In this captivating environment, it is understandable that Sarah had dismissed all pedestrian thoughts. It hardly crossed her mind that Aunt Daisy was taking a walking tour of the adjacent cemetery, presumably applying her formidable psychic powers to solve a brutal murder. Also filed under “for future reference” was the university student’s assignment to interview homeless persons in a park that was reputedly a hangout for surly alcoholics, dangerous drug addicts, and just plain crazy folk.
Feeling as close as she had ever come to experiencing true peace, Sarah took a deep breath and released it in a long nostalgic sigh that hinted at a remembrance of a long-lost Paradise where her soul had once been perfectly happy, infinitely content … and would be again.
Alas, her sweet sojourn in this delightful little simulation of Eden was to be interrupted by that curse of all such moments of unadulterated bliss—the uninvited guest.
Here he comes now.
No, not that slithery serpent whose head must be bruised.
THE PASSERBY
Which, despite her assignment to do a three-thousand-word paper on Granite Creek County’s homeless folk, is what Sarah Frank ardently hoped the presumably destitute man would do. (Pass-’er-by.) The middle-aged fellow had an insane glint in his left eye, and his right orb was milky white and blind as a polished orb of marble. At first, he seemed not to notice Sarah Frank.
Which suited her just fine. Please don’t look at me!
As if he had heard her plea, his sinister eye caught a glimpse of the winsome lass on the park bench. He turned toward her slowly, his knobby knees peeking through holes in faded denim trousers. The bum wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of a corduroy jacket that had seen better days a half century ago. The left eye blinked. “Hullo.”
Sarah gazed at her hands in her lap. Oh, please go away.
The half-wit grinned. “Nice day.” He ambled up to the bench and eyed the girl’s black leather handbag. “I ain’t had a bite to eat since I found a bagel in the trash can behind the deli. Could you spare some change?”
“I’m sorry.” Sarah had a twenty-dollar bill but not two pennies to jingle together.
The vagrant snorted and pointed at the purse. “I bet you’ve got plenty.”
Sarah glared at the pathetic figure. “Go away!”
“Not till you let me see what’s in your purse.” The loathsome fellow came a step closer and leered as he reached toward her skirt. “I bet you’ve got pretty legs under—”
She sprang to her feet and showed him a tiny fist. “You lay a finger on me, I’ll punch your good eye out!”
The idiot was taken aback but not intimidated by this wisp of a girl.
There they stood, eyeball-to-eyeballs. (One of his, two of hers.)
Sarah was wondering what she should do if he didn’t back off, when—
Seemingly out of nowhere and just in the nick of time, the Cavalry arrived. So to speak … or literally?
Over the vagrant’s shoulder, Sarah saw a slender young man who, but for his slight limp and the old-fashioned hooked cane he used, had the military bearing of an officer. Too dignified to scream, she tired desperately to catch her potential rescuer’s eye.
Like the lowlife who had preceded him, the healthy stranger also seemed about to pass her by without so much as a glance. But then—
Oh, thank God—he’s noticed me! Sarah let out a breath.
The new arrival paused to smile at the girl, and apparently understood the situation in an instant. He immediately approached her adversary from behind and reached out with his cane to tap the half-blind half-wit on the shoulder. Sarah’s adversary turned, blinked his working eye—and stared vacantly as if puzzled about how to deal with this unforeseen development.
The helpful young man summed up the situation for him: “Leave, or I shall throttle you good!”
The disabled vagrant seemed deaf to the threat.
Sarah’s savior used his walking cane to smack the slow-witted fellow a sound whack on the side of the head.
This got the pest’s attention. He yelped, put his palm where the cane had raised a lump, and ambled off like a sad old dog that’d been kicked for no reason at all.
Sarah beamed on her rescuer. “Oh—thank you!”
“You are entirely welcome.” Placing the cane over his shoulder like a rifle, the dashing young man made a smart two-fingered salute—and clicked the heels of his shiny new shoes together.
The girl was quite overwhelmed, and then distraught as her hero turned as if to depart.
“Wait.”
He paused to cast her a quizzical glance.
“I’d like to talk to you.” Sarah blushed at the stranger, who was dressed in an immaculate black suit. “Unless you’re in a hurry to go somewhere.”
“Not at all.” He flashed a brief smile under a slim ginger mustache whose color matched his wavy hair. “I have all the time in the world.” He pointed his cane at the bench. “May I sit?”
“Oh, please do.” She sat down again and patted the redwood planks beside her. “I’m Sarah Frank.”
Before seating himself, the man made a slight bow. “Captain Erasmus Boyle, at your service, ma’am.”
Sarah was wide-eyed. “You’re in the military?”
“Yes.” The slim man eased himself onto the bench, which did not creak. “But I’m not on active duty.”
“You’ve been injured?” Well that was a dumb question.
Boyle nodded, and leaned his cane on the bench. “But I have been dismissed from the hospital.”
She studied his handsome profile. I’m sure I’ve never seen him before. “Do you live in Granite Creek?”
A transient smile flickered across his face, but Boyle did not respond.
“I’m sorry—I guess I’m asking too many questions.” She took a deep, refreshing breath and expelled it with: “It’s just that I’m a student at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic and I’ve got this assignment to do a paper on homeless people and—oh,” her blush burned deeper, “I didn’t mean to suggest that you’re homeless or anything like that—”
“Don’t give it a thought.” Captain Boyle turned to gaze directly at the inquisitive young lady. “I reside within the city limits”—the smile reappeared, wry this time—“in a well-established if somewhat seedy district.” He cocked his head. “Are you familiar with the Walnut Hills community?”
Sarah shook her head.
“I thought not.” His blue eyes sparkled merrily at the pretty girl. “But if you should happen to be strolling through the neighborhood sometime, you are welcome to call on me at 144 Hollybush.”
She attempted to memorize the address. One hundred and forty-four is twelve squared, which is a gross, and Hollybush is like Hollywood except for the wood, which is what a bush is made of and—
“Please tell me about yourself, Miss Frank.”
Sarah was pleased to comply with this request. She began with her birth and filled Captain Boyle in on her parents, her face clouding as she described how they had died and brightened again as she provided a heartwarming account of how Daisy Perika had taken her in after some troubles she’d had while living with her aunt in Tonopah Flats, Utah, and how Charlie Moon was looking after her nowadays.
* * *
While Sarah Frank was occupied with these personal revelations, Daisy Perika had completed her walk through the historic section of the cemetery and emerged into U.S. Grant Park. As the girl began to describe the Columbine Ranch, Charlie Moon’s aunt was about fifty yards from the bench where the Indian girl sat chatting with the fascinating white man.
Daisy stopped in midstride, her eyes narrowing to thin slits. Eyelids have a way of dropping like window shades when we don’t like what we see. To further restrict her view of the present unpleasantness, the old woman’s pupils contracted. In addition to these autonomic physiological responses, a seed labeled Dark Suspicion was taking root in her suspicious mind. Within a few irregular heartbeats, a sinister plant had sprouted and bloomed
. Daisy Perika shook her head at the awful realization. I must be getting stupid. She added in a raspy whisper, “I should’ve seen this coming.”
Under the circumstances, an understandable self-recrimination. But undeserved. Daisy could not possibly have.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
AN INNOCENT CONVERSATION
It is regrettable that, among its various official activities, the Southern Ute tribal government has not seen fit to include an intelligence-gathering function. If they should decide to remedy this oversight, we recommend Daisy Perika as their first recruit. The tribal elder, who has a natural gift for spying, would make a dandy secret agent. Neither Sarah Frank nor the person who represented himself as Captain Erasmus Boyle was aware of the old lady’s attempt to overhear their conversation. Which was difficult at the moment, because not a word was passing between them.
As Sarah eyed her fascinating companion, Boyle watched a gray duck descend to the surface of the pond. The feathered aviator executed an expert touchdown, creating a barely visible ripple on the glassy surface. “Do you live nearby?”
The young woman was mildly startled by this query. “No, out west of town on the Columbine.” Everyone in the county knew that the Columbine was the biggest and best cattle operation within a hundred miles, so she made this claim with understandable pride. Detecting no sign that her new friend was even slightly impressed, she added, “That’s Charlie Moon’s ranch.”
“I cowboyed with a West Texas cattle operation one summer.” There was a faraway look in Boyle’s eyes, as if he was gazing over time’s horizon.
“That must’ve been fun.”
“It was educational.” He shook his head at the memory. “And it was hotter than six kinds of—” The gentleman remembered that he was conversing with a young lady. “Six kinds of Hades.”
He’s so cute. “It must be lots nicer where you live now.”
“In a way.” Again, the fleeting smile. “It’s quiet enough, and peaceful.” His pale brow furrowed into a slight frown. “Or has been, until quite recently.”
Sarah could not resist this opportunity to probe. “I suppose a noisy neighbor has moved in next door.”
“Well, you’re about half right. There is some noise, but”—Boyle lifted his finely chiseled chin in a gesture—“she has moved in above me.”
“Oh, that’s even worse.” The girl who loved the solitude of the Columbine could imagine how unpleasant it would be to have a noisy woman upstairs, probably stomping around in hard-sole sandals with her TV turned up to full volume. “Maybe if you talked to her, she’d—”
“I’ve tried speaking to her, but it hasn’t done any good.” He sighed along with a whispering breeze that was tossing away last autumn’s dead leaves. “Which is why I get outside often nowadays … and do a lot of walking.”
Sarah wanted to reach out and touch his arm but dared not be so forward. “What kind of noise does she make?”
“Actually, it is not the young lady herself who disturbs my slumbers. All night long, her infant child cries.” Boyle stared, unblinking, at the gathering of ducks and swans gliding on the picture-book pond. “It must be a sickly child.”
Sarah’s face drooped in sadness. “Poor little thing.”
“And all night long, the poor girl tries to sing it to sleep.”
“It sounds like the mother needs some sleep herself.”
“I rather imagine that she does,” he said dryly. “As do I.”
“Maybe if you called a social worker at the county welfare office—”
“My rather spartan quarters are not equipped with a telephone.” Boyle’s smile was taut. Almost twisted.
“Then you should go talk to someone who can get something done.”
He turned to face this young woman who overflowed with well-meant advice. “Like who?”
Sarah knew just the man. “Chief of Police Scott Parris. He’s a friend of mine.”
He laughed at this suggestion, as if it were the punch line to a hilarious joke.
Which response irked the perfectly serious girl.
“I’m sorry, Sarah. But folks around here are not much inclined to listen to my complaints.” The amused man flashed a bright smile at his exuberant companion. “Excepting yourself, of course.”
Annoyed at this flippantly dismissive attitude, Sarah scowled at the man. “You pay a call on Mr. Parris and tell him about the poor girl and her crying baby. I’m sure he’ll do something about it.”
“I rather doubt it.”
“Yes he will!” She banged her fist on the bench.
Boyle seemed to think it over. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll talk to him myself.”
“Fair enough.” Boyle eased himself up from the park bench. “I must be getting along now.”
“When will I see you again?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure you want to?”
The girl blushed. “Well … yes.”
“Very well, then.” The charming man laughed. “Almost anytime you happen to visit the park, I’m likely to be passing by.”
Sarah presented her prettiest smile. “When I’m here again, I’ll watch for you.”
“It has been a pleasure to talk to you, Miss Frank.” Repeating the two-finger salute to the young lady, Captain Erasmus Boyle turned and walked away, his spine straight as a lodgepole pine. Or a ramrod.
Sarah Frank waved. Oh, he is just so dreamy!
“Who were you talking to?”
The girl looked over her shoulder to see Daisy Perika approaching. “A nice man who stopped for some conversation.”
Daisy leaned on her stout oak staff. “So what’d he want to talk about?”
She shrugged at Charlie Moon’s nosy aunt. “Oh, this and that.”
“Does he have a name?”
Sarah was tempted to reply, Very likely, I’d think—most people do. But she was obliged to treat elder folk with due respect. “Erasmus Boyle.”
“Hah—that sounds like a made-up name if I ever heard one.”
Miffed, Sarah repeated the name, this time adding her new friend’s rank.
“Captain Boyle, is it? Well la-di-da!” Daisy shook her walking stick at the foolish youth. “If he really is a soldier-boy, you’d better be twice as careful.” The aged woman’s wrinkled face softened and her eyes took on a glazed look that hinted of sweet nostalgia. “I met me some soldier-boys back during the big war.”
“Really?” Sarah thought she knew which big war.
“You bet. Why, I could tell you some stories about high-flying airplane pilots, tough-as-nails U.S. Marines, and good-looking sailors in bell-bottom britches.” I sure had me some fine times. “Stories that’d curl your hair and make your eyes pop right out of their sockets.”
The girl could not imagine Charlie Moon’s aged aunt as a reckless young woman who dated soldiers and sailors she would never see again. And the knowing smirk on Daisy’s wrinkled face, which suggested that Sarah was about to do the same thing, was an affront. “Captain Boyle is a perfect gentleman.”
“No man that walks the face of this earth is perfect at anything—except lying through his teeth!” The crotchety old woman wagged a warning finger at the girl. “You’d better be more careful about who you talk to. Men that seem innocent as woolly little lambs generally turn out to be wolves!”
The Ute-Papago orphan barely suppressed a girlish giggle. Aunt Daisy is so old-fashioned. Suddenly remembering the tribal elder’s spooky mission in the cemetery, she asked, “So—did you find out who murdered Mr. Meusser?”
This query caught the old faker off guard. She stared blankly at the girl.
Seeing the confusion on Daisy’s face, Sarah added, “The cemetery custodian who was found murdered in his house. You were going to use your psychic powers to find out who killed—”
“Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t,” Daisy snapped. With a sly smile, she added, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
Thus e
ndeth the conversation.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
HOMEWARD BOUND
On their way back to the Columbine in Sarah Frank’s spiffy F-150, Daisy Perika’s eyes closed at the City Limits sign. After a half-dozen miles had slipped under the red pickup, her chin fell onto her chest and every other breath was a slight snore.
The driver cast an affectionate glance at the sleeper. Aunt Daisy has had a big day; she needs her rest.
It was a blatant ruse. The crafty old crone was wide awake and plotting. I came on a bit too strong back there in the park. The silly girl’s probably just dying to tell me all about this Boyle character, and would have if I’d been smart enough to keep my mouth shut and act like I wasn’t interested. At a convenient bump in the road, Daisy awakened with a start, then simulated a yawn that was magically transmuted into the genuine article. Her sly black eyes darted a furtive glance at the driver. “I’m sorry I was so fussy when you were telling me about Sergeant Rastus Doyle. It’s none of my business who your menfolk friends are.”
Sarah was greatly taken aback at Daisy’s second apology in the span of a year, and completely taken in by the old actress’s performance. “That’s all right.” But getting his name and rank wrong was not. She cleared her throat. “Captain Erasmus Boyle is really very nice.”
The tribal elder shrugged. “I’m sure he is.” She said this in the tone of one who has completely lost interest in the subject. Yawned again. And turned her head away to watch fence posts flash by the passenger-side window.
Coffin Man Page 17
