(1) From the most recent program: Daisy Perika with her head and shoulders under Cassandra’s coffee table.
(2 through 13) All twelve of these were close-ups of Cassandra’s attractive face.
(Back up to 9) This was the really good one. During that sensational broadcast where the psychic interrupted an interview to report her vision of a Denver warehouse fire. For just a fleeting moment, the Ute thought that he saw flames in her eyes!
Moon yawned. I’ve been staring at this stuff way too long. It was time to call it a day, hit the hay. But not before I get a closer look. The dandy freeze-frame feature came in handy. Not to mention the 4X magnification.
In the neighborhood of 3:00 A.M. (a quiet, peaceful district), Charlie Moon switched off the modern electronic appliances. For quite some time, he stared unseeing at the blank TV screen. Reflected upon what he had seen.
Thirty-One
The Sickness
The incubation period for Daisy Perika’s illness fell somewhere in between that for influenza and chicken pox. While determining the onset of flu and pox can be problematic, there was no uncertainty in this instance—the insidious infection had occurred at the very moment the tribal elder had discovered the stray earring on Cassandra Spencer’s carpet—and the TV psychic’s most closely held secret.
If stubborn pride had not prevented Daisy from revealing her discovery to Charlie Moon, she would have been inoculated against the sickness. Following that missed opportunity, the progress of the disease was more or less predictable.
During breakfast at the Columbine on day one, the symptoms included a notable lack of appetite and the glaze-eyed expression of one who has other things on her mind. Before lunch, the old woman’s heart was palpitating with anticipation of how a clever person like herself (always alert for the unexpected opportunity) might use the secret knowledge to personal advantage. That same day, as Charlie Moon drove his silent aunt, a talkative Sarah Frank, and the paw-licking Mr. Zig-Zag to church in Ignacio, thereafter back to Daisy’s reservation home at the mouth of Cañón del Esp’ritu, her sly old mind was hard at work. Wickedly efficient little ratchets clickety-clicked perversely, crooked little wheels turned and twisted—sometimes in reversely.
By day two, the patient was suffering from a frenetic fever of mental activity. From dawn to dusk, she would hastily contrive a plan, consider it from various angles, discard that flawed design for another that was worse, and so on, ad infinitum, deep into la nightum.
Days three through six were sufficiently similar to day two to require no further description.
On the afternoon of day seven (a Friday), the acute illness reached its climactic peak (so to speak) when Daisy decided to play the discordant piece by ear. Sadly, when it came to orchestrating an ingeniously clever plot, Mrs. Perika was kindred soul to neither Mr. Bernstein nor Mr. Hitchcock. Indeed, it would not be overly harsh to suggest that the results of her best efforts tended more toward comic opera. As it happened, the Ute elder was not aware of this shortcoming. Another, more admirable aspect of her personality combined with this deficiency to create a truly volatile combination—Daisy was a Woman of Action.
It was time to make the call. She did not need to search her purse for that scrap of paper whereupon she had scribbled the TV celebrity’s unlisted number. That critical piece of information was engraved deeply into her memory. Daisy picked up the telephone, mouthed the digits as she pressed the buttons. Waited.
What We Have Here is Not a Failure to Communicate
One ring.
After she says, “Hello,” I’ll just say, “This is Daisy Perika.”
Two rings.
The tribal elder’s mouth twisted into a roguish grin. I bet Miss Fancy-Pants will be surprised to hear from me.
Three rings.
Well aware that there was always an “on the other hand,” Daisy scowled. Or maybe she won’t even remember my name.
“Why, hello, Daisy.”
The caller very nearly dropped the telephone. That white woman really is a witch! Another possibility occurred to Daisy: Or she has caller ID, just like me.
Cassandra Spencer listened to a few seconds of silence, then: “Daisy?”
“I’m here.” About to lie, Daisy crossed her fingers. “I thought I’d call and find out if you was feeling okay.”
“How very thoughtful of you. I’m feeling just fine.” Cassandra’s smile modulated her response: “I’ve been intending to call and thank you—and your gallant nephew—for tending to me after I fainted. I’m most particularly grateful to you, dear lady, for completing the broadcast. I just don’t know what I could ever do to repay you.”
You will before we hang up. The old woman’s grin had returned from wherever grins slip away to.
“Daisy, please excuse me for just a moment.” The psychic was receiving a competing message from an intimidating presence who had just entered her parlor. No, not a spirit. This was a large, flesh-and-blood man, who carried a long-stemmed wineglass in his hand. Nicholas Moxon arched the left, hairless brow ridge—as if to inquire of his client: With whom are you yakking on the telephone and about what, pray tell? Of the pair, this was his highly expressive hairless eyebrow.
Cassandra cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, responded to the telepathic query: “It’s Daisy Perika—the old Indian woman.”
The right naked eyebrow arched, as if to say, Ah. This was his taciturn brow.
Moxon’s client returned her attention to the caller. “Sorry for the interruption. I’m so busy that I hardly have time to breathe.”
“Well, I won’t keep you long.” Daisy told another untruth: “I also wanted to thank you for having me on your TV show.”
“You are quite welcome.” Is that all?
It was not. Not by a long shot. Daisy was getting down to business. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She felt her hands go cold, the thumpity-thump of blood pumping in her neck. “I’ve got something I need to give to you.”
Now it was Cassandra’s turn to raise an eyebrow. This one, though plucked and penciled, was—in contrast to Mr. Moxon’s poor showing—a well-endowed black crescent. Hair-wise.
Daisy continued: “I think you might be interested in how I come to have it. See, right after you had your fit and—”
Cassandra bit her lip, which made it hard to say, “I beg your pardon—”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Daisy didn’t sound sorry. “I guess I should’ve said ‘seizure.’” Young people these days were so sensitive.
The epileptic was making a valiant attempt to preserve some semblance of civility. “I fainted.”
“Whatever you say. Anyway, after you fainted, and Charlie Moon carried you off to your bedroom, that little white man asked me to finish the show for you—”
“Which you did—and very capably, I might add.” The star of Cassandra Sees shot an exasperated glance at her business manager. “For which I shall be eternally grateful.” That particular eternity would terminate in less than a minute.
Though highly disposed to compliments, and able to bask happily in unabashed flattery, Daisy brushed this aside. “And then what’s-his-name…that little white man—”
“I presume you refer to Gerald Sax, the show’s assistant director.”
“Right, he said I ought to sit in your chair.” Daisy paused to recall the moment. “And I did, but on account of those commercials, I knew I’d have a hard time concentrating.”
“Commercials—what do you mean?”
“Advertisements.” With admirable patience for one of her cranky disposition, Daisy explained, “You know, when they butt into your favorite TV program and try to get you to buy things—like soda pop and shampoo and automobiles.”
The psychic closed her eyes, mentally sighed. “Yes, dear. I know what a commercial is.”
“That’s good,” Daisy said, and frowned at a framed picture of Big Ouray hanging on her parlor wall. B.O. had been Cousin Gorman’s prize Hereford bull, long since dead. “What was we talki
ng about?”
Despite the dull, throbbing hint of a headache coming on, Cassandra managed a wan smile. “I believe you were saying something or other about commercials.”
“Ah, that’s right! The commercials on that little TV under your coffee table was flipping over and over, and that was giving me the flutters. And when I get the flutters, you know what happens?”
The psychic shook her head.
As if she had seen this negative response from afar, the Ute shaman said, “My bladder gets all upset and I can’t hold my water. So I have to run to the bathroom.”
Cassandra nodded.
“I said to myself, ‘I’ll have to stop that TV picture from flipping.’ So, old and stiff as I am, I got down on the floor and stuck my head under the coffee table and found the right knob and turned it. I got the picture nice and steady and my face was so close to the screen I could read the words on those little ribbons they put on the bottom of the picture sometimes, that say things like ‘winter storm warning—expect ten inches of snow above eight thousand feet,’ or Mrs. So-and-So has an albino crow that talks to her. Stuff like that.”
“Yes. I see.” And she did.
“And that was when I saw it.”
From someplace far away, Cassie heard her little-girl voice say, “Saw what?”
The tribal elder had shifted gears. “Something round and shiny. It was on the floor, under the table. I thought it might be a button that come off the TV, but then again, it might be something valuable that somebody’d lost, so I picked it up.” She added, “For safekeeping, until I could give it back to you.” She paused, waited for a few heartbeats. The silence on the line fairly shrieked. “But I expect you know what I’m talking about.”
Cassandra: “I’m not certain that I do.” This was untrue.
Daisy knew that she knew. “It was your earring.”
Cassandra tried to speak, coughed. Her throat was sandpaper dry, and dots of light were appearing in front of her eyes. I mustn’t collapse. Not now, with Nicky watching. I just can’t. She heard the old woman’s voice in her ear: “The cameo clip-on.”
Cassandra felt her knees about to buckle, reached out to a brass floor lamp to steady herself. “Oh. That one.”
“That’s right. One of the pair ol’ Daddy Warbucks gave you in the restaurant. It’s a pretty little thing. Must’ve cost a lot of money.” The Ute woman had not enjoyed a conversation so much in years. “I imagine you’ll be happy to get it back.”
“Yes. I will.” Cassandra struggled to regain her composure. “I suppose it must have fallen off when I had my seiz—” She turned away from Moxon. “My fainting spell.”
“I could put it in the mail.” Carefully timed pause. “But I’d hate to take any chance of it getting lost. Maybe we’ll be seeing each other someday before too long, and I could give it to you then.”
“Yes, I suppose—”
“Or I could get Charlie Moon to drop me off at your place some Saturday afternoon. That’d give us time to have a cup of coffee. And maybe I’d get to stay and watch you do your TV show.”
“That would be delightful.”
Feeling Nicholas Moxon’s warm breath on her neck, Cassandra said, “Would you mind holding for just a moment?”
“Okay, but don’t take too long. Us folks who have to get by on Social Security don’t like to run up big phone bills.”
“Tell you what—I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
“That’ll be fine.” Daisy hung up on the psychic, smirked. I think that went pretty well.
After putting the torch to Rome, Nero reportedly made more or less the same observation.
Nicholas Moxon reached out to touch Cassandra’s arm. “What is it?”
She recoiled from his caress, avoided the stare. “Daisy Perika has my earring.”
He was silent for some time, rolling the possibilities over in his mind. Summarized: “That shouldn’t be a problem. But we’ll have to get it back.”
Cassandra shook her head. “She knows.”
“Knows what?”
She could not meet his gaze. “How we do it.”
The bald man’s painted-on mannequin expression—the frozen-corpse smile, the viper’s flat-eyed stare—did not waver. “Just from finding your earring?”
“I doubt it.” The woman spoke barely above a whisper. “When I fainted during the broadcast, I had not switched the video monitor off.”
“Tell me what she said.” He cocked his head. “Word for word.”
To the best of her recollection, Cassie did.
At the mention of the albino crow—an obvious reference to White Raven—the man who signed his confidential messages with that moniker lost the smile. “That is unfortunate.” Familiar with the dark side of human nature, Moxon posed the essential question: “What does she want?”
“Daisy mentioned how poor she was, so I suppose she’s angling for a payoff. She also hinted about making another appearance on the show.” Cassandra looked to her partner for guidance.
“Then we’ll give her what she wants.” Moxon examined the immaculate nails on his right hand. The pinky needed just a touch of the diamond file. “Call the little old lady back. Thank her for finding your expensive earring. But she should definitely not put it in the mail. You will be happy to drive to her home and pick it up.”
“I will?”
“Of course you will. And while you’re there, you’ll offer this clever Indian woman a contract. For a half-dozen weekly appearances as special guest on Cassandra Sees. At five hundred dollars a pop.”
“And you think that will keep her quiet?”
As the bald head nodded, the smile returned, this time reflecting genuine amusement. “For about six weeks.”
“What then?”
“That will be sufficient time to come up with a permanent solution to our problem. But don’t worry about the details, Cassie. Leave everything to me.”
“Very well.” But she was worried. “I’ll call Daisy back and make an appointment.”
“Tell her you’ll show up tomorrow to pick up the earring.” He raised the glass to his lips, downed the final sip. “But don’t mention the six-week contract on the telephone.” She’d tell all her gabby friends and neighbors. “Save that for your face-to-face with our spunky old blackmailer.” He set the glass aside, reached out to grasp the attractive woman by her shoulders. “Cassie—this is very, very important. Tomorrow, you must bring Daisy back to Granite Creek with you.”
“Whatever for?”
He flashed the big, wide smile, exposing three gold-capped molars. “Why, to sign the contract, of course.”
Her big eyes grew larger. “Can you have the document ready so soon?”
A dry laugh rattled in his throat. “Cassie, Cassie—has Nicky ever failed you?”
That evening, Nicholas Moxon dined alone. But not at home. He paid a call on his favorite Mexican restaurant, and on the way in picked up a complimentary copy of Thrifty Shopper, which consisted entirely of classified advertisements. After the waiter had taken his order, he began to examine the ads. He was of the opinion that a man could find just about anything he needed in the classifieds. Indeed, the headings covered a multitude of categories. Antiques. Computers. Employment. Guns. Pets. Real Estate. Transportation. And, of course, the lonely-hearts page. Men seeking Women. Women seeking Men. Men seeking…But never mind.
Mr. Moxon was seeking something else.
Thirty-Two
Saturday Morning
The Buyer Goes Forth with Enthusiasm
Nicholas Moxon slipped out the back door of his modest home, strode down a graveled path that passed between his tool shed and a thick hedge, crossed the stream on a mossy pine log, and struck off to the south on a little-used National Forest hiking trail. Speaking to no one in particular, he said aloud, “What a glorious day!” And it was. Warm sunshine on the left side of his face, the air scented with a hint of lilac, a sweet promise of rain. And of course, birds sang. He cluck
ed his tongue at frisky jays, warbled whistles at wrens, laughed at startled robins. Whatever his shortcomings, Cassandra’s business manager knew how to enjoy life’s small blessings. But on this morning, his greatest pleasure was derived from anticipating the whizbang adventure to come.
If he had expressed his philosophy in fewer than seven words, it might have been: Life Is What You Make It.
In due time, our energetic hiker arrived at his destination. After silently mouthing the name on the rusty mailbox, he removed the classified ad from his shirt pocket, read it again. Yes, this was definitely the place. And Hazel, in all her magnificent presence, was here. Waiting for him. He took a moment to admire her attractive form. There could be no question of false advertising; the brief description had not done the lady justice.
Checking his wristwatch, he murmured, “I’ve got some time to kill.” For reasons known only to himself, this struck Nicholas Moxon as funny. But though the disciplined man allowed himself a smile, he did not laugh out loud.
Let the Seller Beware
Clad in faded jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, Eddlethorp “Tiger” Pithkin was flat on his back in the sack, reading a tattered Wonder Woman comic book. (The unfortunate Mr. Pithkin was named after his father’s favorite uncle—i.e., Uncle Eddlethorp. After years of being addressed as “Eddle” or “Pith” by his witty friends, he had assumed the formidable feline nickname.) Upon hearing the knock on the door of his immobile trailer home, Tiger addressed the statuesque Amazon from Paradise Island: “Who d’you suppose that could be?” After cogitating, the reader concluded that he would have to get his carcass off the lumpy mattress, go and see.
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