Scott Parris had not missed the hint of suspicion in his deputy’s tone. “You figure this soldier for a wooden nickel—a Captain Bogus?”
“Well, there aren’t any Boyles in the local phone book,” Moon said. “If that’s the fella’s real name, he’s probably from out of town.” The rancher stared unseeingly at the Cattleman’s Bank calendar on the wall over his desk. “And any way you slice it, the 144 Hollybush address is a phony.”
Parris nodded at his unseen friend. “I know this little burg like the back of my hand and I can flat-out guarantee you that there ain’t a Holly-anything in Granite Creek.”
“So the guy’s lying through his teeth.” But why?
“You couldn’t shoot a sawed-off shotgun in the Silver Mountain Hotel lobby without severely injuring a dozen liars.” Parris grinned appreciatively at his paltry witticism. “This so-called Boyle is probably a John Doe who’s married to a Mrs. Jane Doe and they have a houseful of little Does.” The town cop glanced at his hugely expensive wide-screen, high-definition, wall-mounted TV screen—which product of state-of-the-art technology was presenting an advertisement for a mouthwatering cheeseburger that topped five thousand calories without the heaping helping of honeyed fries. “But we both know you didn’t call me at home about some lowlife who’s hitting on our favorite kid.”
Moon blinked at the prize Hereford bull pictured on the calendar. The magnificent creature returned a stolid bovine stare. “What do you think about the noisy neighbor with the crying baby?”
“Seems like a peculiar story for an out-of-town wolf to be pitching to a sweet young lady he’s just met at a park bench.” Parris, who shaved maybe every third day, scratched at the reddish stubble on his chin. “Could be the guy’s a borderline loony.”
That worrisome thought had already crossed Moon’s mind. “He may be way yonder across the border.” He heard an owl hoot in the spruce just outside his office window. “But whatever the state of Boyle’s mental health, there’s just an off chance that he lives in an apartment one floor down from where Betty Naranjo is hiding from her mother—and that he don’t have a landline telephone.”
His deputy’s hypothesis for why Boyle wasn’t in the phone book was reasonable enough, but it didn’t explain the Hollybush address. Nevertheless, Scott Parris had learned to pay attention to his own hunches—and Charlie Moon had a keen instinct. The lawman thumbed his remote control to a baseball game. “I’ll do some checking on the alleged Captain Erasmus Boyle who lives at an address that don’t exist. Drop by my office when you have a few minutes.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow. Eleven A.M. sharp.”
“First thing you hear’ll be coffee perking. G’bye, Charlie.”
“Good night.”
* * *
For many, no doubt, this will be a good night, wherein all the day’s cares are washed away by the soothing surf of peaceful slumbers. But sad to say, not for the wide-eyed individual who would gladly have traded a fine pair of eyeteeth for a mouthful of Zs.
No, the insomniac is not the character who calls himself Captain Boyle. During these few hours between dusk and dawn, the soldier’s rest will not be disturbed by his neighbors.
The crying child has fallen silent.
The mother’s plaintive lullaby is no longer heard.
Indeed, the night’s hush is miles wide and leagues deep; a drowsy little mouse could hear her tiny heart beat.
Given this quiet interlude, one might reasonably conclude that mother and child have vacated the premises. Or have they been forcibly evicted—perhaps driven away by the downstairs tenant? Tempting as it is to speculate about such matters, let us concentrate on that wide-eyed citizen who would trade pointy teeth for a few hours’ sleep. Who is this person, and why is the weary soul deprived of a restful siesta?
Stay tuned.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A FITTING END TO A TERRIBLE DAY
But for whom?
Certainly not for Charlie Moon, whose notion of a terrible day would be the bottom falling out of the market for beef on the hoof, all the ranch’s quarter horses coming down with some mysterious equine illness, the new barn burning down, lightning striking a towering haystack, swarms of range worms and locusts ravaging the vast Columbine pastures—and waking up in his upstairs bedroom with an abscessed wisdom tooth just aching to be pulled and not being able to find a pair of rusty wire pliers anywhere in the house.
Not for Sarah, who was fast asleep in her bed at the Columbine, enjoying pleasant dreams about the man sleeping upstairs. But Charlie Moon was no longer the only man in her life. From time to time, a gallant Captain Erasmus Boyle in full dress uniform would drop by, kiss her delicate little hand, compliment her stunning good looks, and inquire whether she’d like to ride to downtown Dallas in his four-mule purple buckboard and take in a moving-picture show starring Chief Ouray, Tom Mix, and Marilyn Monroe.
Even Daisy Perika, who had determined without a doubt that she had lost her lifelong ability to see dead people, would not have described this as a terrible day. Like her upbeat, can-do nephew, Aunt Daisy wasted little time dwelling on life’s disappointments. As she turned in her bed … At least I can still hear the spirits, and talk to them. And Daisy knew a lot more about her disability today than she had yesterday. Now she was certain that her powers had not simply vanished into nothingness like those Smoke People who can be seen walking on Navajo Lake at the first glow of dawn—only to evaporate into thin wisps of vaporous mist when the sun rises to warm the chill waters. Daisy’s misfortune was more like losing her key ring. Such possessions didn’t simply fade away—they have been dropped somewhere, misplaced in her purse, or stolen. By some hard thinking (Where was I when I had it last?), a little bit of luck (a metallic glint in a dark corner), brass keys and ghost-eyes can be recovered. The partially disabled shaman did not yet understand the details of how she had been deprived of her powers, and so had no idea about how she might reverse the process. Nevertheless, the hopeful old soul drifted off to sleep comforted by the firm conviction that the problem could be solved. And would be.
THE UNFORTUNATE IS IDENTIFIED
The citizen who had suffered a truly terrible day was the badly bruised Freddy “Fixit” Whitsun. After extricating himself from the cemetery’s electric cart (which had ended up upside down in an irrigation ditch), the late Morris Meusser’s replacement had limped back to the custodian’s quarters with some vague thoughts about resting and mending for a few hours. The injured employee had encountered an appalled George Hopper, who expressed more concern about the condition of the cemetery’s “practically new electric utility vehicle” than of his new hire’s health and well-being.
But darkness had finally fallen on Mr. Whitsun’s terrible day, and he was about to spend his first night in the cemetery custodian’s official residence. Groaning, he switched off the table lamp at his bedside, pulled the covers over his aching body, and exhaled a great sigh. I feel like I’ve been run over by all the iron wheels on a railroad train with a big diesel engine, sixteen coaches, and a red caboose. As he tried to settle in and enjoy the peaceful solitude of Morris Meusser’s snug little bedroom, Hopper’s dire warning was still ringing in his ears: “You must learn to be more careful with the cemetery’s expensive property, Mr. Whitsun—wheeled transport does not grow on trees.” And that was just for starters. Once Hopper had gotten his dander up, the man didn’t stop until he had run out of hurtful words.
What Whitsun needed was a good night’s rest, but as he drifted between periods of half-conscious wakefulness and brief interludes of fitful sleep, he was haunted by Hopper’s off-the-wall metaphor. He could not shake the horrifying vision of thousands of miniature golf carts budding on the branches of every aspen, willow, and cottonwood within the boundaries of Granite Creek Cemetery. During these bizarre nightmares, the faithful custodian—under the critical eye of Mr. Hopper—would deftly pluck plump little wheeled vehicles from trees heavy with new birth, and carefully place each w
hining machine into its own minuscule wicker basket.
It was enough to drive a man stark raving mad.
After midwifing several dozen such unnatural infants, Freddy Whitsun finally made up his mind to stay wide awake all night. But when he made this decision, was the man actually awake? An interesting question, but at the moment one for which a trustworthy answer is not forthcoming. For days afterward Mr. Whitsun would ask himself, Was that for real or was it just—
—AN AWFUL NIGHTMARE?
With the noble intention of lighting a small candle in the darkness, the hopeful insomniac fumbled around in the unfamiliar space until his calloused fingers found the lamp, turned it on—and promptly knocked the appliance off the small table. As it crashed to the floor, the sixty-watt bulb exploded with a loud “pop!”
His darkness and dismay now complete, Freddy Whitsun concluded that this incident was merely the latest in a string of recent misfortunes that would never cease. Sometimes, no matter how hard a fella tries to do his best, things just go from bad to worse. But being the sort of man who yearned to understand the root causes of his troubles, Mr. Fixit attempted to reconstruct what had happened when he was searching for the dead animal whose stink the old Indian woman’s sharp nose had detected.
When I was lookin’ under the back of the truck, my loose overall gallus must’ve got snagged on the hook where Morris used to hang buckets and whatnot when he was alive. So far, so good. But how did that fool machine get started up and drag me off? He frowned like a frustrated nine-year-old attempting to fathom a mind-numbing “word-problem” in his arithmetic book. I must’ve not got the hand brake set good, and it slipped and off I went like a big boar hog drug away by a tractor. Not that the handyman had ever witnessed a farmer towing a fattened swine behind a fine Farmall machine, but drowsy men do tend to come up with oddball metaphors. But, to his credit, Freddy (who was not an advocate of Jungian synchronicity) harbored a slight doubt about the simultaneous concurrence of a hooked overall suspender and a slipped hand brake. Two bad breaks in the space of a couple of heartbeats seemed an unlikely coincidence, but far stranger things had occurred in the shaky relationship between man and machine.
All these troubles should have been sufficient for his day, but like the late Morris Meusser (who had lain in this very bed during the final hours of his life), the new cemetery employee was about to be plagued by strange sounds in the night.
No, not the scuff-scuffs that had alerted his checker-playing buddy to some funny business out there in the cemetery. Nor would Whitsun be alarmed by the mournful hooting of big-eyed owls, a lonely coyote’s yipping howls, or antique plumbing that goes bumpity-rumpity-gurgle in the night. We are talking Strange with a capital S.
This man who feared disembodied spirits began to hear voices.
Initially, the vague vocalizations seemed to come from somewhere far away. Mr. Whitsun could not make out any words, but there were guttural mutterings. Eerie murmurings. Sinister whisperings. But as his heart went pumpity-bump under his bruised ribs, the muttering-murmuring-whisperings drew ever closer. One annoying botheration often leads to another, and by and by, Whitsun was convinced that he saw someone’s face at the moonlit bedroom window. Worse still, the pale countenance was looking directly at him.
As if one someone was not sufficient to get the job done, there suddenly were two faces on the opposite side of the windowpane. Male and female. Moreover, the voices were now distinct and their purpose unmistakable.
The masculine specter—a rather grim-faced presence—asserted that Mr. Whitsun was a less-than-upstanding citizen. To support this indictment, his self-appointed accuser provided a lengthy list of misdeeds, starting with a four-year-old Freddy painting the snow-white family kitten a detestable shade of purple. After pausing to elaborate on a few recent offenses that particularly rankled, the prosecutor terminated with a lurid description of how the new hire had (through inexcusable criminal negligence!) seriously damaged an expensive cemetery vehicle.
When this vicious diatribe was complete, the feminine entity expressed pity for Mr. Whitsun—whom she characterized as a pathetic creature of limited intellect and the warped product of a dysfunctional family. The accused (his defender asserted) was undoubtedly doing the best he could under difficult circumstances, and allowances must be made for such unfortunates. After all, the pitiful fellow had not actually intended to commit any offenses—he didn’t have sufficient imagination to plan a premeditated hurtful act. The counsel for the defense did not suggest that the haunted man should be excused—rather that he must be forgiven! And unconditionally.
Well. That was a furlong too much for the angry male presence, who sneered at such bleeding-heart sentiments. He insisted that Whitsun was an idiot bungler who couldn’t hammer a ten-penny nail through a pine two-by-four without mashing his thumb a half-dozen times and bending the nail to boot. This so-called handyman (he said) ought to change his Freddy Fixit sign to read Freddy Foul-up.
Even a certified stained-glass saint can endure only so much mean-spirited bad-mouthing, and one could hardly have faulted this ordinary sinner if Mr. Whitsun had rolled out of the bed and rushed outside in a rage to deal harshly with his accuser and thank the kindly lady.
But, unlike the prior custodian, Morris Meusser’s replacement had no intention of leaving the secure residence in the middle of the night to confront this ghostly pair. Not on your sweet life. It had already been an awful day and Freddy “Fixit” Whitsun simply wasn’t up to it. The bruised, aching man pulled the quilt over his head; his massive body quivered with shivers and shudders.
Poor fellow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THE LAWMEN SIZE UP THE SITUATION
WEDNESDAY, 11:03 A.M.
After muttering insults at a gang of enthusiastic workmen who were happily jackhammering a perfectly serviceable section of Copper Street into a pile of unsightly asphalt rubble, Scott Parris slammed his office window shut against the racket. The chief of police plopped into the chair behind his desk and addressed his guest. “You want me to tell you what that’s all about?” He pointed in the general direction of the destruction. “Graft, that’s what!”
Settling into a battered county-issue armchair, Charlie Moon prepared himself for the expected lecture.
Parris did not disappoint. With considerable arm waving, growling, and scowling, the lawman alleged an unsavory connection between the mayor and the construction company that was low bidder on the lucrative contract—and by a “suspiciously narrow margin.” He reminded the Ute that the scoundrel who owned the favored firm was the mayor’s brother-in-law and District Attorney Pug Bullet’s fishing buddy. The angry cop ended his familiar harangue by assuring Moon, “One of these days—and it won’t be long—I’ll find a way to bust the whole crooked lot of ’em!”
If you don’t bust a blood vessel first. “I hope you do, pardner.” Moon wondered whether Parris had checked on Wanda Naranjo yet, but thought it best not to raise that sensitive subject.
Suddenly remembering why his best friend had dropped in, Parris glanced sheepishly at the rancher. “Uh … I’ve been doing my best to find out something about this fella Sarah met in the park.” What was his name?
Moon read the question on his friend’s face. “Erasmus Boyle.”
“Uh … right.” How does Charlie do that? “And before you ask, I’ll tell you that Sarah’s new friend hasn’t shown up at GCPD to make a complaint about his noisy upstairs neighbors. Not that either one of us expected him to.” The lawman shuffled through a disordered assortment of papers on his desk. “You may be interested to know that I got some assistance from your favorite librarian.” Charlie oughta pop the question to that blue-eyed little cutie-pie.
Despite Moon’s firm intention to maintain a straight face, his lips were determined to smile at this reference to pretty Patsy Poynter. “How’s the lady doing?”
“Seems to be happy with her promotion to the reference desk.” Where is that damn printout? �
��She helped me wade through a great big stack of old Granite Creek telephone books and I don’t know how many reels of microfilm.”
“And you found a bucketful of Boyles?”
“’Fraid not.” Finding the computer printout that Patsy had provided, Parris squinted at it. “There was only one family of Boyles, and they moved away or died out more than twenty-five years ago.” He glanced over the paperwork at his friend. “All except for a Miss Emily Boyle.”
Moon was pleased to hear this news. “If the lady’s still in town, she must have an unlisted telephone number.”
“In a manner of speaking. Miss Boyle has a phone in her room, but you have to place a call to her through the switchboard.” Parris reached for his coffee cup, which rattled on the desktop. Damn jackhammers! “Miss Emily is an inmate at—” No, that’s not what they call the folks who live there. But what do they … His big face brightened when he remembered the word. “She’s a resident at the Pine Ridge Nursing Home.”
The bluegrass banjo picker grinned. Along with “Soldier’s Joy,” “Pine Ridge” was one of Charlie Moon’s all-time favorite tunes. “A senior citizen, then.”
“Ninety-seven years and counting.”
The Ute pictured a frail little old lady knitting woolen socks. “That’s a lot of winters gone by.”
“Yeah, and I ain’t getting any younger myself.” Parris lifted the coffee cup to his lips and spilled a dribble on his chin. “Dammit!” He shot an angry glance at the window. “This keeps up, they’ll shake the whole building down around us.”
“I don’t feel the least vibration, pardner. And the jackhammers have shut down.”
When Scott Parris cocked his right ear, all he could hear was the low hum of traffic. “So what’re you saying—I can’t take a drink of coffee without spilling it?”
Before Moon could respond, Parris’s desk lamp went out.
The angry cop glared at the offending fixture. “The idiots probably stopped hammering because they cut an electric line!”
Coffin Man Page 19
