Page 9 of Head Room (Caught Dead in Wyoming #15)

The smoke odor followed me into my vehicle.

To distract myself, I called Mom.

“Elizabeth I’m so glad to talk to you finally. I hope you’re not too worried about the weather.”

I was both relieved she hadn’t called about some arcane wedding detail and confused.

“I’m not worried about the weather at all.” Granted, the clouds were zipping across the sky at a good clip. “It’s sunny here. How is it there?”

Talking about the weather left a portion of my mind to chew on how best to approach Shelton with what Diana spotted at the fire site. Got to maximize those brownie points when the opportunities arise.

“Not today’s weather. The forecast.”

Her words shifted some of my Shelton-strategy-planning brain power back to Mom.

“And not here. There,” she added. “I don’t want you to worry about it, but they’re forecasting a cold snap.”

“For the wedding?”

I could handle that. Raised in northern Illinois. I wore a coat over my costume a time or two for Halloween. Still got the candy.

Same principle for the wedding. No worries, as long as I ended married to Tom.

Besides, no coat inside, so — unlike Halloween — it wouldn’t cover the fancy during the important bits.

“Earlier in the week.”

“Mom, you should stop watching the forecast for here. It snaps, crackles, and pops multiple times a day. After a few trips here you should know that by now.”

“I do. But this is your wedding . . .”

“I told her not to worry, Maggie Liz,” my dad’s voice came through the line. I grinned at his using his pet name for me, inverting and shortening my first and middle names. “Tom said it wasn’t a concern.”

“Tom said?” I asked.

At the same time, Mom said, “Hush, Jim. I’m not worried,” with worry in her voice.

“We’ve talked a few times.”

“Why? What about, Dad?”

“As long as you’re not worried, Elizabeth . . .” Mom said, clearly wondering how I could not be worried.

“Just talking. He was not calling to ask my permission,” Dad said in a way that made me sure they’d discussed how Tom was not asking my father for my hand in marriage long enough and thoroughly enough that he might as well have.

“Dad—”

Mom’s next words cut off my remonstration. “I thought you should be informed.”

“Absolutely, Mom,” I said with extra enthusiasm. “You know I’m a fan of being informed.”

I hoped my father felt the double edge of those words to the bone.

“Yes, I do,” she said more strongly. “You’ve always preferred to know the bad news to having it hidden from you.”

I’d arrived at the sheriff’s department parking area it shared with the courthouse, providing the perfect excuse to wrap up the call without getting lost in wedding one-more-things that would put Columbo to shame.

* * * *

As I exited my SUV, I recognized the man coming toward me from the direction of the sheriff’s department.

This can be a tough situation for a journalist.

All my dealings with and everything I’d learned about Jay Haus screamed sleazeball. Among other things, he’d represented Tom’s ex when she’d tried to limit his custody of Tamantha. But I needed to contact him at times for a comment on stories when he represented people accused of newsworthy crimes.

In other words, I couldn’t act on my personal inclination to ignore him.

I said hello, without a smile.

He didn’t say hello or smile.

In fact, he appeared decidedly ruffled. His tie askew, his face flushed, his eyes angry.

The Shelton Effect at work over a client of Haus’?

If so, it was a reminder that the Shelton Effect could work for good in the world now and then.

I passed the door to the sheriff’s department and went on to the fire department around the corner to talk to the firefighters first. Before Shelton knew what I knew.

He’d hear about me coming here, sooner than I’d like. Then he would warn off firefighters from talking to me. But at least I’d have this first shot.

I passed a door that looked like it led to a front office and went on to the first of several open mega-sized garage-type doors.

Before my eyes adjusted, I heard voices coming from deeper inside.

A female voice rose into aggrieved syllables. A few coalesced into words.

“—papers—”

“—filing—”

“—names—”

“—mail—”

“—too many—”

In between, a male voice sounded. None of his words discernible, though his tone might have intended to be placating.

I slowed, widening my eavesdropping window. I also sidestepped to be close to the side of a firetruck so I wasn’t as visible to the talkers.

To my right, a woman stood in the doorway leading from what I took to be the office down two steps into the bay.

My angle made it look like the top of her head touched the doorframe.

I knew it didn’t, but it bothered me visually.

In TV, there’s a concept called head room. It’s leaving space between the top of the frame and the top of the head of whoever is on camera. Rule of thumb is to have the subject’s eyes one-third of the way down the frame.

It’s one of those unconscious things that feel right to humans. Seeing her like this felt out of sync.

My eyes adjusted to reveal a guy in his early thirties, about the same age as the woman, and directly ahead of me. He appeared to be attaching portable lights to a multi-port charger on a workbench at the back.

He hadn’t seen or heard me yet, but he could at any moment, then I’d be caught eavesdropping.

“Hi,” I called out as I advanced.

He turned at my greeting, smiled, but didn’t move toward me. From the corner of my eye, I saw the woman stiffen.

Without her presence, I’d have started talking to him sooner — softening him up. Instead, I had to start cold when I reached him.

“Hi, I’m E.M. Danniher from KWMT-TV.”

He took my outstretched hand, with no sign of noticing the smoke odor. Maybe he was used to it. “I’ve seen you. Nice to meet you. I’m Miles Stevens.”

Not a name Hannah listed, darn it.

“I’m hoping to get some information — strictly background.” I opened my hands to show they were camera- and microphone-free. “Such a tragedy that fire on Wednesday. And I understand the cabin owner volunteered with you?”

“Frank, yes.”

“Sergeant Frank Jardos,” I elaborated, leaving a short gap for him to dispute the full name and title if he chose to. He said nothing. “Did you fight fires with him?”

He smiled again. “Not really. I guess he was on minor fires early on when he moved here and he was younger. As long as I’ve been around, he was on support duty—”

“Duty like charging lights.” The woman’s words were not full volume, but meant to be heard. Also possibly meant to blunt the guy’s faint I’m-better-than-him self-satisfaction.

He gave no sign of hearing her. I pretended deafness, too.

“—him and his wife. Sure do miss her cookies and cakes. She’d bring them for all our meetings, even when we were wrapping up calls, sometimes.”

“You were out at the fire at his cabin?”

“Yeah. We got there fast, but Ned Irvin from the Red Sail Rock substation got there faster. He ran it.”

In other words, that’s who I should talk to. I would. But that wasn’t who was in front of me.

“Great. That’s helpful. I’ll get with him, though it’s not anything official. Nola Choi is our reporter who’s on the story.”

His eyes almost flicked toward the woman, confirming he knew she was there. His voice also dropped. “Oh, yeah, I saw her.”

The way he said it introduced a new element.

He had decent hair, was in good shape, showed white teeth in his smile.

But, either way, I would not stoop to encourage, much less take advantage of, his interest in Nola. He was too old for her. Not to mention the potential jealous woman lurking over there.

“Did anything strike you as notable about the scene, Miles?”

“You mean other than seeing a dead body the second day?”

“Let’s start there. How soon did your crew see it?”

“Been there a couple hours. We’d relieved another group making sure the scene was contained — you know what that means?”

“Not extinguished, but not spreading.”

“That’ll do.” Did he half wink at me or was that a nerve in his eyelid?

“With the fire’s intensity, we were relieved it didn’t spread, had some luck that kept the burn inside the perimeter pretty much from the start.

It was clear real quick that we weren’t going to save the cabin.

We made sure the perimeter held, monitored, and mopped up, while the fire used up the fuel. ”

“You said you had some luck that the fire didn’t spread. I’d imagine the rain we had lately helped . . . anything else?”

He tipped his head, watching me from the corner of his eye. Was that a near wink again?

I returned his gaze steadily.

He straightened his head, but looked entirely unchastened. “Yeah, the wet weather helped. Which made the rest of it more fortunate. It was recently clear-cut all around the cabin.”

I frowned. “People do that regularly, especially around woods.”

He lifted one shoulder. “Not so much this time of year, especially when it’s as wet as it’s been. It’s the sort of chore you put off until things get dry enough for the warnings. And even then, they procrastinate more often than not.”

“Was it a bigger fire than you would have expected?”

He shrugged. “Hard to predict.”

Not helpful. Worse, it might indicate his interest was flagging.

“Did you see the body?”

“Some.” He stifled most of a grimace but enough leaked through to convey he’d have rather not seen what he did. “Something I hadn’t seen before.”

“Were you able to see the bullet hole in his head?”

“Not me. Others did. They were talking how he must have started the fire, then shot himself.” He stopped for the first time, then he hedged. “They’ll have to wait for the report to know for sure that he shot himself before the fire.”

With they’ll have to wait, he distanced himself from speculation.

I’d lost him.

But I could leave him with something to consider. Who knew, maybe if we had a second encounter, it might produce something.

“Common sense says he was shot first. Why would someone shoot him after?”