Snake Dreams

by James D. Doss

  Forty-Six

  The Tip

  “Just looking for somebody to hammer.” This was how one of Scott Parris’s subordinates at the GCPD described the chief of police to a fellow officer, with this warning: “Stay out of the boss’s way.”

  If Parris was in an intemperate mood, it was understandable. The prime suspect in the murder of a local citizen had evaded arrest for the second time. Parris’s statement days ago to the local media that the shooter would be apprehended “within a few hours” had turned out to be—as one of his more generous critics had observed in today’s newspaper editorial—“somewhat optimistic.” More polite than “really a dumb thing to say, which makes both of us look damned silly,” which was how District Attorney Bill “Pug” Bullett had put it. Desperate for anything that even smelled like a lead, the harried cop was pleased to receive a telephone call from the elderly spinster.

  “Mr. Parris, this is Millicent Muntz. You asked me to contact you if I happened to think of anything that might prove useful in your investigation of Mr. Wetzel’s untimely death.”

  “Yes ma’am, I remember that all right.” The edgy man drummed the fingers of his free hand on the desk. “What’ve you got for me?”

  “Probably nothing of any importance, but I thought it was my civic duty to call and let you know.”

  His phone-gripping hand was beginning to show white knuckles. “Just take your time, and tell me what’s on your mind.” The finger-drumming hand snatched a ballpoint pen, made ready to take notes.

  “I don’t think I should tell you over the telephone.”

  He scratched a big X on a yellow notepad. “You don’t, huh?”

  “Under the circumstances, it might prove to be indiscreet. Also, I’m in my car now, headed into town.” A nervous little titter of a laugh. “But I’m not driving while using my cell phone—I want to make that quite clear. I pulled over to the curb before placing the call.”

  Parris closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and recalled how his mother had warned him that a career in law enforcement would be stressful. “If you want to drop by the police station, I’ll be in my office—”

  “I am on my way to Sunburst Pizza. I suggest that you meet me at that location.”

  “Why there?”

  “For one thing, I have some business to conduct at that establishment.” She whispered, “And Sunburst is where I am virtually certain that I saw the suspect.”

  “If you’ve spotted Jake Harper, the first thing I need to know is—”

  “I do not wish to appear rude, Mr. Parris, but I really must be going.”

  “But—”

  “As it happens, I am parked in front of the fire station and a big red truck has just pulled out and the young man driving it is gesturing and suggesting—quite vehemently, I might add—that I should move my automobile out of the way.” She waved at the distraught fireman. “If you wish to meet me at Sunburst Pizza, that will be fine. Otherwise, we must continue this conversation at another time. Good day.” Click.

  Parris slammed the phone into the cradle, grabbed his battered felt hat off the coat rack, exited his office at a dead run, went down the stairway considerably faster than was sensible for a man of his bulk and coordination, made it to the bottom unscathed, and figured he could make it to the pizza joint in six minutes flat. Which he will. With twenty-odd seconds to spare.

  But before the chief constable arrives at his destination, an interesting coincidence deserves mention.

  AS PARRIS was speeding down Beechwood toward the Sunburst Pizza Restaurant, passing motorists left and right, one such citizen was behind the wheel of a dusty old Chevrolet Camearo he had stolen that very morning from a trail head where a hiker had left it.

  Imagine Jake Harper’s panic when, on his way to take a gander at the Wetzel house in preparation for still another try at grabbing Hermann’s money bag, he glanced at the rearview mirror and saw the GCPD black-and-white coming up fast behind him, emergency lights flashing. Presuming that he was about to be either arrested or shot dead, the felon uttered a coarse expletive, and appended this addendum: “How’d they get on to me so damn fast?”

  The burglar was numb with relief when the chief of police roared around him and kept on going. As the wanted man recovered from this unsettling experience, he took note of the fact that the police car had pulled into the Sunburst Pizza parking lot. As he passed by, Harper also noticed that the cop was chatting with an elderly woman standing by a Buick. Both the woman and the automobile looked awfully familiar. Not a half block away, he remembered. It’s that ditzy old landlady I thought was going to flush me out of Wetzel’s closet when she was there with that ditzy old Indian woman. Which raised a troubling possibility: Maybe the landlady found the place where I cut and mended that yellow police tape across the back door. She knows someone’s been inside Hermann’s house and that’s what she’s yakking to that big cop about. His brow wrinkled. But why are her and the cop at the pizza joint? A sudden flash of insight. I bet the old lady saw me talking to Nance that night and she’s telling the cop all about it. One worry begets another. And maybe Nance told the landlady some other stuff about me. Something that would help the cops pin the shooting on me.

  Jake Harper hung a hard right at the next corner, circled the block, and parked as close as he dared to Sunburst Pizza.

  SCOTT PARRIS gave Miss Muntz his semi-stern look. “So what’s all this about you seeing Harper?”

  “Young man, I hope you will not think me unreasonable, but I do not wish to be interviewed in a parking lot.” The prim little lady glanced at the restaurant. “I suggest that we go inside.”

  Well, I haven’t had my lunch yet. “Tell you what—how about I buy us both a bite to eat?”

  “How sweet of you.” She took the offered arm, which felt like a cedar post. “I generally stop here about once a week.”

  As they crossed the threshold, Parris took a hard look at the grimy interior and began to have doubts. “The eats here okay?”

  “I can recommend the calzone.” She turned her face to smile at the brawny policeman. He looks rather dapper in that old-fashioned hat. “But I generally get a take-out order. I prefer not to dine here—the ambience does not appeal to me.”

  “Yeah. I see what you mean.” It’d have to get better to qualify as a dump. He led her to a moderately clean booth, scooted onto the seat opposite her, and withdrew a menu that was wedged between a napkin holder and a plastic sugar dispenser. I wonder if I could handle a pepperoni and green chili. His small intestine, which was a fractious organ, answered the question with a sharp pain.

  An attractive, gum-chewing waitress arrived. The elderly lady might have been invisible, but the girl exchanged big smiles with the big cop, asked what looked good to him.

  Parris resisted the temptation to tell her. “Coffee and a meatball sandwich.” He restored the menu to its rightful place. “Don’t be stingy with the marinara sauce.”

  Pretty Face giggled and wriggled. “I’ll tell the chef to slop on an extra glop.”

  After getting the waitress’s attention with a barely audible cough, the elderly lady ordered a tossed salad. House dressing. Cup of tea. “And please ask Alvin Burkowitz to come to our table.”

  The gum chewer ceased masticating long enough to say, “You mean Al?”

  “Yes.”

  “Awright.” She cast a parting smile at the broad-shouldered cop. “I’ll go get ’im.”

  “Thank you.” Eyeing grease spots on the table with no little dismay, Miss Muntz held her purse in her lap.

  After enjoying the shapely young lady’s departure, Parris returned his attention to his elderly companion. “So tell me when and where you think you saw Harper.”

  Miss Muntz was about to reply when a man in a red-and-yellow Sunburst Pizza vest appear in the kitchen doorway. She waved. “Yoo-hoo—over here!”

  Like a wary coyote being offered a scrap of meat at a cowboy’s campfire, he approached in a wary, shuffling gait. />
  Miss M lifted a gloved hand to indicate her luncheon date. “Alvin—allow me to introduce my friend Mr. Parris. He is the chief of police.”

  The cop nodded at the rat-faced fellow, who averted his gaze.

  She spoke crisply to the Sunburst employee. “There is some unfinished business between us, young man—involving a cal-zone delivery.”

  Burkowitz gawked at the elderly woman.

  “You needn’t be concerned that I have a complaint about the food. As it happens, I have not taken a bite of it—it is in my freezer.”

  The pizza deliveryman took a step backward, stumbled, grabbed a plastic chair for support.

  The policeman’s face prickled with suspicion. This punk’s pupils are big as dimes—he’s high on something.

  Did Miss Muntz show the least sign of discomfort? Certainly not. Breeding will tell. The polite little lady continued as if nothing awkward had occurred. Smiling at the Sunburst employee, she said, “But I can assure you that the calzone shall not remain amongst the frozen foods much longer. I intend to share it with a friend.” She shot a meaningful glance at Parris.

  Still grasping the chair, Burkowitz might have been miles away. As he stared over Miss M’s gray head, his eyes rolled upward, and his lower lip begin to jerk in spasmodic little tics.

  Parris saw it coming. This yahoo’s gonna pass out. He tensed for action. I’ll try to grab him before he hits the floor.

  Apparently oblivious to the possibility that the deliveryman might fall flat on his face, Miss Muntz continued her monologue. “The issue has to do with your gratuity, which was not where I told you to look for it.” She removed a letter-size envelope from her purse, held it out to him. “Please accept my apology—and this.”

  The wild-eyed man steadied himself, stared at the offering like it was a snake about to fang him.

  Parris snatched the envelope from the lady’s fingers and jammed it into Burkowitz’s vest pocket. “That’ll be all, Alvin.” But I’ll be checking on you later. There had been street talk about someone dealing drugs from Sunburst Pizza.

  The deliveryman hurried away, bumping into tables and chairs.

  Parris addressed his elderly companion. “Okay, the wacko’s got his tip. Now tell me about seeing Jake Harper.”

  Miss Muntz snapped her purse shut. “As you already know, on the night when Mr. Wetzel was shot to death, I drove his stepdaughter into town. I had agreed to drop Nancy off at the Silver Mountain Hotel so she could attend that sweet little Indian girl’s birthday party. On the way, I stopped here.” She paused, pursed her lips. “Aren’t you going to write this down?”

  “Sure.” Parris found the necessary equipment in his shirt pocket.

  “My, what a fancy little leather-bound notebook.”

  “Thank you.” A silly grin. “It’s a present from my girlfriend.” He resumed the official expression. “So what happened when you made your stop at Sunburst?”

  She tapped a gloved finger on the table. “I was inside placing my order when I noticed a vehicle that pulled up very close to my Buick, where Nancy was waiting for me. When I came outside, it was apparent that she was having a conversation with the driver. And the moment I appeared, off he went.” She waved her hand to demonstrate the rapid departure.

  Parris’s arched eyebrows said, So?

  In preparation for the punch line, Miss M inhaled. “The driver had a beard, and the car was one of those boxy little Jeeps—just like the newspaper account said the suspect in the Wetzel homicide was driving.” She clamped her mouth shut.

  Disappointment fairly dripped from Parris’s face. “You think you might’ve seen Harper here in his Jeep on the night Hermann Wetzel was shot?” I was hoping she’d spotted him today.

  A pert nod. “That is correct.” She cocked her head as if expecting some expression of thanks.

  “Well . . . that’s very interesting, ma’am.” He pocketed the notebook.

  At about this time, the salad and meatball sandwich were delivered.

  Aside from a few remarks about the food and the nice weather, they dined in silence.

  After Parris had signed the credit-card receipt and half-heartedly flirted with the saucy waitress, he escorted his elderly date to her automobile.

  Clutching at Scott Parris’s arm, Miss Muntz inquired whether her possible sighting of Harper’s Jeep—tardy as the report was—might be of any help in his ongoing investigation of the Wetzel homicide.

  The gallant lawman did the best he could. “You can never tell what’ll turn out to be the critical piece of information.” He smiled at the senior citizen, tipped the venerable hat. “I sure do appreciate your help.”

  She appreciated these encouraging words, and as Miss Millicent Muntz watched the chief of police’s automobile roar away at twice the posted speed limit, she shook her little gray head. Such a nice young man. If I had a son I would be quite satisfied if he turned out to be just like Mr. Parris. She was reminded of an exception. Except for that little potbelly. He really should cut back on his calories.

  A HALF block away, crouched behind the wheel of the classic Camaro, the bald, beardless version of Jake Harper watched the little old lady get into her Buick. I wonder how much she knows. And what she’s told that cop.

  Forty-Seven

  Cops Get Heartburn Too

  Jake Harper was not the only fellow in Granite Creek County who needed a place to hide out and lick his wounds.

  The third time the district attorney had called to demand an “up-to-the-minute progress report,” Scott Parris had (through clenched teeth) advised that assertive public servant to pack a bag and go straight to—But that unseemly travel suggestion does not bear repeating. And getting the DA off his back did not measurably ease the stress on the harried chief of police. The phone line fairly hummed with impertinent inquiries from journalists who posed smart aleck questions like: “How’d this desperado manage to slip away from you guys twice—he been dipped in grease or what?” Then, there were alarmed citizens who figured that they were next on Harper’s hit list. Typical of these was a nervous widow lady whose home was within two blocks of the Wetzel “murder house.” Without stopping to catch her breath, she demanded to know, “Why is this bloodthirsty killer still on the loose right here in my neighborhood and what do we pay these outrageous property taxes for—to buy fancy uniforms and expensive cars for dumb cops who couldn’t find their [vulgarity deleted] with both hands? Next election I intend to vote for a whole new slate—we’ll throw all of you bums out and start over!”

  By midafternoon, Scott Parris was desperate for someplace to escape the ongoing persecution. He jammed the felt hat down to his ears, stalked out of the station without a word to anyone about his destination, which was the one place on earth where he could count on a warm welcome, a free meal, and—best of all—a few hours of peace and quiet. Charlie Moon’s Columbine Ranch.

  Parris Puts It All Together

  As Daisy Perika was saving her appetite for an evening out, and Sarah Frank was absent from the ranch headquarters, Scott Parris and Charlie Moon dined alone.

  Following a hearty supper of melt-in-your-mouth beefsteaks, baked and buttered Idaho potatoes, and hot apple pie, the best friends took their coffee onto the west porch, seated themselves on sturdy redwood chairs, and settled down to view the evening’s prime-time performance—a pink-and-violet sunset so stunningly gorgeous that it took their breaths away. But, as is the way of temporal blessings, the soul-warming glow over the snow-capped peaks soon faded, and as the rainbow-hued display was relegated to that secret place where cherished memories are kept, a chill breeze passed by to rattle cottonwood leaves and sweep dust off the porch. Then came twilight, that bittersweet foretaste of true night. Crisp shadows tugged impotently on solidly built horse barns and sturdy tree trunks. Even though the rainbow presentation had gradually faded to black-and-white, this was the Ute’s favorite portion of eventide, when day fled and took all its worries with it.

  By and by, the h
ighlands were abandoned to dusk’s cool hand.

  Was it quiet? The Ute could hear his heartbeat. Perfection.

  The white man shattered the silence. “Where’s Sarah?”

  “Spending the night over at the cabin.”

  Parris’s brow furrowed. “The one by the lake?”

  Moon nodded. “She took some things to eat and a couple of books.” Sarah’s a good kid.

  “Is that little girl all by herself?”

  The Ute grinned. “She thinks she is.”

  “You posted a guard.”

  “Two keen-eyed men with Winchesters.” Charlie Moon clasped his hands behind his head.

  Inspired by the breeze in the eaves, Parris sighed. “There’ve been some breaks in the Wetzel homicide.”

  The rancher closed his eyes.

  The town cop sipped some brew from his coffee mug. “If you’re interested, you don’t have to go to all the trouble of saying so—just grunt.”

  I’ve hurt his feelings. “Has Jake Harper been picked up?”

  “Not yet.” Parris blushed. “But it won’t be long before we’ll nab the bastard.”

  “Then you must’ve arrested Nancy Yazzi.”

  The blush was promoted to a tingling burn. “Afraid not.”

  Count a dozen ticktocks of the clock.

  Ol’ Charlie’s drifted off again. This is like trying to have a conversation with one of them knotty-pine cigar-store Indians. Parris leaned back in the redwood chair, stretched his legs. “I got a fax today from FBI forensics. They’ve traced that .38 Smith & Wesson that Officer Martin found in Wetzel’s front yard. The ballistics report verifies that it’s the firearm used to shoot Wetzel, which is what we expected all along. But you’ll be surprised to know that—”

  “The .38 was part of Hermann Wetzel’s gun collection—which the burglar probably found while he was burgling and used it to shoot Mr. Wetzel dead.”

  “Dammit, Charlie—you sure know how to steal a man’s thunder.”