town.

It’s where we would hold our reception after that Saturday ceremony.

Now, instead of parking in front and entering the door our guests would come through, I turned left on the cross street before the museum.

The back door was sometimes unlocked during the day, especially when curator Clara Atwood was working in her office.

It was worth a shot, because going in the front door would allow whichever volunteer was at the front desk to ask Clara if she was available, giving her a chance to say no.

The back door was unlocked.

The hallway wasn’t any emptier than the previous time I’d seen it, although the stacks of boxes were more orderly.

Clara’s office is also always crowded with overflow materials, even more so since the museum inherited the holdings of a rich man, including the land the vets wanted to buy.

On the eastern section of that land, closer to the highway, stood historical buildings the man — Russell Teague — had gathered the way junkyards gather old cars. A handful were in good shape. More had promise. Others were wrecks.

This Old West town came complete with underground parking to preserve its Main Street’s historical appearance. But the jumble — inside and outside — each building required a lot of culling.

Earlier this year, Clara pulled off an exhibit by a historic painter and she had many more big plans.

Her plans for the Old West town suffered a setback last summer. Plus, her micromanaging of volunteers helping her sort items at the Old West town and here at the museum slowed the process. Especially by driving off volunteers.

That helped explain the crowded state of the hallway and offices. Except they’d been crowded from the first time I saw them.

At this moment, Clara’s office was further crowded by the presence of one person I did not want to see here.

Emmaline Parens.

In case it wasn’t clear from yesterday’s encounter, I love Mrs. P. We all do. I’ll be delighted to see her at my wedding.

Now, not delighted.

Her presence complicated my planned button-pushing with Clara, who wasn’t the most forthcoming. Not, as far as I could tell, from hiding anything nefarious, but from liking to keep things to herself.

That must make for an interesting push-pull dynamic in her long-distance relationship with my friend Dell.

All that ran through my mind before Mrs. P turned and saw me.