The Night Visitor (49 page)

Sure. Nathan was the “banshee” Danny Bignight heard calling his name.

She went on, breathless.
“I
was just terrified that he'd see Mr. Flye's arm sticking out of the dirt. It was so awful… I just couldn't bear it. I ran back to the house and… and waited to see what would happen. Daddy was out here awfully long. I thought he must've found the body. The suspense was just unbearable. I'd made up my mind to go out to see what he was doing—when you showed up with that woman… Delia Silver.
And told me Daddy was dead. I thought he must've found Mr. Flye's body and had a heart attack. And I thought you must surely know about the body. But when I came outside the next morning… the arm was buried again. I realized Daddy must've found it and covered it up.”

Moon shook his head glumly. “It was me. I thought your father had dug up the corpse. Which meant he'd put it here. But Nathan was dead by then. So I pushed the dirt over Flye's arm. To keep you from finding out …” The Ute policeman was beginning to feel outrageously stupid.

Such a sweet man.
“Imagine that… You believed my father had killed one of his employees—and you covered up the evidence. All to protect me from a scandal.” Vanessa stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

It was like rubbing salt in the wound. “Thanks,” he said gruffly.

Her lips made a pretty, though teasing smile. “But it does sort of make you my accomplice.”

It wasn't funny. He kicked at a heavy stone—scuffing the shiny toe of his brand-new bull-hide boot.

His feelings are hurt, poor dear. Best leave him he for a while.
She did.

Finally… “A penny for your thoughts, Charlie.”

“A penny don't buy much these days.”

“An apple pie, then. Hot from the oven.”

He growled. Like an old bear, she thought.

“You're
very
upset with me, aren't you?”

“One thing I still can't figure out.”

“What's that?”

“You must've been the one who worked out the deal with Ralph Briggs to sell the flint blade. So why'd you tell me what he was up to?”

“I told you the honest truth about that. After that awful woman brought Daddy the legal papers, he knew he'd have to turn the artifact over to the Silvers. It would have hurt his pride to do that. And he could've lost it for good if the Utes won the boundary dispute. So I think Daddy decided to pretend it'd been stolen—and arrange the sale through Mr. Briggs.” She gave Moon an accusing glance. “If the Utes
hadn't started that nasty fight about the land boundaries, Daddy wouldn't have been put in such a terrible spot.”

The Ute policeman sighed. “What can I say? Us Indians are always causing trouble.”

She pouted. “And
shame on you
for not trusting me, Charlie Moon!”

“I hope you'll forgive me,” he said with exaggerated politeness. “I can't imagine what I was thinking. It's not like you'd ever tell me a lie.”

Well. He was still in a snit. She gave him a moment to cool off, then changed the subject. “Why do you think Mr. Flye said the artifact didn't belong to Daddy?”

He shrugged. It was best she didn't know that Flye had made the thing. The more people who knew the flint blade was a phony, the harder it would be to keep the secret.

She was giving him a searching look. “You must've talked to Ralph Briggs—did you manage to prevent the sale?”

Charlie Moon was suddenly on the defensive. There'd be sure-enough hell to pay if Vanessa McFain ever found out that “Daddy's artifact” had been sold to a wealthy foreign collector for a bushel of greenbacks—and she didn't get a red cent of the take. What he needed was a deceptive answer that was not a bald-faced lie. “I talked to Briggs. But he claimed he had no idea where the artifact was. He said he'd never got it from your father.” That had been the antiquarian's first story—before Scott Parris threatened to get a search warrant and have a bunch of ham-fisted cops turn his antique store upside down. Then he'd prudently decided to make a deal.

Vanessa looked doubtful. “Do you believe him?”

The policeman nodded. “I'm satisfied he doesn't have it.” Quite true.

She gave him an odd look. “So where is it?”

It was Moon's turn to swallow hard. “Well… gone for good, I guess.”
I
hope.

Then maybe it really had been stolen.
“I'm sure you did your best.” Poor Charlie. What he needed was an ego boost. “You're a very clever policeman.”

Sure. Clever enough to get everything upside down and backward.

There was a long silence between them. And much soul-searching.

She touched his hand. “Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“You'll get over being upset with me… won't you?”

Knowing that he would—but not caring to admit it—he grunted.

Knowing her man, Vanessa understood this to be “yes.” And felt much better. She looked up at him with enormous, come-hither eyes.
It gets terribly lonesome out here when the snows come. The winter nights are awfully long. And cold.
“Maybe you could… drop by for a visit. From time to time.”

He was silent as a stone.

She squeezed his arm. “Charlie …?”

“I'll think about it.”

He thought about it. It was about time he found a woman to settle down with. Vanessa was easy on the eyes. Smart. Resourceful. He'd always liked her. Now that she'd inherited a fine ranch, he liked her a little more. A man could run a hundred head of Hereford stock here. And raise some fine quarterhorses. Not that it was all about the ranch. This young woman needed someone to keep an eye on her. See that she stayed out of trouble.

But there was a but.

Deep down, he'd known for weeks that something was wrong. For weeks, there had been small, sinister indications that he'd chosen to ignore. But during the course of this morning he'd come eyeball-to-eyeball with the dark side of Vanessa's nature.

Charlie Moon—who was to be best man at the wedding—had driven his pickup to Granite Creek to confer with the hopeful groom. Anne was doing all the really important planning, so there was little for them to do but talk about this and that. Like how Moon would keep the ring in his pocket until just the right moment. And how peculiar it would be for Parris to be
married again. Jokes about how Anne would make him walk the line. Parris silently wondered whether there was a rental tux in Colorado big enough for the Ute. And… whether it would be needed… whether this marriage is to be.

For the last three nights, he's awakened in a cold, clammy sweat. After dreaming the same bizarre dream:

The church is filled to overflowing with strangers. There are heaps and mounds of flowers everywhere—all white lilies. He stands before the altar, practicing his lines. I will… Forever. I do. I do. Charlie Moon is at his side, with the gold wedding band in his pocket. And a heavy revolver strapped to his side. The Ute is outfitted in an absurd lime-green tux… and he wears something on his arm.

“Charlie,” he whispers, “you shouldn't pack a gun in church.”

“It is necessary,” the Ute policeman replies in an ominous monotone.

“But why the black armband?”

Moon crosses himself. “It is customary.”

The priest looks up from his prayer book, toward the rear of the chruch. The organist immediately begins to grind out “Here Comes the Bride.” All dressed in …

Parris turns. Anne is coming up the aisle, on the arm of a solemn-faced, cadaverous man. She is all dressed in… black.

Parris tells himself that his troubled sleep is a symptom of pre-wedding jitters. Yes. Only that and nothing more …

It was mid-afternoon, and quiet in the Sugar Bowl Restaurant. Aside from the two lawmen, there was only an elderly waitress who'd already taken their orders. She was out of earshot, reading a
Glamour
magazine article entitled “Ten Ways to Drive Men Mad.” Sad to say, she would have to settle for being a mild annoyance.

“Well,” Moon said, “I guess I ought to bring you up to date on the Horace Flye business.” His pardner was up to his armpits in this mess already, and deserved to know the truth.

Scott Parris listened without comment as the Ute summarized the essential facts. How Vanessa McFain had confronted Flye during the late-night break-in of her home, how he wouldn't give up the flint blade he'd pinched off the mantelpiece. Moon described how she'd cracked the Arkansas man's skull with the poker, buried his body in the pond dam, then drove his truck over to Capote Lake. And, when Moon had hinted that body-sniffing dogs might be brought to sniff around the McFain ranch, she'd slipped out that night and proceeded to dig up Flye's body for reburial in a less conspicuous location. Only Vanessa was interrupted by her father, who'd come outside looking for her. Poor old Nathan, he must've thought she was sleepwalking again. Vanessa had hightailed it back to the house. What happened to the old man after that was a little fuzzy. But something must've spooked Nathan… maybe he saw Flye's hand sticking out of the dirt. Whatever the cause, he'd taken off in a dead run. And ended up in the excavation tent. Too bad the old man had fallen on the mammoth's tusk, but accidents do happen.

Parris thought about it. “She can't risk leaving Flye's body buried on her property. She's bound to move the corpse someplace where it won't be found.”

“I'm sure she already has,” Moon said. And that was best for everyone involved. Like him and his pardner. If Flye's body turned up, you couldn't tell what might happen. If push came to shove, folks might start talking. Delia Silver, who already felt terribly guilty about Flye's disappearance, might reveal the secret about how he planted a fake artifact in the mammoth excavation. If the rich Arab heard about this, he'd want his money back. Probably send someone to collect it from the antiquarian. And Ralph Briggs might decide to tell his tale. About how a couple of sworn officers of the law had helped him sell a fake artifact for a tub of money. And spent ninety percent of the untaxed income on Flye's orphan. It could get awfully complicated. Yes, it was best for everyone that Vanessa hauled Flye's remains away. Far away.

“Miss McFain,” Parris said, “is a rather enterprising young woman.” His eyes twinkled. “I kind of thought you and her might… well …”

“I kinda like Vanessa,” the Ute admitted glumly, “but after what I've learned about her, I don't think it'd work out.”

“See what you mean,” Parris said soberly. “Lying and killing aren't the best traits in a woman.”

“Oh, that's not the half of it.”

“There's more you haven't told me?”

“Well, you know how women can be… they're never quite satisfied with a fellow the way he is. Always want to
change
him.”

Scott Parris wondered what Anne might have in mind for him. “Change isn't necessarily a bad thing.” Not for the other guy.

“Easy for you to say,” Moon muttered darkly. “You don't know what Vanessa's got in mind.”

“Something drastic?”

“She wants to… sort of convert me into something I'm not cut out for.”

Parris chuckled. “What exactly does Sweet Thing have planned for you?” The other fellow's troubles were always amusing.

The Ute looked somewhat green around the gills. “It's hard to come right out and say it.”

“Give me a hint.”

“Rhymes with librarian.”

“Hmmm. Let me see. I got it… she's a Libertarian.”

The Ute shook his head.

“Unitarian?”

“Nope.”

“Rastafarian?”

“What's that?”

“I'm not sure. Something to do with funny hair and steel drums. Anyway, I give up.”

Moon sighed. He rolled all five syllables of the foreign word over his tongue; it left a bad taste in his mouth. So he spat it out. “Vegetarian.”

“Great day,” Parris said with a straight face, “the woman is heartless.”

Moon nodded his earnest agreement, and shuddered as he imagined Life With Vanessa. Oatmeal for breakfast. Raw carrots
for lunch. He could not imagine what sort of horror would be served up for supper. But she was a clever woman; probably knew thirteen ways to disguise tofu so it looked like actual food. At best, a man would be driven to a lot of in-between-meals feeding on the sly.

Parris realized that his buddy was taking this hard. A diplomatic approach was called for. “Maybe you could work out a compromise.”

The Ute looked more than a little suspicious, and then some. “What kinda compromise?”

“Oh, I dunno. But if you could manage to chomp a few stalks of celery once in a while, I bet she'd fry you a chicken now and again.”

“You really think so?”

“Sure. But you'd have to be willing to be… well… a little more flexible in the way you look at food.”

Moon thought about it. That wasn't an altogether bad notion. If a man started gradually enough, he could eventually do really detestable things he'd never thought himself capable of. And Vanessa was a pretty special woman. Who owned a nice little ranch. Not that the ranch had all that much to do with it. Well, maybe forty-nine percent. Or fifty-one.

The waitress—who had arrived with a heavy tray—put a turkey sandwich and iced tea in front of Parris, then winked a thickly mascaraed eyelash at Moon. “Hiya, cowboy.” She unburdened herself of the massive load of calories. “If I remember right, you get the chicken-fried steak, double serving. With mashed potatoes and brown gravy and biscuits.”

“Right,” Moon said. “But I'd like to order a side dish.”