Three Sisters (42 page)

During all the commotion and excitement, the lawmen had forgotten about the prize Mr. Bear and Miss Bigfoot had been fighting over. No matter. They would soon discover that the man in the wheelchair was no longer with them. Only the husk remained. From a purely physiological perspective, Beatrice Spencer’s husband had expired on account of a heart that refused to pump. But Andrew Turner’s life had been whisked away by claws that slash, teeth that bite, that nameless terror that comes by night.

Upon returning on the following morning to find out what had happened to her husband, Beatrice Spencer was gratified to find him dead, but the lady was surprised and also dismayed to find the corpse without a mark of tooth or claw. A lady who lays careful plans for a picnic hates to see them go awry. It may have been because she was miffed that she spoke so unkindly to her silent spouse: “It just goes to show, Andrew—what a distasteful man you are. Even with honey on your head, hungry bears pass you by.” The mention of the honey raised a sticky issue:
This is going to be such a bother.
But there was no other way. Beatrice Spencer hiked back home for the necessities. Upon her second return, she gave the corpse’s head and shoulders a thorough cleaning, paying particular attention to his matted hair.

Please forgive an aside. By mere chance, she happened to have just the item, purchased at a small import shop in Colorado Springs that specializes in fragrant candles and soaps. Also shampoos of every fruity, flowered scent—from Apricot Nectar to Zinnia Sunrise. Including Strawberry Surprise.

Six days later, Andrew Turner’s death would be officially listed as stress-induced cardiac arrest.

The infinitesimal traces of honey on his scalp had gone unnoticed by the medical examiner. But Doc Simpson did catch a whiff of that other scent. Leaned closer. Got a stronger whiff.
Eeew! What kind of a man would wash his head with sissy stuff like that.
Not one to give the dead any slack, the crotchety old physician scowled at the offending cadaver.
If I was to run out of Old Leather or .45 Caliber, I’d let my hair go dirty as a toilet-bowl brush before I used a ladies’ shampoo.

Surprised at how lonely she was without a man in the house—even a mate with such serious shortcomings as Andrew Turner—Beatrice Spencer was soon hankering for a suitable replacement. It was not necessary for the widow to compile a list of eligible bachelors and consider them one by one. She already had a certain
someone
in her sights. Yes, that’s right.

Beatrice spent days on end thinking about her quarry. She was, as she had demonstrated, a calculating woman. As she excused the man’s minor minuses, added up his substantial pluses, she arrived at a nice round sum. Charlie Moon was first-rate husband material. A man a woman could depend on. On top of that, the Ute cowboy could not be described by the cruel epithet that authentic stockmen reserve for a certain class of city-bred hobby ranchers, i.e.: “All Hat, No Cows.” Moon owned the two largest ranches in ten counties, and word had it that both the Columbine and the Big Hat turned a modest profit.
And he’s rather good-looking
. Her pretty smile glowed.
And I do believe Mr. Moon is interested in me.
The woman did not know
how
she knew. But know she did. It might have been how attentive Charlie Moon had been at Andrew’s funeral, the intense look in his dark eyes when he took her hand in his, expressed his sorrow over the recent loss of both her sisters.
Odd, though, how he didn’t even mention my husband’s death. It’s almost like he senses that I’m better off without Andrew
. One speculation tends to lead to another.
Perhaps Charlie Moon and I are kindred souls, linked by Fate’s invisible chain to meet in life after life, again and again.
The artist was a definitely a romantic. But as she had demonstrated in dealing with Andrew, Bea also had her let’s-get-down-to-business side.

The business at hand was this:
One way or another, I must finagle an encounter with Mr. Moon.
One way was to pick up the modern version of that marvelous nineteenth-century invention, punch in the bachelor’s telephone number. Another was to invite him to dinner. She decided to do both.

Eyeing the caller ID, Charlie Moon picked up on the third ring. “Good morning, Miss Spencer.”

Miss
Spencer. Beatrice liked that. “And a good morning to you, Mr. Moon.” An embarrassing moment followed. The lady had forgotten what she had intended to say. “Uh…” This was a start. But not a good one.

Moon to the rescue: “I’m glad you called.”

“You are?”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

He had no intention of revealing his number one reason. Went straight to reason number two. “Well, I was kinda hoping you might invite me over for a meal.”

“Consider yourself invited to dinner. Tomorrow evening. Show up at six.”

“Sorry. No can do.”

“You can’t?”

“I’m planning on having supper here at the Columbine. With a very special lady friend of mine.”

“Oh.” (This was a twenty-below-zero
Oh.
) “Then you already have a date.” Ouch.
Why did I have so say
date?

“I sure hope so.” Moon explained the complication: “It depends on whether or not she says yes to my invitation.”

“Let me get this straight, Mr. Tact. I’ve just asked you to my home for dinner, and you’ve turned me down flat—just on the
off chance
that this ‘special lady’—kindly consents to dine at the Columbine?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. So what do you say?”

“I say you certainly have a lot of nerve—” Full stop. Dead silence, while the lady thinketh.
Hmmm.
Little brain wheels turneth, grindeth fine the gristy gist of Moon’s remarks.
Did he just
—“Charlie, did you just invite me to dinner at your place?”

“No.”

“Oh.” (Forty below)
I could strangle him with my bare hands
.

“Dinner’s too fancy for the Columbine. I invited you to
supper.
”

With the sunshine smile cometh the heart thaw. “Mr.

Moon—you are a most exasperating man.”

“So I’ve been told. Pick you up about six?”

“It’s a date.” Forehead slap.
Date—I went and said it again!

The setup was perfect.

In the parlor, Strauss was spinning on the CD player. Barely audible strains of the “Wine, Women and Song” waltz drifted into the dining room, which would have been dark had it not been for thin flames perched upon a pair of ivory candles, whose soft glow flickered on the white linen tablecloth. The grilled almond-crusted trout served with lightly buttered wild rice and thinly sliced marbled rye toast—was absolutely first-rate. And the peach cobbler with hand-cranked vanilla ice cream (both desserts courtesy of the foreman’s wife)—what can be said. Sufficient praise would exhaust all superlatives.

During the meal, they chatted about this and that. Charlie Moon’s time with the Southern Ute Police Department. What he’d done—and hoped to do—with his beef-cattle business. Beatrice Spencer shared stories of childhood. Her formidable parents. And her sisters, of course—when they were young and death seemed a million years away. Though unmentioned, the recent calamities in her life hung like a dismal fog over the conversation.

Though Beatrice had not had a bite since a breakfast of green tea and a blueberry muffin, she barely picked at the delicacies. Since receiving Charlie Moon’s invitation to an evening meal at the Columbine, the recently bereaved widow had quite lost her appetite. For food. But from time to time, she would eye the lean man across the table. Lick her lips.

Armed with fork, knife, and spoon, Mr. Moon had cleaned his plate. He was thinking about a tasty dessert. No, not the pie and ice cream. He wondered how Sweet Thing was getting along.
When’s the last time me and Lila Mae talked?
Sometime last month.
It’s about time I gave her a call
.

Bea shot the cook another look.
He’s gotten quiet all of a sudden. Like there’s something he wants to say, but can’t quite decide just how
. She was a very perceptive woman. Up to a point. “It was very thoughtful of you to attend Andrew’s funeral.”

Her host was about to speak, substituted a shrug.

She tried again: “It’s very lonely, up on the mountain—all by myself. But of course you would understand.” She took a dainty sip of coffee. “You live alone in this big house.”

Moon nodded.
And for way too long.
“I’m glad you could come for supper.”

His words fluttered the candle flames. Also her heart. She held her breath. Then: “May I call you Charlie?”

“Only if I can call you Bea.”

Her laugh was like little bells. Little
silver
bells.
I might as well ask him outright
. “Charlie, why did you invite me to dinner?” She corrected herself: “I mean supper.”

“Why?” He offered her a bowl of mints, was politely declined, chose his words with care. “Why, for the pleasure of your company.”

“How kind of you to say so.”

“But that’s not the only reason.”

She set her cup aside. “Oh, do tell me more!”

“Well, it’s like this.” Moon looked her straight in the eye. “You’re the kind of woman I like. A real go-getter.”

Go-getter?
“I like you too, Charlie,”

“I’m glad to hear it.”
But before the evening’s over, you’re likely to change your mind
. “Bea—there’s a matter we need to talk about.”

“Involving you and me?”

“Well, yes.”
And my buddy Scott. And your dead husband
. “Way I see it, we need to clear the air. Get some things sorted out.”

Both her eyebrows arched. “Gracious—that sounds rather ominous.”

It was. And he intended to ease into it. “I’d like to make you a proposition.”

Oh, my—and I thought he was shy!
She placed both hands in her lap, crossed two sets of fingers. Lied: “I hope your intentions are honorable.”

A brief smile passed over Moon’s face. “It has to do with Mr. Turner.”

“Yes. I see.”
He’s concerned that I am still in love with Andrew—that my husband’s cherished memory would be a barrier between us. What a lot of rot!
She cleared her throat, began: “I want to assure you that any lingering affection for my lately deceased spouse will not be an issue.” Eager to assure the startled man, Bea hurried on: “Though Andrew did have his positive attributes, we were basically incompatible.” Raising a hand to prevent Moon from interrupting, she provided a for-instance: “If I had known how little he cared for art—how brutally he would criticize my best efforts—I would have never consented to the marriage. Believe me, Charlie—”

“I do believe you, Bea. And I like your pictures.”

Wide-eyed: “You do?”

He helped himself to a mint. “During the past couple of weeks, I’ve lost count of how many art galleries I’ve visited. I’ve looked at dozens of your paintings.”
Now I could spot one at thirty yards.

This revelation was almost too much. “You actually sought out examples of my work?”

“You bet. And I bought some watercolors you did when you were a kid.”

Each eye was wetted by a single tear. “That is so sweet of you!”

Moon felt his face blush. “Well—I wouldn’t say that.”

“Well of course it was!”

It was time to face the unpleasant task head-on. The lanky man unfolded his angular frame from the chair. “How about I give you a tour of the house.”

“I can hardly wait.” She dabbed a napkin at immaculate lips. “Where shall we begin?”

He helped Beatrice from her chair. “Upstairs.”

“What’s on the upper level?”

“My office. Three bathrooms. Six bedrooms.”

“Ah.” She took his arm. “Do you sleep upstairs?”

“Every night of the week. Would you like to see where?”

“Yes. I would.”

Down the twilight hallway they go. Into the huge parlor, where piñon flames flicker in a sooty fireplace. Two big boots and a pair of lady’s slippers pad across the thick wool carpet. At the foot of the stairway, they pause. The gentleman waits for the lady to precede him to a higher altitude. She is rooted to the floor
.

Uh-oh.
She’s got an inkling I’m up to something
.

“Charlie, I must ask you a question.”

“Go right ahead.”

“When we go upstairs, is something very important going to happen?”

Yep. The smart lady’s onto me.
“Well, you can never tell.” This was truer than he knew.

Bea took a deep breath. Spent it on a sigh. “Will what happens upstairs change my life—forever and ever?”

He gazed at the upturned face.
She’s pretty as a peck of peaches. And she’s afraid something bad is going to happen
. “Tell you what—let’s skip the tour of the house. We can go sit in front of the fire. Or if you want to go home, I’ll take you right now.”

“No.” She took his big hand in hers. Squeezed it. “We will go upstairs.”
To your bedroom
. “But on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“I shall go like Scarlett.”

“Who?”

“Scarlett O’Hara.”

He was an old-movie buff. “Ah—
Gone with the Wind.
”

“The very same.” Tapping her finger on his chest, Beatrice Spencer expanded upon the condition: “You shall play the part of Rhett Butler.”

Moon’s brow furrowed. “Before we go upstairs I got to kill off a whole platoon of Damnyankees?”

Miss Scarlett put on the cutest little-girl frown. “That can wait till later.” Her voice had taken on a lilting down-south drawl: “What I crave right now, Rhett, is romance.” Addressing Clark Gable’s reluctant stand-in, she laid down the law: “Before you take me to your bedroom, you must sweep me off my feet.”

Mr. Moon was beginning to get the picture. “Bea, I don’t think you un—”

“Hush your mouth.” She pointed at the stairway.

“You sure you want to do this?”

Her head bobbed in a perky nod.

This is crazy
. But, caught up in the moment, he snatched her up, cradled the lady like a week-old baby.

“Oh—oh!” Bea wrapped her arms around Moon’s neck. Laid her pretty head on his shoulder. “Whatever are you doing, Rhett—put me down
this very instant
!” (She did not remember the lines.)

There was no figuring women. “Okay.”
Down you go.

“Don’t you dare, you hateful man!” Her little fist banged his chest.

He rolled his eyes.
How do I get myself into these situations?
How, indeed. Volumes could be written.

“Hurry, darlin’—before I change my mind.”

Charlie Moon was a man with limited options. Count them: one.

So up the stairs they went. Down the long hallway. Moon kneed his bedroom door open, stepped into the darkness, used an elbow to flick a light switch. The table lamp by his bed cast a yellowish glow.

“Oh!” What the lady saw, on the wall over the head of his bed, quite took her breath away. But what really caught her attention was on the night table beside Moon’s bed—a framed-in-walnut photograph of a drop-dead gorgeous, dark-haired woman. Bea was fast on her feet. And off. Instantly understanding her error, stunned by what she saw, Bea’s fingers gripped Moon’s arm like a falcon’s claw.

Those sharp fingernails biting into his flesh did not escape the man’s notice.
I bet she’s wondering who that is.
“That” was FBI Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague—Moon’s absent sweetheart. He directed Bea’s attention to the three watercolors over the head of the bed. “You do nice work.”

“So do you.” Scarlett was gone. With the wind, perhaps. Beatrice was back, her body stiff in his arms.

Moon steeled himself for the finale. Ever since Miss Spencer had called him about a dinner date, he had rehearsed for this moment. And so far—aside from the dubbed-in carry-me-up-the-stairs scene—things had gone pretty much to script. Now it was time to turn her around, so she could see the opposite wall where he had strung up the canvas that was two yards high, eight feet wide. His first line to the stunned artist would be: “Here’s what you were looking for when you hurried back home on that snowy night when your husband had his ‘accident’—and blocked your driveway so Scott wouldn’t see you taking it down.” What Bea would see was her unsigned masterpiece—the photo-realistic, life-size images of Andrew Turner’s murdered wives, standing side by side. Astrid Spencer and April Valentine’s vengeful expressions were chilling enough for Nightmare of the Week. But those two pairs of outstretched arms—inviting their murderer to come hither and
be with us where we are
—well, it was no wonder Turner ran his Corvette off the road. Moon’s line two would go something like this: “When I found your husband in the mine shaft, he was wrapped in it.” The widow didn’t need to know that Bobbie Sue had done the wrapping; she would assume that her injured spouse had found the painting—probably ripped by the Corvette from where she had tied it across the driveway—and used it to protect himself from the cold. While she was still off balance, the Ute would reveal that he and Scott Parris had witnessed her attempt to honey up her husband for bear bait. Whether or not to arrest her had been a close call. Considering what sort of man Andrew Turner had been, she got a pass this time—but only by a whisker. From now on, she would walk the line—or suffer the full consequences of law and justice. This was about 99 percent bluff, but Bea didn’t know what the lawmen had on her or what they might do with what they knew. The best poker player in umpteen counties was certain that he’d play out his hand, walk away with the pot. Which would be a solemn promise from the lady to cease and desist from plotting violent felonies.

But wait. The star of
Gone with the Wind
has returned. The lovely armful relaxes, her whisper fills his ear:

“Oh—you are so sweet!” Her arms tightened around his neck. “After poor Astrid was mauled to death by a bear, I thought I’d never get through the gloom. During my darkest days, I fell into that unfortunate marriage with Andrew.” Her sigh was a fragrant, springtime breeze. Scented with cherry blossoms. Really. “Then, poor Cassie was murdered by that horrible Moxon person.” Bea’s voice cracked. “Now my husband is dead and I’m all alone in the world.” Warm, salty tears dripped onto Moon’s shirt. “It has been almost more than I can take. But just when I thought I couldn’t make it through another day, you invite me to the Columbine, carry me up the stairs to show me these silly little paintings you’ve gone to so much effort and expense to collect—” Miss Spencer smiled through the tears. “This is the first truly happy moment I’ve had in ages.” She planted a prim little kiss on the side of his face, fired the heavy artillery: “Charlie Moon—you are the most wonderful man in the whole world.” Another kiss. “I think I love you.”

Well.

What could the man do?

Tell his number one admirer that he had the goods on her—if she so much as spat on the sidewalk she’d be looking at ten years behind bars? Hardly. That shot was not on the table.

Could he reconsider? Cut his losses? Surrender? Yes indeed. Moon did all three.

The victor nibbled at his earlobe. “Do you love me—even just a little bit?”

Under the best of circumstances, that question is hard for a man to deal with. When his earlobe is being nibbled, forget it.

She noticed that her victim was having some difficulty. Thoughtfully ceased nibbling. Ruthlessly repeated the question.

Mrs. Moon’s little boy Charlie could not tell a lie. “Well…I
like
you.”

Bea closed the blue eyes again. Rested her head on his shoulder again. Sighed again. “I suppose that will have to do.”
For a start.
“Now, you may take me home.”

“D’you want to walk?”

“No, silly. Spencer Mountain is much too far.”

“I mean…downstairs.”

He is
so
cute.
“If your arms are tired.”

Evidently, they were not. He carried Bea down to the parlor. Helped her put on her coat. Escorted her to the Expedition. Drove her home. Walked her to the front door. Got a good-night kiss that would have felled a lesser man. And without a thought of the lady whose picture was next to his bed, smiled all the way back to the Columbine. The cad.

Let us leave it there. Call it a night to remember, and close the book on the Three Spencer Sisters. The End.