Coffin Man

by James D. Doss

  Her mission began hopefully enough. The walkway was lined with bushes of white and pink and lilacs taller than her head. Orange, violet, and yellow butterflies put on a fine performance, fluttering about gaily from bloom to bloom, presumably to taste every sweet offering. Furious hummingbirds performed dazzling aerial acrobatics, suggesting tiny fighter aircraft warring over precious nectar rights. Virtually unnoticed, humble honeybees droned along with infinite patience, getting the pollinating job done without making a big show of it.

  The green rubber mat at the entrance was emblazoned with a bright red WELCOME and the glass doors opened automatically. As Daisy stepped inside, she crossed the boundary between a delightfully disorderly natural world and a highly organized state of confusion.

  In the tiled foyer, a profusion of potted plastic geraniums and elegant palms created the impression that the visitor had entered a garden unlike any Nature had ever imagined. This jarring transformation was softened somewhat by the faint strains of a Chopin nocturne that evoked iridescent silver-winged moths fluttering over a moonlit meadow of multicolored wildflowers. Sadly, this soothing masterpiece was intermittently punctuated with the braying bark of a young man’s voice calling out bingo lingo.

  A harried nurse at the front desk was too busy dealing with a recalcitrant senior citizen (who had lost a treasured pearl earring) to notice one more elderly lady sauntering by with a roguish look in her eye. Did the presumed rogue intend to ask a Pine Ridge employee where she might find Emily Boyle? Certainly not. The Ute elder had her own methods. Noting that the rooms had the occupant’s photograph and name on the door, Daisy Perika opted to wander around until she found who she was looking for. Which took quite some time and provided the eccentric old soul with considerable entertainment.

  THE INTENDED VICTIM

  Almost as if she had not moved since Charlie Moon’s visit, Miss Emily Boyle was parked in her wheelchair, facing the television set. But on this occasion, there were two notable differences.

  No Flintstones performance; the TV screen was dark.

  And the oldest woman in the nursing home was enjoying her mid-morning nap. Until she felt the tap-tap on her knee.

  Miss Em opened her eyes to see what appeared to be—a hideous apparition. She considered the possibilities with the calm detachment of one who no longer fears the bizarre events of an unpredictable world. It’s an old witch carrying a big stick. The lady’s mistake (charity obliges us to deem it an error) was understandable. Standing before the just-awakened resident was a very old hunched-over figure of a woman dressed head-to-toe in black, with an equally black sack looped over her shoulder. I bet she’s got a bag of poisoned apples and she’ll polish one on her sleeve and offer it to me and say, “Have a taste of this, my pretty!” Which lurid picture suggested another possibility. Maybe this is the shape of Death that comes to old women. This latter conjecture seemed far more likely. Sure—she’ll jerk my old soul right out of my body, stuff it in her bag, and haul me off to wherever. The doomed woman sighed. Oh, well. I might as well get it over with. Emily addressed her sinister visitor. “So who’re you, granny?”

  “I’m a Good Samaritan.”

  Well. That would have been Emily Boyle’s very last guess. She eyed her guest with all the suspicion a ninety-seven-year-old descendant of hardy pioneers could muster up, which was enough to wither several acres of Russian thistle or crabgrass. “The last time I checked, this wasn’t Samaria.”

  Daisy Perika cackled appreciatively. “That’s a good one.” She nodded at an armchair near the wheelchair. “D’you mind if I set down?”

  Emily Boyle ignored the query. “What’re you doing in my room?” Before the Woman in Black could respond, she answered her own question. “I know. You’re either a dotty new resident that wanders around disturbing us sensible folk—or you’re one of those do-gooders that come around with a sack of rock-hard apples to pass out to people who don’t have enough teeth to chew overcooked noodles.”

  “I’m a do-gooder.” Daisy leaned her walking stick against the armchair, seated herself, and put the black canvas bag in her lap. “And you’re not that far off about the apples.”

  Emily groaned and rolled her pale blue eyes. “I knew it!”

  The Ute elder leaned closer to the white woman and held the bag under Miss Em’s chin. “What I’ve got is homemade apple turnovers—fresh from the oven just yesterday.”

  Miss Em caught a whiff. My, that does smell scrumptious.

  Daisy patted the bag as if it were her favorite fat puppy. “And that’s not all I got.”

  Her interest stimulated, the nursing-home dweller gazed longingly at the canvas bag. But Pride trumped Curiosity. She could not make herself ask.

  Her visitor read the longing in the blue eyes. “I’ve got a thermos of the best coffee you ever tasted and some red-ripe strawberries that’re big as a bear’s nose, and to go with those—a little plastic bowl of powdered sugar.”

  “Oh, my gracious.” Emily sighed. All the things I’d love to have but cannot. “That’s very sweet of you, but I’m on a very strict diet.”

  “I know.” Daisy nodded sagely. “Soon as I laid eyes on you, I said to myself—they’re starving that poor old matukach woman to death!” Before the fragile white lady could protest, the Ute healer shook her finger in a manner that commanded a respectful silence while Dr. Daisy’s expert diagnosis was provided. “That’s why you’re so weak and woozy all the time, Emily—you don’t get enough sugar. And your mind wouldn’t be so foggy if you had a stiff dose of caffeine five or six times a day.”

  The perplexed resident blinked. “How do you come to know my name?”

  “Us do-gooders have our ways of finding out what we need to know.” She settled herself more comfortably in the armchair. “And before you ask again, I’m Daisy Perika.”

  “You’re an Indian, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a lot more’n that, Emmy.” Daisy announced with understandable pride, “I’m a Southern Ute—and I can trace my family all the way back to Chipeta.”

  “Chief Ouray’s wife.”

  Daisy nodded. This old white woman knows more than you’d think. “I have a nice little house down on the reservation, but I come up here to Granite Creek County from time to time to visit my nephew.” She noticed that Emily was eyeing the goodie bag harder than ever, had commenced to sniffing again, and was licking her lips like a hungry coyote. Daisy pulled a brown plastic Smith’s Supermarket bag from the canvas sack, removed a Saran-wrapped pastry from that, and offered it to her new acquaintance. “Take a bite, and tell me it ain’t the best thing you’ve put in your mouth since the day you started choking down nursing-home oatmeal.”

  While the white woman nibbled at the apple turnover, Daisy produced the thermos, unscrewed the cup lid, and poured it half full of steaming black coffee. She passed the brackish beverage to Emily. “Wash it down with this.”

  Emily Boyle took a tentative sip. “My gracious! That’s awfully strong.”

  “You bet it is.” Daisy chuckled. “It’ll put hair on your chest.”

  For the first time in twelve years, two months, and six days—Emily Boyle laughed out loud.

  And so began a brand-new friendship.

  The women commenced to gorge themselves on greasy turnovers and sugar-dusted strawberries.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  THE SECRET OF MISS DAISY’S STIMULUS PLAN IS REVEALED

  In a word, caffeine.

  We slow starters who get our early-morning jolt of get-up-and-go from a cup of Folgers or Maxwell House can attest to the fact that the minuscule trace of that substance in our home-perked brew provides a helpful stimulant.

  Charlie Moon’s aunt snorts with derision at our sissified beverage—why, a mere half-teaspoon dose of Dr. Perika’s Famous Rejuvenating Elixir is (so her grateful patients claim) sufficiently potent to inspire a pharaoh mummified for millennia to leap from his dusty sarcophagus, make a grab for the nearest startled female, and engage the lady
in a sprightly samba, foxtrot, or whatnot until museum guards come to the rescue. Like so many enthusiastic endorsements, this one is exaggerated—but only slightly so.

  Observe the remarkable results below.

  * * *

  By the time she’d drained her first cup, Miss Em was as animated as a giggling teenager describing last night’s date to her best friend. Whenever the nursing-home resident would pause to take another sip, Daisy helped things along by mentioning someone in her family. The white woman would respond in kind, by bragging about her saintly parents, her distinguished older brother, and any number of reputable aunts, uncles, and cousins. But halfway through cup number two, the normally reserved old woman was admitting to some less desirable kinfolk, most of whom were lowdown menfolk.

  After listening patiently through several scathing accounts, Daisy’s ears perked at the mention of a nephew—one Erasmus Boyle—who was “a nefarious, ne’er-do-well.” Miss Emily’s eyes sparkled with blue fire. “Erasmus is actually my great-nephew, but you will understand why I prefer to omit that descriptor.”

  “A regular bad apple, huh?”

  “To the very core, Daisy. In spite of the fact that he was named after my dear brother—one of the finest men who ever walked the face of the earth—young Erasmus has gone to great lengths to distinguish himself as an out-and-out scoundrel.” The accuser seemed about to reveal some sordid details, when she suddenly clamped her mouth shut like a sprung bear trap.

  It seemed as if their conversation might be over, but Daisy Perika was more persistent at conducting interrogations than her nephew, “the big-shot tribal investigator.” Watch the old pro do her stuff.

  The best way to keep Emily talking about Erasmus is to tell her about one of my kin. “I guess we’ve all got some peculiar monkeys hanging from the branches of our family trees.” She cocked her head as if recalling two or three of these. “Now take my cousin Gorman Sweetwater. You won’t believe this, but just last month he—”

  “Whatever your cousin has done, he could not possibly compete with young Erasmus.” Emily passed the thermos lid back to the Good Samaritan. “My nephew is what the lurid media would term”—her mouth twisted in obvious distaste at the phrase—“a confidence man.”

  Enjoying her game immensely, Daisy shrugged to suggest indolent disinterest. “That ain’t so bad. Why, in my family we’ve got a sheep thief and a politician and—”

  “No. You don’t understand.” Miss Em produced a vigorous version of Daisy’s earlier finger wag. “Erasmus makes his disreputable living by gaining the confidence of innocent young women.” Three irregular heartbeats. “I’m sure you understand what I mean.”

  The tribal elder nodded knowingly. And waited to find out what the white woman was talking about. Daisy’s guile was promptly rewarded.

  “Like others who practice his shameful trade, young Erasmus is good-looking, and—so they say—a regular charmer. After his female victims have provided him with what he wants—and I’m not talking just about their money”—the white woman blushed pink—“he leaves them without even the courtesy of a goodbye.”

  “Young men who fool around like that are likely to wake up dead some fine morning.”

  “Not Erasmus, I daresay.” She blinked her pale blue eyes. “He seems to lead a charmed life.”

  “I hope your nephew lives far enough away from Granite Creek that he don’t cause you any problems.” Daisy Perika popped a slightly tart strawberry into her mouth.

  “Thankfully, he rarely visits—but he does call me on the telephone.” A sigh. “Young Erasmus rang me last evening. Seems he has a gambling debt that simply must be paid—‘or else,’ as zoot-suited hoodlums in pulp novels put it.”

  “I hope you didn’t give the youngster a thin dime.”

  “You may rest assured of it.”

  Daisy’s chat with Emily Boyle was almost finished, but there was the matter of her great-nephew’s military status. “Some boys don’t seem able to grow up and be a man. What that kind needs to straighten him out is three or four years in Uncle Sam’s army—or better still, the U.S. Marines.”

  Miss Em nodded her agreement. “Virtually all male members of the Boyle family for seven generations—young Erasmus being one of the exceptions—have served in the military services. There was a Boyle at Valley Forge, another with General Jackson in New Orleans, and Boyle twin brothers at Gettysburg—one fighting for the Confederacy, the other for those damnyankee sons of bitches that burned Atlanta to the ground.” The delicate old lady continued with a list of more recent relatives who had served honorably in various conflicts, including both world wars, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan.

  As the narrative moved from the 1800s into her own century, Daisy listened with renewed interest. I’d say that just about puts the icing on the cake.

  It wouldn’t be long before Sarah showed up, so she slipped the thermos back into her black canvas bag. As she grunted and groaned her way up from the chair, the wily old Indian woman was pleased with her clever self. And rightly so. By means of tasty apple turnovers, sugared strawberries, an overdose of knock-your-socks-off coffee—and her talent for judiciously applied probing—the sly tribal elder had pried most of what she wanted to know from Emily Boyle. Only one critical piece of information remained unearthed, but despite her tendency to bull ahead, Daisy Perika knew it wouldn’t be prudent to press the white woman too far. There were issues that can’t even be hinted at without giving the game away—and there was still another inning to play.

  Ever resilient and forward-looking, the crafty player was already planning her next move.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  DAISY’S HISTORICAL RESEARCH

  Minutes after Sarah Frank had picked Charlie Moon’s aunt up at the nursing home, she shot a sideways glance at her unpredictable passenger. “You want to stop where?”

  “You heard me.” Daisy Perika elevated her chin in a stubborn gesture. “It’ll be fun to look at all the books and magazines and whatnot.” Especially the whatnot.

  Feeling uneasy about the old woman’s sudden interest in reading, Sarah pulled her red F-150 into the Granite Creek Public Library parking lot. She eased the vehicle into a handicapped space near the front entrance. “I don’t have a permit to park here, so after I help you get out I’ll park in a regular spot and then—”

  “I don’t need any help.” Daisy Perika had already opened the passenger-side door and was prodding the warm asphalt with the tip of her oak walking stick. “Just leave the motor running while I get down to the ground.”

  It was too late to argue the point, so Sarah clenched her hands on the steering wheel and prayed. Please, God … please don’t let her fall!

  Daisy was making her own request: Take good care of me, Jesus—the last thing I need is a busted hip bone.

  The response to these urgent entreaties was immediate: Daisy’s feet connected to terra firma without mishap.

  The girl gave thanks for this happy outcome.

  As with most of the blessings she received and felt entitled to, the tribal elder took this one in stride. I’ll be inside before she can find a parking place for her truck.

  Not so. As Daisy Perika was approaching the entrance of the public library, the slender girl appeared beside her. “I’ll be glad to help you find whatever you’re interested in.”

  “Don’t put yourself to any bother,” Daisy grumped. “I don’t need a babysitter to hold me by the hand.” Her plan was to wander around aimlessly until she found what she was interested in. If that don’t work, I’ll ask some smart-looking kid to help me. Youngsters nowadays seemed to know almost everything.

  “All right, then.” Sarah patted her companion’s hunched, black-shawled back. “I’ll stay out of your way.” But she would not let Charlie Moon’s closest living relative out of her sight.

  * * *

  As it happened, Patsy Poynter spotted the tribal elder within a minute. My goodness—that’s Charlie’s aunt Daisy. The old wom
an appeared to be mildly confused (which was unusual) and immensely irritated (which was not). I wonder what the peculiar old soul is doing in the library. Daisy was not reputed to be a lover of books. And why is she here all by herself? The reference librarian got up from her desk and hurried toward the befuddled senior citizen.

  * * *

  Cunningly concealed behind a shelf marked FANTASY, Sarah Frank peered through a slot she had contrived by removing a pair of thickish J. R. R. Tolkien novels. Fine. Patsy will take good care of Aunt Daisy. Her youthful brow came very near to making a frown. Just like she’d like to take good care of Charlie. But despite her jealousy, Sarah realized that Miss Poynter was a sweet lady and anyone with eyes could see that she was uncommonly pretty. Add to that the fact that Mr. Moon was far and away the most eligible bachelor in the county, and the inevitable lesson learned was … I can’t blame Patsy for wanting to get her hooks into Charlie. The acutely dejected angle of the romantic triangle breathed a long, melancholy sigh. I bet Charlie would pay me a lot more attention if I had curly blond hair and big blue eyes and was even half as good-looking as Patsy.

  * * *

  Daisy Perika saw Patsy Poynter approaching at a rapid clip. Uh-oh, here comes Blondie Blue-eyes. After she says hello Daisy how nice it is to see you, next thing she’ll do is hug me. The grumpy old woman groaned at the prospect. I hate to be hugged! But there was an upside: the clever matukach woman would help her find what she was looking for. I guess I’ll just have to grin and bear it. She steeled herself for the ordeal.

  * * *

  “Oh, Daisy—I haven’t seen you in ages. What a pleasant surprise!”

  The Ute woman rolled her eyes. Close enough.

  A head taller than Charlie Moon’s aged aunt, Patsy leaned to give Daisy a hug.