Coffin Man

by James D. Doss

  “I don’t think so.” Moon raised his chin to draw his friend’s attention to the ceiling fan, which was spinning full-speed.

  Parris’s sunburned face deepened to a dangerous shade of red. “The lightbulb must’ve popped a filament.”

  As if to disprove this reasonable conjecture, the desk lamp came on again.

  “Must be a bad connection in the socket.” Parris glared at the healthy bright light. “Or a goofed-up lamp switch.”

  “Well … maybe.” The playful Indian feigned an uneasy expression.

  Parris bristled like a scalded bulldog. “Maybe what?”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’d want to know, pardner.”

  “Whatta you mean by that crack?”

  “You’re in a kinda testy mood, and I wouldn’t want to upset you.”

  “Sure you would, Charlie.” Parris jutted his chin. “Go ahead—take your best shot.”

  “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Moon hesitated. “What with your coffee cup acting up and electric light goin’ on and off—there’s just the off chance that you might be dealing with … a feisty poltergeist.”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “I’d rather not say.” To conceal a smile, the merry Indian raised his mug to take a sip of so-so station-house coffee. “But if you was to ask Aunt Daisy, she might tell you it was an old Ute word that got picked up by the German immigrants and exported to Europe.”

  “So translate.”

  “It means ‘noisy ghost.’”

  “Ghost my hind leg!” Silliest damn thing I ever heard. But Parris’s face had paled to that shade that crayon manufacturers label “Merely Sunburned.”

  Warming to his subject, Charlie Moon forged ahead. “Folks who claim to know about such things will tell you that ninety-nine percent of poltergeists are harmless; they get their kicks out of playing little tricks on edgy folk.”

  Parris’s stony smile could have passed for a granite gargoyle’s hideous grimace. “Go ahead, Charlie—have your fun. Tell me about the other one percent.”

  “Well…” Moon’s face darkened. “From what I’ve heard—ever’ now and again there’s a dangerous poltergeist that causes serious trouble.” He paused as if remembering something pertinent to the subject. “When I was about eleven years old, I read this creepy book about the Bell Witch, where some awful things happened to a nice farm family in Tennessee almost two hundred years ago. If I recollect correctly, the way that nasty business got started was with tin cups rattling in pewter saucers, the flames in kerosene lamps going off and then coming on again, and—”

  The desk lamp went off. And immediately flashed on again.

  “I don’t want to hear another word about it,” Parris snapped. “So let’s drop the subject and get back to police business.”

  “Whatever you say.” Moon saluted his buddy with the coffee mug.

  The haunted man’s brow furrowed. “What were we talking about?”

  “The elderly lady in Pine Ridge Nursing Home.” Moon placed the empty mug on Parris’s desk. “With a little bit of luck, maybe Miss Emily Boyle has a young relative by the name of Erasmus. He might be renting a room right here in Granite Creek.” A hopeful afterthought: “And maybe Captain Erasmus Boyle isn’t in the phone book, because—like lots of young folks nowadays—he could be making all his calls on a mobile phone.”

  “That’s a hatful of maybes and mights and could-bes.” Parris raised his gaze to the ceiling fan, which was swinging back and forth. Ever so slightly. And ever so slowly. Charlie’s making that stuff up about noisy polter-ghosts. The cop forced himself to focus his attention on the poker-faced Indian. “But even if this Erasmus that Sarah met in U.S. Grant Park turns out to be the old lady’s relative—and he does hang his hat somewhere in Granite Creek—Emily Boyle probably wouldn’t be able to tell us a thing about him. When I called Pine Ridge about an hour ago, the nurse at the front desk told me that ‘Miss Em has some problems with her memory.’”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “You said it.” As his desk lamp flickered, Parris felt a sour coldness in the pit of his stomach. How sour and cold? Like he’d swallowed a pickle-juice ice cube whole. “On her good days, the poor old soul might be able recall her own name. On her bad days…” He didn’t want to go there.

  Moon was beginning to get the grim picture. “So which one of us lucky fellas has the privilege of paying a call on Miss Boyle?”

  Parris’s grin was weak as one-bag-to-the-gallon green tea. “You want to volunteer?”

  The deputy did not. “Tell you what.” The Ute produced a worn (lucky) 1992 quarter dollar from his watch pocket. “Call it, and you get to interview Miss Boyle.” Before his friend could think of a reason to protest, Moon had flipped the disk.

  Virtually mesmerized by the ascent of the coin, Parris watched as the two-bit piece seemed to rotate ever more slowly on its parabolic ascent. It was as if time itself had slowed to observe—or perhaps to fix—the outcome. “Tails,” he heard his mouth say. Be heads or be dead! Clenching his teeth, the tough cop imagined himself biting the coin in half.

  The silver-clad copper quarter reached its apex a hand’s-breadth below the ceiling fan, paused for an infinitesimal instant, then began the journey down. Faster now, a twirling blur.

  The coin of the realm plopped onto the chief of police’s varnished desktop. Twirled like a spinning top. Then … ker-plop!

  Moon and Parris gazed at George Washington’s stern profile. The Man Who Would Not Be King seemed to disapprove of the lawman using his likeness for a frivolous wager.

  Scott Parris grinned, as his paternal granddaddy would have said, “Like a hungry ’possum with a ripe pawpaw.”

  Charlie Moon managed to conceal his dismay. “Looks like I win.” But it didn’t seem fair. Scott paid a call on Patsy Poynter and I get to interview Grandma Moses. As he eased himself up from the armchair and turned to go, Parris’s deputy paused to take a look at the penduluming ceiling fan. “You might want to consult with an expert.”

  Parris’s uneasy gaze followed the Indian’s. Charlie’s right. I should call an electrician. “Got anybody in mind?”

  “Well … you might try Mr. M. V. Ingram.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Author of that scary book about the Bell Witch.” With this parting shot, the Ute tipped his black Stetson and made a brisk exit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  ONE OF THOSE DODGY SPUR-OF-THE-MOMENT NOTIONS

  The germ of the idea infected Charlie Moon’s mind about nine seconds after he’d pulled away from the curb at the Granite Creek Police Station. Did he take a microsecond to think it over? Of course not. He immediately braked on Copper Street, executed an illegal U-turn, and headed back the way he’d come.

  What causes a generally sensible soul who’s on his way to visit a little old lady in a nursing home to suddenly reverse course and rush pell-mell into the dark unknown?

  Though this impulse seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, the lonely man’s urge was almost certainly inspired by Scott Parris’s mention minutes earlier of a certain reference librarian. It is also possible that the dogged pursuit of Mr. Moon by sweet little Sarah Frank was an underlying cause of his detour. Excess testosterone might be involved. Or perhaps this move had been brewing in his fevered brain for a long time and Right Now just happened to be the propitious moment. Whatever the combination of root causes might have been for this about-to-happen train wreck, Moon slowed the Expedition as he approached the Granite Creek Public Library, braked it to a halt by a big fat fire hydrant that was painted blood red and situated by a sign that shouted, NO PARKING! In a deadly serious monotone, this addendum: VEHICLES WILL BE TOWED AWAY AT OWNER’S EXPENSE.

  Only old ladies and other rational folk pay attention to such warnings.

  Exiting his trusty Ford Motor Company automobile, the fervent fellow sprinted to the entrance, barged through the front door—and stopped dead still. Even the bravest soldier will have se
cond thoughts when rushing a machine-gun nest armed with a rusty bayonet. Moon considered a hasty retreat. I don’t have to do it right this minute. True. There would always be another day. But that was not the Cowboy Way. Gathering all his considerable courage, our hero adjusted his Stetson to a jaunty angle, hooked his thumbs under his belt, and sauntered nonchalantly over to the reference desk.

  The blonde, blue-eyed lady looked up and flashed a smile. “Well hello, Charlie.” I wonder what brings him here. The red-hot girl singer in Charlie Moon’s Columbine Grass bluegrass band thought it probable that the banjo picker wanted to talk to her about … that new “Cripple Creek” arrangement he’s been working on. But on second thought … It’s more likely that he wants to follow up on the business that Chief Parris was nosing around about this morning. “Are you looking for somebody named Boyle?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not why I’m here.” Moon towered over her oak desk. “I’ve got something personal to ask you.”

  Her smile brightened to that dazzling kind that is featured in toothpaste advertisements. He wants to take me to the big square dance down at Salida.

  Wrong again, Patsy P.

  It’s now or never. Feeling a little dizzy, Moon unhooked his thumbs from the belt and leaned to place both hands on Miss Poynter’s desk. “Have you ever thought about…” The words stuck in his throat.

  Experienced librarians are practiced multitaskers. Somehow, the lady managed to frown without losing her smile. “Thought about what?” He’s so cute.

  Moon heard his numb mouth say, “About living on a ranch.”

  “Oh, sure—ever since I was a little girl that’s been my big dream.” She laughed. “Do you have a little log cabin and a section of prime pasture you want to lease?”

  As he shook his head, the stockman’s face was beginning to burn.

  She couldn’t resist teasing him. “I bet you’re tired of your own cooking and want to hire somebody to do it for you. Do you see me as a chef?”

  “Uh … not exactly.” But you’re getting warm.

  Patsy laughed again. “Then what do I have to do to live on a ranch?”

  “Well…” Moon gulped. “You might think about marrying a rancher.” There. I said it. Buoyed by this success, he added, “So what do you think about that?”

  Patsy was wide-eyed with surprise—so much so that her mouth made an O. “Well … I can’t really say.” A shy, sly hesitation. “Not until some rancher asks me.”

  A sensible answer and a sweet invitation.

  The tall, lean man nodded the black John B. Stetson that he habitually removed in the presence of a lady. Well, here goes. Charlie opened his mouth to finish the job. Couldn’t get the words past his lips.

  As her smile gradually slipped away, Patsy’s big blue eyes asked, Well?

  The man who’d faced down armed-to-the-teeth maniacs, a hungry cougar who’d had him pegged for lunch, and Aunt Daisy at her worst—choked. Literally. I’m the rancher who’s asking you stuck in Moon’s throat. He blinked at Miss Poynter like a man whose brain was out to lunch.

  The pretty lady arched an exquisite eyebrow.

  Remembering to take his hat off, Moon cleared his throat—and (manfully) tried again. Failed again.

  This was a furlong or two beyond embarrassing.

  What was a steely-eyed hombre to do?

  Charlie Moon is about to show us.

  Watch the tongue-tied feller turn on the heel of his leftmost cowboy boot, don his black Stetson, and depart. The lifelong bachelor retreated with as much dignity as a man in his situation could muster, which wasn’t overly much. The library exit loomed miles away as he pushed a heavy book cart aside and slogged his way toward the street door through a mucky alligator-infested swamp, two patches of skin tingling hotly on each side of his straight-as-an-arrow spine. Charlie Moon could feel Pretty Patsy’s laser-blue eyes boring smoking holes into the back of his denim jacket.

  When (days later) he emerged from the library, Mr. Moon was immensely invigorated by a whiff of fresh air and the heady sense of escape. Pulling away in his Expedition, he tried to focus on the sunny side of the mountain. Well … that didn’t turn out as bad as it might’ve. No worse than getting bucked off a snorty bronc and landing in a cluster of prickly-pear cactus where a family of angry rattlesnakes was fighting for squatter’s rights with a do-or-die colony of deadly poisonous foot-long scorpions. And while you’re getting fanged and stang by the combined shebang of venomous vipers and oversize arachnids—the fun-loving iron-shod bronc saunters over to give you four or five friendly kicks in the head.

  When it comes to self-administered over-the-counter medications, a spoonful of positive thinking can be moderately effective, and the same can be said for a smidgen of self-deception. But when a man’s attempt to woo his favorite lady into a condition of permanent merger has turned into a first-class fiasco, there’s nothing quite so restorative as getting himself a long way from the scene of the humiliation. Which is why the cowboy was hankering to saddle up and ride away to anyplace that was a fair piece from the Granite Creek Public Library. Such as Big Timber, Montana, or Linton, Indiana—or the Pine Ridge Nursing Home, where he would interview a little old lady who might not remember her own name, much less recall someone who called himself Captain Erasmus Boyle. That was fine with Charlie Moon; wasting a few minutes in a quiet, peaceful place seemed like just the remedy.

  So Señor Luna headed thataway rightaway and muy pronto.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ANOTHER BLUE-EYED LADY

  The Pine Ridge Nursing Home was located in the county’s much-ballyhooed Snyder Medical Complex. Charlie Moon turned his Expedition off Copper Street and onto Snyder Avenue, a tree-lined strip of blacktop that snaked around the sixteen acres wherein resided the Snyder Memorial Hospital, the Physician’s Medical Arts Building, and the Nurse’s Education Center, which was staffed by Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University faculty. At the farthest boundary from busy Copper Street and adjacent to a vast expanse of national forest, the single-story redbrick nursing home was situated appropriately on a low ridge, and nestled into a shady grove of pines, spruce, and aspens.

  Still rattled by his encounter with Patsy Poynter, the lifelong bachelor parked his wheels under the quaking leaves of a teenage aspen and strode down a broad cemented walkway to the front entrance. I guess I should have thought more about what I was going to say before I went into the library. A sober afterthought. But deep down, Charlie Moon knew that if he’d resorted to cerebration, he would never have broached the delicate subject. It was, the veteran of a foreign war realized, much like jumping out of a low-flying airplane at night with a puny little parachute strapped to your back. Some things just don’t bear thinking about. A man just gritted his teeth, said a prayer, and stepped into the abyss, hoping for the best. Maybe that was the problem. I forget to pray.

  On a spruce branch barely a yard above the brim of his John B. Stetson lid, a cheerful tuft-eared squirrel chuckled derisively at the passing mortal.

  HIS VISIT WITH MISS EMILY

  The receptionist was busily repainting her pointy crimson fingernails a sickly shade of pond-slime green. The young lady blinked when she noticed the stranger making his way through a small forest of potted palms. Well—I wonder who this long, tall cowboy’s come to see? A wistful sigh. Wish it was me … “How may I help you, sir?”

  Charlie Moon doffed his fine black hat and smiled back at the pleasingly plump, prettyish woman who (for all he knew) might have been anywhere between eighteen and twenty-eight. The rectangle pinned to her blue smock advised those who didn’t know that she was STEPHANIE. “I’m here to see Miss Emily Boyle.”

  The girl with eight green fingernails and two red ones cocked her head at this announcement. “You’re not family.”

  The Indian admitted that he was not.

  Stephanie tried again. “A friend?”

  “I’d like to be.”

  “I’m sorry to be so nosy, but—”

 
“I’m here on official business.” Parris’s deputy placed a picture ID on her desk.

  The myopic picked it up and squinted. “Charlie Moon … Oh, I’ve heard about you.” You’re that Indian rancher who’s also a cop. Stephanie gave the dangerous-looking fellow a closer look. A couple of years ago, he was mixed up in that awful crime spree where all those people at the hospital were murdered. Satisfied, she passed the plasticized card back to him and flashed a smile that exposed the glint of a gold tooth with a tiny diamond set in it. “You plan to arrest Miss Em?”

  Moon returned a grin. “Not unless she gets rough with me.”

  “Hah!”

  “I promise not to be a bother.”

  “I’m sure you won’t be. Miss Boyle’s in B-105.” The receptionist got up from an armless secretary’s chair. “I’ll take you back there—for all the good it’ll do you.”

  The deputy followed the 140-pound young woman, who stepped along with a brisk, athletic gait. “Miss Boyle doesn’t like visitors?”

  “Miss Boyle doesn’t like nothing or nobody,” Stephanie replied over her shoulder. “And she’s practically stone deaf—you’ll have to yell at her.”

  “I’ll turn up the volume some.” This’ll turn out to be a sure-enough snipe hunt. He watched the receptionist open the door to B-105 and poke her head in.

  Stephanie turned to flash another smile at Moon. “Well, at least she’s awake.” When a pager on her belt buzzed and a computerized voice reported a minor emergency in A-122, she hurried away.

  Hat in hand, Charlie Moon entered a room that was illuminated by a TV screen mounted on the wall. As his eyes adjusted to the inner twilight, he got his first look at the occupant. The aged woman seated in a black wheelchair was hunched forward as if engrossed in the decades-old Flintstones cartoon flickering on the high-definition screen. “Excuse me, ma’am…” No response. He raised his voice by about ten decibels. “Hello!”