Snake Dreams

by James D. Doss

  Aunt Daisy had taken her rightful place at the southern extremity.

  The chief of police had seated himself at Moon’s left, where, from time to time, he smiled across the table at the young ladies.

  Sarah Frank (sitting as close to Charlie Moon as she could) was still on a high from an afternoon of skulking around and spying that had proved to be lots more fun than she had expected. The shy teenager smiled back at the thoughtful gentleman who had provided her with the learner’s permit.

  Nancy Yazzi, whose expression suggested acute disinterest, had not so much as glanced at the visiting lawman.

  From time to time, Moon shot his best friend a look that could not be misread. It plainly said, You ask my guest what time it is, you’ve crossed the line.

  The chief of police made no inquires, and had very little to say, all the way from the appetizers (Dutch-chocolate mints, macadamia nuts, and prime buffalo jerky) through the main course: butter-grilled catch-of-the-day trout, potatoes fried in Sicilian olive oil, San Luis Valley pinto beans boiled in lightly salted well water, and home-baked sourdough bread.

  Having progressed from lip smacking to hearty burping, Parris was helping himself to a second helping of Dolly’s peach cobbler.

  Moon was enjoying black coffee, sweetened with Tule Creek honey.

  Ditto for Sarah, whose pleasure it was to match Mr. Right move for move.

  Nancy Yazzi—probably just to be contrary—had opted for iced tea. Which the young lady sipped with a raised pinky. La-di-da.

  Daisy was drinking unsweetened black coffee, thinking blacker thoughts. This all seems so nice, but something don’t smell quite right.

  Mr. Zig-Zag? Sarah’s spotted cat was under the table, nibbling daintily at a finger-size morsel of grilled trout. Not a dog’s life.

  Which brings Sidewinder to mind. The Columbine hound was outside, under the porch, gnawing a meaty beef bone.

  A Slip of the Tongue

  The confident expression on Scott Parris’s mug was counterfeit; the lawman was feeling distinctly uneasy. Here he was, sitting across the table from a young woman who might be able to help him get his hands on the man who had murdered her stepfather. But he was strictly forbidden to ask her a single question. And if I take her back to the station, she won’t say a word. Except: “I never heard of anybody by that name.” Or: “I want to talk to a lawyer.” Somehow or other, I need to bring up the subject of the killing. But it would have to be done with considerable delicacy or Charlie Moon would take umbrage. Tons of umbrage. And get all hot under the collar.

  How to broach the subject of homicide? It was a knotty problem.

  Solutions sometimes come from the most unexpected sources.

  “So, have you figured out who killed this girl’s stepfather?” Yes, Daisy Perika. Parris could’ve hugged the tribal elder.

  All present gazed at the one who had offered the cop this splendid opening.

  Parris put on a doubtful look, and replied with shameless hypocrisy, “I don’t know as I should talk about that particular subject.” He glanced at Nancy Yazzi, who quickly concentrated her attention on the tea glass. “I mean with the young ladies present and all.”

  Moon, who was eyeing Parris, had turned on The Look. Full intensity.

  The old woman snorted. “These girls won’t mind. Tell us what you’ve found out.”

  Ignoring his friend’s steely gaze, the chief of police addressed the female members of his rapt audience. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you a thing or two. Most of it’ll be in the newspaper tomorrow.” He paused to spear a slice of fried potato, lift it to his mouth. Between chews, he said, “The shooter—who evidently ain’t too bright—left us some prints on a doorknob.”

  Moon saw his one hundred dollars fly away. So that’s what he’s been holding back. “You got a match yet?”

  A nod as Parris swallowed the starchy mouthful. “The fella’s had a few run-ins with the law. His prints were on file in Texas, Nebraska, Florida—and with the FBI.” He added, “This bad guy drives a black 2006 Jeep Wrangler—with Colorado plates.”

  Nancy Yazzi was staring at a slivery remnant of the last ice cube in her tea.

  Daisy did not like the waiting game. “So what’s the yahoo’s name?”

  Parris had fixed his gaze on the girlfriend. “Jacob Harper.” She didn’t bat an eyelash. “His friends call him Jake.” Under Moon’s Rules of Engagement, the chief of police could not ask a direct question, but this ex-Chicago cop was a cagey fellow. “I don’t suppose that’s a name anybody here has heard around town.”

  Nancy looked over her glass at Parris. “Did you say Harper?”

  He nodded. This is one cool cookie.

  “That does sound kinda familiar.” As if attempting to recall a bit of trivia that was right at the edge of her memory, she cocked her head. “Maybe Daddy mentioned him.”

  Sarah could hardly believe her ears. I’ve never heard Nancy call Mr. Wetzel “Daddy.”

  The chief of police nodded. “We’re already checking to find out whether Mr. Harper was someone your stepfather knew.” Three heartbeats. “There’s the question of how he got into the house without breaking a lock or window.” Two more thumpity-thumps of the blood pump. “I’m guessing this burglar had some help.”

  Nancy stirred her tea.

  Parris continued in the easy manner of one talking shop. “If Harper had a collaborator, that person could—from a legal point of view—be considered an accomplice to murder.”

  Hermann Wetzel’s stepdaughter felt a sudden rush of nausea.

  As if he’d just thought of something funny, Parris shook his head and chuckled. “Yesterday, a couple of Texas Rangers interviewed a tough little lady down in Waco that said Harper had better not show his face at her house—not after the way he’d behaved. And if he did, she’d by-gosh knock his block off!”

  Again, it was Daisy who played straight man. “What woman was this?”

  Parris glanced at Nancy Yazzi, who was about to take a sip of tepid tea. “Harper’s wife.”

  Slip! Slosh! Roll! Crash! Tinkle-tinkle!

  Those were the sounds of the slippery tea glass slipping from Nancy’s hand, sloshing onto the table, rolling over the edge, crashing onto the floor, and tinkle-tinkling into a scattering of sharp-edged fragments.

  Moon and Sarah came out of their chairs at the same time, both mouthing more or less the same line: “Don’t worry about it, Nancy—we’ll have that cleaned up in a jiffy.” Which they did.

  The late Hermann Wetzel’s stepdaughter seemed virtually unaware of the broken glass, or the effort to soak up the tea with a napkin (Sarah) or pick up the larger pieces of glass (Moon).

  Scott Parris, who might have been glued to his chair, was staring hard at Nancy Yazzi. Waiting for something else to pop.

  Daisy Perika was shifting her shifty gaze from Parris to Nancy and back.

  Though wearing a brittle, expressionless mask, Nancy was fuming inside. So Jake has a wife, does he? The dirty bastard!

  Despite the dropped tea glass, the chief of police was impressed. I’d never want to play a hand of poker with this little lady.

  The End of Parris’s Perfect Day

  After Scott Parris had tipped his fedora and said his goodbyes to the womenfolk, Moon and the spotted cat followed him out onto the west porch. The Ute was not one to withhold a well-deserved compliment. “You put on quite a nice little show.”

  The leading man of the piece was appreciative, and he was not done yet. “Thanks.”

  They stepped off the porch, headed for the Volvo.

  Moon brought up the subject of their wager at Lake Jesse. “And it looks like I might have to come up with a hundred bucks.”

  “Might?”

  “Finding a man’s prints on a doorknob don’t prove he did a shooting.”

  Parris conceded the point. “All the same, you’d better start putting nickels and dimes into your piggy bank.”

  “You think so?”

&
nbsp; “ ’Deed I do.” Parris opened the car door, slipped his belly under the steering wheel, inserted the key into the ignition switch, listened to the sweet old engine sputter to life, and cleared his throat for the finale. “Morning after the shooting, Judge Boudreau issued a warrant that enabled me to check on some phone calls.”

  Moon could see it coming. “Nancy Yazzi has a cell phone. I’m betting Jake Harper does too.”

  “Charlie, there’s no hiding anything from you.”

  “So—has she called him?”

  “Since the shooting, six times. So far, Harper’s not answering. But last night, Miss Yazzi left him a message, which was more or less along the line of ‘I sure miss you, Sugar Baby, and I hope you’re okay,’ and all the usual blah-blah-blah.” The white cop grinned up at his tall Indian friend. “Best part was, ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be staying at this ranch, but soon as you can, please call me.’ ”

  Moon patted the Volvo’s roof. “It’s mighty nice of you to let me know what’s going on.”

  “Hey, what’re friends for?”

  The Ute had a flinty-edged answer for that, but held his tongue on the subject. But another issue deserved comment: “That bomb you dropped about Harper having a wife in Waco—it’s a wonder Nancy Yazzi didn’t have a heart attack.”

  The finest amateur actor present on the Columbine assumed a puzzled expression that his one-man audience could not fully appreciate in the moonlight. “You’re kidding—did I actually say Nancy’s boyfriend had himself a wife?”

  “Now don’t you sit there and tell me right to my face you don’t remember—”

  “What I meant to say was that Mr. Harper’s mother was all ticked off at him.” Parris shook his head and sighed. “Well, don’t that just beat all—a fella gets one little word mixed up, and just imagine how much trouble it might cause.” A thoughtful pause. “If Jake Harper knew right now that Nancy Yazzi figures him for a married man, he’d damn sure steer clear of her. He’s got troubles enough.”

  “Then he’s not married?”

  Parris switched on the Volvo’s headlights. “He was a few years ago, but his mother told the Texas cops his wife died someplace down in Mexico. They’re checking it out with the federales.”

  “Pardner, you are some piece of work.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “If you do, you’ve either got skin an inch thick—or you’re mighty easy to please.”

  “Now stop sweet-talkin’ me or I’ll get a swelled head.” Parris admired a thin sliver of silver moon hanging over the Misery peaks. As he watched, a gluttonous cloud swallowed the celestial jewel. “It won’t be long before Miss Yazzi moves back to town.”

  Moon drummed his fingers on the top of the car. “You got a particular spot in mind?”

  “In the jailhouse. But I’d like to let things simmer for a few days, just on the chance that Jake Harper picks up one of her phone calls.”

  The tribal investigator listened to a chilly breeze rattling cottonwood leaves. “If you decide to arrest her, that’s none of my business. But until you do, she’s my guest.”

  Parris considered the long, dark road back to Granite Creek, a darker one into the future. “I’d better be getting on home.”

  Charlie Moon watched the taillights bounce as the Volvo rumbled over Too Late Creek bridge. I wonder if those hungry caterpillars are any closer. The worried rancher hardly noticed as a crackling fork of lightning did a few high-kicking steps across the back of Porcupine Mountain. Last I heard, it cost a dollar seventy-five an acre to spray for range worms. The white-hot dancer took a six-mile leap, landed atop Elk Tooth Peak to perform a sizzling little number that split an old-growth spruce down the middle. Sometime tomorrow, I’ll phone that crop-dusting outfit.

  As the indifferent spectator turned his back and headed to the log house, a long roll of thunder grumbled behind him.

  Daisy Perika was watching her nephew from the parlor window. Fire-Legs Woman is a big show-off, and she hates to be ignored. The shaman shook her head. One way or another, she’ll get even with Charlie.

  NOT THAT there is any connection. Not necessarily. Be it understood right up front that one does not wish to encourage anything that smells of superstition. But in the interest of what real estate attorneys refer to as “full disclosure,” it shall be mentioned that Charlie Moon would awaken at dawn to learn that last night’s lightning had struck the biggest haystack on the Columbine. This precious supply of bovine victuals had burned down to the last straw.

  Pete Bushman, who was the bearer of the bad news, cheerfully allowed as how a man with a glass eye could’ve spotted the needle from thirty paces away.

  Daisy Perika merely nodded in her knowing way.

  As if the loss of a valuable supply of hay was not enough to ruin Moon’s day, there was also that business about the cougar and the calf, and far worse than that—

  But we get ahead of ourselves.

  Twenty-Eight

  Tension

  Nancy Yazzi’s life had been turned upside down when Scott Parris had uttered that synonym for spouse that rhymes with knife—which cruel blade had pierced the girl to the heart. But, believing that her romantic liaison with Jake Harper was a secret, she carried on the charade as unfortunate stepdaughter of the lately deceased Hermann Wetzel with admirable composure.

  The only soul on the Columbine who knew Nancy’s secret continued to treat the young woman as if she were a young lady. Charlie Moon was a gentleman.

  Even though they were not in the know, Daisy Perika and Sarah Frank sensed that something was not quite right, and breakfast on the morning after Parris’s visit was tense, the conversation awkwardly cheerful with observations about how tasty the bacon was and how scrambling eggs was the safest way to go because any cook worth her spatula could hardly mess up a scrambled egg—but getting an egg fried just to someone’s taste, well that was a yolk of a different color. And made-from-scratch biscuits—why, those doughy things that come in a can don’t compare with the real McCoy. And homemade preserves—just try to find a jar on the supermarket shelf that tastes half as good.

  After the morning meal was over, the diners scattered.

  Nancy complained of a headache and withdrew to her room “for a nap.”

  Charlie Moon cranked up one of the Columbine pickups and headed off to an eastern pasture where a cougar had pulled down a purebred Hereford calf.

  Daisy and Sarah went for a walk along the river, where the tribal elder lectured her youthful companion on the preparation of a bitter tea brewed from a concoction of yucca roots, picklefern leaves, and the tender bark of April bloodberry vines. The procedure, which required the practitioner to dry the roots and leaves in the sun for precisely seven days and soak the bark in brine overnight (during the Dark of the Moon), was complex and time-consuming. The end product, the self-taught pharmacist asserted, was well worth the effort.

  Daisy stopped to lean on her sturdy oak walking staff and catch her breath. Her thought slipped away like driftwood on the river.

  The sixteen-year old asked, “What’s it good for?”

  The shaman snapped at her apprentice. “What’s what good for?”

  “The tea. Is it for a stomachache or is it a sleeping potion or what?”

  Daisy’s old eyes blinked at the snow-capped Buckhorn peaks. What is that medicine used for? The lumbago? No, she didn’t think so. Maybe it’s for menstrual cramps. The teacher cast a stern glance at Little Miss Smarty-Pants. “That part will be in tomorrow’s lesson.”

  WHAT WAS that—a low rumble of thunder left over from last night’s performance?

  No, the sky is clear of clouds. Presumably, Fire-Legs Woman has departed to perform her thunderous tango upon another craggy stage.

  The noise that Daisy Perika and Sarah Frank did not hear was the throaty stutter of an internal combustion engine. Their ears were filled with the uproariously happy laughter of the rolling river splishity-splashing over a multitude of slipp
ery stones. Such soothing water music tends to drown out less pleasant sounds.

  Which is not always a good thing.

  The Discovery

  When he pulled up to the headquarters in the pickup, Charlie Moon noticed that Sarah’s spiffy little red F-150 was not in its usual spot under the cottonwood. The birthday girl kept her favorite gift parked beside his Expedition. So near that the two Ford Motor Company products—had they had a mind and fingers to—could have reached out and touched each other.

  Moon thought he knew what had happened. Nancy’s been pretty upset ever since Scott conned her with that “wife” business last night. I bet she asked Sarah to drive her into town so she could tell the police everything she knows about Jake Harper. Whether or not the girl was connected to her stepfather’s murder, that was the smart move to make. And whatever else she might be, Miss Yazzi was no dope.

  Moon strode onto the redwood porch and into the headquarters parlor. He was about halfway across that spacious room when something in a shaft of sunlight caught his eye—something that sparkled like diamonds but was not. The fractured glass on the floor was from the shattered pane on his locked gun-case door, where he kept several sidearms, five rifles, two carbines, a double-barrel (over-and-under) 12-gauge shotgun. Not anymore. The shotgun and a .44-caliber revolver were missing, along with a box of 12-gauge buckshot and two boxes of ammo for the pistol. Moon held his breath. Whoever did this is intending to conduct some serious business. And he might still be in the house.

  Which reminded him of what had happened to Hermann Wetzel.

  The Ute removed his boots, slipped his .357 magnum revolver from its holster. Stepping softly, Moon searched every room in the headquarters, every closet, even the pantry. No one at home. That fact was worrisome enough. What made his skin prickle was what he found in Sarah Frank’s bedroom. Her little black leather purse had been turned upside down, the contents spilled all over her neatly made bed. A pink plastic compact. Sunrise Surprise lipstick. A tiny bottle of perfume. A lace-edged hankie. Two cheap ballpoint pens. A wallet stuffed with snapshots. The critical issue was the item that was missing.