“Well … I suppose that’s true enough.” Miss Whysper nodded and sighed. “It appears that you and Chief Parris are onto me.”
The gallant cowboy tipped the brim of his black John B. Stetson. “That’s our business, ma’am—it’s what we do.” There was a wry twinkle in Moon’s eye. The left one.
The lady flashed a shy, charming smile. “Please call me Missy.”
“Okay, Missy.” The part-time lawman cleared his throat. “Now tell me flat-out what kind of mischief this hombre has in mind.” Now I’ll find out if she’s a flat-out liar.
“I don’t know for sure.” She met his hard gaze. “But my best guess is … well … that he intends to shoot a couple of lawmen stone-cold dead.” Her smile brightened to outshine the morning sun. “Yourself and Scott Parris, of course.”
Moon stared at the enigmatic female for almost a dozen heartbeats. “If and when this shooter shows up in Granite Creek, can you ID him for us?”
Another shrug. “Maybe.” Another smile, neither bright nor shy. Label this one sly. “We’ll see.”
The deputy’s next question (“Why does he want to take a pop at me and Scott?”) was right on the tip of his tongue when their conversation was interrupted. Not by a whizzing copper-clad bullet, the sinister whisper of a flint-tipped arrow, or the maddened charge of a three-quarter-ton runaway Ford pickup with the accelerator pedal stuck, or a (three-quarter-ton) bull buffalo that’d strayed from the Columbine’s herd on the far side of the river with the intent of creating horrific havoc, mindless chaos, general confusion—and having lots of good, clean fun in the process. Such terrors as those can be avoided.
CHAPTER FORTY
THE PRECISE NATURE OF THE INTERRUPTION
Which was: the usual.
Charlie Moon was sorely tempted to let the infernal instrument buzz in his pocket until the battery ran down, but his sensible right hand reached for the marvel of modern communications technology. Still, he refused to pop the clamshell cover. Give it another few rings and whoever’s calling will give up.
Miss Whysper continued to smile at her host. “You’d better answer it—it might be something important.”
With a sigh, the defeated man unfolded the device and checked the caller ID. It’s Scott. He pressed the thing to his ear. “H’lo, pard—what’s up?”
“Bad-weather signs. Are you all by yourself, Charlie?”
“No.”
“Well get that way—pronto!”
“Okay.” Moon smiled an apology at his guest. “Please excuse me for a minute, Miss Whysper.”
“Missy.” The brazen woman winked at him.
“Uh—right.” The embarrassed fellow turned on his boot heel and ambled away a few paces. “What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know,” Parris said. “But I just got an urgent call from the DA’s office. You and me are invited to a meeting today at five P.M. sharp—and not showing up is not an option.”
“Pug Bullet must be awfully upset about something or other.” The thought of the purse snatcher’s untimely death came to mind, as did the image of a hard-eyed lawyer dispatched from the bereaved family to create serious heartburn for himself and Parris.
“Pug’s outta town today, Charlie. The call was made by Miss Purvis.”
Moon’s brow furrowed. “We’re going to have an urgent meeting with the DA’s secretary?”
“Your guess is good as mine. All I can tell you is that Judy Purvis said be there—and the Purv was spitting out words in her you’d-better-listen-to-me-if-you-know-what’s-good-for-you tone. You know what I mean, Charlie—like my third-grade teacher used when she was about to apply a dozen paddle whacks to my butt for something I did that I shouldn’t’ve of.”
Moon did know, and grinned at similar nostalgic memories. “Okay, pard.” The Ute squinted to check the sun’s height, then glanced at his thirty-dollar Walmart wristwatch to make sure the mechanical chronometer wasn’t too far from right. “I’ve got some work to do here today, but I’ll try to show up on time.”
Parris: “Don’t be late, Charlie. G’bye.”
The telephone: Click.
Pocketing the instrument, Moon returned to his guest. There was something he’d intended to ask her, but it had slipped his mind. “I’m going to be fairly busy today, but if there’s anything you need, just ask Sarah.”
“Thank you. I’ll be driving into Granite Creek later this morning.”
He presented his poker face. “Gonna go lookin’ for this cop shooter?”
“If the killer is in town, maybe I’ll spot him.” Miss Whysper glanced at the old Bronco, where the Columbine hound was sniffing around. “I intend to check out every hotel, restaurant, and tavern.”
Moon admired the self-employed woman’s positive attitude, but … I doubt there’ll be any bad guy to find. “Once you’ve done that, you might want to drop by our fine public library—I’m sure Patsy’ll be glad to show you around.” Seeing her blank expression, Moon added, “Patsy Poynter—my intended. She’s the research librarian.”
“The library isn’t on my schedule, but you’ve reminded me that I was hoping to arrange a visit with Miss Poynter this evening.” The lady’s eyes flashed. “Unless you two have a hot date.”
Moon shook his head. “I’ll be in town later on this afternoon, but I’ll be coming back to the Columbine for supper.” (He was half right.)
“Would you mind very much calling your fiancée and asking if I could drop by her home … say at about seven P.M.?”
“Will do.” Moon immediately placed the call on his mobile phone. After Patsy had agreed to Miss Whysper’s request, he turned away from the other woman and strode off three paces to exchange a few tender endearments with his sweetheart. When this happy ritual was complete, the hospitable westerner returned his entire attention to his houseguest. “It’s all set.”
“Thank you kindly.” The lady was eyeing the Columbine canine, who appeared to be fascinated by one of the Bronco’s knobby tires. “Are you sure that Miss Poynter doesn’t mind my barging in?”
“She’ll be glad to see you.” Moon whistled at Sidewinder, but his summons was pointedly ignored by the hound, who might have still been peeved by last night’s stern command to cease howling. “Patsy said she’d brew some tea and lay out a tray of ginger cookies for the occasion.”
“How very sweet of her.”
“If you don’t get back in time for supper, I’ll make sure there’s something in the oven for you.”
“How very sweet of you.” Miss Whysper reached out to touch the hardworking rancher’s rock-hard hand. Almost wistfully … as if their paths might never cross again.
Charlie Moon found this gesture uncomfortably intimate, but … I guess city folks have their ways.
“Well … Goodbye, then.”
This parting remark also had an odd tone of finality, as if the lady had a premonition that they would not meet again. Women sure are hard to figure. Tipping his black hat, the Ute headed for the horse barn, where he would saddle up an old but trustworthy mount who answered to the name Paducah. The stockman’s plan was to ride over to Sunrise Arroyo, where a mountain lion who was no longer sufficiently fleet of foot to run down mule deer had begun to harass Columbine calves and fat yearlings.
As the woman watched the long-legged fellow stride away to begin his day’s work, she considered what a waste it would be for such a fine specimen of a man to be gunned down by an out-of-town assassin. But that need not happen. Indeed, if things in Granite Creek worked out according to her plan, such an unfortunate outcome would be avoided. Despite her jarring mood swings and a marked tendency to dither over seemingly trivial matters, when it came down to hard brass tacks like cash flow, expenses, and the proverbial bottom line, the resolute entrepreneur was determined to achieve her goals. In this instance, job one was to ensure that both Charlie Moon and Scott Parris would survive to awaken on additional mornings, be those dawnings chilly or warm. Her mouth curved into a smile. For years, I h
ope. A charitable thought? Given the multitude of troubles this world provides to those who reside therein for threescore years and more, perhaps one should not wish such a blessing as long life on a friend. Whatever her intent, by the time Charlie Moon was out of sight he was out of mind.
The rancher was not the only one who had work to do; it was also high time for Miss Whysper to get down to the business that had brought her all the way from southern Illinois to central Colorado. While still in bed, waiting for the sun to rise, the lady had compiled a mental to-do list, and dealing with her disreputable means of transport was the first item on her agenda. When she had the time to manage her life, this self-professed expert on crime was a well-organized woman who detested slothful behavior and could not abide a disorderly environment. Those who are apt to call a spade a spade (or a shovel) will no doubt designate Miss Whysper a cyclic neat-freak.
She unlocked the Bronco and commenced to check things out. (You know how odorous and cluttered an automobile can get on a long trip when the driver is living on candy bars, cookies, cheese sandwiches, finger-staining Cheetos, and other such nutritious stuff.) After some sniffing about (It doesn’t smell quite so bad as roadkill) she spent a few minutes in a strategic tidying-up, concealing the most unsightly portion of the mess. Yes, a definite cover-up. But, like all of us who put off the bulk of today’s cleanup until tomorrow, she rationalized that … After I get some urgent work done, I’ll deal with this crate of junk once and for all. Perhaps. And perhaps she’d start balancing her checkbook, checking every single item on her credit-card bill, and clean out all the closets. As empty as it might have been, her resolution worked for the moment. The gratified woman slammed the SUV door, relocked it, and went marching across the yard to the headquarters. Before I leave, I need to tend to a few things in my bedroom.
No doubt. But who cares? A small dose of Miss Whysper’s psyche is sufficient to give a person the fidgety jitters. We shall leave the semieccentric lady to her mundane bedroom tasks and move on to a solid-as-rock woman who has never been known to dither, display the least smidgen of self-doubt, or wonder, Why am I here? or What is life all about? She’s here to take names and kick butt and have a fine time doing it. This salty old character is one of those “damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead” types with her leathery face set to the wind and her conscience stuffed into a thimble. So to speak.
As we check in, Daisy Perika is about to speak rudely to a rank stranger. And by now, you know why—just for the fun of it.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
YES, THE TELEPHONE RINGS AGAIN
No, not the one in Mr. Moon’s pocket. (Recall that his instrument buzzes.)
The telephone that jangled was one of those embarrassingly old-fashioned ones, which was incapable of taking digital photographs, sending and receiving text messages, accessing the Internet, or playing amusing games with its owner. This plain black dial-to-call, pick-up-to-answer instrument was the same one Charlie Moon had used to chat with his foreman about twenty-six minutes ago. As we know, it is mounted on the wall in the headquarters kitchen, which is where Daisy and Sarah are putting squeaky-clean breakfast dishes into the oak cabinets over the sink.
* * *
Seeing as how Sarah had a wet platter in one hand and a soapy saucer in the other, Daisy volunteered to deal with this annoyance. Snatching the instrument off the wall, she snapped, “Columbine Ranch—eat our beef or else.” She paused for a heartbeat to let this threat sink in, then: “If you don’t, we’ll hunt you down like the sissy eggplant-munching tenderfoot you are and slice you all the way from gullet to—”
“What?”
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m on a roll—I was making up a brand-new motto and mission statement when you piped up and made me forget what I was going to say.”
“Uh … all I wanted was to—”
“Who is this—some butt-head from Boise City selling life insurance or dirty magazines?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. This is Ray Smithson from down by Plainview.”
Them Texans always like to tell you where they’re from. “Oh, I know Plainview—that’s one of the nicest towns in New Mexico.” She waited. And not for long.
“Last time I checked the map,” Mr. Smithson said stiffly, “Plainview was in Texas.”
“It don’t surprise me—when you rich Texicans want yourselves a town, you go buy it and haul it home.” She snickered. “I guess us poor folks in Colorado had better keep a close eye on Walsenburg and nail Trinidad to the ground with railroad spikes.”
Dead silence on the other end of the line.
Which served only to encourage the animated tribal elder. “So how’s the weather down there where menfolk wear ten-gallon hats and the fancy ladies eat jackrabbit hash with fried armadillo eggs?”
“It’s dry.” The retired lawman cleared his throat for a fresh start. “Is this Charlie Moon’s ranch?”
“Last time he paid his taxes, it was. Whatta you want, Tex?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Moon.”
“I’d like to talk to Gary Cooper if he was here, but he’s not—and neither is Charlie.”
“Oh. Well, then I guess I—”
“I’m Charlie’s aunt Daisy, bub—you can talk to me. I know everything that goes on at the Columbine and what I don’t know about my nephew ain’t worth telling.”
“Uh, I checked with the Granite Creek police station and the dispatcher told me my granddaughter was staying there.”
Daisy’s wrinkled face split in a wicked grin. This is too easy. “I’m sorry to hear that the girl’s in the local lockup, but why d’you want to talk to Charlie about that?”
“No ma’am, you don’t understand. My granddaughter’s not in detention, she’s—”
“So the jailbird’s already got sprung, huh?”
The caller’s flinty tone hinted that Ray Smithson might be getting a mite testy: “I was told that my granddaughter is staying out at Charlie Moon’s ranch for a few days.” A belligerent pause. “Well, is she?”
“How would I know?” Daisy cackled a witchy laugh. “Does this habitual criminal write books about crooks?”
“That’s her, all right.” Ray Smithson was suddenly hopeful. “Is Ellie at the Columbine?”
“Sure she is.” Ellie? Daisy frowned. I thought she was Susan but sometimes I can’t remember my own name. “She’s in her bedroom, resting, I guess.”
“Does she seem okay—I mean, Ellie’s not feeling poorly?”
“Poorly?” Daisy snorted. “For breakfast, that young woman ate enough eggs and ham to founder a lumberjack.”
“Well—imagine that.” Ray Smithson chuckled. “Last time Ellie was at my place, she’d converted from being a red-blooded American meat eater to a vegetarian.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, Tex. This is a really interesting conversation—” Daisy faked a convincing yawn, “but I need to hurry off and count the flowers on my bedroom wallpaper. G’bye now.”
“Please don’t hang up—can I talk to my granddaughter?”
“Sure—why didn’t you say so in the first place?” This is the most fun I’ve had all day. “Hold on while I go get her.” Daisy left the phone hanging by its curly black cord and waddled her way down the hallway to bang her fist on Miss Whysper’s bedroom door. “Hey—your grandfather’s on the phone.”
The door opened a crack. “What?”
“Your Texican granddaddy wants a word with you, Ellie Mae.” Daisy pointed to the kitchen. “The phone’s thataway.”
Miss Whysper shook her head.
“You don’t want to talk to the old buzzard?”
“No, I don’t. Please tell him that I just left.” Miss Whysper added in a whisper, “I’ll call him after my business here is finished.”
“Okay.” Daisy waddled back the other way and picked up the telephone. “Ellie said to tell you she just hit the road, and she’ll call you when she gets her business taken care of.”
“Oh.”
Daisy fe
lt a pang of sympathy for the disheartened old man. “It ain’t like it was when you and me was sprouts, Tex—young folk these days don’t have any respect for their elders.”
“When do you expect Charlie Moon?”
“Soon as I see the big gourd-head come stomping through the front door, but he’s gone off somewhere or other.”
“Does he have a mobile phone?”
“He does, but I can’t remember the number. Anything else I can do to help you?”
“Uh—no, ma’am. I guess that’s about it.”
“Goodbye, then.” She hung up the phone and turned to Sarah, who was scrubbing an iron skillet. “Did you already clean out the coffeepot—or is there still some dregs in the bottom I can drink?”
Sarah hadn’t and there was.
FINALLY, A BODY CAN REST
For those who prefer a degree of specificity, “finally” was five minutes later. Moreover, the atmosphere in the kitchen was serenely peaceful and, in Daisy’s own words, “quiet as an abandoned badger’s den under nine feet of snow.” Having no intimate knowledge of shadowy subterranean domiciles, we shall yield to the tribal elder’s authority.
Sarah had wandered off to her bedroom to tend to whatever a lovesick young woman occupies her lonely hours with.
Miss Whysper was (Daisy presumed) busy with whatever people do who have nothing better to occupy themselves with than such foolishness as writing dopey books about slope-browed, back-alley criminals who pack blackjacks, brass knuckles, and switchblade knives.
Not that Charlie Moon’s aunt gave either Sarah or Miss Whysper much thought as she sipped contentedly at the last three ounces of coffee in the kitchen. The old woman leaned against the cushioned back of her chair. This is the life. Just sit on my butt with a cup of Folgers brew that’s strong enough to grow hair on a dead man’s chest and not worry about a thing in the world. Which pleasant reflection was sufficiently soporific to cause her eyes to close, her old head to droop, her almost-toothless mouth to gape, and the almost-empty cup to begin slipping from her fingers.…
The Old Gray Wolf Page 18
