Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  Nineteen

  The Crasher

  After taking a Dainty Nibble of aged Cheddar, a sip of wine, Cassandra Spencer was about to swallow. She choked, then: “Oh—oh—Nicky!”

  About to punch a number into his cell phone, Nicholas Moxon blinked at the unpredictable woman. “What is it, Cassie?”

  “Oh—” The psychic pointed at something behind him. “It must be the aura of these antique cameos, but I’m seeing an apparition—really and truly!”

  Oh boy, here we go again. Not endowed with the psychic’s gift, he did not bother to turn his head. “Who is it this time—John Lennon? General Stonewall Jackson?”

  “No!” Cassandra was almost breathless. “I see an ancient old woman.” From Nicky’s perspective, one of her more annoying faults was the use of redundant adjectives. “She’s all pruney-wrinkled—and hideous!”

  “You ain’t exactly no Marilyn Monroe yourself, toots.” Daisy Perika said this with a sniff. “And I ain’t no apparition.”

  The psychic’s mouth drooped. “You’re not dead?”

  “I don’t think so.” Ignoring the only totally bald man she had ever seen, who had now turned to stare at her, Daisy stumped her way over to their table, plopped into a chair. “But at my age, I check my pulse every few minutes—just to make sure.”

  Mr. Nicholas Moxon had not lost his composure since that day in the sixth grade when he broke “Pigeon” Nelson’s jaw on account of how Pigeon had deliberately spit on Nicky’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The psychic’s business manager spoke softly to the peculiar, elderly person, whom he assumed was one of that endless population of gushing fans, borderline psychos, and certifiable lunatics who were constantly attempting to get some face time with his famous client. “Excuse me, ma’am—but this happens to be a private dining room. And it’s reserved for me and my lady friend.” He indicated the door with a jerk of his chin. “So why don’t you toddle off and go bother somebody in the public dining—”

  “Hush your mouth,” Daisy barked, and banged her fist on the table. “I’m here to talk to this girl who talks to dead people—not you, Daddy Warbucks!”

  Seeing her agent’s eyes get that cold, smoldery look, Cassandra shook her head at Moxon. Let me handle this.

  He responded with a shrug. Okay. Granny Big-Mouth is all yours. He took a gulp of wine.

  Daisy leaned closer to the TV personality. “That’s a pretty cameo pin, and your black dress really sets it off.”

  “Thank you.” The lady nodded to indicate her male companion. “The brooch is a gift from Nicky.” She touched an earlobe. “And the matching earrings.”

  “They’re pretty too.” Daisy was always ready to offer helpful advice. “But they’re too small for ears as big as yours.”

  On his second gulp, Moxon choked on the expensive vintage.

  Her face paling to the chalky white of an old plaster wall, Cassandra said, “It appears that you have the advantage over me.”

  The Ute elder frowned. Why can’t these white people talk in plain American, like us Indians.

  Cassandra explained, “You seem to know who I am.” She raised a haughty chin, looked down the slender nose. “The question is—who are you?”

  She must think everybody over eighty is stupid. “Oh, I know who I am too.”

  “Then perhaps you will share that information with us.”

  Why do these matukach always use a dozen words when two or three would get the job done? “I’m Daisy Perika.”

  The psychic pursed her pretty lips. “That name sounds vaguely familiar.”

  With a disarmingly earnest expression, Daisy nodded. “I know what you mean—every time I hear it, I think the same thing.”

  Nicholas Moxon threw back his shiny head, his laughter boomed off the rafters.

  Daisy joined in.

  Cassandra did not.

  When the hilarity had subsided, Daisy addressed the sullen white woman: “I was sorry to hear about how your poor sister got chewed up by a bear.”

  The psychic had not seen that one coming. “My sister’s tragic death is not a subject that I care to discuss—”

  “I remember another time that little Astrid almost died,” Daisy said. “And I was there when it happened.”

  Again, Cassandra was caught short. “Really?”

  The Ute elder nodded. “It was about thirty years ago, at that art fair in Durango.” Daisy watched the white woman’s eyes.

  The surviving sister’s face had quick-frozen.

  Moxon was watching both women.

  Daisy continued. “You little sister passed out. Stopped breathing.”

  Cassandra stared past the Indian woman, as if she could see it all again. So plainly. “Yes. A nurse gave Astrid mouth-to-mouth.”

  Daisy recalled this detail. The aged woman’s gaze penetrated deep inside the dark-haired woman, where all of Cassie’s little-girl fears still lived. “Except for that, I expect your sister would’ve died there and then.”

  Determined to regain control of the rapidly deteriorating situation, Cassandra glared at the intruder. “Tell me—did you interrupt our private lunch to dredge up unhappy family memories? And if not, for what purpose are you here?”

  This rapid-fire assault rattled the old woman. What did I come in here for? A more sensitive soul would have been embarrassed by the failure of short-term memory. But, shrugging off the minor defect, the crafty old innovator invented a plausible reason for her presence: “I’m here to make you a business proposition.” But when she says “Then let’s hear it?” what’ll I say then? Daisy lived in the moment.

  Moxon addressed the peculiar visitor: “Then you want to talk to me.”

  She gave him the look reserved for sassy young smart alecks and week-old roadkill. “Why would I want to do a thing like that?”

  “Because I am Cassandra’s business manager.” The ruggedly ugly face assumed a mock-serious expression. “She doesn’t make a move without my okay.”

  “Okay, if that’s how it works.” Daisy tapped the table with a bony knuckle until the inspiration came. “I’ve been watching her TV show ever since it came on the air. And it’s not all that bad. But the way I see it, the thing could use some improvement.”

  If she had tapped the psychic’s face with that knuckle, the brittle mask might have fractured.

  “Expert advice is always welcome.” Moxon produced a leather-bound notebook from somewhere inside his jacket, pulled a platinum ballpoint from his shirt pocket, poised pen over paper. “Shoot.” Cassie looks like she’s about to explode. This was great fun.

  Not accustomed to being taken so seriously, Daisy was all puffed up. “All this stuff about talking to spirits and ghosts—most of it’s kind of…well—silly.”

  Cassandra’s painted mouth gaped in the fashion of…Imagine a beached carp with scarlet lips. Not a pretty picture.

  Moxon maintained a perfectly solemn demeanor. “You’re a woman who says what’s on her mind. I like that.”

  Daisy was beginning to like this hairless white man. She pointed a gnarled finger at the TV psychic. “What this lady needs is professional help.”

  Cassandra’s business manager was biting his lower lip, which made it difficult to reply. But, being a resourceful fellow, he did. “Do you have a—er—particular medical professional in mind?”

  As the psychic imagined herself beaning said business manager with the proverbial heavy, blunt object, Daisy frowned and shook her head. “You mean like a doctor? No—what she needs is a professional consultant.”

  Moxon and his client stared. Taken aback is what they were. And perplexed.

  The tribal elder was on a roll. “Miss Spencer needs help from somebody who knows everything there is to know about talking to dead people—a person who could tell her what’s what and what’s not and how to tell the difference.”

  The bald man nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “And you are applying for the job.”

  The Ute shaman grinned. “You’re a little
slow on the uptake, Daddy Warbucks—but give you enough time, you manage to figure things out.”

  Moxon reddened.

  Cassandra shot him a now-you-see-how-it-feels smile.

  Still addressing the male, Daisy aimed a thumb at the TV psychic. “She could drop by and see me from time to time—or call me on the phone.” The old woman’s face turned as hard as stone. “But I don’t work for nothing.”

  Cassandra’s business manager didn’t blink. “What’s your usual hourly rate?”

  The Ute elder’s answer was instantaneous: “Fifteen dollars.”

  The hairless one nodded. “A very reasonable price.”

  Daisy wanted to slap herself across the face. I should have said twenty!

  Moxon exchanged glances with his client, then smiled benignly at the self-styled consultant. “Tell you what. Give me and Cassie some time to talk about it. We’ll call you.”

  “Suits me.” Well, I talked my way out of that one pretty good. Daisy was about to withdraw, when—right out of nowhere—she remembered why she had crashed this party. She spoke to the television personality: “Oh—I’d almost forgot. There’s a young woman out there in the restaurant who’d like to have a word with you.”

  Cassandra cringed. They follow me wherever I go. Why can’t they leave me in peace—at least when I go out for lunch? She shot Nicholas Moxon a look. You handle this, Nicky. Earn your 30 percent plus expenses.

  Perhaps her business manager’s receiver was out of tune. Whatever the case, he did not receive the psychic’s message. All these spooky groupies ought to be good for something. His rubbery brow furrowed in not-so-deep thought. Maybe I should get them talking to each other—start a fan club for Cassie.

  With no help forthcoming from the business-managing half of the team, Cassandra had to deal with the issue herself. “You say this person wants to speak to me—what about?”

  Daisy shrugged. “She didn’t say.”

  Cassandra regarded the wrinkled ancient. “Is she a friend of yours?”

  “No, Blondie’s nobody I know.”

  “Blondie?” Egad. Feeling the need for liquid refreshment, Cassandra lifted her wineglass.

  “Blondie isn’t her real name. It’s April.”

  The long-stemmed glass slipped from Cassandra’s fingers, was pulled by a warp in the space-time continuum into a crashing encounter with the tiled floor, where it shattered instantaneously into a thousand shards. More, if you count the teeny-tiny ones. Unlike the fractured glass ejected from Astrid’s broken picture frame, these fragments did not stick to Cassandra’s dress. But along with the spilled wine, they made a quite a mess. She uttered a single word: “What?”

  Daisy frowned. “What do you mean ‘what?’”

  Ignoring the odd look she was getting from her business manager, Cassandra pressed her fingers against her temples, closed her eyes. “What did you say her name was?”

  “April.”

  “April what?” The psychic held her breath.

  The old woman studied about it.

  Moxon: What the hell is going on here?

  Still holding the breath, the oxygen-depleted psychic unconsciously leaned toward the enigmatic Indian woman. Please please please. Let it be her.

  Daisy was straining to recollect. It was a kinda funny last name, even for a matukach. Some kind of holiday. She quickly eliminated Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July, Labor Day, and Chief Ouray’s birthday. Did she say she was April Halloween? No, that’s not right. And it wasn’t a big holy day like Christmas or Easter. But wait a minute. It was somewhere between Christmas and Easter. And had something to do with a saint. Aha! “Now I remember.” She grinned at the white woman. “It was Valentine. April Valentine!”

  Cassandra’s lips had turned blue under her scarlet lipstick; she exhaled. “Oooh!” I knew it—April has found a sensitive—someone she’s able to communicate with. And the clever spirit has sent her contact to me!

  Caught in a rut, Nicholas Moxon spun on the retread phrase: What the hell is going on here? It is commonly believed that Men of Business are not capable of creative thought. Bosh! Which is to say—do not be fooled; Mr. Moxon was, in his devious way, quite an inspired thinker.

  Daisy also wondered what was going on. “D’you know this April?”

  Having regained a measure of composure, the TV personality said quite truthfully, “I have heard of the young lady. But we have not actually met.”

  “Well, if you’d like to, she’s waiting right outside the door. I can go get her for you.”

  Feeling the weight of her business manager’s gaze, Cassandra hesitated for only a moment. “Yes. Please do.” This should be interesting.

  Daisy got up from the chair, hobbled off to the door, opened it, poked her head into the hallway, turned her face this way and that. Well, isn’t that just like these young people nowadays. Ask you to do something for them, then wander off. The silly wart-head! She turned, spoke to the psychic, whose alabaster skin shone exceedingly pale in the glow of fluorescent light. “She’s gone.” Daisy eyed the clock on the wall. “And so’m I.”

  Cassandra popped up from her chair. “Wait—how can I get in touch with you?”

  Having forgotten about her “business proposition,” the Ute elder regarded the TV psychic with wide eyes. “What for?”

  Nicholas Moxon reminded her: “We might wish to discuss a consultant contract.”

  Daisy came very near blushing. “Oh, right.”

  Cassandra looked hopefully at the Ute woman. “Do you have a telephone?”

  “Sure I do.” Daisy chuckled. “And electricity and a well with an electric pump and a flush toilet and a septic tank with a leach field. When Charlie Moon built my new house, he put all those things in for me.”

  Cassandra’s thinly penciled brows arched like black inchworms. “You are acquainted with Charlie Moon?”

  “I’m his aunt.” Daisy added, “His favorite aunt.” All the others are dead.

  The psychic was beginning to get a glimmer. Of course. This is that old Ute woman I’ve heard so much about. The one who brews all kinds of herbal medicines—and talks to spirits.

  Nicholas Moxon was tiring of this dillydallying. “Daisy—may I have your telephone number?”

  “Sure.” The shaman recited the familiar digits. “And I’ll give you Charlie Moon’s number too.” She did. “And while you’re writing that down in your little book, I’ll put some of these salty little crackers in my pocket and then I’ll go out to the curb and meet Gorman Sweetwater, who’s supposed to come pick me up in his shiny pickup truck.”

  Daisy did (pocketed crackers) and Moxon did (wrote down the phone numbers) and she did (went to the curb) and Gorman was there in his pickup, smelling sourly of beer—but right on time! Isn’t it gratifying when things work out precisely as planned?

  After the Indian woman had departed, and the assigned Sugar Bowl waitress had swept up the glass shards and replaced and refilled Cassandra’s shattered wineglass and taken her leave, the burly, big-shouldered man asked the question that had been burning a hole in his brain: “Okay, Cassie—spill it. Who’s this April Valentine?”

  “The daughter of a middle-aged woman that I met at the airport.” His client sniffed the alcoholic fumes, took a dainty sip of the volatile liquid. “But as I said, I have never met her.”

  “So what makes this young lady so interesting?”

  “For one thing, she is dead.”

  “Oh.” Should’ve seen that one coming.

  “For another, she was—according to her mother—murdered in a most horrible manner by her fiendish husband.” There was more, of course. Much more. But she did not share everything with Daddy Warbucks.

  “Let me guess the rest.” Moxon was just a tad smug. “April V’s distraught momma wants you to talk to her dead daughter, find out how the husband did the dirty deed, and if the ghost can give you some hard proof—pin the rap on the lowlife wife killer.”

  “Yes. More or less.” A listl
ess sigh. “But, despite my best efforts, I have not been successful in making contact with April.”

  Moxon nodded his shiny head. “But now you figure this ghost’s talking to the old Indian woman, and you might be able find out what you need to know from Daisy.” Which could boost the ratings another two points. Maybe three.

  “Nicky, your insight is absolutely awe-inspiring.” Cassandra Spencer flashed her man-killer smile.

  The return grin was toothily sharkish. “Hey—tell me about it!” Nicholas Moxon cocked his head. “Now, let me tell you what to do.” He did.

  His client agreed.

  The business partners raised wineglasses, touched rims.

  The musical clink would reverberate down through the years.

  Twenty

  Columbine Ranch Headquarters

  At half past nine in the A.M., life was much the same for Daisy Perika as if she had been in her own home on the Southern Ute reservation.

  For starters, Charlie Moon had already left the big log house to do whatever cowboys do. Punch some cows, the Ute elder assumed.

  Sarah Frank was in the kitchen, putting away the washed and dried breakfast dishes.

  Mr. Zig-Zag was asleep on the parlor floor by the fireside rocking chair that Daisy assumed squatter’s rights to whenever she visited her nephew.

  The tribal elder was sitting in “her” rocker, eyeing the spotted cat, reviewing her plan of assault. As has been revealed, this woman named for a flower harbored an overpowering desire to step on Mr. Zig-Zag’s tail. We also know that by some finely tuned, prescient feline instinct, the intended victim always managed to locate his nap spot just out of reach of the enemy’s foot. But Daisy was both clever and crafty—more than a match for any scruffy hair bag with mouse smell on his breath. Tactics, that was the thing. What she needed was extended range. This morning, she had a long-handled flyswatter in her lap.

  Hearing the occasional clank of pots and dishes in the kitchen, our plotter was confident that she could get the job done before Sarah returned to catch her in the very act of cat whacking. The time had come. Zero hour.