Coffin Man

by James D. Doss

  This sounds like the game I played with Dr. Whyte. “How about ‘Smith’?”

  “I like it.” Moon paused to organize his thoughts. “Let’s say that it’s Friday morning, and this Smith character—whose gender shall remain unspecified—is in the vicinity of the Naranjo residence.”

  “What for?”

  “Oh, I don’t know as I should speculate about that just yet.” The storyteller smiled. “For now, let’s just say that our potential suspect had a specific purpose in mind.”

  “Like what?”

  “Let’s suppose that Smith had a job to do.”

  “Could you be a little bit more specific?”

  “I could, but since this is my fable, I’ll stipulate that Smith’s task was something of importance. I might even go so far as to call it serious business.”

  “I’m practically on the edge of my seat.” Parris pretended to stifle a yawn, but the cop’s heart was drumming a brisk tattoo.

  Desirous of enhancing his narrative, Charlie Moon offered a helpful suggestion: “Imagine you’re watching when our hypothetical motorist drives along that long lane between Rodeo Road and Wanda Naranjo’s house.”

  “Okay.” Parris recollected the buzzards. “I’m a redtail hawk, circling over the scene of the crime that’s about to happen.”

  “You’re likely to get your feathers ruffled, pard. That noisy Friday-morning storm is rollin’ off the mountains like five hundred freight trains loaded with dynamite.”

  “Not a problem.” Parris hunched his broad shoulders. “I just landed on the downwind side of a big ponderosa.” He squeezed the Chevy steering wheel until his knuckles were white as boiled hominy. “And I’ve got my talons fastened on to the branch so tight that a West Texas twister couldn’t rip me off.”

  “Way to go, pard. Now keep your keen hawk eyes peeled. It’s dark as the inside of a tar bucket.”

  “That’s pretty dark—but I like scary stories with runaway trains, high explosives, and big honking storms.” The triple dose of Tums was beginning to get the job done.

  “It gets even scarier, pardner.”

  “Don’t hold back, Charlie. I’m a full-grown man and not afraid of anything I can hide from or outrun.”

  “You’re a hawk hanging on to a ponderosa limb.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “As Smith rolls along the Naranjos’ long, muddy driveway, Betty Naranjo hasn’t had time to get to the highway, and … she won’t make it there.” Moon let this grim image hang in the air.

  Never mind. Mr. Redtail Hawk was beginning to get a glimmer of the ugly picture. “The girl couldn’t see the car coming—and Smith run her down.”

  Moon nodded. “But there wasn’t a corpse in the road.”

  The chief of police squinted at the windshield. “So Smith must’ve hauled her away.” The lawman could imagine two or three reasons why, and the possible outcomes—all of them dismal.

  The ensuing silence was bereft of the least vestige of peace or joy.

  Finally, Parris whispered, “So finish your story.”

  Mr. Moon sighed. “I’d rather not, pard—not right this minute.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t want to ruin your supper.”

  “Don’t let that cause you any botheration.” The lonely bachelor’s lips twisted into a bitter half smile. “Supper’ll be a glass of watery skim milk and a three-hundred-calorie TV dinner that tastes like warmed-over cardboard.”

  “Not if you spend the night at the Columbine.”

  The hopeful diner brightened at this prospect. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Nothing fancy, pard. I’ll broil us some prime Hereford steaks, bake a half-dozen potatoes, and brew a big pot of coffee to wash it down.”

  “Sounds like good eats to me.” But Parris wasn’t one to rush right in. “So what’ll we have for dessert?”

  “Week-old store-bought doughnuts that’re stale as Granddaddy’s jokes—unless we can sweet-talk Aunt Daisy into whippin’ up one of her mouth-smackin’-good peach cobblers.”

  “That’s way too good to pass up—I intend to belly up to the Columbine trough and gobble it down like a starved pig. So all the way to Granite Creek, let’s keep the subject of conversation on light topics that don’t have nothin’ to do with any kind of crime. And I’m not excluding petty misdemeanors—if you saw a cute little kitty cat jaywalking across a bicycle path last week, I don’t want to hear one word about it.”

  “Suits me.”

  “Good. So tell me something that’s so brain-numbing dull that I’ll have to prop my eyelids open with toothpicks just to keep from fallin’ asleep at the wheel.”

  “That sure goes against the grain, pard—but I’ll do most anything for the sake of public safety.” The afternoon sun was glaring off the Chevy windshield. The tribal investigator pulled his Stetson brim down. “I recently had a plumbing problem at the Columbine.”

  “A really awful one that flooded the whole place?”

  “No, it turned out to be manageable.”

  “Sorry to hear that—I enjoy hearing about other folks’ serious misfortunes.” The pale-faced matukach grinned. “But tell me about the plumbing problem anyway, and make it sound lots worse than it was.”

  “I’ll do my dangedest.” Moon counted four electric poles. “Way it started, I was all primed for a hot shower. But the main water heater was on the blink. Nothing coming out of the tap but lukewarm water.”

  “It’d be a better story if you’d got scalded to death by the steam. You know, like Ol’ What’s-His-Name, who never let go of Ol’ Ninety-Seven’s throttle as she roared down the mountain without a trace of brakes and flew off the rails and—”

  “Sorry, pard, there was no chance of me getting scalded. But being in the shower without any hot water just about ruined my whole morning.”

  “Good. Now tell me how much trouble it caused.”

  “Not all that much. But when things start going wrong, you know how one thing leads to another. I ended up calling every danged plumber’s shop in Granite Creek.”

  Parris chuckled. “And nobody would come all the way out to the ranch and fix your faulty water heater.”

  “I didn’t need any hands-on assistance. What I wanted was some information.”

  “Seems to me that any run-of-the-mill wrench twister could’ve dealt with a simple matter like that.”

  “You’d think so. But nobody could tell me what I wanted to know.” The Ute watched a tufted-ear squirrel scurry across the highway. “Either that, or somebody didn’t want to tell me.”

  The driver swerved to spare the reckless rodent. And waited for a mile. Maybe more. Parris really didn’t want to know. But the curious fellow could not help himself. “So what did you ask all those plumbers, Charlie?”

  “Oh … I’ll tell you after supper.” Moon’s mouth almost smiled. “I wouldn’t want to impair your ravenous appetite.”

  Yeah, I bet you wouldn’t. “If you don’t mind telling me something before supper—was this apparently pointless conversation taking us anyplace in particular?”

  “If you’d been playing close attention, pard—you’d know we’re already there.”

  “There where?”

  “You evidently didn’t notice that dotted line painted across the highway about a half mile back. If you had, you’d know we’ve just entered the city limits of Conundrumville.”

  Parris swallowed another surge of heartburn. Ol’ Charlie’s still playing his game with me. What the driver needed was a pleasant diversion from this unnerving conversation. “How about I turn on the FM and we listen to some soothing classical music for a while?”

  “Whatever pleases you is fine with me, pardner.” Moon leaned toward Chopin, Debussy, and the Grand Ole Opry like it was way back when with Flatt and Scruggs, Minnie Pearl, Charlie Pride, and all that happy tribe.

  The driver pressed a button on the radio—with a pleasing result. So much so that Scott Parris laughed and Charlie Moon grinned ear-
to-ear.

  So what’d they hear? Why, Mrs. Nelson’s little boy, loud and clear. “Whiskey River”? Sorry, no cigar. “On the Road Again?” No again, but that’s sure a good ’un. The bewhiskered crooner was advising other little boys’ mommas that they shouldn’t ought to let their male young’uns grow up to be slack-jawed cowboys that picked guitars, whooped it up at all-night honky-tonks, drove rusty old pickup trucks to dusty rodeos where they rode bronky buckin’ horses and wild-eyed Brahma bulls and romanced big-eyed cowgirls. Being natural men, Scott and Charlie couldn’t help but join right in—and they bellowed loud enough to startle several creatures lurking in the forest on both sides of the road, including a snarling cougar, a pair of big black bears, and a seriously bad masked badger. They even drowned out ol’ Willie, but he didn’t mind a’tall—which is just what you’d expect from a sure-enough superstar.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  MISS DAISY PLAYS IT BY EAR

  U.S. GRANT PARK, 2:40 P.M.

  Following Daisy Perika’s fortuitous discovery at the Granite Creek Public Library and her tasty lunch at Sunburst Pizza with Sarah Frank, Charlie Moon’s relative had a specific destination in mind—which was not U.S. Grant Park. That grassy refuge was a mere stop along the way. Those cynics among us who are inclined to view Daisy with a jaundiced eye will suspect that the tribal elder has maneuvered her youthful companion to this neutral location with an ulterior motive in mind. Their suspicions are justified. But we need not speculate about what devious plot Aunt Daisy has hatched; as she strains to keep up with the slender girl’s brisk gait—the sly old soul is about to reveal her thoughts.

  I don’t want to take Sarah with me—if that girl tags along, there’s no telling what she might see. The sight of several park benches gave her an idea. If I sit down one and play like I’m taking a nap, maybe she’ll get fidgety and wander off to feed the ducks. A wry smile crinkled Daisy’s wrinkled face. That’d give me a chance to sneak away and go have a look at that place I found on the library map. She realized that such a simple plan might not work. But even if Sarah sticks to me like moss on a stump, sitting down for a spell will give me time to catch my breath—and think up another plan to give her the slip.

  (Daisy Perika needn’t have fretted so much. As it happened, someone was about to provide the tribal elder with a helping hand that would expedite her plan to part company with Sarah Frank.)

  At her elderly companion’s suggestion, Sarah led Daisy to a bench that viewed the park’s lovely pond. Yes, the very same bench where the youth had sat when she had met the charming man who had introduced himself as Captain Erasmus Boyle. The ladies seated themselves.

  “Ow! That hurts my butt.” The old woman shifted her behind. “It’s like sitting on a pile of rusty horseshoes.”

  Sarah Frank smiled at her companion’s complaint about a bench that the Ute-Papago girl found quite comfortable. In a moderately whimsical mood, she wondered whether Daisy was qualified by experience to make such a comparison. The youth pictured the old woman strolling down a dusty Granite Creek street a century or more ago. As the senior citizen approached a blacksmith’s shop, Daisy spotted a pile of discarded U-shaped appliances that had formerly been used to shoe four-legged creatures of the equine persuasion. Having fantasized thus far, it took no great stretch of the young woman’s fertile imagination to envision Daisy deciding to seat herself on the heap of cast-off cast iron. (It was not a great stretch. Though Sarah did not know it, the impetuous old woman had once tried on a coffin for size.)

  But by and by, Sarah lost interest in the silly fantasy. It was impossible to sit on this bench and not recall what had happened on the very spot only so recently. The girl’s gaze darted this way and that as she calculated the probability of an appearance by Captain Boyle. He said he walked in the park practically every day, so he might show up. The nineteen-year-old gripped her small beaded purse with both hands. Not that I really care. But … I wouldn’t mind if he happened to walk by.

  “My feet hurt and all that pizza I ate has made me sleepy.” Having achieved some degree of posterior comfort, Daisy feigned a yawn—which by some mysterious cerebral manipulation was transformed into the genuine article. She blinked drowsily at her young companion. “If Private Doyle shows his face, wake me up so I can get a good look at the fellow.” The vain woman was proud of her witticism, which worked on several levels.

  Sarah opened her mouth to correct the name and rank attributed to her new friend, but, realizing that Daisy was baiting her again—she clamped it shut. I’ll behave as if I didn’t hear a word she said. Which is what she did.

  Have caught a glimpse of the girl’s mouth opening and closing, the irascible old soul smiled. Her petty purpose achieved, Daisy proceeded to compound her deceit. I’ll just shut my eyes except for a little crack. That way I can make like I’m asleep and still keep an eye on her.

  Nice try, Daisy.

  But as with her counterfeit yawn, before a minute had passed her pretend snooze was producing raspy little snores that were as indisputably authentic as her remaining molars and bicuspids, most of which were now on intermittent display for any interested passerby gnat, horsefly, or moth to view. Of such winged creatures, there were not a few.

  But on this afternoon in the park, there were not a great many bipeds passing by. The ebb and flow of human traffic is a mysterious phenomenon, and a subject that scientists with time to spare might consider doing some serious research on. In the present instance, the dearth of pedestrians might be attributed to the cool, damp breeze whispering gossip in the trees about meteorological trouble brewing over nearby peaks. Alternately, it might be that those who normally enjoyed a pleasant postluncheon stroll in U.S. Grant Park had been discouraged by the cluster of gray storm clouds thundering over the mountains like a heard of celestial bison. Or perhaps sensible locals had better things to do during this particular P.M. than amble around in a picturesque wooded acreage named for a highly distinguished general of the U.S. Army who became a not-so-memorable U.S. president. For whatever reason, Sarah and Daisy remained mostly alone in the park.

  The exceptions included a very large and obese man who was being pulled along by a tiny mouse-gray Chihuahua who was fastened to her burden by a red leather leash that glittered with rhinestones. (To Sarah, the sight suggested a tiny tugboat towing an unwieldy aircraft carrier.) The dog paused long enough to turn its disproportionately large head and gaze at the human females parked on the park bench, blink its protruding brown eyes curiously, and prick a pair of pointed ears as if attempting to pick up a snatch of conversation passing between them. Evidently satisfied that neither Sarah nor Daisy was of any interest, the petite canine proceeded to haul its overweight master toward the corner of Mulberry Avenue and Copper Street, where an old man with a hot-dog stand habitually offered the tiny dog a few puffs of buttered popcorn.

  The few other sober citizens and domesticated chattel who passed by did not offer these significant women in Charlie Moon’s life the merest glance, and so shall not be remembered here. Only the briefest mention will be made of the coarse fellow who had made a threatening appearance during Sarah’s previous visit to this picturesque location. The one-eyed vagrant gave the girl a startled look of recognition and hurried on his way, no doubt to commit a loathsome misdeed in some more-favorable venue.

  Are any of these passersby significant to current events? No. They are mentioned only to demonstrate how perfectly ordinary this afternoon was … so far.

  The very soul of patience, Sarah Frank waited hopefully for Captain Boyle to appear. She wondered what horrid thing Aunt Daisy might say or do to offend her newly acquired friend. It was an inarguable fact that snoring old women rarely did any harm, but in Daisy’s case, one could not be too careful. If I see Captain Boyle, I’ll just slip away and let her sleep.

  Daisy continued to doze, dreaming of her darling little brother who had gone to heaven so many decades ago.

  * * *

  All the while, the garru
lous breeze continued to whisper delectable secrets and other half-truths amongst the deeply rooted community of spruce, cottonwood, and pine.

  One cannot resist the temptation to assert that on Time’s river, minutes glided by like snow-white swans, finally fading to silvery gray, then vanishing on shimmering wings of memory.

  Very well. Perhaps one should have.

  But as if to prove that marvelous coincidences and stunning synchronicities do occur now and again, an actual snow-white swan has just settled onto the park’s bijou pond. Moreover, it glides with haughty grace across the glassy surface, and—

  But forget haughty swans and fairy-tale ponds and whatnot—what is this?

  Aha! Sarah has spotted the young man she’d hoped to see.

  Or believes that she has.

  * * *

  The girl’s back stiffened as she stared intently across the pond at a greenly oxidized copper sundial standing at the center of a circle of blue and yellow tiles. I was sure I saw Captain Boyle, but there’s no one there now. But wait. Over there, behind that cluster of lilac bushes—I’m sure that’s him! She popped off the park bench like a jill-in-the-box. Where did he go?

  The mysterious fellow who wasn’t there a moment ago, isn’t there again.

  Maybe it wasn’t him. Whoever it was (she thought) was certainly behaving oddly. If it was Captain Boyle, he didn’t see me. The logic behind the young lady’s deduction? If he had realized that I was sitting on the bench, he would have come over to speak to me and Aunt Daisy would have woke up and said something rude to him and I would’ve just died of embarrassment. Sarah put her plan into action. I’ll leave without waking Aunt Daisy and hurry over there and find him before he gets away. With nary a thought about the old woman napping peacefully on the bench, the winsome lass marched off smartly to a mossy cobbled pathway that encircled the pond.

  She did her level best to catch up with the good-looking man.

  From time to time, Sarah thought she caught a glimpse of her quarry here—and sometimes there—but though she tripped lightly along, the agile nineteen-year-old seemed always to be at least twenty paces behind him.