A Dead Man's Tale (9 page)

How the Chief of Police Sees It

Scott Parris did not devour the free lunch with his usual manly gusto. The Columbine victuals were first-rate as usual, but the cop picked at his medium-rare T-bone steak with the sated appetite of a gorged vulture. He showed no interest in the huge baked-and-buttered Idaho potato. Rather than eat his pinto beans, the discomfited diner preferred to line them up in neat, straight rows like little brown soldiers. The problem was, the Granite Creek chief of police had expected to have lunch with his best buddy—not the Southern Ute tribal investigator’s entire family, which included Charlie Moon’s irascible aunt Daisy and the effervescent Sarah Frank. The tribal elder’s black eyes seemed to see through him, and the enthusiastic youth was practically overflowing with an enthusiastic monologue about how much she was enjoying her freshman semester at Granite Creek’s Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University. There seemed to be no end to the scholar’s accounts of fascinating classes in American literature, American history, introductory calculus, and that perennial crowd pleaser—elementary computer science.

After the foursome had worked their way past peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream, Parris gave Charlie a shifty-eyed look and suggested that they go upstairs to the rancher’s office and talk about a thing or two.

Were the women offended?

Apparently not.

Daisy offered to percolate a fresh pot of Folgers finest, and Sarah graciously volunteered to bring the men a tray of coffee and cookies.

Parris’s Suspicions

As Charlie Moon closed his office door and booted his way across the oak floor, he recalled the visit from Lyle Thoms and the offer of twenty-five cents to assassinate Posey Shorthorse.
Maybe I ought to ask Scott to be on the lookout for this rogue Chickasaw.
But, for some reason or other, the timing didn’t seem quite right. “What’s on your mind, pardner?”

Scott Parris perched his hefty bulk on the edge of an oak-framed leather armchair and clasped his knobby hands to make a massive double fist. “I’m beginning to think maybe Sam Reed ain’t entirely crazy.”

The man of the house eased himself into the chair behind his desk. “I never figured he was.”

“I mean about his wild-eyed story that somebody intends to do away with him on the fourth of June.”

“What’s happened?” The tribal investigator frowned at the town cop. “Has somebody taken a shot at our imaginative friend?”

“Well…no.”
Not yet.
“But a few minutes after ten last night—while her husband wasn’t home—Mrs. Reed placed a 911 call and told the dispatcher somebody was breaking into her house. Knox and Slocum responded to the complaint. But—” the storyteller paused for dramatic effect, “when they got there, there wasn’t no prowler.”

During those yesteryears when Charlie Moon had served as a uniformed tribal policeman, he had answered dozens of such calls. But, knowing that his friend had probably responded to just as many mistaken reports, he figured Scott must be going somewhere.

The chief of police was. “Not only wasn’t there no prowler—there wasn’t the least indication one had been there. Mrs. Reed had claimed somebody was prying her back door open, but there wasn’t a mark to support her story. Not on the rear entrance or any other door—or on any of the windows.”

“So the lady was mistaken.” Moon leaned back in his chair. “She’s been reading those scary stories in the local paper about the so-called Crowbar Burglar and was nervous about being home alone. Mrs. Reed probably heard the wind blowing a tree branch against the house and jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

“That’s pretty much what Knox and Slocum figured.”

“But you don’t.”

“I’m not absolutely sure, Charlie.” The dyspeptic cop felt a burning churning in his stomach. “But when you add this groundless 911 call to Sam Reed’s conviction that somebody is gonna shoot him dead—well, it’s just a little bit worrisome.”

“You figure Reed’s wife might mistake him for a burglar?”

“That can’t be ruled out.” Parris unclasped his double fist and examined networks of blue veins on the backs of his hands. “It might even be worse than that.”

Charlie Moon responded with a slow, thoughtful nod. “She might have deliberately placed a false prowler call to lay the groundwork for
deliberately
shooting her husband when he comes home late some night—and then claim she thought it was the Crowbar Burglar come back again to break in.”

“That’s the way I see it, Chucky.” Parris drummed the fingers of his right hand on the arm of the chair. “Shootings that’re honestly due to mistaken identity happen all the time. And when it’s cold-blooded murder, it’s damn near impossible to prove—especially in a case where the shooter has called in a previous report of a prowler. Our mealymouthed DA not only wouldn’t prosecute—he’d tell me to lay off the unfortunate widow. Pug Bullet is more concerned about political repercussions than seeing that justice is done.”

“Maybe so. But all you have is a possibly false prowler report—and you can’t even prove that.” The tribal investigator clasped his hands behind his neck. “I hate to be the one to say it, pardner—but that’s more than a little thin.”

Prepared for this gentle rebuff, Parris grinned. “You remember how Sam Reed said he’d get killed on his way home from the candy store? And that it’d happen about the time he heard the eleven
P.M
. church bells?”

“I do.”

“Think on this: the Copper Street Candy Shop closes at ten thirty
P.M
., which is when Reed claims he’ll leave with his wife’s box of birthday chocolates.” Parris paused for the expected response.

Moon was immediately forthcoming. “Unless I disremember, the man didn’t say anything about his wife having a birthday on the fourth of June.”

“That’s right—he didn’t. But she does.” Scott Parris was immensely pleased with himself. “I found out when I checked the info in Mrs. Reed’s driver’s license.”

Moon mulled this over. “Seems odd he didn’t mention her birthday being June fourth.” He grinned at his friend. “So Sam Reed leaves the candy store with the chocolates—what then?”

“The candy store’s about an eight-minute walk from Reed’s office upstairs over the Cattleman’s Bank, where he parks his car. Let’s say Reed pulls out of the bank parking lot at about ten forty
P.M
. I checked before I left town this morning: give or take a little, it’ll take him about fifteen minutes to drive from the bank lot to his residence in the suburbs, a couple more minutes to park in his garage.”

“Which puts him at his back door pretty close to the eleventh hour.”

“Right!” The cop slammed his big fist on the oak chair arm.

The wooden-faced Indian winced inwardly.
I hope he don’t splinter my chair.
“So what do you intend to do?”

“There’s not much I can do.” GCPD’s top cop scowled under bushy brows. “Before I could say a word to Sam Reed about his wife being a potential suspect, I’d need more information. Like do they keep any fire-arms in the house? Does Mrs. Reed carry a pistol in her purse?” Seeing the doubtful look on Moon’s face, he pressed on. “And there’s the question of motive; this might not be entirely about Mrs. Reed inheriting her husband’s money. When I checked her driver’s license data I found out that Irene Reed is about half Sam’s age, and even on her license snapshot she’s pretty as one of those flashy ladies you see on magazine covers. We both know Sam Reed ain’t much to look at, which naturally raises the question—does the gorgeous young married woman have herself a good-looking young boyfriend? And with that possibility in mind, where does Mrs. Reed go when her husband ain’t home?” Parris paused. “I need to know all that kind of stuff.” The chief of police blushed as he prepared to drop the heavy hint on his friend. “But you know how thin my budget is. I not only don’t have the manpower to shadow Mrs. Reed—my officers aren’t exactly what you’d call detectives.”

The tribal investigator got the message.
Scott wants me to look into this business for him. But not as his deputy—unofficially. That way, if the Reeds get wind of what’s happening, it can’t be tied to GCPD.
Coming from his best friend, this was not an unreasonable request. Then, there was the bet Reed had made with both of them—a ten-to-one wager that Scott Parris couldn’t keep him alive past June 4. Keeping Reed among the living was not only in Parris’s financial interests but also in Moon’s.
Problem is, I just don’t have the time to take on any more work.
It was hard to turn his friend down flat, so Moon settled on a noncommittal reply: “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

Misinterpreting this vague response as an “I’ll look into it,” Parris allowed himself a half smile.
I hoped you would.

Sarah Frank, who was standing in the carpeted upstairs hallway outside Moon’s office door with a tray of coffee and homemade chocolate-chip cookies, had also gotten the message. No, the girl was not a deliberate eavesdropper cut from the same cloth as Daisy Perika. She had merely paused when she heard the men’s voices discussing a serious matter, and wondered whether she should withdraw with the refreshments until a more opportune moment or announce her presence. Choosing the latter course, the girl cleared her throat. “Excuse me.” Behind the closed door, Scott Parris’s voice stopped in midsentence. Sarah felt her face burn. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but would you like some fresh coffee and warm-from-the-oven cookies?”

Of course they would.

Parris opened the door, thanked the eighteen-year-old, and took the tray. After she had departed, he placed the coffee and cookies on Moon’s desk. “Sarah’s a very nice young lady.” He cocked his head at the memory of all those years gone by, and sighed. “Makes me wish I had a daughter.”

“A man with girlfriends who aren’t old enough to drive a car don’t need any daughters.”

Parris popped a hot cookie into his mouth and chewed. “Eu’re jub jebbus.”

“I’m not a bit jealous.” Moon arched a brow at his friend. “I’m concerned about the reputation of this county’s finest public servant.”

The cookie fancier washed the cookie down with scalding coffee, made a face. “Ouch!”

The sharp-eared Ute, who had not heard the girl’s approach, wondered how much of their private discussion Sarah Frank might have heard.
I hope she’s not picking up bad habits from Aunt Daisy.
The tribal elder would go to almost any length to spy on her nephew and his guests. But when he noticed that Sarah had placed a small pitcher of Tule Creek honey on the tray
just for me,
Charlie Moon dismissed the uncharitable thought. Stirring a spoonful of the amber sweetener into his steaming coffee, he reminded himself that Sarah was a sweet kid. And, unlike his mischievous aunt, she was sensible. The girl didn’t make trouble for him. Well, hardly ever. And never on purpose.

As Sarah Frank made her way down the stairs one deliberate step at a time, the willowy young lady was mulling over that tantalizing snippet of conversation she had overheard between the chief of police and Charlie Moon. The Ute-Papago orphan paused at the landing to gaze down into the spacious Columbine headquarters parlor. Her expression could fairly be described as
thoughtful.

When thoughtful women pause to meditate upon vexing problems that are plaguing their favorite men, it often happens that the naturally supportive gender figures out a way to help—and jumps right in.

It happened again.

Sarah Sleeps on It

But only in a manner of speaking. The poor thing got barely a wink of sleep. All night long, the agitated girl turned from one side to the other. And back again. She also tried lying flat on her back. As is common among insomniacs, the same thoughts circulated through her mind:
Mr. Parris needs someone to find out whether or not Mr. Reed’s wife has a boyfriend, but the chief of police doesn’t have the manpower to keep an eye on Mrs. Reed.

It was almost inevitable that Little Miss Womanpower would get a great notion. (She already had, while making her way down the stairs from Charlie Moon’s closed-door office meeting with Scott Parris.) Back to her left side to consider it in some detail.
I don’t see why that wouldn’t work.
(Another apt epitaph.) After turning onto her right side for about the forty-leventh time, she is about to describe the notion, more or less in the proverbial nutshell:

I only have one late-afternoon class tomorrow and none on the weekend.
It would (she thought) be great fun to skip fifty minutes of American literature and follow the married woman around for two or three days. Sarah rolled onto her left side.
I might find out something important that would help Mr. Parris.
In which event, Charlie Moon would be very proud of her.
Then maybe he would stop calling me “kid.”
Oh, how that put-down rankled! The kid hammered her fist into the pillow. The fact that Charlie Moon’s references to her youth were virtually unconscious and that he didn’t have a mean bone in his body served only to enhance the affront.

About an hour before dawn, the sleepless girl finally made up her mind.
If I’m going to do this, I need to get out of here before first light.
Out of the bed she bounded. In two minutes flat, Sarah was dressed. In three more, she was in the headquarters kitchen, percolating a pot of coffee, stuffing bread and sliced ham into a brown paper bag. The whole point was to be away before Charlie Moon got out of bed and started asking questions. Such as: “Where’re you off to so early?” Straight-arrow Sarah could not lie to a stranger, much less to the man she loved more than life itself. If she merely evaded his direct question, Charlie would suspect that she was up to something. And when the Ute’s suspicions were raised, her heartthrob had an uncanny way of finding out what was going on.
And he might come downstairs any second now.

But so far, so good.

Sarah was reaching for the kitchen door when—

Aunt Daisy Intervenes

“What’re you doing up so early?”

Sarah had her hand on the doorknob. “I’m going out.”

“Well a blind jackass could see that.” The old woman smirked. “You might as well tell me where you’re off to”—Daisy pointed—“and what you’ve got in that paper bag.” She sniffed.
Smells like ham.

The girl glared at the snoopy old woman.
It’s none of your business.

“Oh yes it is.” Daisy chuckled.

Sarah rolled her eyes and sighed.
How does she read my mind?

“You’ve got a face like a comic-book cover.” Daisy, who in her youth had dabbled in games of chance, added this sage advice: “Don’t ever get into a poker game with Charlie Moon; you’d lose your last dime on a pair of deuces.”

Sarah looked the tribal elder straight in the eye. “It’s a secret.”

“Well of course it is. If it wasn’t, why would I want to know?”

The girl stiffened her back. “I don’t intend to tell you.”

“That’s why it’s so much fun
making
you spill your guts.”

Oh, she makes me so mad I could just spit!
“You can’t make me say a single word.”

“Hah! Just watch me.”

The girl watched in wide-eyed terror as Daisy took a deep breath, opened her mouth—“What are you going to do?” Sarah already knew.

Daisy confirmed her suspicions. “I’m going to holler loud enough to wake up all those dead people in the Pine Knob graveyard—and Charlie Moon. Soon’s he comes to the top of the stairs and yells, ‘What’s goin’ on down there,’ I’ll tell him you’re sneaking off with a picnic lunch and won’t take me along because you’re up to
no good
!”

“You wouldn’t!” Sarah knew she would.

“Don’t talk silly.”

Sarah shook her finger in the old woman’s face. “If you come along, you’ll end up getting both of us in trouble. You always do!”

Daisy glared at the cowardly digit shaker. “So what d’you want to do—live forever?” She rudely brushed the accusing finger aside. “Take if from somebody who knows, young lady—getting old as the hills ain’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

Foolishly, Sarah fell back on an ethical defense. “But what you’re doing is—”

“Blackmail, pure and simple.” The wicked old woman chuckled. “And don’t you be telling me what I
won’t do
.” She gave the girl a look that chilled. “In my time, I’ve done things that’d make your hair curl and stand on end!” Daisy set her jaw. “Ask me how many men I’ve killed.”

The innocent stared in horror and shook her head.

“Well I’ll tell you anyway. It was three.” Daisy paused, shook her head. “No, that’s not right.” The tribal elder began to count on her fingers. “It was four.” She smiled and nodded. “I almost forgot that nasty old Navajo—”

“No no no! I don’t want to know!”

“Okay, but you’re missing a dandy story.” The elder bared her peg-shaped teeth in a hideous grin. “The tribal police never found but one piece of his body and that was his—”

“No!” Sarah meant it and Daisy knew it.

“Oh, all right.”
Kids these days are so squeamish.
Daisy tapped a finger on the brown paper bag. “You have enough lunch in there for the both of us?”

Defeat staring her in the face, Sarah nodded dumbly.

After they closed the kitchen door ever so softly behind them, and made their way ever so quietly along the south porch, the women were joined by Sidewinder, the official Columbine hound. When the rangy old dog made it clear that he was determined to come along on the outing, Sarah didn’t put up an argument.

Charlie Moon was in the parlor, watching through a west window. Amused by their semistealthy early-morning getaway, he watched the trio get into Sarah’s pickup.
I wonder what this is all about.
Aunt Daisy was always planning something or other, and there was no telling what specific mischief she might be up to at a given minute. The sleepy man yawned.
Sarah should be able to keep the old woman out of any serious trouble.
While his elderly relative seemed to be slipping back into a sinister version of her youth (when Daisy had allegedly done some seriously bad things), the kid was developing into a responsible young adult.

In earlier, happier times, when he could spare a few hours, Charlie Moon might have followed the red pickup and found out what kind of new trouble his aunt was getting into. Nowadays, the busy rancher had way too much on his plate to go chasing after the old woman. And even if he didn’t have a thing to do, a man would be a fool to deliberately serve himself a helping of Daisy Stew, which was bound to give him a serious case of heartburn.