Scott Parris had a great notion: “You want to make another wager?”
“Kauffmann against Whyte?”
The town cop nodded. “Let’s say—a dollar.”
“You got it, pard.” The gambler who couldn’t say no laid a dollar bill on the table.
As Parris saw it with a half-dollar and a pair of quarters, he had one of those nagging second thoughts: Charlie jumped on that bet a little too fast. He squinted at his part-time deputy. “You sure you want to risk a whole greenback on Kauffmann?”
“Sure.” Moon returned an innocent look. “Unless you want Mrs. Naranjo’s boyfriend. If you’d like to switch, I’ll bet on Whyte.”
Parris’s squint narrowed to knife-edge slits. Maybe Charlie’s using what they call reverse psychology—setting me up so he can put his buck on Dr. Whyte and leave me with Coffin Man. “Well, I don’t know.…”
“Not a problem, pard. You pick which one you want, I’ll take the leavings.” Moon flashed the electric smile. “Hey, a dollar won or lost won’t make or break me.”
True enough. But this was not about money.
Charlie’s up to something all right. But what? Maybe it’s a double-reverse psychology. Maybe he’s trying to—
“So what’ll it be, pard?”
Confused to the core, Parris gave up. “You pick which suspect you want.”
“Okay. I’ll take Whyte.”
I knew it! Parris was delighted with himself for rightly reading Moon’s devious intentions.
The chief of police would have had less reason to be pleased if he had noticed a minor detail in the tribal investigator’s selection of suspects. It was what Mr. Moon had not said that was significant: “I’ll take Dr. Whyte.”
But we must allow Scott Parris a little slack. Granite Creek’s top cop did not know that Charlie Moon had met Mrs. Whyte on two or three occasions, and that the formidable lady had made a considerable impression on the Ute.
As the proprietor generally did when the lawmen friends made a serious wager on the premises, Chicky agreed to hold the two-dollar pot. And often as not, bets between Charlie Moon and Scott Parris remained unresolved. To date, their informal banker was almost thirty bucks the better for the service provided.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
PISTOL PACKIN’ MOMMA
MONDAY
Exhausted by her worries over the longest weekend of her life, Betty’s mother had slept in. At about the time when Scott Parris and Charlie Moon were making their one-dollar wager at Chicky’s Daylight Doughnuts, Wanda Naranjo awakened with an unshakable conviction: My daughter’s not coming home. Not this week, or next month … not ever.
The horror of this dismal realization was magnified by her suspicion that—one way or another—her miserable excuse for a boyfriend was responsible for Betty’s disappearance. On top of all that, she ached all over and her feet were swollen. An awful way to begin the day, but Wanda was determined to get well and get even.
First things first. The nurse’s aide’s self-prescription was a stiff dose of caffeine. Over her first cup of coffee, Wanda reviewed the plan she’d made on Friday night and could find no major fault with her audacious plot. During a nutritious brunch (a cold biscuit and a steaming bowl of green chili stew), she fine-tuned her scheme here and there. By midafternoon she had smoked a half pack of cigarettes and worked up the gumption to flat-out do it.
* * *
The determined woman stashed the firearm and a box of brass cartridges in her purse, locked the front door behind her, cranked up the trusty Toyota Tercel, and departed Granite Creek with blood in her eye and the sweet foretaste of revenge on the tip of her tongue. This was it—there would be no turning back; her decision final, the die cast.
The stimulation of physical action can be an excellent remedy for despair, and the feisty little lady was beginning to feel mighty fine. Before the sun goes down, I’ll have the bastard lined up in my sights!
Excepting the citizen’s murderous intent, her enthusiasm for the daring venture is admirable. But—and please pardon this merest hint of negativity—not every happy enterprise proceeds precisely according to plan.
Wanda used up most of an hour motoring to and fro in the unpopulated foothills south of town. Despite her clear memory of the spot, it was proving difficult to find the turnoff to the travel trailer where Mike Kauffmann had taken her on their first “date.” I’m sure it’s around her somewhere. It’s got to be. The mildly myopic woman leaned forward to squint over the steering wheel. I remember a Forest Service sign with a number that I thought I’d remember if I ever saw it again because it had something to do with how old I am, but—
What was that by the side of the little creek that paralleled the road? Hard to tell. It was partially concealed by an overgrowth of willows.
Wanda saw it again and got a better look this time.
A sturdy cedar post with a pine plank nailed across the top.
She braked the Toyota to a halt, got out, and the trotted over to the post. Sure enough, there was the wooden sign she’d been searching for. Despite several bullet holes provided courtesy of the local chapter of the ADA (Armed Dimwits Association), she could make out the letters and numerals burned into the wood. Aha! Forest Road 1963. That was the year John Kennedy was gunned down in Dallas by that nutcase in the School Book Depository—and also the year I was born.
She walked a few yards down a dirt lane and crossed a bridge over the stream. A few paces farther, there was a low, mucky area where isolated little pools of water remained from the recent rains. She paused to take a look at several heavy tread marks in the mud. Mr. Kauffmann’s former girlfriend had seen them often enough in her yard. If those weren’t made by Mike’s Wagoneer, I’ll eat my underwear! When tracking down a treacherous ex-boyfriend, it is highly gratifying to discover a helpful clue to the scoundrel’s whereabouts. But were the tire marks coming or going—or both? A satisfactory answer to this riddle was beyond her expertise. I hope he hasn’t skipped already and holed up someplace I don’t know about.
Wanda returned to her Japanese automobile, turned off the paved road and onto the rutted lane, and clattered over the wooden bridge. Startled by the noise that might alert her quarry, she shifted quickly to low gear and proceeded at a crawl through the muddy puddles, adding her tire prints to those so thoughtfully provided by Michael Kauffmann. The neighborhood began to look more familiar as she passed through a thickish forest of mature spruce and pine that was dotted with occasional clusters of aspen. As Wanda topped a slight rise, she slammed her foot on the brake pedal. There, barely two hundred yards away and nestled in a few acres of pasture, was the tiny stainless-steel trailer that she remembered from their initial tryst. A retired cattle rancher had (so Mike claimed) given him permission to crash in the modest lodgings whenever he was of a mind to. More likely, the landowner don’t know the lowlife has ever set foot on his property. Wanda’s hard eyes searched the picturesque landscape, but … I don’t see his old car. Which didn’t necessarily mean Mike wasn’t home. Rat-face probably parked it out of sight so nobody will know he’s in the trailer. The vengeful lady smiled wickedly. Especially me!
Wanda eased her Toyota off the lane and parked it in a clone of aspen that she hoped would conceal her automobile if her intended victim happened to drive by. Which was not likely, she thought. If Mike’s still here, he’s probably dead drunk and snoring his fool head off. After pulling on a pair of latex gloves she had “borrowed” from the hospital for washing dishes, the nurse’s aide opened her purse long enough to check the .38 caliber revolver. Betty’s not likely to be there with him, but odds are Mike’ll know where she is. Getting out of her car, the lady felt light as a flitting butterfly, but the weapon was heavy in her hand. Even if he tells me what’s happened to my daughter—I’m going to stop his clock for good. Her face, which might have been chipped from gray flint, was grim as Death itself. After I shoot him, I’ll find someplace to throw this gun away where nobody will find it in a thou
sand years. Wanda Naranjo returned to the dirt lane and began what seemed to be the longest walk of her life. It was not. Her longest trek was yet to come.
All the way to the trailer, the armed-and-dangerous woman experienced the same eerie sensation that had unnerved Freddy Whitsun on Sunday morning, when the handyman had stood at the front door of Morris Meusser’s cottage. Wanda Naranjo was haunted by the feeling that someone was watching her. With every third step, she assured herself that … It’s just my nerves.
* * *
Not so, Mrs. N.
Someone is watching.
* * *
As Wanda approached the trailer, she kept an eye out for the old Wagoneer. Mike’s either gone somewhere or he’s hid his car. I’ll just knock on the trailer door and wait for him to show his ugly face and then I’ll—
She blinked.
It was unnecessary to knock. The metal door was unlatched and standing open a couple of inches. A warning bell began to ring deep within that lobe of Wanda’s brain that warned of a sidewinder nestled just on the yonder side of the mossy log she was about to step over. This smells like a trap. Maybe so. But the woman was here to take care of business, and backing off was not an option. She set her jaw. I’ll walk in and take him by surprise and if Mike so much as blinks I’ll shoot him right between the eyes. After inhaling a deep breath, she pushed the door. The hinges barely creaked as she entered the twilight space and felt the rotting plywood floor give slightly under her weight. If Mike’s here, he must be in the bathroom or under the bed. The intruder exhaled the stale air she had been holding, and felt a sudden pang of conscience. Cold-blooded murder could be justified, but somehow it did not seem polite to enter someone’s home without at least announcing your presence. Even if you intend to dispatch the occupant with extreme prejudice and then dance around his warm corpse whilst singing “Salty Dog Blues.” “Mike … are you here?”
He was not. The filthy space under the bed concealed not a single ex-boyfriend. Neither did the stinking little bathroom.
But someone was present to greet Wanda Naranjo—a field mouse perched on the tiny dining table. The famished rodent was nibbling at a saltine cracker. The furry creature paused long enough to give the intruder a churlish look, as if to say, This is my soda cracker, sister—make a move for it and I’ll bite your finger off!
“Hiya, Mickey.” She grinned at the impudent diner. “You seen Mr. Rat-face?”
The mouse, with a chunk of cracker in its mouth, scampered away to continue its feast behind a stained coffee cup.
Sniffing a peculiar odor, the armed woman took a look at the four-burner propane range. The nitwit left a pot on a lighted burner and the water’s all boiled off. Wasn’t that just like a man? Shaking her head at such folly, she reached for a greasy black knob and turned the blue ring of flame off. Wanda wrinkled her nose at the remains of what—judging from the red-and-white soup can sitting beside the pot—was intended to be a serving of Campbell’s Bean with Bacon soup. The big coward must’ve seen me coming and run away to hide in the woods. She estimated how long it would take for a pot of soup over medium flame to reach this desiccated condition. Twenty minutes, tops.
What to do?
She considered sitting on the unmade bed and waiting for his return. But Mike might stay in the brush for hours. Or even all night.
Maybe I should leave him a note. She imagined what it might say:
Sorry about what happened on Friday.
Drop by when you feel like it.
—W
PS: I’ll have a surprise for you (something sweet)
Her lips twisted into a smile. A .38 caliber treat.
Wanda sighed. But I’d be stupid to leave a note inviting Mike to my home and then shoot him dead when he shows up. Written invitations to murders (the amateur assassin imagined) had a way of showing up in the cops’ grubby hands. So what can I do? It seemed that the frustrated lady had run out of semiclever notions. Which left her with only one choice—a strategic retreat. I’ll walk back to the car and go home.
It can be so difficult to commit a capital crime. But had our plucky heroine given up? Certainly not.
While I’m driving back to Granite Creek, I’ll put on my thinking cap and come up with another plan.
Which, as if to demonstrate the rewards of virtuous perseverance, she did right on the spot.
I know what I’ll do!
Is she going to tell us? Of course.
I’ll park up the road and wait in the brush by the bridge. Mike’s probably scared now that I’ve showed up and he’ll leave this dump tonight and go looking for another hideout. And when he does, I’ll shoot him dead.
HER LONGEST WALK
Wanda Naranjo was making the hike back to her Toyota without admitting to a growing sense of unease. But not without looking over her shoulder a dozen times or more.
Someone was still watching.
The woman knew this for a fact. Not that she had anything to be afraid of; having a loaded Smith & Wesson in her hand was a great comfort. Mike knows better than to mess with me! Nevertheless, the certainty that a pair of eyeballs was focused on her was unnerving. As Wanda picked up her pace, her barely repressed fears exploded in a surge of nausea.
Things were about to go from bad to worse.
Zzzzmmmm. Ka-bam!
The source of the gunshot was almost a hundred yards away, but Wanda would have sworn that the shooter was close enough to spit on her—and the terrified woman was convinced that she heard the slug go spinning past her ear. She had.
Another buzzing hum of a lead bumblebee, another booming report.
Instinctively, the targeted woman turned toward the sound of the gunshots, squinted into the purpling sunset, and emptied her revolver. Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam!
Ha! That’ll give the bastard something to think about.
It did.
Wanda didn’t waste another second in self-congratulation; her instincts had initiated a hasty retreat. Barely aware that she was running for all she was worth, the alarmed woman had forgotten about the spent pistol in her hand. Mrs. Naranjo’s highly focused mind was occupied with two thoughts: If I can get back to the car before he shoots again, I’ll be all right, and … I should’ve figured that slimy bastard would try to back-shoot me!
By the time she saw her Toyota, the firearm was dead weight—an anchor dragging along, preventing her speedy escape. Betty’s mother cranked up the cranky engine and got her trusty motor vehicle into gear. As she roared away toward the paved highway, knocking bushes and saplings left and right, Wanda’s face was flushed, her blood pump going thumpity-thump in her chest, her lungs gasping for every breath. Scared to death?
Yes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ALL WE HAVE TO FEAR IS—
MONDAY, AN HOUR AFTER SUNDOWN
Fear itself. (Thank you, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt.)
Like so many ambitious projects that are launched with enormous enthusiasm and boundless optimism, Wanda Naranjo’s enterprise had suffered a jarring reverse. And don’t blame her—it wasn’t because she hadn’t given it her best shot. But that is an unfortunate metaphor; let us say merely that the lady had “spared no effort” in her attempt to rid the world of Mr. Michael Kauffmann. And if there is a moral to be gleaned from this misadventure, the lesson learned might be that spicing a homicidal plot with malice aforethought and murderous intent does not necessarily guarantee its success.
But Wanda was not one to waste precious moments on thoughtful introspections; she was concerned about immediate practical issues, like staying alive. I can’t believe that lowlife actually took a couple of shots at me. It occurred to her that Mike might have more steel in his spine than she had imagined. One such thought tends to spawn others of like kind … Me shooting back at him probably made him mad. And if so … He probably intends to finish what he started. This possibility made her heart leap. Mike might be following me home. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she was relieved to see no
headlights glowing behind her. Which don’t necessarily mean he’s not back there. She took another look. The idiot might be driving without lights. And the gunshots might start popping at any instant. What’ll I do if he starts shooting through my rear window? Silly question. She ground her teeth. I’ll stop the car and shoot back! Which reminded the willing combatant of a small problem; a mere technical detail. But one that must be dealt with forthwith.
About nine miles and ten minutes before she would pass the sign that identified the Granite Creek city limits, the tough little woman pulled over onto the grassy shoulder and reloaded her revolver. This preparation calmed her, and as Mrs. Naranjo got her Toyota back onto the two-lane, she shifted gears. If and when Mike shows his ugly face, I’ll deal with him. But for now I’ve got to get my mind off the lowlife.
And she did, applying her intellect to ordinary everyday subjects. Soon as I get a chance, I’ll call the hospital and tell them I’ll be back at work tomorrow. The mere contemplation of returning to her routine tasks was soothing. Pleased with this consolation, Wanda tried for another, focusing her thoughts on what would be waiting for her when she got home. The house will be nice and quiet. Quiet was good. I’ll make me a nice cup of hot tea. But not a dainty little-old-lady’s china cup—this would a big honking crockery mug with two teabags. I’ll have some Graham crackers and extra-crunchy peanut butter with the tea. She could practically taste the imagined snack. After that, I’ll lay down on the couch and take a long, restful nap. The world-weary woman almost smiled. So far, so good.
Couldn’t last.
When she finally saw the lights of town, her hopeful thoughts began to take a dark turn. Nothing good I plan on ever works out. This afternoon’s failed attempt at cold-blooded murder was proof enough of that proposition. My life is a bucket of stinking garbage and it ain’t ever gonna get any better. A sensation of self-pity almost overwhelmed the poor soul. I’ll be out of tea and down to one Graham cracker and the peanut butter’ll be moldy and when I lay down for a nap I won’t be able to get a wink of sleep because there’ll be rats gnawing in the walls.
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