Dang Near Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 2) Page 16

  The only revealing data on the report might be disciplinary actions taken against Rickoff, which wouldn’t necessarily equate to PTSD anger issues.

  I tried the National Personnel Records Center, which stored records of mental health treatment of military retirees. The site looked promising, until I read, “Before sending a request to NPRC, contact the last medical treatment facility to determine if a patient’s records have been retired to the NPRC.”

  This was a dead end. The patient protection act, HIPAA, precluded medical facilities from releasing medical information except to veterans and next of kin. NPRC’s information was available to a third person only if the veteran authorized them to receive it. That would never happen. Strike two.

  My last option was the Freedom of Information Act. Some military service information could be obtained without the veteran or next of kin’s authorization, like the transcript of a trial if the veteran had been court-martialed.

  The information might not relate to a service man’s mental health, but I typed in “Wayne Rickoff.” No record of court-martial. Strike three.

  It appeared that Meredith, Sam and I would have to plow through our remaining time at the ranch suspecting and fearing Wayne Rickoff, but knowing little about him. If we left the ranch without learning more, I supposed Sam could share what little we knew with local authorities.

  I shut down the laptop and peered outside the cabin door in time to see Sam marching toward Meredith in detective stride.

  The girls came out of their cabin, giggling, except for Millie, who still looked pale. Meredith told them to go ahead to the lodge without us.

  When I joined Meredith and Sam, his furrowed brow told me our vacation days were coming to an end. “I heard Selma tell George they should leave the ranch,” he said, “that the wild-eyed vet who shoots everything in sight gives her the creeps.”

  “I think we agree with Selma on that one,” I said. “I searched online for Rickoff’s service records, but they’re not available to the general public.”

  We started walking toward the lodge.

  “Selma said if Vicki could get thrown, she wondered how safe the other horses were,” he said.

  I pictured Marbach, swiveling his rear in position to kick me to kingdom come.

  “George agreed that if Vicki died,” he said, “guests would scatter like mice. If everybody left, Selma said, at least George wouldn’t have to suffer at the dude ranch anymore.”

  He stopped and frowned. “The funny thing was, just before I left the cabin, I heard George tell Selma to call the Nature Conservancy. She had a friendly conversation with whoever answered. George kept prompting Selma to ask questions. I couldn’t hear all they said, but I thought I heard them mention Bertha Sampson.”

  “That is strange,” I said. “Selma’s into conservation, but from what I can tell, George rejects the whole concept.”

  Sam agreed. “Why would George Tensel encourage Selma to discuss Bertha with the conservancy?” We inched toward the lodge comparing notes.

  Sam and I dreaded it, but we knew we had to tell Meredith that Vicki might die and that we thought somebody at the ranch had tried to kill her. When Sam told her, she stopped dead still.

  “What kind of monster could kill that young girl? Why?”

  “That’s what we have to find out,” he said.

  When Meredith asked how we concluded someone caused Vicki’s fall, we described the clues I’d found on the trail.

  “Animal hair, rope, and wire wouldn’t be accidentally lying near where Vicki fell,” Sam said. “We think somebody used those items to spook her horse.”

  I also had to tell Meredith the crime lab scientist said that paint on the rock I found matched Sunny Barlow’s face paint.

  She was stunned. “Not Sunny…”

  I switched the focus back to Rickoff. “Any noise might have spooked Vicki’s horse,” I said, “like a shot from Rickoff’s gun. Vicki told me that when Rickoff was angry about something once, he sighted her for a few seconds through his gun scope.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Sam said.

  “I forgot to tell you,” I said. I decided to reveal I’d had a brief talk with Sunny. “Years ago, Rickoff cut Sunny’s face at a Wisconsin rodeo. Sunny said when Vicki accompanied her boyfriend to the rodeo, she witnessed the attack.”

  Sam gave me a questioning look. “Sunny told you that?” he said.

  “He let it slip.” I wasn’t about to tell Sam I’d followed Rickoff to Sunny’s cabin to eavesdrop.

  Instead, I told Meredith how the Landsdales described Vicki’s brother Trey and why they sent him to the ranch. “I suspect he has a major drug problem,” I said.

  “Why would Sunny or Rickoff or brother Trey want to kill Vicki?” Meredith said.

  “We don’t know that any of them wanted to kill her, only that each one had a connection to her,” Sam said.

  I didn’t mention the note from Vicki I’d found in Sunny’s cabin. I couldn’t admit I’d been in there, and I wasn’t sure what the note meant.

  “We’ll catch the bastard,” Sam said, “whoever he is.” He hesitated. “I called the hospital again this morning,” he said. “Vicki’s still in a coma.”

  “Oh, no…” Meredith said.

  Sam looked pointedly at Meredith and me. “Don’t forget that whoever tried to kill Vicki Landsdale is probably still here. Don’t forget to watch your backs.”

  Trying to absorb everything she’d just learned, Meredith took a deep breath before she spoke. “I learned a few things at the corral this morning. I was petting Vicki’s horse and noticed a mark on its back. I wondered if somebody’d put a burr under the saddle to make it pitch. When I moved closer to study the sore spot, Ranger Travis slipped up behind me and barked at me to leave the horse alone.

  He said the horse was still nervous from the storm, sirens and helicopter and might hurt me. The horse didn’t look skittish to me. I think Ranger wanted to scare me away from investigating anything involving Vicki’s fall.”

  “I’d noticed earlier,” I said, “that when Ranger tried to flirt with Vicki, she gave him the cold shoulder.”

  Sam shook his head. “I should get you two out of here before you get hurt.”

  Thirty-Six

  I hated hearing Sam talk about leaving. We’d learned so many new facts and needed time to fit the pieces together. We kept walking toward the lodge.

  “More happened at the corral,” Meredith said. “After Ranger shooed me away from the horse, I saw Monty talking to a cowboy that I’d never seen before. His hat hid most of his face, and his hair hung longer than his chin, so I couldn’t see his features.

  “He glowered down at Monty,” she said. “‘I’m riding with you,’ he told Monty. They walked into the barn. I ambled closer, petting horses as I went, so I could eavesdrop. I couldn’t hear much, except when they talked loud.”

  “Monty said, ‘Ranger’s got enough wranglers. He can’t hire you.’

  ‘If he don’t, you’re going back to jail,’ the cowboy said.

  ‘Nah. That can’t happen…’

  ‘Sure as hell can,’ the cowboy said. ‘You probly told the boss you just cut a gang member. I heard that kid died. Bet your boss don’t know that.’

  “Monty looked real worried. When they came out of the barn, I turned my back and pretended to be totally engrossed in my horse. But I could still hear them.”

  “‘Got me a sweet deal here,’ Monty said. ‘Might be head wrangler someday. I can’t go back to that jail.’

  “‘Then cut me in on your deal,’ the guy said. ‘If anybody here gets suspicious… get rid of ’em.’

  “They were walking toward me, so I fiddled with my horse’s cinch. Monty came over and introduced the cowboy as Currin Dowdy, a guy from his rodeo days. Dowdy l
ooked at the ground. Just then, Selma showed up and said she’d try to ride because she didn’t want to get back in the river. Ranger saddled a horse for her that looked like it was asleep, and we mounted.

  “Nobody talked during the ride,” Meredith said. “Selma was too scared of her horse to say much. Dowdy’s a big guy, and he rode right behind Monty the whole way, like he was trying to intimidate him. When we got back, Selma and I dismounted, and Ranger started talking to Monty and the cowboy in low tones. I couldn’t hear what they said.”

  “Sounds like Dowdy and Monty might have been jailbirds together,” Sam said. “Monty’s hiding information he didn’t tell Ranger.”

  When we neared the lodge, Sam stopped and turned to us. “I think you and Meredith should make some excuse about a sick relative and go back to San Antonio.”

  She and I exchanged glances.

  “If you take us home and come back,” I said, “it’ll blow your cover. Somebody’s bound to figure out you stayed to investigate and will check you out.”

  “We can help you, Sam,” Meredith said. “We can pick up tidbits without the killer having any reason to suspect us.”

  I loved Meredith’s logic. Since we were all famished, she and I had a reprieve, at least through dinner—maybe through the next day—while Sam decided what to do. If I stepped up my investigation, maybe I could flush out the killer before Sam decided we should leave. At the right time, I’d tell him what I’d learned, and we could work together. I realized my curiosity was trumping my judgment, but we were so close to learning what happened. It might help Vicki.

  Hunger and necessity sharpen one’s mind. The bud of an idea took shape.

  In the dining hall, everybody shuffled around in silence while Maria put dinner on the serving bar. There wasn’t even much chatter in the food line or after everybody sat. Once guests were settled, Bertha stood.

  “I know you’re all concerned about Vicki. I’m happy to tell you she’s recovering.”

  The group uttered a collective sigh. Sam, Meredith, and I sliced glances at each other.

  “Her parents are with her at the hospital in San Antonio. I’m sure we’ll find out more details later. Until then, enjoy your dinner.”

  Bertha was lying to keep guests from leaving the ranch. My imagination raced. Maybe Bertha and Vicki had argued. Vicki discovered something Bertha didn’t want her to know about the Vernons’ deaths or the water well. In her anger, Bertha spooked Vicki’s horse. Bertha couldn’t let everyone know how critical the girl was. If Bertha had caused Vicki’s fall and the girl died, she’d be ruined.

  I glanced at the elk positioned high on the wall with his brown eyes surveying the room. If only trophies could talk. I noticed something different about the smaller animals hanging from the ceiling. Were wires holding them the same kind Ranger used for sculptures? The same type of wire I’d found where Vicki was thrown? I needed to examine those specimens up close.

  Nobody seemed sufficiently motivated to move outside to a campfire. Sunny sang a few songs in the lodge dining room, sad songs. It was nearly dark when we left the lodge to return to our cabins. We three kept to ourselves, speculating about Bertha’s announcement and how the others had reacted.

  With my feet itching like crazy, I crystallized my plan.

  After dark, I’d sneak back to the lodge.

  Thirty-Seven

  When I was sure everyone was asleep, I popped upright and reviewed my plans. My actions might prove dangerous. I didn’t want Meredith involved.

  I slipped into baggy jeans, tennis shoes and the pigeon vest I’d stuffed under my sheet. The vest had a pocket for my flashlight in case the moonlight wasn’t bright enough for me to see clearly. I crept out the door and stood on the stoop, adjusting my eyes to the darkness. The moon was barely visible, but I could see the path to the lodge well enough not to need my light, so I zipped it in my pocket so it wouldn’t fall out. I didn’t want to attract attention, especially if a murderer was out prowling.

  I’d taken a few steps down the path when I heard something whistling. Sliding into shadows at the path’s border, I stood stock-still and listened. The sound came from above me. I looked up. High in a tree, a bird with an owl-shaped head trilled a whistle. A Whippoorwill? Exhaling, I inched forward, still moving close to the brush. The sound of unidentified animals scurrying close by propelled me back onto the path.

  When I neared the lodge, I stayed on my side of the path, hiding in shadows, my eyes searching in all directions for movement or sound. Fortunately, the outside of the lodge wasn’t lighted except for a tall overhead light on a pole behind the building that cast a soft glow.

  When I felt safe, I crossed the path and tiptoed up the steps to the lodge. Squinting between the door and frame, I saw the glow of a nightlight. I turned the knob a smidgen and was surprised to find the front door unlocked. Twisting it with painstaking slowness so it wouldn’t squeak, I edged the door open and slipped inside. If Bertha was a killer, I doubted she’d be worried about anyone else coming into the lodge. On the other hand, I might find myself trapped in there with her. I made sure the front door didn’t lock behind me, in case I needed to escape.

  I knew Bertha’s bedroom was to the left of the reception desk. I peeked in the room to make sure she was there. She snored like a bear.

  Retrieving the flashlight from my pocket, I covered half the glass with my hand before turning it on. On tiptoe, I crept though the dining room toward the kitchen, thankful to be walking on stained concrete that didn’t creak. I found a stepstool in the kitchen, hauled it back to the dining hall without making a sound, and set it beneath the pair of suspended bobcats. When I climbed three steps up the stool, I was high enough so that moonlight streaming through the windows lit the creatures well enough for me to see details. I zipped the flashlight back in my pocket.

  Both cats had brown and gray fur, but the reddish cast of fur down their backs was most distinctive. Black spots ran through the fur. The larger cat, probably the male, was three feet long and looked like he weighed around thirty-five pounds. The smaller female, about thirty inches long, probably weighed close to thirty pounds. She was twice the size of an average house cat.

  I was close to their round pixie-like faces and black-tufted ears. Their “bobbed” tails had black points marking the tips, as though they’d been dipped in ink. I ran my hand from the top of the female’s head to the tip on her tail. Her fur was coarse. I expected the white fur that ran under her chin down to her stomach to be soft, but when I rubbed the fur between my fingers, it felt stiff.

  I fingered the wire suspending the female cat.

  It appeared to be the same kind Ranger used to sculpt his creatures. Several strands of new wire had been twisted together for strength, as though somebody had recently re-hung the cat. Was the old wire I’d found on the trail formerly used to hang these cats?

  I reached up to re-position the smaller bobcat, making its tail higher. Now it appeared to look directly down toward the dining room. I wondered whether Vicki’s attacker would notice.

  I studied the larger cat. Its wires were old and rusty.

  “What are you doing in here, girl?” Bertha’s gravelly voice nearly knocked me off the stool. When I grabbed the wire to steady myself, I cut my hand. She stood flatfooted in long faded pajamas, her hair shooting broom-like from her head. She pinned me with beady eyes.

  “I noticed this bobcat at dinner,” I stammered, holding my bleeding hand. “I…I think somebody re-hung this one with the kind of sculpture wire Ranger Travis uses.”

  To my amazement, Bertha folded into the nearest chair and collapsed into tears. I eased down the stepstool and went over to pat her arm with my non-bleeding hand.

  “I’m so sorry. What’s wrong?” She was in no condition to kill me, at least not yet.

  She rose with effort and padded back to the recep
tion desk, where she snatched a tissue and blew her nose. I followed, not too close, making sympathetic sounds.

  I grabbed a couple of Kleenexes and pressed them to my wound to stop the bleeding, stuffed a couple more tissues in my pocket and sniffled with Bertha.

  She pointed to the row of wire animal sculptures on a shelf behind the reception desk. “See those?” she said. “They’re some of Ranger’s finest work.”

  I’d only glanced at them before. “Those really are good,” I said. “I didn’t know he was so versatile…talented…flexible.” Recalling Ranger’s hasty exit with Jangles after dinner, I struggled to find the right word.

  “I’ve got more of his work in my bedroom,” she said, motioning me to follow.

  Pausing at the threshold, I saw wire sculptures lined up like prizes on the shelf above her bed. Front and center among them was a photograph of Bertha when she was young, thin and gorgeous, standing beside Ranger Travis. Amazing.

  “That’s how I used to look,” she said. “Sometimes age sneaks up too fast.”

  That was a scary thought. I’d work out at the health club the instant we returned to San Antonio and get serious researching the anti-aging properties of telomeres.

  “It’s a hard job, running a ranch like this by myself. Ranger used to help me. Until Vicki came.” I frowned at her. Had she spooked Vicki’s horse out of jealousy? She started crying again.

  “I didn’t hurt Vicki, if that’s what you think. We have our disagreements, but her accident means I could lose this ranch. People might be afraid to come here…afraid of the horses…afraid we’re careless… whatever. This here ranch is all I’ve got. It’s my home and I love it.” She was crying so hard, I began to believe her. She settled down.

  “I found out Vicki was about to leave the ranch,” she sniffed. “I went into her cabin the other day, just to check things out. I found maps.”