Coffin Man

by James D. Doss

  The entertainment terminated, the lonely bachelor squinted at the windshield, where busy wipers were furiously swiping away gallons of water. I’ve got some glazed doughnuts in the breadbox. His tense expression gradually relaxed into a wistful smile. I’ll warm a couple of them puppies up in the microwave, and spread some butterlike goop on ’em, and pour me a cold glass of skim milk and … And all would be right again.

  Until the next time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THEIR EXCELLENT ADVENTURE COMMENCES

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  After the long drive from the tribal elder’s home on the Southern Ute reservation, Sarah Frank and Daisy Perika arrived at the Granite Creek Cemetery at a propitious moment. The methodical examination of the crime site completed, GCPD officers Eddie Knox and E. C. “Piggy” Slocum were in the process of removing the final few yards of black-and-yellow POLICE—DO NOT ENTER tape from the residence formerly occupied by the recently deceased cemetery custodian. This official act, and the fact that Morris Meusser had been buried not fifty yards from his beloved little cottage on this very morning, put a definitive period at the end of his soul’s seventy-year sentence on planet earth. Or so it seemed.

  Cemetery Manager George R. Hopper, dressed in a natty three-piece gray suit, pale blue silk shirt, and red power tie, was overseeing acting custodian Freddy “Fixit” Whitsun, who was outfitted in oversize blue bib overalls. Meusser’s replacement was carrying a cardboard box of personal property into the snug quarters where he was about to spend his first night.

  As Sarah pulled her spiffy red F-150 to a stop beside Knox and Slocum’s black-and-white Chevy, Hopper left Whitsun to move his meager belongings in without benefit of the boss’s helpful instructions. In a much better mood than on the Sabbath morn when Mr. Meusser’s pale corpse had been found inside the dwelling, the spare little man stepped sprightly across the lawn that his new hire had mowed barely an hour earlier. As he approached the pickup’s passenger-side door, a perfunctory smile appeared under Hopper’s meticulously trimmed mustache. “Good afternoon, ladies … how may I help you?” There was no mistaking the hint of reservation in this offer.

  Believing that Daisy was here to find a spooky clue that would identify the custodian’s murderer, Sarah discreetly deferred to the senior citizen beside her.

  The Southern Ute tribal elder put on the friendliest face in her collection of amiable expressions, which was a mild scowl. “I’m wanting to look at some burial plots.”

  “Ah.” Trading his salesman’s smile for a mortician’s sad face, Hopper nodded knowingly. “Preparing for that eventual day when one must shrug off this mortal coil and pass over, are we?”

  “I don’t know about you, sonny, but I’m older than Moses’ great-grandmomma and I might kick the bucket any second now.” As she spoke, Daisy was opening the truck door and fumbling with her oak walking stick. “I’ll need some time to wander around and get a good look at your graveyard.”

  Somewhat nonplussed, Hopper attempted an explanation: “As it happens, ma’am, we won’t be able to accommodate you until after—”

  “The girl will drop me off here for an hour or so.” As the nervous white man supported her elbow, Daisy grunted herself to the ground.

  “Actually, the cemetery is closed to the public.” Hopper was trying very hard to be nice. “If you would like to return in a day or two, I’d be happy to help you find just the right—”

  “I ain’t the public,” Daisy snapped. The wrinkled Indian aimed her meanest beady-eyed look at the annoying matukach. “And you don’t need to help me. I can take care of myself.”

  “I do appreciate your consideration of Granite Creek Cemetery for your final resting place, ma’am.” Following this conciliatory preamble, the cemetery manager stiffened his spine, raised his smallish chin, and assumed the firm, no-nonsense tone that he used with his children when the freckle-faced imps would not listen to reason. “But we cannot help you today.”

  Daisy was beginning to get his drift. “Why not?”

  Mr. Hopper helped himself to a deep breath. Thus refreshed, he launched into a detailed explanation about how the police were still searching the cemetery grounds for physical evidence that might lead to the identification, apprehension, and arrest of the person or persons responsible for the recent “deplorable homicide” at the custodian’s residence. Interpreting the old woman’s blank stare as an indication that she did not understand the importance of cooperating fully with the local constabulary, he added, “Despite my natural desire to assist you immediately in finding a suitable burial plot, my first responsibility is to provide every assistance to our fine police department. The villain who murdered Mr. Meusser must be apprehended.” And read his rights right on the spot and hung from the nearest cottonwood!

  Charlie Moon’s closest living relative was tough as a two-dollar steak and stubborn as a starving bulldog pulling on the other end of a pork chop and any other worn-out metaphor you might want to dust off, but Aunt Daisy realized that she was up against one of those feisty little white men who was not going to budge. Was she defeated? Perish the very thought; giving up was not an option. Challenges such as this merely added spice to her life. It was a risky move, but the sly old gamester was feeling lucky. After all, the ploy had worked with Sarah and … That Ute-Papago orphan’s twice as smart as this fussy little upstart. “You’re right as rain—lawbreakers have to be caught and punished. That’s why I’ve come to lend a hand.”

  Hopper stared at the other party in this opaque conversation. “Excuse me … I don’t believe I understand.”

  “That’s all right, sonny.” Daisy patted her mark on the arm. “I’m going to explain it so you can.” She got started just as Freddy Whitsun ambled up to find out what was going on. Both men listened attentively. As did Sarah Frank, who had remained in her pickup.

  Hopper’s bright blue eyes popped.

  Whitsun’s lantern jaw dropped.

  The cemetery manager coughed, cleared his throat, and repeated Sarah Frank’s Sunday question: “Can you really do that?”

  “Sure.” Daisy produced a wicked grin. “Easy as eating a piece of cake.”

  “Pie,” Whitsun mumbled.

  As she addressed Hopper, Daisy pointedly ignored the nitpicking handyman. “You must’ve seen people do it on TV.”

  “Well … yes. I suppose I have.” The cemetery manager cocked his head as he regarded the elderly specimen. “But those were … well … professional psychics.”

  “What do you think I am, some slipshod amateur?”

  “Actually, ma’am—I don’t know who you are.” Much less what. “We have not been properly introduced.” He recovered the polite smile. “I am George Rogers Hopper. I have the honor of being the manager of Granite Creek Cemetery.”

  “I’m Daisy Perika, Your Honor.”

  Blank stares from the white men.

  She fleshed out the introduction: “I’m Charlie Moon’s aunt.”

  The significance of this claim gradually dawned on the cemetery manager and the replacement custodian.

  “Ah, yes.” Hopper nodded knowingly. “I believe I have heard of you—aren’t you the Navajo woman who prepares herbal medications, casts spells and whatnot?”

  “No!” Daisy said. And she meant every word of it.

  “Aunt Daisy’s a Southern Ute.” Sarah Frank’s voice from the pickup cab surprised everyone. “Like Charlie Moon.”

  “Oh, of course.” Hopper’s apology was all over his face. “And am I to understand that you can visit a homicide scene and pick up ethereal hints of what transpired during the final moments of the fatal event—possibly even identify the malefactor responsible for the horrid deed?”

  “Well, I don’t know about that—but if the dead man’s spirit is still hanging around here, I could ask him what happened.”

  Deathly afraid of haunts, Freddy Whitsun shuddered at the thought of conversing with one. But he couldn’t help wondering whether Morris knew who�
�d killed him.

  “You could actually speak to the late Morris Meusser?” Hopper’s eyes betrayed his doubts. “As in a conversation?”

  “Sure,” Daisy said. “If that dead man knows who did him in, he’ll tell me.” And the more the shaman made her pitch, the more it made sense. Maybe I should’ve been doing this kind of thing all my life. A person who could talk to ghosts might even be able to turn a nice profit. I bet I could make a pile of cash money finding out who pulled the trigger.

  Hopper was not entirely convinced. I am certainly tempted, but … “I don’t know. It is a somewhat unorthodox procedure.” And could be the cause of further scandal for the cemetery.

  “Maybe so, but it works almost every time.” Daisy shook her walking stick at the hesitant white man. “And it won’t cost you a copper dime.” Seeing that Hopper was teetering right on the razor’s edge of indecision, she gave him a push in the preferred direction. “Scott Parris won’t be happy if you don’t let me give it a try.”

  This was a new wrinkle. “You’re a friend of Chief of Police Parris?”

  Got him! “Friend don’t get you halfway there.” Daisy’s eyes moistened. “I’m like a mother to Scotty.”

  “Oh.” A half-dozen heartbeats. “I will consult with Chief Parris about this matter. If he is in favor of what you propose, then I suppose it might be all right.” And if things go sour, Parris can take all the heat.

  “Suit yourself.” Daisy shrugged. “Call a meeting of the town council, appoint a committee to study about it, and write up a thousand-page report. But in a day or two the crime scene’ll be cold as a brass well digger’s … uh … behind.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Dead folks’ ghosts don’t hang around for weeks on end, just hoping somebody like me might show up to hear their account of what happened. Haunts have places to go, things to do. For all I know, Mr. Meusser might’ve already left.” She made a pretense of climbing back into Sarah’s F-150.

  “Oh, I see. Wait a moment.”

  Daisy paused at the pickup door.

  George Rogers Hopper made a snap decision. “Very well. I assume you would like to begin in the custodian’s residence.”

  “Sure.” The supposed psychic addressed Sarah: “You drive on over to the park and do your schoolwork, then come back and pick me up in about an hour.”

  Miss Frank promised to do just that.

  Hopper and Whitsun watched the red pickup depart.

  A SINISTER FORESHADOWING

  Daisy Perika also watched the departure of Sarah’s shiny F-150, but with a sudden and inexplicable trepidation that the girl was driving off into harm’s way. Oh my goodness—what’s she about to do—wreck that little red truck? The internal answer was an immediate and conclusive no.

  The form of Sarah’s trouble would be far more subtle than a pickup wrapped around a telephone pole—the peril would be disguised to please a young girl’s eyes.

  Well. Daisy knew what that meant. Trouble with a capital T would be a member of the gourd-head gender. But the hairy-leg would not be a Ute, or even one of those Arizona Papagos. The tribal elder, who disapproved of romantic liaisons between Native Americans and matukach, imagined some good-looking white boy spotting Sarah alone in the park and flirting with the pretty Indian girl. Having been young herself about a million years ago, she had not forgotten how one thing could lead to another. But Sarah knows how to take care of herself. She tried to comfort herself with the conviction that … Charlie Moon’s the only man that silly Ute-Papago orphan is interested in. Maybe so. But young women’s interests have been known to change. Poor Daisy—every attempt to suppress her anxieties seemed only to aggravate them.

  But don’t waste any pity on Charlie Moon’s agitated auntie. When confronted by nagging worries about an imaginary future calamity, the feisty old lady knows just what to do: look for the first opportunity to make some real trouble right now. For someone else, of course. Some rascal who has it coming.

  Reinforced by the knowledge that she had been born into Uncle Sam’s fabled Land of Opportunity, Daisy Perika felt better right away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  DAISY FAKES IT

  After Sarah Frank’s pickup was out of sight, the cemetery manager escorted Miss Daisy into the little bungalow. Once inside, Hopper stood at a discreet distance as the aged Indian woman began her examination of the dead man’s former home. Despite his natural reservations about such spooky goings-on, the straitlaced fellow found the process rather exciting. I’d give a shiny silver dollar to know what the peculiar old crone is seeing … and thinking.

  The elderly Ute stood silently in the plain little parlor, giving the merest glance to the couch where Morris Meusser’s corpse had been discovered on Sunday morning. She took a long, hard look at a detailed cemetery diagram that covered most of one parlor wall. I didn’t have any notion of how big this graveyard is—it must be over a hundred acres. And best of all for her experiment … There’s no telling how many people are buried here, but it’s got to be thousands. She was fascinated by the map, which displayed every numbered plot in each section of the cemetery—from Rockefeller Estates with its spacious accommodations (I bet a grave there’d cost an arm and a leg) to Pine Haven, where tiny plots were crowded together like segments of a beehive (That’ll be where the poor folks are buried). Last, Daisy noticed a line that neatly bisected the historic section of the cemetery. This was evidently a pathway that connected to U.S. Grant Park. If I see some spirits right away, there won’t be any need to hang around this oversized graveyard for a whole hour—I could walk directly over to the park and find Sarah. Having absorbed all the information she needed from this carefully planned township of the dead, the old recluse turned her attention to the dwelling where Mr. Meusser had spent the last few years of his quiet life. This little house is fairly clean for a place where a man lived all by himself. But that ugly old leather couch looks lumpy as a sack of potatoes. If this was my home, I’d put some nice white curtains on the windows. As she inspected the small bedroom and smaller kitchen, Daisy imagined additional feminine touches that would make the custodian’s quarters more livable.

  When the crafty old woman had completed her arcane task in a manner designed to impress the cemetery manager, Hopper dared not ask what she might have “picked up on,” and followed her out of the front door.

  Daisy leaned on her oak staff. “Now I’ll go spend some time in the cemetery.” Her old eyes twinkled with amusement at the white man’s apparent unease. “It’ll be interesting to see who I meet up with out there—and what they’ve got to say.”

  Hopper gestured to draw her attention to his freshly washed and waxed Buick. “I’ll be delighted to take you on a tour.”

  “No, I don’t want to ride.” The tribal elder shook her head. “I’ll have to do this all by myself.”

  As she ambled off, the men gazed at Aunt Daisy’s back. Both wondered if she would go directly to the fresh grave where Morris Meusser’s corpse had been laid to rest only hours ago. This was the obvious place to find and interview the murdered man.

  Daisy, who had no idea where the custodian was buried, did not.

  His doubts about this self-proclaimed psychic confirmed, George Hopper dismissed Charlie Moon’s aunt as an elderly eccentric who would probably amuse herself by reading inscriptions on old tombstones. Whatever her obscure intentions might be, they were of no further interest to this busy man of business. The cemetery manager leaned toward Meusser’s replacement and murmured from the corner of his mouth, “Follow her in the electric truck, Freddy. But remain at a discreet distance, so as not to interfere with her … ah … concentration. The poor old thing will probably get footsore after a while. When she does, you can provide her with transport.”

  “Yes sir.”

  As George Hopper’s amiable employee eased his bulky form into the modified golf cart, Hopper assured himself that he had made the right decision. Nothing will come of this, but what harm can it d
o to allow an old lady to wander around the cemetery for a little while?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE SHAMAN’S EXPERIMENT

  George Hopper’s skeptical assessment of the tribal elder’s extrasensory powers was not without some justification. Daisy Perika’s psychic engine was certainly not hitting on all eight cylinders. If she’d had the least inkling that the replacement custodian was tagging along behind her on the electric cart, the cranky old soul would have turned to confront Freddy Whitsun with all the ferocity of a cornered wolverine.

  Secure in her presumed solitude, Daisy toddled off into the vast environs of Granite Creek Cemetery with considerable anticipation of success. There are bound to be lots of haunts here. And with a little bit of luck, at least a few of those lonesome souls would want to start up a conversation. That was the way it had always been in Cañón del Espíritu. Ask Daisy and she’ll tell you—if dead people had one thing in common, it was wanting to talk to somebody whose flesh was still warm. Which reminded the sly deceiver of her cover story. If I’m lucky enough to run into that cemetery employee who was killed over the weekend, I might learn something that’d help the police find out who did him in. But it had been Daisy’s experience that some folks who died violently either didn’t know what had happened or couldn’t explain it so it made any sense. All they do is jibber-jabber a bunch of foolishness! Dismissing all thoughts of Morris Meusser’s spirit, Daisy gripped her walking stick tightly and concentrated on her actual mission. I sure hope I’ll be able to see these dead people. She heaved a melancholy sigh. But if I don’t …

  The old woman didn’t want to go there; that was a dismal bridge to be crossed if and when the time came. For all her long and interesting life, Daisy had been a special person. The very thought of suddenly becoming ordinary was not at all appealing. But there was this consolation: Even if I can’t see the dead folks, I can still hear them. And how many people could make that claim? About one in a million, she estimated. And not only that … Nobody but me knows that I’ve gone stone blind to ghosts. Except for the exception. Well, the Little Man knows. But who would the pitukupf tell? As far as Daisy knew, she was the only living human whom the dwarf communicated with. After I’m dead and gone, the little runt’ll be lonely. She wondered whom he would talk to then. The answer seemed obvious enough. He’ll take up with Sarah. A rueful smile wreathed the tribal elder’s wrinkled face. Unless she’s too scared to talk to him. Her smile gave way to a melancholy sigh. When I die, it’ll be like a whole age has come to an end. Which thought provided some prideful satisfaction. People in the tribe will talk about ‘way back then when old Daisy used to talk to the pitukupf.’