Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  “Yes, I know.” An amused smile. “You needn’t worry, Nicky. I promise not to faint on you.”

  He chuckled, but was greatly relieved.

  They held hands; light kisses on cheeks were exchanged.

  Moxon glanced down the hallway. “Is your poor sister—”

  “Bea’s upstairs in her studio.”

  The man who had been dubbed Daddy Warbucks by Daisy Perika raised the gristly subdermal tissue where an eyebrow would have been, had his dysfunctional hair follicles been able to raise a crop. “What’s she doing, slapping gobs of paint on a canvas?” Like Andrew Turner, Mr. Moxon did not appreciate Bea’s notion of art.

  “I have no idea. But I believe she wants to be alone.”

  Moxon tried not to grin. I guess a few hours with you goes a long way—even for your sister. “We need to talk.” He took his client by the arm, surveyed the huge parlor, which did not engender a satisfactory sense of privacy. “But not in here.”

  Without a word, Cassandra led her business manager across the plushly carpeted room, down a narrow, three-step stairway, through a white paneled door into a solarium that was aglow with filtered sunlight. The three outer walls were floor-to-ceiling double-pane glazing. To eyes that had accommodated to the parlor’s soft twilight, the effect on dilated pupils of incandescent sunlight reflecting off fresh snow was almost blinding. And despite the sense of being surrounded by an utterly arctic landscape, the twelve-by-twelve space was pleasantly warm.

  Cassandra spread her arms to receive the rays. “It is such a glorious day.” She added quickly, “Aside from Andrew’s tragic accident.”

  “Yes. Tragic.” Mr. Moxon was idly examining a potted plant. Using his thumbnail to sever the stem, he plucked an extremely rare African violet and held the purple blossom close to his eyes, which crossed slightly to focus on the dismembered bit of herbage. “At such a sad time, one hates to mention silver linings.”

  The final two words got her attention. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Moxon assumed that elegantly melancholy expression that is used to such good effect by experienced morticians. “Even though I don’t yet have the hard data, I am reliably informed that the numbers for last night’s show will go through the roof. Shingles will fly in all directions—tall brick chimneys will tumble.”

  “Oh.” Her face was admirably blank of any sign of pleasure. “Well, that’s all very well, I suppose.” She found a silk hankie, dabbed at an expertly mascaraed eye that was quite dry. “But with Bea’s husband dead, such worldly matters as program ratings seem so…so…unimportant.” She dabbed the other eye. “Even if such a development would virtually guarantee an offer from one of the networks.”

  “Yes.” He studied the doomed violet as if it were the most fascinating object he had ever beheld. “Even so.”

  The TV psychic was trying so hard not to smile. Or, for that matter, not to yell “Wahoo!” and tappity-tap-tap out a lively little jig on the tile floor. “But, Nicky dear, since you have already raised the sordid issue, you might as well tell me. Just for the sake of conversation. How high do you expect the ratings might go?”

  He gave her an estimate.

  “Oh!” Cassandra’s hands went cold, the four-chambered pump thumpity-thumped inside her ribcage. “That much!”

  The business manager nodded. “And it’s all your doing, Cassie.”

  She shook her head. “We’re a team, Nicky.”

  “Oh, I try to do my part. And I’ve managed to be helpful from time to time.” Pitching the bruised flower aside, the brutish man reached out to take her hand. “But last evening, you really outdid yourself—announcing Andrew Turner’s death within minutes of the auto accident.”

  “As you are well aware, I can hardly take all the credit.” Cassandra fluttered the famous eyelashes, flashed the dazzling smile. “After all, it’s my spirit channel who provides the critical information.”

  Moxon chuckled. “Which one was it this time—the Cretan galley slave, the Egyptian physician—or the Cherokee basket maker?”

  Her smile faded. “Please don’t tease me, Nicky.”

  “Tease you?” The bald-as-a-billiard-ball man cocked the shiny head, made furrows in the brow deep enough to plant black-eyed peas in. “What do you mean?”

  The psychic’s fingers began to tingle. “Don’t do this—it isn’t funny!”

  Moxon’s voice went deathly flat: “How did you learn about Andrew’s automobile accident?”

  If snakes could speak, the psychic thought, they would sound just like that. “In the usual way, of course.”

  “You surely don’t mean—”

  “Well of course I do!” Cassandra balled her hands into knotty little fists, stamped her foot. “The message about Andrew was from White Raven.”

  He stared at the woman for a full ten seconds before saying, “Cassie—this is very, very important. Think back to last evening. Try to remember exactly what happened that led you to tell your TV audience about Andrew Turner’s death.”

  Cassandra Spencer bowed her head, closed her eyes. For a several-second eternity, she relived that dark experience from the night before. Finally, she blinked, stared at the blunt toes of her business manager’s black leather boots. “I can recall it with perfect clarity.” Slowly, slowly, she raised her gaze, passing over the bulge of Moxon’s knees under his slacks, the pewter bull’s-head belt buckle, the silver-veined lump of turquoise dangling on his string tie, stopping just below his comically round face, which suggested a middle-age Charlie Brown—who had lost all his innocence. “It was just like always when I receive a message from White Raven.”

  “Cassie—look at me.”

  Their eyes met, exchanging far more in an instant than all the words that had passed between them.

  “You’re absolutely certain?”

  “Yes, Nicky.”

  “That is very unsettling news.”

  She searched for some sign of understanding on the blank face. “I had naturally assumed that—”

  “Yes. You would, of course.”

  Cassandra decided that she might as well tell all. “Nicky…”

  He had heard this tone before. Didn’t like it then, didn’t like it now. “What?”

  She wilted under his icy stare. “I’m afraid I’ve—uh—misplaced one of my earrings.”

  “One of the new ones?”

  His client nodded. “It must have happened when I fainted. With all that’s happened since last night, I’ve only had a few minutes to look for it. But it has to be somewhere in the house.”

  Nicholas Moxon’s reply was soft. “You must find it.”

  “Yes.” Cassandra Spencer gazed through the glass, at a world covered with snow. “I know.”

  Thirty

  Fine Dining at Lulabelle’s Dixie Restaurant

  The lawmen had finished their breakfasts and were enjoying second cups of coffee. Scott Parris looked around the eatery, decided that no one was close enough to hear, leaned across his plate, and said to Charlie Moon, “I expect you’re curious about what I saw on Spencer Mountain last night.” What I thought I saw.

  “It’s not so much that I’m curious, pard.” The full-time Hereford rancher, part-time tribal investigator who had recently been deputized by the Granite Creek chief of police, picked up the sticky plastic bottle of honey, squirted a generous helping into his coffee. “But if memory serves, that’s one of the reasons you called me last night.” Just as I was going off to sleep. Which reminded Moon that he had not had a wink in the past twenty-nine hours. He stifled a yawn.

  “I’ll tell you, but on one condition—you won’t give me the big horse laugh.”

  “You got my word.”

  “You double-dog promise?”

  The Ute raised the cup of sweet, steaming coffee. “Honest Injun.”

  “Cross your fingers?”

  “Crossed and double-crossed.”

  Somehow, double-crossed didn’t sit quite right. “Swear on your mother’s—” />
  “Let’s don’t push it too far.”

  “Right.” Gazing at his coffee, Parris was fascinated by the rainbow sheen shimmering on the black liquid. The dazzling iridescence—which would not have been present if the cup had been properly cleaned—was created by a thin film of grease. “What I saw, just as I got near the spot where Andrew Turner’s Corvette went off the driveway…” His pale face turned a pinkish tint. “Well—it’s kinda hard to describe.”

  “Give it your best shot.”

  Parris set his jaw. “It was big and hairy.”

  “Big and hairy’s a good start.” Moon took a sip of honeyed coffee. That is good stuff. He had another helping. Big, mouth-filling gulp.

  With an expression of deep, earnest concentration twisting his beefy features, the chief of police continued: “The only way I can get across what it looked like is to compare it to something familiar.” He considered several possibilities, then: “It looked to me like a gorilla.”

  Gorilla? Moon was trying to swallow the coffee. Could not.

  “And what really gave me the willies—that big Gomer was totin’ something on its shoulder. It was all wrapped up—looked like a big burrito.”

  The Ute spat the black liquid onto the table.

  All over the restaurant, which catered to various sorts of toughs, offended patrons raised bushy brows. Baleful glances were cast, uncomplimentary innuendos muttered. In a few pockets, tattooed hands caressed concealed weapons.

  Scott Parris regarded his best friend with a hurt expression. “Charlie, you promised.”

  “I didn’t laugh, pard.” Moon coughed. “It was the coffee.” He found a paper napkin, wiped at his mouth. “It must’ve been too hot.”

  “It was not. You laughed out loud.”

  “No I didn’t.” Had too much coffee in my mouth to laugh. “But even if I had’ve, you’ve got to admit there’s something a little bit comical in what you said.”

  “You can take it from me—it wasn’t the least bit amusing at the time.” Parris watched his friend use another napkin to mop coffee off the table. “Do you think you could hold up your end of a serious conversation—maybe for a whole damn minute?”

  “You betchum.” The Ute put on a supremely somber expression, not unlike Geronimo’s when that Chiricahua Apache medicine man was captured by the U.S. Army in 1886. The effort made Moon’s face ache. “This thing you saw crossing the road, what do you think it was?”

  “Only one single, solitary possibility comes to mind.” Parris lowered his voice. “It must’ve been one of them—uh…” What was the word? Abominabubble? No. That wasn’t quite right. Aha! “One of them abdominal snowmen.”

  Abdominal? The Ute put on his best poker face. God, please don’t let me laugh. After reconsideration, prayer resubmitted: Don’t let me belly-laugh.

  Parris took the blank look as a question mark. “You know—a Sasquatch.” Still no indication that this Indian was getting the drift. “Folks in South Asia call ’em Yetis. Around here, these who’ve found their eighteen-inch tracks call ’em Bigfoots.”

  Moon pictured his herd decimated by mad cow disease, an IRS audit covering the past fifteen years, not a drop of rain for the next ten. That barely did the trick. The rancher said, “I’ve heard about Bigfoots.”

  Parris’s expression reflected an inner intensity that his friend had rarely seen. “Way I see it, Andrew Turner rounds the curve, picks up this Bigfoot in his headlights, swerves to miss it, bops the tree, bounces off a boulder, and over the cliff he goes and down into the Devil’s Mouth.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “It know it sounds pretty wild, Charlie—but every year, all the way from the Yukon down to Montana and sometimes even here in Colorado, there are sightings of these creatures.” Intake of breath. “There must be a family of them living up on Spencer Mountain!” He fixed a steely-eyed glare on the Ute. “What do you think?”

  “Well, until we can come up with a better idea, I guess we’ve got to consider it a possibility.” Mr. Sasquatch, carrying a huge burrito home to Mrs. Sasquatch and the hairy little kids. “Especially considering how you saw the critter with your own two eyeballs.”

  Parris used those same eyeballs to examine his friend. Is Charlie Moon making sport of me again?

  Charlie Moon was trying oh, so hard to be kind to his buddy. But the merry man could not resist the temptation to have just a little fun. “And like any good theory, the Sasquatch scenario rules out some less likely possibilities for what Turner might’ve seen when he rounded the curve.” The bait had been cast.

  Parris was bound to bite. “Like what?”

  “Well for one thing—Mr. Parsley’s witches.”

  The theorist nodded. “Right.”

  “Also King Kong,” Moon said with a straight face. “And Godzilla.”

  It was a rib too far.

  The chief of police gave the tribal investigator his stern look. The industrial-strength version, which was capable of turning ordinary men into pillars of chalk—and very nearly able to shame the Ute. But not quite. No matter. Scott Parris had other ammunition and did not mind using it. “Charlie, I hate to say this. But considering the gravity of the matter—and I refer to the fact that Andrew Turner is dead—your flippant attitude is…well…unseemly.” The Ute didn’t flinch. Parris fired the second barrel: “And unprofessional.”

  Ouch.

  “Uh—would it help if I said I was sorry?”

  “Nope.” Granite Creek’s top cop leaned back in his chair. “But there is something you could do to make up for it.”

  “Name it.”

  “Okay, here it is. Strictly on the q.t., you and me take a hike onto Spencer Mountain.”

  Uh-oh. “Something tells me this ain’t for a picnic.”

  “I’ll take some ham sandwiches and coffee. You’ll look for sign.”

  “What kind of a sign?” Don’t Disturb the Sasquatch?

  “Don’t play dumb, Charlie. You’re a first-rate tracker and you know what sign means. A snapped-off sapling limb. Little tuft of hair caught on a juniper snag. Droppings.”

  Playing dumb was fun. “Droppings?”

  “Scat.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “And footprints.” Parris put both hands on the damp table, walked them to the napkin holder. Plop. Plop. Plop. “Great big footprints.”

  Charlie Moon wondered how he got himself into these fixes. Probably something to do with ethnicity. If you’re an Indian, everybody who’s seen a Western movie believes you can track a deer mouse over a mile of solid sandstone and shoot an arrow into its ear at fifty paces. He kept the sigh inside. I hope nobody ever finds out I went out tracking Bigfoots.

  Nostalgia Is Not What It Used To Be

  That afternoon found Charlie Moon in the Columbine kitchen, smiling. That’s right. Smiling. Why? Why, because he was at the kitchen sink, armed with a three-blade Case Stockman pocket knife, an assortment of wrenches, and a formidable ball-peen hammer. What was he up to? Our mechanic was installing a new, hand-crafted leather seal in the hand-operated pitcher pump—and such tasks pleasured him right down to the marrow.

  Yes, a hand pump. No, Mr. Moon’s home was not what a euphemistically inclined (is there any other kind?) realtor might refer to as rustic. Definitely not. The headquarters was equipped with the essential amenities of modern plumbing, with ice-cold water provided by a pair of deep wells, each served by a 220-volt submersible electric pump that could deliver thirty-five gallons per minute into eighty-gallon pressure tanks, but the antique cast-iron muscle-operated appliance was a reminder of those bygone days when everybody knew how to prime the pump and folks managed to get along just fine without electric bills. Yes sir. Candles and kerosene wick lamps for light. No TV. Great big 1936 Airline Movie-Dial, 32-volt, battery-operated console radio. If you had a crank phone, the thing might ring once in a week, and lonely folks on the party line would listen in to hear the news and pick up gossip. If a neighbor without a phone wanted to say howdy, he’d generally
get onto his horse and make a twenty-mile ride, talk for hours, stay for supper, maybe overnight. And not only that, in those days there was no such thing as computers or—Wait a minute. What was that nerve-jangling noise? Well wouldn’t you just know it. The telephone.

  The wrench slipped, Moon jammed his knuckles on a sharp corner, watched blood ooze from the gash.

  Which just goes to prove the point. Whatever the point was.

  He stomped to the nearest extension, snatched up the instrument. “Columbine Ranch.”

  “Uh—Charlie?”

  He grinned. “What’s up, Sarah?”

  “Oh, nothing much.” She spent twelve minutes telling him about nothing much. And then: “Oh, by the way—do you still have those DVDs?”

  A frown. “What DVDs?”

  “The Cassandra Sees DVDs. The ones Mr. Sax gave Aunt Daisy as part of her gift for being on the TV show. Aunt Daisy gave them to you.”

  “She did?”

  “Uh-huh. And you put them in your jacket pocket. The gray jacket with black buttons.” That looks so nice on you.

  “Then they must still be there.” This was great fun. “Why d’you ask?”

  “Um…well, I thought maybe the next time you come to see us, you might want to bring the DVDs to Aunt Daisy.”

  “Mmm-hmm. You think she’d like to watch all those old TV shows again?”

  “Oh, sure. Especially the program she was on that night.”

  “Consider it done.” Charlie Moon remembered that Gerald Sax had also given something to Sarah. “You enjoying your big picture of the lady’s eyeball?”

  “Oh, yes!” Sarah Frank went on to describe every detail of the hugely magnified orb. Including the intriguing fact that there were “strange lights” in the psychic’s eye.

  We Don’t Know Why

  It might simply have been the girl’s mention of “strange lights.” Or perhaps the motivator was something entirely other. Sometimes operating on autopilot, at other times prompted by a subconscious command, human beings will do things without knowing why. So we don’t know why Charlie Moon felt compelled to turn on his little-used high-resolution television, also the DVD player, and, with the aid of an almost incomprehensible manual, stayed up late that night, until he had mastered every function. Including how to freeze a frame, move the little red triangle to identify a region of interest, select MAGNIFY from the menu—and watch the enlarged segment fill the entire screen. Having educated himself almost to the level of an eight-year-old TV viewer, he commenced to watch studio recordings of Cassandra Sees, which included scenes that had not been broadcast for viewing by the general public. The tribal investigator was fascinated by a number of items. Count them: