Snake Dreams Page 13

  Now anyone who knows her will tell you that Miss McTeague has an imperious way of arching her left eyebrow that beggars description. But one must have a go at it. That dainty little line of hairs over her big, beautiful eyeball absolutely bristled, and as much as said, in rapid succession, You’re lying through your teeth, Buckwheat! and What kind of important business? Now any woman you might come across would have understood that straightaway, but the Kyd (aka Buckwheat) didn’t get it, so Lila Mae was obliged to repeat the second remark out loud. “What kind of important business?”

  He flashed the disarming smile. “Oh, with ol’ Charlie you never know—but whatever it is, I expect he’ll be back before first light.” By way of punctuation, he added a “ha-ha!” Mr. Kydmann, bless his happy soul, figured that any girlfriend of Charlie Moon’s would be bound to have a sense of humor.

  Which assumption was somewhat presumptuous. To quote the FBI agent’s father, a quite jolly fellow, “Lila Mae’s just like her mother. When senses of humor was being doled out, the both of ’em was elsewhere, probably tossing rotten tomatoes at Jack Benny or Red Skelton.”

  A little harsh. But McTeague’s eyes went flat, like a well-fed rattlesnake about to fang a mouse just for the hell of it. “Indeed.” That was all she said. It was sufficient.

  Having just about shot his wad, the Kyd took to licking his lips. A sure sign he was bumfuzzled.

  Daisy took this opportunity to insert herself into the conversation. “So what am I supposed to do, stand around here all night waiting for my nephew to drive me to his ranch?”

  Hoping for better results with the tribal elder, Kydmann shook his head. “Oh no, ma’am.” He tipped the white John B. Stetson hat. “I’ll take you to the Columbine.”

  Always ready to start a fire, the Ute woman struck flint to steel. Nodding to indicate Charlie Moon’s sweetheart, she said, as sweetly as honey dripping from the comb, “What about her?”

  Now the Kyd was unaware that Moon had reserved a hotel room for Lila Mae, but, always ready to assist a lady, he found a faint remnant of the grin. “Oh, I’m sure Charlie would want me to take you wherever you want to go, ma’am.”

  Now, though they were, for the most part, worlds apart, Lila Mae McTeague did share one characteristic with Daisy Perika—she did not appreciate being “ma’amed.” Especially by a man of more or less her own age. She raised her perfect chin to a haughty altitude. “You needn’t bother yourself, Mr. Kydmann.” With this, she turned on a high heel, clicked across the lobby to a chair, and used her cell phone to check on the red-eye flight from Colorado Springs to Los Angeles. Was about to book a seat when, realizing the finality of such a decision, she hesitated. I’ll wait awhile. Charlie should have an opportunity to explain his absence.

  As bad luck (Charlie Moon’s) would have it, Columbine cowboy Oscar “Bud” Yirty had overheard Miss McTeague’s conversation with Jerome Kydmann. While very few of Moon’s employees were noted for having well-above-average intellectual capacity (Kydmann and Cassidy being the notable exceptions), Yirty would, in Foreman Pete Bushman’s very words, “Have to take a five-year correspondence course to work his way up to half-wit.” Surely an exaggeration. And being a bit slow would not have made Mr. Yirty particularly dangerous. The man was a walking calamity because he was completely unaware of having any cerebral shortcomings. Indeed, he considered himself not only danged clever but a top-rate humorist as well; he was famous on the Columbine for such knee slap-pers as pulling chairs from under fellows who were about to sit in them, or putting salt in the sugar bowl and live snakes (and other inappropriate creatures) into his comrades’ bunks.

  Yirty elbowed the one friend he had on the ranch, whispered a proposition in Six-Toes’s ear.

  “Awright,” Six said. “But it’ll cost you a case a beer.”

  A high price, but Yirty could not miss this opportunity of a lifetime.

  After shaking hands on the deal, the comic and his straight man sidled up close enough for the FBI agent to overhear their conversation.

  Yirty: “Even for a young man, that Charlie Moon sure beats anything I ever seen.”

  Six: “Uh-huh.”

  Yirty: “After a party that wore me plum out, that Injun’s still frisky as a colt.”

  Six: “Uh-huh.”

  Yirty: “Just imagine, takin’ off after two young wimmen.” An idiotic leer. “I wonder what he’ll do when he catches up with ’em.”

  Six: “Uh-huh.”

  If Charlie Moon’s sweetheart was not quite to the point of grinding her teeth, neither was she taking this well. She reassured herself, These are just a couple of stupid cow-pie kickers. Why should I listen to a word they say? She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. I’ll go up to my room and wait for Charlie to call me. But first things first. Like taking a look at the face, perhaps touching up the lipstick. She opened her purse and was about to remove the compact when . . . she spotted the piece of paper. That’s right—the sales slip from Pippin’s Fine Jewelry. She gave it a close inspection. Well, Charlie certainly spent a pile of money on my engagement ring. But wait. What was this? This receipt is dated more than five years ago. Which is well before we first met. The lady’s face blanched. Charlie bought this ring for someone else. Searching her excellent memory for data about whom Charlie Moon was interested in at that particular time, the FBI agent came up with a name.

  For Mr. Moon, this had been a day of missteps and misfortunes. One of these mistakes he could have survived. Probably even two. Maybe, and it’s a long shot—the whole series.

  McTeague stuffed the sales slip back into the purse, snapped it shut, and marched over to the desk. The drums in the ballroom were going full force again. “Excuse me.” She was addressing the young man in the dark blue suit and red tie. “I am Miss McTeague. Mr. Moon reserved a room for me and—”

  “Moon, oh sure.” The clerk had not heard the “McTeague,” which had been coincident with a rafter-rattling drumbeat. “Yes ma’am, we have it right here. You’re in room 302, Miss Yazzi.”

  She raised the expressive eyebrow, and her voice. “I beg your pardon?”

  “When Mr. Moon booked the room for you, he said put you in one at the end of the hall, so you’d only have one neighbor. And 302’s the only end-of-hall we had left. But if you don’t mind being next to the elevator, I could put you in 433.”

  She reached over to the old-fashioned registration book, turned it around. Sure enough.

  MISS NANCY YAZZI

  ROOM 302

  That could be either the attractive blonde Charlie danced with or the brunette teenager he hugged in the lobby when he didn’t know I was watching. She glanced at the clerk’s name tag. “Herbert, are you absolutely sure that it was Mr. Charles Moon who made this reservation?”

  Herbert Norbert nodded. “Oh yes, ma’am—it was Charlie all right. I took care of it myself, not twenty minutes ago.”

  THE KYD had been keeping a close eye on Lila Mae McTeague, and though he was too far away to hear what Bud Yirty was saying to Six-Toes, the very presence of these two lowlifes so close to Moon’s lady friend generated a queasy feeling under his belt buckle. Having almost forgotten the elderly Ute woman at his elbow, he mumbled to himself, “It looks like Miss McTeague is booking a room.”

  Daisy had her own pair of eyebrows. The one she raised said, It don’t look that way to me.

  SPECIAL AGENT McTeague asked the helpful clerk to have her stored luggage brought around.

  Most certainly. He pressed an intercom button, issued the order. Did the lady require transportation?

  Yes indeed. The lady wished to rent a car that she could leave at the airport in Colorado Springs.

  That could be arranged. But there was another option: The Silver Mountain provided limousine service to the airport.

  “How soon could I leave?

  “Immediately.”

  Lila Mae informed him that immediately would be quite satisfactory.

  AS THE Kyd entered the ballroom to manage t
he transfer of Sarah’s birthday presents to another Columbine pickup, Daisy Perika watched the business being conducted at the hotel registration desk. She could not hear a word that was being said, but hearing was not necessary. Daisy could read eyebrows, and much more. Well, this is turning out all right.

  An uncharitable thought?

  Let us give Daisy the benefit of such doubt as there may be.

  After all, in the Lila Mae/Moon/Sarah triangle, the Ute elder is rooting for the Ute-Papago orphan.

  AS CHARLIE Moon followed Sarah Frank’s red pickup out of town, he found his cell phone and punched the button for J Kydmann. He barely heard the young man’s hello over the thundering drumbeat. “Hey, Jerome—what’s happening?”

  “Everything’s going pretty well here. The presents are all being loaded up to go, and soon as your aunt’s out of the ladies’ room, I’ll take her out to the ranch. You catch up with them girls yet?”

  “I’m right behind ’em.” Sarah was staying just within the speed limit. “First chance you get, tell Lila Mae I’ll head back to town soon as these kids are at the ranch.”

  “Will do, boss. Last time I saw your lady she was over at the front desk—getting her room key I guess.”

  That’s good. Lila Mae’s had a long day since she woke up in D.C. and she needs some rest. “Never mind then, Jerome—I’ll call her in the morning. Oh, one more thing—I reserved a room at the Silver Mountain for Miss Yazzi. Please see that it’s canceled.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Moon borrowed a thought from his aunt: This is turning out all right.

  Twenty-Four

  Bad News For Breakfast

  While he was enjoying his first cup of coffee, Charlie Moon placed the call.

  A young woman’s voice machine-gunned the words into his ear. “Good morning Silver Mountain Hotel front desk this is Hilda how may I help you today.”

  “Good morning to you, Hilda. This is Charlie Moon.”

  Oh my. Conjuring up a memory of the tall Indian cowboy who owned the finest ranch in the county, the clerk shifted to her human voice: “What can I do for you, Mr. Moon?” You name it.

  He did. “You can connect me to Miss McTeague’s room.”

  “Certainly. Just a moment.” A good half-dozen moments passed while she consulted the computer terminal. “I’m sorry. The lady checked out last night.”

  “She’s gone?” That don’t sound right. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Oh yes, sir. The record indicates that L. M. McTeague canceled her reservation at ten sixteen P.M.”

  Moon glared at his coffee cup. “Did she leave a message for me?”

  “No.”

  He mumbled to himself. “Well where’d she go?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I am not authorized to tell you.” She added, in a whisper, “Assuming that I was privy to such personal information.”

  “Forget the ‘sir,’ Hilda. Call me Charlie.”

  “Yes sir. I mean . . . Charlie.” A sigh.

  “Now that we’ve got that straightened out, I want you to know that I’d never even hint that you should break a hotel rule. Not even if you were privy to some ordinary little fact that might be a great big help to me.” An interlude of silence that practically shouted in her ear. “You understand what I mean?”

  “Oh, I most certainly do . . . Charlie.” Another sigh, this one with closed eyes. “Even if I knew something that might be of interest—such as how the lady had availed herself of our convenient twenty-four/seven on-call limousine service to the Colorado Springs airport—I would not be able to breathe a word of it. Not a word.”

  “Thanks, Hilda.”

  “Don’t mention it, Charlie.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.” But I’ll send you an armful of flowers. After saying goodbye, Moon began to consider the most likely reasons for the sudden departure: Lila Mae probably got a call about an emergency. Something work related. Or a family problem. Her dad’s in poor health—already had two heart attacks. He dialed his sweetheart’s number.

  Thousand Oaks, California

  Lila Mae McTeague had just pulled into her driveway. She yanked the cell phone from her purse, saw C Moon on the caller ID, hesitated. Charlie will try to sweet-talk me into believing there’s nothing wrong. He’ll come up with a plausible reason for making a hotel reservation for another woman and for leaving me standing in the lobby while he went chasing two more, and I’ll believe him because I want to. And I can’t even ask him why he was planning to offer me a ring he bought years ago for another woman—not without telling him that I had the jeweler’s sales slip in my purse because I picked his jacket pocket and found the ring. Deep breath. So I suppose the best thing to do is not speak to him. Not right now. There was another edge to this blade that pierced her heart: But if I don’t answer the phone, he might never call me again. So perhaps I ought to—

  Too late, Lila Mae. The telephone has stopped ringing.

  Charlie Moon listened to a computerized voice that invited him to leave a brief message after the tone. He cleared his throat. “It’s me.” Two heartbeats. “I just called the Silver Mountain and found out that you checked out last night.” As if it had a mind of its own, his hand found the black velvet box in his jacket pocket. “I hope everything’s all right.” Two more heartbeats. “Call me soon as you get a chance.”

  Twenty-Five

  A Busy Morning

  Despite the fact that a week had passed and Lila Mae McTeague had not returned his telephone call, Charlie Moon was feeling about as good as might be expected, considering that a new-hire twenty-two-year-old cowboy had (on a ten-dollar bet from a savvy old-timer that he wouldn’t stay in the saddle ten seconds) attempted to ride Sweet Alice. The unfortunate fellow had ended up with three busted ribs in his left side that hurt almost as much as his injured pride.

  As the taped-up bronc buster was being hauled away to the hospital, Moon was assaulted by a dire prediction from Pete Bushman, a bewhiskered old stockman who had an uncanny knack for finding something new to worry about. The ranch foreman snapped off a chaw of Red Man tobacco and (between enthusiastic chews) reported the latest bad news: “Them damn range worms are swarmin’ in Delta County and they’ll prob’ly be here by next week and eat ever’ damn blade a grass on the Columbine and then they’ll chomp all the leaves off’n the cottonwood trees.”

  The owner of the outfit assured his second in command that if a caterpillar invasion threatened, he would hire a crop duster to spray the threatened pastures with Permethrin.

  Bushman had no confidence in expensive pesticides or noisy little biplanes or—for that matter—any solution Moon might suggest to the vexing problems he delighted in tormenting the boss about. After spitting tobacco juice onto the porch step, he grinned under his scraggly beard. “If the spray plane don’t stop ’em, whadda we do next—call all the cowhands together for a prayer meetin’?”

  Pushing back the brim of his black Stetson, Moon looked to the heavens for a measure of peace. What I need is some time off. A little bit of relaxation.

  TOWARD THAT end, not too far into the afternoon Charlie Moon was in a rocking chair by the fireplace, a cup of sweet coffee beside him, a much-read copy of Zane Grey’s The Last Trail in his hand. From what could be gleaned from this tale, it seemed a good bet that Jonathan Zane had never encountered a horde of famished caterpillars. The reader was enjoying the part about how Mr. Zane loved the lonely wilderness like other men lusted after—But wait.

  What was that distant tapping? Someone rapping on Moon’s chamber door? Something or other about a lady called Lenore? A raven who saith over and over: Nevermore?

  No.

  The Columbine ravens are a sensible clan, who limit their remarks to simple caw-caws and the occasional strident squawk. What the Ute’s keen ears had picked up when the automobile was about a quarter mile away was an aged Volvo’s valves tapping. Well, talk about your perfect day! He put the book aside, went outside with his coffee cup, and
watched his best friend park in the shade of the Daddy of all Cottonwoods, slam the car door, and approach in that heavy, shoulder-swinging gait that always reminded the Ute of John Wayne about to take on a dozen armed bad guys. Ten paces away, Scott Parris waved. “Hey, Charlie.”

  “Hey yourself, pardner.”

  The Granite Creek chief of police mounted the porch steps with the heavy grunts of a man who is not as young as he used to be and feels it in his hip and knee joints. He was also beginning to present a belly. Not so much as to justify calling him fat. Not to his face. “That coffee smells good.”

  Charlie Moon raised his cup. “You like to have some?”

  “Later, maybe.”

  “Want to go inside, sit by the fireplace?”

  A fresh breeze caressed Parris’s face. “Let’s stay out here.”

  Moon seated himself on a redwood bench.

  After considering a couple of wooden chairs, the edge of the porch, and the steps, Parris settled on the chain-suspended swing, which creaked under his 220 pounds. He kick-started the pendulum seat into motion, treated his lungs to a breath of the crisp-as-a-new-dollar-bill high-country air, and soaked in a healthy dose of a silence that was, by some deep magic, enhanced by the mystical whisper of the river that rolled a little slower now that most of the snowmelt was somewhere a long way downstream. “How’re you getting along, Charlie?”