“Sure we do.” Daisy cackled a merry laugh. “But we’re way too hungry to be picky, so we’ll eat here anyway.”
The joke was so old that it had varicose veins, calculated planetary orbits with a slide rule, and voted for Grover Cleveland.
If Pierre was offended by Daisy Perika’s response, he had far too much class to show it. The elegant fellow bowed gallantly, gestured. “Ladies, please walk this way.”
No. Neither the maître d’ nor Daisy did any such thing. (Walk that way.) Certain standards must be maintained.
For the distraught little girl, this entire day had been just too bizarre. Charlie Moon, the most reliable man on earth, had utterly failed her. In his place, Moon had sent a normally sensible employee who could do nothing but talk about a stupid pickup truck. Then, when they’re stopped by a couple of crazy cops, both Jerome Kydmann and Aunt Daisy put up a fight and they get arrested and—It’s got to be a bad dream. I’m still in bed in Daisy’s house. Sarah knew how to find out: She used her free hand to pinch herself on the left arm. I could barely feel that—this must be an awful nightmare!
But everything seemed so crisply real.
Maybe my arm has gone to sleep from carrying Mr. Zig-Zag. Another, more dreadful possibility occurred to her: Maybe my arm is paralyzed because I’ve been bitten by a prairie-dog flea and I’ve got a rare disease that’ll spread all over my body and I’ll die right here in this fancy restaurant and Charlie Moon will haul my corpse away in the back of that red pickup truck and wrap it up in an old blanket and bury it on Pine Knob where the wind blows day and night.
As if he sensed her growing panic, Mr. Zig-Zag provided what would have been (in a run-of-the-mill crisis) just the prescription. He licked Sarah’s chin with a sandpaper-surfaced tongue. It did not help.
Sarah trailed along behind Daisy, who was following the maître d’ through a clutter of tables. Things were getting scarier by the second. In the dancing shadows cast by flickering candlelight, the girl caught brief glimpses of hard faces, big calloused hands, worn work boots; heard an underlying mumble of guttural mutters, the use of phrases like I reckon he’ll be here drekly; must’ve got bushwhacked; drunk as a skunk; cold as a whore’s heart; and worse. These patrons were definitely not birdwatchers.
Pierre paused at a long, vacant, linen-covered table where sixteen tallow tapers in crystal candleholders were aligned along the center. He seated Sarah at one end, Daisy at the other.
Wishing that she could become invisible, Sarah sat very still. I wonder what’ll happen next.
Right on cue, a soft glow of blue light revealed a bandstand. An ensemble of elegant ladies in white gowns and tuxedoed men began to pull bows across violins and cellos. Vienna Woods, that’s what it was, and for an audience that might start tossing beer bottles at the musicians. But this was merely the beginning. Things were about to become stranger still.
Sarah watched with horror as uniformed Officers Knox and Slocum appeared in the gloom, marching to the long table like determined men on a serious mission. They stopped on both sides of Daisy Perika’s chair. The tribal elder realized that the cops were there. Obviously didn’t care. Not a whit, iota, speck, or smidgen.
Knox reached out, tapped Daisy on the shoulder.
The aged woman leaned her head, listened to something he said, then nodded and smiled.
Sarah watched in utter disbelief as Eddie Knox helped Daisy to her feet and escorted her to the dance floor, which was suddenly illuminated by an almost blinding array of overhead lights. At the precise center of the forty-by-sixty-foot rectangle of inlaid oak and maple, the Granite Creek cop put his arm around the Ute elder . . . and they began to waltz.
From the now-quite-visible audience came a thunderous roar of applause.
Sarah watched the Wyoming Kyd—a big six-gun strapped to his hip—appear as if out of nowhere, approach Officer Slocum. She wondered what would happen. Would Mr. Kydmann shoot the chubby cop right on the spot? You might think so, but no.
Why, the Kyd bowed and asked if he could have this dance! Slocum tipped his cop hat and grinned, which the Kyd took as a consent. The high-tone ensemble shifted quickly from Strauss to “Turkey in the Straw.” Do-si-do, and off they go, stomping across the hardwood floor.
This unseemly display brought on loud hoo-ha’s, shrill whistles, and rude catcalls.
Oh so slowly, the lights begin to dim.
As the scene faded to black, the small orchestra fell silent.
Poor Sarah. The spotted cat clutched to her bosom, she sat numbly at the long, linen-enshrouded table. Once again, only flickering candlelight illuminated the night. And aside from the rapid beat of her heart and the purring of her cat, not a sound. The girl was miles beyond bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. She felt her skin going all prickly-cold, hugged the cat closer to her chest. Something was very wrong. This has to be the weirdest dream I ever had. Any second now the lights would come on again, the cops would turn into shaggy werewolves, and Piggy Slocum would snatch Mr. Zig-Zag from her grasp and eat him whole!
Then, there was the other, far more alarming possibility: If I’m not asleep, I’m going crazy.
Sixteen
Heart Stopper
The truth began to dawn on Sarah Frank when—out of the darkness—a throaty chorus of some two hundred voices began to sing (quite a few off-tune and out of synchronization) a piece that had been composed and rehearsed especially for the auspicious occasion. The men boomed out the odd lines, the womenfolk trilled the evens, both genders joined in to repeat the entire song:
Dear Sarah,
Dear Sarah,
We wish you a happy birthday,
We wish you a happy birthday,
And all of God’s blessings,
And all of God’s blessings,
Dear Sarah, for you!
Yes. The dreaded surprise party.
For a few heartbeats, the birthday girl’s mind was as numb as her limbs. She was startled to full consciousness by a man’s voice that roared from speakers mounted on the ballroom ceiling: “Ladies and gentlemen and cowboys—let’s give a great big wa-hoo for the little lady who’s just turned sixteen!”
Which they did, and that wa-hoo! just about blew the roof off.
Which is when Sarah realized that Daisy, huffing and puffing from her recent exertions, was back in her seat at the far end of the table and that they had been joined by such notable citizens as Granite Creek Chief of Police Scott Parris, Southern Ute Tribal Chairman Oscar Sweetwater and his shy wife, Vera, Oscar’s brother Gorman, who was Daisy’s cousin, Daisy’s friend Louise-Marie LaForte, Columbine foreman Pete Bushman and his wife, Dolly, the Wyoming Kyd, and those glittering stars of the police farce—Officers Eddie “Rocks” Knox and E. C. “Piggy” Slocum. The women (even Daisy) were smiling and chattering a mile a minute, and all the men were laughing and whooping it up.
What a party!
But there were a few empty seats in the hotel ballroom.
The unseen announcer’s voice boomed out again: “And now, let’s give a great big welcome to the Columbine Grass!”
A roar of applause, a hollering of raucous catcalls, a thunder of boot stomping.
Mr. Zig-Zag, who may have interpreted this outburst as that final, flesh-mangling clash of sword-swinging troops at Armageddon, let out a terrified yowl and slipped from Sarah’s grip to take refuge under the table, whence the climactic battle could be viewed by one who had no stake in the outcome.
The lights flashed on over the bandstand platform, which was little more than spitting distance from where our birthday girl was seated.
Right away, Sarah noticed two things. First, that a couple of the seats at her table had been vacated. Second, that the chamber orchestra had been replaced by four hairy-chested men and a tenor. No. The tenor was a blonde of the other gender, whose shapely form (starting at the top) was outfitted in a red sequined cowgirl hat and a frilly silk blouse with lace at the neck and cuffs. Her black jeans (cinched with a Mexic
an silver concho belt) were tight enough to read the date on an 1886 Indian Head penny in her pocket. All this was bottomed off by shiny black cowgirl boots.
The men were dressed to match the eye-stopping lady. Except that their white shirts weren’t quite so frilly and their belts were plain black leather, with tasteful brass or pewter buckles advertising the likes of Coors beer, Ford pickups, Winchester rifles, and Buck knives. Picture the brawny maître d’ on bass (Pierre Brigance was the Columbine blacksmith), the bearded foreman Pete Bushman with his granddaddy’s Arkansas Traveler fiddle pressed firmly against his chin, the Wyoming Kyd with the pearl-inlaid mandolin, and the long, lean Ute, ready to let go on his five-string banjo!
Sarah’s mouth was . . . well, there is no other word. Wide open. Oh—all this for me! After teetering right on the brink between nightmare and insanity, this was just too wonderful.
While the pretty tenor, a local librarian whose name was not Marian, danced and pranced in place, the cowboys kicked it off with “Choctaw Hayride”—and oh, what a ride that was. After the applause died down, Charlie Moon introduced the girl singer—one Patsy Poynter—and laughed at the whistles and wolf howls from appreciative hairy-legs amongst the crowd.
Patsy, as it turned out, was not only pretty and a fair-to-middling dancer—the shapely librarian was a spellbinding crooner, her voice velvet smooth and sweet as honey in the comb. Backed up by the Ute and his cowboy friends, she took the microphone and electrified the audience with “I Don’t Believe You’ve Met My Baby”—all the while giving Charlie Moon the big-eye.
Talk about your red-hot class act.
The rudest fellows in the ballroom were silenced. And the tears? It is no surprise that they fairly poured from quite a few ladies’ heavily mascaraed eyes, but the measure of Patsy’s effect was this: Here and there a pearly bead of salt water coursed down a leathery cheek that hadn’t been wet since Daddy’s funeral. We’re talking about the sort of fellow who would laugh out loud if his best friend got bucked from his saddle into a bristling bunch of prickly pears, then kicked in the head by the horse that’d throwed him. Even Daisy Perika dabbed her eyes with a linen napkin.
What about Sarah Frank? As Miss Sweet Sixteen watched the good-looking librarian make goo-goo eyes at Charlie Moon, it took all her willpower to maintain a passable poker face. But behind her lips, her teeth were clenched. Not quite hard enough to bite a ten-penny nail in two, but your unwary yellow number-two lead pencil would definitely have been cleaved in half. Under the table, her little hands were balled into fists. Now some might say that Kid Frank, who weighed in at about ninety-six pounds, was not up to slugging it out with a world-class heavyweight blondie who had years of experience, not to mention other—ah—attributes. No matter, Sarah was a scrappy fighter. But she did not realize that the really serious opponent was sitting two tables behind her.
What about Lila Mae McTeague? Moon’s sweetheart was not entirely pleased with the onstage flirting, but she assured herself that it was all part of the act. After all, Charlie wasn’t flirting back. Was he?
But this reference to Moon’s almost fiancée raises another question: Why was she not seated at the table of honor? Because Lila Mae had told Charlie that she preferred a smaller table, in the shadows. This preference for fading into the background might have been merely force of professional habit for one employed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Or perhaps, being endowed with the grace of humility, she was one of those Christians who takes the command about “taking the lowest seat” quite literally. Perhaps.
Backed up by his friends, Charlie Moon began to sing his version of “Goin’ Back to Harlan”—to his little lady. His motives were pure as morning dew on wild mountain roses, but had he gone a song too far?
It was enough to cool an already icy Special Agent McTeague another degree or two.
On the plus side, Moon crooning made a giddy sixteen-year-old forget all about the pretty blond canary from the local library. Sarah was about to faint or swoon or whatever it is young ladies do when life doles out altogether too much unadulterated pleasure. Could things possibly get more interesting? Yes they could. And would.
But not immediately.
So before Charlie Moon gets himself into serious trouble, let us leave the Silver Mountain Hotel ballroom behind. We shall pay a brief call on Granite Creek’s shadowy suburbs.
NANCY YAZZI’S boyfriend switched off the Jeep’s headlights, turned off Beechwood Road and onto a dirt lane that circled behind the GC Propane Company’s nine-foot chain-link fence. He parked the four-wheel-drive vehicle in a cluster of junipers, eased his 238-pound frame to the ground, hitched up his thick leather belt, and took the first step in a short walk to the Hermann Wetzel residence.
The young man was not afraid, but neither was he a fool. Jake Harper felt just edgy enough to sharpen his senses—and his instincts. But would it be enough to see him through the next few minutes? That remains to be seen.
But let us leave the fellow to his dark business, and return to the festivities.
Seventeen
A Delicate Situation Arises
As soon as Charlie Moon had crooned the final verse of “Shady Grove,” plucked the last twang on the banjo strings, the object of Sarah Frank’s affection set aside his instrument, bounded off the stage to take several long-legged strides (the spotlight tagged along) in the general direction of Lila Mae’s table, where he planned to ask the lady to dance, after which he would—if he could get up the nerve—offer her the engagement ring.
The fact that the potential fiancée was seated in the shadows beyond Sarah turns out to be a detail that is of some significance. As Moon was approaching the birthday girl’s table, he realized to his horror that both ladies were smiling; both were about to get up from their chairs and accept his gracious invitation. Uh-oh.
Just about everyone else had realized this, too, which led to one of those expectant hushes we hear so much about.
The audience watched, wondering how Charlie Moon would deal with this terrible dilemma.
Might he pretend to stumble over some imaginary object and simulate a sprained ankle, which rendered him incapable of dancing? Not a chance. Such a cowardly subterfuge would be beneath the man’s dignity. Besides, he did not think of such a clever ruse.
Should he yell “Fire!” and clear the ballroom? This had worked like a charm for Paul Newman when Alfred Hitchcock placed him in that Eastern bloc opera house where the snake-eyed ballerina recognized him as a spy and summoned the dreaded Secret Police. The Hitchcock/Newman ploy might well have solved Charlie Moon’s immediate problem, but it did not occur to the banjo picker to create a riot where dozens of innocents might be trampled to death. (Do not be overly critical; keep in mind that he had only a fraction of a second to come up with a plan.)
So what did he do?
Nothing.
Moon’s deliverance appeared in the form of an attractive lady with golden hair that flowed over her shoulders like spun honey.
No, not the girl singer. Patsy Poynter was onstage with the other players.
The attractive lady was Beatrice Spencer, who had taken an interest in Charlie Moon when their paths had crossed about a year ago. Bea had been eyeing the Ute ever since she had arrived (uninvited) at Sarah’s birthday party. As if conjured up to rescue him, the shapely apparition appeared between Moon and an uncertain fate, stretched out her arms, and murmured with a seductive smile, “Dance with me, Charlie.”
Does this woman have brass? Indeed she does—tons of it. Also gold and silver and bank accounts and blue-chip stocks and gilt-edged bonds and deeds to the Yellow Pines Ranch and Spencer Mountain.
What happened next? Just what you’d expect.
The bass player picked up Moon’s left-behind banjo, the Columbine Grass Minus One hit a few hot licks of “Pike County Breakdown,” and Charlie Moon danced Bea away like his feet were on fire.
How did the two abandoned ladies respond? Imagine gaped mouths. Gasps exhaled fro
m those gaped mouths. Moreover, little daggers came zinging from their eyes. Sarah’s delicate stilettos and Lila Mae’s oversized butcher knives were focused on Charlie Moon. Sounds fanciful? Maybe so. But he felt them sting the back of his neck.
Almost everyone in the ballroom had witnessed what had happened. Most had sense enough to keep quiet, and did so by holding their breaths. The other 49 percent (the men) were either snickering or haw-hawing like jackasses.
Still unaware of the presence of Charlie Moon’s sweetheart, Sarah Frank was humiliated to the core or the marrow, whichever is deeper. She wanted to crawl under the table with Mr. Zig-Zag, hug him and have a good cry, and die. Or fall into a faint and expire of a broken heart. Whichever was faster.
The FBI lady was (unconsciously) reaching for that place where she normally carried her Glock automatic. It was merely a subconscious reflex. Lila Mae would not actually have shot her sweetheart with a 9-mm slug. Not in front of so many witnesses.
It did not help that Charlie Moon, who thought he’d carried things off pretty well, was obviously having a fine old time. Kicking up his boot heels with vim and vigor, grinning ear-to-ear at the delightful armful.
And it also didn’t help that Bea Spencer, who had never danced with a man of this caliber, was quite swept away in his arms. Or that she snuggled just a little closer to Charlie than was absolutely necessary.
Things were about to go from bad to badder when, out of nowhere, the Wyoming Kyd appeared, snatched Sarah up, and danced her to the middle of the ballroom floor. It is not for nothing that Mr. Kydmann is known as Charlie Moon’s right-hand man. Within a heartbeat, a tall, handsome gent outfitted in hand-tooled ostrich-hide boots, a three-thousand-dollar suit, and a white Stetson asked Lila Mae McTeague would you like to dance, ma’am. Ma’am allowed as how she would and away they whipped across the floor like a couple of West Texas whirlwinds.
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