Free Death on the High Lonesome by Frank Hayes Page A

opened the door.
    â€œOh, Virgil, by the way. We got Velma Thompson last night. I’ve only had time to give her a cursory look.”
    â€œAnything?”
    â€œNot yet. But I’ve known Velma a long time. I’d have never expected her to slip away in a chair on her front porch while she was sipping tea. I mean, she was one of those people I thought would bury all of us. I don’t surprise easily, but this one threw me.”
    Virgil hesitated in the doorway a moment. “Thanks, Doc. We’ll talk.” Then he stepped out into the hallway.
    *   *   *
    It was after eleven when he left Jimmy. His empty stomach was gnawing at him. The morning jolt without food had him feeling like a hollow drum.
    â€œHey, Virgil.”
    â€œMargie.”
    He looked around, finally settling on a booth that looked outon Main Street. It was late for breakfast, too early for lunch. There was only one other table with customers and Virgil could see they were getting ready to leave. Main Street was quiet. He saw a woman go into Talbot’s hardware, an old man walking a dog, two or three cars go by, then an empty stock trailer. He figured the stock trailer might be heading down to Redbud. Luther’s Livestock Auction had become the largest feedlot in the area. It had started out as a purely local auction over forty years before, but with the construction of the interstate, and then the opening of the interchange a little over ten years later, the area had experienced a little boom. Luther’s was one of the recipients. It had developed into a kind of hub, reaching beyond the county. A lot of cattle were brought there, not only for sale, but for fattening after coming off the range and being a little down in weight. The interstate and train lines converged, so it became a logical center for the livestock industry.
    Margie brought over a plate along with a glass of orange juice, setting them in front of Virgil.
    â€œDon’t I even get a chance to check out a menu?”
    â€œYou can if you want, but you won’t do any better.”
    He looked at the steaming plateful of pancakes covered with sliced strawberries, edged on each side with a couple of sunny-side eggs sitting on crisp bacon. Virgil wasn’t about to argue. Margie left, returned with two cups of coffee, then slid into the booth opposite Virgil. She poured a little half-and-half into each cup, sliding Virgil’s across the table after adding a half teaspoonful of sugar to his.
    â€œAm I that predictable?”
    â€œVirgil, I’ve been feeding you for twenty years. If I don’t know what you like by now, I should be looking for another line of work.”
    â€œDon’t even consider that, Margie. You’re good at what you do.”
    â€œSo are you, Virgil. Which reminds me, I heard about Velma. Never figured Velma to go like that. She was tough right down to the bone. And Charlie’s gone missing?”
    â€œSo far.”
    â€œGood people. I’ll miss them. Last coupla years since things got quiet on the ranch, they used to stop by more often. I guess they were in a kind of semiretirement mode. Back in the day that ranch was some operation. Kinda sad to see it go downhill.”
    â€œGuess none of the kids were interested.”
    â€œIt’s an old story, Virgil. Hand something to somebody on a silver platter, they don’t appreciate it. I remember an interview I saw with Michael Landon. You remember him, Little Joe on
Bonanza
.”
    Virgil nodded.
    â€œWell anyway, he told how one of his kids asked him to buy him a new car, then got pissed at him when he refused. I remember him saying that if he did, he was robbing him of the experience of the thrill of working for that first car, then the satisfaction of achieving that goal as the reward for that work. He went on to say he had a garage full of new high-priced cars, but none pleased him as much as the first car he ever owned, which