15
Cash had met Colcord on one end of Main Street in Burns that morning, with the idea of making a quick canvass through the tiny town to see if anyone knew Grooms or remembered any strangers passing through nine days earlier. A June rain shower hit just as they arrived, busting out a flurry of raincoats and bobbing umbrellas. The two of them had wound their way down the street, making pit stops to interview a florist, a cheese shop owner, and a wine bar proprietor. All had said pretty much the same thing: They knew or had heard of Grooms, thought he was harmless and mentally ill, and had no idea why someone would want him killed. While there had been the usual backpackers and hikers stopping or passing through—many fewer since the Neander disaster—nobody had seen anything out of the ordinary in terms of equipment or demeanor. No recollection of four backpackers in camo.
Cash and Colcord now stood, shivering and dejected, in front of their last stop: the gas station at the end of Main Street.
Cash eyed the shabby station, which looked empty. “Should we call it a day?” She flicked away a lock of brown hair stuck to her cheek from the rain. She was wet, cold, and feeling especially irritable.
“But, Cash,” Colcord said in a teasing voice, “we haven’t got a lead yet on the intergalactic murderers.”
“You shut your face,” Cash said. “You know I had to check those phone calls out.”
A drop of water dripped from the tip of Cash’s nose, and she wiped it away with her sleeve.
“You know what the problem is?” he asked.
“What?”
“You left your tinfoil hat back in the office.”
“Fuck off,” Cash responded, but the side of her mouth twitched upward into an involuntary smile. Colcord had been razzing her ever since hearing about her interview with Castillo. “Let’s get this over with.”
They stepped inside. Cash unzipped her raincoat and shook it on the straw entrance mat that saidLive, Laugh, Leave. A woman with bleached-blond hair and black roots was seated behind the cash register. Her thumbs moved across her phone with lightning speed to the sound of musical pings and beeps—playing some game, Cash supposed.
“Good afternoon,” Cash said. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“What do you want?” the woman said in a smoke-cured voice, without looking up from her phone.
“Do you have a moment for a few questions?”
The woman sighed heavily and put down her phone. She stared at Cash with open hostility, but her demeanor changed completely when her eyes fell on Colcord in his uniform.
“Well, good afternoon, Sheriff,” she said, her voice higher-pitched now and more feminine.
“Afternoon, miss.”
The lady smiled coquettishly at the last word. She shifted herself forward, bringing her arms together in front of her so that her breasts were almost falling out of her low-cut blouse. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Willy Grooms.”
Now the woman was really interested. “Of course. Anything I can do to help. Just terrible, what happened to that old man up in the mountains, right? My name is Sassy. Short for Sassafras. Have you found who did it?”
“We’re still investigating. May I have your last name?”
“Newton.” The woman’s eyes glittered. “I heard the killers dressed him up as an angel. Is that true?”
“I’m afraid we can’t talk about the details.”
Cash placed her phone on the counter to record.
“How long you been in Burns?” she asked Colcord, her eyelashes fluttering.
“A couple of days,” Colcord said briskly. “Now, ah, Ms. Newton—did you know Mr. Grooms?”
“I only heard of him, never met him. I’m very busy these days. I’m an entrepreneur, you see.” Sassy leaned forward even farther in her chair toward Colcord, her breasts clinging to fabric for dear life.
Cash tried to keep her eyes on Sassy’s face.
“I only work here part-time,” she went on, making a disparaging gesture at the surroundings. “I run my own business. Maquillage.”
