He was on the edge of his chair. “Why would you think that?”
Having practically invited this interruption, Miss Muntz was obliged to tolerate it. “It was because of one of those peculiarly unfortunate coincidences. You see, I had instructed Alvin to look for his gratuity in my desk, which is in a small office just off my kitchen. As it happens, there is a similar room adjacent to the late Mr. Wetzel’s kitchen, and there is also a desk in it—which is where my tenant kept a loaded pistol.”
Parris murmured like a man in a daze, “How would you know that?”
She felt almost sorry for the clueless cop. “As Mr. Wetzel’s landlady, I have a passkey to 750 Beechwood. I daresay there was precious little about either my tenant’s possessions or habits that I was unaware of.”
Scott Parris bowed his head, studied his scuffed Roper boots. “So, in your story, Jake Harper and Al Burkowitz aren’t partners. Burkowitz was just making a botched food delivery and didn’t know Harper was—”
“Please do not presume to sum up my account before I am finished.” Having made her point, the tale teller continued. “To recap, it was quite possible that on account of a slip of the tongue on my part, a simple calzone delivery had turned into a killing. If so, I was obligated to report what I knew to the authorities. On the other hand, Nancy’s boyfriend might well have fired the fatal shot—in which case I bore no responsibility. Moreover, informing the police about Alvin’s presence in the Wetzel residence at the critical moment might well implicate him in a crime which he had no part in.” She sighed. “One way or another, I felt compelled to determine the truth of the matter. But I was stymied as to how to do that.” She turned to the Ute elder. “Daisy, I find myself in need of an extra character. Would you mind terribly if I included you in my tale?”
The character, who had been back-and-forthing in a maple rocking chair, paused long enough to give her consent. “Not a bit, Milly—as long as I come out looking good.”
“Thank you, dear—you certainly shall.” Miss Muntz returned her attention to the male portion of her audience. “With my friend’s permission, I shall assert that Daisy was extremely helpful—that this clever lady came up with the thrilling finale to my plot.”
At this mention of his elderly relative in the context of plotting, Charlie Moon felt a sudden sense of dread.
Scott Parris’s grim visage resembled chiseled stone. Visualize Wyatt Earp on Mount Rushmore.
Daisy Perika took no notice of the suspicious looks she was getting from the lawmen.
With admirable skill, the star of the drama drew attention back to herself. “Alvin Burkowitz did not arrive unexpectedly tonight.” She pointed toward the front door. “I lured him here.”
Scott Parris was gripped with the eerie sense that he was drifting into another nightmare. Any moment now, he might be attacked by an enraged flock of two-headed, four-legged Rhode Island Reds.
Miss M was having so much fun. “You are no doubt wondering how I managed that. I shall not keep you in suspense. When Mr. Parris was with me at Sunburst Pizza earlier today, I gave Alvin an envelope. No, wait—that is not entirely accurate.” Her satisfied smirk easily trumped Parris’s earlier effort. “You gave it to him for me.” She was pleased to see the lawman’s red face turn chalky white. “There was no check inside; merely a note printed in capital letters.” Again, she patted Parris’s hand. “Now, you may interrupt to ask what was in my message to Alvin.”
“Okay,” he grumped. I’ll play your silly game. “You ginned up a blackmail note. ‘Pay attention, Dirt Bag—here’s the deal. I know you offed Wetzel and I can prove it. Show up at my place tonight with a satchel full of greenbacks or I spill my guts to the coppers and you’re dead meat. And I’m talking roadkill!’ ”
Miss Muntz pressed her hands to her face. “My goodness—you are considerably more imaginative than I had given your credit for. Though my prose was not nearly so colorful, if you will give me a moment to recollect, I believe I can recite the message almost word for word.”
The chief of police leaned back in his chair. “Take all the time you need.”
Miss M gazed dreamily at a paneled wall that was covered by photographs of her former piano students. Two of whom had died of drug overdoses. “Ah . . . yes, I have it.” She addressed the town cop: “You may feel free to write this down in your cute little leather policeman notepad.”
“This is my day off,” he shot back. “I left it in my cute Wyatt Earp shirt.”
“How unfortunate.” Shutting her eyes, she began the recitation:
“I WATCHED YOU ENTER MR. WETZEL’S RESIDENCE IMMEDIATELY BEFORE HE WAS SHOT TO DEATH. I ALSO SAW YOU FLEE FROM THE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY THEREAFTER. AFTER MUCH SOUL-SEARCHING, I HAVE DECIDED THAT I AM OBLIGATED TO INFORM THE POLICE. HOWEVER, BECAUSE I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR SENDING YOU TO MY TENANT’S ADDRESS WITH THE CALZONE, I SHALL WAIT UNTIL NOON TOMORROW TO REVEAL WHAT I KNOW TO THE CHIEF OF POLICE. THIS DELAY WILL PROVIDE YOU WITH APPROXIMATELY TWENTY-FOUR HOURS TO MAKE YOUR ESCAPE.”
She opened her eyes so that they might sparkle at the most important member of her small audience. “What do you think of that?”
“Fair to middling,” her critic said.
“Thank you. I was rather pleased with it myself.” She made a scribbling gesture in the air. “Once I get pencil in hand and the creative juices begin to flow, I have a tendency to get quite carried away.”
The middle-aged cop felt a sudden rumbling in his gut. “But Al Burkowitz didn’t make a run for it.” I wonder if she’s got any Alka-Seltzer.
“No.” Miss Muntz spoke very softly. “Alvin came here tonight, intending to murder me.” She could not suppress a shudder. “With that terrible knife.”
“But you were expecting him.”
“Certainly.” She cocked her head. “Men of that sort are so predictable.” What the lady had almost said was an abbreviated version: Men are so predictable. “When Alvin entered my front door I was waiting in the cellar, where I had turned off the main circuit breaker more than an hour earlier. Hearing his footsteps, I called out a warning so that he would know precisely where to find me.”
“A dandy plan.” The chief of police recovered a feeble remnant of the smirk. “And you hoped he’d trip on the way down the stairs.”
Miss M opened her mouth, then shut it.
“Aha!” Parris pointed at the somnolent Mr. Moriarty. “A hole in your story big enough to pitch that fat cat through!” He re-aimed the finger at the gray-haired lady. “I can practically see those conniving little wheels turning in your head—you’re trying to think up some way to plug it.”
“Let’s see if I can help her.” Waving off an imminent protest from Millicent Muntz, Daisy Perika glowered at her nephew’s best friend. “I’m in this story too, y’know. What do you think I was doing when that murdering matukach pizza guy showed up—taking a nap?”
Parris, who knew the Ute elder well, was beginning to feel uneasy. And, because of something he had eaten, slightly queasy.
Charlie Moon’s intense expression pleaded, Keep your mouth shut.
Daisy jutted her chin. “When that white man was about two steps down the cellar stairs, telling Milly what he was gonna do to her with his knife, I slipped up behind him, jammed the end of my walking stick right between his shoulder blades, and give him a good shove! Down he went—and landed on that big garden fork we’d put at the bottom of the steps.”
How did Moon respond to this assertion? Oddly, with a measure of relief.
Chin-deep in denial, Parris slapped his thigh. “Way to go, Daisy—that’s a big save for Miss Muntz’s fantastic tale. I’m sure she’s grateful.”
“Indeed. I am quite appreciative.” Miss M smiled at her presumed coconspirator. “Daisy is very resourceful. She has been more help to me than you might imagine.” The enthusiastic storyteller smiled at Scott Parris. “Well, what do you think of my version of recent events?”
The weary chief of police got to his feet. “I’ve got t
o hand it to you, Miss Muntz. Not only have you got ten times the imagination of a dumb cop like me—you also spin a pretty good yarn.” He waved the battered fedora. “But it’s been a long day and it’s time for me to go home and hit the hay.” He aimed a weak grin at his host. “I imagine you’ll be glad to get some sack time yourself.”
“You imagine wrongly, Mr. Parris.” Miss Muntz was standing with her spine ramrod straight. “I am not at all tired. On the contrary, I feel quite energized.” And very much alive.
But after such a stunning performance, to what end could our innovative storyteller apply all this pent-up energy?
And what about Daisy Perika—was the tribal elder tired to the bone and ready to go home with her nephew?
Shortly, we shall see.
A Flaw in the Plot?
“Excuse me, ma’am . . .” This was Charlie Moon.
Miss Muntz flashed a motherly smile at the Indian. “Yes, dear boy?”
Parris shook his head. Why do all the women like Charlie so much?
“I enjoyed your story.” Dear Boy frowned at a plate of gingersnaps in his lap. “Would you mind very much if I asked you something?”
“Of course not.” The gracious lady had forgiven her tallish guest for the door-shutting incident. Daisy’s nephew is such a sweetie. “Ask away.”
“It has to do with food.”
And he has such a healthy appetite. “If you wish to take the surplus gingersnaps home, you certainly may.”
“Well, thank you, ma’am.” Moon set the cookie plate on the coffee table, then unfolded his long, angular frame as he got up from the chair. “But that wasn’t what I was going to ask you about.”
“What then, pray tell?”
“In your story, Mr. Burkowitz would have taken the food you ordered into Mr. Wetzel’s rental house.” Moon looked down his nose at the ninety-pound lady. “If he followed your instructions, the Sunburst Pizza deliveryman would have put the calzone in the oven—then went looking for his tip.”
“Yes,” she said. “That is exactly what Alvin would have done. How very clever of you to realize the critical importance of that point.”
Daisy Perika was bursting to tell the lawmen that she had smelled the lingering scent of calzone in an oven that “neither Mr. Wetzel nor his stepdaughter ever used.” But the Ute elder held it all inside. This was Milly’s time in the limelight.
Moon shot a glance at Scott Parris. “Did any of your officers find a calzone in Wetzel’s oven—or anywhere in his house?”
“No, they didn’t.” Ol’ Charlie’s done it again. The chief of police turned to Miss M. “But I bet you can explain that away with no trouble at all.”
“Well, I shall give it my best effort. But please allow me a brief moment to gather my thoughts.” She frowned. Pursed her lips. Blinked at Mr. Moriarty’s still form in the wicker basket. And (this is always helpful) cocked her head. “Ah—I have it! When I entered my tenant’s home after the shooting, I removed the calzone from Mr. Wetzel’s oven and slipped it under my raincoat. Upon arriving home, I put it in my freezer.”
Scott Parris frowned at the mention of that major appliance. That’s what she told the pizza-delivery guy today—that the calzone was in her freezer. “Then let’s have a look at it.”
“I would be happy to oblige you, but it is no longer there.”
The chief of police rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Forgive me, Mr. Parris, for this candid observation—but you are a rather cynical young man.” She regarded him with sad eyes. “I suppose that comes with being a policeman.”
He laughed in her face. “You bet it does. And this cynical copper figures you’re cornered—and stalling for time.”
“Not in the least. In a modest little addendum to my story—which I’m sure you will admit is more interesting that your version—the calzone is concealed in a very secure location. Actually in two locations.”
Parris laughed louder this time. “But you’re not gonna tell us where.”
The Lady Administers the Coup De Grace
“Oh, but I am.” Miss M observed the chief of police with an expression of enormous gratification. “Do you recall the snack I served upon your arrival? In particular, the hors d’oeuvres with the delicious bits of cheese on top?”
Parris felt himself nod. His stomach grumbled.
The teller of tales pointed a finger at his slightly bulging tummy, then at the slender Indian’s flat-as-a-washboard abdomen. “This evening, you gentlemen consumed that critical evidence.”
As the lawmen gawked at the elderly lady, Daisy Perika began to grin. What a fine evening this had been! The grin was joined by a jolly chuckle that caused her belly to shake and tears to well in her eyes.
Fifty-Two
All Is Not Well in Mudville
Since vacating Miss Muntz’s Cozy Asylum for night’s infinite space, neither Charlie Moon nor Scott Parris has uttered a word. Standing elbow-to-elbow at the curb, the men gaze at heaven’s black velvet curtain and wonder what marvels might lie beyond that dark veil the cosmic architect has studded with white-hot diamonds. Until the end of time and history the answer must remain a deep mystery, but to us mortals who cannot fully comprehend the violence of an exploding sun or see beyond a billion whirling galaxies to perceive the warp of space and time, the vast void appears to be so wonderfully quiet . . . so dreamily peaceful.
SCOTT PARRIS treated himself to a long, wistful sigh. I wonder if there’s aliens living way out yonder among all those sparkly little stars and whether they have as much aggravation to contend with as I do. The policeman conjured up an image of a six-legged praying-mantis version of Miss Muntz, complete with huge bulbous eyes, a pair of knobbed antennae sprouting from her lime-green forehead. Miss Mantis was upbraiding a local constable who wore a nine-point kryptonite shield on his shirt pocket and a glum expression. She was addressing him thusly: Sheriff Zorp, you could not solve a crime if the felon snuck up and bit you on the butt!
AS CHARLIE Moon gazed at the night sky, his thoughts also drifted to a woman. In contrast to his friend’s dreadful vision, this one was young, lovely, and as bright as any star he could see. But, like others of her gender, Lila Mae was a mystery. I wonder why she’s mad at me. The way to find out was right from the pretty lady’s mouth. But she hasn’t returned my calls. No matter. When a cowboy gets bucked out of the saddle, he gets up, dusts off his britches, and gets back onto the horse. I’ll phone her right now. He remembered how late it was. She’s probably been in bed for a couple of hours. Which might give him an edge. If I wake Lila Mae up from a sound sleep, she might not realize it’s me. Mr. Moon flashed a crescent smile at his orbiting counterpart. She’d probably think it was an FBI emergency and pick up before she looked at the caller ID. The Ute found his cell phone, scrolled down to the programmed number in Thousand Oaks, pressed the button.
During the third ring, the familiar voice crackled in his ear. “Wha-what—who’s calling?”
“We’ve got us a serious situation, Agent McTeague.”
“What kind of sit—”
“Code Crimson.”
She was wide awake now. “Code what?”
“Crimson. Burgundy. Red. As in Native American.”
“Charlie?” A moaning groan. “Is that you?”
“Hey—who else would call you this time of night?” Three heartbeats. “I miss you.”
A long, languorous sigh. “I miss you too.” It was true.
“There’s a ready remedy.”
“Charlie . . .”
“Say the word and I’m on my way to California.”
Eight heartbeats. (Three of Moon’s, five of the lady’s.)
“No.”
“Ahh . . . that wasn’t exactly the word I was hoping for.”
“I’m sorry, Charlie.”
He turned away from Parris, broached the fearful subject in a hoarse whisper. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Not now. Not on the phone.”
>
“When, then?”
“I’m on flights between L.A. and D.C. at least once a month.” She inhaled deeply, crossed her fingers. “Next chance I get, I’ll arrange a stopover in Colorado Springs.”
“I’ll be waiting for you at the airport.”
“Okay. Goodbye, Charlie.”
“Good night, Lila—” Moon was talking to a dead line. He stuffed the cell phone into his pocket. What’s going on? Might be something I did at Sarah’s birthday party. Like when I danced with Bea Spencer. Other possibilities crossed his mind. Such as: Lila Mae’s a big-city girl. Maybe she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life on a cattle ranch. The mystified man heard Scott Parris’s voice croak behind him.
“So what’d your sweetheart have to say?”
“Goodbye.”
“Oh.” Poor ol’ Charlie.
Long, heavy silence.
“D’you figure your aunt actually shoved that pizza guy down the cellar stairs?”
“No, I don’t.” She didn’t have to. Not with an ankle-high trip cord stretched across the seventh step down. Moon’s hand was in his jacket pocket with the trusty Meerkat and the remnant of evidence the elderly women had carelessly left on the basement stairway banister post—a loop of six-pound test fluorocarbon fishing line that Daisy had taken from his tackle box.
Parris removed his battered hat, rubbed an aching forehead. “What do you think about Miss Muntz’s tale about how she got mixed up and gave the pizza-delivery guy Hermann Wetzel’s address, and how tonight her and Daisy was waiting for Burkowitz to show up and—”
“Don’t think I ever heard that one.”
“What d’you mean you never—”
“But I do love a good story.” Charlie Moon also loved a pretty lady who worked for the FBI, and he was thinking about Lila Mae as he watched the winking wingtip lights on a red-eye flight to L.A. “When I was about knee high to a cricket, my grandmomma told me one about how little Black Hair Girl got in a heap of trouble. Way it happens, she goes out to gather some wild plums but she can’t find none and she gets lost in the forest. By and by, when she’s hungry enough to eat a porcupine, hide-toenails-and-all, Black Hair Girl comes across this fine log house—we’re talking three bedrooms, two baths, and a Jacuzzi. Seems like she’s drawn four aces, but as it happens this is where these three black bears live. There’s Papa Bear and Momma Bear and—”
Snake Dreams Page 29
