“Certainly.” He suddenly noticed something in Danny’s other breast pocket, and he unbuttoned it, producing a large flask with a beaded leather sleeve. “Hmm . . .”

“Was he supposed to be drinking with his condition and taking those prescriptions?”

“No; as far as I know, he was a recovering alcoholic.” He turned the cap and sniffed the contents. “I’m not so discerning, since I don’t drink, but it’s certainly alcohol.”

I took it from him and inhaled the sweet/sour fragrance. “Whiskey, and I’m no expert but I’d say the good stuff.” I pocketed the flask in my jacket as I snagged it from the hook on the back of the door. “But I know an individual . . .”

Vic followed me as I headed out, Doc Bloomfield calling after us, “What about the autopsy?”

I caught the door as she breezed under my arm into the hallway. “Let’s hold off until we get permission.”

 • • •

Vic handed her menu to Dorothy. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

The Busy Bee Café’s chief cook and bottle washer looked at me as I made a show of reading my own menu. “Why do you even bother?”

I glanced up at her. “What?”

“You always order the same thing.”

“Maybe I’m finally changing my ways.”

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”

“Hey, did you hear I’m a grandfather?”

She smiled. “Months ago . . . I also heard they’re coming for a visit.” She peered at me through the salt-and-pepper bangs. “You ever traveled with a five-month-old? It’s like maneuvers of the Eighth Army.”

I handed her the menu, and we said it together: “The usual.”

Vic watched her go and yelled after her, “And a couple of iced teas, if you would be so kind?” She turned to look at me. “So, dead bodies in the morning and the usual for lunch—just another day in Absaroka County, Wyoming.”

“I just hope it’s not turtle soup.”

She smiled and nodded. “So, how is the little family?”

“I guess everything’s fine. I’m not quite sure why Cady is wanting to bring Lola out here as young as she is, but I’m not arguing.”

Vic sipped one of the iced teas that Dorothy had brought over and then put it on the counter. “Maybe they need a change of scenery.”

Lena Moretti, Vic’s mother and Cady’s mother-in-law, had been in close contact with my daughter and had been helping out a great deal over the past months, and I was beginning to wonder if something was up. “What do your spies tell you?”

She sighed and studied Dorothy’s back as the owner/operator labored to fix our two usuals. “Ma says that they’re kind of overwhelmed.” She fiddled with her straw. “Personally, I think your daughter is getting tired of being just a mom and is looking forward to getting back to work on a more full-time basis.” She shook her head and continued, “I know my brother, and I figure he’s only so much help with the baby.” I’d noticed that Vic rarely said Lola’s name, continually referring to her as “the baby.” She turned and smiled at me. “I mean, as soon as she’s old enough to drink, play cards, and go to Phillies games, the dynamic may change.”

Vic lifted her iced tea in a toast, and I was relieved when she finally said my granddaughter’s and her niece’s name: “To Lola.”

I lifted my own, having finally accepted the fact that my granddaughter was named after a Baltic-blue T-bird convertible. “To Lola.”

She set her glass down and studied me. “So, why didn’t you order an autopsy?”

“The Cheyenne are touchy about that.” I sipped my tea. “And Danny was a big deal, a friend of Lonnie Little Bird and a tribal elder who held the medicine for the Northern Cheyenne Sun Dance.”

She nodded and looked out the window. “So, what are we going to do about the dino wars out at the Lone Elk place?”

I smiled. “You know, this is not the first time this type of thing has happened in this part of the country. Just about every tyrannosaurus skeleton in the world comes from this area.” I twirled my glass in the ring of condensation it had made, turned toward her, and tipped my hat back. “As a matter of fact, there was a big fight between two of the first paleontologists in the country, Othniel Charles Marsh and Edward Drinker Cope, right here in Wyoming.”

“Jeez, with those names, didn’t they have enough to worry about?”

“Marsh’s Uncle Peabody bought him a museum at Yale so the young man could start the study of dinosaurs in this country. Up until 1866 there really hadn’t been all that much scientific study on the subject, although there are some who believe that fossil remains might have been responsible for formulating some of the Native American mythologies.”

“We have to call Henry.”

Ignoring her sarcasm, I continued with my Wyoming dinosaur history. “Marsh and Cope started out as friends, but I guess the friendship evolved into a colossal pissing contest.”

She thought about it. “Was one of them from Philadelphia?”

“I believe Cope was.”

“Figures.”

“Anyway, I guess the competition got to be too much for them. Back in 1872 down in the Bridger Basin where the two had competing digs on the same site, Cope used to go up on a ridge and spy on the Marsh group. Well, Marsh got together with his diggers and fabricated a fake dinosaur from a bunch of parts and buried it; they actually have a term for this bit of skullduggery—it’s what they call salting. Then the Marsh group made a big fuss, talking about this incredible find; Cope couldn’t stand Marsh getting credit, and later that night Cope and his group snuck over and dug the fake dinosaur up and then published papers about this significant find.”

“These were grown men? I thought scientists were supposed to be above that kind of thing.”

I shrugged. “Cope had recurring nightmares where he dreamed that the creatures he was uncovering came back to life to attack him.” I rested my elbows on the counter. “There are rumors that when Cope died, Marsh attempted to buy his bones from the Museum of Anthropology and Archeology at the University of Pennsylvania, but they said no. I guess they finally loaned his skull out to some scientist down in Boulder, and he had it sitting on his desk.”

“Oh, gross.”

“When Penn decided they wanted Cope’s head back, the guy in Colorado said he’d be happy to accompany the skull, but the museum told him to just send it FedEx.”

She rested a marvelous cheekbone on a fist and stared at me. “Are you trying to ruin my lunch?”

I smiled down at her. “Nope, I just thought you were interested.”

“I was; the operative word here is was.”

Our two open-face meat loaf sandwiches arrived, and I looked at my plate. “Since when is this the usual?”

Dorothy glanced up at the vintage BEST OUT WEST clock advertising “Enriched Flour Tomahawk Feeds for Livestock & Poultry” that had been up there since I’d been a kid. “About thirty seconds now.” The phone beside the cash register rang and she answered it as we dug in, but a moment later she was holding the receiver in my face.

I swallowed. “What?”

“It’s for you.”

I took it, fully expecting to hear the voice of my daughter, but, keeping it professional for propriety’s sake, I finally croaked, “Longmire.”

Ruby’s voice sounded more than a little concerned. “Walter, the FBI is here in the office.”

I thought of our sobriquet for big Indians. “Which FBI?”

“No, the real FBI as in Federal Bureau of Investigation, a.k.a. the Department of Justice.”

I sighed. “What do they want?”

“I am just the lowly dispatcher, and they have not deigned to tell me.”

I stared at my food. “Do you think they can wait until I eat my lunch?”

There was a pause as Ruby cupped the receiver and spoke with whom I assumed was the federal government, then came back on the line. “They say they’re hungry, too.”

“Send ’em on down.” I started to hand Dorothy the receiver but then pulled it back and asked Ruby, “It’s not Cliff Cly, is it?”