The Night Visitor (46 page)

Anne tried to find appropriate words. “It certainly… has character.”

“It'll grow hair on your chest,” the Ute woman said with an evil cackle.

The lovely woman hoped that this lavish promise was a great exaggeration.

The evening droned on sweetly. Gaily wrapped presents were opened. Stories of Christmases past were recalled and told with heartfelt nostalgia. These tales were much improved by the passing of years and the imperfections of memory.

Two pots of coffee were consumed by Daisy and the men.

The little girls ate shelled walnuts and peppermint candy. And drank sickeningly sweet store-bought eggnog. Finally, Daisy Perika tucked them into bed at the far end of the trailer. And closed two doors between their bedroom and the kitchen.

Scott Parris had gone to the Volvo on some small errand. Anne found her opportunity to corner Moon.

“Charlie?”

Last time he was alone with this woman she'd snookered him good. That's what she thought, anyway. It'd be best if she kept on thinking it. “Yeah?”

“I've been watching all the local papers. There hasn't been a word about Mr. Flye. Do you suppose… he'll turn up somewhere?”

He thought about it. “I doubt we'll be seeing anything of Horace Flye again.” The Ute policeman prayed he was right.

Butter Flye got out of bed. She opened the beautiful red box and whispered, “Mr. Toe Jam… do you like your new home?”

He looked up at her with black, beady eyes.

“I knew you would,” she said. “Well, good night.” She picked the homely creature up and kissed him on the lips. If a homed toad can actually be said to have lips.

Anne glanced at her wristwatch. It was almost eleven. The elderly Ute woman was looking bone-weary. Soon it would be time for all to say good night. Then they would part and go their separate ways. She tugged at Parris' sleeve. “Could we go outside for a moment?”

He'd been dreading this. She'd been so nice all evening. So proper. Like his younger sister. “Outside?”

“We have to talk.”

Uh-oh. He followed her numbly through the trailer door. Onto the creaking wooden porch. Down the squeaky pine steps. Into the dismal embrace of a chill night.

“Scott …”

“Yeah?”

“I have something I'd like to say. Something important.”

He shrugged. “Okay.” Here it came. The big kiss-off.

“Lately, things have been pretty rough for me. For you too, I guess. I don't see any point in prolonging the mutual suffering. So I have a… a suggestion to make. About us.”

There was a plum-sized lump in his throat. This would be the Let's Always Be Friends routine.

Anne looked over his shoulder at the long mesa… the stark silhouettes of the Three Sisters. The squatting pueblo women leaned forward to listen.

“My thought is… I wondered if …”

Parris closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he croaked, “you want to be friends, right?”

“Oh yes. The very
best
of friends.”

He swallowed the lump. Well, that damn well tore it.

Anne took his arm. “Did I ever tell you about my father?”

He shook his head.

There was a sly smile in her voice. “Daddy was my mother's best friend. And she was his.”

His heart did a one-two punch on his ribs. Scott Parris turned toward her upturned face, a pale oval mask lit by starlight. He chose his words carefully. “I want to make sure
I understand this… uhh… what you're saying. Your parents… they
were
married to each other, right?”

“Of course,” she said softly.
“You're
the bastard.”

Daisy, who was peering out the kitchen window, had turned the kitchen light off.
The better to see you with, my dears.

Moon was leaning, looking over his aunt's shoulder.

“My goodness,” the Ute woman muttered, “would you look at all that carryin' on? I never seen so much hugging and kissing.”

Moon nodded. “They do seem to be on friendly terms.”

Daisy pressed her nose against the fogged glass pane. “Wonder what brought this on?”

“Careful planning.” He patted her shoulder. “Looks like I'll be best man.”

The old woman snorted. “And how'd you come to know so much about other people's business?”

“'Cause I'm the man who made it happen,” he said smugly.

Daisy Perika turned; she looked up at her nephew with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. “You?”

The tall, dark Cupid looked down his nose at her, and winked. “You bet. I did it. I did it all.”

Christmas day at the mouth of
Cañon del Espiritu
was clear, and cold… and altogether too quiet. The north winds sprayed a peppering of sleet against the trailer's aluminum walls.

Daisy Perika was quite alone with the children. Scott Parris and the pretty redheaded woman were up in Granite Creek. Probably making plans for a spring wedding. Charlie Moon was likely over at the McFain ranch, comforting Nathan's daughter. That skinny young woman didn't have a drop of Ute blood—and she was one-eighth Navajo to boot. But Vanessa would make Charlie a good enough wife—if and when he was of a mind to have a woman in his house. Which the way he was goin' might not be for quite some time.

The old woman was not in a Christmas mood. Daisy knew that Butter Flye would be going away to Arkansas in a few days—to live with her grandmother in a nice house. On a little
farm with a barn and dogs and hogs and goats and such. The chubby white child was rude and brazen. And full of mischief. Daisy refused to admit that she would miss the freckled imp. After all, she did have Sarah Frank for company.

Of course, with Sarah there was that annoying black cat. Mr. Dirt Bag was shedding black hair all over the trailer. But even this problem had a positive side. She could always get a rise out of Sarah when she insulted the animal by not remembering his right name.

Daisy was preparing a lunch of cold chicken and black bean soup when she heard the hum of Father Raes' aging Buick. He pulled up close to the trailer-home, slammed the sedan door, and made his way quickly to the porch, holding his black hat tightly on his head. The wind whipped at his woolen scarf and the skirts of his dark overcoat. She opened the door before he had a chance to knock; he hurried gratefully into the warm kitchen, rubbing his hands together.

The priest shared their modest lunch. He chatted with the children. Learned that Butter was going to live with her paternal grandmother. Exacted promises from Sarah Frank to come to Mass every Sunday that transportation was available. The girls took the gentle man back to their end-bedroom and showed him Butter's box of pretties. And the horned toad, of course. Toe Jam, who had finally sensed that it was winter, was becoming lethargic. He was sleeping under the sand, with only his homely face showing. He did not even open his beady eyes to acknowledge the priest's presence.

While Father Raes Delfino visited with the children, Daisy used the opportunity to wash a sink full of dishes. Finally, he returned to the kitchen.

“The girls are napping,” he said, and sat down at the table.

Daisy turned up the burner under the percolator. “You want some coffee?”

“No thank you.” The old woman's coffee was absolutely abominable.

“I could heat some water.” She opened a cabinet door and pushed sundry boxes and jars aside. “I think I got a tea bag here somewheres.”

“Tea would be nice.”

“So how've you been?”

“Very well.”

Daisy sensed something ominous in the tone of his voice. She made the tea without further comment.

He drank it gratefully, in little sips.

It was hard to like a man who drank tea when there was good coffee to be had. But she had always had a special place in her heart for this kindly little priest. The Ute elder sat down, and enjoyed a cup of extraordinarily strong coffee.

He cleared his throat.

Uh-oh. Here it comes.

“Odd,” he said.

“What's odd?”

“Your home is filled with the aroma of tobacco. It is particularly strong back in the children's bedroom.”

Well. Father Raes Delfino could smell it too. “You don't need to worry. Them little girls don't smoke.”

He took a sip of the bitter tea. “I never imagined they did.” But there was another possibility that troubled the priest. Tobacco was—so the Utes believed—a gift prized by the
pitukupf.
Daisy didn't smoke, but this old woman probably kept a supply on hand for the dwarf. And so he pressed the issue. “As no one in this home uses tobacco, does it not strike you odd that the aroma should be so overpowering?”

Daisy frowned and seemed to consider the possibilities. “It may be that horned toad the white girl keeps in a box. From time to time, he likes to smoke a cigarette.”

The priest closed his eyes and bowed his head.
God preserve me from this woman.

Daisy chuckled merrily. And she was. It was the season to be so.

The good man made himself this promise:
When I return to Ignacio, I will renew my request to the bishop for a transfer to a seminary teaching position.

The Ute elder felt a sudden surge of sympathy for this innocent little man. “I was just teasin'.” She leaned close and whispered to the priest. “You want me to tell you the honest-to-God truth?”

He smiled wanly. “Why not?”
It would be a novel experience.

“That tobacco smell is from a ghost.”

Of course. Haunts could be blamed for all mischief. “Whose ghost?”

“I been doin' some thinkin'—it's most likely the little
matukach
girl's father come back to watch over her. When the child goes back to Arkansas, that smell'll go with her.”

“I see,” he said wearily. “A spirit who smells of tobacco.” The sly old woman had a thousand excuses. “You know, I've had a most interesting conversation with the girls.”

Damn! Should have known better than to leave 'em alone together. He could get that black cat to talkin' if you gave him enough time.

He turned the warm teacup thoughtfully in his hands, dreading a confrontation with Daisy Perika.
She is a very recalcitrant old woman. But these are important issues, and as her priest, I must not shirk my duty.
“Our little Miss Flye tells me that you took her and Sarah Frank… for a walk. Into
Cañon del Espiritu.”

So that was what it was all about. She nodded innocently. “It's good for children to get out and get some exercise. They'd been cooped up in here for days.”

“Furthermore, Butter Flye recalls you stopped at… at that badger hole.”

She shrugged as if this were tedious small talk. “There's lots of them badgers up in the canyon.”

The priest took a deep breath. “I have been under the impression that you and I… that we had come to a certain understanding regarding… the dwarf.”

“You mean about how I wouldn't be havin' any business with him?”

He nodded at his teacup.

“Well,” she said firmly, “I've kept my word.” One hand was behind her back. The fingers crossed.

The priest did not look up. “You did not leave the dwarf… an
offering?”
He found the very word repugnant.

Daisy shook her head. “You mean a present for the little man? No I didn't.”

“Butter Flye mentioned some candy.”

She pretended to think hard, as if attempting to draw up a memory of some inconsequential event. “Well, I did give the girls some peppermints.”

“Butter tells me that Sarah left some by the badger hole. For the
pitukupf.”

Daisy's eyes widened. “She did?”
Please, God… I hope little big-mouth didn't say nothing about the sack of tobacco.

Father Raes Delfino nodded gravely. “Indeed she did.”

The old woman shook her head. “Well, I guess Sarah must've heard some of them old stories. You know, how if you leave a present for the little man, maybe he'll do you a favor.” She shook her head and sighed. “Children,” she said. “You can't watch 'em every minute. You want some more hot water on that tea bag?”

Now he gave her a penetrating look that would have flummoxed a more timid soul. “Daisy,” the priest said in a tone that could fracture granite, “I would not like to think that this innocent child is beginning an unhealthy relationship with some… some supposedly benign spirit entity. It would displease me greatly to think that Sarah is taking up where you've left off. Replacing you, as it were.”

“No,” the Ute elder said after a thoughtful pause. “I wouldn't like that very much myself.” And she meant it.

“Good,” he said. “Then we do understand each other—we're together on this issue?”

“Sure we are,” the shaman said. “You and me, we're like two old dogs pullin' at the same leash.”

He smiled, but weakly. The priest was troubled by something obscure… a tiny barb in his flesh. It was not that Daisy's metaphor made no sense. Little that this old woman said was totally intelligible. No.

It was that sly glint in her eye.

I
T WAS THE
first day of the new year.

The north winds that had howled through the night were now reduced to an occasional sigh. It was a bright morning, full of promise. Moon pulled the SUPD Blazer beside Vanessa McFain's van, and left the engine running. He stared at the ranch house. A thin wisp of smoke was curling upward from the massive stone chimney.

In only a few weeks, so much had happened.

A prominent local rancher had died in a bizarre accident. An Arkansas man was—as far as official police records were concerned—missing after abandoning his vehicle at Capote Lake. But Horace Flye had not driven his pickup to Capote Lake. Whoever had parked the old truck on the sloping bank of the lake had—like any sensible driver—set the parking brake. But Rye had told Moon that the parking brake should never be used. It stuck. So somebody—under cover of night—had driven Flye's truck away from the RV park at the McFain ranch. At first, Moon had assumed that the same person
had hauled Flye's body away in the old pickup and buried it somewhere near Capote Lake. But who would have a motive to kill the drifter from Arkansas?