Page 36 of Head Room (Caught Dead in Wyoming #15)

“Good day, Elizabeth,” she said.

“Mrs. Parens, how wonderful to see you.”

I overdid the enthusiasm and she raised one eyebrow.

Trying to establish a more neutral footing, and possibly to encourage her to leave, I said, “I stopped by to get background from Clara on museum business.”

“I am aware of the nature of your interest, as well as being intimately acquainted with the details of the museum’s negotiations over land with a group of veterans about which you seek background.”

In other words, she wasn’t budging.

Also in other words, she’d known yesterday that this land deal could be of interest to me and said nothing.

“Why would you be interested in our negotiation?” Clara said with her usual impatience for anything not involved with historic artifacts, the museum, or money that could support them.

“We don’t need all that land. It extends to the forest service lands, with Tom Burrell’s Circle B — well, I guess yours, too, pretty soon — on the southern boundary and part of Clyde Baranski’s holdings to the north.

None of it’s used for ranching. Too up and down.

Even if it were range land, we wouldn’t need it, as long as we keep room to grow.

We could double the footprint and still have a significant buffer. ”

I’d swear Mrs. P almost winced at the words double the footprint.

Clara dreamt of expanding across the county, across Wyoming, likely shoving Yellowstone Park aside to get to Idaho and Montana, too.

Mrs. P favored polishing the tiny to perfection before considering another step forward.

“Why sell land to those vets at all?”

Mrs. P answered, though I’d addressed Clara.

“As you are aware from your meeting with them—” Of course she knew about that.

“— they are in need of space for the benefit of their well-being. At the same time, the acreage near the national forest land, which rests at a significant distance from the Old West buildings, not only is of no use to us, it is a responsibility, requiring attention that we can far better benefit from applying to the core efforts of the museum.”

Clara piped up with, “We’re not selling all the acreage. We need to hold onto a right of way, north or south, to connect to the forest service lands.”

Mrs. P drew in a breath, but had no chance to expel it into words. Clara was too fast.

“We can’t know what the future holds and we have to leave options open for contingencies. Keeping a right of way to the forest service lands might prove to be essential.”

“How?” I asked with real curiosity.

It wasn’t like the right of way would let vehicles get through the rugged and wooded terrain without a lot of work.

“Like I said, we can’t know what the future holds. That’s why it’s vital that we leave our options open.”

Without looking at either of us, Mrs. P said, “The young believe they can manipulate the world to anticipate every contingency. They cannot.”

Before Clara could try to regain the floor, she continued, “Both parties, acting in good faith, are cautious, for good and understandable reasons. Their goal is a secure and ongoing arrangement that also allows them individual freedom We want to ensure the best for both our organization and their welfare.”

Her emphasis on the last two words made them a speech in themselves.

I slid in with, “How are the negotiations going?”

“We are progressing,” Clara said quickly.

The way Mrs. P didn’t look at her, told me Clara was a major speed bump. As if I didn’t know already.

“How is it negotiating with Frank Jardos?” I asked.

“It’s not with him, exactly. He helps out the vets. It’s James Longbaugh handling the negotiations, though he’s not representing either side, exactly.”

A very inexact negotiation.

Though that kind of approach wasn’t all that unusual in the small circle of business deals in Cottonwood County.

“Have you met someone named Nance?”

“No.” Uncurious, Clara turned to what interested her. “We still have elements to sort out and— Wait. I’ve heard something about Frank Jardos lately. What was it . . .?”

“His cabin burned down. A body was found at the site. It has not yet been identified,” I told her.

“Right, right. But, surely, it’s him. That’s going to throw a monkey wrench into things . . .”

Mrs. P gave her a reprimanding look that bounced off.

“Maybe we should start from scratch,” Clara mused.

Before Mrs. P exploded over that — or, more likely, imploded — I rushed out words to distract Clara. Basically, pulling her back from the ledge she didn’t know she was about to step off.

“What are the issues holding up finalizing the deal?”

“The right of way, like I said.”

“But that sounded recent.”

“It’s complicated with multiple parties on the vets’ side,” she said vaguely.

“Has there been dissension among them?”

She wanted to say yes, but flicked a look toward Mrs. P. “Not that I’m aware of.”

Victor’s comment about Nance coming and going popped into my head.

“What happens if one of them moves away, wants to sell—?”

“See?” Clara pounced, her exultation directed at Mrs. P. “We have to look at contingencies like that, too. I’ll call James. Say we have to rethink from the start—”

I muttered a farewell and slid out of the room, feeling the steel of Mrs. P’s gaze boring into my back.

* * * *

I called James Longbaugh’s office — with no intention of mentioning what I was interested in.

He was in court all morning. His receptionist said he might have an opening in the afternoon, but she couldn’t say precisely when because it depended on how long a meeting went.

My schedule sounded similar, since I’d agreed to meet Orson at the KWMT-TV newsroom after lunch for a conversation about how Mike and I envisioned the news department.

Orson had pushed back his departure by twenty-four hours to spend today at the station.

Considering that and since it was part of my official — at least semi-official — job, meeting Orson for as long as he wanted took priority.

I’d decide later whether a stop at Longbaugh’s office looked possible for me and promising for connecting with him.

I was already heading east toward the Red Sail Rock area when I called Connie’s number.

A recording said she’d be busy today at the offices of Burrell Roads, but to leave a message and she’d call back.

My message was to call back if she’d thought of anything she’d forgotten to tell me that might shed light on Frank Jardos or the fire at his cabin.

I didn’t hold out much hope for a call because, knowing Connie, she already would have called if she’d thought of something.

Next, I went back to the fire scene.

I did find proof of one thing — police tape became noticeably more tattered after additional days of Wyoming wind.

Potentially more important, I thought material had been taken away from the site. Not like looters or memento-seekers, but like forensics or arson investigators.

I even pulled up video Diana had taken and compared. I couldn’t see specific things missing, but it strengthened my impression.

My thoughts kept returning to whether Frank Jardos burned the cabin or someone else did. Even more than whether the body was his or not.

Perhaps because the medical examiner would eventually make that determination. But not who set the fire.

I mentally sorted the possibilities.

He was the victim and he set the fire. That meant suicide, almost certainly. But why the fire?

He was not the victim and he set the fire. He committed murder and the fire was to cover up his crime?

He was not the victim and he didn’t set the fire. Then why hadn’t he come forward? I’d heard nothing about him distrusting the authorities, so why would he go into hiding?

He was the victim and he did not set the fire. His murderer wanted to destroy forensic evidence? Or possibly to cause exactly the kind of delay that was happening.

That last one seemed most likely to be resolved by routine law enforcement.

The first one seemed most likely to never be confirmed while still being possible.

If I was hoping for a revelation from that rundown, I was disappointed.

On the other hand, wisps of thoughts coalesced into questions that could line up under Connie’s observation, That’s amazing that it survived and that Hannah thought to look for anything that survived. Not that Hannah’s not a sweet person . . .

Why had Hannah thought to look for anything that survived?