“Very well,” the man said. “Maybe I can help you make a decision. As I mentioned, the trend is toward themed urns. Did your father like to golf? We have golf urns ranging from fifty dollars to two thousand dollars. Fishing? Fishing urns are very popular here in Billings, as you might guess. We have fishing urns in metal, ceramic, glass, and biodegradable. Did your father like to fish?”
“No.”
“And we have cowboy boot urns, another popular choice in Montana and Wyoming. Hunting urns as well. Did your father like to hunt?”
Said Joe, “My father liked to drink. Do you have urns resembling a bottle of gin or Old Grand-Dad bourbon? Or maybe one shaped like a suitcase? He was fond of packing up and leaving.”
The funeral director paused for a few beats before he said, “You are kidding, aren’t you?”
“Sort of.”
With excess pomposity, the funeral director said, “We laugh so that we will not cry.”
“Yup, we do,” Joe said, and ordered a simple ceramic urn for $100 and the funeral director promised to FedEx the remains to Saddlestring within a day.
WHEN THE TOILET WAS FIXED, Joe called Sheriff Baird in Carbon County. He wasn’t in his office, but the dispatcher said, “Oh, it’s you” and patched Joe through to Baird’s county pickup. From the first word, Joe knew McLanahan’s version of events was accurate.
“It’s the fabulist,” Baird said.
“I’m not sure what to say to that, sheriff.”
“Don’t say anything. When you start talking, it costs me too much damned money and time.”
“The Grim Brothers must have covered their tracks,” Joe said. “They knew you’d be looking for them, I guess.”
“Then they did a hell of a good job, because my team couldn’t confirm a single thing you said. Do you know how much it costs to mount an eleven-person search-and-rescue team and outfit them for the mountains? Do you have any idea?”
Joe looked out the window. Ed Nedney was standing on the dividing line between his perfect lawn and Joe’s matted and leaf-strewn grass. Nedney was shaking his head and puffing on his pipe.
“I’d guess quite a bit,” Joe said.
“Damn straight. Plus, I had to personally call the parents of Diane Shober and tell them their daughter wasn’t found. That was not a pleasant experience.”
Joe felt his neck get hot. “I never claimed I saw her. You must have put that out.”
“Yeah, stupid me,” Baird said. “I believed what you told me. I’m spending way too much time trying to defend your story. The state even sent a man to interview me this morning.”
Joe felt a twinge in his belly. “What do you mean, the state?”
“DCI. They sent an agent over here to ask me questions about your statement, even though he had a copy of it with him.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know, McQueen or something. He didn’t give me a card.”
“Was it McCue?” Joe asked, leaning into the phone. “Bobby McCue?”
“Yeah, that’s him. An odd duck. I don’t like the state looking over my shoulder.”
Joe shook his head. “He came to talk to me in the hospital. Same guy. I can’t figure out what his game is or who he’s really with.”
Baird snorted. “That’s all I need is some damned rogue investigator running around down here. Maybe I’ll have to sic the FBI on him.”
“The FBI?”
“Let me find that message,” Baird said. “I grabbed it at the office before I left.” Joe could hear paper being unfolded. “Special Agent Chuck Coon called. He wants me to call him back regarding what we found or didn’t find in the mountains.”
“I know Coon,” Joe said, remembering that the governor had also mentioned federal interest. “He’s a good enough guy, but I don’t know why they’re interested.”
Said Baird, “DCI, FBI, the National Enquirer. You sure as hell know how to stir up a hornet’s nest. For nothing, I might add.”
“They’re up there,” Joe said. “The Grim Brothers, Terri Wade, and the mystery woman. You just didn’t manage to find them. They know those mountains better than anyone alive, and they probably watched you the whole time. Luckily, you had numbers and firepower on your side so they left you alone.”
Said Baird, “They sure as hell did.”
“Come on, sheriff. You’re well aware of all the break-ins and vandalism over the last couple of years. You’ve heard from ranchers who’ve pulled their cattle from leases. You know they’re up there.”
Baird was silent.
“Look,” Joe said, “I’m sorry you couldn’t find them. And I’m sorry about your budget. But those brothers will stay up there and something else will happen unless they’re located. We both know that.”
Baird said, “I don’t know a damned thing, Joe, other than I’m pulling into the parking lot of the county building right now where I’ve got to go inside and tell the county commissioners that I’ve blown the entire annual discretionary budget of the sheriff’s department and it’s just September. You want to drive down here and explain it to them with me?”
Joe said, “I can’t leave my house right now.”
“Thought so.”
“But I wish I could,” Joe said. He sounded lame even to himself.
“I need to hang up now. I’ve gotta go let the commissioners peel the bark off me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You sure are.” With that, Baird punched off.
THE WOMAN who answered the phone in the state Department of Administration and Information Human Resources office in Cheyenne said, “I’ve got three minutes to help you or you’ll need to call back.”
Joe glanced at the digital clock on his desk. It was 11:57 a.m.
“You go to lunch in three minutes?” Joe asked.
“Two minutes now,” she said.
Joe closed his eyes briefly, took a breath, and asked her to confirm that either Bobby McCue or Robert McCue was employed by the State of Wyoming. Joe knew that although additional information couldn’t be given out regarding personnel information, the state was obligated to provide the names of employees because it was public record.
“Spell it,” she said. Joe tried M-C-C-U-E to no avail. He suggested M-C-C-E-W, then M-C-H-U-G-H. No hits on her computer system. “You’ll have to try back later,” she said.
Said Joe, “I realize it’s noon and noon is your lunch break. But can you please give me five more minutes? I promise I’ll buy you lunch next time I’m in Cheyenne.”
Through gritted teeth, she said she had to go and she did.
At 12:01, Joe called the Department of Criminal Investigation and asked for Bobby McCue’s voice mail.
“We don’t have an employee with that name,” the receptionist said.
“Thank you.” Joe slammed down the phone and moaned. Tube raised his head and cocked it inquisitively.
Joe threw back the curtains and shoved the window open. Nedney looked up, surprised.
“Hey, Ed,” Joe said. “Get off of my lawn.”
Nedney looked down at his feet. The tips of his shoes had crossed the property line.
“Hey, you’re trampling my grass,” Joe said.
“Is that what it is?” Nedney said, slowly removing the pipe from his mouth, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.
“Good one,” Joe conceded and closed the window and put the drapes back in place, already sorry he’d taken his frustration out on his neighbor.
AS HE LIMPED through the kitchen with his bucket of tools, bound for the mudroom to fix the door that wouldn’t shut properly, he felt he was being watched. Joe paused and slowly turned around. Tube was right with him, as always, but the sensation hadn’t come from his dog.
Had Nedney entered his backyard?