Snake Dreams

by James D. Doss

  “There ain’t no Black Hair Girl in the Three Bears. That was Goldilocks.”

  “That’s her name in the European version, which is what we Indians call a derivative.”

  “A what?”

  “A more recent version—a shameless knock-off where a few minor details like names get changed to suit the audience. About a thousand years ago, when the Utes made up the original Three Bears tale, the hungry little girl who got caught eatin’ Baby Bear’s corn-and-squash mush was Black Hair Girl—you can take my word for it.”

  “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about any three bears you care to name—”

  “Well, you should. It’s a Native American classic.”

  “What I asked you was what you thought about Miss Muntz’s story.”

  “Did that sweet little lady spin us a yarn?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Charlie—you know damn well she did!”

  “Then I must’ve disremembered it.” Moon patted his buddy on the back. “My daddy used to tell me that a man’s head is like a clay bowl—it can only hold so much stuff before it starts running over. That being so, it’s best to pour out those memories you never needed in the first place. Like recollections of gossip and rumors and . . . bad news.”

  Somewhere on the wooded ridge behind the Wetzel house, a wise old owl got off a triple hoot.

  Somewhere close-by, a chief of police got wiser. Charlie’s daddy was right. I guess I ought to disremember what Miss Muntz said too. He watched the red-eye flight vanish over the mountains. “I ain’t been serious drunk since my wife got killed by that lumber truck up in Canada.” Scott Parris put the comfortable fedora back on his head, pushed it down to his ears. “But I’m thinking I’ll drop by Soapy’s Corner Bar and order up a quart of the cheapest rye whiskey he’s got in stock. Soon as I’m feeling no pain, I’ll trade a twenty-dollar bill for eighty quarters and play ‘I Still Miss Someone’ till I run out of change or the jukebox breaks. After I’ve said good night to Johnny Cash and emptied my bottle, I’ll pick a fight with the two biggest guys in the joint.” He elbowed the Indian. “You want to come along and watch?”

  “Thanks anyway, I’ll pass.”

  “Oh, right—you’ve got to take your aunt back to the ranch.”

  “Not for a while.” She’s having too much fun. “It’s way past midnight, pardner—every bar in the county’s closed up tight.” Moon hung a pearly smile in the darkness. “But over at the Chicky’s Daylight Bakery, it won’t be long before they start lifting glazed doughnuts out of the hot grease.”

  The white man considered this option. “Chicky’s coffee’s the best in town.”

  “That’s a fact. And what we both need right now is a big dose of caffeine and sugar, so I say let’s you and me ooze on over in Chicky’s direction and tie on a big one.”

  Which is what they did.

  Which is a good place to leave the lawmen. And we shall also say good night to Millicent Muntz and Daisy Perika, who have had a long day.

  But wait . . . what is this—do these aged ladies never tire?

  They are in the kitchen. Cleaning up after the evening snack. And chatting.

  About what? Oh, this and that. Mostly about that.

  WHILST DRYING a flowered teacup, Daily raised a delicate issue. “I thought you was gonna tell ’em the good story—about how you moved Hermann Wetzel’s loaded pistol from his bedroom to that desk drawer and that you unlocked his front door that night when you went across the street to get Nancy—” She paused to place the cup on a shelf. “And that you gave that pizza guy Hermann’s address on purpose because you hoped that either him or Hermann would get gut-shot and take a long, painful time dying a horrible death and the other one would go to prison for doing the shooting.”

  “I did consider presenting that version.” Miss Muntz, who rarely used her noisy dishwasher, scrubbed a blue china platter with a soapy brush. “The drawback, as I saw it, was that I would have been expected to explain my motive. As a result, the narrative would have become rather too complex.”

  It seemed simple enough to Daisy. “The pizza guy was selling dope to kids who came into the restaurant, including some of those young people you used to give piano lessons to. And Hermann Wetzel was . . . well . . .” The old-fashioned Ute woman could not quite bring herself to say it out loud.

  Prim little Miss M had no such compunctions. “It is possible that the police had heard rumors to the effect that Mr. Wetzel was sexually abusing his stepdaughter.” I wonder what has happened to poor Nancy. “And I imagine that Mr. Parris would have eventually found out that Alvin was providing dangerous drugs to the local youth.” She sprayed the platter with hot water. “But it is unlikely that anything would have been done to remedy either deplorable situation. Our system of justice rarely provides satisfactory solutions.”

  The Ute elder accepted the squeaky-clean platter from Miss Muntz, dried it. “But you and me—we take care of things right on the spot.”

  “Indeed we do.” The matukach woman smiled at her Indian friend. But, as a glorious sunset must inevitably give way to a cold gray sky, the smile faded into a melancholy sigh.

  “What is it, Millie?”

  “I do not wish to burden you.”

  Daisy could not resist such delectable bait. “Oh, I don’t mind.”

  After a thoughtful hesitation, Miss Muntz said, “In Granite Creek County, there are several vile criminals who—for a variety of reasons—the authorities cannot touch. Most of them conduct their nefarious business elsewhere.”

  “Sure-enough bad guys, huh?”

  “Extremely so.”

  As often happens at such moments, a pregnant silence ensued.

  The Ute woman turned Miss M’s tentative proposal over in her mind. “I haven’t had a bite to eat since I left Charlie’s ranch. And you’ve got a hungry look about you.” Daisy Perika’s expression was at once enigmatic and terrifying. (Try not to imagine a short, dark, wrinkled reincarnation of Mona Lisa—whetting a bloody butcher knife.) “How about we make us an omelet?”

  While Daisy’s question hung in the air, an unborn cluster of potential futures waited in rapt anticipation.

  “Yes.” Miss M’s lips went thin. “But we must be prepared to break some eggs.”

  Their eyes met.

  Bright blue fire sparked in one set.

  Red flames danced in another.

  Well.

  Epilogue

  Down the Road a Piece

  How is Charlie Moon getting along? Señor Luna misses his former sweetheart, who did not place the hoped-for telephone call to arrange an airport meeting in Colorado Springs. Neither did Special Agent McTeague respond to a subsequent letter. Ditto for a dozen yellow roses he sent on her birthday. It appears that Lila Mae must be relegated to his past. But the owner of the Columbine Ranch has little time to dwell upon his troubles, as there is more than enough work to keep him busy. And if he should decide to take a day off once in a blue moon to go fishing with Scott Parris or enjoy an elegant dinner with Patsy Poynter, the pretty girl singer in the bluegrass band, or Beatrice Spencer, the wealthy widow who has had her eye on Charlie ever since her husband’s untimely death—guess what happens. That’s right. Something untoward will occur to divert Mr. Moon from the well-deserved recreation. Like putting out a fire started by you know who. Right again. The troublesome auntie.

  How is Daisy Perika’s life percolating along?

  One day is much like another. We might find her dealing harshly with the occasional specter who wanders out of Cañón del Espíritu to disturb her night’s sleep, or Daisy might be carrying on a conversation with a talkative raven who wings in bearing a dark rumor. From time to time, she will match wits with the diminutive pitukupf who resides in the abandoned badger hole in Spirit Canyon, or take a few hours to teach Sarah Frank how to cure warts with an obscure Ute phrase and an odorous poultice concocted from yucca root, oil of skullcap, and a thickish green tea brewed from leaves of the—


  Sorry, that is a Top-Secret recipe.

  What of the shaman’s youthful apprentice?

  Extremely happy to have her spiffy red F-150 back, Sarah Frank locomotes hither and yon every chance she gets, and she is definitely going places. The Ute-Papago orphan will have a mere seventeen candles on her birthday cake when she graduates from high school next spring. (While in the Tohono O’otam reservation school in southern Arizona, the bright little lass completed the fourth and fifth grades in a single year.) The teenager’s major goal in life remains the same—to become Mrs. Moon.

  Scott Parris? After considering a run for the Granite Creek mayor’s seat, Charlie Moon’s best friend decided he was best suited to be chief of police. His decision (after giving the matter considerable thought) was based upon his conclusion that being top cop was the righteous thing to do in a community that needed a seasoned hand at the helm. That and the fact that in a poll of likely voters, Parris came in fourth in a field of three. How could such a humiliation occur? Blame an organized write-in campaign for Alley Oop, whose candidacy was enthusiastically promoted by various local wits, including student members of the Rocky Mountain Polytechnic Anthropology Society.

  Jake Harper’s current whereabouts remain problematical, but the last sighting of the hapless burglar was in Punta de Alambre, which is in Mexico—where Harper was allegedly keeping body and soul together by peddling imported Cuban conch shells and Genuine Pirate Treasure Maps to the occasional tourist. It is reported that Mr. Harper sips his tequilas and eats his tortillas while standing up, and sleeps on his stomach. Evidently, the buttock remains rather tender. Poor fellow.

  Which brings up the burning question—how is Nancy Yazzi getting along? There is no mystery about Jake Harper’s former sweetheart. Immediately after the hot-tempered young lady fired the final shot at her errant boyfriend, Nancy got a yen to go home again, which is what she did, but for just long enough to rip up the heating vent and remove her late stepfather’s leather bag of cash. Now in the chips, she turned over a new leaf, which including dying her hair platinum blond, assuming the moniker Sheila L’Amour, and moving into the three-bedroom double-wide with Lulabelle where they shared the rent. Bedroom number three, the one whose window catches the mellow rays of the rising sun, is occupied by the elder Mrs. Petunia Harper.

  It is perhaps worth mentioning that the legacy from Nancy’s dastardly stepfather was not wasted on pretentious frippery, whatever that may be. The enterprising L’Amour–Harper–Harper trio opened a coffee-and-pastry shop in a prosperous little Texas community not far from Kerrville. No, not another Starbucks look-alike. This business is the old-fashioned kind where a citizen can purchase a cuppa joe for fifty cents and a quarter-pound glazed doughnut for a greenback dollar. Word is, they’re doing fine and dandy.

  We must not forget Miss Millicent Muntz, who still resides at 751 Beechwood Road. The spinster lady rented the dwelling across the street to a nice young couple with five adorable children and a good-natured black Labrador to which the landlady feeds tidbits at her back door. Isn’t that nice? Also, Miss M has acquired a new cat (a live one, this time) to provide some companionship for herself and Mr. Moriarty, whose sawdust was beginning to leak. What? Did we not mention that Mr. M had passed away nearly thirty years ago, and was represented in his basket by a fine example of the taxidermist’s art? So sorry. An oversight.

  With that, we shall bring the narrative to a close and—

  What was the question?

  “Have Millicent Muntz and Daisy Perika been up to any serious mischief?”

  Not to the best of our knowledge. But it has come to our attention that from time to time they get together for tea, coffee, and discussions. About what? Nothing of great interest; just elderly-lady chitchat about one thing and another. Miss M and Miss D complain about their aches and pains (which get worse with every winter), the weather (which was much more agreeable when they were young), and the increasing cost of life’s necessities. The charming old darlings also exchange recipes for such perennial favorites as green chili lamb stew, coconut-walnut fudge, buttermilk biscuits, and . . . omelets.

  THERE. IT is done.

  Thank you. May God richly bless you.

  Let us turn out the light, say good night, and Now I lay me down to sleep . . .

  Here is an excerpt from The Widow’s

  Revenge—the next Charlie Moon mystery

  by James D. Doss—available soon

  in hardcover from Minotaur Books!

  One

  La Plata County, Colorado

  The Widow Montoya’s Farm

  Suspended high in the southern sky, the silvery satellite pulls a diaphanous cloud veil over her naked, pockmarked face. Is this a matter of modesty—does the pale lady prefer not to be seen? Or might it be the other way around—is there something on the widow’s property that White Shell Woman prefers not to see?

  The Sleeper

  As a youth, Loyola sought adventure, wealth, and pleasure. In her wiser, twilight years, she treasures peace above all earthly delights; a good night’s rest is a gift beyond price and the soothing lullaby of rippling waters a powerful soporific. This is one of the reasons the widow has clung to her isolated farm, which is bordered by Ignacio Creek.

  The other is that the stubborn old soul is determined to die in the house where she entered the world screaming bloody murder.

  ONLY A few moaning groans and irregular heartbeats ago, when Mrs. Montoya settled her brittle bones and creaky joints into the brass four-poster and pulled a quilt over her old gray head, the widow believed herself to be alone in her isolated home. And she was, if beady-eyed mice, clickety-critching crickets, dozing black flies, venomous red wasps, bulbous black-widow spiders, and other pestilential residents were not included in the census.

  Which was why, when she was awakened suddenly from a deep and blessedly dreamless sleep, the elderly woman was startled to hear the sound of voices. Oh my goodness, somebody’s broke into my house! Sitting up in bed, she realized that this was not so. But outside, somewhere beyond the restful hush of the rushing waters, she could detect low murmurings. Malicious mutterings. But were these unsettling articulations actually voices? The lady cocked her ear.

  It’s them damned witches again—they’ve come back!

  As she had on previous occasions, Loyola strained vainly to make out the words.

  Those jibber-jabbering brujos sound like they’re under the water.

  The weary woman knew she wouldn’t get another minute of sleep. I wish my grandson was here; I’d send Wallace out to tell his nasty friends to be quiet. But the great oaf had been gone for . . . how long—only a day or two? Or had it been a week? Loyola could not remember. Not that Wallace’s unexplained absence surprised his grandmother. Her long and mostly unhappy experience with members of the other gender had led her to some firm conclusions.

  Whenever you need a man, he’ll be somewhere else.

  Where? Either with some of his idiot men friends in a stinking saloon—or with some slut of a woman.

  And when the rascal is at home, he’ll lay around watching TV, expecting a good woman to fix his meals, mend and wash his filthy clothes, and take care of him like he was a snotty-nosed five-year-old.

  Even so . . .

  The lonely woman sighed. Tears filled her eyes.

  It would be nice to have a man around the house. A man who has a gun and knows how to use it. It occurred to her to call the police.

  A pair of salty drops rolled down her leathery cheeks.

  A lot of good that’d do. After all the times I’ve had them out here for one strange thing and another they couldn’t find any trace of, they figure me for an old crank. Cops ain’t worth the dirt under their fingernails.

  Loyola recalled the single exception. Charlie Moon came out every time I called, and he never made sport of me when I told him about that big, hairy monster that looked like an ape or that thirty-foot-long purple snake with black whiskers and horns like a billy goat
. Sadly, Daisy Perika’s nephew had quit his job with the Southern Ute police and moved up north years ago to a big cattle ranch. And I ain’t laid eyes on him since. But wasn’t that always the way with people: the good ones go away, the no-accounts are always underfoot.

  Pushing away the hand-stitched quilt, she grunted her way out of bed. Like always, I’ll just have to take care of things myself.

  Loyola stepped into a pair of tattered house slippers and shuffled over to the closet, where she selected a pea-green government-issue woolen overcoat that her late husband had brought back from the war in Europe. Pulling it on, she made up her mind. Tonight, I’m going to go find out where they are and tell them either be quiet or I’ll get the pistol out of the closet and shoot the lot of ’em!

  A reckless old soul. But courageous. Also dangerous.

  By the time she opened the back-porch door, the voices had fallen silent. This was, one would imagine, fortunate. But for whom? Loyola Montoya—or those folk whose confounded mutters and murmurs had disturbed her slumbers?

  It is too early to say.

  But after retiring to her parlor rocking chair, the elderly lady intended to stay wide awake until that cold, gray hour that would precede a wan, yellowish dawn.

  During that interval, she dozed intermittently. And fitfully. In Loyola’s fretful dreams, malevolent witches peered through her windows.

  Turned knobs on her locked doors.

  Whispered obscene curses.

  In her dreams.

  If dreams they were.

  Two

  Granite Creek, Colorado

  As Loyola dozes in her rocker, another sleeper is about to experience some difficulty. The character of immediate interest is Scott Parris, who happens to be a sworn officer of the law—but is not one of the policemen Loyola Montoya has called for help. Parris and Loyola have, in point of fact, never met. When the harried old lady has a problem, she generally calls the Ignacio town cops or the Southern Ute tribal police. This is the proper thing to do, because Mrs. Montoya lives in a jurisdiction that is quite some distance to the south of Granite Creek, in which fair city Mr. Parris is chief of police, for all the good that does him, which isn’t that much on his best day, what with dealing with a quarter-wit DA (Bill “Pug” Bullet), a police force that would rate a tad better than run-of-the-mill were it not for a couple of cops (Eddie “Rocks” Knox and E. C. “Piggy” Slocum) who cause the boss no end of heartburn. Not that Scott Parris’s life is all bad.