Tumbleweed Weddings (19 page)

“Thank you, Murray.” Bruce surveyed the room. “Does anyone wish to voice their opinion?”

With a determined glint in his eye, Lane huffed out a breath. “Come on.” He pulled Callie’s hand as he excused himself between the people standing in front of them.

The crowd at the back parted. Lane and Callie reached the middle aisle between the crowded chairs, and Lane strode down to the front, pulling her along behind him. She heard a gasp from some of the women and wondered if it was because Lane had reappeared after Miss Penwell was shot. But maybe it was because she and Lane were holding hands in public.

As Lane reached the front, Murray’s mouth dropped open. But he clamped it shut as he stepped forward. When he opened it again, he declared, “Lane Hutchins, you are under arrest for the shooting of Miss Lucille Penwell.”

A
fter another gasp from the audience, the room became as silent as a cemetery.

Oh that Murray!
Callie stepped forward. “Just a minute, Murray. Lane has something to say on behalf of the library.”

Murray glanced between the two of them, and his eyes dropped to their entwined hands. “Okay. I’ll give you five minutes, Hutchins. But there’s a warrant out for your arrest, and as a duly authorized peace officer of Wyoming, I am taking you into custody so Sheriff Krause can question you. Just remember that anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”

Callie rolled her eyes.

Lane just nodded. Still holding her hand, he mounted the steps to the platform where they stood together.

He left the mic on its stand. “Uh, hello, I’m Lane Hutchins. I spoke at the last meeting about the Dorsey-Smythe Library. As I said before, it’s one of the best in the country.”

He glanced at Callie, and his face was pale. She smiled at him, squeezing his hand. She wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, but she would support him, no matter what it was.

Lane cleared his throat. “All of you know about Herbert Dreyfuss, the famous author.” He paused. “He’s my uncle.”

A murmur flitted through the crowd.

“What you might not know is that Herbert Dreyfuss has been dead for seven years.”

This comment caused more than a murmur. Callie looked at the faces in the audience, some registering shock and others hardening into disbelief. A few people nodded their heads as if they had heard the rumor.

“It’s true.” Lane raised his free hand to stop the chatter. “Seven years ago, my uncle had a heart attack and died. But I had been editing his writing, so I kept his syndicated newspaper column going, and I wrote his books.”

“So you’re Herbert Dreyfuss?” a man shouted out.

A tiny smile graced his lips, and he nodded. “I’m the author behind his name.”

“Wow.” The man stood, and Callie saw that it was Glen Massey, a middle-aged rancher who lived near the Brandts. “We have a famous person in our midst, folks.”

This comment caused an outbreak of more conversation. Callie saw a lot of smiles, and she smiled back, squeezing Lane’s hand.

He glanced at her with his own smile, and she was glad to see his color had returned.

“As you can imagine …” Lane spoke into the microphone, and the crowd quieted. “Being a bestselling author brings in quite a bit of revenue.”

He paused as the audience laughed.

“Therefore, in order to save all of you from having to pay higher taxes, I’d like to donate $500,000 to renovate the Dorsey-Smythe mansion.”

New exclamations burst out along with a round of applause, and the audience seemed to rise as one and move toward the front. As Lane and Callie stepped off the platform, they were surrounded by townspeople. One after another pumped Lane’s hand.

Callie stood back. She had never seen Lane so happy. He was finally getting the recognition he deserved.

Murray walked up to Lane’s side. “All right, folks. Step back. Give us room here.”

The crowd melted back at his authoritative voice.

“There is still the matter of Miss Penwell’s shooting.” Murray turned to Lane. “You are under arrest, Hutchins. You have the right to remain silent.” He drew a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. “Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.” Pulling Lane’s arms behind him, Murray snapped the handcuffs on his wrists.

“Murray …” Callie couldn’t believe this was happening. “Lane is innocent. He didn’t shoot Miss Penwell.”

“Sorry, Callie. I’m taking him over to the sheriff’s office for questioning.” He glanced around at the silent crowd. “No one needs to follow us.” He gave a pointed look at Callie before grabbing Lane’s arm and pulling him to the door.

With his head bowed, Lane walked away. He didn’t look back.

Callie’s shoulders drooped. She couldn’t imagine what Lane was feeling at this moment. He must be so embarrassed. She stood by the platform as the crowd dispersed. Even though Bruce hadn’t dismissed the meeting, people left the building, talking with each other in low tones until the hall was almost empty.

In a few minutes, the sound of sirens screamed outside. Listening, Callie breathed out a frustrated sigh. Of course Murray would have to turn on the siren. The sound faded as the car traveled down Main Street and Rattlesnake Road, all the way to the sheriff’s office. She closed her eyes.
Lord, please work this out according to Your will. Give Lane peace—

“Well, Callie.” Vern Snyder strode up with his wife, Blanche, trailing behind him. “Guess Hutchins thought he could buy his way out of this one.”

Callie frowned. “That’s not true, Vern.”

“Huh! He’s just sweet-talking you, Callie. Do you really think he’s Herbert Dreyfuss? He’s lying through his teeth.”

Callie folded her arms. “But he
is
Herbert—”

“That half million dollars will never show up. You watch.”

Blanche clicked her tongue. “That man don’t look rich to me.”

“Everyone knows he shot Lucille.” Vern smirked. “The way he was arguing with her on Thursday night, then he ups and leaves town. Of course he shot her.”

“Who else would have done it?” Blanche shook her head. “We’ve known everyone in Fort Lob for years, but he’s a total stranger.”

Callie knew it wouldn’t do any good to argue with them. “Lane will be proven innocent.”

“Says you.” Vern waggled his finger at her. “You’d better stay away from him, Callie. He’s a dangerous criminal.”

She gritted her teeth. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you shot Miss Penwell, Vern.”

“Me?” Raising his eyebrows, he pointed to his chest.

“You said someone would have to kill Miss Penwell before she stopped working at the library. Remember?”

“Huh!” Vern squinted at her. “It just so happens I have an alibi. After me and Blanche ate at the Cattlemen’s Diner, we went to Blanche’s brother’s house near Douglas and spent the night there.”

Blanche raised her chin. “We are innocent of the frightful goings-on that happened to poor Lucille.”

Vern took his wife’s elbow. “I hope Hutchins can cool his heels in jail for a few years.”

Gritting her teeth, Callie watched them walk away. Okay, so it wasn’t Vern. But it also wasn’t Lane.

She followed the Snyders at a discreet distance out the door. She was going to find out who shot Miss Penwell if it took her all week.

Callie knocked on the door of the small white clapboard house on Bison Road. She had called George Whitmore, who gave her a list of everyone he could remember at the library Thursday night. One by one she visited them, and one by one she crossed off their names.

It was Sunday afternoon, and that depressed Callie. She and Lane should have been on their way to Cheyenne by now to pick up her car. Instead, she was talking to townspeople, trying to figure out who shot Miss Penwell so Lane could get out of jail.

Glen Massey had given her a ride home last night, and Murray had brought Lane’s car keys to their house this morning. Now she was driving Lane’s Mazda around, thankful she had some wheels.

She knocked again.
Isn’t he home?
She walked down the porch and looked in the living room window, cupping her hands around her face. Yep, there he was, sitting on a La-Z-Boy recliner, watching television.

He probably didn’t hear the door
. She knocked on the window. Startled, he looked up. She smiled and waved. He got up, and she noticed a gun cabinet on the other side of the room.
Hmm
…

Chance Bixby opened the door, wearing a white T-shirt and blue shorts.

“Hi, Chance.” She smiled. “I was wondering if I could come in and talk to you for a minute.”

He frowned. “What about?”

Callie paused. Chance was usually so nice to her, always relaxed and friendly. But today he looked tired, and the stubble on his face told her he hadn’t shaved for a few days.

“You’re not sick, are you, Chance?” Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him at the meeting last night.

“I feel fine. Now what do you want?”

Callie stepped back, surprised at his curt tone. “I’m, um, trying to find out who shot Miss Penwell, and I heard you were at the library Thursday night.”

“So you’re blaming me? Is that why you’re here, Callie?”

“No …” She smiled, softening her voice. “I was just wondering if you heard or saw anything suspicious when you were leaving the building.”

He stared at her.

“The fact is …” She swallowed as Lane’s arrest hit her anew. “Lane argued with Miss Penwell Thursday night, and then he left town. So Murray arrested him on circumstantial evidence.” Tears filled her eyes. “He didn’t do it, Chance! Someone else shot Miss Penwell, but Lane is being held in jail until the police figure out who’s responsible.”

Chance opened his mouth then closed it. He shrugged. “I can’t help you. Sorry.” He stepped back and shut the door in her face.

Stunned, Callie walked back to the car. Either Chance didn’t want her interrupting his television program, or he was hiding something.

I
only want to see one person in this world
.

But visiting Lane at the jail would have to wait.

From Chance’s house, Callie drove down Bison Road to Main Street, turned right, and drove three miles to Highway 270. She would visit the county hospital in Lusk. Perhaps Miss Penwell had awoken from her coma. At least, Callie prayed so. That would certainly speed things up as far as arresting the correct assailant was concerned.

After parking the Mazda near the hospital entrance, she took the elevator to the third floor. While the elevator slowly made its way up, Callie had time to reflect. She wished Cheyenne were in town, but she and her dad were visiting relatives in North Dakota. Tonya had driven to Casper yesterday to pick Mom up at Grandma’s house. Dad and Derek were the only ones at home. They sympathized with Callie, but it wasn’t the same kind of empathy a woman would give her.

The elevator jerked open at the third floor, framing Murray Twichell.

He smiled. “Hey, Callie!” The smell of his aftershave floated around him.

Frowning, she stepped out of the elevator. Murray was the
last
person she wanted to see. “Is Miss Penwell still in a coma?”

“Afraid so.” He motioned down the hallway. “She’s in Room 312, only two doors down.”

“Thanks.” Callie took a few steps toward the room before she realized Murray was striding beside her.

“I’ll warn you—she doesn’t look good.” Murray pushed open the door to Room 312. “She might not make it.”

A single bed took up the small space. Callie walked in, and Murray followed her. Tears filled Callie’s eyes as she stood at the bed rail and gazed at the woman she had worked with for ten years. Miss Penwell’s cheeks had sunken in below her cheekbones, making her look even more like a skeleton. Dark circles puffed below her closed eyes. Several tubes fed into her arms, and a monitor beeped in the corner.

Murray stood beside her. “She looks bad, doesn’t she?”

Callie nodded. “I’ve always wondered if she was a Christian, but I never talked to her about it. I wish I had.” She sighed. “Now all I can do is pray.”

He put his arm around Callie’s shoulders. “You could witness to her now. They say patients in comas can sometimes hear people talking.”

Callie leaned over the bed and felt Murray’s hand slip off her shoulder. “Miss Penwell? It’s me, Callie. I’m praying for you, and I’m especially praying that you’ve accepted Jesus as your Savior. He loves you, Miss Penwell. He’s waiting with open arms for you to come to Him as a little child. Please accept Him.” She bit her lip as she stood upright and glanced at Murray. “It seems like too little too late.”

Murray shrugged. “We can pray for God to work.”

“Oh, I thought of something else.” She leaned over Miss Penwell. “Lane apologizes for what he said to you Thursday night. He said he’s so ashamed. If he were here, I’m sure he would ask your forgiveness.”

Murray walked to the door and stood there with his arms folded while Callie continued.

“Lane is being held in custody in jail. The police think he shot you, Miss Penwell, but we both know that isn’t true.” Callie grabbed the older woman’s thin hand. It was surprisingly warm. “I’m praying that you’ll come out of your coma. We all want you to get better. You need to fight, Miss Penwell. Fight! With God’s help, you can make it. You can be as good as new.”