Snake Dreams

by James D. Doss

  “Oh.” (There was more than a hint of suspicion embedded in the girl’s “Oh.”)

  Daisy pondered what to do. It was Chiquita, all right. And if we don’t help her she won’t let Sarah alone. She’ll come creeping around the house at night, scaring the poor little thing out of her wits, and I won’t get a wink of sleep. The surly shopper glanced in the direction whence she had come. “I happened to run into a certain person over by the soups.”

  The needle on Sarah’s suspicion meter edged into the red zone. “Who?”

  A sly smile cracked Daisy’s leathery face. “I’ll tell you if you’ll promise to keep it to yourself.”

  Discretion was Sarah’s long suit. “Okay.”

  “Cross your heart?”

  The secret keeper’s finger made an X on her chest.

  Daisy whispered, “It was Chiquita Yazzi.”

  “Nancy’s mother’s come back?”

  “Yes she has.” In her own special way. “And she asked for a little favor. It’d make her real happy if you’d talk to her daughter.”

  “What about?”

  Daisy avoided the girl’s stare. “Chiquita said Nancy was about to get herself into some serious trouble—I guess she figures you could talk some sense into her head.”

  “Why doesn’t she talk to Nancy herself?”

  “Oh, after running out on her second husband and her daughter, I expect Chiquita has her reasons for staying out of sight.” Like a neck that oozes buckets of blood.

  Knowing this peculiar old woman only too well, Sarah addressed the issue that was still making her skin crawl: “Does this have something to do with a ginger root talking to me?”

  Daisy reached into her bag of deceitful tricks, found her Appalled mask, put it on. “Well, that’s a silly question!”

  Having seen this phony face before, Sarah was not impressed. She assumed her I’m Waiting for an Answer expression.

  For the longest time, the old woman and the youth stood toe to toe. Eye to eye.

  It was Daisy who blinked. Appalled was reluctantly exchanged for Guilty as Charged.

  Aha—I knew it! “Tell me.”

  The shaman sighed, shook her head. “Chiquita can’t talk to her daughter because . . . because . . . well . . . she’s dead.”

  “Oh.” The girl felt her fingertips begin to tingle. “How did Mrs. Yazzi die?”

  The morbid old woman drew a finger across her neck.

  “Oh my!” Sarah tried to swallow. Could not. “Who did it?”

  Daisy headed for the banana display. “Chiquita won’t say, but I figure it was one of her lowlife boyfriends.” Another possibility occurred to the tribal elder. “Or maybe it was her husband. That Hermann Wetzel’s a dangerous man—and jealous. He might’ve tracked Chiquita down and slit her throat.”

  In an attempt to dismiss this grisly scene from her mind, Sarah tried to remember happier times when she and Nancy Yazzi had been close friends. After her mother had abandoned her, Nancy was very angry and said she hoped she’d “never see that bitch again!” But when a long-haul trucker from Bayfield claimed that he’d spotted Chiquita in a Las Cruces honky-tonk, Nancy had dropped out of school for a few weeks and there were rumors that she’d borrowed her boyfriend’s car and gone looking for the errant mother. Other tale tellers claimed that Nancy had simply shacked up with the boyfriend while Hermann Wetzel had gone searching for his wife. Whatever the truth of the matter, after Nancy returned to school, she never said a word about her mother. It was as if Chiquita Yazzi no longer existed. Sarah wondered aloud, “What are the police doing?”

  Daisy treated herself to another snort. “Not a thing.” But there were extenuating circumstances. “Besides me and the murderer, I guess nobody knows for sure Chiquita is dead—her body’s never been found.” She selected a cluster of medium-green bananas, put them into her shopping cart. “And that poor soul don’t even know where she’s buried.” Which was no big surprise. Chiquita couldn’t find her head if it wasn’t fastened on her shoulders. Which, come to think of it . . . But that didn’t bear thinking about. She pointed a crooked finger. “Go over there and get us a half-dozen Winesaps. And watch out for worm-holes.”

  Sarah objected to this unjust insinuation. “Grocery-store apples don’t have worms.”

  “Oh, that’s what they want you to think.” Daisy cast a sideways glance at the patient man who was restoring fallen onions to the stack. “Those matukach slickers stuff the holes with candle wax and paint ’em over with fingernail polish!” The crafty old woman cocked her head at the youth. “D’you know what’s ten times worse than biting into a nice, shiny apple and finding a worm?” Gratified by the girl’s apprehensive Please Don’t Tell Me expression, she snapped, “Finding half a worm!” Almost overcome by mirth, Daisy banged her walking stick on the floor, cackled up a long string of “heh-heh-hehs.”

  AS SARAH pushed the cart toward the apples, trying ever so hard not to imagine how half a worm would taste (the ick factor was very high), a wonderfully refreshed Daisy Perika approached the restored onion pyramid.

  The produce manager was frowning at something he did not understand: This interloper did not belong among the Vidalia clan.

  The Ute elder snatched it out of his hand.

  His eyes popped at this outrage. “Hey!”

  Daisy cocked her head at the man. “Hay is what Tennessee rednecks make while the sun shines. Come sundown, they run off a gallon or two of moonshine.”

  These jarring non sequiturs momentarily discombobulated the uncomplicated fellow. “Uh—excuse me, ma’am, but that item’s been on the floor.”

  Ma’am stuffed the ginger root into her pocket. “So do I get a discount?”

  “No. I mean . . .” He felt his facial tic kick in. “It’s not for sale.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  Her victim blinked. “For what?”

  “A free sample.” Tapping away with her walking stick, Daisy tossed a parting remark over her shoulder: “I’ll feed it to my three-legged billy goat.”

  He watched her go, shook his head. Probably another old crank that slipped out of the nursing home.

  Nine

  The Invitation

  Picture the three of them in Daisy Perika’s cozy parlor.

  Sarah Frank’s black-and-white spotted cat is sprawled on an oval rug by the hearth. Mr. Zig-Zag’s eyes are shut, but he does not slumber.

  Daisy Perika has a white woolen shawl pulled around her hunched shoulders. The aged woman sits in a rocking chair, but she does not rock.

  Sarah sits cross-legged on the couch. The Ute-Papago girl has a job to do, but she does not know how to begin.

  THE AGED feline, who does little nowadays but eat and doze, was digesting tasty leftovers from supper. In preparation for a long night’s sleep and exhausting dreams, Mr. Zig-Zag was resting.

  As she mused about her stressful day, the wrinkled old husk of a woman had her knees close to the fire. That trip to town in Gorman’s car and not being able to find any real chicken noodle soup and having Chiquita Yazzi—bloody as a slaughtered hog!—sneak up on me and start yammering about her dopy daughter—the whole business has me all wore out. If the roof was about to cave in, I don’t think I could lift a finger to help myself. No, I’d just sit here and let it fall on me and then all my troubles would be over.

  Sarah Frank was staring at the cordless telephone in her hands as if she had not the least notion what it was, much less what to do with it.

  Though she seemed to be focused on the flames that curled lovingly around a pile of split piñon logs, Daisy’s favorite way of looking at things was from the corner of her eye. Her left eye. Which was aimed at the girl. Why doesn’t she just do it?

  Sarah responded to the unspoken question: “I don’t know what to say.”

  Daisy groaned. These silly young people, it’s a wonder they know how to breathe in and breathe out. “Just say, ‘Hello, Nancy—it’s me, Sarah. What’ve you been up to lately?’ ”

&nb
sp; “I mean after that.”

  The weary woman gathered just enough strength to roll her eyes.

  Sarah squeezed the telephone. I can’t say anything about Aunt Daisy talking to her mother in the supermarket. Nancy would say, “Oh, that’s wonderful—how is my momma doing?” I can’t very well tell her, “Well, except for having her throat cut and being dead, I guess she was all right.”

  Having rolled her eyes upward, Daisy was about to reverse the process when she happened to notice a tiny spider hotfooting it across the beamed ceiling, down the paneled wall toward the four-inch-thick oak mantelpiece. I hate spiders. Especially when the nasty little buggers come into my house. If it wasn’t so much trouble, I’d get out of this chair and roll up a newspaper and swat you flat as a pancake. Not so many years ago, the traditional Ute woman would not have thought of killing an arachnid—not if it was tap-dancing across her nose. Such a crime could bring on all sorts of bad luck, like the well going dry and the cows and goats and sheep dying off. Not that Daisy owned any livestock. But she did have a fine well. The thing that was really scary was revenge by the dead spider’s angry relatives, who would sneak into the house at night, crawl up the legs of your bedstead and under the covers and bite you all over, and you would swell up like a big tick on a dog’s ear and die in horrible pain. But the tribal elder no longer feared any of these things. Last year, both Daisy and Sarah had demonstrated such incredible courage in facing down formidable eight-legged creatures that the Spider Clan would not dare attack them. Which reminded Daisy that there was nothing to keep Sarah from giving this tiny creature a good whack. She was about to suggest that her youthful companion perform this service, when—

  Sarah took a deep breath, punched in the Granite Creek telephone number, and waited.

  The frugal homeowner snapped, “It’s long distance, so don’t talk all night.”

  Sarah heard a highly gruff “Whoozis?” in her ear, mumbled, “It’s me. Sarah Frank.”

  “You’ve dialed a wrong number, sis. Hang up, and next time watch where you’re puttin’ your fingers—”

  “I’m sure this is the right number.” She steeled herself to say his name. “Is this Mr. Wetzel?”

  “Yeah.” The voice softened to medium gruff. “Do I know you?”

  “Uh—I don’t think so.” I hope not. “I just want to—”

  “You one a them people who call up to sell me something I don’t want?”

  “—talk to Nancy.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” A rafter-rattling bellow: “Hey—Nance—it’s one a your little dingbat girlfriends on the phone.” A bang as Hermann Wetzel dropped the instrument on a table. “Keep it short. Three minutes flat and I pull the cord.”

  The caller waited, counted her thumping heartbeats.

  “Hello.”

  “Nancy—this is Sarah.”

  “Sarah Frank?”

  “Uh-huh.” Now what do I say? “I just wanted to call you up, see how you’re doing.”

  “That’s real sweet of you.”

  “So—how’re you doing?”

  “Oh, okay I guess. How’re you doing?”

  “Okay.”

  “Things going okay at your new house?”

  “Oh, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  This fascinating exchange would likely have continued along this line had not Daisy Perika and Hermann Wetzel been eyeing the respective teenagers.

  Sarah had no trouble reading her friend’s mind. “Is your stepfather listening to you?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” A pause. “No, wait. He’s going down to the basement.”

  “What’s he do down there?”

  “Oh, that’s where he reads his hunting and fishing magazines and plays around with his guns and stuff.”

  “Guns?”

  “He’s got dozens of ’em. Rifles. Shotguns. Pistols.”

  Sarah had a sudden inspiration. “Tomorrow morning, Charlie Moon is coming to get me and Aunt Daisy. We’ll be spending a week or two at his ranch.” She took a deep breath. “What I wondered was—would you like to go to the Columbine with us? I’m sure Charlie wouldn’t mind. He’s got a great big house with lots of bedrooms and there’s horses we can ride and a big lake where we can catch fish and—”

  “I’m sorry, Sarah—I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  A hesitation. “I’ve already got something planned for tomorrow night.”

  “Oh. With one of your boyfriends, I bet.”

  “Maybe.”

  That meant yes. “Does your stepfather know?”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  “So Mr. Wetzel still doesn’t let you go places—like on dates?” Nancy was almost eighteen.

  “No. He likes for me to stay home.” Especially at night.

  “Does he still . . . you know . . .”

  “Mmm-hmm. Sometimes.”

  “Nancy, you ought to tell someone!”

  “Like who?”

  “Your high-school nurse. Or the police.”

  “I can’t prove anything, Sarah. Nobody would believe me.”

  “You could tell Charlie Moon—he’d believe you.” And he’d fix Mr. Wetzel so he couldn’t ever do anything like that again. Not as long as he lived!

  “Let’s not talk about it.”

  “Okay. But I don’t know how you can live in the same house with him.”

  Nancy Yazzi almost said it out loud: I won’t have to for much longer.

  Six heartbeats.

  Sarah broke the brittle silence. “So how’re you getting out of the house tomorrow night?”

  “Hermann thinks I’m going to help our landlady do some shopping.” Nancy’s laugh tinkled in Sarah’s ear. “The old lady rents us this really nice house for like half price, so he’s glad to do her any little favor he can—especially if I’m the one who has to do the work.”

  As if the evil stepfather might hear her query, Sarah whispered, “Where are you really going?”

  The older girl hesitated, then revealed a portion of the plot: “Miss Muntz—that’s our landlady—she’s gonna drop me off at a dance.”

  It was Sarah’s turn to sigh. “I’d like to go to a dance.” But only if Charlie Moon took me.

  Nancy giggled. “You ought to come to this one.”

  Sarah felt the intensity of Daisy’s sideways stare. “Tell you what—in a day or two I’ll call you from Charlie’s ranch.”

  “Okay.” Nancy suppressed a second giggle. “If you want to.” But I’ll be long gone by then.

  “Goodbye, Nancy.”

  “G’bye, Sarah.”

  Daisy Perika had been straining her ears, also the corner of her eye. “So Hermann Wetzel still keeps a tight leash on his stepdaughter.”

  “I guess so.” Sarah Frank was imagining Charlie Moon punching Mr. Wetzel in the face over and over. Then breaking both his arms and—

  “Well, you talked to Nancy and even invited her to come to the Columbine with us.” Daisy was glaring at a pint-size, pinch-faced version of Chiquita Yazzi. The dead woman was perched on the mantelpiece, between a pair of pale yellow candlesticks in pewter holders. “Nobody could say you didn’t try your level best to help her.” She glared at the unwelcome guest and whispered, “Nobody who didn’t want to be a horned lizard that eats red fire ants and burps up hot cinders!”

  At this, the apparition vanished.

  Never to return again, the shaman hoped. Daisy also hoped for joints that did not ache, sufficient rain to help her parched little garden grow plump Better Girl tomatoes and crisp radishes, a hundred nights in a row when the wind didn’t blow sand against her bedroom window, and sleep without dreams. She blinked at the girl. “It’s past your bedtime and we’ve got a big day tomorrow.” And indeed they did.

  Not being a typical teenager, Sarah neither groaned nor whined. She got up, kissed the old woman good night, and headed for her bedroom.

  Watching the girl go (from the corner of her eye), the tribal elder call
ed out, “When you get up in the morning, don’t forget to put on that pretty blue dress I made for you.”

  “I won’t forget.” Sarah smiled. Charlie Moon was coming and she intended to look her very best.

  “And your new black shoes.”

  AFTER THE girl had snuggled into her bed, Daisy Perika picked up the cordless telephone and began to rock back and forth. Creakity-squeak went the chair. Poppity-snap went the piñon logs in the fireplace. Tickity-tock went the old wind-up alarm clock.

  How she does it is a mystery. But from time to time, the old woman knows the phone is going to ring. If you asked her, Daisy would tell you who was on the other end of the line and she’d be right eight times out of nine.

  Brrrriiing. She slipped the instrument under a wisp of gray hair. “Hello, Charlie.”

  The voice in her ear echoed the greeting, asked how she was getting along.

  “If you don’t want to hear an hour-long organ recital, don’t ask.” She waited until his laughter had subsided. “So let’s talk about our plans for tomorrow.”

  “A-hmm.” (That was Charlie Moon clearing his throat.)

  Daisy: I don’t like the sound of that.

  “Uh . . . something’s come up. I got a call from Lila Mae a few minutes ago.”

  I should’ve known. “Oh you did, did you.”

  “She’ll arrive at the Colorado Springs airport tomorrow.”

  “And she expects you to come pick her up.”

  “She said not to bother, she’d rent a car, but—”

  “But you said, ‘Don’t you rent a car, sweetie pie—I’ll be there when you show up.’ ”

  “More or less.”

  “Well, that sure messes things up.” Of all the big gourd heads in the whole world, Charlie Moon takes the cake.

  “Everything will work out fine.” Moon smiled at his mental image of the irascible auntie. “Jerome Kydmann will come to get you and Sarah.”

  In Daisy’s opinion, of all the slack-jawed cowhands on the Columbine, the Wyoming Kyd was the best of a sorry lot. The tribal elder secretly liked the intelligent young man. But never one to pass up an opportunity to punish her nephew, Dr. Daisy searched her dusty pharmacy, found a black little bottle labeled EXTRACT OF GUILT, expertly injected a stiff dose via the telephone connection. “For weeks now—that sweet little girl’s been looking forward to seeing you.”