What would it be like to stroll into the sporting goods store on Main Street and buy anything he wanted, like that twelve-gauge over-under shotgun he’d been looking at for the last six months? And to do it without guilt?
* * *
—
“Rough day?” Marybeth asked Joe as he scrolled through emails on his phone at the kitchen table. Most of them were junk mail or new notices for all Wyoming state employees about insurance or other things he didn’t care about. April and Sheridan had taken Kestrel with them down the hall to let her bounce up and down on one of the guest beds.
He looked up at her. How did she know?
“I can always tell,” she said. Then: “Were you out at that murder scene today? I read about that on Facebook. An old guy got burned up?”
“His name was Bert Kizer,” Joe said. “He was a fishing guide around here for a long time. He was seventy-three years old.”
“That’s horrible,” Liv said. “Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet,” Joe said. “But it was pretty awful. The poor old guy. It looked like he was tortured inside his own house and then set on fire and dumped. I really don’t ever want to see a thing like that again.”
He told them what he knew thus far. He said he’d been listening to the mutual aid channel the rest of the afternoon and evening while the sheriff’s department was running all over the county and it didn’t sound like they’d developed any leads.
“Is the sheriff up for this?” Marybeth asked. “He was pretty slow on the draw the last time we had a major crime.”
Joe said, “I wonder the same thing myself. I hope he’s not in over his head.”
“Why do you think it happened?” she asked.
“It’s hard to come up with an obvious motive. He was an old guy, like I said. A loner with no family that we’re aware of. Very few friends. I knew him a little and he pretty much flew beneath the radar around here. It’s hard to believe he was involved in anything that would get him killed.”
“Was he into anyone for a lot of money?”
Joe shrugged. “It’s possible, I guess. But he lived very simply, by what I could see. The most valuable things he owned were the shack itself and a couple of vintage drift boats. Everything else was old and worn-out. So if he borrowed a bunch of money from someone, it sure wasn’t obvious that he spent it on anything I could see.”
“Interesting,” she said. “Maybe gambling debts?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. We’ll find out soon enough if he was a regular at Fort Washakie.”
The Fort Washakie hotel and casino on the Wind River Indian Reservation was the only legal gambling facility within a hundred miles.
“But even if he was into them, they’d call the tribal police or the sheriff on him,” Joe said. “They wouldn’t send out enforcers.”
Marybeth said, “Maybe he was one of those people who lives very simply but hoards cash. Guides get big cash tips, right? Maybe he didn’t trust banks and he mentioned his stash to one of his clients or a fellow guide?”
Joe stared at Marybeth, then looked to Liv. He said, “She’s always a few steps ahead of me. I hadn’t even thought about that, and I don’t think the sheriff has, either.”
Liv smiled her agreement with Joe that Marybeth was the smart one in the family. That kind of annoyed him, but he knew it was true.
“Do you know other facts about Kizer?” Marybeth asked. “Like where he hung out and who his friends might be?”
“Not really,” Joe said. “I think he was a regular out at the Wet Fly Bar. I met a couple of his clients once, who said they met him there in order to set up a fishing trip. Maybe the sheriff will follow up there.”
Marybeth reacted to that with a look of disbelief.
He said, “At least Tibbs called DCI and asked for help. But he made it very clear he doesn’t want me involved.”
“Then stay out of it, for once,” Marybeth said. “Just let them do their jobs. We need you home for Thanksgiving.”
He nodded. But he couldn’t quit thinking about Marybeth’s theory. Fishing guides received minimal fees from outfitters, but they usually made $80 to $120 per trip in tips. That could add up over thirty or forty years if the guide in question was as frugal as Bert Kizer appeared to be.
“Oh,” Joe said. “I forgot to tell you. I brought home Bert’s dog. I couldn’t leave the guy out there in the woods. He’s in a crate out in the garage.”