Our scholar was mildly startled to encounter a muscular man in crisply creased khaki slacks and a brand-new blue work shirt, both purchased late last evening at Wal-Mart. Though he could not see the eyes behind the wraparound shades, the mouth on the face under the slouch canvas hat was smiling. “Hi,” it said.
Tiger grunted, scratched the Betty Boop tattoo on his hairy belly.
“I just happened to be out for a walk and saw your pickup.” Nicholas Moxon jerked a thumb to indicate the fire-engine-red monster truck outfitted with five-foot-diameter tractor tires, and bumpers crafted from steel rails that had once supported coal-burning steam engines. HURRICANE HAZEL was painted on the hood. “I thought maybe I’d knock on your door—but if I’m disturbing you or your family, just say the word and—”
“Ain’t got no family. Nobody lives here but me.”
The grin widened. That’ll make things a lot simpler. “That big, bad machine with the For Sale sign—what’re you asking for it?”
“Hazel?” The owner, who loved to bargain, began the game by spitting into a dandelion patch. “I don’t see how I could let her go for less than six thousand.”
Feigning doubt, Moxon hesitated. “I’m not sure I could handle anything that big.” The potential buyer pretended to think it over for a moment, then: “But how about taking me for a ride?”
A listless shrug as Tiger tossed his comic book onto a plastic lawn chair. “Awright.”
Meanwhile
The thin blade of a woman (sheathed in a black satin dress) sat primly in Daisy Perika’s Early American armchair, warmed her hands on a cup of Lipton tea.
The Ute elder was hunched in her rocker with a mug of black coffee.
The spotted cat was on the floor, just out of Daisy’s reach.
The cozy picture suggested a get-together by a couple of good friends—a charming, down-home Norman Rockwell scene. And from the conversation, so it seemed.
Cassandra Spencer and Daisy chatted about the weather, and Sarah Frank’s participation today in a church picnic, which led to the subject of the girl’s black-and-white spotted feline pet, which led to a discussion of the pros and cons of having cats around the house, which brought up the subject of mice and other pesky rodents.
Neither broached the underlying issue that had prompted Daisy’s telephone call, which had brought Cassandra to this arid wilderness of mesas and canyons on the sparsely populated eastern edge of the Southern Ute reservation. Sooner or later, the matter would have to be at least hinted at, but for now the women were engaged in a match of wits, each circling the other, warily bobbing and weaving, waiting for her opponent to make the first move.
Having brought along its mate so that the pretty twins might be united as soon as possible, Cassandra smiled at the matched pair nestled in the palm of her hand. “I am so grateful to you for returning my cameo earring.” This sounded a bit awkward, almost as if she were accusing Daisy of theft. She added quickly, “It is so fortunate that you happened to see it on the carpet.”
“That was lucky, I guess. If I hadn’t spotted the thing, it might’ve gotten sucked up by the vacuum cleaner and tossed out with the trash.” As the Ute elder rocked slowly in her chair, she seemed to be half asleep, but the sly old eyes did not miss a trick. “If I wasn’t so old and forgetful, I’d have left it on your coffee table where you’d be sure to find it. But in all the excitement—what with you conking out before your show was over and me about to be on TV all by myself—I must’ve just dropped it in my pocket. I probably would’ve never thought about it again, but when I was looking for a thimble yesterday I put my hand in my pocket and there it was.”
“Well, all I can say is bless you, Daisy!”
Daisy’s lip curled. No, you could say, “Here’s a reward for finding my lost earring—a thousand dollars in cash money.”
Cassandra deftly clipped the antique ornaments onto her ears. “These were a gift from Nicky.”
“And the matching pin.”
The pale face frowned. “You know about the brooch?”
Daisy reminded the TV psychic: “You was wearing the pin and those earrings that day we met in the Sugar Bowl Restaurant. You told me Daddy Warbucks gave ’em to you.”
“Oh, yes—I had quite forgotten about that.” Cassandra found a compact in her purse, framed her pretty face in the oval mirror. Liked what she saw. “Daisy, I know you don’t mean the least offense, but I suggest that when Nicky is present, you do not refer to him in that manner.”
The old woman gave her guest a wide-eyed innocent look. “What manner?”
“As…as…” She simply could not bring herself to refer to Orphan Annie’s well-heeled benefactor. “Nicky may strike you as a rather thick-skinned man. But I can assure you—he is quite sensitive about his baldness.”
“Oh.” Daisy almost smiled. “You figure he’d get all worked up if I called him Daddy Warbucks?”
A simple yes would have sufficed, but the television personality responded with pursed lips, a curt nod. Also a sniff. A very superior sniff.
Daisy shrugged. “Then I’ll make sure not to.” If he does something to get my dander up, I’ll just call him Cue Ball. Which raised a question: “When am I likely to see Cue—uh—this Nicky fellow again?”
Taking advantage of this opening, Cassandra caught the elder with a solid left hook: “When you sign the contract.” A demure smile. “I’m sorry—I suppose that sounds rather presumptuous. I should have said if you sign the contract.”
This punch had stopped Daisy’s clock. Also her rocking chair. “What contract?”
The elegant white woman let go an uppercut: “To do six consecutive appearances as the special guest on Cassandra Sees.”
The elder’s teeth clicked together. “Six?”
Now, the blow that would stagger: “At five hundred dollars per appearance.”
The frugal Ute woman was down for the count. Which amounted to quite a tidy sum. “That works out to three thousand dollars.”
“And you’ll be worth every penny.” The middleweight from Granite Creek prepared her Sunday punch. “I don’t suppose you’re aware of it, but your first appearance produced our highest ratings ever.”
Knockout. If this had been a cartoon, Daisy would have had Xes for eyes.
Though one does not wish to dwell upon the subject of gratuitous violence, it shall be mentioned that Kid Cassie was not above kicking a defeated opponent in the ribs. “The contract was Nicky’s idea. I believe he’s quite fond of you.”
Daisy groaned. Then I guess I shouldn’t call him Cue Ball. A significant concession. Not out loud. But I can still think it. “Did you bring the legal papers with you?”
“No.” The psychic explained, “Nicky’s attorney is drawing up the contract today, which stipulates that your first appearance is on tonight’s show.” Noting a sudden glint of alarm in the Indian woman’s eyes, she hurried along before Daisy could protest: “You could stay with me tonight—I have my nicest guest bedroom prepared for you.” Cassandra flashed her most charming, disarming smile. “Our viewers certainly wouldn’t want to wait another week. I must get you back to Granite Creek no later than six P.M., so that you can sign on the dotted line—and we can go over the details of tonight’s broadcast.” The star of Cassandra Sees glanced at her platinum wristwatch (also a gift from Daddy Warbucks, aka Cue Ball). “So we must be leaving quite soon.”
This was all happening too quickly. Daisy began to backpedal. “I don’t know if I should leave this afternoon…any minute now Sarah’ll be showing up in the church van. She’ll want to tell me all about the picnic and—”
“Of course, if you’re having second thoughts about doing the show, I’ll understand.” Cassandra snapped the oyster-shaped compact shut, dropped it into her black velvet purse. “The life of a television personality is not all wine and roses. At times, it can be stressful. Telephone calls from the media for interviews, people stopping you on the street, demanding autographs.” A roll of the eyes
. “Almost every time you look at a newspaper or open a magazine, seeing your photograph and reading stories about yourself that have hardly a word of truth in them.” She surveyed the Ute woman’s parlor, sighed. “I envy you this private, quiet environment. It must be so peaceful for you.”
Daisy followed the white woman’s gaze. Peaceful like the grave. She grunted her way up from the rocking chair. “I’ll have to put a few things in my suitcase.”
Little Elkhorn Pass
An outraged mountain bluebird trilled a shrill warning at the monster truck. A curious chipmunk scurrying along through the undergrowth halted abruptly to perch on a juniper stump and stare at the alien machine. A collared lizard, only recently emerged from hibernation and unaware of the stealthy approach of a hungry wild turkey, threatened the mammoth vehicle with a bobbing display. Sad to report, Mr. Crotaphytus Collaris was promptly beaked and swallowed by said turkey, who, having not the least interest in motor vehicles, trotted away in search of additional victuals, thus leaving reconnaissance of the pickup to the chipmunk, bluebird, and others.
But enough of local fauna; let us focus our attention upon the truck.
Look. No, not at the weed-choked forest road. Over there—just behind that thicket of blue-black spruce. Right. Almost hidden in the underbrush: Hurricane Hazel.
Listen. One spark plug fouled by a crust of sooty carbon, her big engine idles at an unsteady throbbity-throb.
Peek inside the cab. See Tiger’s corpse, knees almost touching his chin, imitating a hideously overgrown fetus. His twice-folded form is on the floor, wedged between the passenger seat, the firewall, and the door.
As befits the alpha male, Nicholas Moxon has taken his rightful place in the driver’s seat.
Oblivious to the human being he had bludgeoned to death only minutes earlier, Moxon was enjoying this quiet time. He was, as nearly as a man of his sort can be, at peace. But do not be misled. Like Mr. Turner as he rolled down the mountain on that snowy night, Moxon’s condition was the very opposite of that peace of God which passeth all understanding. What he basked in was that temporary, superficial, shadow of peace—the counterfeit version that this world offers, that is, all too often—merely the proverbial calm before the whirlwind cometh.
After reflecting upon his agenda, the TV star’s business manager thought perhaps he should place a call to his client and see how things were going on her end. After two rings, he heard her voice murmur a hello. “Hello yourself, Cassie. Can you talk?”
“Yes.”
“Everything all set?”
“Miss Daisy is in her bedroom, packing an overnight bag.”
“Great. When do you leave for home sweet home in Granite Creek?”
“I really can’t say—she’s rather slow.” A pause. “Will the contract be ready for signing this evening?”
“Even as we speak, I’m at my attorney’s office. Mr. Boxman’s secretary is printing out six copies.”
“So many?”
“Hey, you know how lawyers are, Cassie.” He grinned at the chipmunk on the stump. “Uh-oh, here she comes with the contracts. Gotta go.” He made a kiss-kiss sound. “Catch you later, kid.” Nicholas Moxon stuffed the charcoal Motorola Razr into his pocket, sighed. “Looks like I’ll be doing nothing for a while.” Which would be extremely tedious. He glanced at the corpse on the floor. “But I guess that won’t bother you, pal.”
Thirty-Three
Things Get Dicey
Charlie Moon had just passed the Welcome to Granite Creek sign when his cell phone warbled. He checked the caller ID. That’s who I thought it’d be. “This is Mr. Moon’s day off and he’s gone hunting Bigfoots with Chief of Police Parris. You may leave a message after you listen to Arlo Guthrie sing the twenty-nine-minute version of ‘Alice’s Restaurant—’”
Scott Parris barked, “Don’t mess with me, Charlie. When you get to the station, I’ll be at the curb. Slow down just long enough for me to jump in.”
The tribal investigator grinned. “You in that big a hurry to go hiking on Spencer Mountain?”
“Forget that.”
“What—I don’t get to tramp around in the forest looking for broken twigs? And scat? And huge lopsided paw prints?”
“Can it, Charlie. You’ll see me on the street.”
And Moon did. He slowed to a crawl, backing up traffic as Granite Creek’s top cop—in three seconds flat—jerked the Expedition door open, launched his hefty frame into the passenger side of the Columbine flagship, slammed the door, and snapped the seat belt into place. “Drive.”
Moon pulled away. “Where to?”
“Aunt Daisy’s little house on the prairie.”
“What for?”
“I need to have a conference with the lady.” The chief of police pointed an infrared remote-control device at an upcoming stoplight. The traffic signal responded to the stimulus, switching from red to green without pausing for yellow in between. “Put the pedal to the metal.” Hot damn—I always wanted to say that!
The Ute depressed the accelerator, watched the speedometer needle sweep past forty. Then fifty. “What’s this all about?”
“Get outta town—then we’ll talk.” Another thumbing of the IR remote control, another traffic light shifted from Stop to Go. And go was what they did, doing sixty-plus through a residential section. Bricked homes and shade trees zipped past. As he pondered about what was actually moving—Moon’s gas guzzler or the scenery—Parris was reminded that Dr. Professor Einstein was one smart cookie. “Step on it, Charlie—let’s break some laws.”
Seventy-five. His friend’s enthusiasm was infectious but Moon was not sure he wanted to catch this fever. On the long climb up Six Mile Mountain, where the left shoulder dropped off to that rippling, rocky stream for which both the county and the principal community were named, Moon leveled off at eighty. “Okay. We’re outta town.”
Scott Parris stared straight ahead. “There’s been a big break in the case.”
“What case?”
He shot his best friend a sour look. “That ain’t funny.”
Moon passed a Mayflower moving van. “Okay, what’s the big break?”
To maintain some semblance of dignity, the chief of police allowed an entire two seconds to elapse before responding. “Remember that truck-stop shooting over on I-25—the one Cassie reported on her TV show while it was happening?”
The driver nodded. Such events tended to linger in the memory.
“State police have turned up an eyewitness who claims he saw the shooter. Even though the perp was wearing a hat, and had his coat collar pulled up to his chin, the helpful citizen picked Nicholas Moxon’s homely mug out of a dozen other look-alikes.”
“That’s a nice break, all right.” But not like catching the shooter with a smoking pistol in his hand. Moon was startled to catch a sudden whiff of gun smoke. He knew what was coming next. And it did—that haunting sense that all the cartridges in his revolver were spent. But that simply wasn’t so. I checked my sidearm before I left the Columbine. As if from somewhere far away, he heard Scott Parris’s voice.
“…But without some supporting evidence, no DA in his right mind’ll go for it.” He added quickly, “Her or his right mind.” Having been lectured by his two female officers, the curmudgeon had been trying mightily to develop a modicum of sensitivity to gender issues. “All we’ve got is one eyewitness who says he saw the shooter outside, at night, in dim light from the restaurant window. It’s not half enough to get a conviction on.”
The scent of gun smoke had vanished, along with the absurd fantasy that his .357 Magnum was filled with empty shells. In an effort to occupy his mind with something that was real, Moon rolled Parris’s remarks over in his mind. Came up muddled. “Pard, can I ask a few questions?”
“Hey, you’re a natural-born citizen of the good old US of A, and freedom of speech is your First Amendment right.”
The Ute citizen posed query number one: “Seeing as how this lone eyewitness won’t be ab
le to make anything stick against Mr. Moxon—why are you so dang cheerful?”
“I am glad as all get-out you asked me that.” Parris drew in a breath that threatened to rupture his barrel chest. “I am in good spirits—because I am going to bust this case wide open.”
Query number two: “How are you going to do that?”
“By finding out how Moxon’s been passing information about his ratings-boosting felonies to Cassandra Spencer—while she was on live TV.”
Repeat of query number two: “How are you going to do that?”
The passenger shot a sly look at the driver. “Somebody is going to tell me.”
The potential somebody did his one-hoot-owl imitation. “Who?”
Unaware of what his clever Indian friend had learned from watching DVDs of Cassandra Sees, the chief of police told him who. “If I lean on her, Cassie might talk.” Parris squinted at a sudden spray of sunlight. “But I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Me neither.” Moon had put on the poker face. “So who does that leave?”
“Your aunt Daisy, who was sitting knee-to-knee with Cassie when our favorite TV psychic had that ‘vision’ about her brother-in-law’s violent death. And I will lay you ten-to-one odds on this, Charlie—Moxon set up the accident, watched Turner’s Corvette go tumbling over the cliff, and relayed the message to Cassie.”
“How d’you figure he managed that?”
“Now that’s the question, ain’t it?”
“But you’re hoping Daisy knows something—and that she’s going to tell you?” The Optimists’ Club would elect you president. By acclamation.
“She might’ve picked up on something, Charlie. As for getting her cooperation, I’ll need some help from you.”
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