Three Sisters (30 page)

Responding to a barely perceptible nod from the Southern Ute tribal investigator—the Granite Creek chief of police, the mechanically inclined state trooper, and SUPD cop Danny Bignight drifted off (casually, they thought) to convene a private conference.

Daisy Perika and Cassandra Spencer watched the withdrawal with justifiable misgivings.

The TV psychic, who was somewhat wrought up over the mysterious failure of her fine automobile, glared at the men through slitted lids, summed up the situation: “I need to go home but my car won’t start because it still has purple wood in the little slot. And even if it would start, that state policeman is holding on to my keys. And what are they talking about—football?” A nagging suspicion:
Or does it have something to do with Nicky and me?

The Ute elder puffed up, huffed a “Hmmpf!” that fell just short of a snort of the derisive sort. “Look at ’em—just like a bunch of half-wit boys huddled up in the school yard, trying to keep their dumb secrets from the girls.” But this old girl had a few secrets of her own, which she did not intend to share with the “boys.” Nifty secrets. Such as how the TV psychic managed to acquire astonishingly accurate information from her marvelous “visions.” If Daisy had realized what her nephew already knew, she would have been too deflated to huff or puff.

Cassandra, of course, had a multitude of misdeeds to conceal.

The one bona fide girl in the female trio had her own delicious secret, which she had been more than happy to share with Charlie Moon. As the grown women glared at the quartet of lawmen, Sarah Frank had eyes only for the tribal investigator.

The Huddle

The first order of business was for Charlie Moon to inform Danny Bignight and Elmer Jackson about Sarah and her Popsicle stick.

After all parties expressed admiration for the girl’s on-the-spot innovation, Moon yielded to Scott Parris’s urgings and admitted that he had found hard evidence on
Cassandra Sees
DVDs that the TV psychic was receiving detailed information about various felonies
while she was on the air
. These real-time accounts of murder and arson were almost certainly being transmitted to Cassandra by the felon responsible, which was most likely Nicholas Moxon.

After the Ute had had his say, Scott Parris assumed chairmanship of the improvised committee, counted off the essential facts of the matter on his fingers, beginning with the shortest digit (which tough guys such as himself refuse to call a “pinky”): “An eyewitness has tied Nicholas Moxon to the trucker shooting over on I-40.” Second finger: “Big question is this—if Moxon has been engineering on-the-spot killings and arsons for his client to use on her TV show, does Cassandra Spencer know her business manager is up to no good, or does she believe he has a gift for being in the right place at the right time?” Parris figured that one might go either way. Third finger: “And whether the psychic’s in on it or not, could Miss Spencer be convinced to provide corroborating evidence against her business manager?” The chief of the Granite Creek PD deftly turned down finger number four. “And if she doesn’t cooperate, does the Huerfano County district attorney have enough evidence to make a case against Moxon?” He was about to go for the thumb when the black state policeman coughed. With his train of thought derailed, Parris eyed the man responsible for the wreckage. “What’s on your mind, Elmer?”

“The witness is a friend of my brother, who tells me his buddy’s a sure-enough solid citizen and if this guy says the shooter was Moxon, you can bank on it.” His audience sensed that there was a “but” coming. “But the fella wouldn’t be able to convince a jury that the earth was round.”

Parris prepared to grind his teeth. “This witness has a flaw?”

The black cop looked at the ground. “He’s a member of the Flat Earth Society.”

Parris and Moon and Bignight stared.

They all entertained more or less the same thought, but it was Parris who said, in a pleading tone, “Elmer,
please
tell us you’re joking.”

“Wish I could.” The state trooper shook his head. “And that ain’t all. The trucker that got murdered was pushing dope up and down the interstate. Any defense attorney worth two bits wouldn’t have any trouble convincing a jury that he got popped by a shooter working for a competing distributor. So Moxon walks.” Elmer Jackson shrugged. “Happens all the time.”

Parris glanced at the edgy psychic, who, presumably in a premeditated act of revenge against her cantankerous motor vehicle, was taking a kick at the Cadillac’s whitewall tire. “Then the only way to make a case against Moxon is to get Cassandra to play ball.” After pursuing this line of thought, he added, “We’d better get her on our team before the eyewitness to the trucker shooting gets interviewed on TV and warns his fellow citizens: ‘Be careful, folks—take one step too far, you’ll fall right off the edge of the earth.’”

Frowning at this “we” stuff, Officer Jackson reminded his colleagues of a relevant fact: “The trucker shooting happened in Huerfano County. While us state police will grab a piece of the action—you reservation and town cops don’t have no jurisdiction.”

SUPD Officer Danny Bignight, as was the peculiar habit of Taos Pueblo Indians when they had nothing to say, said nothing.

Which left it to the tribal investigator to speak for the Southern Ute Police Department. Moon grunted.

Knowing it was now up to him alone to deal with the feisty state copper, the Granite Creek chief of police regarded the black man with feigned disappointment. “Elmer, I think it’s time we all started acting like brother lawmen and forgot about little details like who has jurisdiction and who gets the credit and all of that nonsense.”

“Right.” The state trooper allowed himself a lopsided grin. “Just like you did a few years back when that fruitcake Indian shot that little white fella in the antique shop and our boys was there right on the spot and you town cops treated us like we was the North Korean secret police.”

Parris responded in a tone meant to soothe, “That unfortunate incident was a minor misunderstanding. And if I—or any of my officers—ruffled any state copper’s tail feathers, I hereby apologize on behalf of all of us.” Sensing a softening of Officer Jackson’s demeanor, he continued, “I’m well aware that GCPD doesn’t have any jurisdiction in a killing that happened out of our county. But the prime suspect and his client are citizens of Granite Creek, so I intend to do what I can to assist those who’ll be leading the investigation.” He swept his glance across their faces. “Fellas, if we don’t cooperate on this, a cold-blooded murderer is likely to go free as the breeze.”

Moon thought it might be helpful to focus the discussion. “What do you want to do right now?”

Parris offered his best friend a thankful expression. “I want to hitch a ride back to Granite Creek with Miss Spencer.”

Elmer Jackson cocked his head as if the former Chicago cop were about to put even money on the Cubs to win the pennant. “You really think you can get that woman to spill her guts about Moxon?”

“I know it’s a long shot.” Parris glanced at the psychic again, who was having an intense discussion with Daisy Perika. “But, fellas, it’s the only shot we got. Anybody here has a better notion, I’m ready to listen to it.”

This offer produced a dismissive shrug from the state cop, a half smile on the Southern Ute tribal investigator’s face, and nothing whatsoever from the taciturn Taos Pueblo native who was employed by SUPD.

But following his shrug, the doubtful state police officer posed still another question: “How’re you gonna convince the lady—who’s probably an accomplice to several felonies—to give the local chief of police a ride home?”

Parris’s smile flashed across his face. “It’ll all depend on you, Elmer.”

Uh-oh, I don’t like this.
“Whatta you want from me?”

“Nothing much. All you have to do is pretend that you can’t get those last few splinters of wood out of her ignition switch.”

The wary African American had begun to see the light. “And after I fumble around for a while, Mr. Supercop from Granite Creek steps in and shows me how it’s done, and bingo!—the engine cranks.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“But just getting her car started won’t be enough of a deception—you’ll hint that the Caddy is likely to conk out again and strand her out there somewhere on a lonely mountain road. Then she’ll say, ‘Oh my goodness, whatever shall I do?’”

Parris nodded. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

“Don’t I know it.” Elmer rolled his eyes. “You’ll offer to ride along—just to make sure she gets home safe. And what with being impressed with your thoughtfulness and so-called mechanical skills and worried sick about another breakdown, she’ll be relieved to have the likes of you along for the trip north.”

Parris fairly beamed on the man. “Elmer, I don’t care what your momma says—you are definitely not the dim bulb of the family.” A hesitant pause. “Aside from making me a hero in the lady’s eyes, there’s just one more thing I need from you.”

The eyes rolled again. “What?”

“I’ll need to get those last few bits of Popsicle stick out of the ignition switch. So would you loan me your Swiss Army pocket knife?”

The Deception

Scott Parris’s plan worked like a charm. Or, as Danny Bignight would say later, “Was slick as snail spit.”

While the Granite Creek chief of police was performing the surgical removal of the remaining purple splinters from the wounded Cadillac, Charlie Moon took his aunt aside, informed her that there had been a change of plans. She was not going to Granite Creek with Cassandra. The Ute elder was about to inform her nephew that she was of age, and didn’t need some big gourd head like him telling her what she wasn’t going to do. But once in a blue moon, Mr. Moon got that granite-hard look in his eye. It was there now. Daisy limited herself to a surly, “Why?”

“A problem has come up.”

Surly became outright gruff: “But I’m supposed to be on TV tonight.”

The pitiless man shook his head.

Desperate, Daisy fell back on
reason
: “But I’ve already said I’d sign the contract tonight—at Cassie’s home in Granite Creek!”

Aha! “What contract?”

His aunt explained the terms: Six appearances. Five hundred dollars per.

Moon explained the facts of life: Not today. No way.

During this family discussion, Scott Parris was not only granted permission to ride back to Granite Creek in Cassandra Spencer’s Cadillac—he would also serve as the lady’s chauffeur. When the television personality mentioned that Mrs. Perika would have plenty of room in the backseat, the Granite Creek chief of police informed the psychic (who should have known!) that they would be riding back alone.

When Cassandra opened her mouth to ask why, hesitated, clamped her lips shut—Parris knew he had her in the palm of his hand. Smug was what he was.
This’ll be like shooting a fish in a barrel.
Pride goeth before the fall.

Elmer’s Hunch

State Police Officer Elmer Jackson said his goodbyes to Moon, who was planning to spend some time with his aunt, and Bignight, who was waiting for orders from Moon, then left shortly after the departure of Scott Parris and Cassandra Spencer. Jackson had gotten out of bed before dawn, put in a long, tiring day. Officially, his shift had ended an hour and a half ago. Moreover, his back ached and his feet hurt. For all these excellent reasons, he was planning to head into Pagosa Springs and the heavily mortgaged redbrick ranch-style home where he hung his flat-brim hat. But as he drove away from Daisy’s place, along the rutted lane, he got one of those odd
feelings
that experienced lawmen sometimes get. Like something was wrong, and maybe he should trail along behind Scott Parris.
At least for a few miles
. Or even all the way to Granite Creek.
Well that don’t make any sense. What I need to do is go home and fix me something to eat and go to bed.

But he could not shake the
feeling.

I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep for worrying about Scott.
Against all common sense, the big-hearted lawman opted to tail the distinctive black 1957 Cadillac sedan. Doing it by the book, Elmer Jackson stayed a mile behind.

Like his father, SUPD cop Danny Bignight had a good nose for weather. Sensing the storm that was approaching, he wisely chose to remain outside.

As Charlie Moon entered his elderly relative’s home, he removed his black workaday Stetson, placed it crown-down on a chair. (The sensible Indian did not put any stock in those cowboy sayings—
If you lay your hat brim-down, all your luck will spill out
—but even when it came to absurd
matukach
superstitions, he tended to exercise due prudence.)

Realizing that a lecture was coming, Daisy Perika seated herself on the couch. Folded her hands in her lap. Set her jaw.

Realizing that she was about to witness some entertaining family friction, Sarah Frank seated herself on an armchair that would provide an excellent view of the drama.

Realizing that it was time for his late-afternoon nap, Mr. Zig-Zag curled up on the hearth, enjoyed a toothy yawn, drifted off into a deep, untroubled feline sleep.

Realizing that he would have to handle this delicate situation
just right,
Charlie Moon seated himself across the maple coffee table from his aunt. He began by presenting a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry you’re not going to be on Cassandra’s TV program tonight.”

“No you’re not! And don’t show me that silly possum grin.” Daisy jutted her chin. “Get on with what you’ve got to say.”

The smile evaporated, his voice took on a flinty edge, cut right to the bone: “You’ve gotten yourself into some serious trouble.”

Daisy face flushed hot. “
What
are you talking about?”

Ignoring her question, the lawman laid down the law: “Until some things get sorted out, you’re going steer clear of Cassandra Spencer.”

His aunt was angry enough to chew up nails and spit bullets. But once Charlie Moon got his mind set, arguing was a waste of time. On the other hand—
I’m lots smarter than he is.
The sly old woman consulted her vast inventory of Deceitful Ploys. She rejected Intimidation.
Mood he’s in, a bolt of lightning wouldn’t singe his skin.
She also passed on Heart Attack.
He’d see right through that.
But what about a scaled-down version of the Big Diversion. Yes, that might just do the trick.

Interpreting her thoughtful silence as a sign of remorse, Moon thought perhaps a bare-bones explanation was called for. “Miss Spencer has a business manager—fellow by the name of Nicholas Moxon. And this Moxon—”

Sensing an opportunity, Daisy interrupted, “You talking about Cue Ball?”

Moon’s brow had every right to furrow, and did. “Who?”

Pleased that this distraction was showing some promise, Daisy pressed her advantage: “Cassie didn’t like me calling that bald white man Daddy Warbucks, so now I call him Cue Ball.” Even when people made petty demands, Daisy was always willing to go the extra mile.

“How do you come to know Cue—uh, Moxon?”

Daisy shrugged. “Oh, I ran into him and Cassie at a restaurant in Granite Creek.” She frowned. “It was the Sugar Bowl. They have stale doughnuts and a waitress that likes to tell tales.” To further confuse her inquisitor, she enlarged on the theme: “That was on the same day I tried out a coffin at the funeral home across the street and scared that money-grubbing little white boy and his uppity momma who come to look at me and thought I was a corpse.”

Sarah Frank clamped a hand across her mouth, barely suppressed a giggle.

Oblivious to the comedic effects of her impromptu performance, the seasoned actor was recalling further details. “And while I was in the restaurant, having me a doughnut, I saw those dead people riding by on a motorcycle.” With a shudder, she said, “They was dripping with blood.”

Charlie Moon stared at the unpredictable woman.
Trying out a coffin—dead people on a motorcycle? Maybe she’s getting too old to understand what I’m talking about.
It occurred to him that there was a more likely explanation:
Or maybe that’s what she wants me to think. Sure.
The old lady was trying to flummox him. And doing a fair job of it. “You can tell me about your adventures some other time. Right now, you’d best listen to what I’ve got to say.” He commenced to say it: “Nicholas Moxon and Cassandra Spencer are up to their ears in serious crime. First-degree arson for sure. Probably even murder.”

Daisy blinked at her nephew.

Now I’ve got her attention.
“There’s a good chance they’ll both end up behind bars.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Even if that’s true—what does it have to do with me?”

This was precisely the question Moon wanted to answer. “The hard proof the DA needs revolves around how Moxon transmits information to his client—while she’s on live TV.” He paused for a few heartbeats. “And I think you know how it’s done.” He saw the flash of alarm in Daisy’s eyes.
Aha!

To avoiding his penetrating gaze, the tribal elder proceeded to examine the backs of her hands. The familiar surfaces, cross-corded with dark veins, occupied her entire attention.

Moon leaned toward his relative. “Well?”

It seemed that the old woman with the acid tongue had finally lost the power of speech. Not so. Daisy was busy thinking.
I could just tell Charlie what I found out.
For a moment, she seriously considered a full confession.
No, I won’t.
Put it down to stubbornness.
I don’t have to say a word if I don’t want to.
And pride.
Now and then it feels good to know more about something important than Smarty Mr. High Pockets.
And a faint, lingering hope for fame.
If all this stuff about Cue Ball and Cassie doing bad things turns out to be a mistake, I might still get to be on her TV show.

It was true that her nephew suspected more than he knew, but he knew how to do two plus two and come up with an alarming result. By Charlie Moon’s sinister calculation, the summing went something like this: Start with the chicanery between Moxon and the psychic, add to that Daisy’s under-Cassandra’s-coffee-table image on the DVD, plus the windfall TV contract—the bottom line was blackmail. The even-tempered man was as close as he had ever been to being flat-out angry with his elderly relative. He did not raise his voice, nor did he scowl at Daisy’s downcast face. He spoke softly, but the suppressed rage smoldering in the man’s dark eyes frightened Sarah Frank.

Moon addressed his recalcitrant aunt: “You found out how Cassandra pulls off her ‘vision’ stunt. And if you didn’t use that information to pressure the shady lady into giving you what you wanted—which was more time on her TV show—then look me straight in the eye and tell me so.”

It took considerable courage, but, as the old saying goes, Daisy Perika had plenty of grit in her craw. She raised her face, met his hard gaze. Not a word passed her lips, but Daisy’s impertinent glare seemed to say,
So what if I did?

Moon responded to the unspoken question with hard words that struck Daisy like hammer blows: “Think about this. If Mr. Moxon is the sort of man who’d murder a complete stranger just to promote his client’s career, do you think he’d think twice about doing the same to somebody who knows about his scam?” The tribal investigator shot a glance at Sarah. “Or someone who happened to be with you when he showed up?”

Having had just about enough from Gourd Head, Daisy shook a finger in her nephew’s face. “You listen to me—I was taking care of myself a long, long time before you was born into this world.” She pointed the finger at the Ute-Papago orphan. “And I can take care of Sarah, too.”

Realizing that he might as well be talking to a fence post, and afraid he might say something he would regret for the rest of his days, Charlie Moon got up, jammed the black Stetson down to his ears, stalked to the nearest exit.

Expecting a door slam that would rattle windowpanes and shake dust off the rafters, Sarah Frank closed her eyes, clenched her teeth, scrunched up her thin shoulders.

Observing the tensed-up girl, Daisy offered this reassurance: “Charlie Moon don’t make noise when he’s mad. He gets real quiet.”

It was true. As the door closed, they did not even hear a click of the latch.

Outside, Moon paused to cool off, took several deep breaths of the crisp, sage-scented air. He addressed Officer Bignight, who was leaning against his SUPD unit. “I’ll talk to Chief of Police White horse and get things set up so my aunt and the girl are guarded around the clock until Moxon’s picked up. But in the meantime,
please
don’t let either one of ’em out of your sight.”

The Taos Pueblo man rested his right hand on the grip of a holstered Glock 9-mm automatic, nodded. “I’ll look after ’em, Charlie.”

“Thanks, Danny.” At this moment, another SUPD unit appeared on the lane. Two officers were inside. The Ute police vehicle was followed by an Archuleta County Sheriff’s van. The troops Parris had called for were finally here. Daisy and Sarah’s safety was no longer in doubt. Moon removed a cell phone from his inside jacket pocket, pressed the buttons for Scott Parris’s programmed number. One ring.
Pick it up.
Three rings.
Answer!
After four more rings, he got his best friend’s voice mail.
He must have the thing turned off.