Antelope noticed the neighbor next door and two across the street had opened their doors.
“Maybe we should step inside,” Antelope said.
Max scanned the neighborhood, staring down the onlookers. One by one, the doors closed. “If you don’t tell me right now what happened to my sister, that steel post over there is going to be somewhere other than in the ground. You got it?”
Max stood inches from Antelope’s face. He smelled of weed and body odor.
“I’m going to forget you said that,” Antelope said. “But you need to get a grip. No one’s doing anything other than talking here. I don’t want to have to arrest you.”
Max breathed like a rodeo bull, nostrils flared, spitting with rage. But he backed up a foot, and stood with his hands on hips.
Antelope waited a bit to make sure Max had control of him-self before saying, “She didn’t die of natural causes.” He paused to let this sink in. “She was murdered.”
Max rocked back on his heels as if he’d been pushed, then squatted with his hands on his knees, his stomach muscles contracting with the force of his breath. When he stood up, his eyes were dull and vacant. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone.
“Mom, it’s an emergency. You have to come home right now. Leave the damn groceries in the cart and come home. I’ll tell you when you get here. Just come, right now.”
“She’s not going to hear this on the news is she?” he asked after hanging up.
“They’re on notice to hold off until the family’s been notified.”
Max picked up the sign and planted it back in the grass, hitting it with more force than the first time. “Come inside before she gets here.”
Antelope followed him into a dark living room. Without another word, Max disappeared up the stairs. On the second floor a door slammed with such force that a picture fell from the fireplace mantel.
Shards of glass spilled on the hardwood floor when Antelope turned over a silver-framed photograph of Stacey Hart. He scooped the broken pieces back into the frame and set it on a maple end table.
The music he’d heard outside was coming from a fifty-inch flat screen bolted above the fireplace. Antelope found the remote on the couch and killed the music. In the quiet gloom, he waited for Fern Hart to come home.
Loud footsteps on the wooden stairs. Max stomped into the room, sat in a recliner, and, after kicking out the leg rest, closed his eyes to wait. Antelope positioned himself at the front window.
A blue Kia rounded the corner and jerked to a stop out front.
Fern Hart took in the unfamiliar vehicle and ran toward the house.
She entered the living room and her wild blue eyes scanned the room, frantic, as if she knew what Antelope had come to tell her.
When he delivered his news, her eyes snapped shut—her body’s attempt to refuse the unwanted, the unbearable, new reality. When she looked at him again, tears flowed.
Max led his mother to the couch, where she collapsed, her body small and broken beside his. Minutes passed while she cried and Max held her. In his mind, Antelope traveled Highway 191, the often empty, desolate stretch of blacktop that led to the Wind River Reservation. These thoughts put him in the right frame of mind for the situation.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
In an instant, Fern went from desolation to resolve, quick as a safety taken off a gun seconds before a shot is fired. “How did my daughter die?”
“She was found this morning in the Cedar Street house. We’re still piecing things together; we’re waiting for the medical examiner to determine the cause of death.”
Fern sat dead still as the words hit, as her brain made space for the pain. “How did she die?” she repeated. “Tell me everything, and tell it quick.”
“The contractor working on the house found her this morning,” Antelope said. “It looked like she fell on the steps going down to the greenhouse. There were also signs of a struggle. The Medical Examiner will have the official cause of death within forty-eight hours.”
“Someone killed her. What did they do to her?”
“I can’t say officially. There was some bruising on her neck, and she hit her head when she fell.”
“Do you think he did it, the man who found her, the contractor?” Fern asked. “She liked him, it would be a shame.”
“I know you want answers, Mrs. Hart. We all do. And we’ll get them. I advise you not to jump to conclusions at the start of the investigation. As soon as we know anything definite, you’ll know it next.”
She gripped Max’s hand tighter, leaned into him. The best thing Antelope could do for her was give her a purpose and a reason to breathe another day.
“When was the last time you saw your daughter?”
“On Mother’s Day we had dinner at the Holiday Inn together.”
Max shot Antelope a look. “Can this wait, man?”
Fern put her free hand on her son’s arm. “I’m alright, Max. He needs our help to find out who did this.”
“The sooner I get to work, the better the chances of finding who did this,” Antelope said. “The two of you knew her better than anyone else. If it was someone she knew, it’s possible you know her killer.”
“I can’t imagine it’s anyone who knew her.” Fern shook her head. “Everyone loved Stacey.”
Every part of her body trembled and shook—like an aspen in a high wind, Antelope thought, a flurry of protest at being disturbed. Max sprang to his feet and returned with a blanket. He wrapped it around her shoulders, and she stroked the soft fabric.
“Stacey made this for me before she left home. She chose the Blessed Virgin’s colors, blue and white. She’s a good girl, a religious girl. I thought the Lord would keep her safe.”
“When you saw her last month, how did she seem?”
Fern and Max exchanged a quick look.
“Happy. Thrilled about the wedding.” Fern broke down again. “My poor girl,” she choked out between sobs, “she’ll never be a bride . . . and she waited so long, she wanted it so much. Why did this happen?”
“It’s been over a month since you last saw her? Seems like a long time.”
“She was so busy getting ready for the wedding. And Max hasn’t seen her, have you Max?”
“I saw her last night.”
“I didn’t know you two were talking again. They had a falling out.” Fern looked at Antelope.
“He doesn’t need to know our business,” Max said. “I never stopped talking to Stacey.”
“You agreed to take some space.”
“You make me out to be a psycho stalker.”
“I would have had you take the new gardening magazine to her.”
“Christ, what difference does it make now? And I didn’t know I’d be seeing her. She texted and asked me to meet her after work.”
“You never said.”
“It was a drink. Why would I tell you?” Max paced the small room in a tight rectangle, like a prisoner in a cell block.
“You didn’t drink, did you?” She looked at Antelope again. “He’s been sober five years.”
“The tavern serves non-alcoholic drinks. And why are you talking about my issues now?”
“Don’t stress, Max.” Fern tightened the blanket around her shoulders. “I can’t handle it if you get upset now. Why don’t you call Dr. Hunt—?”
“Stop running my business,” Max snapped.
“She always helps.”
“Later.”
“Max had an accident a long time ago—a brain injury,” Fern explained. “He has some issues.”
“He doesn’t care about my medical history,” Max muttered. “This is about Stacey getting murdered.”
Antelope wondered if the outburst he’d witnessed out front was due to the brain injury.
“Will you sign a release so I can talk to Dr. Hunt?” he asked Max.
“I don’t have a problem with that.”
“I appreciate it. Where did yo
u and Stacey meet last night?”
“Johnny’s Good Time Tavern.”
“What time did you meet?”
“After work, she gets off at five. Why?”
“I need to know her activities, everything in the days leading up to the time she was found. It’s a place to start. Any particular reason she wanted to see you last night?”
“It was drinks. TGIF—no big deal.”
“And how was Stacey last night? Did she give any indication that she was worried about anything?”
Max snorted. “If my sister ever worried about anything, you’d never know it.”
“What can you tell me about her relationship with Connor?”
Fern Hart looked straight at Antelope and pointed a finger, five pounds of silver jangling.
“They were college sweethearts. He was her first boyfriend. How is poor Connor? Does he know?”
“He took it hard,” Antelope said carefully. “It’s a shock for all of you. One more question and I’ll leave you alone. Was Stacey having a problem or conflict with anyone?”
“My daughter never had a problem with anyone,” Fern said firmly.
“Is there anyone I can talk to—a friend who Stacey would have confided in?”
“Her best friend, Kelly Ryan, lives around the corner. You can’t miss it; it’s the big blue Victorian the corner of Sage and Terrace. I can call her and let her know what’s happened. She’ll take it hard, and it’s better if she hears it from me. I don’t think she’s seen Stacey for a while, though. They had a little falling out. Kelly has always been a little jealous of Stacey, right, Max?”
Beside her, Max shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Not my business.”
“If you give me the address I’ll stop there now,” Antelope said.
“It’s 2 Sage Drive. And have you talked to her roommate? Such a lovely woman, Toni Atwood’s her name.”
“I got the impression she lived with Mr. Collins,” Antelope said.
“Not before marriage. Stacey wouldn’t live with Connor until they married. I know a lot of young people do it these days, but it’s very much against my beliefs. We’re a Catholic family. I asked her to respect my wishes, and she did. She lives with Toni Atwell—she’s a former nun—in a small house in Rock Springs. Toni will tell you the same thing I just did. Stacey never had a problem with anyone.”
Max put his right hand over his eyes and banged his head against the back of the couch. Fern took both his hands in hers. “Stop, Max, please.”
He pulled his hands away and stood up. “Don’t do that. I’ve asked you not to touch me.”
“I’m sorry.” Fern grew tearful again. “I just hate to see you hurt yourself.”
“Stop pushing the fairy tale of how everybody loved Stacey,” Max said. “She’s dead, Mom, murdered. Somebody had a problem with her.”
CHAPTER 4
Outside, black thunderheads rolled in from the south to darken the day. Before Antelope made it back to the car, sheets of freezing rain hit the ground with a loud fury. Hailstones pelted the roof and hood in a wild staccato beat. He was soaked to the skin, and when he started the engine, a blast of frigid air sent a shiver up his spine—like a goose had walked over his grave, his mother would say. It was an idea he wanted to shake off but couldn’t because of where his head was at, what he’d just had to do.
Shielded from the weather and the grief of the house, he waited for the storm to die out.
Ten minutes later, the rain stopped as abruptly as it started. Muddy water coursed through the viaducts and flooded the narrow streets. A double rainbow over the interstate brightened his spirits and reminded him of how as a kid he’d walked for hours to find the pot of gold. Back then, he’d believed every magical story he heard. Who was he kidding? He still believed. He wondered if Stacey’s family would give nature’s artwork a special meaning: Stacey saying good-bye.
Hidden behind a strip mall off Exit 92, a hole-in-the-wall joint called the Black Tiara served the finest Mexican food in Wyoming. It opened for lunch six days a week. On weekends it operated as a speakeasy and exotic dance club.
He placed an order to go and waited in the dining room, where the soothing sounds of a Mexican guitar played. A few minutes later, he left with a warm sack of spicy burritos. He planned to check in with Scruggs after lunch.
Before he swallowed the first bite, his cell phone rang.
“I was in meetings all morning and came out to a truckload of texts from Toni,” Scruggs said. “You can imagine her state of mind.”
In the last six months, the sheriff had evolved into an emotionally sensitive male. In treatment for serial cheating, he’d gotten in touch with his feelings and learned to express them. Some of the guys had even reported hearing sobs in the bathroom from time to time. Scruggs was a changed man. Antelope wasn’t sure which version he preferred.
“I plan to speak with her when I finish up here in Green River.”
“The woman’s torn up and devastated. Take my advice and give her a day to pull herself together.”
“Since when does the Sheriff’s Department maintain a boutique interview schedule?”
“Since my gal’s on the witness list. No surprise you never married, Antelope. You don’t understand the first thing about women. And don’t even go there; I’m not in the mood. What have you got so far?”
“Stacey’s brother’s a nut job. Brain injury makes him go off half-cocked sometimes. When Mrs. Hart said he and Stacey had some trouble, he became defensive. He sees Pepper Hunt for counseling—gave me permission to talk to her.”
Dr. Pepper Hunt was a forensic psychologist who had assisted on another homicide earlier in the year. Antelope was starting to think it would be helpful to bring her on for this one, too.
“Contractor who found the body was twitchy,” he said. “When Collins accused him of having done something to Stacey, he bolted. I’ll catch up with him later. Kelly Ryan’s next on my list. She’s a friend who might know more than the mother, who claims everyone loved her.”
Scruggs grunted. “Those types don’t get murdered.”
“Except this one did. I hope Toni can give me the straight story on her. We need more than a one-dimensional sketch.”
“Let’s not forget they both work jobs where they could pick up enemies. Have someone check on people Collins sent away recently—family members looking for revenge, recent parolees carrying a grudge. And Stacey worked at the YMCA, something to do with domestic violence and the Safe House. There could be a crazy ex who wanted to even the score because she helped his woman escape.”
“We’ll need manpower on this one.”
“Take who you need—and get on it, quick. We don’t want the trail going cold. Humor me, though. Give Toni a day’s grace period.”
“Trust me; I’ll leave her in one piece. I know how to handle a witness. Time is crucial in homicide. You taught me that.”
“Don’t bust my balls, Antelope. Go easy on her. I’ll pull the shift reports and see what the neighborhood canvass yielded. If any-thing jumps out that I want you to snag pronto, you’ll hear from me. If not, I’m off the clock until 8:00 a.m. I plan to take Toni out for a few pops, settle her down before she has to deal with questions.”
“Do me a favor and make it an early night. I need her clear-headed.”
More than once, Antelope had witnessed the former nun downing shots and keeping up with the regular sport drinkers at the Saddle Lite Saloon. He’d also heard rumors that she’d left the convent because of an alcohol problem. One would think alcoholism was less of a problem than the thousands of cases of Catholic priests sexually abusing children, but he supposed the standards were higher for women.
“Don’t worry about Toni,” Scruggs said. “She can hold her liquor.”
CHAPTER 5
We rode back to the barn at a gallop to outrun the thunderheads racing across the sky and made it through the barn doors as the deafening downpour hit.
; Safe in the barn, Soldier was nervous at the scatter-shot of hailstones on the tin roof. I finished wiping him down, gave him a carrot treat, and nuzzled him good-bye with a promise of another ride soon.
Then I ran out through the heavy downpour and realized I couldn’t see clear enough to drive. I pulled out my phone to check the weather forecast just as it started to ring.
“What are you doing?”
Detective Antelope’s customary greeting no longer annoyed me. At first I’d seen it as adolescent, intrusive, and way too intimate for the relationship the two of us had. We’d worked a case together. We’d tried to be friends. But he’d pushed it, so I’d put up a wall and stopped it before it could go anywhere.
Why should I tell him what I was doing? The question assumed he had a right to know, which was why it had put me on the defensive. But I had to admit, it was an excellent way for a detective to start a conversation. It gave him the upper hand right from the start. Plus, Antelope is one of the good guys—and a great detective. So I’d given up and gotten over it.
“I’m waiting out the storm, dripping rainwater all over my Jeep.”
“Where are you?”
“At the barn, I just got back from a trail ride. Why, what’s up?”
“Some bad business. A woman was murdered on Cedar Street this morning and you have a connection to the case.”
“Tell me.”
“In the process of notifying the family, her brother disclosed that he’s a client of yours. He volunteered to sign a release. I know you can’t talk to me until he signs it, but I thought I’d give you a heads up it’s coming. It’s Max Hart.”
My heart sank. “Stacey Hart was murdered? I know Stacey.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. What’s your connection to her?”
“I teach a class on sexual abuse prevention through your department. Stacey worked at the Center for Families and Children. What happened? What can you tell me?”
“A contractor working in the house found the body early this morning. Looks like blunt force trauma to the head, but there were bruises on her neck, too. Waiting on the medical examiner for cause of death.”
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