I made an appearance at the station, timing it so I was there just before Thurston Fine and Les Haeburn returned from one of their lengthy lunches. They’d lunched together less often lately. Their doing so today was fortunate for me, as was getting the message from Jennifer informing me of this.
When they walked in, I was on the phone at my desk, head down, apparently typing notes.
They had no way of knowing if I’d been here for hours or minutes.
Just as they had no way of knowing most of my typing was responding to messages from Diana, Mike, and Jennifer telling me they had assignments that would tie them up until late afternoon. In response, I updated them on my parents being in town.
Les and Thurston went into their respective offices, then popped out again in under five minutes, pretending they weren’t checking if I was still around.
Four more times they popped out. The fifth time, Thurston came, but Les didn’t. Thurston had that angry rabbit expression he wore when he felt thwarted.
He stalked into the news director’s office. Angry voices ensued. Thurston stalked out. He slammed Les’ door. Retreating footsteps. Another door slammed. Chuckles from anonymous sources across the newsroom bullpen.
In between, most of my time went to phone calls, starting with nearly identical rundowns with Aunt Gee and Mrs. Parens. Did they know other people who’d known Leah Pedroke or Furman York at the time of the murder? Any acquaintances — asking about friends felt like an overreach — of York’s recently? Have experience with Norman Clay Lukasik? Anyone else they thought we should talk to?
All negatives.
I left a message for Tom with the same update as the others when he picked up.
He’d heard my message, he informed me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Without lifting my head, I was aware of Les opening his office door and peering in my direction. He retreated and locked his door.
“Putting up fence so Clyde can pasture those valuable Angus within sight of the house. A few of us are here. We’re about done. If you want to meet somewhere or—”
“Anybody from the Lukasik Ranch there?”
“Yeah,” he said, a question in his voice. “Kesler.”
Already standing, I messaged Diana, Mike, and Jennifer where I was going.
“I’ll be right out there.”
* * * *
The workers trailed away from their completed job toward pickups parked casually off the road. I parked in the driveway, got out of my SUV, and walked toward them.
I said hello to the Chaneys — Paul and his uncle Otto. Even got a look at a recent photo of Paul’s eight-month-old daughter, who looked exactly like him, before they moved on.
Nodded to two young men I recognized from a search last fall known to me only as the Baranski boys, as well as three more I didn’t recognize.
Exchanged a few words with Connie Walterston’s middle son. Connie ran the road paving company Tom’s father established to supplement ranching income. Tom didn’t care for the business, but he’d never let it go as long as Connie needed a job. A widow with one son in college and two to go, she’d keep the business going quite a while, I suspected.
Last came Kesler and Tom.
Kesler angled toward the Lukasik Ranch pickup I’d already staked out. Tom steered toward the house, not participating in this questioning.
“Hi, Kesler.”
He’d seen me as he came, so I was no surprise. He grunted a possible greeting.
“We didn’t get much of a chance to talk the other day. I have a few more questions.” Watching him, I added, “Especially after talking with Gable yesterday.”
The stoniness of his expression did not miraculously melt. Nor did he fill the opening I left.
I kept on. “He was quite open about not having a good relationship with his father. Wonder how Gable’s mother would feel about what’s happening with her son. Course she was an outsider here, so maybe nobody would care. Probably gone and forgotten. Nobody—”
“Not forgotten.”
He’d opened that crack, but I resisted bulldozing into it. He’d shut down.
“You said she didn’t know about ranching. Does Lukasik?”
“She never tried to pretend to know more’n she did.”
“Norman Clay Lukasik does?”
“After years and years of playing at being the grand rancher, he knows just enough to be dangerous.”
That differed from Lukasik’s self-portrayal as not caring about the ranch.
“What about Furman York?”
“What about him?”
“Did he know ranching?”
“Even he couldn’t help but pick up a little.”
“Did he pretend he knew more than he did?” While Lukasik pretended to know less than he did?
“No. Why bother?”
Remembering what Lukasik said, I tossed in, “Could that be why the herd’s numbers stayed even?”
I’d hit something. I had no idea what. But this was the most uncomfortable I’d seen Kesler.
“What makes you say that?” he asked.
“The owner of the ranch said it. I’m just repeating it. You think that was a result of York not knowing what he was doing?”
“Hard to say. Lot of things can contribute if that’s even so. I don’t know. I don’t see reports and spreadsheets and all.”
Oh, yeah, he was definitely uncomfortable.
“Spreadsheets,” I repeated thoughtfully. “Even if Lukasik doesn’t know about ranching, he sees and understands the numbers.”
Kesler’s neutral grunt neither confirmed, nor denied.
“Just like Gable Lukasik will eventually. Was York unhappy with Gable taking on more of a role? Did he worry about his job security?”
This time Kesler snorted dismissively. “That one didn’t worry over Gable. Cock o’ the walk. That’s how he acted.”
“But now Gable has a clear path to running the ranch—”
His head jerked up.
“—or he would if his father wasn’t staying on.”
“Now, that last part, that’s what you should be nosing into. Norman Clay coming and hanging around like he never has before in all these years, not even early on when she wanted him to. Couldn’t be bothered. But now, when it’d be better with him gone, he’s staying and staying. Why’s that?” He slashed a hand through the air. “I’m goin’. Got better things to do.”
He stomped the few more feet to the pickup, got in, and backed out, without ever appearing to check his mirrors for where I was. If I hadn’t moved, I’d have been under the pickup’s tires.