The wrinkled Ute elder and the pretty young white woman gave him looks that said it all: When a car won’t start, the first thing you do is lift the hood and take a look at the motor, to see if anything looks out of whack. Any dang fool knows that!
Accepting this silent chastisement with characteristic grace, Elmer Jackson tried to think of a way to deal with the delicate situation. The guiding principle was that a policeman must never let on that he considered a member of the public to be less intelligent than a run-of-the-mill amoeba. While the hopeful diplomat was marshaling his thoughts, other brains were also hard at work. Cassandra Spencer’s, for example.
The TV psychic had recently heard a statistic on National Public Radio (or had she read it in the National Enquirer?) to the effect that a significant percentage of all automobile failures could be blamed on a particularly troublesome component. Thus armed with authoritative knowledge, she spoke with some confidence: “I think I know why my key won’t go into the little slot.”
Officer Jackson encouraged the motorist to share her thoughts on the matter.
She did, and with some intensity: “I think it must be the radiator.” Whatever that is.
After he had recovered from a sudden coughing fit, which was accompanied by copious watering of the eyes and mild abdominal pain, the gentleman regained his composure and admitted that in his time, he had experienced lots of trouble with radiators. He politely asked whether he might borrow the lady’s car key and see what he could do.
Though lacking great expectations of help from what was evidently a mechanically challenged member of the hammer-and-wrench gender, Cassandra nevertheless rendered up the object.
Elmer Jackson, who had overhauled more than two dozen internal combustion engines, slipped inside the magnificently restored sedan. Wow-wee, what a Jim-dandy automobile! He inserted the ignition key into the “little slot.” It went about halfway in, stopped. Now, in addition to being a better-than-average shade-tree mechanic, Mr. Jackson had, once upon a time, been an Eagle Scout, and Be Prepared was practically his middle name. He produced a much-used Swiss Army pocket knife, worked for a while with blade, then the nail file, but as is quite often the case it was the tweezers that did the trick. He extracted several wood splinters from the ignition switch. Purple wood splinters. In lieu of talking to himself, the state policeman sometimes preferred to whisper: “Now, how in blue blazes did that get in there.” He considered a few unlikely possibilities, settled on: “I bet that white woman took something out of her purse, thinking it was her key, and jammed it into the ignition switch. One of them colored wooden toothpicks, maybe.” A smile. “But you can bet your bottom dollar I ain’t gonna ask her about it. No, sir—my momma didn’t raise no fools!” By the time he had extracted not quite enough of the broken-off Popsicle stick to render the switch useable, SUPD Officer Danny Bignight had arrived, followed almost immediately by Charlie Moon and his passenger, Granite Creek Police Chief Scott Parris.
Cassandra was quite astonished at the sudden gathering of lawmen, and wondered what might have brought them to this out-of-the-way place. Did the old Indian woman dispense complimentary doughnuts to the local constabulary?
Daisy, who did not waste time in idle speculation, got right to the point: “What are all you cops doing here?”
Having taken note of the disabled Cadillac (the hood still gaped like an alligator’s mouth) Charlie Moon tipped his black Stetson: “I don’t know for sure, but my best guess is that we must’ve all picked up the same emergency call: Attractive lady motorist needs help at Daisy Perika’s residence.” He winked at Cassandra, who blushed rosy pink. “So here we are, to find out what’s the matter with the snazzy car.”
Officer Jackson laughed. “Well, you’re too late—I ain’t quite got it fixed yet, but I already got it figured out.” He pocketed his pocket knife/tool kit. “There was some splinters of purple wood in the ignition switch.”
Cassandra echoed, “Splinters of purple wood?” How perfectly absurd. She listened every week to Click and Clack the Tappit Brothers, and those clever Car Talk mechanics on NPR had never diagnosed an auto problem as caused by wood splinters. Purple or otherwise.
Scott Parris noticed that Sarah Frank had, at the appearance of Charlie Moon, emerged from Daisy’s house. “Wonder how a thing like that could’ve happened.”
The state policeman shook his head. “Beats me, Scott.” But having four children and six grandchildren, and knowing what scamps young folks can be, he shot a mildly suspicious look at the teenager.
Ignoring both the black man and the white, the fifteen-year-old Ute-Papago girl smiled shyly at her favorite man on the entire planet. You can always count on me, Charlie. She could see that he was very pleased. If she had realized that for the first time ever, the object of her affection wanted to hug her, Sarah might well have fainted.
It was just as well that the orphaned teenager, who had suffered many bitter disappointments, did not know that Charlie Moon was merely grateful for what she had done to prevent his aunt from being carted off by the TV psychic.
It was just as well that Charlie Moon, who had troubles enough, did not know that Sarah Frank was determined to marry him someday. Or the first chance she got. Whichever came first.
First chance she got, Sarah slipped Moon the broken Popsicle stick.
Thirty-Six
Keeping Secrets
Responding to a barely perceptible nod from the Southern Ute tribal investigator—the Granite Creek chief of police, the mechanically inclined state trooper, and SUPD cop Danny Bignight drifted off (casually, they thought) to convene a private conference.
Daisy Perika and Cassandra Spencer watched the withdrawal with justifiable misgivings.
The TV psychic, who was somewhat wrought up over the mysterious failure of her fine automobile, glared at the men through slitted lids, summed up the situation: “I need to go home but my car won’t start because it still has purple wood in the little slot. And even if it would start, that state policeman is holding on to my keys. And what are they talking about—football?” A nagging suspicion: Or does it have something to do with Nicky and me?
The Ute elder puffed up, huffed a “Hmmpf!” that fell just short of a snort of the derisive sort. “Look at ’em—just like a bunch of half-wit boys huddled up in the school yard, trying to keep their dumb secrets from the girls.” But this old girl had a few secrets of her own, which she did not intend to share with the “boys.” Nifty secrets. Such as how the TV psychic managed to acquire astonishingly accurate information from her marvelous “visions.” If Daisy had realized what her nephew already knew, she would have been too deflated to huff or puff.
Cassandra, of course, had a multitude of misdeeds to conceal.
The one bona fide girl in the female trio had her own delicious secret, which she had been more than happy to share with Charlie Moon. As the grown women glared at the quartet of lawmen, Sarah Frank had eyes only for the tribal investigator.
The Huddle
The first order of business was for Charlie Moon to inform Danny Bignight and Elmer Jackson about Sarah and her Popsicle stick.
After all parties expressed admiration for the girl’s on-the-spot innovation, Moon yielded to Scott Parris’s urgings and admitted that he had found hard evidence on Cassandra Sees DVDs that the TV psychic was receiving detailed information about various felonies while she was on the air. These real-time accounts of murder and arson were almost certainly being transmitted to Cassandra by the felon responsible, which was most likely Nicholas Moxon.
After the Ute had had his say, Scott Parris assumed chairmanship of the improvised committee, counted off the essential facts of the matter on his fingers, beginning with the shortest digit (which tough guys such as himself refuse to call a “pinky”): “An eyewitness has tied Nicholas Moxon to the trucker shooting over on I-40.” Second finger: “Big question is this—if Moxon has been engineering on-the-spot killings and arsons for his client to use on her TV show, doe
s Cassandra Spencer know her business manager is up to no good, or does she believe he has a gift for being in the right place at the right time?” Parris figured that one might go either way. Third finger: “And whether the psychic’s in on it or not, could Miss Spencer be convinced to provide corroborating evidence against her business manager?” The chief of the Granite Creek PD deftly turned down finger number four. “And if she doesn’t cooperate, does the Huerfano County district attorney have enough evidence to make a case against Moxon?” He was about to go for the thumb when the black state policeman coughed. With his train of thought derailed, Parris eyed the man responsible for the wreckage. “What’s on your mind, Elmer?”
“The witness is a friend of my brother, who tells me his buddy’s a sure-enough solid citizen and if this guy says the shooter was Moxon, you can bank on it.” His audience sensed that there was a “but” coming. “But the fella wouldn’t be able to convince a jury that the earth was round.”
Parris prepared to grind his teeth. “This witness has a flaw?”
The black cop looked at the ground. “He’s a member of the Flat Earth Society.”
Parris and Moon and Bignight stared.
They all entertained more or less the same thought, but it was Parris who said, in a pleading tone, “Elmer, please tell us you’re joking.”
“Wish I could.” The state trooper shook his head. “And that ain’t all. The trucker that got murdered was pushing dope up and down the interstate. Any defense attorney worth two bits wouldn’t have any trouble convincing a jury that he got popped by a shooter working for a competing distributor. So Moxon walks.” Elmer Jackson shrugged. “Happens all the time.”
Parris glanced at the edgy psychic, who, presumably in a premeditated act of revenge against her cantankerous motor vehicle, was taking a kick at the Cadillac’s whitewall tire. “Then the only way to make a case against Moxon is to get Cassandra to play ball.” After pursuing this line of thought, he added, “We’d better get her on our team before the eyewitness to the trucker shooting gets interviewed on TV and warns his fellow citizens: ‘Be careful, folks—take one step too far, you’ll fall right off the edge of the earth.’”
Frowning at this “we” stuff, Officer Jackson reminded his colleagues of a relevant fact: “The trucker shooting happened in Huerfano County. While us state police will grab a piece of the action—you reservation and town cops don’t have no jurisdiction.”
SUPD Officer Danny Bignight, as was the peculiar habit of Taos Pueblo Indians when they had nothing to say, said nothing.
Which left it to the tribal investigator to speak for the Southern Ute Police Department. Moon grunted.
Knowing it was now up to him alone to deal with the feisty state copper, the Granite Creek chief of police regarded the black man with feigned disappointment. “Elmer, I think it’s time we all started acting like brother lawmen and forgot about little details like who has jurisdiction and who gets the credit and all of that nonsense.”
“Right.” The state trooper allowed himself a lopsided grin. “Just like you did a few years back when that fruitcake Indian shot that little white fella in the antique shop and our boys was there right on the spot and you town cops treated us like we was the North Korean secret police.”
Parris responded in a tone meant to soothe, “That unfortunate incident was a minor misunderstanding. And if I—or any of my officers—ruffled any state copper’s tail feathers, I hereby apologize on behalf of all of us.” Sensing a softening of Officer Jackson’s demeanor, he continued, “I’m well aware that GCPD doesn’t have any jurisdiction in a killing that happened out of our county. But the prime suspect and his client are citizens of Granite Creek, so I intend to do what I can to assist those who’ll be leading the investigation.” He swept his glance across their faces. “Fellas, if we don’t cooperate on this, a cold-blooded murderer is likely to go free as the breeze.”
Moon thought it might be helpful to focus the discussion. “What do you want to do right now?”
Parris offered his best friend a thankful expression. “I want to hitch a ride back to Granite Creek with Miss Spencer.”
Elmer Jackson cocked his head as if the former Chicago cop were about to put even money on the Cubs to win the pennant. “You really think you can get that woman to spill her guts about Moxon?”
“I know it’s a long shot.” Parris glanced at the psychic again, who was having an intense discussion with Daisy Perika. “But, fellas, it’s the only shot we got. Anybody here has a better notion, I’m ready to listen to it.”
This offer produced a dismissive shrug from the state cop, a half smile on the Southern Ute tribal investigator’s face, and nothing whatsoever from the taciturn Taos Pueblo native who was employed by SUPD.
But following his shrug, the doubtful state police officer posed still another question: “How’re you gonna convince the lady—who’s probably an accomplice to several felonies—to give the local chief of police a ride home?”
Parris’s smile flashed across his face. “It’ll all depend on you, Elmer.”
Uh-oh, I don’t like this. “Whatta you want from me?”
“Nothing much. All you have to do is pretend that you can’t get those last few splinters of wood out of her ignition switch.”
The wary African American had begun to see the light. “And after I fumble around for a while, Mr. Supercop from Granite Creek steps in and shows me how it’s done, and bingo!—the engine cranks.”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
“But just getting her car started won’t be enough of a deception—you’ll hint that the Caddy is likely to conk out again and strand her out there somewhere on a lonely mountain road. Then she’ll say, ‘Oh my goodness, whatever shall I do?’”
Parris nodded. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
“Don’t I know it.” Elmer rolled his eyes. “You’ll offer to ride along—just to make sure she gets home safe. And what with being impressed with your thoughtfulness and so-called mechanical skills and worried sick about another breakdown, she’ll be relieved to have the likes of you along for the trip north.”
Parris fairly beamed on the man. “Elmer, I don’t care what your momma says—you are definitely not the dim bulb of the family.” A hesitant pause. “Aside from making me a hero in the lady’s eyes, there’s just one more thing I need from you.”
The eyes rolled again. “What?”
“I’ll need to get those last few bits of Popsicle stick out of the ignition switch. So would you loan me your Swiss Army pocket knife?”
The Deception
Scott Parris’s plan worked like a charm. Or, as Danny Bignight would say later, “Was slick as snail spit.”
While the Granite Creek chief of police was performing the surgical removal of the remaining purple splinters from the wounded Cadillac, Charlie Moon took his aunt aside, informed her that there had been a change of plans. She was not going to Granite Creek with Cassandra. The Ute elder was about to inform her nephew that she was of age, and didn’t need some big gourd head like him telling her what she wasn’t going to do. But once in a blue moon, Mr. Moon got that granite-hard look in his eye. It was there now. Daisy limited herself to a surly, “Why?”
“A problem has come up.”
Surly became outright gruff: “But I’m supposed to be on TV tonight.”
The pitiless man shook his head.
Desperate, Daisy fell back on reason: “But I’ve already said I’d sign the contract tonight—at Cassie’s home in Granite Creek!”
Aha! “What contract?”
His aunt explained the terms: Six appearances. Five hundred dollars per.
Moon explained the facts of life: Not today. No way.
During this family discussion, Scott Parris was not only granted permission to ride back to Granite Creek in Cassandra Spencer’s Cadillac—he would also serve as the lady’s chauffeur. When the television personality mentioned that Mrs. Perika would have plenty
of room in the backseat, the Granite Creek chief of police informed the psychic (who should have known!) that they would be riding back alone.
When Cassandra opened her mouth to ask why, hesitated, clamped her lips shut—Parris knew he had her in the palm of his hand. Smug was what he was. This’ll be like shooting a fish in a barrel. Pride goeth before the fall.
Elmer’s Hunch
State Police Officer Elmer Jackson said his goodbyes to Moon, who was planning to spend some time with his aunt, and Bignight, who was waiting for orders from Moon, then left shortly after the departure of Scott Parris and Cassandra Spencer. Jackson had gotten out of bed before dawn, put in a long, tiring day. Officially, his shift had ended an hour and a half ago. Moreover, his back ached and his feet hurt. For all these excellent reasons, he was planning to head into Pagosa Springs and the heavily mortgaged redbrick ranch-style home where he hung his flat-brim hat. But as he drove away from Daisy’s place, along the rutted lane, he got one of those odd feelings that experienced lawmen sometimes get. Like something was wrong, and maybe he should trail along behind Scott Parris. At least for a few miles. Or even all the way to Granite Creek. Well that don’t make any sense. What I need to do is go home and fix me something to eat and go to bed.
But he could not shake the feeling.
I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep for worrying about Scott. Against all common sense, the big-hearted lawman opted to tail the distinctive black 1957 Cadillac sedan. Doing it by the book, Elmer Jackson stayed a mile behind.
Thirty-Seven
Dealing with Aunt Daisy
Like his father, SUPD cop Danny Bignight had a good nose for weather. Sensing the storm that was approaching, he wisely chose to remain outside.
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