Any Other Name: A Longmire Mystery by Craig Johnson Page A

walked to the window, and the clicking of Dog’s claws on the gleaming wood as he followed me echoed as I leaned against the massive stones and looked up at the hand-forged girders. “This is one heck of a building for an elementary school gymnasium.”
    She glanced up, and I noticed she was thin and appeared to be stretched just a bit too far. “It was the old bus barn for the eastern part of the county.”
    The girders looked to be about twenty feet from the ground. “Not much headroom.”
    She shrugged. “Fortunately that’s not a problem with elementary school basketball—not many granny-shot three-pointers.” She swung the canvas satchel and hugged it to her chest, I guess to feel a little more secure, and then walked out onto the court. “I used to dance here when I was a kid.” She did a half twirl and looked back at me. “I teach here now. It’s actually the third evolution of the school; the first was an old one-room that got moved back up the valley.”
    I nodded and reached down to pet Dog’s broad head. “Um, your mother didn’t actually hire me.”
    “I figured that, seeing as how she doesn’t have any money. Iguess I should’ve said, played on your good nature and foisted this situation upon you?”
    “Well, it isn’t exactly that, either—she wasn’t the one doing the playing or the foisting.”
    She shook her head and turned back toward the dying illumination of the day, albeit at four o’clock in the afternoon, which allowed me to enjoy the picture-perfect profile with the skin drawn tight across her face like some Degas painting. “Lucian Connally?”
    “I don’t mind . . .” I wasn’t sure of what to say next, so I just let it trail off.
    Her eyes stayed on the grime of the unwashed windows, and I have to admit that I wasn’t prepared for her next question. “Do you think those two had a thing?”
    I waited a moment more before responding. “I really couldn’t say, and in all honesty it isn’t any of my business.”
    “He was in the car when she broke her back.”
    I sighed and nodded, dropping my head to look at the shiny, lacquered surface of the court, polished to within an inch of its grain. “Well, that was before my time.”
    “Mine, too.” She looked up at me. “And hopefully before my father’s . . . Look, I’m really sorry my mother or Lucian dragged you into this, but there really isn’t anything to investigate.” She sighed. “My father was not a happy man, never was, and I think it was just a case of his unhappiness catching up with him.”
    “So you think it was a suicide?”
    She studied me. “You don’t?”
    “Actually, I do.”
    “Well, at least we agree on something.”
    “If you don’t mind me asking, why was he so unhappy?”
    “Are you just being nice or do you really want to know?”
    I tilted my head, as if in thought. “It might be both; I’m kind of playing the niceness and foisting the need to know.”
    She smiled but then cut it short as Dog misinterpreted and took a few steps toward her. “Is he friendly?”
    “Overly.” She reached a hand down, and I watched as she petted him, scratching behind his ears. I leaned in a little. “I’m thinking that’s the reason your mother contacted Lucian, because she doesn’t understand why your father did it.”
    “My father, Gerald Holman, never broke a law in his life; I mean it, never.” She stood back up straight and folded her arms, dropping her head in thought. “Can you imagine what it’s like, living with a man like that—let alone what he had to do to live with himself?”
    “I understand he was a little inflexible.”
    She walked a few steps farther onto the court and stopped, her feet naturally falling into fourth position. “I wasn’t allowed to speak to a boy on the phone until I was a senior in high school.”
    “I bet you got good grades.”
    She turned and looked at me, Dog beside her. “I’m just giving you formal notice that you don’t have to do