Coffin Man

by James D. Doss

  Knowing that she was losing control of the potential suicide, Sarah took another tack. “Your ghost story sounds like a tall tale.” She assumed a doubtful expression. “Are you making all this up?”

  The noosed man shook his head. “If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.” Which, come to think about it, is kinda funny. “There, I’ve had my say—the confession’s done with—end of story.” Freddy “Fixit” Whitsun jabbed a thumb in the direction Sarah had come from. “Now you run along home so’s I can get on with what I need to do.”

  The girl had opened her mouth to protest when her conversation with the cemetery custodian was abruptly interrupted—

  “Leave this bozo to me, Sarah—I’ll deal with him.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  ENTER THE HANGWOMAN

  Sarah Frank got up from her uncomfortable seat on the old limestone tombstone and turned to gape in amazement at Daisy Perika. How did she know where to find me?

  The young woman’s question was based upon a false premise; the tribal elder had not gone looking for Sarah. Even so, she was not entirely surprised to find the girl in this spot—which was Daisy’s destination. Like Freddy Whitsun, the old woman assumed that Erasmus Boyle must have brought Sarah here—and that possibility suggested all sorts of sinister business. But that wrinkle in Daisy’s plot could be mulled over later on, when dark nights and chill winter winds kept an old lady close to the fireplace. At the moment, Charlie Moon’s aunt had urgent business to tend to.

  Pegging along on her sturdy oak staff, she left the bricked walkway and made her way to the stump that served as Mr. Whitsun’s going-away platform. After a glance at the bouquet of white roses he’d placed on the freshly sodded ground, Daisy focused her hard black eyes on the person atop the stump. “I’ve probably seen more winters than any of the big trees in this cemetery, and I never heard a grown man admit to so much foolishness in my whole life.”

  Reeling like a massive statue about to topple off its pedestal, Whitsun glared down at the black-garbed old eavesdropper who’d heard his secret confession. Her abrupt appearance suggested a wicked witch who had materialized right on the spot. For the first time, it occurred to the cemetery custodian that this spiteful creature was probably responsible for his accident. I bet she put a curse on that machine and made it drag me off. This reasonable surmise led to another one: Cap’n Boyle must’ve sent her here to torment me. “So what’s the plan, Granny—you aim to set me afire before I can hang myself?”

  “Don’t tempt me, Sonny.” Turning to Sarah, Daisy pointed her walking stick toward the bricked pathway. “Go wait over there while I deal with this dimwit!”

  Having about played out her hand with Whitsun, and hopeful that the resourceful old woman might know how to deter the potential suicide, the girl withdrew without protest.

  When she was satisfied that Sarah was out of earshot, Daisy approached the foot of the stump and looked up at the massive man who loomed above her. “That was the sorriest confession I ever heard in my entire life.”

  “How would you know?” Whitsun managed a snort. “You don’t look nothin’ like a priest to me.”

  “For the problem you’ve got, I’m better than a priest.” Daisy poked the butt of her walking stick at Whitsun’s belly and was pleased to see him cringe. “I’m the only person in Granite Creek County who can solve all of your problems—why I’ve chased more haunts away than you’ve got hairs sprouting out of your ears.”

  The man’s expression betrayed his apprehension. “You’re some kinda witch, ain’t you?”

  The old crone cackled. “D’you want my help, or don’t you?”

  Resigned to whatever fate awaited him, the hopeless man shrugged. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

  Daisy suppressed a smile. Don’t be so sure about that.

  He eyed his unlikely benefactor with frank suspicion. “What d’you want in return—all my hard cash?”

  “No. I’ve got so many greenbacks that I bale it like hay.”

  Maybe so, but Freddy Whitsun knew that witches don’t work pro bono. She’s bound to want something. “So what do I hafta do?”

  Lowering her voice to a hoarse whisper, Daisy told him, “Tell me what you didn’t tell Sarah.”

  Her victim did not immediately consent to the tribal elder’s terms; even the most upright cemetery custodian you’ll ever meet has a few secrets he’d prefer to take to his grave. But the outcome was never in doubt. The haunted man was desperate for some peace of mind before he expired, and this doubtful opportunity seemed to be his last chance. He agreed to fill in the blank pages of his confession—but only on the condition that the presumed witch treat his revelation as Top Secret—For Her Ears Only. Daisy agreed.

  * * *

  About ten paces away, Sarah could barely catch a word now and then and only from the cemetery custodian’s lips. I wonder what Aunt Daisy’s up to?

  From time to time, so does Charlie Moon, saintly priests, and heads of state. They shudder at the possibilities.

  * * *

  After Mr. Whitsun had kept his part of the bargain, Daisy pointed her staff at the rope. “You call yourself Mr. Fixit, and don’t even know how to hang yourself proper.”

  The skilled handyman was up to here with self-appointed critics. “What d’you mean by that crack?”

  The old woman’s throat rattled with a derisive laugh. “Why that’s nothing but a cheap old cotton clothesline rope—if a man of half your weight stepped off that stump, it’d snap just like that.” To demonstrate, she snapped finger and thumb.

  The prideful jack-of-all-trades puffed up his barrel chest. “I’ll have you know, that’s a brand-new nylon towrope that’s rated for two tons. I bought it this morning at the A-1 Auto Parts store.”

  “Well those slickers sure saw you coming.” Daisy eyed the section of rope tied to the cemetery cart. “What’d you pay for it?”

  The flustered consumer tried to remember. “Nineteen ninety-nine, I think.” Or was it twenty-nine ninety-nine? Prices went up so fast that it was hard to keep track of expenditures.

  Daisy approached the miniature truck and examined the rope. “Well, when I’m wrong, I’m wrong—that’s nylon, all right.” She gave it a light jerk. “And it oughta get the job done. But … well, I guess it’s not any of my business.”

  Freddy Whitsun tried to look over his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

  “You didn’t give yourself quite enough slack.” The old woman shook her head and sighed. “When you step off the stump, you’ll just hang there like a silly jackass and strangle to death while your face turns blue and your eyes bug out and your tongue swells up and sticks out of your mouth like you was trying to swallow a purple squash.” She examined the knot. “If you want me to, I’ll untie this thing and give you a little extra rope. Then, when you take that final step, your neck’ll snap like a dry stick.”

  “Well … okay.” He swallowed hard. In all my born days, I never met such a cold-blooded old woman.

  Leaning her walking stick against the electric vehicle, Daisy unlooped the heavy purse from her shoulder and placed it on the ground.

  Sarah Frank was beginning to get fidgety. “Aunt Daisy—what are you doing?”

  The Ute elder turned to yell at the troublesome girl, “I’m taking care of the job you started and couldn’t finish.” She waved impatiently. “Now back off and keep your mouth shut, or I’ll knock him off the stump with my walking stick and put an end to this silly business!”

  Not daring to interfere with any effort that might prevent a self-murder, Sarah backed up another two paces. She was delighted when the senior citizen began untying the knot on the eyebolt. Aunt Daisy has talked Mr. Whitsun out of hanging himself!

  The optimist’s joy was premature.

  Daisy allowed about four inches of additional slack, then retied the sturdy rope tightly to the eyebolt.

  Sarah was puzzled by this reversal. What’s she up to? She considered several possibilities before settlin
g on … Aunt Daisy’s playing for time until she can think of something to do.

  Grateful for the slight looseness at the business end of the rope, Freddy Whitsun watched from the corner of one bloodshot eye as the morbid old woman added a granny knot for good measure.

  Like any skilled craftsman who takes pride in her work, Daisy fussed for some final touches. She gave the rope a stiff jerk that startled the about-to-be-hanged man, made sure the steel eyebolt was securely attached to the cart, eyed the knot, and whatnot. When she was satisfied that everything was in perfect order, Charlie Moon’s auntie retrieved her purse and walking stick and toddled back to the stump. In a voice too low for Sarah to hear, she politely asked the aspiring ropedancer for a small favor. Would Mr. Whitsun mind delaying his execution until she had time to find a better vantage point? Daisy explained that she had not witnessed a lynching since she was six years old, and wanted to get a good look at his final performance.

  The condemned man nodded his agreement to this reasonable request, and Daisy turned her back and walked away.

  The Ute-Papago girl was beyond puzzled. Something doesn’t look right about this.

  When Daisy Perika had withdrawn to the desired position, which was far enough away to avoid injury when the cemetery custodian stepped off the stump, she raised her oak walking stick and yelled, “Me and this Ute-Papago orphan have better things to do than stand around here all afternoon while you try to get your nerve up—let’s get this show going!”

  Sarah could not believe her ears. Surely, even Aunt Daisy would not urge a man to commit suicide.

  The doomed Caucasian had his pride and he was tired of being bossed around by every know-it-all Indian who happened by. “Don’t hurry me—I aim to do this right.” Whitsun set his jaw in the same stubborn expression he’d used when he was three years old and in no mood to eat another spoonful of goopy spinach.

  “You just need a little help.” Daisy smiled sweetly. “I’ll start counting—when I get to five, you can take your swan dive.” The old crone raised her staff again and croaked, “One.”

  Sarah screamed, “No!”

  “Two,” saith the stolid tribal elder.

  The tender girl closed her eyes. This can’t be happening.

  It could and was and would.

  Impatient with the proceedings, Daisy raised her voice and boomed like the crack of doom, “Three—four—five!”

  Well, here goes nothin’. Freddy Whitsun closed his eyes tightly. Said a quick prayer. Now I lay me down to sleep. Took that final step.

  Down he came.

  When his boot soles were about eighteen inches above the ground, the stout rope went taught, the sturdy cottonwood limb bent like a drawn bow—but it did not break.

  Something else did. The cracking snap was horrifying.

  The ill-fated man hit the ground like a 260-pound sack of potatoes.

  As she hurried toward Daisy’s victim, Sarah shouted loud enough to wake the dead, “Oh, no!”

  Flat on his back and still wearing the noose, Whitsun opened his eyes. He blinked a bleary-eyed gaze at the cloudy sky. “I think I sprained my ankle.”

  This was beyond amazing. “What happened?” The answer to Sarah’s question was provided forthwith. The yellow rope had slipped over the tree limb and fallen with Whitsun. Several yards of yellow cord were draped over the overalled man. “But how…” She turned her wide-eyed gaze on the cemetery cart. A few inches of the nylon rope hung from the eyebolt, where it was still securely tied. “The rope snapped.” She turned to Daisy. “It’s a miracle!”

  The worldly old reprobate snorted at this pious suggestion. “One broke rope, that’s just a piece of good luck that could happen to any silly sad sack.” Ever cheerful, Daisy Perika tapped Whitsun’s swelling left ankle with her walking stick and chuckled as he winced. “How about having a few more goes at it, Freddy?” As the befuddled man pushed himself up to a sitting position, she presented a hideously wicked grin. “If that rope was to break, say six times out of seven—that’d be a sure-enough miracle.”

  A cruel old woman? Some might say so, but at grave risk of being uncharitable.

  As if to demonstrate that she had his best interests at heart, Daisy leaned and whispered some advice into Mr. Whitsun’s ear. Wise counsel that Sarah Frank could not hear. Was this the only evidence of Daisy’s good intentions toward the sorrowful soul? No. Even as she whispered, Charlie Moon’s mischievous auntie was slipping something back into her purse. A Baby Butterbean.

  What in the world would Daisy be doing with something like that?

  Well. What a question. Why, any freckle-faced Kentucky lad who ever peeled a red apple or skinned a jughead catfish will tell you that a Baby Butterbean is a smallish Case folding knife with two razor-sharp blades—either of which can slice through a yellow nylon rope like it was warm butter. Or, when a softhearted old sinner is obliged to produce a counterfeit miracle right on the spot—about 96 percent of the way through.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  SUPPERTIME AT THE COLUMBINE

  This evening’s meal at the ranch headquarters was much like dozens of others Scott Parris had enjoyed since that turning point in Charlie Moon life, when—literally overnight—the hardworking, underpaid, uniformed Southern Ute police officer was suddenly transformed into the proud owner of one of the finest cattle ranches in Colorado. Moon has never revealed precisely how this highly unlikely transformation occurred, not even to his closest friend. And for good reasons. But that peculiar transaction had happened quite some time ago, not long after Daisy had told a skeptical little girl a tallish tale about Grandmother Spider. Such bizarre episodes are best left buried in the past.

  As it happens, Mr. Moon is not the only person seated at the headquarters dining table who has a bizarre secret.

  When Scott Parris was a Chicago police officer whose regular beat was South Halstead Street, the mostly straight-as-an-arrow cop cut a corner now and then. No, he’d never accepted a thin dime in the form of a bribe. Parris’s occasional corner cutting involved protecting innocent citizens from seriously dangerous felons who were beyond the reach of legal justice.

  Even Sarah Frank has done a few things she is ashamed of, such as knocking a Tonapah, Utah sheriff flat on his back with a baseball bat. Not that she had the least intent to injure a sworn officer of the law—the fellow with the badge on his shirt had snuck up quietly and scared her. And Sarah has another secret that she is obliged to take to her grave—the solemn promise she made to suicidal cemetery custodian Freddy Whitsun to treat his confession with all the discretion of a Catholic priest.

  Does Daisy Perika have dark secrets? (Is water wet?) To put it more quantitatively: sufficient to fill every square inch in the Granite Creek telephone book. Including the Yellow Pages. With small print that can be read only through a magnifying glass. Enough said.

  Or perhaps not … Scott Parris is about to say something.

  * * *

  “Please pass me the biscuits.”

  Daisy passed them. “D’you want the butter too?”

  He did. And as the chief of police used a serrated steak knife to slice a made-from-scratch biscuit neatly into halves, he cast an innocent glance at Sarah Frank. “So how’s your schoolwork coming along?”

  The university student shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

  As he buttered his hot biscuit, Parris aimed another kind of glance at Charlie Moon—who got the message loud and clear.

  The rancher stirred a spoonful of Tulia, Texas honey into his coffee. “You still interviewing those homeless folks?”

  Sarah nodded. After taking a sip of iced tea, she added, “When I get a chance.”

  Parris pretended to recall a small detail. “Let’s see—when did you say you were going back to Grant Park to talk to that Boyle fella?”

  “I never said.” Whilst using a three-tined fork to roll a green pea across her plate, the pretty girl batted her eyelashes at Moon. “I have no interest in seeing Captain Boyle again.
” Sarah waited for Charlie to ask why. She might as well have waited for the grandfather clock to strike thirteen.

  “Sorry to hear it,” Moon said. “I was hoping he’d accept an invite to the ranch.” The rancher sliced a sizable chunk off his steak. “If I do say so myself, this is mighty fine prime beef.”

  After enjoying a helping of his own T-bone, biscuit, baked Idaho spud, and some private thoughts, Parris pointed a greasy fork at Sarah. “I sure wish you’d reconsider.”

  She stared at the cop. “What?”

  “Hanging out in U.S. Grant Park to talk to poor homeless folk.” Parris took the final bite of buttered biscuit, then lifted his cup for a long drink of black coffee. “Ah, that was good.”

  Sarah was still staring. “Why?”

  In a buck-passing mood, Parris aimed the fork again—this time at his best friend. “You tell her, Charlie.”

  Knowing his buddy’s game plan, Mr. Moon proved to be a reluctant receiver. “Tell her what, pardner?”

  Charlie ain’t no help at all. “That a young lady is well-advised to stay clear of insane vagrants, pickpockets, drunks, drug addicts, and all the other lowlife that drifts around in the park.”

  Sarah smiled at the white cop. “I appreciate your concern for my safety.”

  Parris grunted. “But you won’t pay any attention to a word I’ve said.”

  “On the contrary.” Having lost interest in the insipid green pea, she set her fork aside. “From time to time, I’ll probably visit the park to enjoy the trees and grass and the duck pond. But I don’t intend to continue my class project there. Tomorrow, I’ll speak to my RMP adviser. With Professor Armstrong’s permission, I’ll move my interviews to safer places. Like the Salvation Army homeless shelter. And the Lutheran soup kitchen.”