He helped Beatrice from her chair. “Upstairs.”
“What’s on the upper level?”
“My office. Three bathrooms. Six bedrooms.”
“Ah.” She took his arm. “Do you sleep upstairs?”
“Every night of the week. Would you like to see where?”
“Yes. I would.”
Down the twilight hallway they go. Into the huge parlor, where piñon flames flicker in a sooty fireplace. Two big boots and a pair of lady’s slippers pad across the thick wool carpet. At the foot of the stairway, they pause. The gentleman waits for the lady to precede him to a higher altitude. She is rooted to the floor.
Uh-oh. She’s got an inkling I’m up to something.
“Charlie, I must ask you a question.”
“Go right ahead.”
“When we go upstairs, is something very important going to happen?”
Yep. The smart lady’s onto me. “Well, you can never tell.” This was truer than he knew.
Bea took a deep breath. Spent it on a sigh. “Will what happens upstairs change my life—forever and ever?”
He gazed at the upturned face. She’s pretty as a peck of peaches. And she’s afraid something bad is going to happen. “Tell you what—let’s skip the tour of the house. We can go sit in front of the fire. Or if you want to go home, I’ll take you right now.”
“No.” She took his big hand in hers. Squeezed it. “We will go upstairs.” To your bedroom. “But on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I shall go like Scarlett.”
“Who?”
“Scarlett O’Hara.”
He was an old-movie buff. “Ah—Gone with the Wind.”
“The very same.” Tapping her finger on his chest, Beatrice Spencer expanded upon the condition: “You shall play the part of Rhett Butler.”
Moon’s brow furrowed. “Before we go upstairs I got to kill off a whole platoon of Damnyankees?”
Miss Scarlett put on the cutest little-girl frown. “That can wait till later.” Her voice had taken on a lilting down-south drawl: “What I crave right now, Rhett, is romance.” Addressing Clark Gable’s reluctant stand-in, she laid down the law: “Before you take me to your bedroom, you must sweep me off my feet.”
Mr. Moon was beginning to get the picture. “Bea, I don’t think you un—”
“Hush your mouth.” She pointed at the stairway.
“You sure you want to do this?”
Her head bobbed in a perky nod.
This is crazy. But, caught up in the moment, he snatched her up, cradled the lady like a week-old baby.
“Oh—oh!” Bea wrapped her arms around Moon’s neck. Laid her pretty head on his shoulder. “Whatever are you doing, Rhett—put me down this very instant!” (She did not remember the lines.)
There was no figuring women. “Okay.” Down you go.
“Don’t you dare, you hateful man!” Her little fist banged his chest.
He rolled his eyes. How do I get myself into these situations? How, indeed. Volumes could be written.
“Hurry, darlin’—before I change my mind.”
Charlie Moon was a man with limited options. Count them: one.
So up the stairs they went. Down the long hallway. Moon kneed his bedroom door open, stepped into the darkness, used an elbow to flick a light switch. The table lamp by his bed cast a yellowish glow.
“Oh!” What the lady saw, on the wall over the head of his bed, quite took her breath away. But what really caught her attention was on the night table beside Moon’s bed—a framed-in-walnut photograph of a drop-dead gorgeous, dark-haired woman. Bea was fast on her feet. And off. Instantly understanding her error, stunned by what she saw, Bea’s fingers gripped Moon’s arm like a falcon’s claw.
Those sharp fingernails biting into his flesh did not escape the man’s notice. I bet she’s wondering who that is. “That” was FBI Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague—Moon’s absent sweetheart. He directed Bea’s attention to the three watercolors over the head of the bed. “You do nice work.”
“So do you.” Scarlett was gone. With the wind, perhaps. Beatrice was back, her body stiff in his arms.
Moon steeled himself for the finale. Ever since Miss Spencer had called him about a dinner date, he had rehearsed for this moment. And so far—aside from the dubbed-in carry-me-up-the-stairs scene—things had gone pretty much to script. Now it was time to turn her around, so she could see the opposite wall where he had strung up the canvas that was two yards high, eight feet wide. His first line to the stunned artist would be: “Here’s what you were looking for when you hurried back home on that snowy night when your husband had his ‘accident’—and blocked your driveway so Scott wouldn’t see you taking it down.” What Bea would see was her unsigned masterpiece—the photo-realistic, life-size images of Andrew Turner’s murdered wives, standing side by side. Astrid Spencer and April Valentine’s vengeful expressions were chilling enough for Nightmare of the Week. But those two pairs of outstretched arms—inviting their murderer to come hither and be with us where we are—well, it was no wonder Turner ran his Corvette off the road. Moon’s line two would go something like this: “When I found your husband in the mine shaft, he was wrapped in it.” The widow didn’t need to know that Bobbie Sue had done the wrapping; she would assume that her injured spouse had found the painting—probably ripped by the Corvette from where she had tied it across the driveway—and used it to protect himself from the cold. While she was still off balance, the Ute would reveal that he and Scott Parris had witnessed her attempt to honey up her husband for bear bait. Whether or not to arrest her had been a close call. Considering what sort of man Andrew Turner had been, she got a pass this time—but only by a whisker. From now on, she would walk the line—or suffer the full consequences of law and justice. This was about 99 percent bluff, but Bea didn’t know what the lawmen had on her or what they might do with what they knew. The best poker player in umpteen counties was certain that he’d play out his hand, walk away with the pot. Which would be a solemn promise from the lady to cease and desist from plotting violent felonies.
But wait. The star of Gone with the Wind has returned. The lovely armful relaxes, her whisper fills his ear:
“Oh—you are so sweet!” Her arms tightened around his neck. “After poor Astrid was mauled to death by a bear, I thought I’d never get through the gloom. During my darkest days, I fell into that unfortunate marriage with Andrew.” Her sigh was a fragrant, springtime breeze. Scented with cherry blossoms. Really. “Then, poor Cassie was murdered by that horrible Moxon person.” Bea’s voice cracked. “Now my husband is dead and I’m all alone in the world.” Warm, salty tears dripped onto Moon’s shirt. “It has been almost more than I can take. But just when I thought I couldn’t make it through another day, you invite me to the Columbine, carry me up the stairs to show me these silly little paintings you’ve gone to so much effort and expense to collect—” Miss Spencer smiled through the tears. “This is the first truly happy moment I’ve had in ages.” She planted a prim little kiss on the side of his face, fired the heavy artillery: “Charlie Moon—you are the most wonderful man in the whole world.” Another kiss. “I think I love you.”
Well.
What could the man do?
Tell his number one admirer that he had the goods on her—if she so much as spat on the sidewalk she’d be looking at ten years behind bars? Hardly. That shot was not on the table.
Could he reconsider? Cut his losses? Surrender? Yes indeed. Moon did all three.
The victor nibbled at his earlobe. “Do you love me—even just a little bit?”
Under the best of circumstances, that question is hard for a man to deal with. When his earlobe is being nibbled, forget it.
She noticed that her victim was having some difficulty. Thoughtfully ceased nibbling. Ruthlessly repeated the question.
Mrs. Moon’s little boy Charlie could not tell a lie. “Well…I like you.”
Bea closed th
e blue eyes again. Rested her head on his shoulder again. Sighed again. “I suppose that will have to do.” For a start. “Now, you may take me home.”
“D’you want to walk?”
“No, silly. Spencer Mountain is much too far.”
“I mean…downstairs.”
He is so cute. “If your arms are tired.”
Evidently, they were not. He carried Bea down to the parlor. Helped her put on her coat. Escorted her to the Expedition. Drove her home. Walked her to the front door. Got a good-night kiss that would have felled a lesser man. And without a thought of the lady whose picture was next to his bed, smiled all the way back to the Columbine. The cad.
Let us leave it there. Call it a night to remember, and close the book on the Three Spencer Sisters. The End.
Footnote: For those few who care about such minutiae, a few additional details may be of interest. Or not. In any case, here they are.
Mr. Moon was not the only person who experienced a revelation upon encountering an unexpected image on a shiny surface. (We refer to his sighting of flames in the TV psychic’s eyes.)
The other, more recent event occurred in this manner: When Moon carried Beatrice Spencer into his bedroom, switched on the floor lamp so that she could see the watercolors hung over the head of his bed, the startled lady fastened her fingers into his arm, and her gaze upon the framed photograph of Lila Mae McTeague. You remember this, of course.
Now think about it. Nothing comes to mind? Think again.
It still does not compute?
Then reflect upon it.
Aha! Quite right.
On the glass over Miss McTeague’s pretty face, Bea had seen a reflected image of her murderous masterpiece—knew in a flash that the crafty tribal investigator was about to confront her with evidence of an unseemly application of fine art—and immediately launched the ruthless “You are so sweet” counterattack.
Charlie Moon (bless his honest soul) never had a chance. But his earlier appraisal had been right on the mark.
What a woman!
Epilogue
Whatever happened to Bobbie Sue?
We do not know. But every now and then there is an unsubstantiated rumor, an unlikely anecdote. Of the latter class, the following is the unlikeliest.
Oscar “Bud” Yirty, an easygoing, hard-drinking, Columbine fence-rider known for his tale tales, swore to three of his bunkhouse confidants that last November, whilst he was looking to poach one of Charlie Moon’s big bull elk that graze up yonder where the north pasture butts up against the Buckhorns, he had encountered “the dingety-damnedest thing I’ve ever seen, boys, and I’ll tell you whut—if I’m a-lyin’, I’m a-dyin’. I saw it all from up on Bent-Nose Crag. Now I’m not claimin’ I could hear ever’thing that was said, but I sure heard enough, and I saw both of ’em through my brand-spankin’-new adjustable-power Leopold rifle scope, and I’m talkin’ in broad daylight. There in a little clearin’ in the pines, hunkered down by a campfire like they was ol’ friends, was the boss with a book in his hand, readin’ out loud. And sittin’ on the cold ground was the biggest damn bear I ever saw. And it was leanin’ for’ard—listenin’ to ever single word Charlie Moon said.”
After the rude laughter and vulgar abuse had died down, the patient storyteller continued without taking umbrage: “Now boys, I know for a absolute fact that Charlie was a-learnin’ that animal from the book ’cause ever’ now and then, why that ol’ bear’d nod, or shake his head, an’ once he even raised his paw, like he had a question to ast!” Bud paused for a sip of Bud.
His audience was won over; the utter extravagance of this appalling lie was met with the respectful silence that occurs when spectators realize they are present at a historic, once-in-a-lifetime, stem-winder performance. “And here’s the real corker, boys. After I laid my rifle barrel on a rock and got me a good, steady look through the scope, I could see the cover a that book Charlie Moon was readin’ from as good as I can see the hairy holes in your noses.” The storyteller jutted his bristly chin, glared with bile-yellow eyes. “You know what the name a that book was?”
The mystified cowboys shook their heads.
Bud Yirty told them, “I Learn My A-B-C’s—that’s what it was!”
Well. Who would believe such an improbable tale.
Keep reading for a sneak peek
at James D. Doss’s next Charlie Moon novel
Snake Dreams
Coming soon in hardcover
from St. Martin’s Minotaur
Nightmare
Yours? Not tonight.
This particular horror is reserved for two souls already deep in sleep—and a third who burns with a perverse appetite.
You have nothing to fear from this nasty business.
Unless…
Unless you should assume too intimate an interest, allow yourself to become unduly absorbed—irretrievably entangled.
Not a chance?
Very well.
But there are invariably some who do. A few. Perhaps one or two.
For those reckless souls, the following cautions are hereby provided.
First, a suggestion: Refrain from focusing too closely on the stark desert dreamscape—such intense concentration is likely to unduly excite the fertile imagination, which will conjure up all manner of poisonous viper, rabid rodent, and other vile nocturnal characters that slither and scuttle about in the darkness.
Second, a recommendation: Do not incline your ear to the unwary pair’s sighs and groans and snores and moans, and firmly refuse to hear the lurid murmurings of the third wretched creature, who—in frantic anticipation of the atrocity—giggles.
Last, this warning: Remain where you are. Resist any temptation to drift off into the shadowlands, and beware any glib stranger who might invite you to witness the unsavory event. Yielding to such an enticement could prove dangerous.
While no guarantee of absolute safety is made or implied, paying close heed to the aforementioned counsel should keep you reasonably—
What—you have already crossed that beckoning boundary, are even now entering into the dismal regions?
Then it is too late.
You have purchased your share of the nightmare.
Be advised that all such transactions are final.
There are no refunds.
And no returns.
When and Where
All these big brouhahas have to get started sometime and someplace and this one commenced two summers back, about midway between Pecos and El Paso.
It was a few owl-hoots past sundown when a brand-new moon floated up to shine a fine, silvery sheen on the favored side of the mountains. Very nice. And it should’ve stopped right then and there, but no—like some folks you know, that two-faced satellite has a dark side, and just as it was brightening up the eastern slopes, it flooded that big dusty trough between the Delaware peaks and the Sierra Diablos with shadows, and we’re not talking about a widow’s veil of night shade that wouldn’t keep you from seeing what o’clock it was on your granddaddy’s dollar pocket watch. Nosiree, this was sure-enough mucky stuff, black as Texas Tea, too thick to churn and firm enough to slice with Mr. Bowie’s knife.
If we were to wait around until that pockmarked face gets about four hours high, the murky lake would start to drain and dry and any poor soul who happened to happen by and got blinded and drowned in it would be able to see and breathe again. But this is right now and that’ll be then and it’s not night-meandering pilgrims we’re interested in, so let’s mosey on over to where the trouble’s about to begin.
Watch your step, now. Don’t put your foot on them prickly pears. Or that feisty little sidewinder.
See that tattered old tent over yonder?
Aim your eyeball a tad more to the left.
They’re camped right beside the rusted-out pickup that’s hitched to the horse trailer that’s empty because just this morning the rider swapped his piebald pony for a shiny Mexican trumpet and three bottles of Patrón Reposa
do tequila. The feller still has the brass horn, but he’s too high to toot on it and too far under to have the least notion of the serious Bad News that’s about to bite him in the neck.
The forty-four-year-old woman (married, mother of one) is entwined in the arms of a broken-down old rodeo cowboy who never asked her name. Oblivious to his indifferent embrace, Chiquita Yazzi has drifted away into a twilight place. While she watches a splendid black swan glide upon a mirrored pond, a bright-eyed little girl runs along the grassy bank to hug Momma’s neck. How do mother and daughter while away these blissful hours? They laugh at fluttering butterflies, sing happy songs, pick pretty flowers. In even this feeble facsimile of paradise, only the sublime should be called to mind—ugly memories should not be permitted entry. Sadly, it is not to be. The bright vision takes a dark turn into a vermin-infested alley. The mother—as only mothers can—senses danger close at hand. She instinctively reaches out to pull her child close. The little girl, a moment ago so warm—is cold to Momma’s embrace.
An unhappy turn of events. But it is merely a dream, which will quickly fade from memory. What we desire is a change of scenery, so let us return to the world of flesh and blood and see what is afoot there.
For the most part, ordinary events common to the nighttime desert.
In a shallow arroyo, a scaly something glides silently by.
A melancholy breeze heaves a wistful sigh.
Inside the tent?
Already stinking of beer and sweat, the has-been bull rider adds urine to the pungent brew. Thus relieved, he sinks ever deeper in his drunken stupor.
And the woman is…But what is this?
No. Don’t look.
A tarantula strides oh-so-deliberately along the lady’s forehead. Before moving on to explore other parts of her anatomy, the fascinated arachnid pauses—extends a bristly foreleg…strokes her dark eyebrow.
Altogether too dreadful? Then let us depart from the canvas shelter.
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