Three Sisters (27 page)

“Whatever for?”

He flashed the big, wide smile, exposing three gold-capped molars. “Why, to sign the contract, of course.”

Her big eyes grew larger. “Can you have the document ready so soon?”

A dry laugh rattled in his throat. “Cassie, Cassie—has Nicky ever failed you?”

That evening, Nicholas Moxon dined alone. But not at home. He paid a call on his favorite Mexican restaurant, and on the way in picked up a complimentary copy of
Thrifty Shopper,
which consisted entirely of classified advertisements. After the waiter had taken his order, he began to examine the ads. He was of the opinion that a man could find just about anything he needed in the classifieds. Indeed, the headings covered a multitude of categories. Antiques. Computers. Employment. Guns. Pets. Real Estate. Transportation. And, of course, the lonely-hearts page. Men seeking Women. Women seeking Men. Men seeking…But never mind.

Mr. Moxon was seeking something else.

The Buyer Goes Forth with Enthusiasm

Nicholas Moxon slipped out the back door of his modest home, strode down a graveled path that passed between his tool shed and a thick hedge, crossed the stream on a mossy pine log, and struck off to the south on a little-used National Forest hiking trail. Speaking to no one in particular, he said aloud, “What a glorious day!” And it was. Warm sunshine on the left side of his face, the air scented with a hint of lilac, a sweet promise of rain. And of course, birds sang. He clucked his tongue at frisky jays, warbled whistles at wrens, laughed at startled robins. Whatever his shortcomings, Cassandra’s business manager knew how to enjoy life’s small blessings. But on this morning, his greatest pleasure was derived from anticipating the whizbang adventure to come.

If he had expressed his philosophy in fewer than seven words, it might have been: Life Is What You Make It.

In due time, our energetic hiker arrived at his destination. After silently mouthing the name on the rusty mailbox, he removed the classified ad from his shirt pocket, read it again. Yes, this was definitely the place. And Hazel, in all her magnificent presence, was here. Waiting for him. He took a moment to admire her attractive form. There could be no question of false advertising; the brief description had not done the lady justice.

Checking his wristwatch, he murmured, “I’ve got some time to kill.” For reasons known only to himself, this struck Nicholas Moxon as funny. But though the disciplined man allowed himself a smile, he did not laugh out loud.

Let the Seller Beware

Clad in faded jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, Eddlethorp “Tiger” Pithkin was flat on his back in the sack, reading a tattered Wonder Woman comic book. (The unfortunate Mr. Pithkin was named after his father’s favorite uncle—i.e., Uncle Eddlethorp. After years of being addressed as “Eddle” or “Pith” by his witty friends, he had assumed the formidable feline nickname.) Upon hearing the knock on the door of his immobile trailer home, Tiger addressed the statuesque Amazon from Paradise Island: “Who d’you suppose that could be?” After cogitating, the reader concluded that he would have to get his carcass off the lumpy mattress, go and see.

Our scholar was mildly startled to encounter a muscular man in crisply creased khaki slacks and a brand-new blue work shirt, both purchased late last evening at Wal-Mart. Though he could not see the eyes behind the wraparound shades, the mouth on the face under the slouch canvas hat was smiling. “Hi,” it said.

Tiger grunted, scratched the Betty Boop tattoo on his hairy belly.

“I just happened to be out for a walk and saw your pickup.” Nicholas Moxon jerked a thumb to indicate the fire-engine-red monster truck outfitted with five-foot-diameter tractor tires, and bumpers crafted from steel rails that had once supported coal-burning steam engines.
HURRICANE HAZEL
was painted on the hood. “I thought maybe I’d knock on your door—but if I’m disturbing you or your family, just say the word and—”

“Ain’t got no family. Nobody lives here but me.”

The grin widened.
That’ll make things a lot simpler.
“That big, bad machine with the For Sale sign—what’re you asking for it?”

“Hazel?” The owner, who loved to bargain, began the game by spitting into a dandelion patch. “I don’t see how I could let her go for less than six thousand.”

Feigning doubt, Moxon hesitated. “I’m not sure I could handle anything that big.” The potential buyer pretended to think it over for a moment, then: “But how about taking me for a ride?”

A listless shrug as Tiger tossed his comic book onto a plastic lawn chair. “Awright.”

Meanwhile

The thin blade of a woman (sheathed in a black satin dress) sat primly in Daisy Perika’s Early American armchair, warmed her hands on a cup of Lipton tea.

The Ute elder was hunched in her rocker with a mug of black coffee.

The spotted cat was on the floor, just out of Daisy’s reach.

The cozy picture suggested a get-together by a couple of good friends—a charming, down-home Norman Rockwell scene. And from the conversation, so it seemed.

Cassandra Spencer and Daisy chatted about the weather, and Sarah Frank’s participation today in a church picnic, which led to the subject of the girl’s black-and-white spotted feline pet, which led to a discussion of the pros and cons of having cats around the house, which brought up the subject of mice and other pesky rodents.

Neither broached the underlying issue that had prompted Daisy’s telephone call, which had brought Cassandra to this arid wilderness of mesas and canyons on the sparsely populated eastern edge of the Southern Ute reservation. Sooner or later, the matter would have to be at least hinted at, but for now the women were engaged in a match of wits, each circling the other, warily bobbing and weaving, waiting for her opponent to make the first move.

Having brought along its mate so that the pretty twins might be united as soon as possible, Cassandra smiled at the matched pair nestled in the palm of her hand. “I am so grateful to you for returning my cameo earring.” This sounded a bit awkward, almost as if she were accusing Daisy of theft. She added quickly, “It is so fortunate that you happened to see it on the carpet.”

“That was lucky, I guess. If I hadn’t spotted the thing, it might’ve gotten sucked up by the vacuum cleaner and tossed out with the trash.” As the Ute elder rocked slowly in her chair, she seemed to be half asleep, but the sly old eyes did not miss a trick. “If I wasn’t so old and forgetful, I’d have left it on your coffee table where you’d be sure to find it. But in all the excitement—what with you conking out before your show was over and me about to be on TV all by myself—I must’ve just dropped it in my pocket. I probably would’ve never thought about it again, but when I was looking for a thimble yesterday I put my hand in my pocket and there it was.”

“Well, all I can say is bless you, Daisy!”

Daisy’s lip curled.
No, you could say, “Here’s a reward for finding my lost earring—a thousand dollars in cash money.”

Cassandra deftly clipped the antique ornaments onto her ears. “These were a gift from Nicky.”

“And the matching pin.”

The pale face frowned. “You know about the brooch?”

Daisy reminded the TV psychic: “You was wearing the pin and those earrings that day we met in the Sugar Bowl Restaurant. You told me Daddy Warbucks gave ’em to you.”

“Oh, yes—I had quite forgotten about that.” Cassandra found a compact in her purse, framed her pretty face in the oval mirror. Liked what she saw. “Daisy, I know you don’t mean the least offense, but I suggest that when Nicky is present, you do not refer to him in that manner.”

The old woman gave her guest a wide-eyed innocent look. “What manner?”

“As…as…” She simply could not bring herself to refer to Orphan Annie’s well-heeled benefactor. “Nicky may strike you as a rather thick-skinned man. But I can assure you—he is quite sensitive about his baldness.”

“Oh.” Daisy almost smiled. “You figure he’d get all worked up if I called him Daddy Warbucks?”

A simple yes would have sufficed, but the television personality responded with pursed lips, a curt nod. Also a sniff. A very
superior
sniff.

Daisy shrugged. “Then I’ll make sure not to.”
If he does something to get my dander up, I’ll just call him Cue Ball. Which raised a question:
“When am I likely to see Cue—uh—this Nicky fellow again?”

Taking advantage of this opening, Cassandra caught the elder with a solid left hook: “When you sign the contract.” A demure smile. “I’m sorry—I suppose that sounds rather presumptuous. I should have said
if
you sign the contract.”

This punch had stopped Daisy’s clock. Also her rocking chair. “What contract?”

The elegant white woman let go an uppercut: “To do six consecutive appearances as the special guest on
Cassandra Sees.
”

The elder’s teeth clicked together. “Six?”

Now, the blow that would stagger: “At five hundred dollars per appearance.”

The frugal Ute woman was down for the count. Which amounted to quite a tidy sum. “That works out to three thousand dollars.”

“And you’ll be worth every penny.” The middleweight from Granite Creek prepared her Sunday punch. “I don’t suppose you’re aware of it, but your first appearance produced our highest ratings ever.”

Knockout. If this had been a cartoon, Daisy would have had Xes for eyes.

Though one does not wish to dwell upon the subject of gratuitous violence, it shall be mentioned that Kid Cassie was not above kicking a defeated opponent in the ribs. “The contract was Nicky’s idea. I believe he’s quite fond of you.”

Daisy groaned.
Then I guess I shouldn’t call him Cue Ball
. A significant concession.
Not out loud. But I can still
think
it.
“Did you bring the legal papers with you?”

“No.” The psychic explained, “Nicky’s attorney is drawing up the contract today, which stipulates that your first appearance is on tonight’s show.” Noting a sudden glint of alarm in the Indian woman’s eyes, she hurried along before Daisy could protest: “You could stay with me tonight—I have my nicest guest bedroom prepared for you.” Cassandra flashed her most charming, disarming smile. “Our viewers certainly wouldn’t want to wait another week. I must get you back to Granite Creek no later than six
P.M.
, so that you can sign on the dotted line—and we can go over the details of tonight’s broadcast.” The star of
Cassandra Sees
glanced at her platinum wristwatch (also a gift from Daddy Warbucks, aka Cue Ball). “So we must be leaving quite soon.”

This was all happening too quickly. Daisy began to backpedal. “I don’t know if I should leave this afternoon…any minute now Sarah’ll be showing up in the church van. She’ll want to tell me all about the picnic and—”

“Of course, if you’re having second thoughts about doing the show, I’ll understand.” Cassandra snapped the oyster-shaped compact shut, dropped it into her black velvet purse. “The life of a television personality is not all wine and roses. At times, it can be stressful. Telephone calls from the media for interviews, people stopping you on the street, demanding autographs.” A roll of the eyes. “Almost every time you look at a newspaper or open a magazine, seeing your photograph and reading stories about yourself that have hardly a word of truth in them.” She surveyed the Ute woman’s parlor, sighed. “I envy you this private, quiet environment. It must be so
peaceful
for you.”

Daisy followed the white woman’s gaze.
Peaceful like the grave
. She grunted her way up from the rocking chair. “I’ll have to put a few things in my suitcase.”

Little Elkhorn Pass

An outraged mountain bluebird trilled a shrill warning at the monster truck. A curious chipmunk scurrying along through the undergrowth halted abruptly to perch on a juniper stump and stare at the alien machine. A collared lizard, only recently emerged from hibernation and unaware of the stealthy approach of a hungry wild turkey, threatened the mammoth vehicle with a bobbing display. Sad to report, Mr.
Crotaphytus Collaris
was promptly beaked and swallowed by said turkey, who, having not the least interest in motor vehicles, trotted away in search of additional victuals, thus leaving reconnaissance of the pickup to the chipmunk, bluebird, and others.

But enough of local fauna; let us focus our attention upon the truck.

Look. No, not at the weed-choked forest road. Over there—just behind that thicket of blue-black spruce. Right. Almost hidden in the underbrush: Hurricane Hazel.

Listen. One spark plug fouled by a crust of sooty carbon, her big engine idles at an unsteady throbbity-throb.

Peek inside the cab. See Tiger’s corpse, knees almost touching his chin, imitating a hideously overgrown fetus. His twice-folded form is on the floor, wedged between the passenger seat, the firewall, and the door.

As befits the alpha male, Nicholas Moxon has taken his rightful place in the driver’s seat.

Oblivious to the human being he had bludgeoned to death only minutes earlier, Moxon was enjoying this quiet time. He was, as nearly as a man of his sort can be, at peace. But do not be misled. Like Mr. Turner as he rolled down the mountain on that snowy night, Moxon’s condition was the very opposite of that
peace of God which passeth all understanding.
What he basked in was that temporary, superficial, shadow of peace—the counterfeit version that this world offers, that is, all too often—merely the proverbial calm before the whirlwind cometh.