“Sorry, pardner.” Through his boot heels, the Ute felt the Columbine hound move under the porch. “So—that’s it?”
“Pretty much.” After counting off six heartbeats, Parris murmured, “Oh, there was one other little thing. You want to hear about it?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“The Bureau geeks found two clean prints on the pistol.”
The Ute’s ears pricked at this news, but he kept his eyes shut. “Since you need all the thunder you can lay your hands on, I won’t speculate about whose fingerprints were on the murder weapon.”
“Thanks, Charlie—that’s very thoughtful of you.” Now I’ll let him stew. The chief of police counted again. At ten: Okay, if you won’t ask, I won’t tell you. At sixteen, he blurted out, “The prints on the gun—”
“Weren’t Harper’s. And the FBI hasn’t made a match yet.”
Parris ground his molars. Felt his pulse thumpity-thumping in his temple.
It hurt Moon’s mouth not to grin. “Sorry, pardner. Just couldn’t help myself.”
“So how’d you know?”
The tribal investigator shrugged. “Wild guess.”
Parris counted to ten again. Slowly this time. Somewhat relaxed, he said, “So we know Harper didn’t do the burglary by himself.” He rested his left Roper boot on top of the right one. “And that it was his partner who pulled the trigger on Wetzel.”
Moon opened his eyes to get a gander at the lawman’s face, which glowed with self-satisfaction. “And you’ve got a pretty good notion of who the partner was.”
“Maybe I do.” Mimicking his buddy, Parris clasped his fingers behind his head. Closed his eyes. “But I don’t want to spoil your fun. So go ahead—tell me.”
The Ute was listening to a sinister sound his friend had not heard. “Wetzel’s stepdaughter?”
Scott Parris did a fine imitation of the tribal investigator’s “mmm-hmm.” He opened one eye long enough to let it twinkle at his buddy. “All Nancy Yazzi had to do was get away from the festivities for a few minutes.”
Moon recalled how much confusion there had been at Sarah’s birthday party. “I guess that can’t be ruled out.” He could not pass up an opportunity to tweak his best friend. “But I can think of another possibility.”
Parris was haunted by the certainty that this had all happened before. But it was not déjà vu—the clever Ute had scooped him time and again. “So tell me.”
“No. You wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“Don’t let that stop you—I’ll pretend like I do.”
“Okay, then. Way I figure it, the shooter’s that little landlady who lives right across the street.”
Parris’s eyes popped wide open to goggle at his host. “Miss Muntz?”
“Oh, I expect she’s the sort that wouldn’t swat a fat greenfly even if it was squatted on a fresh blueberry pie. But my momma always used to say to me, ‘Eat your green beans, Charles,’ and, ‘Still waters run deep.’ ” The Ute fixed his gaze on a silvery-gray glow over the Shining Mountains. “You ought to run a background check on that one. I bet she’s got a rap sheet long as your—”
“Charlie, get serious!”
Moon assumed a defensive tone. “With what little I know, the landlady’s the best suspect I could come up with.”
“This ain’t nothing to joke about.” Once again, Parris calmed himself. “What we need to do is question everybody that was at Sarah’s birthday party, find out if anyone saw Nancy slip away from the shindig—or sneak back in.”
“What’s this ‘we’ stuff?”
“About a third of the men in the ballroom were from the Columbine, so it’s only natural I’d expect you to help in the investigation.”
“Why’s it only natural?”
Parris did not mind telling him. “During that nasty business over at the Yellow Pines Ranch last year, I deputized you. And before you say, ‘That was a heck of a long time ago,’ I’ll remind you that you ain’t never been undeputized.”
“And I’ll remind you that this particular deputy is still waiting for his first paycheck.”
“That’s not my fault.” Parris waved the coffee mug. “I turned your time in to the county.”
“Well, that puts things in a whole different light.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Charlie. You know I’ve done my level best.”
A small, raspy voice said, “He’s always been a big gourd head.”
Parris felt a sudden chill. First, four-legged chickens. Now I’m hearing voices. “Uh, Charlie . . .” This was downright embarrassing. “Did you just hear something?”
Moon was wearing his high-stakes-poker face. “Like what?”
The cop blushed. “Oh, nothing.”
“That was Aunt Daisy. She’s been sitting in the parlor, listening to every word we’ve said.”
This assertion was verified by a witchy cackle at the screened window.
The chief of police turned to glare at the invisible eavesdropper.
The disembodied voice spoke again. “I can’t sit here much longer. The van’ll be showing up any minute now.”
Parris blinked at the window screen. “What van?”
“The one from St. Anthony’s in Granite Creek.”
Moon laughed. “She’s hoping to clean up at tonight’s bingo game.”
The chief of police, who was all for religious activities, forgave the old sinner. “I hope you hit the jackpot, Daisy.”
“So do I.” She snorted. “But from what I’m told, all they have in the prize box is little bags of sugar-free candy and dime-store handkerchiefs and bottles of hand lotion. I don’t see why they can’t give away some hard cash.”
Parris grinned. “You seem to worry a lot about money.”
“You would too if you was a little ol’ lady who lived hand-to-mouth on Social Security and that piddlin’ little check I get from the tribe.” She might have mentioned the generous monthly allowance from her nephew.
The hairy-chested man, who could not imagine himself as any sort of ol’ lady, had no snappy comeback.
There was a grunt as Daisy Perika got up from her seat by the window. “Well, I’d better go to the bathroom before some old duffer shows up in the van. Don’t you two say a word till I get back.”
They didn’t and she would not.
Clarification is required. The men did not say a word until she returned and Daisy would not go to the bathroom. Why would she practice this deception? Partly because it was in her nature to deceive, also because Daisy had a more urgent job to attend to (which had almost slipped her mind). In her view, this particular task was none of their business. Though in fact, it was—very much so.
Just look at her go! The old woman hurries across the parlor, hobbles down the hallway past the dining room and across the kitchen, and opens the door to the headquarters tool room, where Charlie Moon keeps everything a handyman might need, from an antique muscle-powered auger a stout fellow can use to bore holes through oak logs—to a brand-new 120-volt Makita HM1211B demolition hammer capable of breaking concrete. Daisy has no interest in drilling holes or pulverizing cement. Without pulling the string to switch on a hundred-watt bulb hanging from the beamed ceiling, she heads straight for the pine shelf where her nephew keeps his fishing gear, opens a blue metal tackle box, fumbles around until she finds what she needs, and stuffs it into her sweater pocket.
What did Daisy take?
Sorry—there was so little light, and she moved so quickly.
But never mind. It is probably of no importance.
What is this? Now she is heading to the bathroom—undoubtedly to confound our prediction that she would not. Such a contrary old soul. But perhaps we are too hard on the cantankerous character. It is possible that the excitement of committing a minor theft has activated the aged bladder.
AS WE are obliged to leave Daisy to her personal business, and faced with a break in the lawmen’s conversation, let us check in on Sarah Frank.
THE GIRL is not in th
e priest’s cabin. Ah—she is over there, where the breeze caresses her long black tresses. Bathed in the luminous moonshine, Sarah stands on Lake Jesse’s pebbled shoreline.
The armed Columbine bodyguards who keep watch from a discreet distance are puzzled. It appears that the frail little body they guard is having a conversation with someone who (as far as the sharp-eyed cowboys can tell) is not there.
Oh—we have barged in on a sacramental situation. She is making a confession.
Our apologies, young lady. We shall leave you to converse with your unseen companion.
SO WHO shall we visit? How about that notorious felon who is at the top of the Granite Creek Police Department’s most-wanted list. Please be patient. It may take a moment to locate the slippery fellow. . . .
Aha—there the rascal is, skulking around in the darkness. Up to his old tricks, no doubt.
Since his dramatic eviction from the Grilly family mountain chalet by Officers Slocum and Knox, Jake Harper has been sleeping wherever he can find a place to lay his head and keep tolerably warm, such as in a tool shed or horse barn. Such a crafty fellow, and so full of felonious intent. But let us not judge him too harshly. Whatever his faults—and Mr. Harper is endowed with a multitude of them—he has his strong points, such as those sterling twin virtues Determination and Persistence. His resolution hardened by recent setbacks, Harper is more determined than ever to have what is rightfully his and will persist until he gets his grubby hands on Hermann Wetzel’s legacy. Only a few hours earlier, he made several purchases at ABC Hardware, and the single-minded fellow is, once again, using the keys Nancy Yazzi provided to enter the rear door of the former Wetzel residence.
Watch the hopeful burglar scurry across the kitchen and into the office with his black canvas tool kit, which includes an orange plastic container labeled 100 BITS IN A BOX. Jake is betting on the Torx 25 to do the trick on the tamper-proof screws. He kneels on the floor to remove the heat register from the duct and—
But what is this?
The heat register is not firmly in place. Moreover, there are marks on the hardwood which suggest that someone has pried the thing from the floor.
Fearing the worst, Harper lifts the register from its rectangular well, uses his small flashlight to peer into the opening. Nothing is hanging from the nail.
The angry man growls. Some rotten no-good stinking low-life thief has come and swiped it. The nerve of some people. I’d like to get my hands on the guy and strangle him till his eyeballs pop out and roll down his cheeks.
But let us pause and consider a pertinent question: Was his gender assumption politically correct? Must stinking lowlife thieves inevitably be of the guy persuasion?
Now, as petty criminals go, Jake Harper was a fair-minded fellow, and as he considered the possibilities he was forced to conclude that the pair of elderly ladies who had interrupted his previous attempt to retrieve the Wetzel loot were the most likely suspects. And of the two, Miss Muntz was the odds-on candidate. I bet that nosy old landlady was dusting or something and noticed that the heat register had been screwed to the floor and she asked herself why, of all the registers in the house, would Hermann Wetzel fasten this one down? There was only one way to find out, so she pried it up and found his bag of money, which is rightfully mine.
Which scenario presented Harper with a dilemma.
The smart thing would be to write the whole thing off as a loss and leave town before the cops pick me up.
On the other hand—
I could sure use some hard cash. And the landlady’s right across the street. And she knows she ain’t got no legal right to Hermann’s money, so she ain’t told the cops about it. If I was to go over there and put a bad scare into her, she’d hand his money bag over so fast it’d scorch my hand.
In addition to those virtues of Determination and Persistence, is Mr. Harper also endowed with even a meager helping of Wisdom—or the most minuscule portion of Common Sense? Presently, we shall find out.
At the Columbine
As Daisy returned to the front porch, and the men obligingly renewed their conversation, the St. Anthony’s activities van came rumbling over the Too Late Creek bridge and pulled under the cottonwoods in the headquarters yard. Moon escorted his aunt to the roomy vehicle, where she insisted that she could get inside without any help. He spoke to the driver, a slender white man with a crown of snowy hair. “Like I told you on the phone, you don’t have to come all the way out here. Anytime my aunt wants to go to church, I’ll be happy to drive her into town.”
“And like I told you, I don’t mind a bit.” Snowy Hair smiled at the rancher. “It’s fun to make a run out into the countryside.”
Moon watched Daisy settle into the seat behind the driver. “When should I expect her back?”
“Bingo generally goes until about ten P.M. and after that there’s snacks and punch, so I won’t get away from the church before eleven.” The driver scratched his chin, which helped his thinking process along. “I’ll have some other folks to drop off in town before I head out here, soooo . . . it’ll prob’ly be a little while after midnight.”
“That’ll be fine.” Before closing the van door, Moon smiled at his relative. “Have a good time.”
She intended to do just that. Daisy Perika tapped the driver’s shoulder with the knobby end of her walking stick. “Okay, bud—let’s get this thing rolling.”
As they watched the van pass over the bridge again, Parris recalled one of his worries: “I’m kinda concerned about Wetzel’s landlady.”
The Ute stretched out in the porch chair. “Why’s that?”
“Oh, just a bad feeling.” I’d sure like to have another cup of coffee, but I’m too comfortable to go into the house for it. “I had lunch with Miss Muntz today. On the night she drove Nancy Yazzi over to Sarah’s birthday party, she stopped off at Sunburst Pizza for a few minutes.”
“That’s mostly a hangout for kids.”
“And it’s a regular dump. But the old lady don’t eat there.” Except for today. “She picks up to-go orders to take home.” He grinned at the recollection of Miss M’s determination to give the weirdo Sunburst employee his gratuity. “Point is, when she came out of the pizza joint that night, Miss Muntz saw Nancy talking to some guy in a Jeep. It was probably Jake Harper.”
“Even if it was, that’s old news.”
“Yeah. But what nags at me is if it was Harper Miss Muntz spotted, then he probably saw her too and he might be worried that—one way or another—she knows a lot more about him than he’d like.”
“Like if Nancy Yazzi talked to her landlady about her love life.”
“Right.”
“So what are you gonna do about it?”
“There’s not much I can do, except have our regular patrols do a pass-by check of Miss Muntz’s house every few hours. But most of the time, we’re so short-handed I can’t even manage that.” Scott Parris waited for the hoped-for response.
Charlie Moon, who knew this man like they were blood twins, provided it. “I could ask Daisy to invite her new friend to spend a week or two at the Columbine.”
The chief of police grinned. “I’d be much obliged.”
I thought you would. The rancher gazed at the mountains, recalled what had happened the last time he’d opened the Columbine door to another woman Parris was worried about. I hope this one won’t run off with a pickup truck and what’s left of my guns.
Forty-Eight
The Night Stalker
For the sixth time in as many minutes, the Felon’s right hand found the knife holstered on his belt. The Buck Kalinga was a wicked-looking instrument, with a blade that curved sinuously upward as if eager to slide under someone’s ribs. There’s no lights on in the house. The old biddy’s probably gone to bed early.
Like so many of his generation, the young man supposed that senior citizens consisted entirely of worn-out grandmas and grandpas who are obliged to spend eighteen of the day’s hours in sleep. The fact that he had
not caught a single Z for almost forty hours, had a pounding headache, and was running on a potent combination of alcohol and caffeine probably clouded his judgment. This little job will be easy as spending somebody else’s money. The confident scoundrel counted off the reasons why.
One. The old lady lived all alone.
Two. Not a soul had witnessed his approach.
Three. No one could see him in his shadowy hideaway. (He was concealed beneath the drooping branches of Miss Muntz’s Japanese cherry bush.)
But was he correct?
If we disregard the presence of Mr. Moriarty in her home, it is a fact that the elderly spinster lives alone.
Okay so far. But when the game is deadly serious, only a born loser would consider one out of three to be a satisfactory score.
So what about assumptions Two and Three?
As it happened, more than a dozen locals had witnessed the prowler’s arrival and just as many knew where he was hiding. In the interest of brevity, we shall consider only two of these alert local citizens.
A mildly inquisitive chipmunk peeks from his cellar entrance, which is artfully concealed under the arch of a gnarled juniper root. As he is entertained by a drama far surpassing anything a rodent is likely to see on TV, the furry little fellow is fresh out of buttered popcorn, which is why he gnaws on one of last year’s piñon nuts.
Eleven floors up (in the penthouse), a tiny wren is warming three pinto-bean-size eggs. No, not for the evening meal. This is an expectant mother, who has pressed herself into a nest so snug that her feathered tail sticks straight up behind her behind. She watches the prowler with unblinking black eyes set immediately above her beak, which rests on the finely wrought cup of twigs and grass. She has no piñon nut to gnaw, but Mr. Wren is out looking for something tasty for the common-law wife, whose taste runs toward victuals that scuttle about on six legs. Tiny beetles are her version of lobster thermidor.
IN MOST (if not all) of the lower forty-eight states, breaking and entering is a legal term, and the first requirement under the law is that something must be broken. Such as a door latch or a pane of window glass. The latter is what the felon had in mind, which is why he had a roll of masking tape (to minimize the scattering of shards) and a heavy glove on his left hand (to avoid injury to his precious flesh). What else could he do—tap on the front door in the hope that Miss Muntz would invite him in for tea and crumpets? In light of the murder that had recently occurred just across the street, the woman would surely not be so careless as to leave her door unlocked. Even so, before breaking the glazing, he reached out with the gloved hand, gently twisted the doorknob.
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