As a welcome diversion from this singular humiliation, Doc Simpson showed up “all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed” (as he described himself) and got right to work. After a cursory examination of Mrs. Reed’s remains, the county medical examiner pronounced her demise as “…primarily due to crushed fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae.” The sprightly octogenarian appended an incomprehensible string of medical et ceteras that was pointedly ignored by the collection of cops.
While the ME was occupying center stage, the chief of police was discreetly advised by Officer Alicia Martin that a grief-stricken and dazed Samuel Reed was wandering around aimlessly throughout the premises, mumbling over and over that he could “hardly believe that such a horrible thing could happen in my home.” Parris read the riot act gently but firmly to the bereaved spouse. “Your home is an official crime scene, Professor Reed. You’ll have to bunk somewhere else for a few days.” Officer Martin graciously offered to drive the befuddled man wherever he’d like to go, and made several helpful suggestions.
Sam Reed agreed to be transported to the Silver Mountain Hotel, which thriving enterprise he could have purchased for a tiny fraction of his liquid assets.
Throughout all this frenetic activity, Charlie Moon had little more to do than verify Scott Parris’s testimony about the evening’s bloody events and provide moral support to his best friend. When, at about half past one, the tribal investigator deemed his duty done, he said good night to Parris and took leave of the official commotion. Moon maneuvered his Expedition out of the guest-house garage and threaded his way through a congregation of official vehicles. The sleek beetles winked and blinked bright red and blue eyes at him.
An Incomplete Metamorphosis
As he rolled along on the highway toward home, Scott Parris’s part-time deputy was gradually being transformed into a full-time rancher—his face set toward greener pastures. The nearer Charlie Moon got to the reality of his vast cattle ranch, the more this night’s misadventure seemed like a lurid piece of fantasy. By the time he made a right turn, the bizarre double killing had taken on the surreal aspect of an absurd nightmare.
He slowed, pressed the gate-control button on his key chain, then—I forgot that the gate’s broken. But, to Moon’s surprise, it opened in response to the radio-frequency command.
This blessing was gratefully received.
Maybe my foreman or one of the cowboys got it working again. The amiable rancher felt a twinge of guilt. I guess I was a little hard on that pushy technician who wanted to sell me a high-tech gate controller. He smiled at the thought of calling from a telephone in China to open a gate in Colorado. As the creaky gate clanged shut behind him and Moon began to smell the earthy aromas of his home on the range, he decided to put the matter entirely out of his mind.
And almost succeeded.
Somewhere in the multidimensional depths of that vast inner space that clinical psychologists and cocktail-party experts refer to as the subconscious, Charlie Moon’s brain was hard at work. At about the time the Expedition slipped silently by the foreman’s residence, something ugly bubbled up. As the big rubber tires went rattling across the Too Late Creek bridge, Moon began to get a glimmer of a sinister notion. He parked under his favorite cottonwood and fixed his gaze on a bright star. How long he remained behind the steering wheel, watching the illusion of a distant sun slipping through the night sky while the seemingly immobile earth rotated, Mr. Moon neither knew nor cared. He spent the hours before dawn adding things up, fitting together pieces of a puzzle whose misshapen elements might have been created by a demented jigsaw operator.
At about that fine time when first light began to shine like heaven’s smile and the warm morning began to flow over the high prairie, the lawman realized that even if he was right, nothing could be done about it—not by district attorneys, juries of peers, or solemn judges. Moreover, Moon could not quite shake off the notion that…this might be one of those times when it’s best just to leave things alone.
Despite this night’s bloody history, the dawning morning was filled with sweet mystery. As Moon watched the edge of the sun explode over the mountains to make another day, he smiled as he remembered what his father used to say. When the old man was presented with a knotty problem by the woman of the house, Daddy would lift his chin, grin at little Charlie’s mother, and repeat the familiar deferral that had annoyed his wife no end.
Somewhere out there, Daddy’s words were forming in the atmosphere.
Sifting through new cottonwood leaves, the early-morning breeze breathed a whisper, which formed between Moon’s lips. I’ll have to think on it.
And he did.
What it finally all boiled down to was, If it wasn’t for Sam Reed, the Columbine would be shut down. The rancher owed him a staggering debt.
But what do you give a man who can pay hard cash for anything the world has to offer? Something money can’t buy. Friendship. But Reed didn’t need a week-kneed, fair-weather buddy who’d shrug off what was dead wrong and make feeble excuses like, “In this hard world, a man sometimes has to do hard things.” No, what the rich man needed was a stand-up friend who’d do his level best to make things right.
Charlie Moon was that man.
Chapter Fifty
7:57 A.M. Saturday, June 5
Bad News for Breakfast
While Charlie Moon slept in, Daisy Perika toddled into the Columbine headquarters kitchen, where Sarah Frank was working at the propane range. Seating herself at the table, Daisy returned the girl’s chipper good-morning with a dismissive grunt.
Sarah was tending to a matched pair of black iron skillets. In one, four eggs fried sunny-side up in a shallow pool of olive oil. It its twin, eight strips of bacon sizzled to a crispy finish.
The tribal elder’s nostrils barely detected the delectable scents of a hearty meal. Most mornings, nothing smells better than pork fat frying—but I don’t have any appetite.
Barely audible on the FM radio (so as not to disturb the man upstairs), Flatt and Scruggs were trying to liven up the morning with “Foggy Mountain Breakdown.”
Daisy lifted her chin to indicate her nephew’s second-floor bedroom. “He’s back.”
“I heard him come in.” The eighteen-year-old flipped the bacon strips. I wonder what Charlie’s been doing for the past few days.
“There’s no point in asking him,” Daisy said.
Sarah turned to blink at the unnerving old woman. “Ask him what?”
“What he’s been busying himself with.” Daisy shrugged. “Charlie hardly ever talks about police business.”
The girl barely suppressed a shudder. She’s reading my mind again.
“You don’t have any secrets from me.” The sly old crone pointed to a spot over Sarah’s head. “I can see your thoughts floating in a white balloon, like you was Little Orphan Annie in the comic strip.”
The Ute-Papago orphan thought of a delightfully tart retort, but, being a proper young lady, she settled for: “Do you want your eggs well done?”
The elderly diner shook her head. “I couldn’t choke down any cackleberries if my life depended on it.”
At this instant, which was, eight o’clock on the dot, Lester and Earl yielded the airwaves to a Rocky Mountain Polytechnic journalism major whose happy task it was to report the local bad news.
Sarah persisted: “How about some nice, crispy bacon?”
Daisy made a hideous face. “Ugh!”
The girl gave up.
Too easily, Daisy thought. “Maybe I could manage a little bowl of oat—”
“Shush!” Sarah said.
To say that Daisy was taken aback would be an understatement worthy of a card-carrying member the tight-upper-lipped British aristocracy. In all the years she’d spent with Sarah Frank, the girl had never so much as raised her voice to the tribal elder. The aggrieved senior citizen glared at the upstart youth.
The object of the glare was turning up the volume on the radio. “Listen!”
Dais
y cocked her ear to hear the newscaster’s voice.
“…The victims of last evening’s homicide at 1200 Shadowlane Avenue have been identified as Mrs. Irene Reed—a resident at that address—and Chico Perez—a former employee of the Sand Hills Country Club. At approximately ten P.M., Mrs. Reed made a 911 call to report an attempted break-in. Chief of Police Scott Parris and a part-time deputy were on the scene shortly after the incident occurred. We are informed that Mrs. Reed shot Perez—and that before he died of the gunshot wounds, Perez killed Mrs. Reed with his bare hands. When we asked GCPD Officer Alicia Martin whether Chico Perez might be the infamous Crowbar Burglar who has been terrorizing local citizens, the response was a terse ‘no comment.’ We expect to have more on this breaking story on today’s High Noon News. We’ll be back with a weather forecast after this message from our sponsor.” A ditty extolling the virtues of Red Buffalo Snuff blared in the Columbine kitchen.
“Turn if off,” Daisy snapped.
Sarah silenced the radio. “Mrs. Reed is that married woman we followed to the golf course.” She lowered the ring of blue flame under the eggs. “That man she shot must have been her boyfriend.”
“It was him all right.” Daisy knew he wasn’t actually Chico Perez, but that’s who the dead man would remain to the tribal elder—who was too old and set in her ways to call him by his right name. The issue that troubled her was…How could he have still been alive last night? Daisy’s brow furrowed into a disappointed scowl. I was sure I’d killed him with my walking stick. The aged woman remembered previous unfortunates who had not survived her violent assaults. Thus recollected, her victims paraded by her mind’s eye one-by-one, each fixing the Ute elder with an accusing stare. A Navajo haunt went so far as to make a rude gesture. Daisy found this experience immensely gratifying. She sneered at some, laughed at others. Every one of you scalawags had it coming!
By and by, nostalgia was elbowed aside by an unfamiliar and unwelcome visitor.
Guilt.
Daisy attempted to comfort herself with the defense that I’m just a tired old woman. (Listen to her self-pitying sigh.) Every once in a while I might make a mistake, but I always do the best I can. (Watch the salty tear form in her eye.) I can’t help it if sometimes things don’t work out like I intended.
But enough of this maudlin whining. As far as Daisy is concerned, apologizing is for prissy sissies and politicians who get caught with their hands in the cookie jar. The wielder of the oak walking staff was made of sterner stuff. What was called for was cold, hard analysis—looking the facts straight in the eye. All that Chickasaw lowlife needed was two or three more good whacks to crack his head wide open. So why hadn’t she gotten the job done? I just ran out of steam. With the problem properly defined, what one wanted was a solution. The leathery-faced old soul jutted her chin in a bloodcurdling impression of Geronimo about to mount a take-no-prisoners attack on the Tombstone stagecoach. What I need to do is keep my strength up. Charlie Moon’s determined auntie was just commencing to think that maybe I ought to take three or four of those One A Day vitamin pills every morning…when she was interrupted by the aforementioned orphan.
“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” Sweet Sarah Frank patted Daisy on the arm. “I’d be happy to make you some oatmeal.”
“Bite your tongue, Little Miss Do-good—you can save those Quaker flakes for another day.” Sniffing at the tantalizing aroma of sizzling pork fat, the hungry old carnivore banged knife and fork on the table. “Bring me a half-dozen fried eggs, a pound of greasy bacon, and a stack of flapjacks tall enough to shade me from the noonday sun!”
Chapter Fifty-One
Monday, June 7
The Snapshot
Scott Parris and Charlie Moon practically had the Columbine headquarters to themselves. When the chief of police arrived at the ranch, Sarah Frank was leaving for a morning class at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic and Daisy Perika was in her bedroom watching a familiar-looking raven settle onto a tree branch just outside the window. Whatever conversation might have passed between Charlie Moon’s enigmatic aunt and the so-called Delilah Darkwing is a matter known only to the Ute shaman and her feathered friend. Which is probably just as well.
Blissfully unaware of the old lady’s sinister business, Moon invited his best friend into the kitchen.
Being more or less a member of the Columbine family, Scott Parris didn’t wait for an invitation to belly up to the table. Like any sensible Western lawman, the town cop ambled over to his customary spot where he’d have his back to the wall, seated himself, and watched as his long, lean host folded himself into another chair. Charlie looks like he’s got something on his mind.
Something was brewing besides coffee.
Moon poured himself a mug. Scott looks like he didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. The rancher passed the blue enamel percolator and some welcome news to his friend. “Fred Thompson over at Cattleman’s Bank called just as you pulled up under the cottonwood. He said to tell you that Sam Reed has conceded the wager. You can pick up your winnings when you’re of a mind to.”
Still high on last Friday night’s excitement, Parris had not given much thought to the bet. “Thanks, Charlie.” The blue-eyed cop grinned like a little boy with a triple scoop of strawberry ice cream in a chocolate waffle cone. “It’ll be nice to thicken up my wallet with Reed’s four hundred bucks.”
“I imagine it will.”
Charlie hates to miss out on a bet. “It’s too bad you didn’t get a piece of the action. That bet was a sure thing right from the start.”
“I had my chance.” And I didn’t pass it by. But the Ute gambler would not be so graceless as to mention his winnings, which would make Scott’s four hundred dollars seem like pocket change. Not right away. Somewhere down the road, maybe—on one of those occasions when his friend was getting a bit too big for his britches.
Resting his elbows on the table, the small-time winner leaned toward Moon and whispered, “I s’pose we need to talk about a thing or two.”
The Ute nodded. “I reckon we do.”
And they were about to, when the old woman who conversed with lonely ghosts, wild and domesticated animals, and a sinister dwarf who lived in an abandoned badger hole, managed to “just happen by.” Presumably to tend to a few pressing domestic matters. Such as wiping an imaginary grease spot off the six-burner propane range. Turning off a hot-water faucet that wasn’t dripping a drop. All the while, humming “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Seemingly oblivious to the lawmen’s hastily contrived conversation about the weather, the old lady had both ears fine-tuned for any tidbit of gossip that might come her way.
Amused by her transparent stratagem, Charlie Moon could not allow the opportunity to pass without making a grab for its neck. Assuming his fair-to-middlin’ poker face, the tribal investigator lowered his voice just enough to get his aunt’s complete attention. He winked at his guest. “Is it true what I hear about you retiring?”
Parris was quick on the uptake. “I was gonna tell you all about it later on, but I guess now’s good a time as any.” He spoke in a low monotone. “It’s set for the middle of next month and that’s not a day too soon. I was all wore out before this bad business with Mrs. Reed and Chico Perez, but that double homicide has pushed me over the edge.”
Daisy turned and tilted her head, thus aiming her best ear toward the conversation.
Charlie Moon continued the charade. “Is there going to be a surprise party with presents and a great big cake?”
“Sure, the whole works. You can check with Officer Martin; she’s setting things up for the ballroom at the Silver Mountain. I’ll get a call that there’s a holdup in progress at the front desk, but when I show up at the hotel the whole place’ll be dark as the bottom of Mud Creek at midnight, and about the time I walk in and holler, ‘What’n hell’s goin’ on here?’ somebody’ll switch on the lights and I’ll be so danged surprised that I’ll faint and fall back in it.”
Edging her way to th
e table, Charlie’s aunt brushed a tiny crumb off the red-and-white-checkered oilcloth. Daisy also adjusted the salt and pepper shakers just so. She picked up the blue coffeepot and sloshed what was left around as if to estimate the remainder. ’Twas all for naught. To her considerable annoyance, the men clamped their mouths shut. Daisy waddled away to the sink with the percolator, dumped out the grounds, and put on a fresh pot of coffee.
Moon resumed the conversation. “So what’ll you do during your retirement, kick back and go to seed?”
“That’s what I’d had in mind, but I’ve been offered another job.”
The Ute shot a sideways glance at his aunt. “Doing what?”
“Don’t say a word about this, but…” Parris leaned close to his best friend and whispered loud enough for the old woman to hear, “A couple of weeks from now, the president of the United States is gonna appoint me to be the ambassador to Ireland.”
“Good!” Daisy snorted. “When you get there, send me back a bushel of blarney.”
The men enjoyed a good belly laugh.
What a couple of silly-boogers. But, knowing what was expected of her, the butt of their joke presented her standard scowl.
Feeling just the least bit guilty, Scott Parris got up from his straight-back chair and looped an arm around the feisty old woman’s stooped shoulders. “How’d you like to hear some honest-to-goodness true gossip?”
She turned down the flame under the pot, which was beginning to make burpity-perking sounds. “Make it worth my while and I’ll pour you a cup of coffee that’ll take all the enamel off your teeth.”
The chief of police leaned and kissed her on the cheek, then addressed Daisy’s good ear. “There’s been an interesting new development, one that the recently deceased Mr. Perez might have been mixed up in.”
A Dead Man's Tale Page 24
