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After Mass, with Tom joining in on the kneeling, but not the signs of the cross, Tamantha doing both, and me revealing my rust, we were out in the parking lot when Tamantha gave her verdict.
“I like it,” she said firmly. “I’m glad the first wedding’s going to be here.”
“Is that because you have persuaded the priest to let you do cartwheels down the aisle?” I’d seen how he’d greeted her just now as parishioners filed past — like an old friend, when they’d only met once, when we made arrangements after the first of the year.
Of course, Tamantha is unforgettable.
She grinned.
“Just one cartwheel. But I mean today — the Mass. I like it.”
Tom gave nothing away by expression or sound, but his slight stillness did convey a reaction.
“Why do you like it, Tamantha?” I asked.
“The singing sounds better.” She dashed ahead to get to the truck, ready for a promised waffle breakfast in Cody.
I dug an elbow into Tom’s side. “Relax. It’s acoustics, not conversion.”
The lines around his eyes deepened and the stillness dissipated.
****
We stopped at Elk Rock Ranch on the way back, since it was practically on the way.
Tamantha opted to stay in the truck, reading. The absence of animals in sight probably tipped the scales for her.
Wendy and Brenda were just getting out of a truck.
“Just back from town?” I asked cheerfully.
“Waste of time,” Wendy grumbled. “Couldn’t even pick up supplies with everything closed for Sunday morning.”
Brenda grunted. “Everything closed except the sheriff’s department. Did that formal statement they wanted. That was a waste of time, too. Told them the same thing as yesterday. That young Richard Alvaro said he was recording it, so don’t know what they needed from me saying it again, anyway.”
She clearly wasn’t wise in the ways of law enforcement — or journalists — wanting things on the record. At the same time on the lookout for any discrepancies between Version One and Version Two.
Apparently, Brenda hadn’t had any such discrepancies, because it sounded like an efficient trip to the sheriff’s department.
The vulnerability of the previous day was gone. Both women had returned to their impregnable selves. At least outwardly.
Wendy said, “I got paperwork to do. You never trouble yourself with it and—”
“Why should I? I’m not the high-and-mighty owner.”
“—if it doesn’t get done, we close up faster than a cardboard suitcase and we’ll all be out of a home.”
“Keefe’s already out of a home. Out of a life, too, and—”
Brenda broke off and we all turned at the sound of a vehicle clattering over the bridge like someone sweeping a hand over piano keys.
Randall Kenyon’s rental truck careened up the drive toward us, bouncing from one side to the other as it hit end-of-winter ruts and gullies.
Why was Randall available to arrive at Elk Rock in this or any other fashion?
I’d expected Shelton to have all those ducks lined up by now and be grilling Randall on the planting of the letter that pointed suspicion toward Wendy. Plus, using the planting of the letter as leverage on possible murder charges.
The motive still needed work, although—
