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Lunch was mostly to catch up about her three sons, and how they were successfully rotating schooling and running their family ranch, along with her questions about wedding plans.
All to set the groundwork.
Because this was not the place to ask my other questions. Far too easy to be overheard. But it provided a nice background for what I planned next with Connie.
The text I received brought our pleasant lunch to a close.
Dale, the news aide, reported that the Cottonwood County Sheriff’s Department had removed the crime scene tape from Keefer Dobey’s cabin and Diana was waiting for me at the station to go to Elk Rock Ranch.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Inside, it took a moment for our eyes to adjust, with not a lot of natural light coming from small front windows tucked under the porch’s overhang.
A rock fireplace dominated, with a worn leather sofa in front of it. On either side of the fireplace, a door led to a small bedroom.
The one on the right appeared to have been Keefer’s, with men’s clothes hung on a metal tube between two walls, a single bed — made — and two open cabinets with shelves holding folded men’s underwear, t-shirts, and socks.
The second bedroom must have been his mother’s at one time, from the floral wallpaper frieze that had darkened with age. Instead of a bed, it held a desk stacked with folders and books except for an open space directly in front of the old, wooden rollable chair.
“Computer?” Diana asked from over my shoulder. “Think the sheriff’s department took it?”
“Probably and probably. Ivy Short did mention a laptop. And it makes sense for the kind of research he was doing. Trying to do.”
“Uh-huh. A lot of dead trees research, too,” she said.
In addition to the desk, shelving cabinets like the ones holding clothes in his bedroom held more folders. Books crammed a large bookshelf that leaned slightly to one side.
“Shelton must not have thought the answer to Keefe’s death was in these papers,” Diana said. “I sure hope he was right.”
I grunted agreement. Going through these materials wouldn’t be as arduous as going through Sam McCracken’s, but close. Keefe had fewer books and denser paper files.
Coming back to the main area, we passed a table for two under a triple window on the back wall that looked to the woods, with a misty peak in the distance. It was the primary source of natural light. One corner of the table showed a stain that could have been blood.
More of the stain showed on the wooden floor nearby.
With the window at our backs we could see the living area better. Not that there was much more to see. Except an unframed painting propped on the mantel. It was pleasant, but clearly the work of an amateur.
Diana looked from the painting to out the window. “Same view.”
The cabin was scrupulously neat, but not clean. The home of a man who wore his dirty boots inside, but didn’t kick them off in the middle of the floor.
Shelton’s minions apparently respected the neatness by not tossing the place with the abandon l’ve seen some law enforcement do.
Just beyond the table was the kitchen area. A door across from it stood open, showing a bathroom that might have started as rustic in the fifties and now was just old.
Beside the kitchen sink, set under a small window I’d need to bend down to look out, two coffee mugs sat out by an old-fashioned coffeemaker. No French Press for Keefer Dobey. But clearly a heavy coffee drinker, since the worn surfaces said this was the most used area of the kitchen.
For a second that surprised me, since he’d shared this cabin with his mother the cook. But she’d died a long time ago, and before that, as Brenda indicated, the brunt of her cooking was done in the cookhouse.
I opened the cabinet above the coffeemaker. On the left, another half-dozen mugs whose dust coverings declared they hadn’t been moved in years.
On the right, were glasses. The few in front shone clean in the light from the window — two water tumblers, two juice glasses that could stand in as highball glasses, two champagne flutes, which did add a surprising element to Keefer Dobey. Behind and above them showed groupings of those varieties, plus white and red wine glasses — all shrouded in fine dust — completing a thorough set.
I moved on, opening another cabinet door.
“Looking for something?” Diana asked.
The cabinet had dishes reflecting similar usage — regulars at the front kept clean, specialist dishes high and wide, dusted with disuse.
