A Dead Man's Tale

by James D. Doss

  What had interrupted Daisy’s thoughts? She had noticed a bewildered-looking woman limping down the sidewalk. She looks wet as a drowned catfish; probably got drunk on rotgut whiskey and fell into the gutter. I bet she don’t know where her next meal’s coming from. This was clearly no angel, but a person had to start someplace to have any hope of hitting the big score. Daisy stuck her head halfway through the car window and yelled, “Hey—Boozy Betty.”

  The middle-aged woman slowed, stared suspiciously at the wrinkled face in the SUV. “You talking to me?”

  “Sure.” Daisy nodded. “Come over here.”

  The pathetic figure approached. “What d’you want?”

  “Are you one of them homeless persons that wanders around eating out of trash cans?”

  “I guess so, but I don’t remember eating anything lately.”

  Pitiful little thing. For the first time in ages, Daisy felt a surge of genuine compassion. “What’s your name, honey?”

  A listless shrug. “I don’t remember.”

  This was almost too good to be true. Homeless and a lunatic. The tribal elder grinned. I’ll rack up points like Minnesota Fats on a roll. Saint Daisy assumed an expression that was intended to be beneficent. “I’d like to help you.”

  “Oh.” The gray face brightened. “That’s awfully nice of you.”

  Damn right it is. “Now what do you need?”

  “A smoke.”

  “I don’t have any tobacco.”

  “That’s too bad.” The woman got a hard, glittery look in her eye. “I’d kill for a cigarette.”

  “You look like you need something to eat.” Daisy pointed. “My nephew’s over there in the candy store; his name’s Charlie Moon. Tall galoot, skinny as a garter snake. Tell you what—you go inside and tell Charlie that his aunt Daisy said to buy you a nice big chocolate bar.”

  “Chocolate makes my skin break out.”

  Daisy sighed. Being nice is hard work. But, undaunted, she opted for some cheerful small talk. “Where do you live—in a big cardboard box somewhere?”

  “I don’t live anywhere.” Another shrug. “When it’s daytime, I like to hang out here on the street.”

  “That’s nice.” She’s not too bright. “But where do you sleep, dearie?”

  The pale, pitiful figure pointed. “You want to see, go around back—in the alley.” Evidently warming to the old lady, the woman leaned closer.

  As she did, Daisy caught a whiff. Oh, my—she smells like she crawled out of a sewer. That put an end to her experiment in charity. Before closing the car window, the aspiring Good Samaritan gave the unfortunate person directions to the Salvation Army shelter. “You stink like an outhouse in July, so first thing you should do when you get there is take a hot shower. And use a whole bar of soap!”

  Without a word, the dismal soul turned away and wandered off as if in a stupor.

  Try to be nice to people and what does it get you? Daisy treated herself to a melancholy sigh. Not even a thank-you.

  By the time Charlie Moon and Sarah Frank returned, the nephew with ice cream and a big smile on his face, Sarah with a little box of chocolates in her hand and a warm feeling in her heart, the tribal elder had reverted to form.

  As the amiable man got into the big automobile, Daisy Perika inquired in a peevish tone, “So where’s the change from my twenty-dollar bill?”

  Chapter Thirty

  The Grim Wages of Sin

  As on every evening since Daisy Perika had committed the theft, she entered her bedroom with this thought uppermost in her mind: I didn’t do anything wrong, because I didn’t actually mean to take it. Before I knew it, there it was in my hand and all I could think of was to hold on to it and hide it. Desiring a peaceful night’s sleep above all other blessings, the strong-willed woman made herself this firm promise: Tonight, I won’t look at it. She jutted her chin. I won’t even think about it.

  Her mind was made up.

  But the gradual transformation of gray twilight into blackest night began to work its dark magic on the tribal elder’s psyche. Her fingers, which evidently had minds of their own, turned the latch to lock her bedroom door. She sighed. Now what did I do that for? Simple privacy, she told herself. It’s not like I’m afraid that somebody might walk in here and find me with it in my hands.

  But one misstep generally leads to another.

  I guess it wouldn’t hurt to make sure it’s still where I put it.

  Bending her aged back, Daisy grunted and pulled a shoebox from underneath her bed. She seated herself in an armchair and placed the box in her lap. I know it’s still in there, so there’s no reason to take the top off the box and have a look.

  Her fingers removed the cardboard lid.

  Her eyes peeked in.

  The thing was there.

  As if it were endowed with eyes, the purloined property seemed to look back at her. As if it had a mouth, it seemed to whisper…Go ahead—pick me up.

  Who could resist such a temptation? Not Miss Daisy.

  I’ll check to make sure all the goodies are still inside.

  And so Daisy’s evening went, a mix of gloating and fretting over her ill-gotten treasure. Finally, she placed the object back in the shoebox and shoved it under the bed with her foot.

  Minutes later, after Daisy had gotten into bed and pulled the quilt up to her chin, she addressed God with this solemn promise: That’s the very last time. Tomorrow I’ll do something about it.

  The grandfather clock in the parlor began to sound the hour, which was a big one.

  Daisy Perika counted twelve gongs and two hoots from an owl. It’s already tomorrow.

  Her bedside clock continued to tick and tock.

  The owl in the cottonwood continued to announce her presence.

  When the sleepless woman heard the gong that announced the half hour, she muttered, “This won’t do.” Foreseeing another sleepless night ahead, Daisy Perika got out of bed, slipped on her house slippers and robe, and dialed a telephone number in Granite Creek. As soon as the sleepy lady on the other end picked up, the Ute elder snapped, “This is Daisy and I know how late it is but I need to talk to you. But not on the phone so I’ll get Sarah to drop me off at your place tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Very well, Daisy.” Millicent Muntz yawned. “Good night then, and sweet dreams.”

  Daisy Perika did not enjoy a good night and her dreams were anything but sweet. But between brief episodes of fitful sleep, she was comforted by the thought that…One way or another, I’ll get this business settled.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Old Friends

  Old in the sense that Millicent Muntz and Daisy Perika were both well along in years; the period of their acquaintance was (as we shall soon see) not comparable to their longevity.

  As the women sat in Miss Muntz’s immaculate kitchen, sipping weak green tea (Millicent), strong black coffee (Charlie Moon’s aunt), and munching almond cookies warm from Miss M.’s oven, the soul mates engaged in chitchat about this and that, and their reminiscences naturally included the adventure that had brought them together two years earlier, when the Ute elder had hatched a plan that (despite being somewhat harebrained) had resolved a dodgy dilemma that the white woman had found herself enmeshed in.

  As a result of that dangerous escapade, the fragile maiden lady was convinced that she owed her life to Daisy. Millicent Muntz was not one to let a debt go unpaid; she tended to fret until the score was evened up. This aspect of her impeccable character (in addition to her natural curiosity) was why Miss M. was so eager to hear what kind of trouble Daisy was in, so that she could help her Ute friend. But being a keenly intelligent octogenarian, she knew better than to press. When Daisy is good and ready, she will tell me what’s on her mind.

  Now, whether Daisy would ever be good remains an unsettled issue (she is a work in progress), but by and by she signaled (by clearing her throat of cookie crumbs) that she was ready.

  Daisy’s Confession

  As
the Ute woman turned the translucent china cup in her hand, she assumed the offhand tone that one of her advanced years might use when discussing the unseasonably dry weather or how the print in newspapers and magazines is so small nowadays that a person can hardly read a word of it. “D’you remember that skinny little Ute-Papago girl—the orphan who moved in with me three or four years ago?”

  “Yes, dear.” Poor Daisy is getting awfully absentminded. “I spoke to Sarah when she dropped you off here this afternoon.”

  “Oh. Right.” Some morning I’ll wake up and not remember my own name. And the day after that I’ll wake up dead. “Well, a few days ago Sarah got this notion that she should help Charlie Moon and Scott Parris with some police business.” Daisy added, “Charlie’s my nephew and Scott’s the chief of police.”

  Her host nodded, but graciously refrained from reminding her forgetful guest that she knew both men quite well.

  “Scott needed to find out whether a particular married woman had herself a boyfriend, but he couldn’t spare a cop to snoop around and dig up some dirt. So Sarah decided she’d follow the woman and find out what she was up to.”

  “Really? How delightfully exciting!”

  What Daisy was getting to would be difficult, so she decided to make her way there gradually. She began by making a minor confession: “I know you believe I’m sweet as honey in the comb, Millie—but you don’t know me as well as you think you do. Truth is, from time to time I can be a little bit pushy.”

  The polite white woman concealed her smile behind a teacup.

  “When I found out what Sarah was up to, I kind of bullied her into taking me along.”

  “I’m sure that you had the girl’s best interests in mind.”

  Daisy shook her head. “All I cared about was getting out and having a good time.”

  Miss Muntz laughed. “And did you?”

  The storyteller nodded. And grinned.

  “Tell me all about it.” So as not to miss a word of what promised to be juicy gossip, Miss Muntz leaned forward.

  Daisy launched into her story, leaving out Irene Reed’s identity. As the narrator approached the good part, she hesitated. “I couldn’t see much, what with wearing Sarah’s big hat and her silly sunglasses. And when those two got through clutching each other like a couple of silly teenagers and started gabbing, the thunderstorm was making so much noise I couldn’t make out what they were talking about. I was thinking about sneaking away when Charlie Moon’s stupid dog gave me a yank like an Arkansas mule pulling up a pine stump. And off he dragged me—in the one direction I didn’t want to go!”

  “Oh!” Miss Muntz set her teacup aside. “How perfectly terrifying for you.”

  “You can say that again.” But Miss M. didn’t, and Daisy continued her account of the harrowing encounter. “Well, here me and Sidewinder go, right up to where those two was standing. I didn’t know what to do, so—bold as brass—I made up my mind to pretend like I was blind as a bat and half deaf and too addled to know where I was.”

  The white-haired lady clapped her hands. “What a madcap thing to do—how wonderfully clever of you!”

  The elder of the pair paused for a moment to bask in the well-deserved praise. “Things might’ve turned out pretty well, except that dopey dog stopped on a dime and I took a tumble. I would’ve fallen flat on my face if I hadn’t made a grab for the young man.”

  “Oh, my. How embarrassing for you.”

  Daisy groaned inwardly at the memory. “I would’ve gotten hold of the woman, but I was closer to him than her. Anyway, when I got my arms around him, my right hand just naturally ended up where it didn’t belong.”

  Miss M. blushed. “Oh, dear.”

  “That ain’t the half of it.” Avoiding the white woman’s reproachful gaze, Daisy blinked at her coffee cup. “He had one of them long wallets that sticks out of a man’s pocket.”

  Daisy’s host was beyond blushing, even oh-dearing.

  Setting her face like flint, the Ute elder made her confession all in one breath: “First thing I knew, the young man was helping me back to my feet and his wallet was in my hand and I knew he’d think I’d picked his pocket deliberately so I hid it under my shawl and got away from there as quick as I could.” Which was not entirely true. A part of Daisy had been thrilled to have the wallet.

  Miss M., a retired schoolteacher who had heard any number of naughty students tell everything from outright lies to poorly constructed half-truths, could read the deceit in Daisy’s face. She was also a practicing Catholic who knew that a weak confession was little better than none at all.

  The white woman’s brittle-as-ice silence unnerved Daisy, who insisted, “I’ve been meaning to mail it back to him, but you know how things are when a person gets busy with one thing and another. Hard as I’ve tried, I haven’t managed to get around to it.”

  “What was in the wallet?”

  “Nothing much. Usual stuff.”

  “A driver’s license?”

  Daisy nodded. “And some pictures of women.” All of ’em probably married.

  “Pictures—that’s all?”

  “Well, there was some credit cards and stuff.”

  “No cash?”

  “Uh…now that you mention it, I think maybe there was.”

  “How much?”

  Daisy shrugged. “About four hundred and twenty-eight dollars.”

  Her friend drew in a long breath and let it out with a sorrowful sigh. “Daisy, dear—I know that you are a Christian.” Not an outstanding example, but one of God’s children nevertheless. “You must go to Confession.”

  Having been there, done that, Daisy shook her head. “Them priests are as alike as peas in a pod. If I told one of ’em what I’d done, he’d say, ‘Daisy—you can’t have Holy Communion till you’ve given that man his property back—and apologized.’” She banged the china cup on the kitchen table hard enough to make Miss Muntz wince. “And I ain’t gonna grovel and say, ‘I’m so sorry I picked your pocket,’ to a lowlife rascal who messes around with married women!”

  “Very well.” Miss Muntz turned up her nose and sniffed. “If your mind is made up on the matter of a confession and apology, I shall not press you. But the essence of this matter must be dealt with forthwith.” The former schoolteacher was not in the habit of mincing words. She told Daisy Perika exactly what had to be done and when.

  The old sinner shuddered at the thought. “I have to take the wallet back to him tonight?”

  “Immediately. I will drive you to his residence.” Seeing the stubborn expression hardening on Daisy’s face, she smiled as if addressing a fractious child. “But you need not confront the fellow. We’ll put his wallet in a manila envelope, which you will place in his mailbox, where he’ll find it on the morrow.”

  “I’d like some time to think about it and—”

  “Out of the question.” Miss M. shook her head. “If you wait for even a few minutes, you will come up with an excuse to avoid the ordeal and then you’ll be right back where you started from.” Practically oozing compassion, the well-meaning lady patted Daisy’s hand. “But don’t worry—I will be with you to provide moral support. Now where does the owner of the purloined property reside?”

  Daisy fished the wallet out of her voluminous purse and squinted at a Colorado driver’s license that had been issued barely three months earlier. “It says 686 Sundown Avenue.”

  “That doesn’t sound familiar, but we shall find it. I have a detailed map of the county.” Miss Muntz popped up from her chair like an impetuous teenager about to begin an adventure. “Get your coat on, Daisy—we must make hay while the sun shines!”

  “I don’t need any hay and the sun’s already about to settle down behind the mountains,” the pickpocket grumbled. But, overwhelmed by the white woman’s enthusiasm and her bare-knuckled approach to matters of ethics and conscience, Daisy Perika could see no way out. And I did come here for Millie’s advice. There was this consolation: Once we get this done, at least
I’ll be able to sleep nights. Which prospect brought on a deep sigh and a worrisome doubt. Unless I lay wide awake thinking about how I had four hundred and twenty-eight dollars in my hand and tossed it into the wind like so much corn silk.

  Millicent looked down her nose at the dawdler. “Let’s get a move on!”

  “Oh, all right.” Daisy heaved herself up from the chair and followed Miss Muntz into the attached garage, where the white-haired woman’s Buick awaited them.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Miss M.’S Plan Goes Somewhat Awry

  The search for the place where Chico Perez hung his hat had taken them almost a mile outside the Granite Creek city limits and into a shabby neighborhood that had few street signs and no streetlights at all. The elderly white lady eased her venerable Buick slowly along the narrow strip of potholed blacktop that boasted the presumptuous title Sundown Avenue. “Ought to be called Rundown Avenue,” Miss M. murmured as she took a sideways glance at a dilapidated double-wide on a half acre littered with all manner of junk. “I realize that some people do not have the means to live in a nice neighborhood, but you would think they might at least have the pride to keep refuse from accumulating.”

  “One person’s trash is another one’s treasure.” Daisy was watching mailboxes slip away behind them.

  As if to accentuate an already dismal outing, a cold rain began to pelt the windshield. This unwelcome treat was followed by sheets of wind-driven sleet. “Oh my.” Miss Muntz’s gloved hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. “We had better find the address before the inclement weather renders our mission impossible.”

  The aged Indian was indifferent to meteorological phenomena, and more alert than the driver. “We just passed a mailbox 684, so 686 should be the next one.”

  Miss M. applied the brakes as the sedan slipped past a narrow, weed-choked driveway that provided access to a slatternly old clapboard house that was almost concealed in a grove of sickly elms and thirsty junipers. “That must be it.” Uncertain of what to do next, she stopped. “I mustn’t park here on the road, but there is no suitable place to pull over and—Oh, here comes a big truck behind us!”