“About what?”
“You, kiddo. If this is what you want to do, then, hey, go for it.”
“Don’t call me ‘kiddo,’ ” he whispered.
“Hey, I apologized, okay? Admitted I was wrong, but I’m sorry, I’m probably going to call you what comes to mind. ‘Kiddo’ could be the least of your worries, Jer-Bear.”
He cringed at the childhood name. Years before, while still in grade school, he’d begged her to drop it and she had. Until now, when a stricken look washed over his features. “Don’t, Mom. Please, just don’t.”
“Okay, pumpkin.”
“That’s worse!” He looked around to see if anyone had overheard their conversation. “Give it a rest.”
She laughed and gave him a wink. “Just know I’ve got your back.” And with that she was out the door.
“I guess you all didn’t see the sign?” Edie Gardener said when she opened the door to find Alvarez and Pescoli on her sagging porch. She’d appeared in pajama bottoms and a faded sweatshirt while smoking a cigarette. They introduced themselves and flashed their badges, and she seemed positively bored. A small thing, probably not a hundred pounds, she oozed “I’m a badass” attitude despite her stature. Her brown hair was pulled onto her crown in a bun that was nearly the size of her head, and as she sized them up and down, she nodded to a big beware of dog sign that hung on a dilapidated fence between the carport and the mobile home. An old Buick sat on blocks under the carport, its roof sagging and covered with snow. More snow was falling, carried by a wind that was raw and gusting. “You’re just lucky Buster’s locked up.”
A low-pitched but frantic howl emitted from within the house, as if Buster had heard his name and was ready to charge out the door with his teeth bared, fangs dripping, his whole being intent on ripping them limb from limb. “See?” She cracked a smile that faded as quickly as it had appeared.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Alvarez said. She looked down on the detectives as if collectively they were the scum of the earth. “I’m not an idiot. I know why you’re here, and I’m tellin’ you right out before you start askin’ all your stupid questions, I had nothin’ to do with what happened to the sheriff or that judge. That’s why you’re here, right? Because I was pissed at Grayson for lockin’ me up. Well, here’s a news flash”—she leaned forward a bit—“I didn’t kill Johnny way back when, and I sure as hell didn’t shoot the sheriff.” She turned her head to one side and yelled over her shoulder, “Hey, Art, will you tell these cops that I was with you when that dumbass sheriff got himself shot?”
“Just a sec,” a deep voice ordered.
“Now, Art! These ladies need answers.” Shivering a little, she wrapped one arm around her middle, but despite the cold, she smirked as she drew on her long, black cigarette. The sound of heavy tread approached and somewhere, farther within, the wild barks and growls increased in volume.
“Buster, hush!” the male voice ordered and the dog immediately did as he was bid just as Art, all six-feet-seven of him, appeared behind her. With a shock of dirty blond hair, he towered a foot and a half over Edie and looked like an ex-NBA center gone to seed.
“She’s right,” he said, his eyes puffy from sleep. A flannel shirt flapped open over a once-white T-shirt. “I read when the sheriff was shot. Christmas mornin’, right? We was together. Playin’ Santie Claus.” He smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth, pleased with himself for providing the alibi.
“Anyone else see you?” Alvarez asked.
“Yeah, we was at the pancake house—oh, what’s the name of it.”
Edie looked up at him. “Hot Stacks.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” he agreed, nodding. “Hot Stacks. There in Missoula. The one that’s open all day and night, every day.”
“The waitress who waited on us was Rose,” Edie said with a smirk. “Tall blonde with a tattoo climbing up her arm.” She indicated the inside of her left arm with the hand that held her cigarette. “A rose. Appropriate, don’t you think?”
“Your memory is pretty clear.” Pescoli wasn’t sure she was buying their story. It all seemed too pat. “What time were you there?”
“Nine,” Art said, looking at Edie. Double-checking. “Maybe ten.”
“The sheriff was shot earlier,” Alvarez said.
“We were together. Here. It took us a while to get there, but you check with Rose and some of the other people havin’ their Christmas breakfast there,” Edie said. “Because Art here finally gave me my wedding ring. About damned time too.” She stuck out her left hand to display a sparkling ring covered in diamond chips. “I squealed, loud enough that Saint Peter, up in heaven, heard it. You just ask Rose!”
“And anyone else in the place.” Art was beaming from one ear to the other, so damned proud of himself. So that’s what he meant by playing “Santie Claus.”
Pescoli cut in, “I hear you’re a pretty good shot.”
His smile slid away. “Not ‘pretty good,’ I’m damned good. Ask anyone around.”
Pescoli assured him, “I will.”
“Oh, I get it,” Edie said. “You think I had him shoot the sheriff for me? Now, ain’t that somethin’?” She actually cackled. “How sweet. As if I needed someone to do my dirty work. That’s a good one. But listen, if Art here was the one aiming the rifle that put a bullet in Grayson, the sheriff would be six feet under right now instead of lingering at a damned hospital. You’re barking up the wrong tree, I tell you. No matter how much I hated Grayson, and I still do, I wouldn’t do nothin’ that would put me back in that prison. I’m thinkin’ everyone else he put away feels the same.”
She shivered again as a blast of wind slipped through the canyon. “I haven’t done nothin’ wrong. As far as I’m concerned, Grayson got what he deserved. I hope he dies. I just didn’t do it.” She took a final drag on her smoke, then tossed the cigarette into a snowbank to sizzle and die. “We’re done here.”