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“Sure. Based on the previous year’s adult population per square yard. That way they get on potential hotspots early. I know you’re mostly joking about the wedding, but grasshoppers can devastate crops and forage. One more thing to stay on top of.”
And he had plenty to stay on top of already. I wouldn’t be seeing as much of him soon with calving season approaching. He’d also need time to plan with his assistant, Connie Walterston, for the upcoming road construction season.
Summer didn’t let up, either. Once I was overruled on a quicky, immediate marriage ceremony, we’d considered a fall wedding so we — he — had more time, but neither of us wanted to wait that long.
The honeymoon would wait for a more convenient time — convenient for the ranch, that was. I was also marrying the Circle B.
I told him what we’d gathered today about Keefe. It felt like a lot of telling for not much progress.
“You always feel that way at the start.” Then Tom called, “Time for dinner, Tamantha, Shadow.”
He was right.
It was time for dinner. And I did often — always was too strong — feel this way at the start of investigating a murder. He was even right that I was mostly kidding about the grasshoppers.
My mother wouldn’t be, but we’d deal with it.
As long as we got married, I’d be fine.
A little voice at the back of my head spoke up.
As long as we figured out who’d killed Keefer Dobey, then Tom and I got married, I’d be fine.
DAY THREE
THURSDAY
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
One issue with living in the Mountain Time Zone instead of the Eastern was if I wanted to get people before they left for lunch I couldn’t dawdle around as long as I liked to in the mornings.
That wasn’t nearly as bad a problem as people from the East Coast forgetting it was two hours earlier where I was, but I’d solved that with an app that blocked calls until a civilized hour. Only problems, now, arose from the exceptions.
Specifically my mother, who ignored it was one hour earlier than her Illinois clock.
I needed an app that blocked Mom unless the call involved dire emergencies — my definition of dire emergencies. Not hers.
Yes, Mom woke me up to tell me the first RSVP to the wedding had come in. A cousin of my father’s called Mom to say the invitation arrived and she planned to come to the wedding with her son and daughter-in-law.
I’d thought they’d be no’s for sure. Uh-oh.
“It doesn’t count unless she mails it back,” I said.
We’d sent RSVP cards to all guests that could be mailed back, with an option to RSVP via the wedding website Jennifer made for us — not an option this woman would take. Jennifer called the site minimalist. I called it something I was really glad she was handling.
Mom said, “I can just tell Jennifer to add her and her kids—” Who were older than me. “—to the website.”
“Jennifer’s in a rigorous academic program and already doing a lot—”
“It won’t take her but a second.”
“Mom—”
“What? Aren’t you excited? It’s really happening, Elizabeth. It’s really happening.”
It didn’t take a distant relative RSVPing to make marrying Tom real. But maybe it did firm up the blurry view of the wedding on the horizon.
“That’s great, Mom. And thank you for all you’re doing—”
