Ana Maria squirmed to get comfortable in the tiny car. “We could have taken my Bug. At least there’s some room in it.”
Arn pulled his bad leg away from the steering column and flexed it. “As you can see, the Clown Car’s not exactly smooth driving for me, either.”
“Clown Car?”
“Clown Car. Damn thing reminds me of those miniature cars at circuses toting a dozen clowns around the arena. Friggin’ Clown Car.”
They drove past Frontier Mall—what else would you call a shopping center in Cheyenne, Wyoming, Arn thought—and past strip malls farther up the road. “Turn at the next light,” Ana Maria said. “Shady Rest is the next block.”
She directed Arn into a cul-de-sac. A scrub field sat on one side of the retirement home, a Toyota pickup up on blocks on the other side. With no trees in sight, the Shady Rest waited at the end of the turnaround. “Just where I want to spend my last days,” Arn said.
They slid to a stop in a parking lot that probably hadn’t been scraped of ice and snow since last winter. Arn opened his door and began the ritual he’d developed to get out of the car. He used his hands to pull one leg past the steering column and set it on the ground before using the door jamb to haul himself erect. He stood for a moment stretching his back and legs before grabbing his bag when he caught Ana Maria staring at him. “What?”
“I don’t feel one bit sorry for you,” she said. “If you’d upped your policy, you’d be driving something comfortable now.”
“You mean, if I hadn’t arrested the agent who sold me the policy?”
“That too.”
They made their way slowly across the pavement, passing a picket fence broken down from the weight of the snow and time, a few rotting boards all that was left to show there’d even been a fence once. As they climbed the ice-and snow-packed steps leading to the retirement home’s office, Ana Maria started to slip and grabbed Arn’s arm. Arn wasn’t sure who would fall first as he grasped the bent railing loose in the concrete. His cowboy boots skidded, and he grabbed the railing again. It pulled loose from the crumbling concrete and he flailed his arms to keep his balance.
“Of all the times not to have my cameraman here,” Ana Maria said. “Or my phone. I could have made a mint posting that little dance to YouTube.”
When they reached the top of the steps, Arn stomped snow from his boots before entering the office. A television sat in one corner of a small commons area, four residents huddled around it. Sleeping. “I’ve seen test patterns with better picture quality than that,” Arn said.
Ana Maria looked at him. “What’s a test pattern?”
Arn shook his head. “Just something I used to study for.”
He walked across the commons to the front counter. A pimple-faced kid wearing jeans with the knees blown out and sporting an AC/DC cap perched backwards on his purple hair looked up from a computer. He made no attempt to hide the porn flick he was engrossed in. And he made no attempt to see what Arn and Ana Maria wanted.
Arn slapped the ringer hard enough that it bounced on the counter and nearly fell to the floor. But it got the kid’s attention. “I dammed near fell on your steps out there.”
The kid looked over his shoulder briefly before going back to watching every bump and grind on the video. “And your point?”
“Snow and ice is packed in your parking lot. That’s my point.”
The kid swiveled in his chair and faced the counter. His eyes settled on Ana Maria’s chest for long moments before he nodded at the door. “Did you notice that snow shovel leaning against the door? I leave it there. If anyone’s offended by the snow, they can shovel it. Just what are you and this hot mama here for besides bitchin’ about our sidewalks?”
“We need to see Emma Barnes.”
“You family?”
“No. We’d just like to visit with her.”
The kid looked over at a roster of residents tacked to a wall. “Go pack sand, mister,” he said, and started turning back before Arn reached over and clamped a hand on the kid’s shoulder. He recognized the world of authority the kid was king in—he was a bully like Arn had dealt with a hundred times. In another life, this geek might have worn a gun and badge and ordered people around just to watch them squirm.
“You denying the authorities access to Ms. Barnes?” he asked.
“You are … ”
“The authorities,” Arn answered. “Now if we need to get a subpoena just to talk to her”—he waved his hand around the shabby lobby—“we might as well call in the state inspector to look at this dump.”
Pimple Face threw up his hands in resignation. “No need for that. We just like to protect our clients.”
Arn looked around. “So you’re all about their welfare here at Shady Rest?”
“You could say that.”
“No, I couldn’t,” Arn said, “with any conviction. Her room number?”
The kid pointed down a long hallway on the other side of a door. “Hall B. Room 107.”
Ana Maria waited until they’d started down the hall before she chuckled. “A subpoena? Is that your standard threat for everything? And the state inspector was a nice touch.”
“If that didn’t work, my next threat was probation and parole.”
They walked the hallway, which was mushy from a recent ceiling leak, black mold forming down on one wall. They found Emma Barnes’ apartment next to a three-foot gap where the drywall had been torn out. Arn rang the doorbell, but didn’t hear it chime. He punched the bell again and it fell to the floor, wires dangling out of the wall waiting for a repairman. Someday.
He rapped on the door, and was ready to knock again when it opened.
“Who the hell are you?” Emma Barnes stood little more than five foot, with trifocals that caused her to constantly move her head up and down as she focused on Arn. Wind whistled through ill-fitting dentures, and she shifted her weight between legs swollen with fluid. “I said who the hell are you?”
“Arn Anderson, ma’am.”
“That supposed to mean something? You ain’t selling seed packs, are you? ’Cause the last zucchini seeds I bought never came up.”
“We’re here looking for information … ”
Ana Maria stepped in front of Arn and smiled broadly. “I’m Ana Maria Villarreal, from News 5.”
Emma’s eyes lit up and she shook Ana Maria’s hand. “I see you every night at six. Cuss you out, now and again.” She held up her hands. “Nothing personal.”
“No offense taken. May we come in? We would like to visit for a moment.”
Emma turned painfully and hobbled into the living room of the tiny two-room apartment.
“It wasn’t going too well,” Ana Maria whispered. “Thought I’d better jump in before you blew it.”
“So much for my natural charm.”
Emma motioned them to a three-legged couch, a brick jammed under where the fourth leg should have been. Like the Captain Ahab of the couch world. She craned her neck up at Arn. “You were just at the door.”
“I was.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m working with Ms. Villarreal. We’d like to know about Butch Spangler.”
“He’s dead.”
“We know that.” Arn forced a smile. “May we visit?”
“Suit yourself.”
She sat in an occasional chair and picked up a tatting shuttle from a TV tray beside her. She wrapped a ball of string around one hand and began making lace, ignoring them. She looked up as if seeing them for the first time. “You were just at the door.”
“We were,” Ana Maria said.
Arn watched in fascination as the old woman bowed her head to her string. His mother had knitted for hours, much as Emma did now, everything from sweaters to tablecloths to baby booties. And every year at Christmas, Arn would get a knitted stocking cap and matching pair of gloves, both too porous to keep out the cold. Usually in a pink or pastel. Which gave the Ortiz brothers more fuel to pick on him.
Beside Emma’s ball of string, an empty plate with crumbs of some sort indicated she’d just eaten. “What did you have for lunch?” Arn tried loosening her up.
“How should I know,” Emma said, not looking up from her tatting.
Arn’s uncle, his mother’s brother, had deteriorated much as Emma had. He couldn’t remember what Arn wore to school that morning, but he remembered every person’s name who’d helped him brand cows for the past fifty years.
Arn took out his notebook and pen. “What do you recall about the night Butch Spangler was murdered?”
Emma laid her tatting shuttle and string on the TV tray. “I’m half blind. Not deaf. You don’t have to yell. Now what the hell you want to know about?”
Arn looked to Ana Maria for help. She rested her hand on the old woman’s arm. “We just want to know what happened the night he was killed.”
Emma turned in her seat to face Ana Maria. “What do you need to know?”
“When the police talked with you,” Ana Maria said, “you reported that Georgia Spangler got to Butch’s house—”
“At 12:45.”
“You’re quite sure about that?”
Emma glared at Arn. “I’m old. Not dumb. Of course I’m sure. Oh, I didn’t see her face, but that sister of Butch’s was the only one who ever came around. She’d pick up that little guy of his … ” Emma trailed off and grabbed her shuttle and string again. “I was sitting there”—pointing like she could see it in her mind’s eye—“by the window facing their place. I thought she was coming to pick up the boy again.”
“Were you usually up at that time?” Ana Maria asked. “Because it was pretty late.”
“I was always up late. Damned trains a block away always blowing their fool horns. Sure, I was always up, keeping an eye on that Spangler house in case I needed to call the law.” She looked at a corner of the ceiling with a faraway look. “Sitting right by my bay window. Wish I was there. Sitting and making doilies.”
“Could anyone have come to the house before the sister got there?”
Emma shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“So someone might have?” Ana Maria pressed.
Emma looked longingly at the bathroom door. “I’ve got bladder issues. Always have. I can’t seem to drink a cup of joe that I don’t have to pee. That was the only times I left that window that night, when I had to take a whiz.”
As if to punctuate her explanation, she used the arms of the chair to stand and shuffled into the bathroom. Ana Maria leaned over and whispered, “You think someone was there that night before Georgia came over?”
Arn checked his watch. “We’ll see.”
Emma was in the bathroom long enough to tat several doilies, Arn thought, checking his watch. When she finally emerged, she pulled her dress over her legs.
“Eight minutes is long enough to kill anyone,” he whispered to Ana Maria. He jotted in his notes that someone could have come to the house before Georgia did while Emma was in the bathroom. “Did anyone come to the house after Georgia?” he asked.
Emma tatted lace.
“Besides the police?” he pressed.
“That no-account Indian she was sparkin’,” Emma said.
“Frank Dull Knife?”
“Yeah. Him.”
“He came that night?” Arn asked.
“Don’t try to confuse me!” Emma grabbed a small pair of scissors and snipped the string. She spread the doily across her lap, her head bobbing as she focused through her trifocals. “Of course he didn’t come that night. He came around after the cop was killed. To see Hannah.”
“Often?” Ana Maria asked.
Emma stopped, working her fingers out of the scissors. “That’s the odd part. The Indian came around quite a bit before the cop died, when he was out working. But after the murder, I only saw the Indian once.”
Ana Maria moved closer and met Emma’s eyes. “When was that, Emma?”
“Couple weeks after it happened. Hannah chased him into the yard, grabbing his greasy hair. Slapped him. He turned and knocked her to the ground. ‘If you don’t come back,’ she screamed, ‘I’m going to tell.’”
“Tell what?” Arn asked.
“How the hell should I know?” Emma wheezed between her dentures. “I’m not nosy.”
Pimple Face was knocking snow off his Nikes, and a stocking cap had replaced his AC/DC cap. “Guess he actually thought you’d call the state inspectors,” Ana Maria said as they stepped onto a clean walk. The kid had sprinkled snow melter on the steps, and Arn was grateful that Ana Maria wouldn’t have another YouTube moment as he picked his way down.
He held the car door for Ana Maria and walked around to the driver’s side. As Arn was halfway through his entry ritual, he froze. A solitary shoe print—distinct among other shuffling prints that were not his—had been set in the snow beside the door.
He crawled out and looked closer at the print. It was placed a few feet beside tire treads that had pulled up to Arn’s rental. Someone had stood where Arn stood, but there was no damage to his car. Nothing taken.
“What is it?”
He motioned for Ana Maria. She climbed out and walked around the car. As soon as she cleared the trunk, she spotted the print. She paled when she realized the implications. “It’s that same print that was at Gaylord’s house.” She trembled noticeably as she looked around the cul-de-sac. “And on Delbert Urban’s back. And Joey Bent’s house.”
“And just outside my car when it got vandalized.”
“Another warning?” Ana Maria asked.
“Or the killer’s throwing down the gauntlet. Let the games begin,” Arn said to himself. “I’m tired of being the hunted.”