Something More (3 page)

“Besides the ring, there wasn't any other identification?”

“Like I said, I didn't look. I figured that was your job.”

“You're right, of course,” Beauchamp agreed on an absent note. “It's better if the area remains undisturbed until our people get there.”

“Will you be coming out yet today?”

There was the smallest hesitation. On a suddenly cynical note, Luke guessed that the veteran politician was trying to determine the level of priority he should give the discovery.

“We'll be there within the hour,” Beauchamp replied, clearly having decided that if he was going to err, it would be on the side of caution.

With the receiver returned to its cradle, Luke turned and found himself looking into Dulcie's soulful blue eyes. “The Ten Bar isn't a cemetery.” Her voice sounded small and uncertain. “How come somebody got buried on it, Luke?”

As an orphan, Dulcie had firsthand knowledge of such things as death, burials, and cemeteries. It was a knowledge that had turned her into a quiet, withdrawn child, slow to smile and slower still to laugh.

Luke had learned the usefulness of both smiling and laughing. He flashed her a smile of unconcern. “That's what the sheriff is going to find out.”

It was a nonanswer, given to shield her from further unpleasantness. Luke knew that bodies didn't bury themselves, which meant there was only one likely reason for that body being buried on the Ten Bar: somebody had believed it wouldn't be found.

“Who do you suppose it could be?” A frown dug furrows into Fargo's brow as he pondered the question.

“It doesn't matter. It isn't our problem.” Luke took a drink of coffee, wanting to believe that.

W
ord of the skeleton unearthed on Ten Bar land spread through the area with the speed of a wildfire. Speculation followed hot on its heels. Every time two people got together, the subject invariably crept into the conversation, replete with the latest rumor—whether fact or fiction.

Some claimed strands of brown hair had been unearthed with the skeleton; others insisted the hair was black. A few swore that bits of a plaid fabric, pearl snaps from a cowboy shirt, rivets, a zipper, and a metal button stamped with the Levi name had been discovered. But the majority scoffed at that, claiming that not a single scrap of clothing had been found with the body, clearly indicating the body had been naked as a baby when it was dumped in its grave.

On only two things everyone agreed. In addition to the class ring that had been found with the body, the skeleton had also had a full set of false teeth.

They were important clues, to be sure. But after six weeks of speculation and debate, no one in or around Glory, Wyoming, had been able to figure out the identity of the remains found on the Ten Bar Ranch. Every name suggested, someone else knew where they were either living or buried. But instead of slowing down the talk, it fueled it.

As always, the Rimrock served as the central clearinghouse for any and all information about the case. Ima Jane Evans had long been the collector and dispenser of all the latest happenings in the area. The locals had realized years ago that if there was anything going on, Ima Jane would know about it—sooner rather than later. Every Saturday night, they crowded into the Rimrock to catch up on the news, confident of coming away with a juicy tidbit or two of gossip. Ima Jane rarely disappointed them.

No one had any doubt that the Rimrock was better than a newspaper. A lot of things went on that a newspaper just wouldn't print. But Ima Jane didn't believe in censorship. If something was said, she repeated it. No newspaper would do that.

Of course, the locals regarded it as irrelevant that Glory, Wyoming, wasn't big enough to have a newspaper. Strictly speaking, Glory wasn't even considered a town anymore. Fifty years ago, when the population dropped to fifty-one, it lost its post office. Most maps of the state didn't bother to include Glory. There wasn't even a sign on the state highway identifying the collection of buildings grouped along its right-of-way. A snowplow had knocked it over three years ago, and the state hadn't gotten around to erecting a new one.

Strangers to the area rarely glanced twice at the little roadside community unless they were hungry or in need of gas. When they did, they invariably noticed the tall, red block letters spelling out the word
RIMROCK
painted across the bar's second-story front and assumed it to be the town's name. Few were ever curious enough to inquire about the accuracy of their assumption.

Once, a freestanding sign close to the road had proclaimed the structure to be the
RIMROCK BAR
&
GRILL
, setting occasional travelers straight—or, at least, prompting them to ask the town's name. But rotting wood and a strong wind had turned the sign into one of the area's distant memories, something to be recalled with the same absent fondness as the Glory Post Office.

Ima Jane and Griff Evans had opted to pocket the insurance money rather than spend it on replacing the sign, reasoning that such advertising was wasted on the locals. As for the infrequent stranger, there was a neon COORS sign in one front window, and a second that read EATS in the other window. A person would have to be literally blind not to figure out there was food and drink inside.

Both signs were aglow when Luke swung his pickup into the parking lot. It was half past six on a Saturday night, the sun still lingering in the western sky, but the lot was already crowded with its usual collection of pickups and utility vehicles, along with a sedan or two.

Luke parked his truck in one of the few empty slots remaining and switched off the engine. After slipping off his sunglasses, he hooked them on the visor and opened the cab door, pocketing the keys. As he stepped out, an old blue pickup pulled into the lot. Tobe West was behind the wheel, a towheaded Dulcie barely visible beside him and Fargo Young propped against the passenger door. Luke waited while they parked not far from his location.

When they joined him, Fargo rubbed his growling stomach and complained, “I'm so hungry I could eat the hair off a hog. I wonder what Griff fixed for a special tonight.” He sniffed the air, searching for an aroma that might tell him.

Tobe didn't have food on his mind. “Do you think Ima Jane has heard anything new about our skeleton, Luke?”

Neither subject held any interest for Luke, something neither man would have understood if he told them. Knowing that, Luke replied, “Why don't we go find out?”

When he headed toward the door, Tobe and Fargo fell in step with him. Dulcie trailed behind her brother, a pale and silent shadow.

The Rimrock was the kind of small cowboy bar that could be found in every town, large or small, throughout the West. Its decor ran to wood paneling on the walls with local brands burned into it at intervals. Mixed in with a scattering of mounted antlers and horns were framed photographs of area heroes caught in action at the local rodeo, riding rank bulls or broncs, bulldogging a steer, or snaring a calf.

The minute they set foot inside the bar, Fargo chuckled with glee. “Hot dang, if he didn't fix ribs tonight,” he declared. “How did Griff know I had me a taste for a man-sized slab of 'em?”

All but drooling in anticipation, Fargo made straight for an empty booth along the wall, its cushioned seats covered in patched and faded vinyl. Tobe followed him, with Dulcie bringing up the rear. Luke branched off, wending his way around the tables to a vacant stool at the bar. Ima Jane had his glass of Wild Turkey and water waiting for him when he slid onto the stool.

“Hi, handsome.” Her smile offered its usual warm welcome. In Ima Jane's case, it was genuine. “You'd better let Fargo know that Griff fixed his fall-off-the-bone-tender ribs tonight.”

Luke grinned. “His nose told him that when he walked in the door.”

Ima Jane laughed. “If he wants some, he needs to get his order in quick. They're flying out of that kitchen like they had wings.”

“Don't they always,” Luke replied, watching over the rim of his drink while she tilted a frosty mug under the beer tap and pulled a draw.

“You've got that right.” She worked as she talked, never missing a beat and always smiling. “And why not? Griff is the best cook in a hundred miles. The first time I tasted his cooking, I knew he was the man for me.”

At forty-nine, Ima Jane Evans was a slender and attractive woman, with short, curly hair, its color a rich, gleaming brown. Clairol brown, Ima Jane called it with a laugh. By nature, she was a people lover who loved to listen as much as she loved to talk. An inveterate gossip she might be, but everyone agreed there wasn't a malicious bone in her body.

A waitress sailed past the bar, calling, “Two Cokes, one Bud, a bourbon and branch.”

“Coming right up,” Ima Jane acknowledged, then slid another glance at Luke, her dark eyes all bright and knowing. “Have you heard from Beauchamp in the last day or two?”

“Nope,” Luke drawled in disinterest and downed another swallow of diluted whiskey.

But the mention of Beauchamp caught the ear of Doug Chalmers, a cowboy at the Cross Timbers Ranch, west of Glory. “Sam Hunt told me that Beauchamp finally got the report from the crime lab. They said the body was that of a white male in his mid- to late-twenties,” he said, quick to volunteer the information and eager to learn more. “The way I heard it, they couldn't determine a cause of death.”

“Mid- to late-twenties, you say?” Another cowboy poked his head around to peer along the bar at Doug.

“That's what I heard.” Doug glanced uncertainly at Ima Jane, seeking to verify his facts. He relaxed a little when it became clear no correction was forthcoming. “Why do you ask?”

The other man frowned. “It just struck me as kinda young for a man to lose all his teeth.”

“I wouldn't go saying that around Johnny Fayne if I were you,” Luke advised, his mouth twisting wryly. “He might take exception to that.”

His observation drew a round of laughter from the others gathered at the bar and brought a sheepish look to the cowboy's face. Between bulls, broncs, and a penchant for brawling, Johnny Fayne had lost all his teeth before he reached the ripe old age of nineteen. He was forever handing his dentures to someone for safekeeping before he climbed on a rank one or jumped into a brawl.

“With Johnny, those choppers spend more time out of his mouth than they do in it, that's for sure,” Doug remarked.

For a moment, Luke thought the talk might get sidetracked into a discussion of Johnny Fayne. That hope proved to be short-lived.

“If that fella was in his middle twenties, then he must have been in the ground sixty-seventy years or more.”

“How do you figure that, Joe?” Doug turned to the rancher who had offered the thought.

“I was going by the date on that class ring he was wearing,” the man explained, then fixed his gaze on the woman behind the bar. “Did they ever find out what school that was from, Ima Jane?”

Seconds ticked without an answer, a sure sign to everyone that she knew something. Her smile widened as she took note of her suddenly rapt audience.

“They did more than that.” She paused again, deliberately allowing the suspense to build while she set the drinks on the tray for the waitress. Finished, she wiped her hands on a towel. “They've identified the body.”

There was an instant of silence before she was bombarded with questions from a dozen different directions.

“Who is it?” asked one.

“How did you find that out?” another asked.

“When did you hear that?”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I'm standing here,” she confirmed.

“How come you never said anything before now?” Joe Gibbs demanded, a bit huffy.

She gave him a big-eyed look of innocence, a betraying twinkle of laughter in her expression. “You never asked, Joe.”

“Well, I'm asking now!” he exploded in exasperation. “Who is it?”

Ima Jane sighed in exaggerated regret. “I don't know.”

“You don't know?! But you just said—” the rancher sputtered.

She held up a calming hand. “I said . . . they had identified the body. Unfortunately, Beauchamp won't release the name until the next of kin have been notified.” She glanced again at Luke.

“Don't look at me.” He drew back, shaking his head, denying he had any knowledge. “I haven't heard a word from Beauchamp in weeks.”

“You must have some idea who this guy was, Ima Jane,” Doug insisted.

Disappointed in Luke's answer, Ima Jane shrugged. “All I know for sure is that the man was from out of state.”

“I knew all along it had to be a stranger,” Joe declared. “Didn't I tell you that, Hank? It just makes sense. No one from around here has come up missing.”

“Yeah, but . . . who was this guy?” Doug argued. “What was he doing here? And how did he end up getting buried on the Ten Bar?”

Ima Jane lifted her hands, palms up, an infectious smile spreading across her face. “As they used to say on the old radio serials, ‘Stay tuned for the next installment. '”

Her comment drew a round of laughter from the men at the bar, the honest, belly-laugh kind. But it satisfied them that she had no more information to relate. With feigned casualness, one by one they drifted away, taking their drinks with them, to spread the news.

All except Luke. He remained at the bar, nursing his drink. He smiled into it as the idle hum of voices behind him grew to an excited buzz.

Temporarily without a drink order to fill, Ima Jane poured herself a cup of coffee and wandered to Luke's end of the bar. Her glance traveled over the room, ending its arcing sweep when it reached Luke.

“I was certain Beauchamp would have talked to you about his findings.” The probing search of her bright eyes told Luke that she wasn't convinced he hadn't spoken to the sheriff.

“Why do you think he would?” he countered, amused rather than annoyed by her persistence.

“The body was found on the Ten Bar.” Her tone made it clear that she regarded the answer as obvious. “It's only logical that once Beauchamp discovered the man's identity, he would check to see if the name meant anything to you.”

“Why should it?” A slow smile softened the scoffing response. “If Joe Gibbs is right in his figuring, that body was in the ground long before I was ever born. It isn't likely the name would mean anything to me, especially if he wasn't from around here. I'm sure Beauchamp knew that.” He downed another swallow of his drink, welcoming the whiskey burn in his throat.

“Just the same, I'm surprised he didn't check. His name might be somewhere in the ranch records, indicating he'd worked at the Ten Bar in the past or—”

“Does anybody have records that go that far back?” Luke mocked lightly. “And my father never talked much about cowboys who had worked for him in the past. In fact, I can't recall that he ever did.”

“Are you sure?” Her eyes sharpened on him in skepticism.

He released a laughing breath. “Ima Jane, you can pump all you want, but I can't give you information that I don't have.”

“I know. But it's all so frustrating,” she said in sudden disgust. “I don't understand why Beauchamp is making such a secret of the name. He's known the man's identity for a week.”