A Dead Man's Tale (18 page)

Company’s Coming

For men like Charlie Moon, the old saying that misery loves company does not apply. The Ute found his healings in solitude. If the troubled rancher had made a list of what he least wanted at the moment, visitors would have been right up there with turpentine in his coffee, an enraged scorpion in his sock, and a registered letter from the Internal Revenue Service. Matter of fact, if Mr. Moon had known that the unlikely pair of hombres was headed thisaway, he would’ve already been straddling his favorite horse and headed for the lonely wilderness north of Pine Knob.

Most likely because he was distracted by his problems, the keen-eared Ute did not hear the approach of the familiar automobile until it rattled over a half-dozen loose redwood planks on the Too Late Creek bridge—and they don’t call the stream that for nothing. There being no ready escape, Moon was obliged to go to the west porch and greet his best friend and—as it turned out—the grinning citizen the chief of police was hauling in the passenger seat of his sleek GCPD black-and-white.

Why was Samuel Reed’s happy face split practically ear to ear?

We are about to find out.

Braking to a stop under a gaunt cottonwood, Scott Parris addressed his companion. “You stay put while I go talk to Charlie.”

“Very well.” Professor Reed clasped his hands behind his neck. “Whilst you convince the Indian sleuth to provide his expert assistance, I shall entertain myself by enjoying the picturesque ruralosity of our surroundings and”—he sniffed—“the earthy fragrance of an aromatically authentic cattle ranch.”

“You do that.”
Silly little twerp.
On the hour-long drive from Granite Creek, which had taken a week, the no-nonsense chief of police had grown bone-weary of Reed’s incomprehensible witticisms, effete affectations, and other annoying mannerisms. Craving the company of a sure-enough man, Parris slammed the car door and marched across the yard toward the genuine article. “Howdy, Charlie.”

The melancholy Ute greeted his
matukach
friend with a nod.

The white cop bounded up the steps. “I brought somebody to see you.”

“I noticed.”

“You have a calendar on your kitchen wall, so you may’ve also noticed that this is the first day of the month that generally follows May.”

Moon reached out to shake his friend’s hand. “And on Friday the fourth of June—which is Mrs. Reed’s birthday and only three days away—Sam Reed figures somebody’s gonna shoot him dead.”

“He does, Charlie—and he just might be right.” After reminding Moon of his suspicion that Mrs. Reed’s 911 call about a break-in was a phony, the chief of police described his routine background investigation of Mrs. Reed’s boyfriend. “Whoever this joker is, he ain’t Chico Perez. That name’s bogus as a Lincoln penny dated 99
B.C
.”

“You figure you’re dealing with some kind of outlaw?”

“Oh, Perez is a bad apple, all right.” By force of habit, the town cop turned to glance at his sleek squad car. “At the very least, the bastard’s probably got a wife and kids somewhere that don’t know where their next meal is coming from.”

“So who do you figure for pulling the trigger on Reed—the wife or her boyfriend?”

“Could be either one of ’em.” Parris heaved his big shoulders in a shrug. “Or maybe it’s a conspiracy. They might be working as a team.”

“Does Sam Reed suspect his missus?”

“Nah. The guy’s smart about lots of things, but where his pretty wife is concerned, he’s got a blind spot a mile wide.” Parris briefed Moon on how he’d persuaded Samuel Reed to loan his wife a tapped mobile phone to replace the one she had misplaced.

“And this TracFone that you gave Professor Reed—is that one tapped too?”

“Sure. And before you insult me by asking, he agreed to both taps.” The white cop gave his Indian friend a pleading look. “Bottom line is this—we gotta find some way to keep this guy alive.”

Moon returned a puzzled expression. “We?”

“Sure. That’s why I’m here.” The white cop turned his sunburned face away to avoid the part-time deputy’s earnest gaze. “I don’t have to tell you how shorthanded I am.” He waved off an imagined protest. “And don’t remind me how long it takes the county to pay you.” Now Scott Parris was prepared to beam his blue eyes on Moon, and he did. “But not to worry, my friend—I’ve taken care of both problems.” He shot another sideways glance at his patrol car. “Or maybe it’d be more accurate to say that Sam Reed has.”

That was a no-brainer. “So he’s agreed pay my wages.”

“Damn right, Charlie.” Parris’s broad face had the beginnings of a grin. “And the man’s no cheapskate. Wait till you hear—”

“I’d like to help you, pardner.” Moon squinted at the pale blue sky and sighed. “But I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.”

“Hey, I knew you’d say that. But don’t tell me you’re too busy fattening up beeves to help me save Sam Reed’s life—tell
him
.”

“Okay.” Moon’s tone was grim. “Bring him on.”

Parris waved a come-on gesture at the wealthy investor, who got out of the police car and strutted across the yard like (Moon thought)
a banty rooster about to pick a fight with a forty-pound bobcat.

After exchanging nods with Samuel Reed, Moon accepted the man’s outstretched hand and gave it a shake.

Releasing the tribal investigator’s big hand, the dapper little man jerked his head toward Parris. “Our highly esteemed chief of police refuses to share the results of his investigation with me. But your bosom buddy is apparently convinced that I am destined to die just as I have predicted, which big event is scheduled for this Friday evening.”

Despite his gloomy mood, Moon could not help but smile at Reed. “For a man who’s about to be murdered, you’re in a pretty good mood.”

“Destiny,” Reed replied with a wink, “is transformed by strong-willed men such as we three. With expert assistance from you two bold fellows, I hope to live to—no, permit me to amend that.” He puffed up his chest. “I am
determined
to live to a ripe old age.”

“C’mon in,” Moon said. “I’ll brew us a fresh pot of coffee.” The problem was figuring out a way to say no without revealing how the expert investor’s failed prognostication about beef prices had created a situation where the rancher didn’t have time to
think
about Sam Reed’s serious problem. For once, Scott Parris would have to work things out without any help from his Indian friend. Unless…

Fate Takes a Twist

And it was about to.

While the coffee was percolating in the kitchen, Moon’s mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. After glancing at the caller ID, he said hello and drifted off into the dining room for a private conversation with his cattle broker.

“Wow, Charlie—it’s a good thing I wasn’t able to take the call when you left that message about selling off your herd.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Well of course it is.” A puzzled silence. “Say, haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“You are probably the luckiest man I ever met.” Roy Bivvens chuckled. “But Luck’s a fickle lady, Charlie, so if you want to survive in a rough-and-tumble business like ours, you gotta learn to pay attention to what’s goin’ on.”

Moon was beginning to get a glimmer, and his hopeful suspicions were making his skin prickle. “Spit it out, Roy.”

“Hell, Charlie—you must be the only stockman in the state who don’t know that the price of American beef has gone
right through the roof
during the past couple of hours. New orders from Japan and Mexico alone are gonna make you enough money to buy yourself a sixty-foot yacht and one of them executive jet airplanes and build yourself a five-mile-long runway on the Columbine and—”

Moon interrupted the absurd hyperbole: “Does this have anything to do with an unmentionable bovine malady somewhere south of the equator?”

“Dammit, you knew all along about that outbreak of hoof-and-mouth in Argentina.” The broker snorted. “What kinda game are you playin’ with me, Charlie—you tryin’ to make a fool of ol’ Roy?”

“I’d never do that.”
Looks like I’m the fool.
The rancher stared through a north window, where a chill late-spring breeze was briskly sweeping away last October’s dead cottonwood leaves. “I’m right in the middle of something, Roy—I’ll call you back in an hour or two and talk to you about selling maybe half of my herd.” He pushed the button while the broker was protesting and turned to see Samuel Reed’s slight figure framed in the arched doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.

“Sell within three days,” Reed said. “By next week beef prices will begin a gradual decline.”

“I’m much obliged.” And Moon was. The Columbine not only was saved but would turn a healthy profit for the first time in several years. Feeling light and carefree as a feather on the wind, the rancher ushered Reed back into the kitchen. “Now tell me what I can do for you.”

He did.

Whatever Reed left out, the chief of police filled in.

When the dust had settled, Charlie Moon and Samuel Reed shook hands on the deal.

And some fine deal it was. The tribal investigator would be paid a flat fee that would have made a paler face blush rose-petal pink. The cash was paid up front and right on the spot, which (no barrelhead being readily available) was on the kitchen table. The Ute was also given a key to the guest house over the Reeds’ detached garage. And if Parris and Moon could keep Sam Reed alive until the day after Mrs. Reed’s birthday, the tribal investigator would walk away with the pot from a ten-to-one wager that would be the second-largest of his career as a bet-on-anything gambler.

Charlie Moon’s biggest win some years back? There are a half-dozen rumors, a couple of them almost plausible—but the gambler has kept mum about that one. Anyway, that was way back when and this is
right now
and, starting tomorrow, Moon will be camping out on Sam Reed’s ten acres, where (Scott Parris is convinced) the wealthy investor is supposed to meet his untimely end.

The bottom line was that Charlie Moon was determined to keep his benefactor alive, and when a flinty-faced Ute makes up his mind to do a job of work, rolls up his sleeves, spits on his hands, and gets right at it—the chore flat-out
gets done.

Most of the time.

June 2
An Annoying Distraction

Nineteen out of twenty stakeouts were about as interesting as watching grass wither during a long dry spell, but a lawman never knew when number twenty would pop its ugly head up and make his life excessively interesting. With this possibility in mind, Charlie Moon prepared himself for whatever he might encounter during his visit to Samuel Reed’s suburban estate. Before leaving the Columbine headquarters, he strapped on his Ruger .357 Magnum revolver, dropped a small flashlight into his jacket pocket, checked the battery in his mobile phone, and, as an afterthought—slipped a couple of Almond Joy chocolate bars into his pocket to keep the flashlight company. Finally, the Catholic crossed himself and whispered a prayer for protection and guidance. Thus fortified, he stepped outside to greet a new day, cranked up his trusty Ford Motor Company SUV, and rolled away.

As he headed to the public highway, Moon proceeded slowly. Not only because the spine-jarring road needed grading; driving along at barely above a snail’s pace gives a man time to think, which opportunity he used to mull over various matters. At the top of his list was the stakeout. Whether it turned out to be as dull as dirt or as wild as an 1875 Saturday night in Tombstone or Dodge City, he had to be ready to deal with whatever might come up. Such as:
What do I do if Mrs. Reed’s boyfriend comes gunning for Sam Reed and there’s no chance to disarm him and make an arrest—do I shoot this so-called Chico Perez character dead or just wing him?
Killing a man, even to save another one, was an unpleasant task. On the other hand, injured felons coupled with shyster lawyers could create a world of trouble for a lawman.
I’ll shoot him dead.

Charlie Moon also entertained some happier thoughts.
With Sam Reed’s tip on cattle prices panning out, things are looking up.
And how he’d like to have a wife. During the last few years, the rancher had made a go at matrimony a couple of times but for one reason or another things hadn’t worked out. More recently, Miss Patsy Poynter had been haunting Mr. Moon’s daydreams and night dreams too.
It’s not like she don’t like me.
Indeed, they were good friends. But therein (he believed) lay the problem.
Patsy probably sees me as a big brother.
Having suffered bitter disappointments in prior involvements with the tender gender, the county’s most eligible bachelor was wary about sticking his neck out for another potential axing.

The prospective groom would have been stupefied to know how many fine, in-their-prime women figured he was just about the best thing since sliced bread. Or that Miss Poynter had set her sights on the tall, lean Ute since the time she had first laid eyes on him. The clueless Moon thought that Patsy brought him home-baked bread and cookies because she was a kindly young lady who knew he appreciated such delicacies. It’s a good thing the stockman understood a lot more about cattle, quarter horses, cowboys, cougars, and such than women.

As Moon approached the intersection where the Columbine lane terminated at the paved highway, his thoughts about how a loving wife would take some of the rough edges off his life were displaced by a more immediate issue. Operating expenses.

The front gate was wide open and Pete Bushman’s pickup was parked on the highway side, behind a panel truck with
GRANITE CREEK ENGINEERING, LTD.
painted on the door. Bushman was watching the GCE technician remove a gray steel panel from the gate-control box, where a two-wire line from the foreman’s residence was used to open the gate when someone called to request admission. The several miles of copper wire had been installed by the previous owner (now deceased), who had been almost as wealthy as Samuel Reed.
What now?
Moon pulled up beside his foreman and the young man in crisp, new blue coveralls. Lowering the window, he repeated the two-word query to his foreman: “What now?”

“Same old same old.” Bushman chewed on a tobacco-stained strand of his bushy beard. “The damned—the
dad-burned
thing has stopped workin’ again.” At his wife’s insistence, the crusty old man was trying to clean up his language. “Yesterday, I had to drive all the way out here to let the UPS truck in. After that, I just left the damned—the
danged
thing open.”

Moon eyed the fellow with the digital multimeter. “What is it—a bad connection?”

“Don’t know for sure. An intermittent, most likely.” The technician assumed an upbeat tone. “But don’t you worry, Mr. Moon. Before I leave, I’ll have it working fine as frog’s hair.”

“Before you leave, I’ll be five hundred dollars poorer.” The rancher glared at the offending gate-control box. “And it won’t be a month before the thing’ll fail again.”

Unaware of the thin ice he was standing on, the Granite Creek Engineering, Ltd., employee figured that this was prime time to make a sales pitch. “If you don’t mind me saying so, what you need is a modern, up-to-date, remote-control gate opener.” He turned his plump face to present a comical gap-toothed smile to his potential customer. “Nobody uses these hardwired controllers anymore. And I’m not talking about those RF devices you folks use to open and close this gate when you’re within a hundred feet or so—that part of the system is working just fine.” Having planned to make this pitch to the foreman, the technician just happened to have a four-color brochure in his coveralls hip pocket. “This is what you need.”

Moon shook his head. “I’m not interested in sinking any more money into—”

“I got one of our System 400 remote-control units in the truck, and it ain’t all that expensive if you sign up for our three-year payment plan. What you get for your money is the ability to
telephone
a command to operate your gate. Hey, you could be in China and phone in an instruction to open your gate or shut it. And you can take my word for it, Mr. Moon—the job won’t be considered finished until I make your brand-new telephone-controlled installation one-hundred-percent reliable.”

“This job is finished right now.” The boss gave his foreman a flinty look that cut right to the bone. “Pay this young man for the time he’s spent here and send him on his way.”

The technician was goggle-eyed with despair. “But I’ll have this thing fixed in five minutes flat and—”

The Ute glared at his crusty old foreman. “You heard me, Pete.”

Pete Bushman knew when not to talk back. “Yessir.”

“Oh, one more thing.” Moon shifted his gaze to the sandblasted windshield. “How many laid-off hands are still hanging around the bunkhouse?”

“All but a half dozen or so.” Bushman prepared himself for the worst. “What d’you want me to tell ’em?”
No more free beans and coffee?

Charlie Moon grinned. “Tell ’em that with beef prices on the rise, I’m only selling off about half the herd—and at a nice profit. Put ’em all back on the payroll.” The rancher drove away, throwing up a cloud of dust before the rubber tires hit the paved highway.

Relief flowed over Pete Bushman like a waterfall.
I knew all along that things’d turn out all right!
The foreman also knew who the real boss of this outfit was, and when to take the bull by the horns. As soon as Charlie Moon’s automobile was out of sight, Bushman grinned through his tobacco-stained whiskers at the dejected technician. “You go right ahead and fix that [coarse expletive deleted] gate.”

Going to Town

About a mile and a minute before he rolled into Granite Creek, Charlie Moon placed a phone call to Scott Parris. “So how’s our friend doing?”

“Sam Reed just had a haircut at Fast Eddie’s,” the chief of police said. “He’s still in our favorite barbershop, getting a straight-razor shave.”

Moon grinned. “I hope Eddie doesn’t let that blade slip.”

“You and me both. We’ve got a lot riding on ol’ Sam seeing the sun come up over the mountains on Saturday morning.”

The Ute’s concerns were focused on Friday. “What’re Reed’s plans for his wife’s birthday?”

“A midday feast in the Silver Mountain main dining room—where they’ll waltz to the romantic sounds of Denver’s Bavarian String Quartet, hired for the occasion by the man who makes money so fast he can’t count it with both hands. After that, Sam’ll apologize for having to work late that night—but he’ll tell his wife that come hell or high water, he’ll get home at eleven
P.M
.
on the dot.
Damn!”

“What?”

“Fast Eddie just nicked Reed on the gullet.”

“Our lives hang by a silver thread, pard—we’re here today, gone tomorrow, forgotten next week.” As a black Corvette convertible zipped pass his Expedition at ninety miles an hour, the Indian philosopher caught a glimpse of the driver. The pale woman’s long red hair was blowing in the wind like flames on a white tallow candle. “What’s Mrs. Reed up to today?”

“Sam wrote her schedule down for me. Lemme see…Shopping for m’lady’s summer hat. Midmorning coffee at the Sugar Bowl. Shopping at Mimi’s Antique Glassware. M’lady’s weekly manicure. Shopping for this and that. Oh, and get this: ‘Luncheon at Phillipe’s Streamside Restaurant’—la-de-dah!”

Moon was making mental notes. “What’re her plans for this afternoon?”

“Big surprise. Mrs. Reed will be shopping for silver candelabras.”

“The variety will be good for her.”

“Then she’ll be having supper at the country club and after that she’ll be playing cards with some of her snooty lady friends. Sam figures she won’t be home until at least nine
P.M
., more likely ten.”

“That’ll give me plenty of time to get settled in before the lady shows.” But there was another player. “What’s the latest on the boyfriend?”

“The guy who calls himself Chico Perez don’t work at the country-club golf course anymore. Also, there’s no vehicle parked at his place and nobody answers when I knock on his door. His nearest neighbors haven’t laid eyes on him for at least two or three days. Not only that, his rent’s overdue.” Parris’s smile brightened his voice. “Looks like the lowlife’s skipped town.”

Good news was always welcome. “Have there been any telephone conversations between Perez and Mrs. Reed?”

“Nary a one. Gotta go, Charlie. Sam’s out of the chair and paying for his haircut and shave.” Parris brayed a mulish laugh. “Our well-heeled friend must be pretty ticked off about getting his Adam’s apple sliced—he just flipped Eddie a two-bit tip!”

This reminded Charlie Moon of the token fee Lyle Thoms had promised him for assassinating Posey Shorthorse. “Every quarter dollar counts. G’bye Scott.” As he pocketed his mobile phone, the tribal investigator reminded himself that he’d made Thoms a promise, and that…
soon as this business with Sam Reed is behind me, I’ll see if I can track down that renegade Chickasaw.
A hopeful thought occurred to him.
If Shorthorse ever was in Granite Creek, maybe he’s left town too.

The prospect was not entirely implausible. From time to time, those things that plague us do go away of their own accord.