“I bet.” She glanced up; it was silting snow, which usually meant a foot or two before you knew it. “Have you checked the weather lately?”
I glanced around and noticed, indeed, that the landscape was sporting a contiguous white cloak. Never one to ignore the obvious, I nodded. “It’s snowing.”
She trudged toward the gate of the cemetery. “It’s snowing a lot, and this looks like one of the ones that’s going to last for a few days, bury everything, and shut down every airport on the high plains.”
It looked as though the snow was smothering the land, almost as if the flakes were holding their breath in a snow globe. “It’s a strange snow.”
She glanced back at me from the gate, the tarnished gold embers dampening as if she were a centurion looking across Hadrian’s Wall. “Yeah . . .”
A voice called out from behind us. “You people are supposed to have that dog on a leash, and he’s not allowed on cemetery property!”
We turned in tandem and could see a tall woman wrapped in what looked to be an afghan who was standing on the extended porch of the Victorian.
“I’ll get him, ma’am, but do you mind if we have a word with you?”
She stood there for a few seconds more, stooped to pick something up, and dusted the snow away by slapping whatever it was on her leg; then she eyed my truck with the stars and bars, about-faced, and went back in her house.
Vic looked at Dog, still irrigating the fence. “I’ll give you a biscuit if you go shit on her lawn.”
He came when I called him, and I popped open the door, allowing him ingress into his home away from home, and led the way toward the mansion with Vic trailing behind. “How ’bout I shit on her lawn?”
Stepping up onto the porch, I glanced back at her as I removed my hat and slapped the accumulated snow off. “I don’t suppose you’d like to wait in the truck with Dog?”
“And not play with the radio? No thanks. I don’t want to miss any of the fun, and anyway, I do get cold.”
I reached up, knocked the heavy knocker, and noticed that the grand old lady of Eighth Avenue West was in need of a coat of paint, along with a puttying and sanding. After a moment, I could hear someone moving inside the house, then the sound of the chain being put on the door, then it opening about four inches. “Hello, Mrs. Payne, I’m Sheriff Walt Longmire and this is my undersheriff, Victoria Moretti . . .”
She wedged her face into the opening to get a better look at me through the thick lenses of her bifocals, and I figured her vintage to be somewhere in her eighties, a little old to have a daughter Roberta’s age. “I don’t know where she is.”
I waited a moment before responding. “That would be your daughter?”
There was a noise from back in the house, and she glanced in that direction. “She’s dead.”
I gestured toward the papers in Vic’s hands, as if they had something to do with what we were talking about. “I understand you’re petitioning the courts for a declaration of death in absentia, so we were wondering if you’d come across some information as of late that might’ve led you to believe that she was deceased?”
“No.” She looked past me, trying to read the words on my truck as the noise from within grew louder. “What county did you say you were with?”
“I didn’t, ma’am, but we’re with the Absaroka County department.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“There have been some other women who’ve gone missing, and we’re thinking there might be a connection between them and your daughter.”
The noise had reached a pitch to where I could now tell that it was a teakettle. “My daughter is dead.”
“So you were saying, but if you’d allow us inside—”
“I don’t have to allow you people in my home.”
I listened to the screeching and figured I had an opening, so to speak. “No, you don’t, but I was hoping we could ask you a few more questions, and it’s kind of cold out here.” I looked past her. “Is that a teakettle on?”
She paused for a moment and then, in a disgusted manner, disconnected the chain and pulled the door open, allowing us in. It was a large entryway with a sweeping staircase that led to the second floor. It had been a beautiful house in its day, but peeling paint, worn carpets, and distressed furniture indicated that the place had gone to financial seed.
Looking down just a little at Sadie Payne, still with the afghan wrapped around her shoulders, I got more of an idea of just how tall she was. “Beautiful home.” I paused as I noticed the condensation from my breath was almost the same inside the house as it had been outside. “You can get that kettle, if you’d like.”
She nodded her silver head and then started down a short hallway. “You people stay there, and I’ll be right back.” She exited through a heavy, swinging door with a window in it.
Vic took a step and pushed one of the partially open doors that led to the parlor a little further. “It’s fucking freezing in here.”
“Welcome to Miss Havisham’s.” I glanced up the steps but couldn’t see anything. “I don’t think she’s got any heat on.”
Vic glanced back at me and then rolled her head to indicate that I should have a look through the doorway where she stood.
With a quick take to the kitchen, I stepped back and peered over my undersheriff’s head into an empty room. There were a few sheets lying on the floor, but other than that, there was nothing. We heard some noise and both stepped toward the chair and sideboard, the only pieces of furniture in the entryway. The noises continued, but she didn’t reappear.
My attention was drawn to the mail that was lying on the table—it was a little wet and obviously what she had picked up from the porch. One piece was opened, and I noticed that it was from First Interstate Bank notifying Roberta Payne of her withdrawals from a trust account and dating back to the beginning of last month.
At that moment, Sadie reentered from the kitchen with a mug of tea, but I turned and leaned against the sideboard so that she wouldn’t notice my snooping. “Mrs. Payne, you say you haven’t had any contact with your daughter since her disappearance?”
She sipped her tea from a coffee mug, the tag from the bag fluttering in the drafty house. “No, none whatsoever.”
Wishing that I’d had time to look at the statement a little more closely, I quickly made up a story. “Well, I was talking to Chip King over at First Interstate, and he said there had been some activity in Roberta’s trust account as of late.”
She dropped the mug, and we all watched it bounce off the floor with a loud thunk, the contents spilling on the hardwood floor, teabag and all.
I stooped and picked up the pottery, which somehow had not broken, and scooped the teabag as well. “Here you go.”
Sadie Payne stared at me for a few seconds and then snatched the cup from my hand. “I want you people out of my house.”
“Okay, but I’m going to be back pretty quick with a representative of the Campbell County Sheriff’s Office and—”
Her voice became shrill. “Out! I want you people out of my house.”
“And somebody from over at First Interstate Bank.” She held the mug as if she might throw it at me, but I’d had things thrown at me before and wasn’t that intimidated. “Maybe if you tell me what’s going on with your daughter . . .”
Her head dropped, and she placed a hand on the table for support. “I’ve asked you people to leave my house, and if you don’t leave I’m going to call the Sheriff’s Department of this county and have you removed.”
“All right.”
She stared at me. “I mean it, mister.”
“Sheriff, Sheriff Walt Longmire.” I waited a moment before adding. “That’s fine—I’d just as soon get some more people over here to get to the bottom of this.”