Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  The DA grunted, scratched himself in a spot where he could not when the women were present. “I can’t very well prosecute a bear for killing somebody.” He turned his head toward the chief of police and whispered, “But we can sure as hell shoot the fuzzy bastard.”

  Scott Parris didn’t know whether to roll his eyes or grin. He exercised both options.

  The Dogs

  Late that evening, as Beatrice and Cassandra were having a telephone chat, the former sister mentioned something odd that, she said, had occurred around dusk. “I was outside, working in the garden when Ike and Spike seemed to sense something up on the mountain.”

  The spookily gifted sister was intrigued. “Sensed—what do you mean?”

  “It was odd. They didn’t bark—they growled, and skulked around. Then, Ike stalked off into the forest and Spike tagged along. That was hours ago. They have not returned.”

  “Peculiar,” Cassandra murmured.

  “Yes.” Beatrice nodded at her distant sister. “Very peculiar, indeed.”

  Following a silence pregnant with forebodings, Cassandra murmured, “I see…dark vibrations.”

  A wry smile curled the sensible sister’s lips. I thought you might.

  The psychic: “I have a bad feeling about this.” Heavy sigh. “I don’t think Ike and Spike will be coming home.”

  Bea’s eyes were hard. Cold. Two blue Saturnian ice moons.

  Six

  Score One for the Clairvoyant

  As so often happened, Cassandra’s psychic dart had hit the bull’s-eye.

  The German shepherds did not return home. Nor would they ever. Never again would the energetic canines romp exuberantly on the lawn, chase a Frisbee thrown by Beatrice, or—for that matter—pursue an unseen creature into the forest on Spencer Mountain. Though she had been fond of her pets, Bea accepted the loss as one of those unfortunate events that are bound to happen from time to time, and comforted herself with the observation that having dogs around the house was not all wine and roses. Animals could be such a bother. No sentimentalists, these Spencer women. Like Daddy, they were made of tough stuff. But was it the right stuff?

  A few days after the meeting in the DA’s office, the sisters marched into the Sugar Bowl Restaurant, nodded curtly at a middle-aged waitress whose feet ached from too many years on concrete floors; knotty varicose veins traced circuitous backcountry road maps on her parchment-pale legs. In hope of a generous tip, Mandy smiled through the pain and led the wealthy women to a booth that was partially concealed behind a walnut-paneled partition.

  They waved away the proffered menus.

  “Sun tea,” said Beatrice with a flippant cheerfulness. “Lightly iced, with a slice of lemon.”

  Cassandra ordered a carafe of New Mexico Piñon coffee. “Freshly ground beans, if you please.”

  The weary waitress yes-ma’amed her customers, turned her back, allowed the smile to fall away.

  Beatrice and Cassandra exchanged a few bright comments about the new spring outfits at Felicia’s Fashions on Main Street. When Mandy had delivered the beverages and departed, Beatrice looked past her sister. “Well, guess who has surfaced.”

  Behind her, Cassandra heard footsteps on the tile floor. “Is it him?”

  The older sister smiled. “Good morning, Andy.”

  Andrew Turner approached the booth, gazed at the attractive women. “Morning, Bea. Cassie.” The melancholy expression added just the right touch of gravitas to his boyish features. “I came in for some coffee.”

  “You may share mine.” Cassandra patted the seat beside her hip. “Please sit with us.”

  “Well…I wouldn’t want to disturb you.” Uncertainty clouded his brow. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.” Beatrice was tempted to wink at her sister, who’d had a crush on Turner since he’d hit town two years ago and bought the ailing Granite Creek Electronics and Computers.

  “Very well, then.” Turner slid into the booth. Beside Beatrice.

  Cassandra’s mouth went thin. Hard.

  Oblivious to the tension, Turner released a mere spark of the dynamite smile—that dazzling flash of charm that had disarmed so many of their tender gender. “How are you two getting along? Under the grim circumstances, I mean.”

  Beatrice put on a brave face. “We are managing.” She arched an elegant eyebrow. “And yourself?”

  “The days are barely tolerable.” A manly set of the jaw, a shrug. “It’s at night when I…” His voice cracked, choked to a stop.

  Bea reached around his shoulders, gave him a hug. Also a little peck on the cheek.

  The best Cassandra could do was reach across the table and pat his hand. Hardly an effective follow-up to a kiss, the affectionate gesture went unnoticed. The dark-haired beauty felt cheated by her sister. If only the psychic could have foreseen the treachery that was just around the corner….

  Having lost interest in coffee, Turner waved away the approaching waitress, said to the sisters, “There’s something I must talk to you ladies about.”

  The sisters waited.

  He tap-tapped a finger on the table as if transmitting Morse code, decided on a preamble: “As you can well imagine, this has been a terribly traumatic time for me. I find it difficult to concentrate on practical matters, which nevertheless must be attended to.”

  The golden-haired sister took his hand in hers. This affectionate gesture was definitely noticed. Andrew returned Bea’s little squeeze.

  The star of Cassandra Sees displayed a brittle smile. Unseen, under the table, the psychic bent a spoon into the shape of a horseshoe. No. Not by that means. With her hand.

  Had her jealous sister vanished in a puff of sulfurous smoke, Beatrice might not have noticed. “It has been terrible for us all, Andy—but you and Astrid were practically newlyweds.” As they disengaged hands, she added quickly, “I do hope you’re not thinking of hiring a manager for your store and going away on some long trip. Cassie and I would miss you so.”

  Relieved at having his revelation made easier, Turner smiled across the table at Cassandra. “It would appear that you are not the only mind reader in the Spencer family.”

  The psychic blushed to her toes. Vainly attempted to straighten the unseen spoon.

  Evidently weary of telegraphy, he drummed all four fingers on the table. “I’m thinking about putting my business up for sale.” Granite Creek Electronics and Computers would bring a pretty price. “And travel is definitely in the picture.”

  There were quite audible gasps from the sisters.

  Beatrice frowned. “But where will you go—and how long will you be away?”

  “As to the first part, I’ve not quite made up my mind. But I’m thinking about France. Toulon, perhaps. And Nice. Then off to Italy. I’ve always wanted to visit Rome. And Naples. As to the ‘how long’…” The fingers kept on drumming. Like a spirited horse running. “I might not return at all.”

  Beatrice felt almost faint. “Oh, dear—you can’t really mean that!”

  “But I do. With Astrid gone, I don’t have any reason to remain in Granite Creek.” He concentrated his gaze on a heavy glass ashtray. “I’ll be putting the Yellow Pines Ranch up for sale. I thought I ought to tell you ladies immediately—offer you right of first refusal.”

  The sisters were struck dumb.

  Sensing that this was turning into an awkward situation, Turner promised he would telephone them within a day or two, said a hurried goodbye, got up, and strode away.

  “Well,” Cassandra said. And again: “Well.”

  “Indeed,” her sister murmured. And after taking thought, she added, “Poor, dear Andrew—he believes he is going to inherit Yellow Pines.”

  Cassandra nodded. “Evidently, Astrid neglected to tell him about Daddy’s will. Andrew doesn’t realize that in the event of any of our deaths, our share of the Spencer real estate passes on to the surviving sisters.”

  “Cassie, I hate to sound catty—especially under the circumstances. But I would not h
ave put it past Astrid to have purposely led Andy to believe that he was marrying into her lion’s share of the Spencer land holdings.” Beatrice added, somewhat acidly, “A woman who has her heart set on a man will stop at nothing.” She bared her teeth, suggesting a shark about to attack. “And I do not exclude myself. Or you.”

  Cassandra pretended to be shocked. “Bea, you are really terrible.”

  The terrible sister took no offense. “Do you know what Andy is lacking?” This was one of those pesky rhetorical questions that Cassie detested. Beatrice clarified: “The poor baby needs a wife.”

  Unable to think of a word to say, Cassandra kept her mouth shut.

  Neither sister was aware of the fact that their waitress was just on the other side of the panel, wiping a damp cloth on the immaculately clean salad bar. And being a sponge for gossip, Mandy was soaking up every word.

  Beatrice continued to provide the desired product: “Andy will be terribly shocked to discover that he is not going to inherit an acre of real estate.” She had an odd glint in her eye. The left one. “Which shall provide us with an unprecedented opportunity.”

  Sensing that her sister was about to suggest something outrageous, possibly even dangerous, Cassandra’s asked, “What sort of opportunity?”

  Beatrice flashed a beatific smile at her sister. “To add a measure of happiness to our lonely lives.”

  “Oh.” I don’t get it.

  She doesn’t get it. “Cassie—one of us must marry Mr. Turner.”

  “Did you say marry him?”

  “I did.”

  “Oh.” Now she got it. But the solution to one problem often raises another thorny conundrum. Cassandra’s brow furrowed. “But whom will it be—me or you?”

  “I can think of only one solution.” The calculating sister removed two wooden toothpicks from a glass dispenser. She broke one in half, tossed the unwanted splinter into a potted palm, pinched the remnants between a pair of perfectly manicured digits, and tapped the sharp tips until they were precisely even. She offered her younger sister the choice.

  Cassandra stared at the pointy little objects. “What?”

  “Think of it as drawing straws.”

  Never one for games, the brunette was looking askance. “Straws?”

  “It is a simple process. She who draws the short straw loses.” Regretting the necessity for redundancy, Beatrice added, “And the sister holding the long straw wins.” When explaining such matters to Cassie, one must not presume too much. “But as there are no straws readily available, we shall use toothpicks. One whole one, one half.”

  Cassandra frowned at the little spikes of wood. “I don’t know.” The psychic sibling felt an odd chill ripple along her spine. “Resorting to a game of chance to see who vamps our poor dead sister’s husband…” She seemed about to cringe. “Under the circumstances, it all seems rather icky.”

  “Icky?”

  “Triple-icky.”

  “Dear Cassie—I did not realize you had such scruples.”

  “It’s not only icky. It’s crazy.” She raised the most serious objection: “And it could be embarrassing. I mean—what if he’s not interested?”

  “If you have what men want—and both of us do—they are always interested.”

  Cassandra’s face burned. “Oh, Bea, you are absolutely shameless!”

  Beatrice arched a brow. “My reference was to valuable real estate, with which—in light of Astrid’s untimely demise—we are both rather well endowed.” She effected a coquettish pose. “And as to physical attraction, I daresay neither of us resembles a mud fence.”

  Cassandra stared at her sister. You were always the prettiest.

  “But if you are suffering an attack of conscience, you may leave the snaring of Andy Turner entirely to me.” Beatrice, a natural actress, raised her chin in an impudent gesture. “I’ll show you how easy it is to trap yourself a man.”

  “Perhaps that is just what I should do. Leave him to you, I mean.” To demonstrate her contempt for Sister’s brazen plan, Cassandra tossed her raven mane. Came very close to snorting. But she could not tear her gaze from the toothpick ends that protruded between Bea’s finger and thumb.

  As she had during all their years of growing up together, Beatrice waited for the inevitable. She had not the least doubt that Cassie would reach out and select the toothpick that would seal her fate.

  Which she did.

  Beatrice threw back her head, laughed. Games are such great fun. Especially when you win.

  Mandy was distressed to be called away from her eavesdropping to attend to a famished couple at table 5 who desired to see a menu.

  Cassandra stared at the offending splinter. Bea was always the lucky one. Dammit—dammit—dammit! She dropped her puny little half toothpick into the ashtray, announced, “I’m glad that I got the short one.”

  “No you’re not.” The winner of the pot pointed a long-stemmed teaspoon at her forked-tongue sister. “And don’t let me catch you cheating on the deal. If I so much as see you batting those big eyelashes at Andy—why, there’s no telling what I might do.”

  Shortly after the Spencer sisters had departed, Mandy, wincing at a stinging shin-splint pain, came to clean the table. Just imagine them two rich young women, drawing toothpicks for who’ll marry that poor widow-man. Beatrice had left a five-dollar bill, which covered the coffee and tea…and twenty-five cents for me. Big whoopee. I’ll go see a movie and buy me a queen-size popcorn. With six squirts of hot butter.

  A sense of humor is a great blessing.

  Going about her monotonous duties, Mandy removed Cassie’s discarded half toothpick from the ashtray. Noticing a metallic gleam under the table, she squatted with a painful grunt, found a spoon bent into a U. Now why would anybody do a thing like that? As she was retrieving this piece of damaged flatware, the meticulous cleaner-upper noticed a second, smaller object on the floor—on Bea’s side of the booth. Another half toothpick. Curious. Suspicion that she was “on to something” led to an extended search. In the potted palm, our Sherlock discovered the whole toothpick. As she examined these artifacts of the game, the sordid truth became apparent: Bea was holding two broken pieces—so Cassie would be bound to draw a short one. Mandy smiled, shook her head. Well, don’t that just beat all, how rich folks will cheat each other—and blood sisters at that! The happy woman dropped the souvenirs into her apron pocket.

  Seven

  Southern UTE Reservation

  Daisy Perika had heard only a few tantalizing words on the tribal radio about the white woman up by Granite Creek who had been killed in her bedroom. Rumor had it that an animal was responsible—probably a bear. During the lunch she had prepared for herself and Charlie Moon (Sarah Frank was away at school), Daisy had kept on pressing her closemouthed relative who had been right on the spot. But, as was his habit, the tribal investigator was keeping whatever he knew to himself. She watched the tall man get up from his seat across the kitchen table and head for the propane range. Daisy spoke to the back of his head: “The announcer on KSUT said the bear must’ve smelled food in the house.”

  “He did, did he?” Moon picked up Daisy’s sooty coffeepot.

  “I can’t imagine a grown-up person doing a messy thing like that.”

  “Like what?” He began to pour a dark, viscous stream into his cup. That looks strong enough to grow hair on a doorknob.

  Daisy was watching Moon intently, to gauge his response: “Eating strawberries in bed.”

  “Ow!”

  Aha! Innocently, she asked, “What’d you do?”

  “Poured coffee on my thumb.”

  Big dummy. “Put it under the cold-water faucet.”

  He preferred to suffer. “It was on the radio about the strawberries?”

  “No.” It was so much fun to put one over on Charlie. “I heard that from Willow Bignight.” Willow’s husband, Danny, was a tribal cop; he picked up all sorts of juicy rumors at the Southern Ute police station. Daisy grinned at her nephew. “But it
’s true, ain’t it?”

  Moon scowled. Danny Bignight talks too much.

  Daisy cackled a crackly laugh. “You don’t have to tell me—I can see the truth all over your face.”

  “You see whatever you want to see.” He seated himself at the kitchen table, spooned six measures of highly refined, granulated cane sugar into the acidic beverage. Tasted it. Not all that bad.

  The old woman shuddered at the thought of being ripped apart by a ravenous beast. “I’ll have to remember to keep my windows closed at night.”

  “That’d be a smart thing to do.” A merry light twinkled in his eyes. “Especially if you’ve just baked a couple of pies and put ’em on the windowsill to cool.”

  “Well, I haven’t baked no pies and I don’t intend to, so you might as well stop dropping hints.” She reached for the sewing basket on the chair beside her, put it in her lap.

  Moon reached a long, lean arm across the table, selected an apple from a cedar bowl, polished it on his shirtsleeve.

  Daisy began sewing tiny blue and white and yellow glass beads onto a miniature, soft-as-morning-mist goatskin vest. The garment was a birthday present for Myra Cornstone’s year-old baby, who, if Charlie Moon had married that nice Ute girl, would have been his baby boy instead of a white man’s son, which annoyed the tribal elder no end. “That Spencer woman who was killed by the bear—was she any kin to old Joe Spencer?”

  “She was one of his three daughters.”

  “Ouch!” The old woman had poked the wickedly sharp needle past the rim of her brass thimble, where it plunged deep into her finger, right to the bone. She pulled the thimble off, sucked at a drop of blood, and glared at Charlie Moon as if he were responsible for her injury. “Oh, sure—Astrid. And Cassandra, she’s the one on TV. But who’s the third one?”