A Dead Man's Tale Page 9

  Parris popped a hot cookie into his mouth and chewed. “Eu’re jub jebbus.”

  “I’m not a bit jealous.” Moon arched a brow at his friend. “I’m concerned about the reputation of this county’s finest public servant.”

  The cookie fancier washed the cookie down with scalding coffee, made a face. “Ouch!”

  The sharp-eared Ute, who had not heard the girl’s approach, wondered how much of their private discussion Sarah Frank might have heard. I hope she’s not picking up bad habits from Aunt Daisy. The tribal elder would go to almost any length to spy on her nephew and his guests. But when he noticed that Sarah had placed a small pitcher of Tule Creek honey on the tray just for me, Charlie Moon dismissed the uncharitable thought. Stirring a spoonful of the amber sweetener into his steaming coffee, he reminded himself that Sarah was a sweet kid. And, unlike his mischievous aunt, she was sensible. The girl didn’t make trouble for him. Well, hardly ever. And never on purpose.

  As Sarah Frank made her way down the stairs one deliberate step at a time, the willowy young lady was mulling over that tantalizing snippet of conversation she had overheard between the chief of police and Charlie Moon. The Ute-Papago orphan paused at the landing to gaze down into the spacious Columbine headquarters parlor. Her expression could fairly be described as thoughtful.

  When thoughtful women pause to meditate upon vexing problems that are plaguing their favorite men, it often happens that the naturally supportive gender figures out a way to help—and jumps right in.

  It happened again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sarah Sleeps on It

  But only in a manner of speaking. The poor thing got barely a wink of sleep. All night long, the agitated girl turned from one side to the other. And back again. She also tried lying flat on her back. As is common among insomniacs, the same thoughts circulated through her mind: Mr. Parris needs someone to find out whether or not Mr. Reed’s wife has a boyfriend, but the chief of police doesn’t have the manpower to keep an eye on Mrs. Reed.

  It was almost inevitable that Little Miss Womanpower would get a great notion. (She already had, while making her way down the stairs from Charlie Moon’s closed-door office meeting with Scott Parris.) Back to her left side to consider it in some detail. I don’t see why that wouldn’t work. (Another apt epitaph.) After turning onto her right side for about the forty-leventh time, she is about to describe the notion, more or less in the proverbial nutshell:

  I only have one late-afternoon class tomorrow and none on the weekend. It would (she thought) be great fun to skip fifty minutes of American literature and follow the married woman around for two or three days. Sarah rolled onto her left side. I might find out something important that would help Mr. Parris. In which event, Charlie Moon would be very proud of her. Then maybe he would stop calling me “kid.” Oh, how that put-down rankled! The kid hammered her fist into the pillow. The fact that Charlie Moon’s references to her youth were virtually unconscious and that he didn’t have a mean bone in his body served only to enhance the affront.

  About an hour before dawn, the sleepless girl finally made up her mind. If I’m going to do this, I need to get out of here before first light. Out of the bed she bounded. In two minutes flat, Sarah was dressed. In three more, she was in the headquarters kitchen, percolating a pot of coffee, stuffing bread and sliced ham into a brown paper bag. The whole point was to be away before Charlie Moon got out of bed and started asking questions. Such as: “Where’re you off to so early?” Straight-arrow Sarah could not lie to a stranger, much less to the man she loved more than life itself. If she merely evaded his direct question, Charlie would suspect that she was up to something. And when the Ute’s suspicions were raised, her heartthrob had an uncanny way of finding out what was going on. And he might come downstairs any second now.

  But so far, so good.

  Sarah was reaching for the kitchen door when—

  Aunt Daisy Intervenes

  “What’re you doing up so early?”

  Sarah had her hand on the doorknob. “I’m going out.”

  “Well a blind jackass could see that.” The old woman smirked. “You might as well tell me where you’re off to”—Daisy pointed—“and what you’ve got in that paper bag.” She sniffed. Smells like ham.

  The girl glared at the snoopy old woman. It’s none of your business.

  “Oh yes it is.” Daisy chuckled.

  Sarah rolled her eyes and sighed. How does she read my mind?

  “You’ve got a face like a comic-book cover.” Daisy, who in her youth had dabbled in games of chance, added this sage advice: “Don’t ever get into a poker game with Charlie Moon; you’d lose your last dime on a pair of deuces.”

  Sarah looked the tribal elder straight in the eye. “It’s a secret.”

  “Well of course it is. If it wasn’t, why would I want to know?”

  The girl stiffened her back. “I don’t intend to tell you.”

  “That’s why it’s so much fun making you spill your guts.”

  Oh, she makes me so mad I could just spit! “You can’t make me say a single word.”

  “Hah! Just watch me.”

  The girl watched in wide-eyed terror as Daisy took a deep breath, opened her mouth—“What are you going to do?” Sarah already knew.

  Daisy confirmed her suspicions. “I’m going to holler loud enough to wake up all those dead people in the Pine Knob graveyard—and Charlie Moon. Soon’s he comes to the top of the stairs and yells, ‘What’s goin’ on down there,’ I’ll tell him you’re sneaking off with a picnic lunch and won’t take me along because you’re up to no good!”

  “You wouldn’t!” Sarah knew she would.

  “Don’t talk silly.”

  Sarah shook her finger in the old woman’s face. “If you come along, you’ll end up getting both of us in trouble. You always do!”

  Daisy glared at the cowardly digit shaker. “So what d’you want to do—live forever?” She rudely brushed the accusing finger aside. “Take if from somebody who knows, young lady—getting old as the hills ain’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

  Foolishly, Sarah fell back on an ethical defense. “But what you’re doing is—”

  “Blackmail, pure and simple.” The wicked old woman chuckled. “And don’t you be telling me what I won’t do.” She gave the girl a look that chilled. “In my time, I’ve done things that’d make your hair curl and stand on end!” Daisy set her jaw. “Ask me how many men I’ve killed.”

  The innocent stared in horror and shook her head.

  “Well I’ll tell you anyway. It was three.” Daisy paused, shook her head. “No, that’s not right.” The tribal elder began to count on her fingers. “It was four.” She smiled and nodded. “I almost forgot that nasty old Navajo—”

  “No no no! I don’t want to know!”

  “Okay, but you’re missing a dandy story.” The elder bared her peg-shaped teeth in a hideous grin. “The tribal police never found but one piece of his body and that was his—”

  “No!” Sarah meant it and Daisy knew it.

  “Oh, all right.” Kids these days are so squeamish. Daisy tapped a finger on the brown paper bag. “You have enough lunch in there for the both of us?”

  Defeat staring her in the face, Sarah nodded dumbly.

  After they closed the kitchen door ever so softly behind them, and made their way ever so quietly along the south porch, the women were joined by Sidewinder, the official Columbine hound. When the rangy old dog made it clear that he was determined to come along on the outing, Sarah didn’t put up an argument.

  Charlie Moon was in the parlor, watching through a west window. Amused by their semistealthy early-morning getaway, he watched the trio get into Sarah’s pickup. I wonder what this is all about. Aunt Daisy was always planning something or other, and there was no telling what specific mischief she might be up to at a given minute. The sleepy man yawned. Sarah should be able to keep the old woman out of any serious trouble. While his
elderly relative seemed to be slipping back into a sinister version of her youth (when Daisy had allegedly done some seriously bad things), the kid was developing into a responsible young adult.

  In earlier, happier times, when he could spare a few hours, Charlie Moon might have followed the red pickup and found out what kind of new trouble his aunt was getting into. Nowadays, the busy rancher had way too much on his plate to go chasing after the old woman. And even if he didn’t have a thing to do, a man would be a fool to deliberately serve himself a helping of Daisy Stew, which was bound to give him a serious case of heartburn.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Daisy Wheedles

  Sarah Frank was capable of red-hot anger and could fight like a tigress when sufficiently provoked—but the kindhearted youth could not hold on to a grudge with both hands. By the time they had passed through the Columbine gate, leaving the painfully bumpy ranch lane for the pleasure of rolling along on miles of smoothly paved highway, the driver had entirely forgiven the old blackmailer seated beside her in the pickup.

  Aware of this act of Christian charity, Daisy Perika was slightly miffed. The aged woman needed spice in her life, and there was nothing like a good fight to make an otherwise bland hour savory with flavor. Though pretending to nap, she was trying to think of some way to enliven an already promising day.

  The honest hound on the floor at Daisy’s feet was truthfully asleep. In dog years, Sidewinder was almost as old as the tribal elder and he needed his rest.

  The clever old conniver continued to cogitate. Whatever’s got Sarah so excited probably happened yesterday, after Scott Parris showed up for a free meal. The most interesting remarks the chief of police had made at lunch were “Please pass me the bread” and “No, I don’t need any more beans.” But after the meal, Charlie and the white cop had gone upstairs to her nephew’s office. And it wasn’t long after that, that Sarah took some coffee and cookies to them. And now that I think about it, she had an awfully peculiar look when she came back to the kitchen. Daisy spent a mile or so “hmm-ing” about that factoid. Sarah must’ve heard something up there. Something the men didn’t want her to hear. Something that wasn’t any of her business. Police business. Daisy figured there was nothing to lose by making a probe or two to test her hypothesis. Without opening her eyes, she muttered, “Listening at keyholes can get a person into serious trouble.”

  Startled by this sudden insightful observation, Sarah ran her red pickup onto the shoulder.

  I knew it! The sly old woman smiled.

  Sarah struggled to get the vehicle back onto the blacktop. How does she do that? “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Just like you thought those two men didn’t know you was listening outside Charlie’s office door.” Daisy opened her eyes and wagged a finger at the driver. “Take it from someone who knows—Charlie Moon can hear a chigger sneeze a mile away. And for a pale-skinned matukach, Scott ain’t an easy man to fool.”

  “I didn’t intend to listen, I—” Oh, I am so stupid—why did I say that?

  “Well of course you didn’t.” Daisy barely managed to conceal her pleasure at this confession. “But don’t apologize, there’s nothing wrong with a woman finding out what the menfolk are up to.” Her crackly old voice cackled a wicked laugh. “Even if she goes out of her way to do it.” Now, I’ll give her some time to think about it. Sooner or later, she’ll tell me what she’s up to.

  Sarah had clamped her mouth shut.

  Daisy Perika waited for a full minute.

  The girl was as silent as the hound.

  She needs a little nudge. “Getting mixed up in police business can be tricky.” The manipulator counted ten telephone poles. “And dangerous to boot.”

  “That’s why I didn’t want you to come along and—” Oh, no. I’ve done it again.

  “That’s very sweet of you. But now that I’m here, you might as well tell me what kind of trouble you’re about to get me into.” The devious old hypocrite grinned like a possum with a ripe pawpaw. “You owe me that much.”

  Field Marshal Daisy had won the battle.

  Sarah surrendered. Unconditionally. She told the tribal elder everything she knew (which was admittedly only a fraction of the big picture), closing with: “Mr. Parris needs to find out whether a Mrs. Reed is cheating on her husband.”

  “So you’re going to spy on this married woman?”

  “I’m not going to spy on anybody. All I’m going to do is…well…” Sarah frowned as she searched for a face-saving euphemism. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  Daisy chuckled. “Call a skunk a lilac, it stinks just the same.”

  The greenhorn detective responded in a professional tone. “I’ll make notes about where Mrs. Reed goes and who she talks to and somehow or other find out whether or not she has a boyfriend and if she does, what the boyfriend’s name is and where he lives.” The producer of this lengthy statement paused for a breath of air. “That sort of thing.”

  “Well if you ask me, that’s an awfully low and sleazy line of work—following a woman around, prying into her private affairs. No decent person would do such a thing.” The tribal elder beamed upon the scowling youth. “So you can count me in!”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sarah and Daisy’s (and Sidewinder’s) Excellent Adventure

  A bloodred sun was floating about five diameters high in a misty-blue sky when Sarah Frank drove slowly past 1200 Shadowlane Avenue, which address was identified by shiny brass numbers on a cedar post by the driveway entrance. This was not going to be as straightforward as she had hoped. I can’t even see the Reeds’ house from the road. The amateur detective was dismayed and discombobulated, but not defeated. She rolled about twenty yards down Shadowlane before turning her spiffy F-150 onto a ten-acre vacant lot. The combination of the tight right turn and the abrupt transformation from smooth-as-glass asphalt to a rutted dirt lane jolted a napping Daisy Perika wide awake just in time to see the For Sale by Owner sign.

  Ditto the snoozing Columbine dog at her feet.

  Make that a half ditto. Sidewinder had been rudely awakened, but the dog had not noticed the For Sale sign. The creature’s gaze was firmly fixed on the driver, his sad, houndish eyes clearly conveying the accusative query: Why did you do a mean thing like that?

  The tribal elder did not limit herself to a silent complaint. “What’re you trying to do, you Papago wildcat—jar my back teeth loose?”

  “I’m sorry.” And the Ute-Papago orphan was sorry. But not a whole lot. Sarah shot the cranky old complainer a glance that was salted with an unspoken snappy rejoinder: If you’d stayed on the ranch instead of nosing your way into my business, you’d still be in bed.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Daisy mumbled.

  Good! Shifting down to Low, Sarah left the dirt lane to bumpity-bump her way onto a broad, rocky crest of a heavily treed section of the expensive real estate. Ignoring the hound’s protesting groans and Daisy’s painful moans, the Miss Papago Wildcat eased the pickup to a stop under a bushy juniper. “This’ll do just fine.”

  “Do fine for what?”

  “For the stakeout.”

  “Oh, right.” Daisy would never have admitted that she had completely forgotten where they were and why. Not for all the succulent green chili in Hatch, New Mexico.

  After slipping on a pair of Dollar Store plastic sunglasses and pulling a droopy-brimmed straw hat down to her ears, Sarah dug into a black canvas shopping bag and came up with a brand-new Pilot G2 ballpoint pen, a small Student Memo Pad, and a pair of Sears binoculars (her late father’s), which were several decades older than her youthful self.

  Pleased to witness such childish whimsy, Daisy smiled at the girl. “You look like a sure-enough snoop.”

  “This is what professionals do.” The novice gumshoe adjusted her shades. “I make notes on my pad, and I need the binoculars so I can see the target that I’m shadowing without that person realizing that I’m nearby. But just in case somebody does get a look
at me, the hat and sunglasses will help conceal my identity.”

  “Hah!” The old woman punctuated that remark with a snort. “Nobody out here in this ritzy neighborhood would recognize the likes of you or me.”

  Not so, Miss D. As we shall shortly see.

  The young lady and the elder are unaware of the stealthy approach of a pair of armed and dangerous men.

  But Sidewinder’s nose knows; watch it sniff and snuff. And so do his long, droopy ears; see how they vainly attempt to prick. Listen to his low, guttural growl.

  “Aaaiiieeeeee!”

  No. That was not a growl.

  Neither was the “Eeep!” emitted by Sarah Frank about forty milliseconds later.

  The aforesaid “Aaaiiieeeeee!” was Daisy Perika’s terrified screech.

  The startled Ute elder glared at the round, pink, smiling face framed in the passenger-side window. “Piggy Slocum—I ought to beat you to death with my walking stick for scaring me half to death like that, and I will, soon as I get this window down!” As she attempted to lower the glass barrier between her and the chubby, good-natured cop, Officer Slocum advised her that the window button wouldn’t work with the ignition in the Off position. This helpful advice served only to further agitate the Southern Ute elder.

  “Hmmph!” (Officer Eddie Knox.)

  “Eeep!” (Sarah again, louder this time.)

  The girl had been startled by Cop Number Two, whose scowling, bushy-browed face appeared at the open driver’s-side window, Knox’s bulbous nose close enough to be tickled by the droopy brim of the girl’s hat.

  “Well I should’ve known,” Daisy said. “If Tweedledee shows his silly face in public, Tweedledumb can’t be far behind.”

  Seemingly oblivious to this affront from Sarah’s testy passenger, Knox queried the driver, “What’re you doin’ parked on private property, Sarah?”