Page 48 of Head Room (Caught Dead in Wyoming #15)

When I got home, I had a nice surprise.

A very nice surprise.

Tom’s truck, with Tom in it, parked in the street — leaving the driveway clear for me to pull in.

We settled side by side on the outdoor Adirondack-style loveseat Iris and Zeb gave us as an early wedding present, watching Shadow explore the back yard.

My parents arrive tomorrow.

The drumbeat of that phrase in my head hadn’t let up all day.

Mom and Dad were flying this time. They’d pick up a rental car at the Billings Airport for mobility, then stay at the Wild Horses Bed and Breakfast. Tom’s parents were booked there, too, along with an aunt and cousins.

Several of my siblings and their families were driving from Illinois, with plans to visit Yellowstone afterward. They’d stay at Mike’s huge house. He was turning the whole thing over to them, while he stayed with a friend in town.

My friends, Les and Bonnie, were flying in from Philadelphia to Cody. They’d be staying in Diana’s bunkhouse that was more of a guest house. They, too, planned a post-wedding trip to Yellowstone.

We should have arranged a kickback from the National Park Service for all these visits.

My brother, Steve, had not RSVP’d. I heard from him now and then, but his only response to the invitation had been a message a couple weeks ago, saying only, “Hope you’re happy, kid.”

Tom shifted, tightening the arm he had around my shoulders.

Iris spotted this old loveseat and bought it for a song last year at the neighborhood’s annual end-of-summer mega yard sale. Zeb restored it in their garage, over more hours than I could imagine.

“When you’re old married folks like us, you can have separate chairs,” Iris declared when they presented it to us, “but when you’re starting out your married life, you shouldn’t have chair arms or anything else between you.”

Feeling the warm contact of Tom’s side against mine, as well as his arm around my shoulders, I appreciated that.

Without facing me, he said, “You worrying about the wedding or what you’re looking into for the colonel?”

I looked at him, specifically at the cowboy hat he wore.

In the early days after we’d met, he’d used that hat and the shade of its brim as a barrier, maybe as a weapon.

Not anymore.

“Both, I suppose.” I streamed out a breath. “It feels useless to put away a single murderer.

“I mean, I know a murderer is despicable and must be put away. But when there are people doing so much harm to so many people in so many places . . . When they sow disinformation to prey on those who don’t question, who don’t exercise critical thinking — and let’s face it, some who want to believe disinformation.

Sow disinformation and dissatisfaction and distrust and a hundred other dis-es that shred the fabric of lives. And they get away with it—”

“Elizabeth—”

“I know what you’re going to say. That catching a murderer is important and I can’t do everything and you’ve talked to my father on the phone so he’s told you — because he always tells people the story when he’s trying to be wise — about the Baltimore Orioles relief pitcher in the 1990s—”

“Randy Myers.”

No way Tom knew that without hearing it from my father.

“—who had this amazing game, then you’re also going to say that afterward Myers was asked how he did it and he said, All you can ever do is your best. You can’t do more than your best. So, you do that. It’s very simple.”

He used the hold on my shoulders to draw me into the shadowed shelter of his hat.

“That’s exactly what I’d say — all of it. Along with that Randy Myers said it was simple, but he never said it was easy.”

He had been talking to Dad.

He kissed me on my temple, pushed back my hair with his lips to kiss higher.

“And neither are you,” he added.

“Which one? Simple or easy?”

“Either.”

* * * *

Forty minutes after Tom left, Diana started off our video call with her report.

“Scuttlebutt says Ned Irvin was irked that, before anybody got to the fire, the Sherman crew was saying they’d take lead. Irvin came down hard, saying he was lead. And pushed his crew to get there first.”

“Was that out of character?” Mike asked.

“Let’s say it was notable. But no one indicated they thought there might be something outright suspicious about it.”

“Did Irvin have a conflict with Jardos?”

“Not that I’ve heard yet,” she said, “but I’ll ask more.”

“As for Frank and Irene Jardos’ involvement with the volunteer fire department, they talked mostly about Irene’s baking.

One person said he thought Frank pulled back a little because he’d wanted to get a younger vet involved but the vet — Nance, according to this source — didn’t seem that interested. Nothing major in the source’s view.

“And that, I’m afraid, is all from me.”

“Better than me,” Jennifer grumbled. “Got a rundown on the pattern names of the quilts you took pictures of.”

“Oh?”

I hadn’t realized my syllable held hope until Jennifer said, “No. A couple were specialty quilts like you described her giving to Hannah’s baby.

The others were two patterns she made with different color schemes.

No help I can see, but you might like the names — Drunkard’s Path and the Contrary Wife. ”

Even I chuckled at that, though I also sighed.

“It was way beyond a long shot. Sergeant Jardos didn’t seem to be troubled until lately, well after Irene died. Plus, the time needed for her to make a quilt, multiplied by all the quilts, means for them to be a window into what’s happened . . .”

“It would have had to start way back,” Diana summarized.

I nodded. “Sorry, Jennifer, if it wasted your time.”

“Nope. More practice for my friend’s algo. He’d be happy to see more. Besides, sometimes your longshots pay off.”

Without taking a break, she went on. “Nothing on the vets’ names you sent me, Elizabeth. No progress on recovering more of the forum Jardos was on — though I can say he hasn’t posted anything on their new home. Didn’t even get more info on that bad cop. Big, fat zero.”

“That’s only since earlier today,” I reminded her.

Unconsoled, she prompted, “Mike?”

“Sorry. Nothing new’s come in from my feelers about the vets and I’ve been too swamped here to reach out. You’re carrying the load, Elizabeth.”

I snorted. “Not that much of a load to date. Though I did find out something I want to tell you all about. It might be a rabbit hole, but . . .”

“Glad to hear about rabbit holes at this point,” Mike said.

“Okay. Buckle up.” I opened with Jardos’ visit to James, covered Mrs. P’s minor contribution, then started on the meat of Needham’s information.

“Wyoming prides itself on being business friendly. Nips at Delaware’s heels for creating businesses. In fact, it brags that it’s ahead on per capita creation, which is more realistic.”

“Somebody tracks that?” Jennifer asked.

“Wouldn’t take much tracking. Divide the number of businesses by the number of residents and voila, you have a statistic to quote where Wyoming’s winning.”

She snorted. “And they worry about what video games might do to kids’ brains.”

I sidestepped that discussion. “The state’s overall approach offers a contradiction — tightens requirements for identity card, for driver’s license, for voting registration, but keeps the doors wide open for creating hundreds, thousands, even millions of LLCs without revealing their owners.”

I wasn’t getting into the Cowboy Cocktail — the non-alcoholic one. We needed to keep this focused and I could only imagine what Jennifer would say about that.

“Wait, I know this,” she said to my surprise. “Agents, right?”

“Registered agents,” I confirmed. “Some represent their own Wyoming business. Or if one person in a business has Wyoming residence, that person can register even if the business is elsewhere. That scenario has not presented issues that I’ve heard of.”

“But . . .?” Diana prodded.

I held up a finger to make her and the others wait.