Free Nothing but Gossip by Marne Davis Kellogg Page A

feet and was now standing arrow-straight at his desk, white-knuckled hand gripping the phone. “I am. And, as I’m sure you know, Alma Gilhooly’s not going to survive, so you’ll have a murder investigation on your hands and it doesn’t look like anyone’s out here working on it very hard.” I loved sticking it to Jack.
    As I explained the circumstances, the postman drove up and handed me the mail. “Here you go, Mrs. Gilhooly,” he whispered. “Nice to meet you finally.”
    “You, too,” I mouthed back while Jack ranted and raved and laid down the terms and conditions of our cooperative arrangement of Alma’s homicide investigation. I flipped through the large stack of letters and bills. Nothing too earth-shaking, except two items: an agenda for the Annual Stockholders’ Meeting of the Rutherford Oil Company addressed to Alma as chairman of the Executive Committee of the board, and a typed letter addressed to Alma R. Gilhooly from the Freedom Wyoming Coalition, our own homegrown militia wackos. They’d be funny if they weren’t so dangerous.
    Dwight arrived shortly, and after placing large evidence stickers on the canvas bags, we loaded them into his white government Suburban with the blacked-out windows. Then he shoved Kennedy McGee into the backseat.
    “I swear to God, these are not mine,” McGee was clearly frightened. He’d lost his color. A little tremor appeared in his hands, and a little sweat appeared around his brow and stained the back of his starched shirt.
    “It’s really too bad,” I said through the open car door. “You look like a man, but you act like a girl. Next you’ll probably start crying. Where were you when Alma Gilhooly was shot?”
    “I don’t know. With Mrs. Bromley, I suppose.”
    Velma Bromley was one of Roundup’s richest widows: a perfect mark for a Great White Hunter.
    “At the party?”
    “No.”
    “You were not at this party last night?” I repeated.
    “No. I’m staying at Mrs. Bromley’s. We were probably having dinner or something.”
    “You were not at Alma’s party and you did not have a conversation with Mercedes Rutherford?”
    “Never.”
    “We’ll see.” I knew he was lying.
    I slammed the car door. “That’s it, Dwight. Take him to the Fort.”
    “I don’t know anyone here,” Kennedy wailed. “At least give me the name of a lawyer.”
    “Call Paul Decker,” I shouted as the Suburban pulled away. “Dwight’ll give you his number. He’ll have you out in a day or two. You shithead.”
    I was just about to go back inside, find Wade, and tell him good-bye, when a pearl-gray Cadillac Sevillebarreled down the driveway and slid to a noisy stop in the gravel by the garage. The car door flew open and a man in a yellow-plaid sport coat and green slacks jumped out and raced through a side door. I decided to follow him.
    He was about halfway down the hall when Wade’s voice called from the study, “I’m in here, Jim.”
    I stopped outside and leaned against the wall.
    “I just heard about Alma,” Jim said. “I can’t believe it. This is terrible.”
    “I know,” Wade answered. His voice sounded tired, slightly incredulous. “I can’t believe it either.”
    This was followed by one of those long, uncomfortable, self-conscious pauses so typical of men trapped in emotional circumstances. “How are
you
feeling, boss?” Jim asked. “You don’t look too good.”
    “Like hell. Doctor said if I don’t get any better in the next few days I’m going to have to go in for some tests.”
    “Is there anything I can do?” Jim asked.
    “I’m counting on you to run the operation for the next few days. I know it’s just a matter of hours for Alma, and I need to get her funeral and stuff worked out. I hired that cookie, Lilly Bennett, to look into whoever shot Alma. She’s supposed to be pretty good.”
    Cookie. Huh.
    “Help yourself to a drink. I have to go find my briefcase. I think I left it in my car.” Ice clinked into a glass.