The Obituary (Jefferson Morgan Mysteries Book 2) Read online

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  THE OBITUARY published by:

  WILDBLUE PRESS

  1153 Bergen Pkwy Ste I #114

  Evergreen, Colorado 80439

  Copyright 1999, 2015 by Ron Franscell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  WILDBLUE PRESS is registered at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Offices.

  Cover Design and Interior Layout by Elijah Toten

  www.totencreative.com

  Art Director Carla Torrisi Jackson

  978-1-942266-03-7 Trade Paperback ISBN

  978-1-942266-04-4 eBook ISBN

  This book is dedicated to Mom and Dad

  You never know as you move through these labyrinths

  whether you are pursuing a goal or running from yourself,

  whether you are the hunter or his prey.

  JOSEPH BRODSKY

  Watermark

  Table of Contents

  NIGHT PIRATES

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  More Books by Ron Franscell

  NIGHT PIRATES

  Tuesday, June 3, 2003

  Pearly Benson could have used a little more time.

  With a few more seconds, he might have been able to call for help on his cell phone. With a few more minutes, he might have prayed or pleaded for a few more minutes. With another hour, he might have made himself ready to die.

  But it all happened too quickly.

  While the Burlington, Iowa, truck driver, a single father of four, slept in an empty interstate rest area just outside Spearfish, South Dakota, three men crept into his Peterbilt sleeper cab a little after 3 a.m. One of them, wielding a small sledge hammer, pounded a sharpened railroad spike through Pearly’s eye socket into his dreaming brain. He didn’t even have time to hurt.

  But pain was inefficient, and these pirates were nothing if not cold-bloodedly efficient.

  They drove Pearly’s truck west into Wyoming. Beneath a highway overpass at a dark little border town called Beulah, they dumped Pearly’s still-warm body in the bed of a waiting pickup, which transported him to a secluded, lonely hole already custom-dug for him in the Wyoming prairie. Pearly would spend eternity in shallow, foreign earth far from his home and children, never found.

  One hour later, right on schedule, they were met at a truck stop where three more men in rubber gloves swept the trailer for tracking devices; they found four, which were disarmed and dismantled on the spot, long before the truck or Pearly were ever missed. They also hacked into the QualComm satellite system from a laptop in their black van, and removed the tracking dish from the top of the rig. For anyone who cared, including the Feds, Pearly’s stolen truck was rendered invisible from the protective satellites overhead.

  And Pearly’s load, a wide array of pharmaceuticals due to be dropped at a Wal-Mart warehouse in Minneapolis, Minnesota, was already sold. Broken up on the foreign and domestic black market, it would net more than three million dollars. The hijackers would eventually barter Pearly’s repainted Peterbilt for a stolen rail shipment of military weapons and explosives in Mobile, Alabama. The brown stain in the sleeper was said to be spilled battery acid, but even the truth wouldn’t have mattered much. In their world, battery acid was spilled everywhere.

  And Pearly’s four fatherless kids, their mother long dead, would be scattered by Iowa’s overworked social services department to four different foster families, where they inevitably would come to hate the government for what it took from them.

  All in all, it was a good night for the Fourth Sign.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jefferson Morgan inhaled, wondering if particles of death floated on cemetery air.

  After a night of rain, the graveyard smells like sweet resurrection. The morning sun draws out the damp, the dark and the ferment, and they mingle as they rise on the warming air.

  The long-dead floated in the June morning, cleansed by both clay and concealment in Wyoming’s ancient soil. He knew well that death in its various other forms was not so fragrant. He’d smelled most of them.

  Morgan was sure even the stink of Laddie Granbouche had mellowed.

  Laddie’s tomb, a modest, above-ground chamber built of red sandstone from the fabled Hole in the Wall country, was disintegrating. Vandals, rigorous winters and riding lawn-mowers had taken their toll. Cracks spidered across the base — some wide enough for a man’s fingers — and the mortar seal around the vault had dissolved. It was also sinking into the overwatered cemetery topsoil.

  Ever the newspaperman, Morgan kneeled close for a photo. Only Laddie’s epitaph remained intriguingly proud:

  Laddie Granbouche

  1876-1969

  Yesterday is history

  Tomorrow is mystery

  So before the tomb collapsed entirely, spilling what might be left of Laddie after thirty dead years, the Perry County commissioners decided to rebuild it in a new section of Winchester’s Pine Lawn Cemetery. Besides, it didn’t take much to qualify as a tourist attraction in any small town, and Laddie was the closest thing to a celebrity in Winchester, Wyoming.

  It was a Saturday morning at the end of a long week. Morgan snapped a few pictures of her next-to-final resting place for next week’s Bullet before the cemetery caretaker started dismantling it. This was big news in a small town where no news was nothing new. And the editor always worked harder on slow news weeks, which was most.

  And although it was unlikely Laddie’s bone dust would tell any new tales, a small cadre of curious forensic anthropologists under the renowned Dr. Shawn Cowper of the University of South Florida hovered around Laddie’s grave that morning to take measure of the old gal. A surgical mask hung around each of their necks as they prepared for the exhumation of Laddie’s husk.

  Morgan zoomed in on a pretty grad student, one of Cowper’s helpers. She seemed too young and full of life for the work of death. Under her Polar-Tec pullover, earmuffs and two pairs of rubber gloves, she resented the chill of Wyoming morning, even in June. Poor little Florida girl, Morgan thought. Her perky nose ran in the chilly morning, and she nibbled a glazed doughnut with the same ambivalent zeal the Donner Party approached lunch. Maybe it was her first exhumation, or maybe just her first Wyoming morning.

  Laddie died in her sleep on a hot summer night in 1969, a natural and unremarkable end for a living mystery. She’d lived alone as long as anyone could remember, holed up in her riverstone mansion at La Plata Ranch beneath the sheltering, blood-red rimrock in the badlands north of Winchester. She wasn’t a recluse, but she loved being alone. And if the myth she cultivated in the last half of her long life were authentic — and many people believed it was — she might have preferred the sanctuary of open spaces.

  At any rate, she lay in her four-poster bed for two days before the county agent found her. If the truth be known, he never actually saw Laddie’s putrefying remains; he merely smelled them from the front porch and radioed the sheriff from his truck.

  Laddie was ninety-three years old, and her body just gave out. She had lived passionately and loved passionately, if the stories were true. She was one of the West’s most legendary women, if the stories were true. Before she really died, she was fond
of saying she’d already died six times, if the stories were true.

  But nobody really knew if the stories were true.

  Now, sanctioned by history and a country judge, Dr. Cowper and his forensic sleuths hoped to collect post-mortem evidence to prove (or disprove) the possibility that Laddie Granbouche was, as she long claimed, the infamous mistress of an equally infamous desperado.

  Dawn unfolded warm. Morgan sipped tepid convenience-store coffee from a Styrofoam cup and watched Cowper’s young scientists prepare the machinery of their curiosity: video and still cameras, high-wattage lights, a small gas-powered generator, mobile lab equipment, laptop computers, surgical instruments and garden tools. A lone gravedigger pounded his pry bar into the powdery mortar between Laddie’s sandstone blocks, peeling them away one by one, and setting them gently aside in the dewy grass. A plastic grocery sack fluttered in the highest branches of an old cottonwood, like a sentry angel keeping watch over the whole affair. The only sounds of the morning were the metallic clang of the gravedigger’s pike, a meadowlark warbling somewhere in the cemetery, and the locust-click of laptop keyboards.

  Laddie would have liked the attention, Morgan thought.

  Some folks said she clutched an old photograph of her outlaw lover to her pale, naked breast. Others said it was his Colt revolver. All the sheriff ever said was that Laddie Granbouche seemed to be smiling when he found her.

  In the end, nobody knew for certain whether her last pleasant expression was a smile or merely the rictus of death, but Laddie would have been happy to know people would always wonder. That’s how mere mysteries became myths. Laddie always liked the idea of being a myth.

  The gravedigger pried the lid off Laddie’s cracked granite vault, exposing a simple oak casket.

  Morgan took a few steps toward it and shot a few more photos, but he was also morbidly curious.

  Would they still see Laddie Granbouche’s last smile? Could they boot up their computers and electron microscopes to peer inside her withered brain and see that last dream, the one that made her smile?

  And even if Laddie Granbouche had once been known as Etta Place, Morgan wondered, could they analyze the dust of her heart and know if she truly ever loved a common horse thief named Harry Longabaugh, aka the Sundance Kid?

  Etta Place was a ghost long before Laddie Granbouche fell asleep for the last time.

  And she especially haunted Dr. Shawn Cowper.

  Only 36, Cowper was a wunderkind, already one of the nation’s leading historical detectives, using DNA, the latest computer technology and old-fashioned deduction to unravel some timeworn myths and dispel hoary hoaxes. His curiosity was romantic as well as scientific; he earned undergraduate degrees in literature and history.

  In one of his first cases, he proved some old bones in a roadside museum shanty outside Richmond, Virginia, were not John Wilkes Booth’s, as claimed. Later, after an exhaustive year’s study of unearthed genetic material, he reported it was statistically likely that Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer’s body — or most of it — had actually been accurately (and miraculously) identified among the mingled remains at the Little Big Horn and reburied at West Point.

  Even in the haze of the Buck Snort Tavern, a Highway 12 roadhouse thick with cigarette smoke and jukebox twang, his young eyes generated their own light when he talked about Etta Place, the enigmatic mistress of a legendary badman.

  Cowper’s char-broiled, hand-patted burger sat uneaten in its nest of curly fries and limp pickles as he explained her mystery to Morgan the night before the exhumation. His beer glass sweated in the vulgar ambience of the honky-tonk, and he traced his finger through the wet puddles on the table as he drifted through another life, not his own, long ago ended.

  “If not for Butch and Sundance, Etta might have been no Place at all,” Cowper said, relishing a cheap pun as only a scientist would. His eyes twinkled mischievously behind his studious, wire-rimmed glasses. “We don’t even know her real name, and I’ve found credible evidence that at least five different women associated with the Wild Bunch used the alias ‘Etta Place.’“

  “What about Laddie Granbouche? How likely is it that she is the real Etta Place?” Morgan asked, swizzling a fry in a blob of ketchup.

  Cowper clearly savored the puzzle.

  “Well, she’s the right age. We’re trying to match some later photos of her to a 1901 picture of her with Sundance. We can analyze bone structure, facial symmetry and shape with a computer. We can even take a photo of an elderly woman and project her appearance into the past for a fairly good idea of how she appeared as a young woman. You gotta love computers.”

  “What about DNA?”

  Cowper shook his head.

  “Not much use in this case. We have nothing to compare it to. We’ll harvest some tissue samples, but we’ll mostly be looking for physical evidence to prove Laddie Granbouche was not Etta Place.”

  “Like what?”

  “For instance, we’ll be able to determine her living height within an inch. If Laddie was five-foot-one, we’ll know she wasn’t Etta Place, who was fairly tall, according to photos and the Pinkertons’ description.”

  An Eagles song hung in the smoke, and drifted away. A drunken cowboy teetered on muddy boots at the jukebox until Patsy Cline began falling to pieces. He unhitched a cell phone from the hip of his Wranglers and dialed clumsily. He said something Morgan couldn’t hear over the saloon’s din then held the phone up to the jukebox speaker until the song was done. The whole of his life boiled down to three chords and a sad story. Then he sat down alone at a dark table and talked to his Budweiser.

  “What else do you know for sure about Etta Place?” Morgan asked.

  “Almost nothing. Maybe she was born Laura Etta Ingerfield, the illegitimate daughter of a feckless British earl who sent her to be reared by Fannie Porter, a San Antonio madam. Or maybe she was Amy Parker, whose cousin was Robert Leroy Parker himself …”

  “Butch Cassidy?”

  “One and the same. But I also think it’s possible her real name has been lost altogether, like a shadow after the light is turned off.”

  “But she existed. You have photos. Nobody knew her?”

  “Sure, but you know how people are. The stories all get embellished and romanticized, subjects lie, memories get foggy, secrets get carried to graves,” Cowper ticked off all the reasons only good science was credible. “She might have been a teacher, with special talent for music. There’s a little evidence she attended some of the swankiest schools in the East, all paid for by the sweat of Fannie Porter’s girls. But there’s equally compelling evidence she was a common prostitute in Texas. Take your pick.”

  “So, bottom line, you don’t know much for sure,” Morgan said. He was beginning to understand Cowper’s fascination with secrets of the dead. But where Morgan’s interest was sentimental, Cowper’s was empirical.

  “I know she was pretty, from her pictures. She was no Katharine Ross, but her face was quite attractive. I know she was adventurous. I know she was smart. I know she held her own in a very tough environment. Even the Pinkertons described her as ‘refined’ and beautiful. Who wouldn’t love a woman like that?”

  “Everybody loves a bad girl,” Morgan joked.

  “Those were different times, Jeff. Lots of people came West to forget old lives, including women. Everybody had a past. It was no sin for a woman to be unladylike, even to screw around a little bit. Her reputation rested solely on how she treated other people. Today, we might call Etta a bad girl, sure, but we’ve gotten harder to please.”

  “But not all frontier women holed up with bank robbers,” Morgan said.

  Cowper grinned.

  “Okay, so Etta was a little wild. More than wild. One of my historians thinks she was married with two children when she deserted her family for Sundance. I’ve seen arguments that she was the Kid’s cousin because both of their mothers’ maiden names was Place, and they were childhood sweethearts. Others say Butch, not Sundance, was her co
usin … as well as her first outlaw lover.”

  “So she got around a little.”

  “She knew how to have a good time! We have some letters where they call themselves a ‘family of three’ and the possibility of a ménage a trois has entered a few of those dirty historians’ minds.”

  “Makes good legend.”

  “And legends make good movies. But if she entertained both of them, it didn’t last long. We know she and Sundance took a train to New Orleans in 1900 and probably got married. There’s no public record to prove it, but soon after, they ‘honeymooned’ in Buffalo, New York.”

  “Outlaw romance,” Morgan said. “How sentimental.”

  “Well maybe not. Their honeymoon suite was in a place called Dr. Pierce’s Invalid Hotel. Back in those days, it was sort of a Betty Ford Center for syphilitics. It’s very possible Etta was being treated for VD.”

  “Something borrowed …” Morgan quipped.

  Cowper smiled broadly and shook his finger at Morgan.

  “You’re bad, my friend,” he said.

  The jukebox belted out a spunky tune by a popular country girl group, one of those farmer-feminist protest songs that makes cowgirls put bumper-stickers on their boyfriends’ pickup trucks. The lonely old cell-phone cowboy’s brow furrowed, his mood suddenly as flat as his beer. He pushed his greasy Stetson back, exposing the white half of his forehead, and seemed to wonder where he went wrong.

  How sad to want to make a connection with someone but never know if the message was getting through, Morgan thought. Ever since his mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and gone to the Laurel Gardens Home in Winchester, he wondered about all the invisible barriers in life, from cells that had locked-in memories to the finite reach of a cell phone’s signal on a summer night.

  Morgan hankered to send a beer over to the old cowboy’s table, for comfort, not entertainment. But he’d clearly had enough. Instead, Morgan decided to offer him a ride home at the end of the night.