Any Other Name: A Longmire Mystery

by Craig Johnson

  “What’s that?”

  “If you find him, whoever he is . . .” He glanced at Vic and then back to me. “Don’t kill him right off; make sure that he suffers—a lot.” He slammed back the second shot, and his head started bobbing again as he picked up the phone. “He looks like her.” He sipped the beer and put the cell away, along with some of his thoughts. “And if you need any help with that, you just let me know and I’ll be happy to get some guys to assist.”

  Some of the thoughts were put away but not all of them.

  —

  Mount Pisgah really isn’t much of an ascent and ranks as the 1,336th highest mountain in Wyoming, but the real puzzle is that although the cemetery that has its name is in Gillette, the mountain itself is actually near Newcastle and is not even in Campbell County.

  Mount Pisgah Cemetery is the crown jewel of the County Cemetery District and is located in the heart of the city. Atop one of the highest points in the town, the sprawling, fifty-seven-acre resting place is a beautiful spot in a not-so-lovely city with enough majestic old cottonwoods towering over the place that when they release their seeds in May and June, you would swear it was snowing. With rolls containing 5,600 burials, it has monuments dating back to 1879 and graves older than anyone can remember.

  As I parked the truck in front of the large, Victorian-style house next to the cemetery, Vic turned and looked around the place. “Mount Pisgah in a pig’s ass—this is a hill at best.”

  “It and the slope near Newcastle are named for a mountain in the Bible that’s in a region directly east of the Jordan River and just northeast of the Dead Sea, usually referred to as Mount Nebo, the highest of the Pisgah range, a cluster of hills to the west of the Trans-Jordanian Plateau.” I dredged up the chapter and verse. “‘And Moses went up from the plains of Moab unto the mountain of Nebo, to the top of Pisgah, that is over against Jericho.’ Deuteronomy, chapter thirty-four, verse one.”

  She pulled the door handle and slipped out, holding the suicide door open for Dog. “Jesus.”

  “No.” I did my best Yul Brynner imitation. “Moooooses.”

  “Was your mother some kind of religious fanatic?”

  “No, but my grandfather spent most of his dotage reading and memorizing passages from the Bible, and since I spent most of my summers on his place it rubbed off.” We looked up at the gate of the cemetery, and, as Dog did his business, at a strong snow beginning to curtain the landscape. “Pisgah is actually Hebrew for ‘high place,’ but lost its meaning over time and became the name of the range.”

  She thumbed through the files, holding them close to her chest and moving Roberta Payne to the top. “More developments from the photographic mind?”

  “No, I had a Jewish girlfriend in college; you’d be amazed at what you can learn when motivated and with the right teacher.”

  “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.”

  She took a deep breath and sat the mug down, pulling the afghan around her a little closer. She gripped the blanket in a distracted manner, her fingers poking into the holes of the thing as she pulled it tighter.

  Vic had given a name to the technique that we both used when questioning suspicious persons; I called it waiting, whereas she called it running the Zamboni, a term she’d brought from Broad Street, Philadelphia, where her beloved Flyers played—ask your question and then let the machine polish the ice.

  “It’s me.”

  Her voice had been so small I had to ask. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m the one that’s been making the withdrawals.”

  I glanced at Vic and then back to her. “You.”

  “Yes, me. I thought that if I kept the amounts under two hundred dollars that no one would notice.”

  I thought about the statement that showed that most of the withdrawals were well above two hundred dollars and let my eyes scan the decrepit house. “The money is Roberta’s?”

  She kept her head down. “A trust that her father left for her, but I’ve been using it to live on.”

  “For how long?”

  “For a month now. There isn’t any other money than what’s in that trust.”

  “And that’s why you’ve been trying to obtain a certificate of death in absentia for the last few weeks?”

  She nodded and took off her glasses, wiping what I assumed were tears. “Yes.”

  I could feel Vic’s eyes on me. “Mrs. Payne, it’s clear that you’ve gone through a lot of difficulties lately, and we’re not really here to add to your burdens but we need answers. We’re just interested in your daughter, her disappearance, and the connection it might have with these other women.” I pulled out one of my cards and placed it beside the stacked mail and then shoved my hands in my pockets. “We’ll leave your home now, but if you do think of anything that might help us in the investigation, I’d appreciate it if you would give us a call.”

  Vic stepped in front of me and picked up the card, writing her cell number on the back and then handing it to the old woman. “Mrs. Payne, call this number and you’ll get a faster response.”

  We walked out of the house and down the steps as my undersheriff punched my arm. “Okay, that’s two visits that make me want to cut my wrists . . . Is Campbell County always this uplifting?”

  “You should’ve seen what it was like before you got here.”

  “I improved your spirits?”

  “Yep.”

  “I have that effect on people.” She pulled out her phone and looked at it. “Uh oh . . .”

  I pulled up, and we looked at each other from across the hood of my truck. “What?”

  “Missed call.”

  “Patrolman Dougherty?”

  “No, your daughter.”

  I froze, both figuratively and literally. “Cady?”

  She thumbed the device. “Wait, there’s a text.” She read it and looked at me. “You’re in trouble.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  “Bad bad, or just bad?”

  She began reading from her phone.

  “Dad, where the hell are you?! I’ve been calling the office! The doctors are talking about inducing and wanted to know if I had a magic number as a birth date for the baby, but I told them I was waiting till my father got here! The doctor I want for the delivery is only available one day this weekend and I want to make sure you’re here! Would you please call me right now? Signed, your very pregnant daughter!”

  Vic looked up at me.

  I climbed in my side as she opened the door on the other. “That’s not so bad.”

  Closing the passenger-side door behind her, she continued reading. “PS: Now, or I’m going to kill you!” She glanced at me. “The now and the kill are underlined.”

  I nodded.

  “PPS: I mean it!” She lowered the phone and studied me. “PPPS: I really mean it!” She smiled. “Speaking from a personal standpoint, whenever a woman uses more than a half dozen exclamation points, four underlines, and three postscripts—you are in deep fucking shit.”

  “Gimme the phone.”

  She dialed the number and handed the device to me.

  I put the thing to my ear and held it there as I fired up the truck and hit the wipers, barely able to move enough of the snow to clear the windshield. “Did I see an Office Depot back near the Douglas Highway in our travels?”

  “Why, you want to go buy a chair to hit Sadie Payne with?” She thrust her chin toward the house we’d just left. “Little hard on the old broad, weren’t you?”

  I listened to the phone ring as I pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of my coat and studied it. “It was quite a performance.”

  “You’re not buying it?”

  The phone continued to ring. “Not particularly.”

  She studied me for a moment and then shrugged. “So why do we need an Office Depot?”

  The phone rang some more. “So I can make a copy of this bank statement that says most of these ATM withdra
wals in the last month were made at the Buffalo Gold Rush Casino in Deadwood, South Dakota. Some very large withdrawals . . .”

  I turned to look at her just as somebody, a very angry somebody in Philadelphia, answered the phone in a tone of molten righteousness and wounded indignity.

  “Hello?!!”

  I could almost hear the exclamation points as I put on my best nonchalant voice. “Hi punk—you looking for me?”

  8

  “So, bad bad.”

  I nodded. “Pretty bad, yep.”

  “Have you called her since the one-legged bandit waylaid you?”

  “Once, twice with just now.”

  Vic cradled her face in her hands. “Oh, Walt.”

  “I kept thinking I’d get out of here.” I looked past Dog, now sitting between us. “Which is why I have to get this wrapped up by the end of the week when the two of us are going to have to get to Philadelphia.”

  She raised her head, brushing a wide swoop of black hair from her face, and looked at me. “Do you have a ticket?”

  “An airline ticket?”

  She glanced at the clock on my dash and tapped it. “If you take the bus, you’re going to have to leave now.”

  I nodded and took a right on 85 onto the snowpack that was Main Street and then headed down the hill into Deadwood. “She says I have one for noon.”

  Vic shook her head and looked out the window at the snow that was continuously falling along with some freezing fog. “We’ll need to get me one.” She looked up at the curtains of flakes falling gold in the illumination of the streetlights. “That is, if anybody’s flying.”

  Deadwood, South Dakota, is a tourist town and, like most tourist towns, doesn’t look its best off-season, but the architecture has been preserved here, and when snow covers the globed streetlights, I can almost see Bill Hickok, Calamity Jane, and Seth Bullock sauntering down the avenues of my imagination. “You’ve never been here?”

  “No, but I saw the TV series.”