Shoot First, page 7
My phone rang during a tricky set of switchbacks on the way to O’Hara Hill. Surprising it had reception at all.
I caught the M sound on audio caller ID, negotiated the switchbacks, then answered after the third ring, “Hey, Mike. If you think you’re going to be the champion of long lunches you’ve got to work harder to keep up with the competition.”
“Oh, Danny, this is Mel, not Mike,” my relative/lawyer/agent said, using the nickname started by a longtime source and picked up first by friends, then family. “You thought Michael Paycik was calling?”
He had gotten it into his head Mike and I were more than colleagues. I didn’t want to contribute to that.
“Mel, hi. I thought it was a source calling back. But I might run out of connection any second.”
“Then I’ll get right to it. You said not to do anything about a new position without hearing from you, but with two months left, I need to have a direction. In short, Danny, what sort of job do you want me to look for?”
My stomach dropped. Not from a dip in the road.
He was right. I’d been drifting with my eyes closed, and it had carried me a lot closer to the waterfall than I’d realized. Time to paddle.
“I don’t want to push you—” he started.
“It’s okay. You’re right. It’s time. Put out feelers about network reporting,” I said with more confidence than I felt. Would anyone want me after this time away? Would they have wanted me a year ago, before my exile? “And anchor spots in the top ten markets.”
“Top ten? That’s not many—”
“There are cities I’d go to in the next five, even ten. Depends which city. But if I go below top ten, I want them reaching up to me, not me reaching down to them. Besides, there are several stations in each market.”
I knew Mel was concerned because he didn’t have experience in the TV news world. By rights, I should be doing the feelers, leaving him to handle negotiations. So why hadn’t I?
That was a question for contemplating during a long quiet night of staring at the Hovel’s ceiling. Not for when I needed my brain for driving and talking and planning how to get information.
“Okay, I’ll do that. Of course I’ll start here in Chicago. Your top choice, right?”
“Mel, you’ve got to stop channeling my mother. It’s creepy.”
He gave a halfhearted chuckle. That meant Mom had been after him to get me a job in Chicago. I might aim at the top ten, but Catherine Danniher expected him to hit The One. Poor guy.
“Uh, Danny, there’s one more thing. I, uh … I mean, if you want me to, I could discreetly…. But first I have to know if you want me to.”
“Want you to what?”
“See about your staying on there.”
Surprise shot through my veins. Some of it was because my mother had clearly placed her order for Chicago. More was for the possibility of staying in Wyoming. Mike had hinted at it, but no one else seemed to view it as truly a possibility, including me. Oh, maybe I’d toyed somewhere in the back of my mind with the idea of extending my stint here. Make it a full year, maybe. Be sure I had my feet back under me.
“Danny? Danny? Are you there?”
“I’m here, Mel. I’m here.” I thought about those two words. I’m here. “Sure, Mel, go ahead. No commitments, but go ahead. You know what my dad always says.”
“Never give up one hold until you have the next one secured. I’ll make some ca—”
Then we did lose connection.
* * * *
Mrs. Parens greeted me as if she’d been expecting me.
However, she did lift her eyebrows when she spotted that my car, parked in her driveway, was parallel to Mike’s SUV, parked in his aunt’s driveway next door.
In answer to the question in those eyebrows, I shrugged.
Mike being at his Aunt Gee’s wasn’t a total surprise, but my shrug disavowed any direct knowledge.
Mrs. Parens escorted me to her front room, where the walls were covered with photographs, from class pictures to visiting historic figures to views of mountains, ranches, and towns. Floor to ceiling. If these were the leftovers from what she’d given to the Sherman Western Frontier Life Museum, as Mildred had said, the main course had been quite impressive.
“You’ve heard about the shooting yesterday?” I asked. She nodded. “Mildred Katarese is my neighbor. I’m concerned that even with this man dead, she could be in danger. I’d like your take on some of the people involved, Mrs. Parens. Mildred and Sally Tipton, for starters.”
“My assessment of a person is no more valid than yours, Elizabeth. Indeed, less valid, since you are a trained observer.”
“You are, too, as a teacher. Plus, you know these people. I don’t. You’ve known them…. How long have you known them?”
“My father was foreman of Sally’s father’s ranch at one time. When she and I were still very young, my father left Luther Tipton’s employ.” The smallest twitch of her brow made me think Sally’s father had not met with Mrs. Parens’ approval. “We attended the same schools through graduation from high school.”
“Mildred and Avis?”
“I knew Avis in grade school. Her family lived in O’Hara Hill before moving to Sherman. I did not encounter Mildred until high school.”
Encounter. That didn’t sound exactly warm and fuzzy.
“The three of them were always friends?”
“No. Mildred and Avis were connected as cousins, of course. Sally—” Mrs. Parens seemed to tread carefully. “—became part of their circle later.”
“You thought they could do better for a friend than Sally?”
“It was not my place then, nor is it now, to make such a judgment.” Her face displayed bland impenetrability.
“If you won’t give an opinion of their characters, how about intellectual ability?”
“You are a persistent young woman, Elizabeth.” She allowed a small smile. “We shall see. Ask your question.”
“Questions,” I warned. “Start with Sally. Was she a good student?”
“No. She struggled academically.”
“Undiagnosed learning disability?” I guessed.
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“Based on your observations of Sally and decades of experience, would you have approached teaching her as a student with a learning disability?”
She considered. “In some circumstances, individuals assume a manner that provides them protection, as a chameleon does. Avis and Mildred long displayed a strong pragmatism. Sally does not.”
“She’s not blind to the dark sides of reality,” I protested, thinking of her response to the idea of Mildred being in danger.
“I concur. However, she escapes from it at every opportunity. Encountering past unpleasant realities does not help her anticipate or avoid future realities.” Just enough tartness seeped in to make me think Mrs. Parens joined me in preferring Mildred’s more complex company to Sally’s unrelenting sweetness.
“Tell me about Avis,” I urged her.
“That is far too broad a request.”
Had I thought I’d slip that past? “What is your assessment of Avis’ intellectual ability?”
“Each of the most intelligent people I have encountered,” she said, “has been fully aware of how much he or she did not know. Avis was not aware of any gap in her knowledge.”
In other words, Avis wasn’t as smart as she’d thought she was.
“What about Mildred?”
“She is not without intelligence. She taught herself her business, learned to use computers readily. Her weakness is a passion for possession. That could be seen as a family trait. Avis and Mildred’s mutual grandmother, Lila Katarese, as well as Avis’ mother were renowned for it.”
“I’ve heard Avis was like that, too.” She didn’t disagree, so I kept going. “But if the others were classic hoarders, how come Mildred’s house is so neat, so rigorously organized?”
“For insight to Mildred, you would need to know her family history. What do you know of her grandparents?”
I settled in for one of Mrs. Parens’ history lessons. Sometimes they wandered off topic, but they were never dull. “I know the grandfather worked for a Teague.”
“As did Lila Katarese.” She looked at me directly. “She was Powell Teague’s acknowledged mistress before she married Jud Katarese. This was never a secret. None of what I tell you now was a secret. Lila was the queen of Sherman in its first, wild days, and the only person Powell listened to. Some said she was the driving force, the true intelligence behind his efforts. They were what is now referred to as a power couple.”
I repressed a twitch. That term had popped up in every article about us when Wes and I were married. And when we split. Never had liked the term. “Yet she ended up with Katarese?”
Mrs. Parens nodded. “As Sherman strove to forget its raw frontier past, a number of its so-called leading citizens shed the women who had helped them achieve that status, and found ‘respectable’ wives. Most sought young women from the East. Powell Teague’s choice was particularly respectable, particularly young, and particularly silly.”
“Poor Lila.”
“Powell did make some provisions for her, unlike many men of the time. She married his right-hand man, Jud Katarese, and a few months later a son — Mildred’s father — was born. A daughter followed a year later.”
“Mildred’s father was Teague’s son?”
“It was assumed so. At first the new family lived in rooms in a hotel Teague owned. Eventually, he gave her the deed to the house on Lewis Street. Yes,” she added, apparently in response to my expression, “that house was in her name, not Jud’s.”
So it had been a reward for loyal service — but Lila’s, not Jud’s.
“In late 1919, Jud was convicted of sabotaging a rival railroad. While he was imprisoned, Powell hired Lila to serve as maid to the young wife he’d brought back from the East some years earlier. The job supported Lila and her two children. My mother also said it was the cruelest thing she’d ever seen. It was cruel both to Lila and to Mrs. Teague. Whether he set out deliberately to be cruel, or whether he was unaware, is not known. He was absorbed by then in trying to save his waning fortunes. He gambled. He failed. And he died.”
Not exactly a glowing eulogy from Mrs. Parens, and, to my mind, better than Powell deserved.
“Lila bore all the Teagues great ill will for the rest of her life. Jud, however, remained loyal to Powell even after, or perhaps because, he suffered apparent brain damage while incarcerated. When Jud was released, Powell was dead, but Jud’s back remained strong, no matter his mental limitations, and he supported his family. Mildred’s father married a hardworking but stern woman. For her schooling, Mildred was sent to live with her grandparents. She often clashed with Lila, likely because of their similarities, but adored Jud.”
That was some emotional stew that had produced Mildred. And all tied to the Teagues. A grandfather she adored loyal to them. A grandmother she resembled hating them. And her own blood — “Did she know…?”
“That Jud likely wasn’t her biological grandfather? I imagine she did, and it made no difference. He was charming, entertaining, full of tall tales, and completely unreliable. I remember he told us as children that the small leather bag he wore around his neck, similar to a medicine bag, held dried pieces of the hearts of men he’d killed. Nonsense, of course, but it impressed us greatly. There was no telling if he knew he was untruthful or not, which added force to his tales. Money flowed through his fingers. Perhaps it was as a reaction to him that Lila kept everything.
“After high school, Mildred cared for her grandparents. Jud died first. Then, the night of his funeral, Lila died of a heart attack while talking with Mildred. After Lila’s funeral, Mildred discovered her aunt, Avis’ mother, had returned first and, contrary to the will, was removing items from the house.”
“Good Lord.”
“Mildred physically ejected her. Then she set to work by herself, allowing no one in. She sorted, cleaned, organized, and disposed, accounting for every square inch of the house, assessing each item. It took two years.”
“Two years?”
She ignored my astonishment. “Lila Katarese had stashed money in dribs and drabs throughout the house. Mildred inherited not only the structure, but sufficient funds to give her a start. She sold selected items, using those proceeds to buy more, then sold those at a profit. That began her livelihood. Business, not sentiment, guides her decisions.”
“Yet she is devoted to preserving her grandparents’ house. Stan Newton says he’d buy it if she’d sell.”
“Perhaps family ties supersede monetary value,” she said slowly. “That is frequently so when the generation that created and the generation preserving have a direct link. It reminds me of discussions years ago with an Englishman. He was interested in this region because his grandfather had been among gentlemen who tried to establish themselves in the cattle business.”
“English cowboys?”
“I imagine they saw themselves as cattle barons. They were primarily younger sons, often representing family or groups of speculators hoping to catch a cattle boom. Most were gone along with the closing of the open range by the late 1880s, yet they carried vivid memories. Having heard family stories, Cuthbert traveled here, and was directed to me. Together, we tracked his ancestor’s activities.
“We frequently discussed history and its emotional effect on the present. He argued that what he called the weight of history accruing through the years had the greater impact. I maintained that the freshness of recent history gave it unmatched power. Ancestors who might populate distant history are little more than abstractions, while a remembered parent or grandparent is a force in our memory.”
It was a lightbulb moment. For me, what Mrs. P had said about Lila and Jud and Powell had been distant, almost theoretical. But for Mildred, hearing the tales from her grandparents, the emotions must have been far more immediate. “That’s a powerful argument, Mrs. Parens.”
“Cuthbert said much the same thing when he conceded. He was … quite a charming man.” Lines around her eyes deepened with what I’d swear was mischief. “Yes, my dear, I have not been immune to a good bottle of wine and a charming man my entire life.”
“I’m not the least bit surprised,” I said strongly, if not entirely honestly.
Her unfocused gaze slid to the doorway and the hall beyond it. I stretched my neck as far as I could without threatening her reverie. From this angle, I glimpsed a door. Her bedroom.
Could this be the entanglement with a dreaded foreigner Mildred had referred to? Or could there be multiple episodes in Mrs. Parens’ past? I fought a grin.
Well, hot damn, Mrs. P!
Had she seen her charming Englishman again? Was he married? Were they kept apart by family obligations? Clashing cultures? How tragic if she lost her love in a war. How old—?
She blinked and expelled a breath, though her tone remained half distracted as she added, “It was quite true what they said of Englishmen at that time.”
“What they said?”
“That, as a rule, their teeth were terrible. I believe it was a result of poor nutrition and dental hygiene in childhood. I have read that it has improved of late.”
The pop was my bubble bursting. I’d imagined she was mourning a tragically lost love while she’d been remembering he’d needed more One-A-Days and Crest as a kid.
“What are you thinking, Elizabeth?” Before I came up with a plausible response, she went on, “Ah, I see. You were thinking of great romances, and I was contemplating dental health.”
The woman was uncanny. And her small smile said she knew it.
“At my age,” she continued, “you come to realize great romance can have prosaic bedfellows. Perhaps they help make the romance more romantic.” She tipped her head and looked at me. “Young people so often think they invented lust. And sex.”
It was a sliver of an opening I intended to jump into, because hearing about Mrs. Parens’ romances and their prosaic bedfellows surely would be an education.
Chapter Nine
That education had to wait.
A knock sounded at the front door, and Mrs. Parens excused herself to answer.
To my complete lack of surprise, Mike followed her back in. As soon as he’d seen my car, he couldn’t have resisted finding out what I was doing here.
“I have been telling Elizabeth about Englishmen who were involved in the early cattle business in Wyoming,” Mrs. Parens told Mike after the hellos.
“Oh?” He looked hunted, as if expecting a quiz.
There might be, knowing Mrs. Parens.
“Many years ago, I assisted a young Englishman in locating the ranch where his ancestor had been. For a time, it was part of the Claxton holdings, surrounding the town of Forked Tree.”
His attention sharpened. “Claxton? Some of Tom Burrell’s Circle B came from the original Claxton place, didn’t it? And … yeah, the Teagues bought from Claxton, too. The entrance to Teague Ranch off the O’Hara Hill road isn’t far from the Circle B.”
She nodded in approval. “Somewhat later than the Burrells, but yes, Powell Teague bought the central portion in early 1920 when Harvey Claxton moved up to Montana.”
She made it sound as though they’d just had Harvey’s going-away party instead of this happening early in the previous century.
Mike flashed me a significant look. “That’s where Russell Teague is now, though he hadn’t spent much time there until the past year. He left young and made his fortune.” He gave the last phrase a twist of sarcasm.
“People usually love a local-boy-makes-good story, yet I get the feeling people here don’t care much for Russell.” That was putting it mildly going by Mildred’s reaction.
Mike grinned. “ ‘Local boy grabs his maternal grandfather’s coattails and inherits a bundle’ isn’t as popular a story.” That explained his sarcasm over makes his fortune. “Especially since he referred to escaping Wyoming in interviews before inheriting what was left of Teague Ranch from his father.”
“What was left? Had they sold off pieces?”
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