Three Sisters (25 page)

The Ute cocked his head. “Well, now that you mention it, pardner, I see what you mean. Throw away the
C,
swap the
a
for an extra
e,
sort things out some, what you’ve got is—”

“Elvis Presley.” Parris regarded his victim with frank disapproval. “So you ain’t dead—all these years, you been pulling a big hoax!”

The unsettled man was backing up. “Uh—I guess you fellas is plenty busy, so I’ll be gettin’ along home.”

“Oh no you won’t.” Under Parris’s left eye, a sinister twitch. “Not till you’ve told us ever’thing you know.”

About to bolt, Clevis Parsley froze at a look from Moon.

Parris spoke in a dangerous monotone: “Start talking.”

Words spilled out of the witness’s mouth. “Well, I’ll get right to the nub of it. Las’ night, I seed it.”

“Oh you did, did you?” The chief of police produced another twitch. “What was it you seed?”

“Why, I seed that motorcar go down into the Devil’s Mouth.”

Parris bunched a pair of bushy eyebrows. “You actually witnessed the accident?”

Mr. Parsley shook his head, which was covered by a tight-fitting wool ski cap he had removed from the head of one even less fortunate than himself, who had been dead at the time. “You can call it that if you want to—but it wasn’t no ord’nary accident.”

Parris asked what he meant by that.

“Them witches caused it.”

“Witches, huh?” The lawman vainly tried to revive the twitch.

The odd character lowered his voice, rolled the rheumy eyes upward. “They was up there—above the lane. I didn’t notice ’em till that fancy car come ’round the curve, then there they was in the headlights. The both of ’em. Plain as the nose on your face.”

Parris and Moon shifted their gaze to the pine-studded mountainside above the Spencer driveway. Then back to Parsley. The chief of police looked down his nose at this unlikely witness. “You saw a couple a women up there?”

“Them wasn’t no reg’lar women—they was sure-enough witches!” Clevis Parsley attempted to spit on the snow, didn’t notice that he had soiled his shoe.

Parris pressed: “So how do you tell the difference between a reg’lar woman and sure-enough witches?” He thought of a witty response, managed not to grin.

C. Parsley explained. “Well for one thing, reg’lar women wouldn’t be a-hoverin’ above the lane.” He raised a half-gloved hand, wriggled the dirty, naked fingers. “I’m not lyin’—their feets was about a yard off the ground. They was a-floatin’ in the
air.
”

“Floatin’, huh.”
You smell like you’ve been floatin’ in Jim Beam.

Parsley nodded. “I just wanted you badge toters to know what happened, so you won’t waste the taxpayer’s dime fiddle-faddlin’ around tryin’ to figger out why that car ran off the road. But don’t think you’ll ever put the cuffs on them witches.” He coughed up a wheezy “hee-hee,” wiped his nose on a coat sleeve. “
Brujos
like those comes and goes as they please, like any ghost you ever saw!” He interrupted the narrative to stick a finger into his ear, twist it, thoughtfully inspect a glob of amber waxlike substance. Smacked his lips.

The Ute grinned.
If he eats it, Scott’ll freak out.

Scott Parris cringed.
Please—don’t put it in your mouth.

The glob was evidently not that appetizing. The odd little man wiped the finger on his coat, addressed the alleged chief of police: “Anythin’ else you want to know?”

“Yeah. Just in case we need a signed statement, what’s your address?” Parris smiled.
Down at the end of Loony Street—Fruitcake Hotel.

Parsley aimed a filthy finger. “My place is over yonder on the mesa, ’cross the Devil’s Mouth. I got me a nice little lean-to, and a Coleman stove and a previously owned sleepin’ bag.” He whined, “Now can I go home?”

“All right.” Parris shook his finger at the eccentric. “But from now on, don’t you be goin’ around impersonating the King.”

Half convinced that he was guilty of something or other, Clevis Parsley nodded his solemn promise. As the breeze stirred wisps of gray hair protruding from under the woolen cap, he turned, stalked away.

When the unfortunate character was out of earshot, Moon eyed his friend. “Well, imagine that—a reliable eyewitness who walks right up and tells you how it happened. Ain’t you the lucky one.”

The man who was supposedly suffering from a mule kick on his noggin presented a wounded expression. “I’m glad you’re able to have some fun at my expense.”

“Me too.” Moon looked down at the six-footer. “Pardner, I try to never let a day go by without finding something to enjoy.”

Which reminded Scott Parris of a subject Charlie would probably get a big haw-haw out of. In the cold, bright light of day, and particularly after Clevis Parsley’s report of witches floating over the Spencer driveway, the mere thought of describing what he
thought
he had seen last night was embarrassing. But it might have something to do with the auto accident. Parris shot a look at the inquisitive uniforms. While straining to catch a word, they were looking anywhere but at the boss and his Ute friend. “Charlie, we need to talk. But not here.”

Moon understood. “Tell me about it over scrambled eggs and bacon.” Again there was that whiff of bacon frying.
My nose is so good I can smell things that ain’t even there.

The two best friends got into their vehicles, cranked up V-8 engines, shifted to low, headed slowly down the narrow, winding driveway off Spencer Mountain, and through the iron gate, which was—by official order of the Granite Creek chief of police—not to be closed until the investigation of Andrew Turner’s auto accident was complete.

While Clevis Parsley regaled Charlie Moon and Scott Parris with his tale about how witches floating above the Spencer driveway had caused Andrew Turner’s auto accident, Nicholas Moxon parked his Bronco under a naked, shivering aspen, jammed a classic, custom-made black felt cowboy hat onto his remarkably spherical skull, buttoned a lined gray trench coat from knee to neck, and stalked along the snowy flagstone walkway to the pillared porch of the Spencer residence. While cleaning his boots on a bristly mat that did not have
WELCOME
printed on it, he removed the spiffy hat with one hand, banged the brass knocker with the other. Cassandra Spencer’s business manager was definitely a multitasker; he could simultaneously walk, chew gum, and plot devilishly clever new ways to increase his client’s share of the television audience.

Mr. Moxon had memorized a brief but tasteful speech with which to greet the recently bereaved Beatrice Spencer. His remarks would be salted with such phrases as “I was shocked to hear—” “This must be a terrible time for you” “I thought I should drop by” and “If there is anything I can do—anything at all,” and so on. But it was not Beatrice Spencer who opened the door.

It was Sister Cassandra’s black-clad form and haunted face that confronted him. “Oh, Nicky!”

Though disappointed at not seeing the widow, Nicholas Moxon adapted quickly to unexpected situations. “Cassie, darling.” He reached out, engulfed the slender woman in a great, suffocating bear hug.

Once released, she quickly got her breath back. “Oh, Nicky!” The lady tended to repeat herself, which was a source of irritation to her business manager.

But today, Nicholas Moxon was prepared to make allowances. Following the elder of the Spencer sisters inside, he was also prepared to make use of such comforting phrases as were ready in his quiver: “Poor Cassie—this must be a terrible time for you. I thought I should drop by and see if there was anything I could do.”

“Dear Nicky—that is so thoughtful of you.”

Having dispensed with the necessary formalities, he looked over his shoulder, said from the side of his mouth, “I got word from Gerald Sax that you actually
fainted
during the show!”

“I suppose all of the stress of work finally caught up with me.” The pale woman, who was still a bit wobbly at the knees, added, “Fortunately, my plucky little Native American guest was able to carry the rest of the program.”

“I wasn’t able to watch the show live last evening, but I recorded it on a DVD and reviewed it this morning. That old Apache gal is really a hoot!”

“She’s a Ute.”

“Okay, so she’s a Ute hoot.” Moxon frowned at the nit-picker. “Are you feeling better today? I mean you’re not likely to—” The muscle-bound man made a face to display his distaste with anything related to swooning. “Uh—you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know.” An amused smile. “You needn’t worry, Nicky. I promise not to faint on you.”

He chuckled, but was greatly relieved.

They held hands; light kisses on cheeks were exchanged.

Moxon glanced down the hallway. “Is your poor sister—”

“Bea’s upstairs in her studio.”

The man who had been dubbed Daddy Warbucks by Daisy Perika raised the gristly subdermal tissue where an eyebrow would have been, had his dysfunctional hair follicles been able to raise a crop. “What’s she doing, slapping gobs of paint on a canvas?” Like Andrew Turner, Mr. Moxon did not appreciate Bea’s notion of art.

“I have no idea. But I believe she wants to be alone.”

Moxon tried not to grin.
I guess a few hours with you goes a long way—even for your sister.
“We need to talk.” He took his client by the arm, surveyed the huge parlor, which did not engender a satisfactory sense of privacy. “But not in here.”

Without a word, Cassandra led her business manager across the plushly carpeted room, down a narrow, three-step stairway, through a white paneled door into a solarium that was aglow with filtered sunlight. The three outer walls were floor-to-ceiling double-pane glazing. To eyes that had accommodated to the parlor’s soft twilight, the effect on dilated pupils of incandescent sunlight reflecting off fresh snow was almost blinding. And despite the sense of being surrounded by an utterly arctic landscape, the twelve-by-twelve space was pleasantly warm.

Cassandra spread her arms to receive the rays. “It is such a glorious day.” She added quickly, “Aside from Andrew’s tragic accident.”

“Yes. Tragic.” Mr. Moxon was idly examining a potted plant. Using his thumbnail to sever the stem, he plucked an extremely rare African violet and held the purple blossom close to his eyes, which crossed slightly to focus on the dismembered bit of herbage. “At such a sad time, one hates to mention silver linings.”

The final two words got her attention. “Whatever do you mean?”

Moxon assumed that elegantly melancholy expression that is used to such good effect by experienced morticians. “Even though I don’t yet have the hard data, I am reliably informed that the numbers for last night’s show will go through the roof. Shingles will fly in all directions—tall brick chimneys will tumble.”

“Oh.” Her face was admirably blank of any sign of pleasure. “Well, that’s all very well, I suppose.” She found a silk hankie, dabbed at an expertly mascaraed eye that was quite dry. “But with Bea’s husband dead, such worldly matters as program ratings seem so…so…unimportant.” She dabbed the other eye. “Even if such a development would virtually guarantee an offer from one of the networks.”

“Yes.” He studied the doomed violet as if it were the most fascinating object he had ever beheld. “Even so.”

The TV psychic was trying so hard not to smile. Or, for that matter, not to yell “Wahoo!” and tappity-tap-tap out a lively little jig on the tile floor. “But, Nicky dear, since you have already raised the sordid issue, you might as well tell me. Just for the sake of conversation. How high do you expect the ratings might go?”

He gave her an estimate.

“Oh!” Cassandra’s hands went cold, the four-chambered pump thumpity-thumped inside her ribcage. “That much!”

The business manager nodded. “And it’s all your doing, Cassie.”

She shook her head. “We’re a
team,
Nicky.”

“Oh, I try to do my part. And I’ve managed to be helpful from time to time.” Pitching the bruised flower aside, the brutish man reached out to take her hand. “But last evening, you really outdid yourself—announcing Andrew Turner’s death within minutes of the auto accident.”

“As you are well aware, I can hardly take all the credit.” Cassandra fluttered the famous eyelashes, flashed the dazzling smile. “After all, it’s my
spirit channel
who provides the critical information.”

Moxon chuckled. “Which one was it this time—the Cretan galley slave, the Egyptian physician—or the Cherokee basket maker?”

Her smile faded. “Please don’t tease me, Nicky.”

“Tease you?” The bald-as-a-billiard-ball man cocked the shiny head, made furrows in the brow deep enough to plant black-eyed peas in. “What do you mean?”

The psychic’s fingers began to tingle. “Don’t
do
this—it isn’t funny!”

Moxon’s voice went deathly flat: “How did you learn about Andrew’s automobile accident?”

If snakes could speak,
the psychic thought,
they would sound just like that.
“In the usual way, of course.”

“You surely don’t mean—”

“Well of course I do!” Cassandra balled her hands into knotty little fists, stamped her foot. “The message about Andrew was from
White Raven.
”

He stared at the woman for a full ten seconds before saying, “Cassie—this is very, very important. Think back to last evening. Try to remember
exactly
what happened that led you to tell your TV audience about Andrew Turner’s death.”

Cassandra Spencer bowed her head, closed her eyes. For a several-second eternity, she relived that dark experience from the night before. Finally, she blinked, stared at the blunt toes of her business manager’s black leather boots. “I can recall it with perfect clarity.” Slowly, slowly, she raised her gaze, passing over the bulge of Moxon’s knees under his slacks, the pewter bull’s-head belt buckle, the silver-veined lump of turquoise dangling on his string tie, stopping just below his comically round face, which suggested a middle-age Charlie Brown—who had lost all his innocence. “It was just like always when I receive a message from White Raven.”

“Cassie—look at me.”

Their eyes met, exchanging far more in an instant than all the words that had passed between them.

“You’re absolutely certain?”

“Yes, Nicky.”

“That is very unsettling news.”

She searched for some sign of understanding on the blank face. “I had naturally assumed that—”

“Yes. You would, of course.”

Cassandra decided that she might as well tell all. “Nicky…”

He had heard this tone before. Didn’t like it then, didn’t like it now. “What?”

She wilted under his icy stare. “I’m afraid I’ve—uh—misplaced one of my earrings.”

“One of the new ones?”

His client nodded. “It must have happened when I fainted. With all that’s happened since last night, I’ve only had a few minutes to look for it. But it
has
to be somewhere in the house.”

Nicholas Moxon’s reply was soft. “You must find it.”

“Yes.” Cassandra Spencer gazed through the glass, at a world covered with snow. “I know.”