In Plain Sight jp-6 Page 18

  “No,” Joe said. “Something just occurred to me.”

  “What?”

  “About Opal. Something I never thought of before.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “Sheridan,” Joe said, looking up into his mirror so he could see her face, “would you please repeat what you just told Lucy about the play you’re reading? The one about the king?”

  AS THEY WAITED for the ceremony to begin, Marybeth said, “I’ve been thinking about your new theory.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not sure I buy it. Is Opal really capable of something that mean? With her own sons?”

  Joe nodded. “Opal is capable of anything. Remember, she didn’t have any qualms about stretching a neck-high wire across the river. And you untangled her books. You know how secretive she could be.”

  Marybeth shook her head slowly. “Joe, if you’re right . . .”

  “I know,” he said.

  Marybeth started to say something to him when she was distracted by the fact that most of the people in the crowd had turned in their seats and were craning their necks and pointing.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Marybeth said.

  “Who?”

  Marybeth pointed at the black new-model Yukon that had entered the lot with a license plate that said simply ONE.

  The driver’s door opened and a big man with stooped shoulders and an easy smile swung out. He began instantly shaking hands and slapping backs. He moved through the crowd with a slick expertise, never stopping long enough to be engaged, but making eye contact with each person and calling most by name.

  Marybeth said, “He looks like he’s headed this way.”

  In a moment, he was right in front of them.

  “Joe Pickett?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m Spencer Rulon.”

  “Hello, Governor.”

  “Call me Spence. C’mon, let’s go for a little ride. Is this your wife?”

  “Yes. Marybeth.”

  “Lucky man. Come along, Marybeth. We’ll be back before the hoopla begins.”

  WYOMING GOVERNOR SPENCER Rulon drove and spoke with a kind of daredevil self-assurance that came, Joe thought, from being pretty sure all his life he was not only the smartest but the cleverest human being in the room.

  “We’ve got ten minutes before I need to be back at the opening,” the governor said, roaring out of the parking lot and onto Main Street, making the turn on what felt to Joe like two wheels. “Then I’ve got to take the plane back to Cheyenne right afterward. A pack of snarling Feds are coming to meet with me at four o’clock about the wolf issue. They’re like hyenas when they smell blood, and since we lost that court case they’re circling what they think is a dying corpse. But we’re not dead yet. We’ll win.” He shook his head in disgust. “Feds,” he spat.

  Joe fumbled for the seat belt and snapped it on securely. He shot a glance back at Marybeth in the back seat, who was doing the same thing.

  Rulon looked over at Joe and flashed on his full-blast smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Joe Pickett.”

  “Likewise,” Joe said, shaking the governor’s proffered hand while, at the same time, glancing out the windshield as they drove through a red light. Luckily, there was no cross traffic at the moment.

  “I’ve been wanting to meet you.”

  Joe couldn’t think of how to respond, so he didn’t.

  “How is that Scarlett situation going up here?”

  “Not well,” Joe said.

  “You know Arlen’s the majority floor leader, right?”

  Joe nodded, trying to keep up.

  “He explained everything to me after the session. About his brother and all. What a clusterfuck that is, eh?” Then he glanced in the rearview mirror and said, “Sorry for the inappropriate language, ma’am.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Marybeth said. “It’s a perfect description.”

  “JESUS CHRIST!” the governor howled, hitting the brakes. “Did I just drive through a red light back there?”

  Joe said, “Yes. It’s our only one.”

  “Then why the hell didn’t you say something?” Rulon asked. “Why did you just sit there and watch me do it? And when did Saddlestring get a light?”

  “We were through it before I could say anything.”

  “Don’t let me do that again.”

  Joe snorted. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “I’m still getting used to my new ride,” Rulon said, patting the dashboard as if it were the head of a dog. “Pretty nice, eh? It gets twelve miles a gallon, a real gas-guzzler. A couple of my supporters asked me how I could drive a car like this when I’m a Democrat and I’m for energy conservation and the like. I explained to them I’m a Wyoming Democrat, which means I’m a Republican who just wants to be different and stand out from the crowd, and we’ve got a hell of a lot of oil in this state we want to sell at high prices. Besides, it’s comfortable, ain’t it?”

  Joe nodded, wishing the governor had not fired his driver.

  “You should see the state plane. It’s really a dandy. I didn’t think I’d use it much, but this state is so damned big it’s really a blessing.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “So, I’ve got a question for you,” Rulon said. “An important question I’ve been wanting to ask you since I got this job.”

  Joe was surprised the governor even knew of him, much less actually thought about him.

  “What’s it like working for Randy Pope?”

  Joe thought, uh-oh. He did not want to be put in the position of talking about his boss to the governor. Besides, what Joe thought was no secret. His allegations about Pope were in the report he had submitted after he returned from Jackson Hole.

  “Actually, that’s not the question,” Rulon continued. “That’s a question. The question is still to come.”

  As he said it, he rolled down his window again and shouted at a woman carrying groceries from her car toward the door of her town house.

  “Hey, you want some help?” he shouted at her. “I can send over a trooper if you do!”

  She turned on the walk and grinned. “I’m fine, Governor,” she said.

  “Hell, I can give you a hand myself. Do you have any more bags in the car?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Have a good day, then, ma’am.”

  He powered the window back up. “I do enjoy being the governor,” he said. Then: “Where were we?”

  Joe gestured toward the digital clock on the dashboard of the Yukon. “We all probably ought to get back.”

  “You’re right,” Rulon said.

  And he stopped in the middle of the road, did a three-point turn through both lanes, and roared back down Main toward the museum.

  “That was an illegal turn,” Joe said.

  “Screw it,” Rulon said, shrugging, picking at something caught in his teeth. “I’m the governor.”

  RULON STOPPED PARALLEL to Joe’s pickup in the parking lot.

  “What a piece of crap,” Rulon said, looking at Joe’s vehicle. “They give you that to drive around in? It’s an embarrassment!”

  “My last truck burned up,” Joe said, not wanting to explain.

  Rulon smiled. “I heard about that. Ha! I also heard you shot Smoke Van Horn in a gunfight.”

  Joe paused before opening the door. “You said you had a question for me.”

  Rulon nodded, and his demeanor changed. He was suddenly serious and his eyes narrowed as if he were sizing up Joe for the first time.

  “I’ve followed your career,” Rulon said.

  “You have?” Joe was genuinely surprised.

  Rulon nodded. “I’m endlessly fascinated by the kind of people I have working for me all around the state. I’m the biggest employer this state has, you know. So when I see and hear something out of the norm, I latch on to it.”

  Joe had no idea where this
was going. He shot a glance at Marybeth in the back seat, which she returned.

  “So, here’s my question,” the governor said. “If you caught me fishing without a license, what would you do?”

  Joe paused a beat, said, “I’d give you a ticket.”

  Rulon’s face twitched. “You would? Even though you know who I am? Even though you know I could get rid of you like this?” he said, flicking an imaginary crumb off his sleeve.

  Joe nodded yes.

  “Get out then,” Rulon said abruptly. “I have to say hello to the rest of the people here.”

  Joe hesitated. That was it?

  “Go, go,” Rulon said. “We’re going to be late.”

  “Nice to meet you, Governor,” he said, sliding out.

  “You have a lovely bride,” Rulon said.

  JOE AND MARYBETH returned to their seats.

  Missy had been waiting for them and turned completely around in her chair.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  Joe and Marybeth exchanged glances.

  “I have no idea,” Marybeth said. “But I’m suddenly exhausted.”

  TEN MINUTES BEFORE ten, when the grand opening was to begin, a dirty pickup rattled into the parking lot and disgorged Hank. Joe saw that the driver of the pickup was Bill Monroe.

  “There he is,” Joe said, sitting up straight and pointing out the driver to Marybeth. “Just driving around wherever he wants to go. He’s not worried about McLanahan, and he’s not worried about me.”

  “That’s Bill Monroe?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why does he look familiar?”

  Joe snorted. “I thought the same thing at first. I told you that. But there is no way in hell we’ve ever met him or run into him before.”

  “Still there’s something about him,” Marybeth said, and he knew she was right. He waited for her to recall where she’d seen him. She was good at those kinds of things.

  As the pickup drove away, Joe searched the crowd for Sheriff McLanahan, who stood on the side of the podium talking to some ranchers on Hank’s side about the state of alfalfa in the fields.

  Joe left his seat and strode over. “Hey, Sheriff.”

  McLanahan looked up with his eyes, but didn’t raise his chin.

  Joe said, “Did you see who was driving that truck? That was Bill Monroe. Aren’t you supposed to be looking for him? Isn’t there a warrant out for his arrest? That was him right there.”

  Pink rose from under McLanahan’s collar and flushed his face. He looked away from Joe for a moment.

  “Didn’t you see him?” Joe demanded. “He was right here in this parking lot. He dropped Hank off. Aren’t you supposed to be on the lookout for him?”

  Joe stepped closer to the sheriff, talking to the side of McLanahan’s turned face, to his temple. “I know what you’re doing. You’re playing both sides, keeping your head down until it’s resolved between the brothers. But don’t you think it’s time you started doing something around here? Like arresting people who commit crimes, no matter what their name is or who they work for?”

  McLanahan stared ahead, angry, his mouth set tight.

  “How long can you sit back and watch geese fly? Or waste your time calling my boss and telling him I’m not doing my job?”

  That made McLanahan’s face twitch. Yup, Joe thought, it was McLanahan after all.

  “I’ve got an idea what might be going on with Hank, Arlen, and Opal,” Joe said. “You want to hear it?”

  McLanahan hesitated, said, “Not particularly.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  With that, the sheriff turned on his heel and walked away, past the podium, around the corner of the museum.

  Joe returned to the chairs and sat down next to Marybeth, who had seen the exchange.

  “What are you doing, Joe?”

  He shrugged. “I’m only half sure. But damn, it feels good.” JOE WAS INTERESTED to note the differences between the pro-Arlen and pro-Hank contingents. Arlen’s backers tended to be city fathers, professionals, merchants. Hank’s crowd looked much rougher than Arlen’s, consisting of some other ranchers, bar owners, mechanics, outfitters, store clerks. If it were a football game, Joe thought, Arlen’s folks would be cheering for the Denver Broncos and their upstanding players in their clean blue-and-orange uniforms. In contrast, Hank’s crowd would have spiked their hair and painted their faces black and silver and would be waving bones and swinging lengths of chain rooting for their Oak-land Raiders.

  Joe and his family sat on Arlen’s side, but Joe didn’t feel completely comfortable about it. Especially after Marybeth told him about Arlen’s meeting with Meade Davis. And even more so after the cell-phone message he had received that morning from forensics at headquarters. He wished there were seats in the aisle between the two factions.

  THE NEW WING, called the Scarlett Wing, was actually larger than the rest of the building it was attached to, which was how Opal had wanted it. The museum itself was like every little town museum Joe had visited throughout Wyoming and the mountain west: a decent little collection of wagon wheels, frontier clothing, arrowheads, rifles, tools, old books. The new addition had state-of-the-art interactive exhibits on the founding families of Twelve Sleep County, the historic ranches, the bloodlines that flowed through the community from the first settlers. In other words the Scarlett Wing was about the Scarlett family, and was simply a much larger version of the Legacy Wall in their own home that Sheridan had told him about.

  The addition had been completed that week. An earthmover and a tractor still sat behind it. Grass turf had been so hastily rolled out to cover the dirt that the seams could be clearly seen. The manufacturer stickers on the windows had yet to be removed.

  ARLEN TALKED FOR twenty-five minutes without notes, his melodious voice rising and falling, his speech filled with thunderous points and pregnant pauses. It was the speech of a politician, Joe thought, one of those stem-winders that, at the time you were hearing it, seemed to be all profundity and grace, but as soon as it was over, there was nothing to remember about it, as if the breeze had carried the memory of it away.

  Despite that, Joe focused on what Arlen said about his mother:

  “Opal Scarlett was more than a mother, more than the matriarch of Thunderhead Ranch. She was our link to the past, our living, breathing bridge from the twenty-first century to the pioneers who founded this land, fought for it, made it what it is today. And we celebrate her now with the opening of this museum . . .”

  As Arlen spoke, Joe looked for Wyatt. Finally, he spotted the youngest brother, sitting off by himself, behind the podium. Arlen’s words had obviously touched him, because Wyatt’s face was wet with tears.

  THE MAYOR INTRODUCED Hank Scarlett next.

  Hank sat hunched over on the other side of the podium, leaning forward in his chair so his head was down and all that could be seen of it was the top of his cowboy hat. He was studying his notes with fervor. The paper shook in his hands. Nervous, Joe thought.

  “Now would be a good time to go out to his place and see all of his poached game on display,” Joe whispered to Marybeth, “while he’s here and not there.”

  “But you need a warrant,” she said.

  HANK SHUFFLED TO the podium. There was something dark, mumbly, James-Dean-in-Giant about him, Joe thought. Hank followed Arlen with a crude but somehow more sincere and affecting message: “I ain’t much of a speaker, but when Mother asks you to say something you say ‘okay’ . . .”

  While he spoke he read from his notes, which were wrinkled and dirty in his hands. Joe guessed he had been reading them over and over for days.

  “Mother lives and breathes the ranch and this valley,” Hank said. “It’s like the Twelve Sleep River runs through her veins instead of blood . . .”

  He talked less than five minutes, but his tinny, halting delivery was more riveting than Arlen’s speech. Never, in the entire time they were there, did either brother acknowledge the other, ev
en with a nod.

  When he was through, Hank folded up his notes, stuffed them into the back pocket of his Wranglers, and walked off the stage. While Arlen came down into the crowd to shake hands, Hank walked away through the parking lot toward the street. The pickup driven by Bill Monroe appeared and took him away.

  Joe looked around for McLanahan and saw him in the parking lot talking heatedly with Robey Hersig.

  THE CROWD MILLED around after the speeches. Groups formed to take tours of the new Scarlett Wing, others headed toward the snacks and drinks set up near the museum entrance. A few made their way to their vehicles.

  Robey, his face red and his eyes in a snake-eyed squint, marched up to Joe and stabbed a finger into his chest. “What are you trying to do? Burn every damned bridge behind you?”

  “Stick around,” Joe said, smiling. “I’ve got a few more to go.”

  Robey turned on his boot heels and strode away from Joe toward the parking lot.

  22

  “JOE, I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’RE DOING THIS RIGHT,” Marybeth said. “This isn’t like you. You seem to be a little out of control.”

  “You’re probably right,” Joe replied. “But it’s time to shake things up.”

  She had lured him away from the crowd to a secluded place on the side of the addition. Joe felt his boot heels sink into the brand-new sod. There was real concern in her eyes.

  “Joe, I see these people every day. I work for some of them. We have to live here.”

  He tipped his hat back and rubbed his forehead where the sweatband fit. “I hate to give any credit to Randy Pope,” he said, “but he may be right about one thing, and that’s the tendency to go native if you stay somewhere too long.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Think about what you just said. You’re starting to weigh my job and my duty against who we may offend. If that’s a problem, Marybeth, maybe we’ve overstayed our welcome here.”