The Old Gray Wolf (40 page)

The dwarf appeared to be genuinely puzzled.

Daisy elaborated: “If you'd told me to expect Miss Smithson's ghost, that would've helped some.”

The Little Man hastened to demur. As it happened, the dead woman was from out of state. That being the case, he did not (so he claimed) know the spirit's name.

Certain that he was lying between his pointy little yellow possum teeth, Daisy snapped back, “Well, you must've known she was a dead woman whose body was in that rusty old Bronco parked in Charlie's yard—it wouldn't have made your forked tongue fall out to tell me
that
!”

It never helps to lose one's temper.

From this point, their conversation deteriorated into a lively exchange of charges, countercharges, finger waggings, pointed reminders of previous offenses (some going back to the early 1930s), and finally—unseemly allusions to the other party's venerable ancestors, comparing the dearly departed to various diseased quadrupeds, sharp-toothed serpents—even the loathsome larvae of pestilent insects. It would be indelicate to provide a detailed description. (But for those few who hanker for one: mangy coyotes, treacherous rattlesnakes, and ugly maggots.)

It is hard to find anything positive to report about this unfortunate exchange, but in the interest of promoting the illusion of an upbeat conclusion, some attempt must be made. Try this woolly euphemism on for size:

Like all unpleasant events in our transitory existence, this one finally came to an end.

Still somewhat of a downer?

Point taken. What we need here is an upbeat adverb. One pops immediately to mind.

Happily,
the two old-timers finally ran out of steam. Thus exhausted, they were in the mood to mend fences. No, they did not embrace. Neither was there an exchange of comradely handshakes. But as she withdrew from the field of conflict, Daisy did offer a genuinely friendly smile with her fond farewell: “See you later, little neighbor.”
When I ain't got nothing better to do—like grow a big, hairy wart on the tip of my nose.

How did the
pitukupf
respond? In that faultless, archaic-Ute dialect with which he customarily communicated, the diminutive gentleman expressed his heartfelt wish that the Ute elder would arrive home safe and sound.
To find her fine house burned to the ground.

 

EPILOGUE

CLOSURE

The conclusion to Charlie Moon's romance with the reference librarian occurred on a fine September afternoon, when the mobile phone buzzed inside his jacket pocket. He frowned at the caller ID, and was about to return the communications instrument to his pocket when he realized that …
This is as good a time as any for a final goodbye.
“Hello, Patsy—how's your sister getting along?”

“Why
hello,
Charlie—Daphne's doing fine.” The lady's bright voice did not conceal her inner tension. “Aren't you going to ask how I am?”

“So how are you?”

“Oh, okay I guess.” After waiting vainly for a response, she added, “I'm in Granite Creek for a few hours to pick up some belongings I'd left at my house … and … well … to tie up some loose ends.”

The loose end nodded. “That can take some doing.”

Pretty Patsy Poynter sighed like a warm southern breeze. “You know how it is—moving away can be s
uch
a pain.”

“Mmm-hmm. I know how it is.”
But tell me all about it.

What she had to say for the following minute or so is of no more interest to us than it was to Mr. Moon. Pretty Patsy chatted about this and that and whatnot before getting around to the issue that had prompted her call. “Oh, by the way—when I was coming out of the public library today,
who
do you think I almost bumped into on Copper Street?”

The gentleman admitted his ignorance, but concealed the fact that he did not really give a damn.

“Well, it was Sarah Frank—she is such a
sweet
little child.”

Uh-oh.
Moon waited for the other dainty high-heeled shoe to drop.

It did. “And Sarah was wearing an
engagement ring
.”

He arched an eyebrow.
So that's what this is all about.

“And the thing that struck me as such a strange coincidence was that it looked very much like mine—” She cleared her throat. “Well, I mean like the ring that you gave me.”

Moon nodded at his mental image of the gorgeous woman. “The one you returned by FedEx.”

“Well … yes. But let's not get into all that sad business right now.” Patsy inhaled a deep breath and homed back in on the burning subject like a heat-seeking Miss Missile. “Anyway, when I asked the adorable girl who the lucky man was—she wouldn't tell me.”

The unlucky man grinned.
Maybe Sarah figured it was none of your business.

Patsy Poynter affected a conspiratorial tone, as if two sensible adults were discussing a silly juvenile. “Well, not
right off
she wouldn't. But when I pressed, Sarah looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Charlie gave it to me.' Moon's ex produced a brittle little laugh. “Well, what do you think about
that
?”

The designated fiancé sighed.
I think this is gonna be a long, interesting engagement.

“Charlie—are you there?”

“Sure.”
A man has to be somewhere.

“Well … about that ring you
supposedly
gave Sarah … are you going to tell me what that's all about—or just leave me to guess?”

“Yes.”

.…

.…

Click.

.…

Click.

 

ALSO BY JAMES D. DOSS

Coffin Man

A Dead Man's Tale

The Widow's Revenge

Snake Dreams

Three Sisters

Stone Butterfly

Shadow Man

The Witch's Tongue

Dead Soul

White Shell Woman

Grandmother Spider

The Night Visitor

The Shaman's Game

The Shaman's Bones

The Shaman Laughs

The Shaman Sings

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JAMES D. DOSS, a longtime resident of the Southwest, is the author of sixteen previous Charlie Moon mysteries. Two of the Moon books were named among the best books of the year by
Publishers Weekly.
He died in 2012, shortly after completing
The Old Gray Wolf,
the seventeenth and final novel in the series.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE OLD GRAY WOLF
. Copyright © 2012 by James D. Doss. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Cover design by Danielle Fiorella

Cover photograph © Kerrick James/Corbis

ISBN 978-0-312-61371-6 (hardcover)

ISBN 9781250018090 (e-book)

First Edition: November 2012