Three Sisters (24 page)

Andrew Turner’s Corvette? Most likely, under the fluffy white stuff. Most likely.

But there is no doubt about where last night’s late-spring storm has gone. After creating havoc on Spencer Mountain, the rip-roaring, sleet-spitting, hell-bent horde of rowdy night riders thundered away to plague tough-as-boot-leather Kansas wheat farmers and hard-eyed we-can-take-your-best-shot Panhandle cattle ranchers. The skirmish isn’t quite over, but the outcome is not in doubt. The violent storm will die on the prairie with gasps and whispers and sighs. The plainsmen and their sturdy families will survive. And endure. And thrive.

The Colorado sky that had melted in the rosy glow of sunrise was now frozen anew, annealed into that pale hue of cobalt blue that tints the lips of new corpses. A frolicsome wind rolling down Spencer Mountain had heaped up knee-deep drifts along the long, winding driveway, briskly swept it clean in favored spots in between.

At the tightest curve in the graveled road, a huge, red Ortega’s AAA tow truck was backed up to the edge of the Devil’s Mouth. This behemoth vehicle was flanked by a boxy white ambulance, the Granite Creek Mountaineers’ black Dodge van, Charlie Moon’s Columbine Expedition, and three low-slung black-and-white Chevrolets representing the Granite Creek Police Department. In a madcap orchestration of colored lights that produced a mildly hypnotic if not a pretty sight, the Mac wrecker blinked a mellow yellow rotation, the police vehicles accompanied with asynchronous blue-and-red pulsations.

Mr. Ortega, a bewhiskered, fire-breathing enthusiast who could not abide being idle, waved his arms in general exasperation, barked orders at his wooden-faced brother-in-law assistant, paused every few breaths to shout helpful advice down to those half-dozen climbers who had rappelled into the Devil’s Mouth. The indolent brother-in-law proved impervious to the assault, and the tow-truck owner’s exhortations were ignored by those stalwart volunteers who were risking their lives in an attempt to locate a missing Corvette, which, since it was not on the rocky slope, must be concealed beneath the snow.

A cluster of uniformed GCPD officers and EMTs watched the jolly entertainment and waited.

Standing apart from the gathering, in the downwind shadow of a ninety-nine-year-old gnarly-barked juniper, were two men who happened to be the best of friends. The venerable tree provided scant protection from the wind. The tall, slender fellow and his broad-shouldered, barrel-chested buddy clutched at their hats.

The chief of police said, “I must be stupid.” When his Indian comrade did not protest this brutal self-assessment, Scott Parris enlarged on the assertion: “Way I see it, we’re
both
stupid.”

“Leave me out of it.” Charlie Moon grinned into the wind. “My IQ is high enough this morning to suit me.”
About the same as the temperature
.

Parris used the hand that was not holding on to his hat to point at Mr. Ortega and his stoic in-law. “If we wasn’t stupid, we’d be wearing wool sock-hats that don’t blow off—like them wrecker-truck guys.” He gazed longingly at the warm, county-issue caps with furry earflaps that his officers had donned for the occasion. “Or we’d have us a couple of those Russian military-style caps.”
What do they call them?

“Ushankas,” Moon said.

“Charlie, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t read my mind.”

“Sorry. But what’s this sudden obsession with headgear?”

Parris gave the Southern Ute tribal investigator a wry, sideways glance. “The point is—everybody else has hats that cover their ears. You and me, we’re wearing lids that don’t make any sense for this kind of weather.”

“Of course we are.”

“But don’t that make us stupid?”

“Nope.”

“Tell me why.”

“It has to do with the Code of the West, which applies to all red-blooded American cowboys.”

Though he was eager to believe this, Parris’s expression revealed just the slightest hint of doubt.

“You can go look it up in the book. Section six, article four, paragraph two: ‘Real six-gun totin’, bronco-bustin’ cowboys don’t give a rooty-toot hoot about comfort or being practical or none of that kind of stuff. All they care about is
looking good.
’”

“You telling me that’s actually wrote down?”

“Yes I am.” The Indian patted the former Chicago cop on the back. “And you and me, we are sure-enough cowboys, pard.”
Even if you are wearing a sixty-year-old Humphrey Bogart hat your daddy gave you
.

“My mother wouldn’t like hearing you say that.” As a tempestuous gust tossed icy grit into his teeth, the white man cracked a smile. “Momma didn’t want me to grow up to be a cowboy.”

“Doctor or lawyer, huh?”

Parris shook his fedora. “Investment banker.”

“Don’t hold it against her. I’m sure she meant well.”

“What did your mom want you to be?”

“Indian chief.”

“No, Charlie—I’m serious.”

“So’m I. Momma wanted me to grow up and get elected tribal chairman.”

Parris chuckled. “And you didn’t do neither one.”

This exchange was interrupted by the appearance of a vehicle coming up the mountain, a snowy cloud boiling in its wake.

The chief of police focused slitted eyes on the blue-and-white Bronco with heavy-tread snow tires. “That’ll be Moxon.”

All Charlie Moon heard above the wind was a single word, and that one incorrectly. “Moccasin?”

“Moxon,” Parris said. Louder this time.

At the mention of the name, the wind fell to a breeze, which quickly diminished to those murmuring whispers that convince imaginative little girls and lonely old men that there are ghosts afoot.

Being unaware of the deeper meanings of these movements of air, Charlie Moon asked, “Who’s Moxon?”

Scott Parris’s face hardened as the Bronco slowed. “Mr. Nicholas Moxon is Cassandra Spencer’s business manager. He also pinch-hits as her publicity agent.”

As Moxon braked to a halt and lowered the window, his shiny head reflected a glint of early-morning sunlight. “Good morning.”

Moon returned the greeting.

Parris mumbled something about how this particular morning wasn’t all that good.

The hairless man cocked his conspicuous cranium to indicate the wrecker truck. “Any late-breaking news about the accident?”

The chief of police assumed his official tone. “I’ve got some geckos down in the Devil’s Mouth. They’re trying to locate the Corvette.” He shot a glance at the tow truck. “If and when they do, they’ll help Mr. Ortega get a cable onto it.”

The new arrival glanced over his shoulder, then back at the surly cop. “Any idea what caused Andrew to run off the driveway last night?”

“The fact that the road was slick as snail spit might’ve had something to do with it.” Parris bared his teeth to grin at Cassandra’s muscle-bound friend. “But if you have any interesting notions, I’ll be more’n glad to hear about ’em.”

Moxon regarded the cop with dead, black-button eyes. “What’re the chances of finding him alive?”

“It’s a long shot. But stranger things have happened.” Parris returned the icy gaze.

Moon made himself a bet.
Three-to-one, my buddy stares him down
.

Indeed, after a few uneasy seconds, during which something unseemly might have happened—a muttered curse, even a thrown punch—it was Moxon who blinked. “I’ve been out of town for a couple of days. I heard about Andrew’s accident and that Cassie was up here with her sister, so I’m on my way to see her.” Under the glare of the policeman’s unflinching gaze, he blinked again. “And Bea, of course.”

Parris put his hands on the Bronco, leaned until the tip of his nose was a finger’s length from the driver’s face. “I’m sure
they’ll
be glad to see you.”

Before raising the window and plowing the Bronco through an immaculate white dune, Moxon managed a smile of sorts. The sort of smile that says,
Later, bud.
And means every word of it.

“Well,” Moon said.

Parris barked at his friend, “Well, what?”

“I was about to make an observation regarding the relationship between you and Mr. Moccasin.” He waited for the inevitable correction.

“It’s
Moxon.
” Parris spelled it out.

“Thanks, pard. I’ll try to remember that.”

“So what’s this observation you were about to make?”

“Oh, nothing worth writing home about.” He watched Parris’s face redden, added, “Only that you don’t seem overly fond of Mr. Moccasin.”

“If Moccasin—
Moxon
—was to run for any elected office you care to mention, I would be happy to vote for his opponent.”

“Even if the other politician was a mangy coyote?”

“Even if he was a mangy, yellow-bellied, two-headed coyote. With bad breath from both mouths.”

“Well, that’s understandable, as far as it goes. But what if this Mr. Two-Headed Coyote wore a pair of green derby hats and two pairs of lady’s high-heel shoes and promised to outlaw Coors beer and John Wayne picture shows and raise taxes nineteen-hundred percent?”

Parris jutted the formidable chin. “Wouldn’t make no difference. He’d still get my vote.”

Moon blinked at a welcome glint of unfiltered sunlight. “There must be some awfully good reason for you to dislike a man as much as that.” The expert angler baited his hook: “But it’d probably involve malicious gossip and bald-faced lies and make you look bad, so I’d just as soon not know what it was.”

Parris eyed his Indian friend and grinned. “Charlie, I don’t necessarily need a reason not to like a man. I’m what you call old-fashioned—if there’s even the least little something about a fella that rubs me the wrong way, or something that don’t smell just right, then right off the bat, I make up my mind to—” The moral philosopher’s remarks were interrupted by a shout from the edge of the Devil’s Mouth.

They turned to see the climbers, who were clad in neon-green coveralls and attached to a red-and-white candy-striped nylon rope, appear one by one over the lip of the snow-swept slope. After a brief conversation with the leader of the team, GCPD Officer Alicia Martin approached, flashed the Indian a smile, directed her remarks to the chief of police. “The mountaineers haven’t found a trace of Mr. Turner’s automobile, so it must be pretty far under the snow. When conditions are better, they’re willing to come back and have another go at it.”

Parris glared at the climbers. “They are, huh?”

The shapely cop nodded. “But before they do, they recommend that we get a copter with instruments to make a sweep. It’d help if they had a target with coordinates.”

Parris watched the EMTs get into their warm ambulance. “We won’t find what’s left of that Corvette until ten to fifteen feet of snow melts in the Devil’s Mouth.”
Which might not happen for the next ten summers.
He cast an apprehensive glance in the direction of the Spencer residence. “Guess I’ll have to go break the latest bad news to the widow.” He fixed a hopeful gaze on the female officer, put on a doomed-martyr expression. “When she finds out there’s no hope of finding Andrew alive, Bea’ll probably go all to pieces—cry all over me.”
Okay, Martin. Time to step up to the plate.

The pinch-hitter took the hint. “Shall I tell her?”

“Well…” He traded in the slightly used doomed-martyr expression for a concerned-supervisor face. “If you’re sure you’re up to it.”

“I think I can manage.” As she headed back to her unit, Officer Martin was grinning.
What a big sissy.

Moon murmured, “That was mighty smooth, pard.”

Already bolstered by those heady virtues of selflessness and compassion, Parris had a go at modesty: “Ah, nothin’ to it.” He watched Martin’s black-and-white Chevrolet head up the driveway, taking advantage of the deep tracks Moxon’s Bronco had left behind. “Well, I guess we’re about done here.”

Pleased at the prospect of withdrawing to a lower, warmer altitude, Moon made a proposal: “Tell you what—let’s roll on down to town and over to Lulabelle’s Dixie Restaurant, have us a king-size helping of hot breakfast.”

A stiff breeze was sweeping down the mountain slope, threatening to add frostbite to Scott Parris’s other woes. Lifting his jacket collar, he cast his vote for the hungry Ute’s proposal. “I can practically taste Lulabelle’s scrambled eggs and peppered grits.”

“Me too.” Moon barely restrained himself from licking his lips. “And waffles soaked in butter and hot maple syrup.”

“Let’s don’t forget a couple dozen strips of crispy bacon.”

“I can practically smell it frying in the pan.”
I really can.
The tall, sinewy man sniffed, caught another whiff. He marveled at the remarkable power of suggestion, which was helped along by the thin, chill air and his sharp appetite.

The lawmen were about to depart when a figure in a tattered black overcoat materialized from behind a curtain of blowing snow. The man, who leaned on a spindly aspen staff, was endowed with a bent back and a homely, monkeyish little face that was not enhanced by a toothless mouth. His rheumy, whiskey-smelling breaths came in short, asthmatic gasps. “You guys coppers?”

The chief of police nodded.

“Whacher names?”

Parris introduced himself and Charlie Moon.

“Pleased ta meecha.” The shabby personage removed a brown cotton glove that was missing three fingers, offered his hand. “I’m Clevis Parsley. Like the vegetable.”

Parris accepted the grimy paw. “Back in Pigeon Creek, my dear old aunt Nell always raised two rows of clevis, right between the butter beans and Big Boy tomatoes.”

Mr. Parsley shook his shaggy head. “No, I mean my
last
name—”

“Don’t pay my buddy any mind.” Charlie Moon tapped a finger on his temple. “He’s ain’t been quite right since he got kicked in the head by a mule he was tryin’ to milk.” The Ute leaned to mutter in the startled man’s ear, just loud enough that Parris could hear. “He thinks he’s the chief of police and I’m his deputy. Whatever he says, you’d best humor him—he’s edgy and he’s got a .38 tucked under his jacket.”

The newcomer glanced uneasily at the presumed madman.

“Clevis Parsley. Sounds like a made-up name to me.” Parris conferred with his deputy. “What d’you think, Charlie—is this slicker hidin’ behind some kinda patched-up anagram?”