The Old Gray Wolf (19 page)

Nevertheless, Miss Whysper was doubtful. “The Columbine—is that a bed-and-breakfast?”

“More or less, but only for invited guests.” Moon grinned. “And we serve lunch and supper too.”

“The Columbine is Charlie's ranch.” Parris bragged like he was top dog at the local chamber of commerce: “And you can take it from me—there's no better place to eat or get a good night's sleep in all of Granite Creek County.”

Miss Whysper was charmed and amused by the offer. “That's very kind of you, Mr. Moon, but I really wouldn't want to be a bother.…” Her words trailed off to give him room to make the proper response.

Ever obliging, Charlie Moon assured the lady that she would not be the least bother.

Patsy Poynter provided another incentive: “You probably won't find another
decent
room in town.”

Eager to get this lodging business resolved, Scott Parris commenced to describe the high points of Charlie Moon's vast cattle ranch, adding, “You'll like the Columbine—it's miles out of town and quiet as the lone prairie can get, Miss Smithson—uh, sorry, that just slipped out.” The off-duty cop waved his felt fedora. “I meant to say Miss
Whisper
.”

The lady arched an eyebrow. “With a
y
.”

Parris returned a blank look.
What's she talking about?

Charlie Moon leaned close to Parris's ear—and spelled it out for him.

Which the chief of police appreciated; resourceful deputies who can clarify just about any confusion that comes along are hard to come by. But there's always a
but
appended to a compliment. But …
I wish Charlie didn't take so much pleasure in explaining things to me.

Mildly amused by her little tease, Miss Whysper agreed to lodge at the Columbine “for perhaps a day or two.”

“Fine,” the rancher said, and reached for the pink suitcase on the bed. “I'll tote this out and stash it in your Bronco.”

The lady protested. “I really do appreciate your gallantry—but I prefer to carry my own luggage.”

As she pulled the gaudy suitcase from his grip, Moon relinquished it gracefully and advised the do-it-herself tourist that his Expedition—with the Columbine logo on both front doors—was parked close to her car. “Soon as you're ready to leave, you can follow me to the ranch.” He added as an afterthought, “On the way out of town, I'll be dropping the ladies off, and then Scott.”

“That will present no difficulty,” said Miss Whysper. “I am accustomed to following vehicles during the darkest nights—and this will provide me with an opportunity to inform myself about the layout of your charming little town and the rugged country surrounding it.”

“Okay then.” Parris glanced at his wristwatch. “Let's get going.”
In a day or two, I expect she'll be ready to tell me about this alleged cop killer who's supposedly coming to town.
If not, Granite Creek's top cop would arrange an “official interview.” Read: high-temperature
interrogation
—the kind that grills well-done. Having a famous ex-Texas Ranger for a granddaddy carried some weight, but there were limits to professional courtesy.

Miss Whysper was more than ready to depart, but the lady did have a request to make of the chief of police. “I'm rather embarrassed to be checking out so soon—would you mind very much informing the desk clerk that I am accepting Mr. Moon's gracious offer to stay at his ranch?”

“Not a problem.” Parris donned his felt hat. “I'll see to it right away.”

And he did. Within three minutes, the lodger's transfer was a done deal and under way.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

SAYING ADIOS TO THE HOLIDAY INN

The lawmen and their lady friends had long since settled into the Columbine Expedition, all wondering when the Columbine's prospective houseguest would show up. When Charlie Moon noticed Miss Whysper's approach, he resisted the instinctive impulse to get out and help the lady with her luggage and laptop. He admired the woman's determined stride.
She'd just say no again—this one likes to tote her own load.
To make sure she spotted his wheels, the amiable rancher switched on the headlights and pulled his automobile halfway out of its parking place, and waited with characteristic patience for the tourist to get her car started up.

After opening the dusty old Bronco's passenger-side door, Miss Whysper placed both the pink suitcase and the color-matched laptop on the seat. Satisfied with the stability of this arrangement, the woman could not help frowning at the chaos confronting her. An automobile trip of any distance invariably results in some level of mess, but this jumble of clutter was more than an embarrassment for the Strange Lady in Town. There was no time at the moment to roll up her sleeves and attack the general disorder with gusto, but she did feel compelled to perform at least a perfunctory stab at tidying up. Toward that end, she made a slight rearrangement of the fleece-lined raincoat that was concealing some unsightly rubbish on the front floorboard—pulling one corner to cover up an old shoe.
There, that's better.
The realization that she was such a neat-freak almost made the lady blush, but with that more or less ritual task completed, Miss Whysper felt measurably better. She slammed the Bronco door shut, hurried around to the driver's side, and slipped under the wheel to crank up the old heap—which chugged unevenly, then died.
Oh, please start this time!
It seems pointless to make pleas to machines, but she did have better luck on her second try. With a sigh of relief, she proceeded to follow Charlie Moon's taillights out of the Holiday Inn parking lot.

Even relatively short car rides are often somewhat tedious, and in this instance nothing of substance would occur during the next two or three miles. Which provides an opportunity to pause, back up a few minutes—and review the recent activities of a major player whose apparel-inspired nickname and unlawful vocation have not been mentioned lately.

WHAT
HAS
THE
COWBOY
ASSASSIN
BEEN
UP
TO
?

Let it first be said that no moss grows on this seasoned pro, who has been tending to business with both eyes wide open. The earlier arrival of Charlie Moon, Scott Parris, and their good-looking lady friends at the Holiday Inn had (of course) not gone unnoticed by Cowboy. And not only that—

But wait. A matter of journalistic ethics has been brought to our attention. A number of learned essays have been written on the matter, but what it boils down to is this: one should not draw attention to the admittedly admirable skills and stratagems of those nefarious souls who earn their bread by committing capital felonies. Why? Because excessive notoriety might well drive such misguided citizens to new heights of criminality—not to mention inspiring impressionable youth into similar unhappy careers. Therefore, we shall skip over the cold-blooded killer's cunningly devious behavior whilst the happy Parris–Mayfair–Moon–Poynter foursome was exchanging pleasantries with Miss Whysper—and cut directly to the chase.

As the spunky Miss Whysper was departing from the hotel parking lot immediately behind the manly GC cops and their sweeties, the odious malefactor was also close at hand, and mulling over
what to do next
. All sorts of dreadful possibilities presented themselves, each one more appallingly appealing than the former.

Which circumstance naturally piques our curiosity.

It is folly to anticipate such an unpredictable creature, but here is an educated guess: being one of those out-of-the-box thinkers who appreciates a daunting challenge, it seems likely that the so-called Cowboy will take advantage of this unexpected twist by performing what an urbane crime-drama critic might depict as a coup de théâtre. A risky choice, but one might reasonably suppose that what the egotistical assassin has in mind is a bit of sophomoric showing off—a flaunting display of on-the-spot improvisation intended to dazzle any hard-to-please hardcases among the Granite Creek audience. This modest speculation is offered for what it is worth, but the unseemly details of the assassin's upcoming performance are necessarily opaque and will remain so until that mercurial performer has settled upon a suitably theatrical scenario—which (we suspect) is likely to bring the curtain down with a horrendous crash. This proposed finale is not so farfetched as it might seem. History is punctuated with such episodes, which have tended to end disastrously.

By way of example, d'you recall that infamous incident where Mr. John Wilkes Booth (a
sure enough
bad actor) made the grand leap from President Lincoln's balcony onto the stage of Ford's Theatre, the hammy player's closing line—and the astonished audience's reaction to this outrage?

You
do
? Extraordinary.

(You are remarkably well preserved for one of your age.)

WE
RETURN
TO
THE
TEDIOUS
AUTOMOBILE
TRIP

On the first leg of the journey, the ladies in Charlie Moon's Expedition spent all their time chatting excitedly about the mysterious woman who preferred to be addressed as “Miss Whysper,” with no end of commentary (mostly provided by Professor Tiffany Mayfair) on such earthshaking issues as what a
smart dresser
Miss W. was (her dark blue pinstripe suit, those expensive hand-crafted black cowgirl boots, the matching black leather belt, the exquisite black-and-white cameo on the black satin strap around her neck), and observations about how her appearance might be enhanced by a few minor adjustments.

Tiffany (archly): “She really ought to discard that horrid pink suitcase and purchase a suitable set of black Moroccan leather luggage.”

Patsy (sweetly): “Well, the suitcase does match her pink laptop, and perhaps Miss Whysper spends most of her income on nice clothing.”

Tiffany: “She certainly doesn't spend it on a nice car—I'd be afraid to drive that old heap for a
mile
.”

Patsy (hoping to put a more positive spin on their conversation): “Wasn't the way she had her hair arranged just
darling,
and so perfect for her oval face?”

Tiffany: “I still hope she will consider addressing my students.” With a sniff: “Very few authors visit Granite Creek, but the ones who do are generally flattered to be invited to my creative-writing class.”

And so on and so forth. Indeed, the women were so engrossed in themselves and Miss Whysper that they seemed hardly aware of their male companions. Moreover, their incessant conversation (often with both speaking at the same time) was … but how does one express it without being unnecessarily offensive? How about this: “Like the drone of surf in the men's ears.” Not unpleasant, but neither was their stream of words particularly interesting.

Thankfully for Parris and Moon, this intense feminine exchange was abruptly terminated when the Indian pulled his vehicle to a stop at Patsy Poynter's residence, where he escorted his intended to her front door. (The couple's embrace was discreetly concealed in thickish shadows cast by branches of a bushy white mulberry tree).

Miss Whysper, who had double-parked the Bronco about a half block away, waited patiently.

From Miss Poynter's home, the small caravan motored across town to Professor Mayfair's first-floor flat in a singles' apartment building that catered to university staff, where Parris's girlfriend gave him a perfunctory kiss-off. Five minutes later, with the Bronco remaining about a hundred yards to the rear, the men arrived at Scott Parris's hilltop redbrick home, where the chief of police was dropped off with a “see you later, pardner.”

With all his deliveries made, Charlie Moon rolled his big SUV out of town with the Bronco now not so far behind. A lonely male trailed by a lonelier female of the species is suggestive, but if they had been sitting side by side, their loneliness would hardly have been decreased. The pair of Ford SUVs proceeded down a long, dark highway under a cold heaven that was extravagantly sprayed with sparkling diamonds.

They finally turned into the Columbine gate and had some rough going over a few miles of bumpy ranch road.

As Moon passed the foreman's residence, he took note of the fact that the lights were turned off and that …
Pete Bushman's pickup isn't parked in the driveway.
The rancher concluded that …
Pete and Dolly must be over at the Big Hat headquarters for the night.
A reasonable guess. But after the pair of oversize motorcars crossed the creaky bridge over the Too Late Creek and were within sight of the ranch headquarters, Moon spotted Bushman's truck parked close to the front porch—like folks do when there's something to load up. Or unload.

MISS
SUSAN
WHYSPER
OBSESSES

The lady who had assumed that name parked the Bronco under the gaunt limbs of an almost-bare cottonwood, pulled her jacket collar over her neck, and stared at the crystal-clear sky.
It will be very cold tonight.
Not that she would mind; Miss Whysper was a hardy soul and the prospect of frigid weather suited her just fine. The various and sundry cargo the SUV was carrying did not. (Suit her)

She eyed a plastic box that still contained a few of the original dozen Grandmother's Best chocolate-chip cookies. There were also several discarded Butterfinger candy-bar wrappers littering the old SUV, an open box of Ritz crackers, and a partially eaten Velveeta sandwich that had been slathered with Miracle Whip. That wasn't the worst of it, and Miss Whysper was reminded that she had some serious tidying up to do when an opportunity presented itself.
I wonder whether I ought to close the car windows tight
. She frowned.
Or should I leave them cracked a little bit?
There were pluses and minuses to be considered. To wit:
If I close them, the inside of the car might smell like roadkill in the morning.
On the other hand …
If I leave the windows open an inch so the old clunker can air out, the odors might attract animals
. She glanced at the Columbine headquarters building.
Like that old hound peering out from under the porch.
Which development might well prove awkward to a woman of business who needed to make a favorable impression.