A Dead Man's Tale (25 page)

7:57 A.M. Saturday, June 5
Bad News for Breakfast

While Charlie Moon slept in, Daisy Perika toddled into the Columbine headquarters kitchen, where Sarah Frank was working at the propane range. Seating herself at the table, Daisy returned the girl’s chipper good-morning with a dismissive grunt.

Sarah was tending to a matched pair of black iron skillets. In one, four eggs fried sunny-side up in a shallow pool of olive oil. It its twin, eight strips of bacon sizzled to a crispy finish.

The tribal elder’s nostrils barely detected the delectable scents of a hearty meal.
Most mornings, nothing smells better than pork fat frying—but I don’t have any appetite.

Barely audible on the FM radio (so as not to disturb the man upstairs), Flatt and Scruggs were trying to liven up the morning with “Foggy Mountain Breakdown.”

Daisy lifted her chin to indicate her nephew’s second-floor bedroom. “He’s back.”

“I heard him come in.” The eighteen-year-old flipped the bacon strips.
I wonder what Charlie’s been doing for the past few days.

“There’s no point in asking him,” Daisy said.

Sarah turned to blink at the unnerving old woman. “Ask him what?”

“What he’s been busying himself with.” Daisy shrugged. “Charlie hardly ever talks about police business.”

The girl barely suppressed a shudder.
She’s reading my mind again.

“You don’t have any secrets from me.” The sly old crone pointed to a spot over Sarah’s head. “I can see your thoughts floating in a white balloon, like you was Little Orphan Annie in the comic strip.”

The Ute-Papago orphan thought of a delightfully tart retort, but, being a proper young lady, she settled for: “Do you want your eggs well done?”

The elderly diner shook her head. “I couldn’t choke down any cackleberries if my life depended on it.”

At this instant, which was, eight o’clock on the dot, Lester and Earl yielded the airwaves to a Rocky Mountain Polytechnic journalism major whose happy task it was to report the local bad news.

Sarah persisted: “How about some nice, crispy bacon?”

Daisy made a hideous face. “Ugh!”

The girl gave up.

Too easily, Daisy thought. “Maybe I could manage a little bowl of oat—”

“Shush!” Sarah said.

To say that Daisy was taken aback would be an understatement worthy of a card-carrying member the tight-upper-lipped British aristocracy. In all the years she’d spent with Sarah Frank, the girl had never so much as raised her voice to the tribal elder. The aggrieved senior citizen glared at the upstart youth.

The object of the glare was turning up the volume on the radio. “Listen!”

Daisy cocked her ear to hear the newscaster’s voice.

“…The victims of last evening’s homicide at 1200 Shadowlane Avenue have been identified as Mrs. Irene Reed—a resident at that address—and Chico Perez—a former employee of the Sand Hills Country Club. At approximately ten
P.M
., Mrs. Reed made a 911 call to report an attempted break-in. Chief of Police Scott Parris and a part-time deputy were on the scene shortly after the incident occurred. We are informed that Mrs. Reed shot Perez—and that before he died of the gunshot wounds, Perez killed Mrs. Reed with his bare hands. When we asked GCPD Officer Alicia Martin whether Chico Perez might be the infamous Crowbar Burglar who has been terrorizing local citizens, the response was a terse ‘no comment.’ We expect to have more on this breaking story on today’s
High Noon News.
We’ll be back with a weather forecast after this message from our sponsor.” A ditty extolling the virtues of Red Buffalo Snuff blared in the Columbine kitchen.

“Turn if off,” Daisy snapped.

Sarah silenced the radio. “Mrs. Reed is that married woman we followed to the golf course.” She lowered the ring of blue flame under the eggs. “That man she shot must have been her boyfriend.”

“It was him all right.” Daisy knew he wasn’t actually Chico Perez, but that’s who the dead man would remain to the tribal elder—who was too old and set in her ways to call him by his right name. The issue that troubled her was…
How could he have still been alive last night?
Daisy’s brow furrowed into a disappointed scowl.
I was sure I’d killed him with my walking stick
. The aged woman remembered previous unfortunates who had not survived her violent assaults. Thus recollected, her victims paraded by her mind’s eye one-by-one, each fixing the Ute elder with an accusing stare. A Navajo haunt went so far as to make a rude gesture. Daisy found this experience immensely gratifying. She sneered at some, laughed at others.
Every one of you scalawags had it coming!

By and by, nostalgia was elbowed aside by an unfamiliar and unwelcome visitor.

Guilt.

Daisy attempted to comfort herself with the defense that
I’m just a tired old woman.
(Listen to her self-pitying sigh.)
Every once in a while I might make a mistake, but I always do the best I can.
(Watch the salty tear form in her eye.)
I can’t help it if sometimes things don’t work out like I intended.

But enough of this maudlin whining. As far as Daisy is concerned, apologizing is for prissy sissies and politicians who get caught with their hands in the cookie jar. The wielder of the oak walking staff was made of sterner stuff. What was called for was cold, hard analysis—looking the facts straight in the eye.
All that Chickasaw lowlife needed was two or three more good whacks to crack his head wide open.
So why hadn’t she gotten the job done?
I just ran out of steam.
With the problem properly defined, what one wanted was a solution. The leathery-faced old soul jutted her chin in a bloodcurdling impression of Geronimo about to mount a take-no-prisoners attack on the Tombstone stagecoach.
What I need to do is keep my strength up.
Charlie Moon’s determined auntie was just commencing to think that
maybe I ought to take three or four of those One A Day vitamin pills every morning
…when she was interrupted by the aforementioned orphan.

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” Sweet Sarah Frank patted Daisy on the arm. “I’d be happy to make you some oatmeal.”

“Bite your tongue, Little Miss Do-good—you can save those Quaker flakes for another day.” Sniffing at the tantalizing aroma of sizzling pork fat, the hungry old carnivore banged knife and fork on the table. “Bring me a half-dozen fried eggs, a pound of greasy bacon, and a stack of flapjacks tall enough to shade me from the noonday sun!”

Monday, June 7
The Snapshot

Scott Parris and Charlie Moon practically had the Columbine headquarters to themselves. When the chief of police arrived at the ranch, Sarah Frank was leaving for a morning class at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic and Daisy Perika was in her bedroom watching a familiar-looking raven settle onto a tree branch just outside the window. Whatever conversation might have passed between Charlie Moon’s enigmatic aunt and the so-called Delilah Darkwing is a matter known only to the Ute shaman and her feathered friend. Which is probably just as well.

Blissfully unaware of the old lady’s sinister business, Moon invited his best friend into the kitchen.

Being more or less a member of the Columbine family, Scott Parris didn’t wait for an invitation to belly up to the table. Like any sensible Western lawman, the town cop ambled over to his customary spot where he’d have his back to the wall, seated himself, and watched as his long, lean host folded himself into another chair.
Charlie looks like he’s got something on his mind.

Something was brewing besides coffee.

Moon poured himself a mug.
Scott looks like he didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.
The rancher passed the blue enamel percolator and some welcome news to his friend. “Fred Thompson over at Cattleman’s Bank called just as you pulled up under the cottonwood. He said to tell you that Sam Reed has conceded the wager. You can pick up your winnings when you’re of a mind to.”

Still high on last Friday night’s excitement, Parris had not given much thought to the bet. “Thanks, Charlie.” The blue-eyed cop grinned like a little boy with a triple scoop of strawberry ice cream in a chocolate waffle cone. “It’ll be nice to thicken up my wallet with Reed’s four hundred bucks.”

“I imagine it will.”

Charlie hates to miss out on a bet.
“It’s too bad you didn’t get a piece of the action. That bet was a sure thing right from the start.”

“I had my chance.”
And I didn’t pass it by.
But the Ute gambler would not be so graceless as to mention his winnings, which would make Scott’s four hundred dollars seem like pocket change. Not right away. Somewhere down the road, maybe—on one of those occasions when his friend was getting a bit too big for his britches.

Resting his elbows on the table, the small-time winner leaned toward Moon and whispered, “I s’pose we need to talk about a thing or two.”

The Ute nodded. “I reckon we do.”

And they were about to, when the old woman who conversed with lonely ghosts, wild and domesticated animals, and a sinister dwarf who lived in an abandoned badger hole, managed to “just happen by.” Presumably to tend to a few pressing domestic matters. Such as wiping an imaginary grease spot off the six-burner propane range. Turning off a hot-water faucet that wasn’t dripping a drop. All the while, humming “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Seemingly oblivious to the lawmen’s hastily contrived conversation about the weather, the old lady had both ears fine-tuned for any tidbit of gossip that might come her way.

Amused by her transparent stratagem, Charlie Moon could not allow the opportunity to pass without making a grab for its neck. Assuming his fair-to-middlin’ poker face, the tribal investigator lowered his voice just enough to get his aunt’s complete attention. He winked at his guest. “Is it true what I hear about you retiring?”

Parris was quick on the uptake. “I was gonna tell you all about it later on, but I guess now’s good a time as any.” He spoke in a low monotone. “It’s set for the middle of next month and that’s not a day too soon. I was all wore out before this bad business with Mrs. Reed and Chico Perez, but that double homicide has pushed me over the edge.”

Daisy turned and tilted her head, thus aiming her best ear toward the conversation.

Charlie Moon continued the charade. “Is there going to be a surprise party with presents and a great big cake?”

“Sure, the whole works. You can check with Officer Martin; she’s setting things up for the ballroom at the Silver Mountain. I’ll get a call that there’s a holdup in progress at the front desk, but when I show up at the hotel the whole place’ll be dark as the bottom of Mud Creek at midnight, and about the time I walk in and holler, ‘What’n hell’s goin’ on here?’ somebody’ll switch on the lights and I’ll be so danged surprised that I’ll faint and fall back in it.”

Edging her way to the table, Charlie’s aunt brushed a tiny crumb off the red-and-white-checkered oilcloth. Daisy also adjusted the salt and pepper shakers just so. She picked up the blue coffeepot and sloshed what was left around as if to estimate the remainder. ’Twas all for naught. To her considerable annoyance, the men clamped their mouths shut. Daisy waddled away to the sink with the percolator, dumped out the grounds, and put on a fresh pot of coffee.

Moon resumed the conversation. “So what’ll you do during your retirement, kick back and go to seed?”

“That’s what I’d had in mind, but I’ve been offered another job.”

The Ute shot a sideways glance at his aunt. “Doing what?”

“Don’t say a word about this, but…” Parris leaned close to his best friend and whispered loud enough for the old woman to hear, “A couple of weeks from now, the president of the United States is gonna appoint me to be the ambassador to Ireland.”

“Good!” Daisy snorted. “When you get there, send me back a bushel of blarney.”

The men enjoyed a good belly laugh.

What a couple of silly-boogers.
But, knowing what was expected of her, the butt of their joke presented her standard scowl.

Feeling just the least bit guilty, Scott Parris got up from his straight-back chair and looped an arm around the feisty old woman’s stooped shoulders. “How’d you like to hear some honest-to-goodness true gossip?”

She turned down the flame under the pot, which was beginning to make burpity-perking sounds. “Make it worth my while and I’ll pour you a cup of coffee that’ll take all the enamel off your teeth.”

The chief of police leaned and kissed her on the cheek, then addressed Daisy’s good ear. “There’s been an interesting new development, one that the recently deceased Mr. Perez might have been mixed up in.”

Daisy waited to hear what that might be.

So did her nephew.

Returning to his seat at the table, Parris told them. “A woman in town has gone missing.” When neither of the Utes asked him “who?” the chief of police told them. “The lady’s name is Janey Bultmann.”

Never heard of her
. Daisy poured coffee into Parris’s mug.

“Thank you kindly.” He took a sip of the brackish, scalding brew and pursed his lips.
She wasn’t kidding.
Parris eyed Moon’s deadpan face. “You must’ve seen Janey around town. She’s owner-manager of Bultmann Employment Services.”

Moon did recall the testy blonde who always had a cigarette dangling from her lips.

“Her mother called GCPD from Seattle to tell us that Janey—who was supposed to be there about four days ago—hadn’t shown up. And Miss Bultmann hadn’t called her momma since the day she was supposed to leave Granite Creek on a three-week vacation.” Parris tapped a spoon on his coffee mug. “Janey supplied temporary staff to the Sand Hills Country Club. Not only for the restaurant and cleaning staff—also for the golf course.”

The Ute’s eyes narrowed. “Such as Chico Perez.”

“You got that right.” Steeling himself, Parris downed a man-size gulp of Daisy’s high-octane coffee. “And before you tell me that’s a pretty thin connection, consider this curious factoid—Janey Bultmann hasn’t been seen since the day I visited the country-club manager—a stuffy little peacock by the name of Howell Patterson. That was when I ID’d Chico Perez as the guy Sarah saw with Irene Reed. Turns out that Patterson put in a call to Janey to let her know that Perez’s services were no longer needed at Sand Hills. From what he tells me, Janey promised to ‘remove Mr. Perez from her list of clients.’”

“So you figure the lady who runs the employment agency canned Perez, and he’s responsible for her being listed among the missing?”

“It fits.” Parris pulled a small manila envelope from his jacket pocket, opened it, and removed a grainy copy of a photograph. “Here’s a picture of Janey that was taken sometime last year. Her mother faxed it to me.”

Moon took a look at the snapshot. “Yeah, that’s her all right.”
And she’s got a coffin nail in her mouth.
Under the circumstances, a sobering metaphor. And there was more. The longtime lawman had experienced this eerie phenomenon before. Charlie Moon would never have admitted it to his aunt, but about nine times out of ten he could glance at a photo and instantly know whether or not the person that looked back at him was still among the living. This one wasn’t.

Daisy Perika peered over her nephew’s shoulder.
Why, I know that face.
It took only a moment to remember where she had seen it.
She’s that homeless person that smelled so bad. The one I saw outside the candy store, when Sarah and Charlie was inside buying the butter pecan ice cream with my twenty-dollar bill.
Which raised an interesting possibility.
So maybe she isn’t dead; maybe the poor thing had a stroke or lost her mind and she’s wandering around the streets and alleys and…
Alleys?
Oh, my.
Daisy coughed. Cleared her throat. “Where is that woman’s business?”

Scott Parris told her the address on Copper Street.

Daisy’s fingers and toes were going cold. “Is that anywhere near the candy store?”

“Sure. It’s right next door to the Copper Street Candy Shop.” The curious cop frowned at the enigmatic woman. “D’you know something I don’t?”

Such a silly question called for a derisive snort and a tart retort. “That’s like asking am I older and smarter than you are.”

The beefy cop grinned. “So tell me what’s so important about Bultmann Employment Services being close to the candy—” He was talking to Daisy’s backside.

Her oak staff tap-tapping on the linoleum floor, the old woman hobbled away to her bedroom as fast as she could go, which was at about a good enough clip to pass a three-legged terrapin who was making his way up Pine Knob.

Parris shot Moon a questioning look.
What’s this all about?

Daisy’s nephew returned a shrug.
How would I know?
Charlie Moon wasn’t altogether sure he wanted to find out.

The tribal elder turned the latch to lock her bedroom door, found her purse, and rummaged though it until she found the woman’s picture. The blond lady’s face in the snapshot smiled at her like they were old friends. There was no doubt about it.
That’s the same woman I saw on Sunday morning after church. And she was on the sidewalk in front of her business.
There was no need to show the picture to the men in the kitchen.
They already know about the connection between this Bultmann lady and Perez.
Moreover, the pickpocket didn’t care to be questioned about how she had come to have the missing woman’s photograph—the only remaining keepsake of her violent adventure.

For a few heartbeats, the old warhorse suffered the bitter taste of resentment at the loss of the other items. But Daisy Perika washed her mouth out with the memory of how she had ingeniously disposed of the dead man’s wallet and the treasured battle trophies. As she savored the sweet recollection, Charlie Moon’s aunt was immensely pleased with her clever self. A satisfied smile creased her leathery face.
Nobody but me would’ve thought of doing a thing like that.