It turned. The latch clicked. Well, shall wonders never cease?
The inside of the house was dark—though not quite as black as the depths of a coal mine in Anthracite County, Pennsylvania. He had brought along a small flashlight, but (hoping to surprise the elderly resident) was loathe to use it just yet.
AS IT happened, Miss Muntz was not napping.
Like the piñon-nut-gnawing chipmunk, she was in her basement, which is where the contractor who built the house had installed the electrical panel. Fumbling around in the dark, she had not heard the front door open, but as the intruder walked across the floor over her head, Miss M heard the boards squeak. An interesting situation, and eerily similar to those events that had immediately preceded Hermann Wetzel’s murder.
So what did she do?
The elderly spinster called out, “Yoo-hoo!”
The response from above was the ceasing of footsteps.
From below, another “Yoo-hoo,” to which she appended, “I’m down here messing about with the circuit breakers, and cannot come upstairs until I get the lights turned on. Please stay right where you are—the basement stairway is rather steep and hazardous.”
When an old lady yoo-hoos from the cellar and advises a dangerous felon to stay put, what is he to do? Wait until the lights go on? Possibly. Switch on his flashlight and find the basement stairway? Or should he withdraw, return on a more auspicious evening?
The fellow with the knife in his hand was obliged to make a choice, and whatever his shortcomings, he was not one to dilly-dally when faced with a critical issue that must be dealt with right on the well-known spot. After only a few ticktocks of Miss Muntz’s grandfather clock, he came to a decision.
As she stood by the circuit-breaker panel, Miss Muntz heard the floorboards begin to squeak again. Having spent quite some time in the inky cellar darkness, which was exactly like a coal mine deep under Anthracite County, Pennsylvania, perhaps the old lady’s sense of direction was a bit befuddled. Was her visitor returning to the front door, or moving toward the top of the cellar stairway? At first, she could not decide. But give the boards over her head time to make a few more squeaks.
Squeak. Creak. Squeak-creak. Creak-squeak.
Now she knows for sure.
Evidently, Miss Muntz has exhausted her supply of yoo-hoos.
APPROXIMATELY THIRTY-FIVE minutes later, when Charlie Moon’s wristwatch read half past ten o’clock, the tribal investigator and the chief of police were seated in the Columbine headquarters’ kitchen, enjoying a penny-ante game of Texas Hold-’em Spit into the Wind—a highly complex contest that we shall not attempt to describe. Moon was a dollar and change ahead when the telephone rang. He took the call, grinned when he heard his aunt’s voice. I bet she’s tired of the bingo game already and wants to come home before the van leaves. “You want me to come get you?”
Yes, she did.
“Soon as this hand is played out, I’ll be on my way.”
That would be satisfactory. But there was one other thing. A minor detail.
“You’re where?” The grin slipped off Moon’s face.
A grin is a terrible thing to waste.
Parris picked it up, put it on. Daisy’s probably creating a big row over at the Catholic church.
Daisy repeated what she had said to her nephew.
“Okay. I’ll leave right away.” Moon hung up the phone.
The chief of police eyed a pair of jacks and some trash. “So what’s the old lady up to this time?” He imagined the aged Ute with a hammerlock on another elderly bingo player.
The rancher frowned at a framed print of a majestic bull buffalo standing in knee-high grass. “I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”
Scott Parris folded his hand. “We?”
“Aunt Daisy says I should bring you along.” Moon, who had a modest portion of manly vanity, was putting the black hat on just so when something caught his eye. The tool-room door was not quite closed. I know I shut it behind me about three hours ago when I put that sledgehammer back. The rancher entered the small room, switched on the light. Everything seems all right. No. Somebody’s been messing with my fishing-tackle box. The puzzled angler lifted the lid. Looks like everything’s there. No. Wait a minute . . .
An item was missing.
Who could have taken it?
The name of a prime suspect immediately sprang to mind. And with that realization, a far more disturbing question:
What would she want with something like that?
Forty-Nine
Old-Fashioned Hospitality
At the first rap of Charlie Moon’s Knuckle, Miss Muntz jerked the door open, gawked up at the tallest man she had ever seen in the flesh. “Oh, my—you must be Daisy’s nephew.”
The lean seven-footer tipped his black John B. Stetson lid and admitted to this singular misfortune.
The miniature Muntz lighthouse beamed a bright smile at the Ute, turned a lesser light on his companion. “How very nice to see you, Mr. Parris—and so soon after our luncheon today.” The frail little lady drew in a deep breath. “Daisy advised me that this was your card-playing night, and assured me that I could expect two for the price of one—ha-ha!” She ushered them into her immaculate parlor, where Daisy Perika, hunched like an aged toad in an armchair, barely raised her chin at the men to acknowledge their formidable presence. The lawmen were directed to a spindly-looking pair of antique chairs.
The elderly spinster darted about with the nervous energy of a schoolgirl, her eyes sparkling like a pair of blue embers that might set the house afire, hurried words spilling out of her mouth. “I have prepared some refreshments.” Miss Muntz clapped her hands to applaud this happy announcement. “Something very tasty!”
The dyspeptic chief of police shook his head. “Thank you, ma’am, I’ll pass.”
“Oh!” The disappointed lady turned her hopeful expression to the Indian. He has a hungry look. “Would you like something to nibble on, dear?”
“You betchum.” Flashing a big smile, the Ute jerked his chin at Parris. “You can give me his share too.”
What a nice young man. Off she went, with that blissful expression that adorns a child’s face on Christmas morn.
Moon eyed the aged aunt. “I imagine you’ve had an interesting evening.”
Avoiding his gaze, Daisy smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt. “Oh, it’s been all right.”
He eyed and pried a notch harder. “So how’d you end up here?”
“Milly was at the bingo game. She asked me to come over to her place for a while, so I did.”
“Milly,” is it? The Ute cocked his ear to enjoy the cacophony of snack-making sounds emanating from the kitchen. Refrigerator and microwave doors opening and shutting. Dishes rattling, pots and pans clanging. An old-fashioned coffee percolator cluggity-clugging, a teakettle shrieking a shrill whistle. His nose was delighted to detect the delectable aromas of various victuals.
Scott Parris also took notice of these sounds and smells, but after an evening of poker that had been interrupted when he was a dollar and sixteen cents down, the gloomy fellow was in no mood for having fun. The most he could look forward to at dawn was another hard day’s work, and what he wanted in the dark meantime was some serious sack time. And no nightmares about hideously deformed chickens, thank you very much.
By and by, the occupants of the parlor heard the official Call to Snack, which summons was made by a vigorous clang-clanging of the retired schoolteacher’s 1950s-era handbell. The treats would be served in her dining room, which was so squeaky-clean that the men could have eaten off the floor, but they sensibly chose to receive nourishment at the antique cherry dining table, whereupon a diner could—if so inclined—see reflections of tall yellow tallow candles in silver candela-bras, as well as images of fellow chowhounds seated across the table.
Which is where Millicent Muntz was (across the table from her menfolk guests), but she preferred to observe the actual men rather than their fo
ggy images on the polished wood. Though she would limit herself to tea, the prim little lady folded a lace-edged linen napkin in her lap. “I daresay, this is nothing at all like high tea at the Brown Palace Hotel, but I do hope you enjoy it.”
Moon was adept at enjoying every blessing. “This looks great.” Accustomed to more rowdy companions of the cowboy persuasion, the rancher barely caught himself before adding that time-honored compliment: Good enough to eat.
The very soul of modesty, their host made an admission: “Some of this is worked-over leftovers, but I have done my best to make it palatable.”
The layout on the immaculate dining table included a matched pair of silver decanters whose spouts steamed forth tempting aromas of New Mexico Piñon coffee and Earl Grey tea, a miniature silver pitcher of Wisconsin whole cream, and two circular trays (also silver)—one heaped with homemade cookies (thin almond wafers and plump coconut macaroons), the second with a cunningly displayed array of miniature rectangular pastries that were filled with a delectable concoction of vegetables and meats, each topped with either aged cheddar, imported Swiss, or Wisconsin mozzarella.
Scott Parris observed that this was “some high-class treat, especially for a couple of ordinary galoots like me and ol’ Charlie Moon.” Despite his earlier tendency toward abstinence, the slightly paunchy chief of police had suddenly developed a healthy appetite. Them cheesy little horse-doovers look good. Tomorrow would provide plenty of time for dieting.
While Miss Muntz sipped tea and Daisy concentrated on a cup of coffee, Moon and Parris began to shovel it in. Food disappeared like an inch of May snow when the midday sun suddenly slips from behind the clouds to show its fiery face.
Miss Muntz touched her lips with the linen napkin. “I do enjoy seeing hungry men clean their plates.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. “If that’s all it takes to make you feel good, you ought to cook full-time for Charlie. I’ve never seen him leave a single bean on his platter.”
Daisy’s nephew smiled at the lady who had prepared the food. “That was a dandy snack.”
Parris burped. “Sure was.” And he was not finished.
Gratification sparkled in the eyes of the lady who had prepared the food, but her voice betrayed just the slightest hint of anxiety. “Now that you gentlemen are refreshed, there is a matter I am obliged to tell you about.” She blinked once at Charlie Moon, twice at the chief of police. “Earlier this evening, Daisy and I experienced a bit of unpleasantness.”
The town cop popped a macaroon into his mouth, proceeded to chew. “Umpesamess?”
Inwardly, Miss Muntz cringed. I do wish he would not attempt to talk with his mouth full. “The whole business was disagreeable. Indeed, it would not be going too far to characterize the occurrence as”—she pursed her lips—“distasteful.”
Parris choked the chewy cookie down. “What happened?”
“I hardly know where to begin.” Miss Muntz shot a quick glance at the Ute woman, whose face had all the expression of a doorknob. “Shortly after Daisy and I arrived here from St. Anthony’s, I was down in the cellar—messing about with the circuit breakers. At the time, all of the lights in the house were out.”
“Well, the power’s on now.” Always ready to state the obvious or assist a citizen who didn’t know an ampere from a volt, Scott Parris was on his feet, gung-ho to have a go at whatever needed fixing. “But I’ll be happy to go check your breaker panel.”
Miss Muntz opened her mouth, searched for appropriate words, gave up, and clamped it shut. Life’s many vexations were so difficult to explain to men, who were always eager to fix any problem you might mention with a screwdriver, hammer, or, worst of all—sound advice. Without uttering another word, she led her male guests to the cellar door, opened it, and switched on the light over the stairway that descended into the damp, murky depths.
For an indefinable moment, that phenomenon that Professor Einstein referred to as “the persistent illusion of time” was suspended.
Clocks neither ticked nor tocked, neither did fleshly hearts beat.
The stunned men might have been made of stone. Or ice.
The lawmen had witnessed dozens of gory scenes, which tended from time to time to transform their dreams into nightmares. But what they saw at the bottom of Miss Muntz’s cellar stairs was, in a word—unique.
Without taking his gaze off the mortal remains of the man whose face he could not see, the chief of police descended the steps.
Moon followed.
The unfortunate creature was stretched over a wooden barrel; his right hand had a death grip on a hunting knife.
No big deal.
What galvanized their attention was the sight of four bloody prongs protruding from the dead man’s back. He was impaled on a digging fork—that common garden tool used for heaping compost and unearthing potatoes.
As he held his breath, Parris felt the sting of four distinct pains in his chest.
Miss Muntz, who had remained at the top of the cellar stairway with Daisy Perika, found her voice. “When this man entered the front door—which I had not yet locked for the night—all the lights were out. I was down in the cellar by the circuit-breaker panel, which is there—just to the right of my freezer. After I had specifically warned him not to, he came down the steps. . . .” A thoughtful pause, as she considered how rare it was for a man to accept sensible advice from a woman. “During the descent, he lost his footing and fell.” She drew in a breath. “When I found the big circuit breaker and pulled the handle, the lights came on. And there he was, just as you see him now, on the barrel where I keep my gardening tools. With that horrible knife in his hand.” She could not suppress a slight shudder. “I don’t think anything has been disturbed, but as you might imagine, it was rather off-putting to have to squeeze past his corpse so that I could ascend the stairs.” Blushing pink, she made a frank admission: “I very rarely drink strong spirits, but following this experience I felt compelled to pour myself a half ounce of cooking sherry.”
Daisy smiled. “I had me a little glass too.” Or was it two little glasses . . . ?
The tribal investigator was plagued by a worrisome thought. If a man took a tumble on these steps, he’d be likely to injure himself, maybe even break a bone. But the odds against falling on that fork are at least twenty to one. Charlie Moon took a long look at the stairway steps. Blinked. So that’s how they did it. Confronted with a terrible dilemma, Daisy’s longsuffering nephew made an instant decision. He turned, ushered the elderly women away from the cellar-stairway door, and closed it.
“WELL,” MISS Muntz sniffed. “That was rather abrupt.”
Daisy scowled at her unseen relative. Charlie Moon, who was always so courteous, had shut the door in their faces without so much as an “excuse me.”
SCOTT PARRIS was grateful for the privacy. “Thanks, buddy.”
“Don’t mention it.” Charlie Moon sat down on the steps, pulled a Meerkat from his pocket. No, not that excitable member of the mongoose family that comes equipped with a mouthful of pointy teeth—his jacket pocket was an unsuitable habitat for such ferocious contraband. This was a nifty little folding knife whose stubby blade could be flicked open with one hand, which is what he did. In a heartbeat, Mr. Moon and Mr. Meerkat got the job done.
Unaware of the felony that his unpaid deputy had committed, the chief of police squatted beside the barrel and shone a penlight onto the corpse’s face.
Alvin Burkowitz’s pale countenance looked back at him with bulging, startled eyes. The pizza deliveryman had encountered that ultimate surprise.
Fifty
Corpses Were His Life
Like most practitioners of his arcane trade, the granite Creek County medical examiner was a deliberate, methodical worker. But if he would not be hurried, neither was Walter Simpson a dawdler. Being of the literalist persuasion, he would have snorted at the assertion that time is money—his hours were far more valuable than currency. After much probing, frowning, and clucking of the tongu
e, Doc Simpson instructed one of his assistants to make temperature measurements in the corpse’s various orifices and (at Scott Parris’s request) directed the other technician to take fingerprints from both hands.
The efficient ME completed his preliminary examination of Alvin Burkowitz’s mortal remains in a mere forty-five minutes and officially declared the man dead, which declaration seemed somewhat superfluous considering the fact that four pointed steel spikes had penetrated the subject’s thorax.
No small effort was required to maintain the garden implement in place as the assistants partially bagged the body, strapped it to a gurney, muscled the macabre assembly up the cellar stairs, and rolled it outside to the van.
It was a few minutes after one A.M. when the medical examiner’s vehicle pulled out of Miss Muntz’s driveway and sped away to the morgue, which was in the basement of Doc Simpson’s 1870s-era Victorian home.
Parris Puts It All Together (Again)
Charlie Moon, Daisy Perika, and Scott Parris had joined Miss Muntz in her parlor, where she had turned on the fireplace’s gas flames, whose yellow-tipped blue tongues licked lethargically at tasteless ceramic logs. Though lacking in pine-scented authenticity, the artificial hearth produced sufficient heat to dispel a chill that had descended upon the premises, which was not entirely related to temperature.
Snake Dreams Page 27
