“No? I was, on the other side of town. You have any relatives around here, Mr. Bailey? Any brothers or sisters, any children or grandkids?”

“No.”

“Not around here, or—”

“Nowhere. I don’t have any family.”

Bean nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Me neither.” He changed the subject. “So, what made you come to Isherwood then? When was that, back in—”

“I came here in 1950, for a friend’s funeral. This looked as good as any other town so I stayed. My height is five-nine, my weight is one hundred and twenty-five pounds, and my hat size is seven and three-quarters. Now, is there anything else you’d like to know, Deputy, or should we just check my prints and have it over with?”

Bean laughed. “Just making conversation, Pops. You’re a crotchety old fart, you know that?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

They passed the edge of town, turned onto Moffit Trail, and began the winding drive to the top. The boardinghouse was already in view, standing out against the reddened sky of dusk. It was still light enough to make out the big old structure with its vigilant elm tree out front, its ornate eaves and ivy-encrusted trellises and a honeycomb of shuttered eyes, some dark, others already glowing with lamp light. It was a homey-looking old fortress, had stood for nearly a century, and had functioned as a boardinghouse for about half that time. It had never had a formal business name, nothing you could look up in the Yellow Pages under “Room and Board.” But the people of Isherwood had rectified that years back when they bestowed a moniker from TV. The name still stuck today—as long as Petticoat Junction lived in syndication, the big house on the hill would always be known as the Shady Rest.

Bean wondered what it would be like to live in such an airy old palace instead of a cramped apartment or mobile home as he had most of his life. “It must be great to have such a big old home like that,” he said, mostly just thinking out loud. Bailey turned in his seat and looked at him as if he were stupid.

“Oh, it’s wonderful. If you like to hear the pop of old, brittle bones and the creak of muscles as stretchy as sandpaper, the panting of people who’ve lost their breath and ain’t likely to find it again. This ain’t no home, friend. Ain’t nothin’ but a depot for the dying.” Then, under his breath, “Well, not me. Not yet anyway.” He kept muttering that until they pulled to a stop in front of the house.