Snake Dreams Page 10

  It seemed that the pair of lady bombs had been defused.

  The women in the room exhaled the breaths they had been collectively holding.

  From their dates: loud shouts of “Wa-hoo!” “Whoopee!” “Let ’er rip!”

  As if on cue, a grizzled, potbellied old stockman who hankered to cut in tapped Charlie Moon on the shoulder. The Ute rancher graciously gave up a piqued Miss Spencer and tapped the Kyd, who released Sarah with just enough reluctance to please the young lady.

  Ah, the resilience of youth! In an instant, all was forgiven. Dancing on air with the love of her life, the brand-new sixteen-year-old was lost in a dream. This was Sarah’s day—and Sarah’s night.

  As the final twangy strain of “Pike County Breakdown” faded, there was enthusiastic applause, whistles, shouts of “More!”

  Which was when Charlie Moon made his strategic retreat to the stage, got his banjo back in hand. Now firmly in the groove, the Columbine Grass settled down to do their thing, which was to pick, pluck, and sing and create quite a big commotion that would compel even shy, uncoordinated folks into high-gear locomotion. All over the ballroom, chairs were shoved away from tables as the happy crowd got up to kick heels and stomp and shout.

  Oh, and did they dance!

  In the entire history of Granite Creek, Colorado—even back in the days of hardworking miners with little pouches of precious metal, coldhearted madams with rouged faces, shifty-eyed cardsharps with cuffed aces, and hardcase drifters with umpteen notches carved on ivory-handled six-guns—there had never been such a rip-tootin’ celebration. Not even that time when they hanged Big Sam Carp from a cottonwood limb for shooting the mayor’s brother in the . . . But that’s another story, and one best forgotten.

  Now it just so happens that the leader of the band is a natural-born traveling man and Charlie Moon likes to ride the rails, which is why they took the Orange Blossom Special over to Big Rock Candy Mountain, where they stopped to sit a spell with Cotton Eyed Joe and Old Joe Clark and boiled some cabbage down before they flagged down that New River Train, which got ’em to Cumberland Gap just in time to watch the Blue Moon of Kentucky rise and shine on the Little Cabin on the Hill, which was where they caught that sixteen coaches long Night Train to Georgia, which made an unscheduled stop In the Pines so’s they could pick pretty Miss Patsy Poynter a bouquet of Wildwood Flowers. It was a mighty busy trip, but somewhere or another along the way, they found time to Walk the Dog.

  In spite of the fact that the girl singer was absolutely first-rate, one or two Nashville music critics might’ve been of the opinion that the Columbine Grass was not right up there with such classy outfits as those put together by Bill Monroe or Flatt and Scruggs or Doc Watson or Ricky Scaggs, and that Mr. Moon’s singers and string pluckers weren’t quite ready for the Grand Ole Opry, but none by-gosh said so out loud—not that night in Granite Creek—because they dang well knew what was good for them! Besides, what the CG lacked in raw talent, they more than made up for with red-blooded, cowboy enthusiasm.

  But no matter how much zest and zeal a musician has, he must be fed.

  And so, after about a half-dozen more high-octane pieces, the Columbine fivesome put aside their instruments, rested their voice boxes, and joined the crowd for dinner—which was being brought on in sizable helpings. There was a huge iron pot of barbecued pork, a side of roasted prime Columbine beef, eight mouthwatering Virginia hams, and don’t even talk about the gallons of pinto beans, trays of buttered corn on the cob, bowls of mashed potatoes (with enough thick brown gravy to float a twelve-foot bass boat), home-baked breads, and desserts—well, we could go on all night about fresh California strawberries and hand-cranked ice cream in six different flavors, and—But that is enough. Except for mentioning the towering birthday cake delivered on a six-wheeled cart by two nervous waiters. The cake’s five layers weighed eighty-four pounds; it was topped by hand-made beeswax candles (sixteen, of course). The weighty centerpiece was ever-so-gently hoisted onto the table by Charlie Moon and Chief of Police Scott Parris.

  It shall be mentioned that Sarah received a light kiss on the cheek from Charlie Moon (this almost resulted in a genuine swoon), a suffocating hug from Dolly Bushman, and a lighter embrace from Lila Mae McTeague, who—ever since Sarah had come to Colorado from Tonapah Flats, Utah—had realized that this little slip of a girl represented The Competition, and was taking what had initially seemed to be merely a frivolous teenage crush as something that might have to be reckoned with.

  The sudden realization that Charlie Moon’s sweetheart was present at her party was quite a shock to the birthday girl. But Sarah hugged her rival right back.

  After the dessert, the tables were cleared. Great urns of coffee were brought into the ballroom, and a few flasks were stealthily removed from men’s pockets and one woman’s purse.

  After whistles were duly wetted, the time had come for the giving of gifts.

  It was one of those completely disorganized, totally delightful times that beggars description. Suffice it to say that as well-wishers passed by, a great multitude of prettily wrapped and ribboned parcels were piled onto the table in front of Sarah Frank. And though she would not examine the bounty until the following day, the loot including a thick red woolen shawl Daisy had knitted while Sarah was away at school, a lovely wristwatch Special Agent McTeague had purchased that afternoon, another lovely wristwatch from Scott Parris, and so on. When the thing was (almost) done, Charlie Moon made the observation that this was quite a pile of stuff. Why, it would take a pickup truck to haul all these gifts to the Columbine. Which just happened to remind him. . . . He reached into his jacket pocket, produced a small, white box that was just about big enough to hold a diamond bracelet or a state-of-the-art cell phone or . . .

  Sarah stared at the enticing box, looked up at Charlie Moon.

  He smiled back at the girl, who was happier, prettier than she had ever been. His eyes urged her on. Go ahead. Open it.

  She did. And inside was a ring! No, not that kind—a silver key ring. On a smaller circle attached to it was a lump of turquoise. Also, there was a pair of keys. Ford keys. Sarah sighed a long, blissful “ooooohhh.”

  Moon laughed. “I hope you liked that rebuilt pickup Mr. Kydmann brought you here in. It’s still parked out front by the curb, and it’s all yours now.”

  She let out a shriek that would have startled the biggest, baddest banshee you can imagine, gave Moon a running hug that would have felled a lesser man, all the while yelping a long series of thank-yous, which eventually terminated with, “I’ll drive it to the Columbine tonight!”

  Scott Parris, who represented the law in these here parts, had something to say about that. What he said (loudly) was, “Ahem,” which got most everyone’s attention. He added, “You’ll need a driver’s permit before you can drive that pickup away from the curb.” Taking note of Sarah’s pitiful expression, he inquired, “You don’t have one?”

  The thin little girl shook her head.

  Parris looked almost as sad as the sixteen-year-old. “I’m sorry, kid—but you can’t operate it on a public highway until you have a duly issued driver’s permit.” He brightened. “But that shouldn’t be any trouble. I just happen to know that you took driver’s ed at Ignacio High School and made the second-highest score in your class.”

  Moon scowled at his best friend. “She’ll need that permit right away.”

  Parris scowled back. “I hope you’re not suggesting—just because you’re my buddy—that I use my influence as chief of police to pull some strings.”

  The Ute shot back, “I sure as shootin’ am.”

  “Well, okay—if you put it that way.” Granite Creek’s top cop fumbled inside his jacket, produced a small envelope, and gave it to Sarah. As the girl opened it and stared at the document in her hand, Parris grinned so hard that it hurt his face. “That’s your learner’s permit. It’s okay for you to drive as long as any of the people who’ve signed it are in the truck with you.” He
patted Sarah’s shoulder. “Which includes me and Charlie and the Wyomin’ Kyd and Pete and Dolly Bushman and a half-dozen Columbine ranch hands.”

  It was Scott Parris’s turn to get hugged. There was no shriek this time, only tears on his shirt.

  A few softhearted women started to sob again. Their men began to haw-haw.

  Everyone was having a grand old time.

  Eighteen

  An Unsettling Development

  After entering into a conspiracy with Nancy Yazzi that might turn out to be the most ill-advised enterprise she had ever undertaken, Millicent Muntz (who rarely ventured out at night) had returned home with no appetite. The elderly lady could not imagine even a light snack of crackers and cheese, much less an Italian sausage calzone—such a heavy meal as that would have to wait until her nerves and digestive system had settled down. She picked up her cat and withdrew to the upstairs corner room where she did her sewing, crocheting, knitting and kept a watchful eye on the neighborhood.

  Leaving the sewing room lights off (the soft glow of a hallway lamp was sufficient to see by), she placed Mr. Moriarty in his favorite spot under the potted palm and seated herself in a comfortable armchair. As was her habit, the spinster lady began this period of relaxation by reviewing her day. She smiled at the memory of each modest accomplishment, pausing to reprove herself for a task that could have been done better. By this process, she passed quickly through the morning and afternoon hours, up to the point when she had crossed the street to initiate the intrigue with Nancy Yazzi. That was when things had begun to get—what was the saying? Ah, yes—things had gotten dicey. She shook her head and sighed. When I was younger, this evening’s exertions would not have been such a challenge, but the frenetic activities of the past hour have been almost too much. She knew that despite an intelligent woman’s most meticulously prepared plans, there were so many things that could go amiss as a result of small miscalculations, ill-advised assumptions, and general imponderables. And most vexing of all—unexpected developments.

  Such as: What if Hermann Wetzel came up from the basement while I was away and happened to be looking through a front window when I drove my car into the garage? This worry begot a daughter fret: If he did, he might wonder about my early return. The fertile offspring promptly produced another: What if Hermann calls me on the phone and asks to speak to Nancy? The very thought of such a calamity made her spine tingle. What would I say to that? Miss M came up with a simple ploy: If the telephone rings, I shall not pick it up. She frowned. But if I did not answer, he might assume that something was wrong over here and cross the street to pound on my door. The worrier clasped her hands on the varnished maple chair arms. It is enough to give a person a case of the flibberty-jibbers! She smiled at her ludicrous thoughts. Oh, I am a silly old goose to worry so much—I simply must relax.

  To that end, she leaned back in her chair and considered life’s many blessings. I have excellent health. Worthwhile things to do. A very nice home. And it is so peaceful here. Not for the first time, the frugal woman congratulated herself on investing her inheritance in the two properties on Beechwood Road, and at a time when real estate was an excellent investment. The homes, built by the same contractor, were virtually identical, but . . . I’m so glad I rented 750 Beechwood to Mr. Wetzel. When I lived over there, I could hardly see a thing for that veritable forest of trees in the front yard. But here at 751, and particularly from this upper window, I have a wonderful view. Especially of the mountains and sky.

  The landlady also had an exceptional view of her rental property across the street, though not for long at this hour. Already misty wisps of darkness—those sinister night-soldiers—were coalescing into menacing platoons that would creep in to occupy territory abandoned by sunlight. It happened every night: The ghostly brigades would convert cool shady glades into eerie black enclaves, and charming clusters of junipers into miniature jungles where all manner of red-eyed vermin rustled about with evil intent.

  Determined to put her mind at ease, Miss Muntz assured herself that Hermann Wetzel—a creature of ingrained habits—had undoubtedly remained in the basement “rec room” to peruse his collection of fishing, hunting, and gun magazines. Well, at least he doesn’t spend all his time watching TV. Aside from this observation, it was difficult for Miss M to think of anything positive about her tenant, but not because he was a vulgar, stupid fellow—he couldn’t help that. Such conditions were, as Daddy used to say (prior to the discovery of DNA), “in the blood.” What bothered her was how Hermann abused his pretty stepdaughter. And not only verbally. Nancy Yazzi had never actually come right out and told her about it, but there were signs that Miss Muntz recognized, such as bruises on the girl’s face and neck. Also on her wrists . . . and legs. Miss M shook her head. Men like that should be put in jail. Better still, eliminated from the face of the earth. But most of the women (and young girls!) they molested would not admit to having been victimized, much less testify in a public trial. The humiliation was too much to bear, the probability of a conviction too small. She rapped her knuckles on the chair arm. But one way or another, Hermann will get what’s coming to him.

  If someone had suggested that Miss Millicent Muntz had “second sight,” she would have disagreed. She did not think of herself as special.

  Her eyes having adjusted to the low light level, the lady picked up her knitting, got to work on a yellow cat-sweater that was not quite half finished. She made a valiant effort to concentrate on her work. Clickety-click. Clickety-click. I just can’t do this and look out the window too. On most evenings she had a magnificent view of soaring granite peaks, great sprays of stars sparkling like tiny diamonds. But not tonight. It had been cloudy all day, with intermittent rain. At this very moment, a few plump little drops began to pelt the windowpanes.

  So peaceful.

  After another clickety-click or two, the neighborhood’s self-appointed guardian set her knitting aside. She would spend this “quiet time” listening to the light rain.

  Several minutes passed. Also a motor vehicle or two.

  Then, something quite interesting attracted her attention.

  Miss M leaned closer to the window, frowned. Well, now.

  Across Beechwood Road

  Hermann Wetzel was thumbing through a dog-eared copy of Rod & Gun when the cell phone in his shirt pocket vibrated. He scowled at the caller ID. What’s Muntzy got ants in her pants about this time? He pressed the Talk button. “Hey.”

  The voice in his ear said, “Mr. Wetzel?”

  “Nope, it’s the butler.” A snicker. “What’s up?”

  “I thought that I should advise you that—”

  “Hey—what was that?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I just heard somebody upstairs.” And it ain’t Nancy come home early—that little slut slinks around like a damn alley cat—never makes a sound.

  “That is what I was calling you about, Mr. Wetzel—” There was a sharp click in her ear. Well—the man has the manners of a goat! Leaving Mr. Moriarty behind, Miss Muntz hurried down the stairs.

  HERMANN WETZEL switched off the rec-room lights, listened intently as the footsteps passed rapidly over his head and continued for a few paces before falling silent.

  It’s a burglar. All the lights are off upstairs—the thieving bastard must figure there’s nobody home.

  More creaking of boards overhead.

  Automatic pistol firmly in hand, Wetzel looked up at the darkened ceiling. Where’s he going now? Miss Muntz’s tenant thumbed the Safety button on his weapon and began a silent ascent of the basement stairs in his soft-soled house slippers. A thin fan of light flashed under the stairwell door. The bozo’s turned on the lights! Unnerved by the brazenness of the intruder—who was either armed or stupid or both—Wetzel momentarily considered a strategic retreat to the cellar, a discreet telephone call to the police. But only a brass-plated sissy would do that and I got a gun and this guy don’t know I’m here.

  Which settled
the matter.

  Drawing a deep breath, Wetzel reached out to slowly twist the porcelain knob a quarter turn. The barely audible click of the latch set his teeth on edge. I hope he didn’t hear that. But there was no turning back. He pushed the door open just a crack. Immediately saw the intruder. What the hell—

  MISS MUNTZ had barely gotten downstairs when she heard the crisp cracks of pistol shots. Oh my! She slipped on her black raincoat, snatched up a cordless telephone, and opened her front door just in time to see a shadowy figure burst from the rental house and make a dash for it. She did not see the intruder toss a pistol into the bushes, and perhaps it was just as well. For one who already had a serious case of the flibberty-jibbers, Miss M had heard and seen quite enough. Still, the cool-headed landlady dialed 911 and reported the unnerving incident.

  As soon as Clara Tavishuts had the caller’s name and address, she assured Miss Muntz that officers would be on the scene very shortly. The dispatcher also instructed the elderly lady (whom she assumed was safely in her home) to remain inside with the doors locked—and to stay away from windows.

  Ignoring this sensible advice, the landlady dropped the telephone into her coat pocket and headed (at a trot!) directly across the street to 750 Beechwood. As she did so, an automobile turned a corner about a block away. The headlights illuminated a man who was crossing Beechwood in the opposite direction. There was a screech of brakes. Miss Muntz could not see the fleeing man’s face, but it was apparent that he was a burly fellow, wearing a cowboy hat. At such stressful moments, it is odd which impressions pop into our minds. The thought struck her that for such a big fellow, he was certainly making tracks.

  The driver of the automobile saw the elderly lady by the curb and stopped to ask what was going on. Breathless from the excitement, Miss Muntz paused long enough to explain to the neighbor (a young mother, with a toddler secured in a car seat) that there had apparently been a shooting in the Wetzel residence and that she had already called the police. The neighbor, now quite alarmed, said that she had gotten a pretty good look at the man who’d crossed the street, and thought she might recognize him if she ever saw him again.