Five

Arn turned off Terry Bison Ranch Road and drove six miles west to the Reilly Ranch. Ladies at the courthouse had told him that Little Jim kept to himself ever since his wife died thirty years ago. “He’s pleasant enough,” one lady at the Treasurer’s Office told him. “Whenever he comes in to renew his plates or pay his property taxes, he’s polite. But …” She paused and looked around. “His size is a little intimidating.” They described the Reilly Ranch as a modest place by Wyoming standards—a thousand acres, most of it pasture land. And up until her death four days ago, Jim had shared the ranch responsibilities with his only daughter, Jillie.

Arn passed a small feedlot with fifteen head of buffalo that Little Jim raised to sell every year, with another hundred head of registered Black White-Face heifers in a pasture beside the feedlot. A flock of sheep helped with his ranch expenses, the busybodies at the courthouse said, and Jim always had a few large-breed Lincoln ewes that he loaned out to the Little Britches Rodeo for the Laramie County Fair each year.

When Arn had spoken with Jim on the phone earlier, the man sounded neither pleased nor antagonistic that he was coming. He just sounded like most parents of recently deceased children—going through the motions of life while they sorted through memories of a lifetime with their child.

When Arn drove into the yard, Jim Reilly was sitting on the porch swing that overlooked the feedlot where he kept the buffalo. A Border collie sat at his feet, tongue lolling to one side. Little Jim watched Arn drive the long road into the yard and park in front of the porch.

Arn used the A pillar to extricate himself from his 4-4-2 and arched his back, stretching. “Hell of a thing to be driving on gravel,” Little Jim said as he looked askance at the car. “Ought to be driving it on the drag strip instead of navigating these roads.”

“I can’t argue there,” Arn said. “But it’s all I have.”

Little Jim motioned for Arn to join him on the porch.

As Arn mounted the steps, he realized Little Jim was even bigger than he remembered. Although he was only four inches taller than Arn, he appeared taller and much heavier in his dusty ranch clothes. His overalls strained at the seams as if they were a size too small. Arn guessed Little Jim had him by thirty pounds. No small feat.

“No offense,” the man said, “but you look thinner on TV. And younger.”

Arn grinned. “Old stock photos the station insists on using.”

“I still recognized you. You asked me to come into the police station that July … ” He broke it off and turned his head away. When he turned back, his eyes had watered. “I miss Doris every day. You have a wife, Mr. Anderson?”

“I did,” Arn answered. “Cailee died twelve years ago. Cancer.” He forced a smile. “And I miss her every day too.”

Little Jim offered Arn a seat in a wicker chair on one side of a round metal table and poured glasses of lemonade. Arn sipped, and held the cold glass against his temple. “Fresh-squeezed?”

“Crystal Light.”

The dog lay down beside Little Jim’s chair. “This is—was—Jillie’s dog. She raised her since she was a puppy. Now with Jillie gone … ” He looked away and paused. “Jillie used to help me on weekends. Not that I really needed it, but it was an excuse for us to spend some time together.” He stroked the dog’s muzzle. “With Jillie gone, the dog seems to know she’s not coming back. She follows me everywhere.”

They sat in silence for long moments. Arn was in no hurry to ask questions and dredge up more pain for Little Jim.

“I saw that Villarreal woman’s special last night,” he said at last. “And I remembered you from when you told me about Doris. And last year, when you solved the murder of that Cheyenne detective, you were on TV a few times.”

Arn wanted to tell Little Jim it ended up not being a murder, but he let it go. “My mug was pasted across the TV screen quite often last winter.”

Little Jim leaned forward in his chair. The wicker creaked under his weight and his eyes locked on Arn’s. “Point is, you have a reputation as an astute investigator. That’s one of those ten dollar words I learned in college that I rarely use.”

Arn shrugged. “Sometime I just get lucky.”

“More than sometimes,” Little Jim said as he sat back. “I’ve checked you out since you called yesterday. You solved every homicide assigned to you when you were in Metro Denver.”

“Like I said, I’m lucky now and again.”

“Well, Mr. Anderson, you get lucky this time—give me Jillie’s killer—and your bank account will get lucky, too.”

Arn sipped his lemonade. Little Jim wasn’t the first man to request that a relative’s murderer be turned over to him. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. If and when I help the sheriff’s office find your daughter’s killer, I’ll have to turn him over for prosecution.”

Little Jim reached into his vest pocket and withdrew an envelope. He tossed it on the table where the sweating pitcher soaked the edge of the envelope. Arn clearly saw paper money inside. “There’s five thousand dollars. Take it for expenses.” He held up his hand. “Consider it helping to find the son-of-a-bitch.”

Arn hefted the envelope. For a moment, all he saw was central air for his old house before he handed it back to Little Jim. “The television station is paying my expenses. I can’t take this. But I’ll do whatever I can to find your daughter’s killer.”

“Had to try.” Little Jim nodded but put the envelope on the table again. “What can I do to help?”

Arn crossed his legs and laid his notebook across his lap. “Just some basic questions—”

“Like those questions that sheriff’s deputy already asked, that smart-ass Mike Slade? I damned near put a boot in his rectum for accusing Jillie of being a sheep rustler.”

Arn’s gaze automatically went to the sheep pasture, and Little Jim caught it. “I’d know if any sheep that didn’t belong to me suddenly appeared on this place.”

“Unless she had another holding pen somewhere. Someplace to graze them until she could ship them out of the area.”

Little Jim tensed. “That’s what Slade said. You really believe Jillie was involved in rustling? Hell, all she ever did was work and help me on the weekends.”

Arn debated telling Little Jim about his theory that there was a witness to Jillie’s murder—that the rustler-witness was at Wooly Hanks to steal sheep when Jillie and her killer drove into the pasture. He decided that for now, he’d keep his theories to himself and Ana Maria.

Arn began doodling. He didn’t need to refer to the notebook, but it took people’s minds off him as they answered questions, thinking that he was writing everything down. “Jillie’s employer, Dr. Oakert, claims she partied quite a bit.”

“That pompous ass would say that after trying to get her in bed as many times as he did.” Little Jim spit a string of tobacco juice that cleared the porch steps. World class.

“You think Dr. Oakert was lying about Jillie’s partying?”

Little Jim looked toward the lot holding the buffalo so long that Arn wasn’t sure he’d heard him. “Jillie was always a little wild,” he began. “Sure, she liked to bend elbows at the bar on weekends. She worked hard all week and helped out here on weekends. She relaxed a little with a brewski or two, but that was okay by me. Didn’t make her a bad person.” He swiped a hand across his eyes. “Fact was she was just about the best person I know. Sounds biased, huh?”

“It sounds like a father who had the utmost respect for his daughter.” Arn doodled. “Dr. Oakert said Jillie went on dating sites quite a bit. Didn’t she have a computer at home?”

“We have crappy service out this far, and we never bought one. Deputy Slade asked the same thing.”

Arn refilled their lemonade glasses and sat back down with his pen in hand. “Did anyone hold a grudge against your daughter? Anyone she didn’t get along with?”

“Eddie Glass,” Little Jim answered immediately. “Jillie had a fling with him last year. I had to step in and put the run on that bastard. Last thing I wanted was my daughter to become involved with a married man.”

Arn wrote and underlined Eddie’s name. And married man. “Did he leave her alone after that?”

“Damn well better have,” Little Jim answered, his voice faltering just talking about it. “Or I’d have put the boots to him.”

“Did Jillie have a favorite watering hole?”

“Boot Hill. She always went there ’cause they have live music on weekends, and she loved to dance. And because there were fewer lounge lizards trying to pick her up.”

“Did she mention any problems at the bar?”

“Not there.” Little Jim looked back to the buffalo as if the answer were on the backs of those shaggy, shedding beasts. “She came home early from work one day last week upset big time. Something at work frightened her. I told her I’d be more than happy to pay that Dr. Oakert a visit and make sure she never came home like that again.”

“But you didn’t?”

Little Jim took off his Stetson and wiped the sweat off the inside band with a paisley bandana. “She said it had nothing to do with Dr. Oakert trying to put the moves on her. She just said it was something she couldn’t talk about. That’s all she’d tell me.”

Little Jim stood and hooked his thumbs into the straps of his bib overalls as he looked at his south pasture. “She was going to help me gather some heifers from the south range. She always helped me around the place. She was a good girl, Mr. Anderson.” He stepped off the porch. “Now I better get used to doing it alone.”

“You got a horse I can sit?”

Little Jim looked skeptical. “Jillie’s sorrel mare is in the corral. Why?”

Arn laid his pen and notebook on the table. “In my younger days I was a passable cowboy. You let me use her horse, and I’ll help you gather up those heifers.”

Arn followed Little Jim to the corral. If all he had to do to help a grieving father was help gather heifers, Arn would do it every day.