Coffin Man Page 8

  Charlie Moon’s irritable auntie toyed with the notion of giving the cheeky little runt the old heave-ho, but all the fight had gone out of her. “Oh, all right.” She rolled the quilt back. “Get in beside me.”

  He did. Resting his tiny head on the pillow beside Daisy’s, the chilled pitukupf sighed with pleasure at the welcome warmth and pulled her handmade quilt up to his bristly chin.

  “Be still now, so I can go back to sleep.” The weary woman yawned. “I’m old as Moses great-grandmother and I need my rest.”

  Being of the male persuasion, the pitukupf could not resist the least opportunity to assert his superiority. He archly observed that he was ten times older than herself.

  “I know that.” Nasty little braggart. Another yawn. “Hush now.”

  To her dismay, the dwarf was in a talkative mood. The diminutive chatterbox began by filling Daisy in on what had been going on in Cañón del Espíritu and thereabouts since her last visit to that vast space between Three Sisters and Dogleg Mesas.

  “Stop your yammering.” She closed her eyes. “You can tell me all about it after the sun comes up.”

  Short of physical violence, it was virtually impossible to silence the little fellow once he had gotten up a good head of steam. Her companion continued with a brisk commentary on how wet it was for this time of year, his concerns about the large number of mule deer foraging in the canyon (they were bound to eat every sprig of grass), and how one of the human spirits (a Scottish silver prospector who had been murdered by Apaches in 1871) had recently been “taken up” by the shining ones—presumably to cross over and settle into a permanent home.

  This reference to a familiar ghost proved to be an eye-opener. Literally. Daisy’s eyes popped open to resemble a pair of poached quail eggs. “That reminds me of something I’d like to tell you about.”

  And so she did, eventually summing up her problem thusly: “And ever since that morning when Charlie and Sarah and Scott Parris were here for breakfast, I haven’t been able to see a single one of those haunts in Spirit Canyon.”

  This astonishing admission aroused the pitukupf’s interest, and like menfolk of any tribe, the dwarf figured he knew what had happened and why and how to fix it. What it all boiled down to was that Daisy Perika had spent so much time away from her home and the canyon that she had lost her touch. What she needed was a stiff dose of huckleberry wine spiced with nutmeg, dandelion petals, castor oil, and minced mole whiskers.

  The experienced pharmacist was aware of the efficacy of the prescription, but she disagreed with her guest’s diagnosis. And told him why. Daisy advised the dwarf that she could still hear the spirits; their voices were just as clear as his.

  It that case, the tribal elder was undoubtedly the victim of a curse.

  This was a startling assertion. “D’you really think so?”

  She felt the nod of his knotty little head on the pillow.

  The Ute shaman had never considered such a possibility, but had to admit that the dwarf was probably right on the mark. Some witch has cast a spell to rob me of my powers. Probably some Navajo I crossed years ago. Those Skin-Walkers never forget the least little insult.

  The dwarf assured his bedmate that if her recent misfortune was the result of a broad-spectrum bewitching, there might be no way to restore Daisy to good health. But, in a more hopeful vein, he suggested that the curse might be one that was effective only in the neighborhood. If the stricken woman was away from home, she might be able to see truckloads of ghosts.

  “How far away?”

  He told her.

  “A long day’s walk?” She requested a more specific metric.

  The dwarf provided that information forthwith. Which was: twelve miles if the trek was by day or ninety-six furlongs if she walked during the dark hours between dusk and dawn.

  Daisy was beginning to suspect that her sly little guest was making sport of her. But this was one of those occasions when she felt compelled to follow the pitukupf’s advice. “I know just what I’ll do.” She waited for him to ask “What?”

  He did not.

  Finally warm from toes to chin, the dwarf had fallen asleep quite suddenly—as those of his ilk are wont to do. Within a few beats of his plum-size heart, his eyelids started to flutter. The Little Man’s tiny hands clenched into fists, then relaxed. His spindly little legs began to run.

  No. Don’t ask. What the Little Folk dream of is not a suitable subject for civilized discourse.

  Now wide awake, Daisy Perika resented the dwarf’s sleep. I won’t get another wink for hours. But after a little while, the senior citizen’s lids began to grow heavy. After an even littler while, they could not have been pried open with a claw hammer. Indeed, Daisy dreamed that her tired old body was being prepared for burial; the miserly mortician had laid counterfeit, lead half-dollars over her eye sockets. After that, her dreams got really strange. Again, speculations are discouraged. Suffice it to say that while she slept and dreamed, the old woman’s mind was not entirely occupied with fantastical trivia. Daisy’s gray cells were also busy conjuring up an action plan to restore her shamanic powers. Several potential plots would have to be considered and rejected before she selected just the right approach. The creative processes cannot be hurried, so this would take awhile.

  Watch the dancing minutes strut by; see firefly stars flit across the night sky.

  About the time when morning’s warm sunshine smiled on her leathery face, Daisy opened her eyes without the aid of any carpenter’s tool. Pleased to see that her bedroom window was illumined by the golden glow of dawn, she decided to tell the pitukupf about the dandy plan that had just come to her. But the half-pint in bed beside her was … absent without leave.

  Now, wasn’t that just like a man who’d crawled into her bed only a few hours ago? Daisy was severely vexed. Where was a thousand-year-old dwarf when you needed him? That pushy half-pint don’t mind waking me up in the middle of the night and talking my ear off, but where’s the gabby little rascal when I need somebody to talk to? What was a woman to do?

  What her mother had always done, that’s what—which was to set her jaw, roll up her sleeves, and make do with available resources. Her supply of dwarves severely depleted, Daisy Perika was obliged to improvise.

  She addressed the beamed ceiling above her bedroom: “I’ll go miles and miles away and find me a great big cemetery that’s bound to be loaded up to the gills with haunts.” She grinned at an ear-shaped pine knot. “If all it takes to get my powers back is being a long way from Cañón del Espíritu, then I’ll see more spirits than I can shake a hickory stick at!” But the opposite possibility lurked in the shadows—the shaman’s ghost-eyes might remain blind no matter how far from home she went. What then? Then I don’t know what I’ll do.

  Not true.

  Daisy Perika knew what she would be compelled to do, and the thought grated like long fingernails scratching on a dusty blackboard. I’ll have to go see the Little Man and ask for his help. She assured herself that this would not be quite so humiliating as last night’s nightmare, in which she’d shown up at church on Sunday morning naked as a jaybird. Despite their occasional disagreements, the dwarf was a professional colleague. It’ll be more like two doctors consulting on a difficult case. And like her momma had always said, “Two heads are twice as good as half as many.” Though Daisy revered her mother’s memory, she doubted this arithmetic result … when one of the heads is about the size of a cracked teacup. But these speculations were getting the tribal elder nowhere, which was not her preferred destination. I need to get somebody to take me to a good-size cemetery. The list of persons who provided Daisy with motorized transportation was a short one, and topping it off were Sarah Frank and Charlie Moon—both of whom resided on the Columbine. And the nearest big graveyard to Charlie’s ranch is the one in Granite Creek.

  This seemingly innocuous decision turned out to be the first firecracker in a Daisy-chain of explosive events that (in hindsight) she would recollect as
a series of coincidences that were—from the tribal elder’s peculiar point of view—fortuitous. Which circumstance might lead a few cynical observers to conclude that the whole business was slyly contrived.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  AN UNSEEMLY INCIDENT AT GRANITE CREEK CEMETERY

  SUNDAY, 2:10 A.M.

  Despite meager wages, a soul-numbing loneliness, and occasional bouts of rheumatoid arthritis, cemetery custodian Morris Meusser considered himself a most fortunate man. And so he should. Mr. Meusser loved his work. Three times a day, he patrolled the verdant cemetery grounds in a battery-powered vehicle that was first cousin to a golf cart. During these quiet, dignified inspections he would nod respectfully at visitors who were there to pay respects to family members and friends who had passed over and occasionally pause to exchange a few words with some forlorn soul who had no one left to talk to. It was a pleasant, useful way to pass the daylight hours. When no one was looking, the whimsical fellow enjoyed tipping his billed cap to ducks and swans on the cemetery pond, which was somewhat larger than its counterpart nearby in U.S. Grant Park. The custodian had no disposable income for movies or meals in restaurants, but he did look forward to a weekend game of checkers with his best (and only) friend, Freddy Whitsun.

  After a long day filled with honest labor, Meusser’s quiet nights in the three-room custodian’s residence were devoted to a book from the public library, a brief bedtime prayer, and as much sleep as his aching joints would allow. When his slumbers were interrupted by a throbbing pain, a troubling dream, or ordinary sleeplessness, he would sometimes divert himself by making an unscheduled nighttime inspection. These were the most peaceful hours of all, when the cemetery was truly asleep. On occasion, he might startle a big-eyed mule deer or frighten a cottontail into spontaneous flight. Just as often, the custodian would spot a young couple who had parked among the tombstones with amorous intent. Such romantics invariably withdrew when he turned on his five-cell flashlight.

  On this particular evening, his sleep had not been interrupted by ache, nightmare, or insomnia. Morris Meusser had awakened shortly after two A.M. with the suspicion that something was amiss. For a full minute, he could not imagine what was troubling him. There were no unusual sounds, like last week when he was awakened by a throaty motorcycle rumbling through the cemetery’s winding blacktop lanes. There was not even the yip-yipping call of a lonely coyote, or the tooting hoot of an owl. Even the light breeze rattling aspen leaves outside his window had fallen still. Oddest of all, the grandfather clock in the corner had ceased to tick and tock. I’m sure I wound it before I hit the sack. He smiled at his foolishness. I don’t know what’s bothering me; a sensible man should be thankful for a quiet night. He yawned, rolled over on his side, and—

  As Meusser liked to say, the significance of the heavy silence hit him.

  Of course. He pushed himself up on an elbow. There’s no sound because something out there ain’t right and the animals all know it. He listened again, and felt more than heard the throb of his heartbeat. It was as if all the creatures who occupied the cemetery were holding their collective breaths—waiting for Morris Meusser to do his duty. Guess I’d better go take a look. Without hurry, the patient man rolled out of bed and dressed himself as he did every morning—in a blue cotton work shirt, neatly pressed khaki slacks, and a tattered leather vest (to which, from long habit, he attached his treasured pocket watch). He pulled on a pair of white cotton socks and rawhide boots, and (figuring it would likely be shivery outside) donned his brown Carhartt billed hat and an oversized OshKosh B’Gosh denim jacket that swallowed him up.

  Equipped with his trusty seventeen-inch Maglite flashlight and an unwavering faith in his ability to deal with whatever trouble he might encounter, he left the warm comfort of his cozy bungalow and stepped into the chill night. While several of the legal residents of the cemetery watched and waited expectantly for the biped to deal with this irksome matter, Morris Meusser cocked his ear and listened intently.

  The stillness persisted.

  Beneath the silence, he heard something. A faint, faraway something. Someone (or something?) was making the sort of sounds that an edgy fellow doesn’t want to hear late at night in a cemetery.

  Scuff. Scuff. Scuff-scuff.

  For a long string of the old man’s irregular heartbeats, the scuff-scuffing would continue. Now and then, a pause. Beginning to feel distinctly uneasy, the man who was responsible for looking after the cemetery entertained a hopeful thought: Probably just a hungry ol’ porky-pine gnawin’ on a cedar tree. A man can sham himself when he wants to, but Meusser knew that such sounds were unlikely to be made by a quilled animal or any other of God’s innocent creatures. The sound he had heard was disturbingly familiar—but the custodian did not want to think about that possibility. There had been no scuffing now for quite some time. Well, whatever it was—seems like it’s over and done with. He drew in a deep breath and counted to twenty. It ain’t going to start up again, so I’ll just go back inside and crawl under the quilt and— No.

  There it goes again.

  Scuff. Scuff-scuff.

  The elderly man knew what he had to do. But I don’t intend to walk. Morris Meusser mounted the cemetery’s battery-operated cart and set off toward the sounds. Every so often, he would stop the cart and listen to get a better fix on the location where the sounds were originating. Some six minutes later, he topped a small ridge known as Pink Rose Knoll and stopped to listen.

  Scuff-scuff. Scuff.

  That’s not fifty yards away. Taking care to make no noise, the custodian got off the cart. In the moonlight, he saw a dark form. And movement.

  Meusser was about to switch on his five-cell flashlight, when the clouds parted for an instant to bathe the dusky nightscape in a misty flash of solar light reflected off the face of earth’s pockmarked satellite. During this brief interlude of moonglow, he saw what the trespasser was up to. More or less. But why would someone come out here in the middle of the night to do a thing like that? And … Why in that particular spot?

  It was the cemetery employee’s responsibility to find out. That’s what I get paid minimum wage to do. True. But from somewhere deep inside, a voice fairly screamed, Get back on the cart, drive back to the house fast as you can, lock yourself inside, and call the police! So what did he do?

  You know.

  One stealthy step at a time, Mr. Meusser approached the sinister malefactor.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A GRUESOME DISCOVERY ON THE CHRISTIAN SABBATH

  8:15 A.M.

  Morris Meusser’s checker-playing buddy turned his battered blue panel truck off Copper Street and under the ornate iron arch beside the Granite Creek Cemetery sign. Freddy Whitsun drove slowly along a narrow blacktop lane that snaked its sinuous way through the verdant space that, for seven score years and more, had served as the resting place for hundreds of locals and not a few passers-through. Freddy Fixit (this was the sign painted on both sides of his venerable van) had not come to pay a respectful call on one of those citizens who slept beneath the sod. After passing by dozens of residents whose names and significant dates were chiseled into marble, granite—and even lowly limestone—he braked his vehicle to a stop in the graveled driveway of the only dwelling thereabouts that had been constructed to shelter the living.

  The handyman got out of his truck and slammed the door. Hard enough, an observer might have concluded, to wake the dead—or for that matter, a cemetery custodian who might be sleeping in.

  As regards an observer, there was one. What he may have concluded is unknown, but inside the cemetery custodian’s modest residence, Morris Meusser did not take the hint.

  Freddy Whitsun gazed at the modest bungalow’s damaged front door with a scowl. That sure looks like somebody pried on it. An obvious enough conclusion, but the man who made his living mending broken things noticed something that most callers would have missed: the telephone line was not firmly connected to the terminal box on the west wall. Matter of f
act, it was not connected at all. The limp section of cable was hanging from the electric-utility pole, a yard or two curled up on the grass like a skinny black viper. Morris Meusser’s early-morning visitor picked it up and squinted at the broken end. Why, that’s been cut clean through! He eyed the few inches of cable hanging from the terminal box on the cottage, which was, of course, also cleanly cut. Now why would somebody do a thing like that? He could imagine only two reasons. A mean-spirited misfit who enjoyed committing petty acts of vandalism had practiced his nastiness on Morris Meusser. Then, there was the more troubling possibility: Somebody wanted to make sure Morris couldn’t use his telephone. Which thought immediately summoned up an ugly picture of an intruder bent on violence. Uncertain about how he ought to proceed, Morris Meusser’s friend resorted to the nervous habit of flexing the fingers on his big, strong hands. I don’t want to go barging in. Whitsun knew that he ought to call the cops right away, but … Before I do that I guess I ought to tap on the door and find out if Morris is okay. The edgy fellow rapped cautiously on the damaged facing. “Morris … you at home?”

  If he was, the occupant did not stir.

  Freddy Whitsun glanced nervously to his left and right. He was experiencing the skin-crawling sensation that … Somebody’s out there watching me. Even those unfortunate paranoiacs among us are occasionally justified in their fears.

  Somebody was.

  * * *

  From some thirty yards away behind a neatly trimmed hedge, a beady pair of unblinking eyes stared at the unexpected Sunday-morning visitor. If that big bruiser had showed up five minutes earlier he’d have caught me inside and I’d be dead meat. But the bad guy knew that the brawny man in the Mr. Fixit truck would be calling the cops pretty quickly, and it wouldn’t take the boys in blue long to get to the cemetery. The slender felon’s thin hand clenched the valuable he’d taken from the custodian. I ought to throw this away so I don’t get caught with it. An eminently sensible plan. Then I should walk over to the park and sit on a bench and wait for the cops to show up and ask me if I’ve seen any suspicious characters hanging around. Also highly advisable. But the man’s avaricious fingers refused to release the prize, and his lean legs fairly ached to run like a terrified gazelle pursued by a hungry lion. The malefactor pocketed the wages of his sin. I guess I’d best make myself scarce and get out of town while the getting’s good.