Snake Dreams Page 4

  “I’ll meet you in D.C.” He recalled a nifty scene from a vintage Clint Eastwood flick about a couple of Secret Service agents who were of opposite genders. “How about the Lincoln Memorial?”

  A long, wistful sigh. He is so cute. “How about I stop off in Colorado on my way back to L.A.?”

  “Name the day, Lila Mae.”

  “My return schedule is problematic, but I’ll let you know.”

  “I’ll be at the airport to pick you up.” Moon’s heart was banging against his ribs. “And I’ll have something for you.”

  Well, she could guess what that would be. What the lady didn’t know was, would she accept it? Lila Mae adored Charlie Moon. She was also very attached to her FBI career. For the past two years, she had been trying to figure out how she could have both. So far, it seemed to boil down to one of those either-or situations. Tough call. Time to say, “Goodbye, Charlie.” To this, she added a kissing sound!

  Did this make an impression on Mr. Moon?

  Here he comes, out of the kitchen, deep voice booming “I Walk the Line” with so much heart and soul that the most diehard fans of the Man in Black would sit up and expect to see Mr. Cash appear around some dark corner. But can our man sing and dance at the same time? You know he can. Hot-footing it along that well known Line, Moon is doing the best takeoff of your classic buck-and-wing that could be expected of a big, lanky fellow wearing heavy cowboy boots who has never had any formal training in classic ballet. Look at him go! He bops all the way across the dining room—and the performance does not end there. Charlie Moon’s hard heels and sharp toes echo across the hollowness of the parlor, where juniper flames snap and crackle in the stone fireplace. Has our hoofer shot his wad? Not a chance. Up the stairs he boogies, to the second floor, down the long hallway and through his bedroom door—No. Hold on. Something seems to be amiss.

  The dancer has not entered that sanctum where he suffered through the “I’m so old I creak” dream. Nor has he gone into his office. Or into any of the other rooms on the upper level of the ranch headquarters. This is most peculiar. So much so as to boggle the mind. It’s like this—only about fifty percent of Charlie Moon is still in the hallway, his upper half is gradually vanishing and his boots are not touching the floor.

  Neither Mr. Harry Houdini nor Professor Isaac Newton need be alarmed. Though Charlie Moon’s mood is so extravagantly exuberant as to be deemed light-hearted, he has not gone so far as to defy the law of gravity.

  The happy man has opened a spring-loaded overhead door, climbed a pull-down pine ladder hand-over-hand into the vast headquarters attic.

  Now in that dusty space, he approaches an antique Mohler safe that has resided there since the 1920s, when a previous Columbine owner used the vault to store his hoard of gold coins, a substantial share of stock in the Fairview Golden Boulder Mining Company, and a single bottle of Napoleon brandy. The Ute cycles the dial clockwise and counterclockwise, opens a heavy door that is exquisitely balanced on oiled hinges. Sadly for the AA member, of the original treasures only the alcoholic beverage remains. But some time back, the potential groom placed another valuable item in the safe. He removes a paper bag from Pippin’s Fine Jewelry. Inside is a bill marked PAID and a small box with black velvet skin. He opens the latter to gaze therein.

  It glitters, it sparkles, this diamond ring nestled in its pink satin nest.

  Oh, she’s gonna like this!

  Seven

  Driving Miss Daisy to Town

  Transportation was a continual problem for the elderly woman who lived in the wilderness of the arid canyon country, which was why Daisy Perika had summoned cousin Gorman Sweetwater to take her and “the girl” to the supermarket.

  Gorman’s spiffy pickup was at the dealership for the thirty-thousand-mile checkup, so he was hauling Daisy and Sarah Frank to town in the backup motor vehicle. His trusty old Pontiac sedan rolled serenely along, rubber tires humming warmly on the sun-baked asphalt. Presently, it passed the Durango City Limits sign. Despite all the fascinating sights and sounds that might have distracted Sarah’s attention—the rush of midday traffic, a flock of blackbirds peppering a cloudless blue sky, 1940s big-band music on the radio—the teenage lass was unable to keep her mind off of You Know Who. Charlie Moon was (in Sarah’s opinion) good-looking, kindhearted, patient as a saint, very smart, brave as any man alive, reliable, and—But the list is too long, and no man is perfect.

  Consider the “reliable” attribute. Why was the object of her girlish affections not present to act as chauffeur? It is a fair question. Charlie normally visits his aunt about once a week and drives the elderly lady and Sarah wherever they hanker to go, but, given one thing and another that has kept him busy (valuable purebred cattle dying from mysterious ailments, drunken ranch hands thrown in jail, vital equipment breaking down left and right)—Sarah’s heartthrob had not shown up for several weeks. But he had called last night to assure Daisy that he would arrive on the following morning to take them to the Columbine for a visit. That news alone would have been sufficient to make tomorrow a very special day.

  Sarah sighed. Charlie is handsomer every time I see him. Another sigh. And he’s so sweet. A stomach churn as she considered a complication: He already has a sweetheart. The girl frowned at the sandblasted windshield. But Lila Mae’s in California and I’m here. She also comforted herself with this thought: That FBI lady is practically an old woman—probably at least thirty-five. And wasn’t it a well-known fact that men preferred women who were younger than themselves? Of course it was.

  In her mostly unhappy life, the occasional lapse into wishful thinking, even outright self-deception, had often provided just enough hope to prevent her from falling into deep despair. But such remedies should be used sparingly. In large doses, they can prove deadly.

  Meanwhile, Back at the Columbine

  Blissfully unaware that he was the object of this adolescent adoration, Charlie Moon was also thinking about “that FBI lady.” And admiring the contents of the black velvet box.

  Meanwhile, Back in the Pontiac Sedan

  It might have been purely coincidence, but as Mr. Moon gazed at the golden circle, Sarah was seized with a sudden flash of alarm: If Charlie was to give that woman a ring, I’d just die!

  Gorman Sweetwater slowed, pulled the venerable automobile into the supermarket parking lot, smiled at the image of his grumpy cousin in the rearview mirror. In a voice just loud enough for Daisy to hear, he said to the girl in the passenger seat, “While I go get me a haircut, keep a sharp eye on that fussy old woman. Last time she was in this grocery store, she threatened a little boy with her walking stick.”

  The accused piped up from the backseat, “I may have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, but I ain’t dead yet and I sure ain’t deaf.” Daisy Perika got a firm grip on her oak staff. “And I should’ve done more than threaten—I oughta whacked him cross-eyed!” That freckle-faced white boy put my hot roasted chicken in the same plastic bag with a half gallon of butter pecan ice cream. The memory made her blood boil. Dumb matukach kid must have a brain the size of a pinto bean. The scowl darkened. Which means by now he’s probably the store manager.

  After escorting the ladies into the supermarket, Gorman Sweetwater departed in search of a beer. Or maybe two. If there was some time left over, he might visit the barber.

  AS THEY meandered through the bakery section, Daisy paused to inspect a transparent plastic bag of dinner rolls, pressed a deep impression into each of the half dozen with her thumb. I bet these are a week old.

  Sarah edged over to a display of multicolored pastries. “They have some really big cakes.”

  As she fumbled through her purse, Daisy mumbled, “I wonder where I put those coupons. There was one for nineteen cents off on a loaf of Wonder Bread.”

  “The cakes don’t cost all that much.” No response from Miss Daisy. “And the sign says they’ll make any kind you want.”

  The mumbling fumbler found what she was looking f
or. “Here they are—I forgot I’d put ’em in my coat pocket.”

  Having eliminated several perfectly presentable candidates, the youthful judge was attempting to decide between two stunning, high-calorie finalists. Would the winner be the Strawberry Dream with inch-thick pink icing—or the three-layer fudge-and-ice-cream creation? Sarah could not make up her mind. Not that it really mattered. I’ll never have a cake like those. Her long, wistful sigh was spiced with a hint of self-pity.

  Daisy snapped at her sweet-toothed companion, “C’mon—let’s go load up on some groceries.”

  And so they did.

  Daisy Makes a Threat

  A half hour later, after sending Sarah to get some bananas, Daisy Perika was gripping her oak staff with one hand, had the other fastened to the supermarket cart, which she had filled with such necessities as three gallons of pasteurized cow’s milk, two dozen brown-shelled chicken eggs, four pounds of Snow-White Pure Lard, a dozen 100-percent pork hot dogs, and a package of grape Popsicles. As it happened, the tribal elder was blocking aisle 14, which (according to the overhead sign) was where the shopper could find canned and dry soups. Casting doubtful glances at several products, Daisy searched the shelves for the tried-and-true Campbell’s Chicken Noodle. One of the more blatant imposters featured the entire alphabet, a second one little Os, while still another offered a swarm of tiny fishes. Why would anybody in her right mind want to see little letters or circles or baby carp floating in their soup bowl? The old woman shook her head at the craziness of it all. Some of these aren’t even made by Campbell’s. She glared at the perplexing display. Just as soon as I get used to something, I can’t find it in the store anymore. A painful grunt. And some of these shelves are so low I have to bend my back like a bobby pin just to read the labels on the cans.

  These musings were interrupted by a finger tap-tapping on her back.

  Daisy turned her head to identify the tap-tapper. What she saw was a short, plump woman in a too-tight yellow satin party dress, yellow high heels, a yellow ribbon in her black hair, and a black ribbon around her neck. The tips of the high heels were soiled with mud that had dried, and the dark ribbon had been tied to suggest a rose.

  Too much detail—move right along to the good stuff? Very well.

  The woman’s throat had been deeply slashed, literally ear to ear. The blood that flowed from the hideous wound was soaking into the pretty dress.

  It was too late for Daisy to pretend that she had not felt the finger tap or seen the awful apparition. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”

  The ghostly remains verified that it was.

  “What brings you here?” The shaman grinned. “Big sale on Band-Aids?”

  Apparently not offended, the bleeding woman replied in the negative. The reason for her appearance was that she was worried to death about something. And she needed some help.

  That’s what I was afraid of. “Well, I’d just as soon not hear about it—I’ve got troubles enough to last me till doomsday.” The curious old soul picked up a can of beef-and-barley soup, pretended to read the list of ingredients while (from the left corner of her mouth) she said, “But if you’re in the mood to chat about this and that, why don’t you tell me where your body is.”

  Apparently encouraged by this interest, the whatsit replied that she was buried in a sandy, rocky place where water flowed after a heavy rain.

  The shopper arched a brow. “In a ditch?”

  No. In a dry wash. Not far from some mountains.

  Daisy asked for a more specific location.

  Somewhere east of El Paso.

  “Well, that narrows it down some.”

  Apparently oblivious to this sarcasm, the haunt began to describe the injury responsible for her untimely death, and how she couldn’t get her breath and gagged and choked and coughed up a gallon of blood and—

  “Excuse me, Chiquita—but how you died is plain enough to see.” What Daisy craved was a dose of high-octane inside information. She returned the red-and-white can to the shelf. “You want to tell me who did it?”

  The bleeding presence shook her head, which (and Daisy was thankful for this) managed to stay more or less in place.

  “Why don’t you want to tell me who murdered you?”

  The spirit did not respond.

  Daisy knew that playing coy was a favorite ploy of those who are barely containing a delicious secret. Confident that the dead woman was just dying to tell her, she offered a teasing speculation: “I bet it was some nasty man you took up with.”

  Chiquita informed the old know-it-all that she had it figured wrong.

  “Then set me straight.”

  Ms. Yazzi refused the bait. Stood pat. And that was that.

  Accepting a defeat that she believed was temporary, the aged Ute woman put on her most amiable expression, which suggested a Tasmanian devil suffering from severe gastritis. “So what did you come to bend my ear about?”

  The haunt was worried about her daughter. Poor Nancy was in trouble. And the situation was about to get worse. Much worse.

  Daisy was not surprised. Nancy Yazzi’s probably smoking dope and shoplifting dime-store jewelry and no telling what else and Chiquita wants me to give her a good talking-to. For all the good that would do. For a moment, the old sinner considered playing the good Samaritan. The moment passed quickly. No, I’d rather chew my foot off at the ankle. In contrast to this internal reference to self-mutilation, Daisy’s reply was flavored with sympathy and common sense. “I’m sorry to hear it, but whatever her problems are, Nancy’ll just have to grow out of ’em.” She set her face like stone. “There’s nothing I can do to help you.”

  Ah, but there was. The wispy apparition smiled, and asked a favor. Just a little favor. Which she expanded upon.

  “No.” Daisy shook her head. “I won’t ask Sarah to do no such thing.”

  The favor seeker began to wheedle and whine and plead and—

  “Chiquita, listen to what I’m saying!” Daisy stamped her foot. “The pitukupf told me you was coming, and when me and Sarah went for a walk in Spirit Canyon, you followed us around like some sneak thief. And now, when I’m trying to find some chicken noodle soup, you come and aggravate me.” The shaman shook her knobby walking stick at the offender. “If you don’t vamoose right now, I’ll put a spell on you—one that’ll turn you into a horned lizard that eats nothin’ but fire ants and burps up red-hot cinders!”

  Clasping a trembling hand over her oozing wound, the apparition asserted that Daisy had no such powers. But even if she was capable of doing such a cruel thing, she surely would not.

  “I can and I will.” The spell caster assumed the narrow-eyed, flared-nostril, bared-teeth expression that terrifies little children. She used her stick to draw a triangle on the floor. Spat in it!

  Truth was, Daisy couldn’t and wouldn’t. But the old woman knew how to throw a world-class bluff.

  The ghost was gone before the spit hit the floor.

  But if the presence seen only by the shaman was not merely a hallucination—and this is not an entirely academic question—where did it go? Those of us with inquiring minds want to know.

  Eight

  Sarah and the Sinister Vegetable

  Daisy’s helper was trying to decide which cluster of green bananas looked just right when she was distracted by a more interesting display—a tangle of gingerroots. After a careful inspection, Sarah selected a curious little sample for closer examination. Unlike its more ordinary fellows, this one had a face. Well, sort of. The imaginative girl turned it this way and that. Concluded that the countenance most resembled a certain genus of amphibian. She looked over her shoulder to make sure that no one was near enough to hear, addressed it in a whisper: “Poor little thing—you look like a frog. If I kissed you, would you turn into a handsome prince?” She could have sworn that the frog’s mouth curled, as if it was about to speak, then—

  Help me, Sarah!

  “Aaaaiieee!” The terrified girl flung the unfort
unate root far across the produce section, where the lumpy little missile impacted a yard-high pyramid of Vidalia onions, which commenced to tumble to the floor with a thunderous rumble.

  At that inopportune moment, Daisy Perika rounded the corner with the shopping cart and found herself stumbling over the sweet Georgia onions. She was not amused. When the startled produce manager appeared to find out what the matter was, the elderly woman gave this victim of opportunity a condescending lecture on how to stack onions and got yes-ma’amed several times, which annoyed her no end. After leaving the ruffled supermarket employee to clean up the mess, Daisy gave Sarah the gimlet eye and posed what she supposed was a reasonable question: “Why’d you throw that carrot at the onions?”

  The girl was a stickler for accuracy. “It wasn’t a carrot.”

  “Well, I don’t care what it was. What I want to know is why you threw—”

  “It was a gingerroot—with an ugly little frog face!”

  Daisy snorted at such foolishness. “I’ve never seen a gingerroot that was much to look at. And it being ugly is no reason for you to squeal like a stuck pig and pitch it halfway across the store.”

  Sarah leaned close, whispered, “It spoke to me!”

  The shaman’s face went blank.

  “The gingerroot said, ‘Help me.’ ” The teenager recalled an important detail. “And it called me by name. It said, ‘Help me, Sarah!’ ”

  The old woman hesitated. “This face you say you saw on the ginger root—did it have big, pop eyes and a silly little grin like this?” Daisy bulged both eyes, did her best imitation of a silly little grin.

  “Yes!”

  The shaman groaned.

  Sarah wrung her hands. “What?”

  Daisy shrugged. “Oh, nothing.”

  “Then how did you know what that face looked like?”

  “Frog faces are pretty much alike. You see one, you’ve seen ’em all.”