Page 8 of Head Room (Caught Dead in Wyoming #15)

“Excuse me? He told you to give me the manuscript his wife was writing?”

She nodded earnestly. “We were talking about it and I said how it was a pity she didn’t finish and he said there was already an awful lot of good in it and he wished it could be published somehow and I said he should talk to Ivy Short at the library, because she knows all about books and he said he thought you were the person who should get it because you’re a smart person who looks into scams and crimes and things, like in those specials on TV and he said you’d know how to find things in it that other people wouldn’t, and if it ever came to that, that’s what I should do with it, so I am. ”

After the convoluted he said, I said path, that ending piqued my interest.

Was there something in the manuscript that would reveal . . . something?

Since I didn’t know what was going on, I didn’t know what to even hope for. Unless it said on Page Forty-Seven: This is the answer to all Colonel Crawford’s questions and makes everything clear.

Except the woman died well before this situation.

And yet, I couldn’t stop myself from being a little optimistic when I asked, “What’s it about? Does it tell the story of her life with the sergeant? Or maybe a mystery? A spy thriller?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. It’s a historical romance.”

“A historical romance?”

With much more enthusiasm than I had voiced, she said, “Uh-huh. It’s set here in Wyoming. Well, it starts somewhere else, but then they come here. And it’s mostly here. She said the people are fiction, but the background’s real.”

Nothing against historical romances, but the chances the manuscript would have a magic answer just plummeted.

“Have you read it?”

“Oh, no. When she told me a little about it, she said she didn’t let anybody read it. Not even the sergeant. And when he and I first talked about it — not right after she died, but around Christmas—”

She stopped, clearly going into memory mode.

She shook her head, then picked up, “But it had to be recent we talked about it again, because I remember Vidalia was wearing a romper my cousin passed down this month. Striped. Real cute.”

“What did he say about it? The manuscript,” I clarified, not wildly interested in his comments on the romper.

“What I said about giving you the manuscript. That’s why I was confused.”

She wasn’t alone. “Confused about what?”

“Back at Christmas he said he hadn’t read it and it was real hard that she’d never get to finish it or get it published and then, last week, he said the opposite, that he had read it and you’d know what to do with it, which had to mean about publishing it, right?

And Penny said people can change their minds and their hearts when they’re grieving, so I figured that’s what it was. ”

Penny, the sage of the supermarket, was right, of course. She usually was.

Once you sorted out what she was saying.

Still, I clung to the possibility of the manuscript offering answers. I was particularly hopeful for Page Forty-Seven.

A new noise from the baby. Wasn’t nearly as loud as the caterwauling, but Hannah’s reaction resembled a general coming to attention.

“I have to go.”

“Wait. One more thing—”

“Have to feed her.” She was already around to the driver’s door.

“—did—” Should have made it does to protect her sensibilities, although she didn’t seem to view Sergeant Frank Jardos as possibly alive. In stark contrast to the colonel. “—the sergeant have any enemies?”

“Frank? I don’t think so. He could be pretty outspoken, but people ’round here don’t usually mind that.” The engine and the kid nearly drowned out her final words. “Glad you’re taking care of this now.”

Great. First, the colonel and now the young mother putting this — whatever this was — on me. The weeds were getting deeper and deeper. And those two were fertilizer.

I rubbed the middle of my forehead.

Either a headache or a new wrinkle.

We had a cabin lived in by a solitary man that burned down.

A dead man found in the cabin who roughly matched the description of the resident.

Occam’s razor was the perfect implement to cut through these weeds, saying the dead man was Frank Jardos, he killed himself, and accidentally burned down his cabin in the process.

But . . . that pattern seen through Diana’s camera.

Unless, he purposefully burned down the cabin, first starting the fire, then shooting himself once it was well caught.

That would match with his coincidental recent comments to Hannah about what to do with his late wife’s manuscript. Already planning suicide, he set the stage with Hannah. And he stashed the manuscript and the cherished insignias of his military career in a box that would help preserve them and—.

“Was that Hannah Chaney?” Diana asked, coming up behind me.

“Uh-huh.” I might have permanently associated those syllables with the young woman.

“What do you have there?”

“A bag of manuscript pages. Hannah said she saved it from the ruins.”

“The sergeant’s?”

“No. His wife’s. Apparently, she was writing a historical romance when she died last fall.”

Her interest dropped as quickly as mine had. She applied herself to loading her equipment into her vehicle.

“What do you know about veterans living up in the forests?” In response to her questioning look over her shoulder, I added, “According to Hannah, they were Frank Jardos’ real friends.”

She nodded slowly. “I’ve heard there are off-the-grid types living up there.”

“Public or private land?”

“A mix. Haven’t heard any complaints from landowners.”

“I’ll see what Tom knows.”

“You know who else you should talk to?”

From her tone, I was afraid to guess.

Then Diana confirmed the fear. “Hiram Poppinger.”

I groaned.

Our first encounter included having the delinquent gnome waving a shotgun toward me. Although the person who outright threatened to shoot me was Shelton.

“Why on earth should I talk to him?”

“Seems to me I heard he was friends with Sergeant Jardos. Shouldn’t be so bad, I hear he’s softened now that he’s with Yvette,” Diana said.

I groaned again. That woman’s theories on Elvis were enough to make my head spin to rival The Exorcist.

To block thoughts about the double pleasure awaiting me, I asked, “Did you get the idea from talk in town that anybody was seriously looking at this as the responsibility of anyone other than Jardos?”

“No. But that could change when Russ sees this video.” She straightened. “You’re not thinking to try to keep this quiet, because—”

“I know, I know. The sheriff’s department wouldn’t be happy. I might be tempted, despite the potential disruption of your domestic bliss, but this scene and its forensics are vulnerable to weather.”

“Good point. In fact, maybe I should call . . .”

“Nope. You don’t need to bank points with our sheriff, while I always do need to with Shelton.”