She reached for her coffee. “We knew each other a full year before we finally agreed to get married. We did it because we’re old-fashioned, no way would either of us live together without paper. But most of what we had was friendship. He was my best friend.”

Milo nodded. “When did Pierce get off speed?”

“He was already getting off when I met him. That’s why he moved into that fleabag. Punishing himself. He had some savings and his pension, but was living like he was a broke bum. Because that’s how he thought of himself. By the time we started going out, he was off dope completely. But he was sure it did damage to him. ‘Swiss-cheese brain,’ he used to call it. Said if they ever x-rayed his head, they’d find holes big enough to stick a finger through. Mostly, it was his balance and his memory—he had to write things down or they were gone. I told him that was just age, but he wasn’t convinced. When he told me he wanted to learn how to ride, I worried. Here he was, not a young man, no experience, not the best balance. But Pierce managed to stay in the saddle until . . . The horses loved him, he had a calming influence on them. Maybe because of all he’d been through, getting himself clean. Maybe he ended up at a higher level than if he hadn’t suffered. You’ll probably find this hard to believe, Detective Sturgis, but during his time with me, Pierce was a blessedly serene man.”

She got up, retrieved the picture atop the TV, held it out to us. Snapshot of Schwinn and her, leaning against the posts of the corral out front. I had only Milo’s rawbone Oakie description to fuel my expectation of the former detective and had expected a grizzled old cop. The look. The man in the photo had long, white hair that snaked past his shoulders and a snowy beard that reached nearly to his navel. He wore a peanut-butter-colored buckskin jacket, denim shirt, blue jeans, a turquoise bracelet, one turquoise earring.

Old-time trapper or geriatric hippie, hand in hand with a sun-punished woman who barely reached his shoulder. I saw Milo’s eyes widen.

“He was my Flower Power Grandpa,” said Marge. “Different from when you knew him, huh?”

“A bit,” said Milo.

She placed the picture in her lap. “So what kind of advice did you hope to get from him on this case of yours?”

“I was just wondering if Pierce had any general recollections.”

“Something that old and now you’re working it again? Who got killed?”

“A girl named Janie Ingalls. Pierce ever mention that name?”

“No,” she said. “Like I said, he didn’t talk about his work.”

“Did Pierce leave any papers behind?”

“What kind of papers?”

“Anything to do with his work—newspaper clippings, photos, police mementos?”