The deputy gave the businessman an admiring look. “You don’t miss a trick.”
“It don’t take a genius to figure things out.” Wally pointed his pipe stem at the telephone. “I got a call from Mrs. Hawley, who wanted to find out if she could garnishee Mike Kauffmann’s wages for the three weeks’ back rent he owes her.” He paused for a refreshing puff of what was smoldering in the bowl, which was Prince Albert Tobacco plus some additional aromatic ingredients he’d prepared himself. “I told the landlady that wasn’t a workable notion, and Mrs. Hawley said she’d ‘see about that’ and threatened to talk to a lawyer about doing the paperwork.” The happy man chuckled. “I said ‘Do whatever you’re of a mind to, ma’am,’ but I advised the lady not to waste her money. I pay Kauffmann at the end of every workday he puts in here, so unless he comes back looking for some work—which ain’t all that likely under the present circumstances—there won’t be a single greenback dollar for Mrs. Hawley to garnishee.”
“And you figure I’m here because of Kauffmann’s unpaid rent?”
“Nah. But everybody also knows that you’re Scott Parris’s best buddy and part-time deputy. So you’ve come to ask me what I know about Mike Kauffmann, who must be in some kinda serious trouble to skip town. Not that I’m hinting for you to tell me what the rascal’s been up to.” Another pipe pause that refreshed. “So I’ll tell you what I can, which is not a helluva lot. Kauffmann’s worked here on an as-needed basis for almost a year.” This recitation was interrupted by a string of coughs. “Damn! If something else don’t kill me first, smoking will.” He blinked at the Ute. “Where was I?”
“You were about to tell me where Mr. Kauffmann hangs his hat when he’s not bunking in Mrs. Hawley’s Boardinghouse, or visiting Mrs. Naranjo’s home.”
“No I wasn’t.” After noisily clearing his throat, Wally spat into an antique brass spittoon. “I would if I could, Charlie—but I can’t. He might be roosting in a buzzard’s nest for all I know. All I can tell you about Kauffmann is that he generally drops by every once in a while and asks if I have any job of work for him to do.” Pause. “You have any more penetrating questions?”
“No, you’re doing fine without any help for me.”
“Please ask me what kind of woodworking Kauffmann likes to do.”
“Would that make your day?”
“You bet.”
“Okay. What kind of woodworking does Mr. Kauffmann like to do?”
“Since you inquire so politely, I will give you a big, fat hint. In addition to our so-so line of home and office furnishings, now and then we do a piece of work for one of several funeral homes who’ve been buying our product since fussy old dogs was frisky pups. These enterprises occasionally have a bereaved customer who requests a simple, inexpensive burial.”
Moon’s eyebrow arched about a half millimeter.
Gratified by this display of interest, Wally continued. “And when we get an order for a sturdy pine box, Mr. Kauffmann is the go-to guy. It’s what you might call his preferred line of work.”
A fellow who has Daisy Perika for an aunt is bound to be broadminded about other folks’ peculiarities and as the Southern Ute tribal investigator turned this factoid over in his mind, he couldn’t find anything particularly sinister in Kauffmann’s leanings. I guess we all have our small eccentricities.
Yes, the we includes Charlie Moon, who is not without his own strange habits. It is whispered that in October, when the Moon of Dead Leaves Falling is plump and yellow as a county-fair pumpkin, the Ute rancher saddles up ol’ Paducah and loads a side of prime beef onto a Tennessee pack mule whose given name is Elizabeth. Mr. Moon and his equine companions (so the rumormongers say) journey deep into the pristine spruce forests on the northern border of the Columbine, where they spend anywhere from five nights to a full week. No, despite his famous appetite, Charlie Moon does not consume an entire side of beef during these few days. And despite what you may’ve heard, almost all horses and mules are strict vegetarians. It is alleged that Moon goes to meet a dangerous recluse who is unbearably lonely. This large carnivore, who subsists primarily on elk and venison, looks forward to the delicious novelty of beefsteaks broiled over a campfire. It is said that while the golden disk rides high in the night sky, the Indian has long, thought-provoking conversations with the formidable creature who has been mistaken for a grizzly bear. But even if that improbable tale contains a grain or two of truth, it has nothing to do with the price of furniture.
Wally took a long pull on his pipe and exhaled a lungful of gray smoke with this challenge: “Bet you ten cents you can’t guess what Mike Kauffmann’s nickname is out in the shop.”
In normal circumstances the habitual gambler would jump on any wager with both feet and an unashamed intent to win. In this instance Moon pretended not to have deduced the obvious truth. “Well … I’ll make a run at it. How about … Mike Hammer?”
“No, but I like it.” After chuckling his belly into a hilarious case of the shakes, Wally caught his breath long enough to say, “The boys in the shop call him Kauffmann the Coffin Man.”
“No kidding?” Moon flipped the winner a shiny new dime.
Wally snatched it out of the air with the quickness of one who catches houseflies in flight. Anticipating the deputy’s next question, he said, “Yes, if I think of anything else about Mr. Kauffmann—no matter how insignificant it might seem to be—I’ll call you on the phone.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Moon got up from the armchair.
Wally pointed his pipe stem at the fine piece of furniture. “Please take that hunk of junk with you, Charlie—before somebody slips in here and buys it and boosts me into a higher tax bracket.”
“You sure?”
Mr. Wallace Wordsworth nodded. “Give it to Aunt Daisy with my compliments.” He grinned as only a bona fide member of the Munchkin Clan can. “And tell her the cushions are stuffed with dirty straw, which is contaminated with deer ticks, poisonous centipedes, and fleas collected from rabid coyotes.”
“She’ll be happy to hear that.” Moon thanked the reluctant entrepreneur and departed with the gift chair in hand. As he loaded the furniture into the back of his SUV, a seemingly trifling matter nagged at him. He attempted to dismiss the thought, but it was as if some unseen presence continued to whisper “Coffin Man” into his ear.
From the instant when he’d realized what Wally was hinting at, the tribal investigator had been bothered by this descriptor. The sinister nickname would have been appropriate for several murderous hardcases the lawman had encountered over the years—every one of whom had filled more than one coffin with the residue of a human being. But it seemed a poor fit for part-time carpenter Michael Kauffmann. Charlie pulled an old woolen blanket over the gift chair and lowered the tailgate. Even Mike Hammer is a stretch.
As he eased the Expedition through the WWW gate, Charlie Moon upbraided himself. A man who allowed trivia to occupy his thoughts needed to get his mental battery charged. What I need is to slip away for a while and do some serious fishing.
But that happy day would have to wait. Deputy Moon was on his way to an appointment with his best friend.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE LAWMEN COMPARE NOTES
MONDAY, 8:44 A.M.
It was a mite late in the morning to be enjoying a coffee break at Chicky’s Daylight Doughnuts, which closed right on the dot at nine A.M.—or earlier if the megacalorie pastries sold out, which was the case more often than not.
The chief of police had arrived just in time to purchase the last of Chicky’s scrumptious jelly doughnuts, and most of this plump sugar bomb was still on his platter. His deputy had purchased a matched pair of glazed doughnuts that (so the Ute claimed) were heavy enough to sink a nine-foot poplar-bark canoe.
What did they have to say about the murder in Granite Creek Cemetery and the mysterious disappearance of Miss Betty Naranjo? So far, not a word. By mutual unspoken agreement, when enjoying a morning renewal at Chicky’s del
ightful eatery the sensible diners did not discuss business until the very last bite had been washed down with coffee strong enough to grow hair on a dead man’s chest. Because Charlie Moon had gotten off to a head start, the final morsel was masticated by Scott Parris, who also drained a mug of java that would have satisfied a persnickety Seattle gourmand.
The wizard who performed the culinary magic materialized to swipe a damp dishcloth across the table. “How was things?”
Moon saluted the chef. “Like always—first rate.”
“Great.” To accentuate this heartfelt compliment, Parris burped.
Gratified, Chicky was transported to other tables, where he queried additional customers in a similar manner and was rewarded with due praise.
Scott Parris wiped his mouth with a pink paper napkin. “You want to hear my theory on the graveyard killing?”
“Not necessary,” Moon said. “I already know what you’re thinking.”
This retort produced the expected snort. “No you don’t.”
“Bet you a nickel I do.”
The overweight cop searched the change in his skin-tight pocket. “Don’t think I have a nickel.”
The skinny rancher shrugged under his denim jacket. “Bet you a dime.”
The chief of police laid the specified coin on the greasy table.
Moon saw the wager with two shiny Jefferson facsimiles.
“Okay, Chucky—tell me what I’m thinking.”
“Well, for one thing, you’re thinking this bet’s a sure thing. When I tell you what your theory is about the Morris Meusser homicide, you’ll say, ‘That ain’t quite right,’ and grab the twenty-cent pot like a kid snatching a lemon lollipop.”
“Now that hurts, Charlie.” The man whose mind had been expertly read tried hard to work his face into an injured expression. “D’you really think I’d outright lie to beat you out of a couple of nickels?”
“Now that you put it that way, pardner—I guess not.” Moon’s grin flashed kilowatts. “But if the wager was for two bits, I’d hate to take the chance.”
“Thank you.” Parris returned a toothy smile. “So tell me what’s written on my brain—so I can laugh out loud.”
“It’s like reading a Little Lulu comic book. But before I start turning pages, I need some liquid refreshment.” Moon raised his mug, gesturing for a refill. The conversation was suspended while Chicky poured fresh-brewed Bishop’s Blend into the aforesaid receptacle. As the proprietor departed, Moon took a sip and a sly glance at his companion. “You figure Morris heard someone prowling around the cemetery at night. Being a conscientious custodian, he naturally went to find out what was coming down. But Morris must’ve met somebody he couldn’t scare off, and got chased all the way back to his bungalow by the seriously bad guy, and locked himself inside. Figuring the custodian was about to call the cops, the prowler cut the phone line off the terminal box. Then he busted the door open, went inside, and bonked Morris Meusser on the head until he was stone-cold deceased. After which the felon snatched the dead man’s pocket watch and hit the road.”
Parris’s theory was that a crazed dope addict who fed his habit by burglarizing isolated dwellings had murdered the lonely old bachelor. He stared at the canny tribal investigator, who never failed to surprise him. “Just to humor me, tell me why I’d be thinking along those lines.”
“Because you’re clever and you notice things.”
The clever chief of police was beginning to feel uneasy. “Such as?”
“Oh, little things. Like the story in the newspaper last month about somebody stealing an old tombstone from the historic section of the cemetery—and in the dead of night. And the fact that while Meusser’s corpse was stretched out on his parlor couch, his bed had been slept in—which suggests something woke him up after he’d hit the sack. And the peculiar way his electric vehicle was parked.”
“I noticed that the little electric truck was parked in the garage with Meusser’s Volkswagen Bug, just like it always is.”
“No you didn’t.”
“I didn’t?”
“Mr. Meusser always parks his German motorcar and the cart the same way: he backs them into the garage. What you noticed was that the cart was parked headfirst.”
“Oh, right.” Parris paused to cerebrate. It takes longer to back the cart into the garage. “Which suggests that Meusser was in a big hurry when he returned to his quarters.”
“That’s what it looks like, all right.” But Moon was entertaining another notion entirely.
Parris assumed his bulldog-stubborn expression. “Maybe Meusser’s bed hadn’t been slept in on Saturday night, maybe he didn’t make up his bed from the night before. And maybe he pulled the cemetery cart into the garage headfirst because—”
The Ute terminated the string of protests by raising his palm. “Pardner, I was telling you what you’re thinking—it ain’t my fault if you do an awful lot of supposing from some pretty shaky physical evidence.”
The chief of police muttered a crude expletive under his breath.
Happily immune to this negative commentary, Charlie Moon eyed the twenty cents. “So?”
Parris glared at his impertinent deputy. “So what?”
“Was I close enough to take the pot?”
The chief of police shook his head.
“No?”
Parris pushed the dime and two nickels across the table. “But take it anyway.”
As Charlie Moon pocketed his less-than-two-bit winnings, he thought it advisable to change the subject. “What’ve you heard from Mrs. Naranjo?”
“Not a peep. But Clara Tavishuts has been calling her twice a day to ask whether there’s been any news about the missing daughter. There ain’t.” Scott Parris tied his pink paper napkin into a knot. “I guess I oughta drop by and see how the lady’s doing.” He shot a hopeful glance at his deputy. “You want to come along and see what needs fixing?”
“No way—unless you want to put me on a journeyman plumber’s hourly pay.”
“Hah! Fat chance.”
Moon took a sip of coffee. “So tell me about your chat with Betty Naranjo’s psychologist.”
“Well…” Parris tied a second knot in the napkin. “Ever since I talked to Mrs. Whyte on Friday, I’ve had a hunch about that story about her husband camping out for the weekend, and him being so far out in the boonies that he couldn’t be reached by his cell phone—that was all a bald-faced lie. I figured Dr. Whyte got a call from his wife right after I hung up.” Tossing the knotted napkin aside, he helped himself to a wooden toothpick. “On Friday evening, I got the word out to cop shops in the closest six towns to Granite Creek—asking them to keep a lookout for a blue-and-white F-250 with Whyte’s license plate—and to phone me the minute they spotted it. I got the call from Salida PD a few minutes past seven A.M. this morning, so I saddled up and intercepted the doc a few blocks from his residence.” He provided a detailed account of his encounter with Dr. and Mrs. Whyte.
Charlie Moon enjoyed Parris’s lively narrative, which was punctuated with pithy commentary on the couple. “Well, I can see why you’ve got some suspicions about the psychologist.”
“It’s more than just suspicions, Chucky—it’s based on some actual police work.” The ex-Chicago cop chomped the toothpick between his teeth. “Before he came to Granite Creek last year, Dr. Whyte practiced his honorable trade in Houston.”
“Houston PD have anything on him?”
Parris shook his head. “But I talked to a contact in the public school system. Turns out Whyte has built himself somewhat of a rep.”
Moon arched an eyebrow. “The counselor exhibits a preference for teenage female patients?”
“Mm-hm.” Parris removed the chewed-on splinter of wood from his mouth. “There was some gossip about improper behavior, but nothing Dr. Whyte could be charged with.”
“Could be the man’s innocent of any serious wrongdoing.”
“Maybe.” And maybe black bears don’t steal honey from the
bees.
“But you figure him for a prime suspect in Betty Naranjo’s disappearance.”
Parris shrugged. “He could be her baby’s father.”
“If he is, the doc might’ve taken the girl someplace where she could deliver her child—and put it up for adoption.”
Another snort. “More likely, he took Betty someplace for an abortion.”
Neither lawman broached the subject that haunted them … Desperate men are often driven to desperate actions. If he had fathered Betty Naranjo’s child, Dr. Whyte might decide that the safest course of action would be to make both mother and child vanish. Forever. And if he had committed a double homicide, Mrs. Whyte was probably at least suspicious of foul play. The wife might even be a willing coconspirator.
Parris grinned at Chicky’s buxom waitress as she passed their table; the lady returned the compliment with a wink. The widower with the roving eye returned his attention to his deputy. “So tell me about your interview of Michael Kauffmann’s curmudgeonly employer.”
“It wasn’t exactly what you’d call an interview.” Charlie Moon described his one-sided conversation with the owner-manager of Wally Wordsworth’s Woodworks—including the fact that Wanda Naranjo’s part-time carpenter boyfriend specialized in making pine boxes that served as the final dwelling places of the dearly departed, and his nickname.
“Kauffmann the Coffin Man—that’s pretty lame.” Parris groaned.
“Yeah.” Moon picked up a sticky plastic-bear dispenser and added a dab of honey to his coffee. “But almost every cowboy on the Columbine has a sillier nickname.”
Making a big fist, the white cop studied his knuckles with intense curiosity. “You figure Kauffmann might be responsible for Betty Naranjo’s vanishing act?”
“The mother’s boyfriend can’t be crossed off our list.” After a long draw of coffee, Moon feigned a thoughtful expression. “I mean … a guy with a handle like Coffin Man is a natural suspect.”
Coffin Man Page 12
