Dead Soul Page 3

  She brushed her teeth, enjoyed a quick shower in the rusting stall, slipped on the white dress (it went so well with her bright red hair), applied crimson lipstick, glanced occasionally at the television. As a final ritual, Wilma hurried around her small off-campus efficiency apartment, doing a bit of fine-tuning. Dusting off the coffee table she’d picked up at Goodwill, picking up tiny bits of fluff and stuff from the worn carpet, forcing some stray underwear into an already overstuffed drawer, checking to verify that all four burners on the gas range were turned off, and the oven.

  It seemed that the brisk, mindless activity had been the right prescription. If not entirely gone, the jitters were at least suppressed.

  Time for the final ritual. She slipped on the red high heels.

  Glorying in this victory over what her mother called “nerves,” Wilma paused to stand before the full-length mirror on the closet door. She inspected what she considered a not unattractive freckled face, then stuck her tongue out at the image—which responded in saucy fashion. One hand on a slender hip, the willowy young woman posed seductively, frankly admiring the reflection of her trim figure. Which was several notches above “not unattractive.” This dose of narcissism was highly therapeutic. She turned to see a commercial on the television screen. A seriously cute little boy, sitting in a sandbox. The tot was shoveling sand into a blue bucket. A spaniel came, licked his ear. The child giggled.

  The jitters returned.

  Dammit!

  She switched off the TV, fed a disk into the gaping mouth of the cheap CD player. The first of nine delicious Strauss waltzes dripped like warm honey from the cone. There. That’s better. She closed her eyes. Okay. I am in control. Deep breath. I will put the whole thing out of my mind. Exhale. Out goes the bad. Inhale. In comes the good. Exhale. Replace bad thoughts with good ones. With an admirable effort of will, she concentrated on lovely things. Deep in a dark forest, a small pond. Ripples in the sunlight, spreading. Emerald lily pads, tilting with each sigh of the waters. Creamy white cup-shaped blossoms springing up magically from an acre of velvety lily pads. And there…something moving underneath the waters. An astonishingly beautiful golden-scaled fish about to break the crystalline surface? No. It was a person coming up from the depths. Out of the darkness. Dripping wet, the phantom surfaced. Head. Shoulders. Torso. Legs.

  The legs walked toward her. She could see the face quite clearly.

  Wilma Brewster opened her eyes, absolutely certain that what she had witnessed at the preschool was not just petty theft. Something terrible is going to happen. She had no idea what.

  High heels clicking, delicate hands clenched into fists, she began to pace around the small apartment. What should I do? Abruptly, she came to a decision. I need to talk to someone I can trust. Wilma’s hand went to her neck, grasped the jasper crucifix dangling on a gold-plated chain. I could talk to a priest. She smiled. Or maybe I should find me a real kick-ass cop.

  Chapter Five

  A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

  CHARLIE MOON WAS HELPING HIS GROANING AUNT OUT OF THE F-150 pickup when he heard a familiar voice. He turned to see Father Delfino Raes, pastor of St. Ignatius Catholic Church. The short, slightly built Jesuit had a gaily wrapped parcel under one arm. The Ute nodded a polite greeting to the priest, who served both the reservation and the non-Indians who lived in and around Ignacio.

  Daisy squinted suspiciously at the cleric. “Who’s that funny-looking little man?”

  Her nephew rolled his eyes. Here it comes.

  The sly old woman clasped a large purse protectively against her chest. “The television news says there’s lots of riffraff hanging around these big parking lots—especially pickpockets and purse-snatchers.”

  Father Raes forced a smile that hurt his face. “Hello, Daisy.”

  “Oh, it’s you.” She lowered the walking stick, managed to look down her nose at the kindly man. “I guess my money’s safe—till next Sunday morning.”

  “Sorry,” Moon said. “My aunt’s having one of her off days.”

  “Really?” She seems perfectly normal to me. Father Raes tipped his black fedora at the elderly woman. “I shall look forward to seeing you at Mass.” Forgive me, Father, for I have lied. After exchanging a few pleasantries with Moon, he excused himself and hurried away.

  Daisy watched the receding form and called out, “Next time the Pope phones to ask how you’re getting along, tell him hello for me!” Her day made, the mischievous woman cackled with delight.

  Knowing that his expression of disapproval would only encourage the incorrigible old woman to new heights of wickedness, Moon held his silence.

  But Daisy Perika had a darkly sweet secret that she shared with no mortal soul. In fact, the truth of it was hidden so deeply inside her heart that the woman herself did not fully fathom it. God alone knew how much the shaman loved the priest.

  THE WALKING CORPSE

  GRUNTING AS she thumped her oaken staff across the parking lot, Charlie Moon’s aunt hobbled along by his side. The long-legged Ute found himself taking very short steps. It was much like going for a walk with a two-year-old. Poor old woman. Wonder if this is how I’ll be getting around when I’m her age. He comforted himself with the thought that it was highly unlikely he would live so long.

  Daisy Perika muttered without looking up at her nephew. “I still got some Christmas stuff to buy. I’m glad you brought me here.”

  Despite her rudeness to the priest, he had noticed that she was mellowing with age. Now, not less than once or twice every year, the cranky old woman would say something that sounded almost like thank you. “I hope you have a good time. Buy everything in sight.” He smiled at the scarfed head bobbing along at his left elbow. “We’ll fill up the pickup, haul it all home. As long as you brought plenty of cash.”

  Daisy patted her flowered purse. “I got my Social Security check right here.” She slowed, squinting at the storefront. “I can’t recall what it is, but there’s something about this place I don’t like.”

  It was too good to last. Moon prepared himself for the inevitable complaint.

  The Ute elder stopped in her tracks.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I remember now.” She pointed her walking stick at the entrance. “This is where he hangs out.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ve seen ’im.” The tribal elder made an ugly grimace. “That nine-hundred-year-old white man.”

  Her nephew frowned. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Clyde,” she sneered.

  “You know his name?”

  “Sure—it’s sewed onto his vest. That’s so when he can’t remember who he is, all he has to do is check his label.”

  “You talking about the elderly gentleman who greets the customers?”

  “When that old buzzard got so feeble he couldn’t tie his shoes and started to slobber in his oatmeal, I guess his family was too lazy to dig a hole and put him in it. So they propped up Gran’pa Broomstick to frighten the children when they come in the store.”

  Children come in all ages. “That’s no way to talk about one of the greeters. Besides, you’ve got a good ten years on him.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a big difference between being old and being dead.” She snorted. “That man is a walking corpse.”

  She gets worse every year.

  Daisy clenched his arm in a grip surprising for one of her years. “They put those zombie white men right inside the door just to keep ’em off the street.” She shuddered. “What’s the matter—ain’t there enough matukach graveyards to hold ’em all?”

  “Now listen—”

  “It’s a wonder they didn’t put him in the carnival. Lotsa folks would pay two bits to see the old freak—Clyde the Tooth-Clicking Dead Man.”

  “Are we going inside or not?”

  “We’ll go, but if that old bag of bones pops his teeth at me just one time, I’ll lay his skull wide open with my stick.”

  The amiable Ut
e looked to the heavens. Why me, Lord?

  They passed through the portal into the bright land of plastic-wrapped merchandise.

  “Look out.” Daisy clenched Moon’s arm all the harder. “There he is.” She withdrew behind her nephew.

  “If you keep acting like this,” he murmured, “I’m not going to take you anyplace.”

  “Hush—Clyde looks like he’s about to pounce. You keep him away from me.”

  The skinny man in the blue vest had indeed spotted the potential customers. He took a halting pace forward to meet and greet. His wrinkled face creased into a merry caricature of a smile, exposing a pearly set of dentures that did not quite fit his gums. The false teeth clicked as he spoke. “Hello—anything I can do for you?”

  Moon smiled at the greeter. “Not right now, thank you.” Just a few more steps and I’m home free.

  Clyde Sprigg recognized the tall Ute and leaned sideways to see behind him. Yes, there she is—that peculiar old Indian woman. She was always good for a laugh. He tipped an imaginary hat. Clicked the porcelain teeth.

  Daisy peeked around her nephew’s elbow. “Back off, Walking Dead—or you’ll find out what it feels like to get this laid across your ugly head.” She raised the oak walking stick in a menacing gesture.

  The old man snickered.

  “Sorry,” Moon said. “Once a month they let me take her out of the Home. I’m afraid she’s forgot how to behave in public.”

  His flippancy was rewarded by a dark oath from his aunt, punctuated by a sharp rap on his ankle.

  “Ouch.”

  The official greeter nodded with a sad expression. “I know how it is, sonny. My poor old mother is just the same. Momma don’t get her little yellow calm-me-down pills, why she’s pure hell on wheels.” He pointed down a broad aisle, past a cluster of checkout stands. “You want to drug the old lady into a stupor, our excellent pharmacy is down that way.”

  “Now there’s a notion,” the Ute said. “Or maybe I’ll go over to Pet Supplies—buy me a leash.”

  “Well, she is cute as a spotted puppy under a little red wagon.” Clyde winked a bleary eye at the Ute elder.

  Daisy ground her teeth. These men stick together like a gob of cock-leburs.

  Moon managed to separate the pair without further insult or physical threat.

  Inevitably, time passed. Delightful items were purchased. Wounds were healed.

  By eleven-thirty, they had strolled through Women’s Clothing, Kitchenware, Paints, Electronics, Sporting Goods, and finally the Lawn and Garden Center where Daisy selected a small bag of fertilizer, several packets of seeds.

  Moon had been confident that she would be worn out by now.

  But the crusty old woman was getting her second wind.

  Her nephew was getting his second appetite. Since breakfast, he had not had a bite. He cast a hopeful gaze at a small cafeteria. Sniffed heavy aromas floating in the air. Read the sign over the plastic counter. There were choice delicacies at bargain prices. Meat loaf special. Polish sausage and sauerkraut. Grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. Milk shakes. Some of that would hold me till lunch. He leaned close to the old woman. “You ready for a snack?”

  She shook her head. “I got more important things to do right now. Besides, I don’t want to spoil my appetite—you’re taking me to Bennie’s Kitchen.” In Daisy’s opinion, this was the best restaurant in Durango. Really fine peach pie.

  “Right.” His stomach growled. “Guess I can hold off for another hour.”

  “Oh, go ahead and stuff your big face. While you’re busy making gas, I’ll do some browsing.”

  “You sure—”

  She waved him off. “Go on—leave me be. I won’t get lost.”

  THE PLASTIC stool was small and hard—like sitting on a cedar fence post. Charlie Moon smiled at the plump woman behind the counter. He ordered the Frito pie. Large fries. And a chocolate milk shake, if you please.

  DAISY PERIKA was watching a highly entertaining display of rainbow-hued tropical fish dart about in glass tanks when she first noticed the redheaded woman. There were hordes of shoppers wandering among the mountains of merchandise, but this one was staring at Charlie Moon. Like she wanted to go up and say something to Daisy’s nephew, but couldn’t quite get up the nerve.

  The Ute elder was about to pass by the gawker when she noticed the frustrated look on the white woman’s face. In an attempt to get her attention, the Ute elder sidled up beside the young lady, faked a wracking cough.

  The pale creature took not the least notice.

  Daisy put on her best manners. “What’re you staring at?”

  Still no response.

  Louder: “Hey, you—Carrot-Top!”

  At this, the woman turned—looked Daisy straight in the eye. Her expression suggested mild surprise.

  “That young man you been gawking at—that’s my nephew. Charlie Moon.”

  There was the merest hint of a smile.

  Maybe she’s a lunatic. “You got some business with him?”

  A nod.

  “What about?”

  FEELING A tug on his sleeve, Charlie Moon turned away from the Frito pie to see his aged aunt. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” He shoved a red plastic basket toward her. “Want a french fry?”

  Daisy Perika shook her head. “My legs hurt.”

  “You’ve been working ’em too hard.” He helped the weary woman onto a stool.

  She grunted at the effort.

  He concentrated on the greasy snack. “I’ll be done here in a minute. Then we’ll head for Bennie’s.”

  His aunt’s face wore a worried look. “I need to tell you something.”

  “No. Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” He assumed an expression of intent concentration. “Oh, yeah—I got it. You’ve spent your whole Social Security check. And you expect to tap me for a loan.”

  “I just ran into somebody who wants to talk to you.”

  He squeezed a plastic bottle, squirted a stream of tomato catsup over the fries. “Who?”

  “A young woman. She’s been watching you.”

  Young woman. Well, now. The tribal investigator straightened his string tie, turned on the rock-hard stool. “Where is she?”

  “I thought that’d get your interest.” Daisy pointed. “She’s right over…” The woman was not there.

  “Which one?” The store was packed with female persons of every description.

  “I don’t see her now.” The old woman’s eyes searched the crowd in vain. “After I went up and asked what she was doing looking at you, I think she must’ve got spooked.”

  “Imagine that.” He turned back to his food.

  “Don’t you get sassy with me, Charlie Moon. You can eat later—right now, you got to go find that girl.”

  He grinned sideways at the tribal elder. “Why do I got to?”

  “Because she’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “She didn’t say. But that girl’s afraid of somebody.” And it was always a man that ruined a woman’s life. “And don’t ask me how I know—I just know.”

  Damn. He lost his appetite. “She have any cuts or bruises?”

  “Not that I could see. But sure as woodpeckers peck wood, somebody’s knocked her around one time too many. That’s why she wants to talk to a policeman.”

  “I haven’t been in uniform for almost four years. Why would she—”

  “Well, that’s plain as the nose on your face,” Daisy snapped. “She’s somebody who remembers you from way back when.”

  He stared at his aunt. Most of the time, the old woman seemed to live in a dreamworld. Then she would surprise him with a display of common sense. “Yeah. I guess she could know me from my time with SUPD.”

  “Which means she’s probably from Ignacio.” Daisy eyed the french fries. “And she probably knows you’re still doing police work for the tribe.”

  “Give me a description.”

  “Pale-skinned matukach. Skinny
. Stringy red hair. Freckles. Blue eyes. Not more’n twenty-four years old.”

  Moon was impressed with his aged aunt’s powers of observation. He could think of at least two women in Ignacio who matched the description. “What’s she wearing?”

  “White dress. Red shoes.”

  This one wouldn’t be hard to spot. “Stay here.”

  Daisy watched her nephew disappear into the throng of shoppers. She reached for a french fry. Bit off the end. The starchy stalk was soaked with grease, crusted with salt. She dipped the remnant in a gob of catsup. Pretty good.

  It was well past noon when the tribal investigator returned to the lunch counter. In response to the question on his aunt’s face, Moon shrugged. “Couldn’t find her. She must’ve had second thoughts about talking to me.” It was standard behavior for battered women. First, they couldn’t wait to tell a cop about how the husband or boyfriend had beaten them up. “Drop the bastard in the darkest dungeon,” they’d say. “Throw away the key!” But love makes a strong bond. Even the warped kind of affection that keeps a woman with a ham-fisted bully. So when she looked the cop in the eye, finally had the opportunity to jug the animal, the abused woman typically thought of a dozen reasons not to make a complaint. Like: What will I do without him. What will he do to me if I file charges. What will the children do without a father. What will my parents say. And worst of all—maybe it’s really my fault.

  Moon took a last look around the six-acre store. Ten to one, this redhead has gone home for another beating. He mounted the stool, stared at the cold remnants of the Frito pie. Thanked God that he no longer had to deal with such dismal matters on a daily basis. There were uniforms for that. Poor underpaid, underappreciated bastards.