Snake Dreams

by James D. Doss

  Whew!

  WHEN MR. MOON and his favorite companion were within a few minutes of Granite Creek, he mentioned—in an offhand way—his plans for the evening.

  After listening intently, Lila Mae McTeague nodded. Yes, that would be fine with her. But why didn’t he tell me about this last night? She thought she knew: Probably because he thought that I might decide to put the Colorado trip off until next month. Or the month after that, or . . .

  But later on, as the lady and the Man in Her Life joined a group of Moon’s rowdy friends, it wasn’t long before Lila Mae was clapping her hands. Applause? Yes. Also her way of getting with the rhythm. The Ute musician was perched on a three-legged stool, plucking at all five strings on his red-hot banjo. Miss McTeague was delighted to be with her bluegrass beau and Mr. Moon was right happy to be with his special agent sweetie, also mighty glad to be picking his way up Cripple Creek and just as pleased to make his way back down again. And so it went, the lady’s hands a-clapping, the man’s long fingers pluckity-plucking taut banjo strings. Twangity-twang-twang! Foggy Mountain Breakdown.

  SOME MIGHT wonder whether Charlie Moon should have been giving some thought to that little slip of a Ute-Papago girl who adored the barnyard muck he made oozy boot prints in. It is a point worth considering. But one woman at a time was about all he could deal with.

  Speaking of women, let us visit a kindly little old lady who loves to help her neighbors, and manages to do at least one good deed every day. A brief preview of essential facts will prove helpful. Her name is Millicent Muntz. The senior citizen resides in the western outskirts of Granite Creek, just across the street from the home she recently occupied, and now rents to Mr. Hermann Wetzel, who is Nancy Yazzi’s stepfather.

  And if Daisy Perika’s suspicions are correct, Hermann is the cold-blooded rogue who slit Nancy’s mother’s throat. A enigmatic threesome, Mr. Wetzel and his pair of Yazzis. One wonders what will become of them.

  But for the moment, it is Miss Muntz who interests us.

  Twelve

  The Landlady

  More often than not, an adventure begins with a perfectly ordinary act. Turning on the radio to catch the weather report. Turning off the radio to avoid the news. Waking up. Going to sleep. Never waking up again. Having lunch with a friend. Or—doing a favor for a neighbor. In this instance, the spine-tingling escapade had been launched when Millicent Muntz acquiesced to a request from the girl across the street.

  The potential benefactor viewed herself in a full-length mirror that was affixed to the hall closet door. The image of a thin, five-foot-two, bespectacled lady with silvery hair in a black silk dress looked back at her. Aside from the bright blue eyes, there was no color. As if ready to claim their kin, gray shadows seemed eager to envelop her.

  Miss Muntz raised a white-gloved hand to place a perky little black hat just so and was pleased with what she saw. I may be pushing eighty-six, but I don’t look a day older than seventy. The woman, whose saintly Quaker mother had taught her to value Truth above all else, pursed her lips. Well, perhaps seventy-five. As was her habit, Miss M (she had never had a husband) addressed her plump Persian cat: “Well, Mr. Moriarty—the game, as they say, is afoot. The time has come to launch the charade.” A nervous little smile. “I shall go fetch Nancy Yazzi.”

  Curled up in a snug wicker basket by the gas fireplace, Mr. M gave not a meow about the woman’s plans for the evening. The cat (as was his habit) kept mum. No matter. She knew what Mr. M would have said, had he had a mind and mouth to. “Not quite the upright thing to do, you say?” It is so like Moriarty to raise an ethical objection—the fuzzy little nitpicker. She made a final adjustment to the hat, considered the strait-laced feline’s point of view. “Very well. Your point is well taken. And I do admit to some misgivings about involving myself in a deliberate deceit. But after having given the matter considerable thought, I have concluded that this is one of those circumstances where there is no clear-cut right path. I am confronted by the need to make a choice between the lesser of evils.” She adjusted an antique ivory broach at her throat, cocked her head. There. That looks rather nice. “Every now and then, Nancy deserves a chance to get out and kick her heels up a bit.” She pulled on a black, knee-length raincoat and fastened four black horn buttons, then responded to Mr. M’s pithy comeback: “You suggest that Mr. Wetzel is merely trying to protect his daughter?” She sniffed. “I know things that you do not, and assure you that his motives in keeping the girl close at hand are not so innocent as that.” Miss Muntz turned to wag her finger at the cat. “And even if that were not so, it is not right to keep the poor girl cooped up at home all the time.” She waited for Mr. M to make some catty remark to the effect that how her tenant dealt with his teenage stepdaughter was none of her business. But it seemed that her feline companion had lost interest in the debate.

  Satisfied with this modest victory, she picked up a black leather purse off the telephone table, hung it in the crook of her left arm, and shot a mock-stern glance at the cat. “I’ll be back in a jiffy—so don’t get into any mischief while I’m gone. I would be shocked—shocked, I say—to return and find you with a paw in the guppy bowl.” She winked. “Or chasing about the house after a wee mousie. Ha-ha!”

  This was one of their little family jokes. Mice (and all others of the rodent persuasion) were strictly prohibited from the Muntz premises, and as for the aforementioned bowl of guppies, they were not in the least danger of being Mr. Moriarty’s lunch, because—But that is of little importance. In due time, we shall address that fishy issue. Unless we forget to.

  750 Beechwood Road the Hermann

  Wetzel Residence (Upstairs)

  For almost an hour, Nancy Yazzi had been in her darkened bedroom, perched on her bed, peering between red velvet curtains at the landlady’s house. Over and over, the questions cycled through her youthful brain: What’s keeping Miss Muntz? When is she going to come out of her front door and cross the road and knock on our door and tell Hermann that she needs me to come over and help her run some errands? I hope she hasn’t forgotten all about our plans for tonight.

  Fortunately, after several dozen such loops, the desired outcome occurred. Across the way, the door of 751 Beechwood Road opened.

  “Yes!” Nancy clapped her hands.

  (Ground Level, Front Porch)

  Despite a slight fluttering of her heart, Miss Muntz made a fist and rapped lightly on the oak panel. It seems so odd, knocking on the door of the home I lived in for so long.

  (Basement Recreation Room)

  Hermann Wetzel Scowled at the can of Bud in his hairy mitt. What was that? Not Nancy, who was upstairs in her room. She’s just like her sneaky mother: never makes any noise. Another possibility occurred to him: Maybe it’s a prowler. His hand found the butt of the 9-mm automatic holstered on his cowhide belt twenty-four/seven. There it was again. It’s just some goofball knocking on the door. Which was unusual, what with ten-acre lots and no close neighbors except the ditzy landlady across the road. Must be old Muntzy. What’ll it be this time? He grunted his way up from the La-Z-Boy recliner. Probably some excuse about how she thought she’d bring us another tuna casserole or a pan of brownies but what she really wants is to snoop around and make sure I’m taking good care of her precious house and furniture. Up the basement stairs, through his office, into the kitchen. Heading down the hallway, he belched up a taste of his supper of canned spaghetti and meatballs. The gourmand savored the recycled flavor, smacked his lips. Those brownies the old biddy makes with walnuts are first-rate. But I’d rather eat roadkill than the best tuna casserole that ever came down the pike. Passing through the parlor, he checked to make sure that his shirttail (which was out) concealed the holster. Hermann figured that being a fussy old woman, Muntzy wouldn’t like her tenant packing a gun. But it’s my legal right. I’m a part-time night guard at the lumberyard, and I got me a permit, so she ain’t got no call to give me any static. He jerked the door open. “Hey—my favorite little old gray-hai
red lady.” He forced himself to smile at “Muntzy,” but his lips lost the upward curl when he realized that she did not come bearing brownies, walnut enhanced or otherwise. Not even the dreaded casserole.

  As she gazed at the barefooted misanthrope whose belly button was showing through his unbuttoned shirt, Miss Muntz smiled. “Good evening, Mr. Wetzel. I hope I am not interrupting your quiet time.” She added, with a twinkle of the blue eyes, “For all I know, you might have been reading an editorial in The Wall Street Journal about financial instability in China—or perhaps perusing a slim little volume of Mr. Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

  “Uh—naw, I was lookin’ at a magazine.”

  “Ah, let me guess. The periodical was this month’s Scientific American, the article entitled, ‘Exploring the Deepening Mystery of Dark Energy.’ ”

  Old broad must have a screw loose. “I was lookin’ at an old copy of Field & Stream, where they was tellin’ about this guy who caught a ninety-two-pound catfish in the Rio Grande.”

  “That must have been quite stimulating.”

  “It was better’n a sharp stick in the eye.” Hermann Wetzel stood aside. “C’mon inside and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Thank you.” She closed the door behind her, followed him down the hallway. “If Nancy is not too busy, I am hoping that she might be available to help me for a few hours this evening.”

  “Doin’ what?”

  “I have a few errands to run, and would very much appreciate it if she could lend me a hand. I will pay her, of course—by the hour. The usual rate.”

  NANCY YAZZI peeked through a crack in her bedroom door, her teenage heart pounding like it might burst. Oh, if Hermann won’t let me go with her I’ll just die! And she might well have. Fortunately, death was not in the cards. Not Nancy’s, that is. She heard her stepfather’s booming voice.

  “Hey, Nance—c’mon downstairs. Miz Muntz needs you to help her do a thing or two.”

  Goody—he’s going for it! The girl emerged from her bedroom, effected an indolent shrug as she appeared at the top of the stairs. “I don’t know—I’m feeling kind of tired.”

  “Tired my ass!” He turned to mutter an apology for his language to the prim landlady, then yelled again at the lazy girl. “You get your sorry butt down here right now and go with this nice old lady.”

  HERMANN WETZEL was not as stupid as his stepdaughter thought he was; the fellow had a keen instinct for chicanery—especially where a pair of conniving females was involved. As he watched the spry old woman and the slim girl cross the street and walk up the long, paved driveway to Miss Muntz’s house and her garaged Buick (the landlady insisted that Hermann keep his black Hummer in the garage), he had a worrisome suspicion that something was wrong with this picture.

  Couldn’t figure out what it was, though.

  And thinking about it made his frontal lobe ache.

  As soon as they were in the landlady’s automobile and backing out of the driveway, Hermann Wetzel gave up the painful mental effort, left the front window, padded along the carpeted hallway into the kitchen, turned into his office, and descended the stairway to the basement rec room, where he plopped into his comfy armchair and opened the Field & Stream to gaze admiringly at the photo of the gigantic catfish. Maybe I oughta take a drive down to New Mexico, see what I can hook on some beef liver. Or maybe a big gob of cheddar cheese.

  Thirteen

  The Rendezvous

  The co-conspirators were barely out of sight when Nancy Yazzi hugged her elderly companion. “Oh, thank you thank you thank you—this will be the happiest night of my life!”

  Disengaging herself from the startling embrace, Miss Muntz recentered her automobile in the right lane. Her dignity restored, she said, “Your assumption of a satisfactory outcome to this evening’s business is premature. I suggest that you reserve your expressions of gratitude until our little intrigue is successfully completed.”

  “Oh, everything’ll work out fine.” Nancy clapped her hands and laughed. “You’ll see.”

  “I certainly hope so.” Miss Muntz tried vainly to remember what it was like to be young and full of hope—and utterly silly. I suppose I have always been a rather sensible sort—even as a girl. “After I make a brief stop at Sunburst Pizza, I shall take you directly to the dance.”

  Nancy fumbled in her purse until she found a compact. As she pretended to examine her hair, she used the mirror to view the rear window. There was a vehicle about a block behind them. I hope that’s Jake.

  “I shall be there to pick you up at nine forty-five P.M. If you should wish to return home earlier, you may call me on your cellular telephone.”

  Nancy smiled. “Right.”

  “And another thing.”

  The teenager rolled her big, brown eyes. With old fussbud-gets there was always another thing.

  “While you are at the festivities, I imagine you will encounter your young man.” She wagged a finger at the girl. “I expect you to conduct yourself like a proper young lady. You must solemnly promise to be on your very best behavior.”

  “I promise.” And she would be. But Nancy’s notions of acceptable behavior would have shocked the prim elderly lady, who had been kissed only once, in November 1943 by a slim wisp of a farm boy about to board a troop-transport ship for Britain. Some seven months later, on D-Day plus nine, her paratrooper sweetheart died beside a Normandy hedgerow when a Wehrmacht sergeant tossed a “potato masher” grenade into the muddy ditch where he was sleeping. For all these years since, Miss Muntz had kept his photograph on her bedside table. Every night before drifting off to sleep, she talked to her absent lover as if he had departed only yesterday.

  As she parked at the Sunburst Pizza Restaurant, Miss Muntz assured her passenger that she would be back in a jiffy. Upon entering the busy eatery, she made a beeline to the takeout-orders counter, where a pale, thirtyish fellow whose plastic name tag identified him as Al Burkowitz was attempting to remove a small obstacle from his left nostril.

  “Hello, Alvin.”

  The Sunburst employee regarded her with a blank, glassy-eyed expression.

  She forced herself to smile at the unpleasant face. “Are you making deliveries this evening?”

  “Who else?” His grin exposed yellow teeth that resembled kernels of corn. “I’m the onliest delivery guy the joint’s got.” A strained frown. “I remember you—you’re the calzone lady. You always get a carry-out and take it home yourself.”

  She nodded. “That is correct. But, as I have some other matters to attend to this evening, I prefer to have the order delivered.”

  “Not a problem.” He pulled a Bic ballpoint from behind his ear. “D’you want the usual?”

  She did. Carefully enunciating each syllable, Miss Muntz placed her order for a medium calzone with Italian sausage. No bell peppers, please.

  “Where d’you want me to bring it?”

  Miss Muntz recited the address, watched him pencil the information on a delivery pad. “It is rather unlikely that I will be there when you make the delivery, but I have left the front door unlocked. Go directly through the parlor, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, and put the calzone into the electric range oven.”

  “Not a problem,” Pizza Man said.

  Alerted by a flash of light, Miss Muntz turned her face to a filthy plate-glass window. Someone has pulled up beside my Buick. Very close beside it. I hope they don’t scratch my lovely car. Her concentration on the arriving motorist was interrupted by Al’s nasal voice: “With tax, that’ll be nine dollars and fifty-six cents.”

  She wrote him a check. “You may pick up your gratuity when you make the delivery.”

  “My what?”

  “Your tip, which it is my custom to pay in cash.” Miss M watched his expression brighten with a glint of avarice. “But I do not leave money lying about the house in plain view.” She told him where to find it.

  AS THE muddy Jeep pulled alongside Miss Muntz’s immaculate sedan, Nancy Yazzi lowered
the window. “Jakey—I thought that was you back there.”

  “You thought right, Peachy Pie.” Jake Harper grinned. “Everything set?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about your daddy?”

  Nancy spat the words at him: “Hermann Wetzel is my stepfather.”

  “Whatever.” The heavyset, bearded man unrolled a pack of Volcano Mexican cigarettes from the arm of his black T-shirt. “He buy your story about doing some chores for the landlady?”

  “Of course.” With a dismissive toss of the head, she added, “He’s a moron.”

  He eyed her purse. “You got Hermann’s bankroll in there?”

  “No way—he’s been watching me like a hawk.” The girl unconsciously glanced over her shoulder, as if her stepfather might be in the backseat.

  Harper tapped an unfiltered cigarette on the back of his hand, popped it between his thick lips. “Does he still have it stashed in his office?”

  Nancy nodded. “It’s in a black leather pouch, down in that little thingy where the hot air comes out—the heat duck.” I wonder why they call it that.

  “That little thingy is a heat register.” He grinned. “It lets warm air outta the furnace ductwork.”

  “Whatever.” Big know-it-all smart aleck.

  The big know-it-all smart aleck jerked a kitchen match across his jeans, touched the sulfurous flame to the tip of the cancer stick, inhaled. “How much d’you figure the old miser’s got squirreled away in that leather bag?”

  “Enough to choke a horse.” Nancy felt her heart pound. “There were five or six stacks of bills in rubber bands. Big thick stacks.”

  He clamped his teeth on the cigarette. “We could sure use that cash.”

  She held her breath before posing the critical question. “You want to go get it while I’m at the dance?”