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Praise for James D. Doss and his
Charlie Moon mysteries
Stone Butterfly
“Style, pathos, enthusiasm, and humor to spare.”
—Mystery Scene
“A clever plot…will keep readers turning the pages.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Moon series deftly blends traditional mystery elements with Native American mythology—a surefire read for Hillerman fans.”
—Booklist
“Droll, crafty, upper-echelon reading.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
Shadow Man
“Doss likes to toss a little Native American spiritualism and a lot of local color into his mysteries. Fans of the series will be well pleased.”
—Booklist
“Fans of Daisy Perika, the 80-something shaman who brings much of the charm and supernatural thrill to James D. Doss’s mystery series, should like Shadow Man…nice reading.”
—Rocky Mountain News
The Witch’s Tongue
“With all the skill and timing of a master magician, Doss unfolds a meticulous plot laced with a delicious sense of humor and set against a vivid southern Colorado.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Doss’s ear for Western voices is remarkable, his tone whimsical…. If you don’t have time for the seven-hour drive from Denver to Pagosa, try The Witch’s Tongue for a taste of southern Colorado.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“A classy bit of storytelling that combines myth, dreams, and plot complications so wily they’ll rattle your synapses and tweak your sense of humor.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Dead Soul
“Hillerman gets the most press, but Doss mixes an equally potent brew of crime and Native American spirituality.”
—Booklist
“Lyrical, and he gets the sardonic, macho patter between men down cold. The finale is heartfelt and unexpected, and a final confrontation stuns with its violent and confessional precision.”
—Providence Journal Bulletin
The Shaman Laughs
“Harrowing…suspenseful.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“A mystery that combines the ancient and the modern, the sacred and the profane, with grace and suspense.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Shaman Sings
“Stunning.”
—Publishers Weekly (Starred Review; named Best Book of the Year)
“Doss mixes an equally potent brew of crime and Native American spirituality.”
—Booklist
“Magical and tantalizing.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Gripping…Doss successfully blends the cutting edge of modern physics with centuries-old mysticism.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“Doss plots like a pro…an encore would be welcome.”
—Kirkus Reviews
This book is dedicated to Lyman Mark—
Book Sleuth, Colorado Springs,
to fond memories of his mother,
Helen Randal
and to another departed friend—
Shirley Beard,
former owner of Murder by the Book in Denver.
God bless them, every one.
Contents
One: West-Central Colorado—The Columbine Ranch
Two: Southern UTE Reservation
Three: Granite Creek, Colorado
Four: The Gathering Storm
Five: The Public Servant
Six: Score One for the Clairvoyant
Seven: Southern UTE Reservation
Eight: The Courtship
Nine: The Honeymoon
Ten: Two Sisters
Eleven: A Few Days After the Honeymoon
Twelve: His Hobby
Thirteen: Southern UTE Reservation
Fourteen: Daisy’s Remarkable Breakfast Adventure
Fifteen: North to the Columbine
Sixteen: After Food, Entertainment
Seventeen: Daisy’s Best Day Ever
Eighteen: At the Sugar Bowl Restaurant
Nineteen: The Crasher
Twenty: Columbine Ranch Headquarters
Twenty-One: The Big Event
Twenty-Two: Prelude to the Performance
Twenty-Three: At Cassandra’s Dining Table with Sister Bea
Twenty-Four: On the Tube
Twenty-Five: How a Star Collapses into a Black Hole
Twenty-Six: Up the Slippery Slope
Twenty-Seven: The Call
Twenty-Eight: Where Did It Go
Twenty-Nine: The Silver Lining
Thirty: Fine Dining at Lulabelle’s Dixie Restaurant
Thirty-One: The Sickness
Thirty-Two: Saturday Morning
Thirty-Three: Things Get Dicey
Thirty-Four: Use Your Imagination
Thirty-Five: Where is a Cop When You Really Need Him?
Thirty-Six: Keeping Secrets
Thirty-Seven: Dealing with Aunt Daisy
Thirty-Eight: Driving the Lady Home
Thirty-Nine: Suspicion
Forty: A Cop’s Epiphany
Forty-One: End Game
Forty-Two: Nine Days Later
Forty-Three: Sniffing Around
Forty-Four: Close Encounter of the Worst Kind
Forty-Five: Into Darkness
Forty-Six: That Evening at the Columbine
Forty-Seven: Granite Creek, Colorado
Forty-Eight: What the Lady Needs is a Suitable Place to Meditate
Forty-Nine: The Dreamtime
Fifty: A Fine Morning at the Columbine
Fifty-One: A Family Outing
Fifty-Two: Close Combat
Fifty-Three: Aftermath
Fifty-Four: The Widow
Fifty-Five: Agendas (His and Hers)
Epilogue
Preview
Acknowledgments
One
West-Central Colorado—The Columbine Ranch
In this grassy, glacier-sculpted valley sheltered by the shining mountains, one man celebrates Thanksgiving every day of the year. Around about midnight, when he pulls the covers up to his chin, Charlie Moon is reminded of the multitude of blessings that enrich his life. Mulling over a few favorites helps him smile his way to sleep. Consider this evening’s excellent selection.
Crisp, high-country air that fairly crackles with energy.
Soaring granite peaks that drip with dawn’s golden honey, blush rose and crimson at twilight.
Hardly a stone’s throw from his bedroom window, the rushing, murmuring, sing-me-to-sleep river—rolling along on its journey to the salty sea.
Ah—the lullaby has accomplished its soporific task.
He’ll sleep like a log all night, wake up with a lumberjack’s appetite, jump on whatever job needs doing, and get it done right now. Before the sun sets on another day, he will shoe a fractious quarter horse, arc-weld a fractured windmill axle, install a new starting motor on a John Deere tractor. In addition to these workaday skills, the resourceful man has a few other talents that come in handy from time to time. Not entirely clear? Okay, let’s put it this way: On those occasions when business gets deadly serious, Mr. Moon knows how to tend to it—and he does. By doing whatever is necessary.
You’d expect
a man like this to have plenty of friends, and you’d be right. There’s no shortage of “Howdy Charlie!” backslappers and fair-weather sweet-talkers. But really good friends? You never know for sure till you hit bottom, but Moon reckons he can count the ones he can count on—on the fingers of one hand. His best buddy, Scott Parris (the thumb!), is right up there at Number One. Numbers Two and Three—on account of something bad that happened here last year—are an enigmatic hound dog and a man-killing horse.
As far as close family goes, they’re all gone. Well, except Aunt Daisy—his “favorite living relative.”
All things considered (even Daisy), Charlie Moon is an uncommonly fortunate man.
So, is he completely satisfied in his little slice of paradise? Afraid not. Close to his heart, there is an empty spot. What the lonely man hankers for is a special someone. Sad to say, the ardent angler’s attempts at courting the ladies mirrors his experience at pursuing the wily trout. One way or another, the best one, the keeper—the catch of the day—she always gets away. But Moon has neither the time nor the inclination to dwell upon unhappy thoughts. So he doesn’t. Flat-out refuses to.
Morning
Awakened by a pale silver glow in his window, Charlie Moon rolls out of bed, soaps up under a hot shower, slips into a lined canvas shirt, pulls on heavy over-the-calf woolen socks, faded jeans, comfortable old cowboy boots—and stomps down the stairs to get some meat frying in the iron skillet, a batch of fresh-ground coffee perking in the pot. Doesn’t that smell good? And listen to the radio—the announcer on the Farm and Ranch Show is predicting an upturn in beef prices. Encouraged by the hope of turning a good profit, the stockman fortifies himself with a thick slab of sugar-cured ham, three eggs scrambled in genuine butter, a half-dozen hot-from-the-oven biscuits and two mugs of sweet black coffee. Good news, stick-to-your-ribs grub, and a double shot of caffeine—his day is off to a dandy start.
Moon steps out onto the east porch to greet the rising sun. The Indian gives each dawn a name. He stands in awed silence. Calls this one Glorious.
Slipping across the river, a breeze approaches to whisper a tale of snow in his ear. Not a surprise, especially during a deceptive late-winter thaw that is luring vast pastures of wildflowers into early bloom. Here in the highlands between the Misery and Buckhorn Ranges, snow is never far away. Even on the Fourth of July there’s generally a dab of frosting left on the top of Sugarloaf Mountain, and foreman Pete Bushman likes to tell about a mid-June blizzard in ’82 that buried his pickup right up to the windshield. While considering the chilling rumor, Moon hears a startled cloud mumble about something that’s amiss. He blinks at the sun. What is this—the amber orb is caught fast on the jagged teeth of Wolf-Jaw Peak! Not to worry; it is a stellar jest. From a distance of one astronomical unit (93 million miles), the heavenly body smiles warmly upon the mortal’s face.
Moon returns the smile. Thank you, God—for everything.
From somewhere up yonder booms a thunderously joyful response.
He hears this as a hearty “You’re welcome, Charlie.”
No, he is not superstitious. Far from it. Charlie Moon is a practical, down-to-earth, well-educated man who understands that the thunder was produced by those white-hot lightning legs tap-dancing across the Buckhorn Ballroom. Even so, over the years he has become aware of a deeper Reality, of which this flint-hard world is but a fleeting shadow—an infinitely magnificent thought in the mind of the I Am.
But talking thunder?
Certainly. The Ute has come to expect such courtesies from the Father.
Two of the women in Charlie Moon’s Life
Some miles to the south of the Columbine—on the Southern Ute reservation—the wind also huffs and puffs, but the breath exhaled from the mouth of Cañón del Espíritu is not so chilly, which is a good thing, because Daisy Perika (who has buried three husbands) is older than most of the towering, pink-barked ponderosas atop Three Sisters Mesa. In addition to those ailments common to the geriatric set, the damp cold makes every joint in her body ache. Plus her toenails. An exaggeration? Perhaps. But this is what the lady claims and so it must be reported.
Sarah Frank (who has a crush on Charlie Moon) cannot imagine Aunt Daisy as anything but what she sees—an ever-shrinking, bent-backed, black-eyed, wrinkled old husk of a woman with a tongue sharp as a sliver of obsidian. But what does this mere slip of a girl know? Not so many winters ago, Daisy was a cheerful, slender, pretty lass who danced to thrumming guitars, sang wistful love songs, and rode her black pony bareback, thrilling to the tug of the wind in her long, dark locks. Now she spends most of her time indoors, crouched close to the warm hearth, where during the entire circle of a year a piñon fire crackles and pops. And there, just on the other side of the Ute shaman’s window pane, the harsh wilderness remains—ready to freeze the flesh, bleach the bone. There is much more to tell about this cantankerous old soul, involving cunning, conniving, self-serving schemes that cause no end of trouble for her amiable nephew, the brewing of overpriced, often dangerous potions from flora gathered near her home, plus an unwholesome liaison with the pitukupf, that dwarf spirit who (allegedly) lives in an abandoned badger hole in Cañón del Espíritu. If all this were not enough, there is also the tribal elder’s alarming tendency to—No. For the moment, enough said. When Daisy is “of a mind to,” she will make herself heard. Count on it.
The Three Sisters
Towering up from the eternal twilight of Cañón del Espíritu to dominate the austere skyline above Daisy Perika’s remote home is a miles-long mesa whose summit (unlike those tabletop structures depicted in glossy picture postcards) is not flat. It is, due to a peculiar geologic history, quite the opposite of that. Residing on its crest is a trio of humpity bumps, the smallest dwarfing the largest man-made structure in La Plata County and Archuleta Co. to boot. According to a tale told by older Utes, the origin of these sandstone formations is rooted in violence. Once upon a time, only a few hundreds of years ago, there was a thriving Anasazi community in the vicinity. This is a fact, verifiable by remnants of venerable cliff-clinging ruins and thousands of distinctive black-on-white potsherds scattered along the canyon floor. It is also true that Old Ones’ village was destroyed by a marauding band of thieves and murderers, but these were not necessarily Apaches—that is a lurid tale cooked up by the Utes. The Apaches assert that the crime was committed by a roving gang of Navajo, who in turn blame a rowdy band of West Texas Comanche, who point accusing fingers at the haughty Arapahos, who attribute the atrocity to those shifty-eyed Shoshone, who claim the thing was done by the Utes, and so the venomous slander-snake swallows its tail. The truth is—none of these tribes was involved.
But back to those bumps on the mesa. Not surprisingly, the few facts have become thoroughly mixed with myth, and Daisy Perika will tell you that the only members of the Anasazi village who escaped (if escape is an appropriate term) were a trio of young sisters who climbed a precipitous path to the top of the mesa, which in those olden days was smooth and level enough to shoot pool on. The terrified women hoped to hide among the piñon and scrub-oak thickets until the brutal foreigners had departed, but before reaching the summit they were detected by a keen-eyed warrior who alerted his comrades. While the bloodthirsty enemy with filed-to-a-point teeth and hideously tattooed faces ascended the mesa with exultant whoops and terrifying war cries, the sisters prayed to Man-in-the-Sky to protect them. He did. They were (so Daisy’s story goes) instantly turned into stone by the merciful deity. Hence, we have Three Sisters Mesa.
It is hoped that this technical information on instantaneous petrification is appreciated—in spite of the fact that Three Sisters Mesa has nothing whatever to do with those particular Three Sisters with whom the following account is concerned. This being the case, let us leave the ancient stone women atop their mesa.
We now return to the twenty-first century, where we shall (in due course) encounter the relevant trio of female siblings—Astrid, Beatrice, and Cassandra Spencer.
&nb
sp; But first we must pay a call on Daisy Perika.
Two
Southern UTE Reservation
What Cassandra Saw
Hunched like an old toad in her rocking chair, eyes half shut, hands folded in her lap, knees toasting before the stone fireplace, Daisy Perika appears to be asleep. Or dead. She is neither.
Since supper, the Ute tribal elder had hardly stirred, and was very close to dozing—when she heard the patter of feet.
These particular feet belonged to Sarah Frank, the fifteen-year-old Ute-Papago orphan who had lived with Daisy for almost a year, and loved Charlie Moon for as long as she could remember. Having completed her algebra and American-history homework assignments, Sarah switched on Daisy’s television, inserted a blank disc into the DVD’s thin mouth, and set the controls to begin recording at one minute before the hour. The devoted viewer had every single episode of Cassandra Sees in her collection.
Daisy did not spend many of her precious remaining hours purchasing what the medium had to offer. On a lonely weekday morning, while the girl was away at school in Ignacio, the Ute elder might watch a talk show for a few minutes before falling asleep, and on a Friday night she would tell Sarah it was “all right if you want to turn on that Country Music Jamboree you like so much and watch them silly hillbillies.” Though she would pretend to have no particular interest in the energetic matukach entertainment, Daisy waited all week for the high-stepping, foot-stomping clog dancers, thunder-chested yodelers, nimble-fingered guitar pickers, and whoopin’-it-up hoedown fiddlers whose sounds and images traveled (at the speed of light!) all the way from gritty, spit-on-the-sawdusted-floor Texas honky-tonks, pine-studded Arkansas ridges, and mist-shrouded Kentucky hollers—into her cozy parlor. Their merry exuberance would curl Daisy’s mouth into a little possum grin and set the old woman’s shoe toe to tappity-tapping on the floor. But no matter how good the beginning and the middle were, the end was the best part. After all the crooning about Momma, railroad trains, prison, adultery, fornication, drunkenness, theft, lies, slander, and murder were finished, the closing was invariably an old-time gospel song. Hidden deep in the heart of every sinner is a yearning for God. Last week, when an ancient, snowy-capped black man had called upon those angels to Swing Low in that Sweet Chariot, tears had dripped from the old woman’s eyes. Daisy was ready to hitch a ride and go arolling up yonder—last stop, that unspeakably lovely mansion her Lord was preparing in His Father’s House. Home at last! It could not come too soon.
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