A Dead Man's Tale

by James D. Doss

  Boom! (A five-pound meteorite falling onto the Hummer’s steel roof? No.)

  “Ho!” (A startled Sam Reed, who was not as cool a customer as Howell Patterson.)

  “Hah!” (An enthusiastic Scott Parris, who enjoyed banging his big fist on top of other people’s motor vehicles.)

  Reed lowered the driver’s-side window and shot a nasty look at the chief of police. “You are beginning to try my patience.”

  “Ah, don’t be such an old poop, Sammy. What you need is some R and R.” The happy cop opened the Hummer door and patted the angry citizen gently on his padded jacket shoulder. “Tell you what. Let’s you and me go for a little walk so you can unwind some. We’ll sniff the smelly wildflowers, commune with Ma Nature—all that baloney.”

  His ivory-knobbed walking stick in hand, Samuel Reed tagged glumly along behind the big, beefy man who was leading him along a deer path. Despite his initial annoyance, the scientist-investor was feeling quite at ease when they paused under a soaring old pink-barked pine that might have been the great-granddaddy of ponderosas. It was Parris’s penultimate favorite spot in Granite Creek County, the top honor being reserved for the pebbled shore of alpine Lake Jesse on Charlie Moon’s Columbine Ranch. From here, a man could see just about everything worth seeing and from a perspective generally reserved for the Deity. Granite Creek gleamed like the most perfectly civilized village in the world, and in every direction of the compass, misty-blue mountain ranges reclined like gigantic enchanted creatures dreaming of a mystical past that never was but should have been. Hovering protectively over all this, a stunningly turquoise umbrella that faded to a far rosy horizon.

  To render the effect absolutely perfect, a regal pair of bald eagles circled overhead with impeccable dignity and grace.

  After a minute or two of awed silence, Sam Reed realized that he was feeling wonderfully relaxed. Peaceful was the word. No, even more than that. I feel absolutely serene. Like I could lift my wings and fly across yon valley and soar higher and higher until I reach that distant place where the sun sinks into the vast western sea. This was an absolutely perfect spot. But when a human being is present, he will invent a downside. The fact that Scott Parris was indirectly responsible for his joy was distinctly irksome to Reed.

  “Aaarrgh!”

  Jolted by what sounded like a bear’s growl, Reed inquired, “What was that?”

  “Me.” Having cleared his throat of some unmentionable impediment, Parris spat on a pine cone and slapped Samuel Reed between the shoulder blades. “You’ve had enough R and R to last you for a fortnight. Let’s you and me get down to some serious business.”

  “Oh, do go on!” Reed turned his full smirk on the cop. “I am practically quivering with feigned anticipation.”

  The Chief of Police is Devilishly Devious

  “Okay, here’s the deal.” In an unconsciously sinister gesture, Scott Parris pulled the fedora’s brim down to shade his eyes from the sun. “After thinking over what you told me and Charlie Moon about how you figure a person or persons unknown are gonna do you in on June fourth, I’ve had a powwow with the district attorney. Me and Pug Bullet have decided that when a distinguished local citizen such as yourself requests help from the police, he’s entitled to some consideration.”

  “Just like that?” Reed stared suspiciously at the cop. “What’s happened—have you uncovered evidence of a threat against my life?”

  Parris turned his blushing face to avoid the man’s penetrating gaze. “Oh, maybe a thing or two. Nothing worth mentioning.” He tilted his head to watch one of the eagles take a dive into a thermal, then soar heavenward to merge into the sun. That sure does look like fun. “But with you so sure your number’s about up—and despite the fact that you haven’t told me why you think somebody’s gonna shoot you—it’s my duty to provide whatever protection I can.”

  “Balderdash,” Reed said. “Something has happened, and you might as well tell me.”

  Parris shot a sideways look at the suspicious citizen. “Well, there’s one thing that’s bothering me some, but you already know about it.”

  Reed arched an eyebrow. “Please remind me.”

  “Last Friday evening while you were singing with your barbershop-quartet buddies, your wife reported an attempted break-in.”

  “I am aware of that fact.” The husband gazed at the chalky trunk of a soaring aspen whose equally pale branches were uplifted as if greeting some unseen Presence. “I am a busy man, Mr. Parris, so let’s cut to the chase. What’s the bottom-line purpose of this meeting?”

  “I’d like to take some routine precautions, but I’ll need your cooperation.”

  “Such as?”

  “First thing, I’ll need your permission to mount two or three of my night-vision TV cameras on your property. That way, if the rascal shows up again—and he might—we’ll catch him on video.”

  Reed shrugged. “Go right ahead.”

  “Great.” Now for the ticklish part. “Second thing I’ll need is permission to tap your telephones.”

  Reed’s arching eyebrow set an altitude record for the week. “Is that absolutely necessary?”

  The cop nodded. “Before they make their move, bad guys who’re planning break-ins commonly call the target residence to verify that no one’s home.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Pleased that this was going so well, Scott Parris added in a chillingly ominous tone, “And sometimes, they want to make sure somebody is at home before they bust in.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “First priority is a tap on your landline.” Before taking the final bite, Parris licked his lips. “But just in case the presumed bad guy has managed to get one of your cell-phone numbers—either yours or Mrs. Reed’s—I’d like to cover those too.”

  “Well, I suppose that could be arranged. Except that—”

  “Except that you can’t give us permission to tap your wife’s cell phone, and neither one of us would want to scare the lady.”

  “Ah, yes.” Reed twirled his elegant walking stick. “Which does pose a dilemma.”

  Parris assumed an innocent expression. “Unless your wife happens to misplace her telephone.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t see how that would—”

  “My girlfriend, now she’s sharp as a tack—has a Ph.D. in something or other. But Amber’s always losing things. Her Visa card, her compact, and just last week she left her teensy little electric-blue telephone at the Sunburst Pizza Restaurant. It was lucky for her that a waitress who likes me picked it up before some lowlife got hold of it.” He grinned at Reed.

  “Are you suggesting that I—”

  “Not me.” The sworn officer of the law raised both palms to ward off the accusation. “But just on the off chance that Mrs. Reed does happen to misplace her mobile phone, you could give her yours to use while you took your time getting her a new one.”

  “Oh, now I see. And my phone would already be tapped.”

  “Right. That way, we could keep tabs on any felon who happened to call the lady of the house—without her knowing that there might be a threat against her husband’s life. It’s not only better for Mrs. Reed to be protected from any unnecessary worries—and I don’t mean to denigrate the fair sex in any way—but a married man such as yourself is bound to know that the ladies do tend to talk to one another. And this investigation has to be done strictly on the Q.T.”

  “Yes. That makes perfect sense. But it does occur to me that I—”

  “That you’ll be without a mobile phone for a few days, which is a serious problem for a busy man of business such as yourself.” Another grin. “Please ask me if I have a solution to that problem.”

  “Very well. Consider yourself asked.”

  “Thank you kindly.” Parris removed a small object from his jacket pocket, which smelled faintly of Howell Patterson’s crumpets. “This is a brand-new TracFone that I picked up during my lunch hour at Walmart.”

  Appalled, Samuel Reed accepted the instrument.
“Surely you’re joking—you actually dined at Walmart?”

  “You should try it sometime, Sammy.” The well-fed cop managed a modest burp. “Best green-chili cheeseburger and crispiest danged Tater Tots I’ve had in six months of Mondays.”

  A thin smile creased Samuel Reed’s face. “You are not fooling me for a second, Mr. Parris.”

  Scott Parris returned a blank stare that might easily have been interpreted as a first-rate poker face. “What?”

  “I daresay you know very well.” Reed added a disdainful “hmmph” that spoke volumes.

  The burly cop shook his head.

  “As it happens, my dear wife misplaced her cell phone sometime yesterday.” Samuel Reed sighed. “I would not care to speculate about who might have had a reason to arrange this beneficial mishap.”

  Parris shook his head more vigorously. “If you’re thinking I had anything to do with Mrs. Reed losing her phone—”

  “Such an unseemly thought would never cross my mind.” Reed reflected Parris’s deadpan expression. “But considering the remarkably coincidental nature of your sordid proposal and Irene so conveniently misplacing her mobile phone—how would you characterize the situation?”

  Scott Parris thought about it awhile before grinning like a sinister jack-o’-lantern. “I’d call it fortuitous.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “It matters not, I’ve been told,

  Where the body lies when the heart grows cold

  Yet grant, o grant, this wish to me

  O bury me not on the lone prairie.”

  A General Sense of Unease

  A willful person who has survived to a ripe old age is likely to suffer remorse when remembering errors made along the way. From time to time the more sensitive souls will awaken in the middle of the night to recall a particularly egregious sin of commission or omission, or at the very least regret a wrong turn made along life’s journey.

  Daisy Perika, who took pride in being considered exceptional, was an exception to this rule. The tribal elder had blundered along her crooked pathway for decades, hardly ever giving a thought to the harmful effects of her words or deeds. If she woke up worrying about something, it was likely to be an opportunity she had missed to feather her own nest or get even with some pest who had crossed her path. Which was why her recent sleeplessness was so frustrating to the callous old soul.

  As Daisy lay in her Columbine four-poster from late Saturday night until Sunday’s first light, she stared at the shadowy beamed ceiling. The insomniac also fretted, fumed, and rationalized. There wasn’t anything actually wrong with what I did—and I didn’t even mean to do it. From the corner of her eye, she saw a moth shadow flit along the ceiling. The whole thing was nothing but an accident. Was that merely a shadow cast by a moth, or was it a huge spider about to drop down besider? I was just trying to help Sarah. Preparing herself for an encounter with an oversized arachnid, Daisy reached for a magazine on the bedside table. If I didn’t lend her a hand from time to time, that silly half-Papago girl wouldn’t know which way to turn. Hoping that the hideous creature would not fall onto her face, she rolled the magazine into a formidable spider swatter. I don’t know why I’m letting that silly business with the married woman and her boyfriend bother me so much.

  But of course Daisy did know.

  What she had done had not helped Sarah Frank. More to the point, the Ute-Papago orphan was unaware of Daisy Perika’s latest mischief, which was labeled TOP SECRET for the simple reason that the Ute elder had committed a serious crime—the kind for which a person can do hard time. And the worst was yet to come.

  The innocent moth settled lightly on the quilt, just over Daisy’s right knee.

  Wham!

  “Hah!” That’s what you get for pretending to be a spider.

  Guilty as Charged

  After breakfast, when Daisy attended Sunday-morning Mass with Charlie Moon and Sarah Frank, the youthful priest delivered a homily that was deeply painful to the old sinner. His subject was “Why the Ten Commandments Are Relevant Today.”

  During her earthly sojourn, this particular pilgrim had dealt frivolously with most of them—with two exceptions. Let it be noted on her behalf that the Ute woman had honored her parents. Moreover, never in all her life had Daisy made an idol to bow down to—not literally. And it would be uncharitable to assert that this apparent virtue was merely an oversight—that fashioning an object of worship from wood or stone had never occurred to a woman who was so busy with other mischief.

  What made Daisy cringe with barely concealed shame during the earnest priest’s sermon was not an introspective examination of her many years of missing the mark. The guilty secret that gnawed at her vitals was that very recently she had broken the Eighth Commandment as surely as if she had shattered Moses’s stone tablet personally and with malice aforethought. She was, as a Baptist minister might have said, “convicted of sin.”

  Which was an unpleasant and unfamiliar experience. So much so that the lifelong Catholic Christian did not dare approach the altar for Holy Communion. If I went up there, lightning might come down from heaven, blow a big hole in the church roof, and strike me dead! Remaining behind in an otherwise empty pew while Charlie and Sarah went to the altar to receive the precious gifts, the backsliding old soul knew what the solution was. I’ll have to go to Confession. Daisy groaned. It’s been so many years since that last time, I don’t know if I’ll remember how to do it. Surely there must be another way. The optimistic reprobate hoped that she would shed the sense of guilt after leaving church. What I need to do is get out of here and forget about sins and all that gloomy stuff.

  What she got was just the opposite.

  Even as they drove though the pleasant suburbs of Granite Creek, the remembrance of many long-forgotten misdeeds came back to haunt her. Like that time when a seven-year-old Daisy used leftover Easter-egg dye to tint her younger brother’s face a fine shade of green and then scared her mother half to death with a story about how the little fellow had eaten half a bar of lye soap. This and many other regrettable instances of misbehavior (too numerous to enumerate) served to put the old woman in a repentant mood. Her maternal grandmother had told her that God kept two books for each of us, a fragrant golden-leafed volume listing our good deeds, a filthy old pulp paperback for recording our sins. The size and heft of the books increased with the entries, and when that Final Day came, one book would be weighed against the other and a fateful decision made.

  Having no doubt about the outcome, Daisy decided that she ought to add some weighty stuff to the good side of the balance and…Considering how close I am to the grave, the sooner I get it done, the better. She nodded. First chance I get, I’ll do something nice. Recalling a favorite proverb (“There is no time like the present”), she beamed a smile at the back of her nephew’s head and tried to think of something sweet to say. It wasn’t easy. What Daisy finally came up with was: “It’s very kind of you to drive me to church this morning.”

  Charlie Moon, who took his aunt to church about nine Sundays out of every ten, told her she was welcome. I wonder what that’s all about.

  As well he might.

  Astonished to learn that merely trying to be nice made a person feel good, Daisy wanted more. “Stop at that nice little candy store, the one on Copper Street where they sell homemade ice cream.”

  Moon grinned. So that’s it. “You hankering for some butter pecan?”

  The old woman nodded. “A half gallon ought to be enough.” Daisy fished around in her purse and found a twenty-dollar bill. “I’m buying.”

  When the miserly old soul reached over the front seat to stuff the greenback into her nephew’s shirt pocket, Charlie Moon came very near to arching an eyebrow.

  Sarah Frank, who witnessed this unprecedented event from the passenger seat, did not shy away from such a display.

  Making Amends

  While the senior citizen was waiting in the Expedition for Charlie and Sarah to return from the Copper
Street Candy Shop, she could imagine—almost see—her pretty little golden-leafed book increasing in volume and heft. The calculating old soul estimated that it should take only two or three more acts of selfless kindness for it to get as big as a battleship and blow the ugly book right out of the water. Above all things, your moral philosopher hates to be interrupted while involved in the happy pastime of self-congratulation, but that is precisely what happened.

  Daisy was rudely jarred from her blissful reverie by the appearance of a pimply, unshaven face at the window.

  “God bless you,” the young man said—his beer-and-onions breath washing over Daisy’s face.

  “Who’re you and what do you want?” the blessed one snapped.

  One direct question would have confused the youth; two queries were over the top. The befuddled fellow stared blankly at this testy mark. “Uh…I wondered if you might have some spare change.”

  She pointed a crooked finger at his runny nose. “If I did, I’d invest it in U.S. savings bonds. Now hit the road, riffraff—before I jab my thumb in your eye and gouge it out!”

  Boy, this is some tough town. The panhandler backed off and ambled away. I’d better thumb me a ride up to Boulder.

  While the ice cream was being spooned into two quart containers, Charlie Moon happened to notice that Sarah was eyeing a tiny box of chocolates with a big price tag. The tall man with the thin wallet nodded to the clerk, who got the message.

  While her nephew was merely doing what came naturally, Daisy was recalling another proverb. Something about how by being kind to strangers, a person might end up doing a favor for an angel in disguise. Not that she thought that the repellent young man could possibly have been concealing wings under his tattered shirt. But it’d be a smart move to do something nice for a heavenly messenger. Why, that’d be worth giving spare change to a dozen no-good bums. Deep sigh. But I’d never be so lucky as to—