Daisy’s nifty bit of playacting did the trick.
Hurt by this display of disinterest, Sarah proceeded to provide an account of her chance meeting with the “perfect gentleman.”
When she omitted some small detail, Miss Daisy—with the air of one who is merely holding up her side of a boring conversation—would interject a remark to pry out the desired information. An illustrative example:
SARAH: “And he has this neighbor upstairs, a young lady with a tiny baby. They keep him awake and he has to leave his apartment just to find some peace and quiet.”
DAISY: “He probably lives in one of them new high-rises they’ve put up over on Arlington Avenue. I hear they’re awfully crowded, with walls thin as paper so you can hear every word your neighbor says.”
SARAH (shaking her head): “Captain Boyle’s apartment is on 144 Hollybush Street.” Not that it mattered. It’s not like I’d ever go visit him.
* * *
By the time Sarah turned the truck off the paved highway, under the arched Columbine gate, and onto the graveled lane that meandered for miles before terminating at the ranch headquarters, she had just about run out of steam on the subject of Captain Erasmus Boyle.
Having Sarah’s welfare in mind, Daisy took a deep breath. “You ought to tell Charlie Moon about this nice soldier-boy.”
This remark startled the youthful driver. “Why?”
The cagey old lady turned to smile at Sarah’s tense profile. “Because it might make Charlie a little bit jealous.”
“Oh—that’s a terrible thing to suggest!” And just the sort of insidious proposal one should expect from Aunt Daisy. But … It just might work. As she half pretended to be outraged, Sarah Frank’s face burned with shame. “Why on earth would I want to make Charlie jealous of a man that I don’t have the least interest in?”
This produced a snorting retort from her surly passenger. “If you really don’t know, kiddo—I’d never be able to explain it to you.” Nevertheless, after a pregnant silence Daisy gave it a shot: “You’re already nineteen, going on twenty—and not getting any prettier.” She paused again to let this barbed hint of approaching old-maid status sink in.
It did; penetrating deep enough to pierce the girl’s tender heart.
Satisfied with the effect of her initial assault, the well-meaning but misguided old warrior let loose a second missile: “When I was your age, I’d already had me a husband for three years.” This dart, tipped with the poison of bitter memories, made a tight U-turn—and returned to wound Daisy’s flesh with a dose of her own medicine. Ol’ Hubert wasn’t much to look at and he hardly ever brought a greenback dollar home and the lazy boozer drank like a fish and never took a bath except that Saturday night when he fell into the irrigation ditch and drowned. The resentful old soul frowned at another particularly distasteful recollection: Worst of all, he chewed tobacco and spit on the sandstone hearth and I never was able to scrub those ugly spots out—not with a wire brush! Hardly a catch to brag about. But when times are hard and pickings are slim, a young woman can’t afford to be too choosy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THREE TACITURN INDIANS
Though usually a cheerful time for hungry folk at a table laden with tasty victuals, suppertimes at the Columbine were as varied as the moods of the diners. Most evening meals were spiced with lively and upbeat conversation, but a few were quiet, introspective gatherings.
This evening’s feast was of that latter category.
The long, lean man at the head of the table seemed to have all his attention focused on a mouthwatering platter of venison-and-cheese enchiladas, black-peppered pinto beans, and Aunt Daisy’s homemade green-tomato salsa. Truth was, Mr. Moon was barely aware of what he was putting into his mouth. Scott’s probably right about the cemetery custodian being murdered by some out-of-towner who’s a thousand miles away by now. The tribal investigator scooped up a forkful of beans. But on the off chance he’s not, and the bad actor who bashed Morris Meusser’s head in is still hanging around town—he shoveled the succulent pintos past his lips—we might have us some serious trouble to deal with. At a suggestion from Moon’s subconscious, his crafty right hand found the salt shaker and seasoned the beans with an abandon that would have horrified a card-holding member of the American Academy of Cardiologists. Scott Parris’s occasional deputy shifted to another subject. Then, there’s this business with Wanda Naranjo’s pregnant daughter who’s gone missing. Moon’s left hand hooked two fingers into the loop on his favorite mug and lifted it to his lips, which took a sip that distracted the compartment of his brain that was mulling over police business. Tasty, but it could use more sweetening. His right hand promptly put the grab on a plastic dispenser of Tule Creek honey, applied a generous dose to the cup of steaming coffee, found a spoon, and stirred the sweetener in. Betty Naranjo’ll probably turn up anytime now and tell her mother that she and her seventeen-year-old boyfriend just blew in from Reno where they tied the knot and now they’re ready to move in so Momma can start babysitting the new arrival soon as the newcomer sees the light of day. His taste buds appreciated the honeyed java. But if the daughter don’t show in a couple of days, I expect I ought to ooze on over to the Naranjo residence and see what else the lady might tell me about her boyfriend. Not that the carpenter was a likely suspect, but it was hard to dismiss a prospective kidnapper with a handle like Kauffmann the Coffin Man. Moon’s right hand returned the stainless-steel fork to the platter for a heaping helping of enchilada. What with all the hullabaloo over the killing in the cemetery, Scott don’t have time to worry about a runaway girl, and it’s a deputy’s job to take care of routine matters. When he was a uniformed cop on the Southern Ute Police Force, Moon had harbored ambitions of promotion, but the lawman was a little older and a lot wiser now—and deeply grateful that he was not the chief of tribal police. Being top cop was a thankless job, and Scott Parris was taking enough heat to give a man an overdose of heartburn. All the local newspapers and radio and cable TV are talking about the cold-blooded cemetery killer that the local cops can’t find. Scott has all he can handle just keeping the town council from marching out some night with sheets over their heads and torches in their hands and burning the GCPD station down. Mr. Moon paused his mulling long enough to enjoy the excellent enchilada that Sarah Frank had made all by herself. That girl is a dandy cook.
Speaking of the aforesaid dandy cook …
Pecking at a minuscule helping of enchilada in a teacup saucer, slender little Sarah shot a glance at the apple pie of her eye. Charlie doesn’t even know I’m here.
Aunt Daisy was well aware of the girl’s presence and could read Sarah’s thoughts in her expressive brown eyes. The old woman dinged a spoon against her coffee cup, got the lovesick girl’s attention, and shot her a look that said (more or less), What’re you waiting for, Cow Eyes—Valentine’s Day?
The potential old maid (who wasn’t going to be any prettier tomorrow morning) read the old busybody’s message loud and clear. But after thinking things over, Sarah was having doubts about Aunt Daisy’s suggestion that she should mention Captain Boyle in the hope of making Charlie jealous. The nineteen-year-old frowned at the wildly unlikely prospect of the unpredictable old soul having an idea that would actually work. Nine times out of ten she comes up with crazy notions that end up getting me into trouble. But thoughtful people generally have difficulty making their minds up. But even if Aunt Daisy’s wrong, it couldn’t hurt to try to make Charlie just a little bit jealous. As she watched Mr. Moon scarf down the venison enchilada without the least indication that he tasted the dish she’d slaved away on for two solid hours, Sarah was unaware of the scowl she was directing at her favorite man on earth. I bet Charlie doesn’t even know what he’s eating.
Suffering from a mild bout of dyspepsia, Daisy had barely touched the generous helping of enchilada Sarah had dished onto her plate. The tribal elder satisfied herself with a small bowl of soupy pinto beans, a warmed-over jalapeño corn muffin—and
the happy thought that … Sarah’s primed and ready to stick her fork into Charlie Moon’s neck. Figuratively, of course. If she don’t tell him about that soldier-boy she met in the park right now, she never will. But the optimistic senior citizen was firmly convinced that every problem had a solution. All that silly Ute-Papago firecracker needs is for somebody to put a spark to her fuse. As it happened, Miss Daisy always carried a flint-and-steel kit in her apron pocket.
DAISY LIGHTS A FIRE
But not in a dramatic manner, like a barge load of fireworks exploding in the sky on the fourth day of July. The tiny little spark Daisy Perika struck would have barely been visible to a great horned owl at beak length on a cloudy, moonless night. And she worked her way up to it gradually. “I found a nice new chair in my bedroom.”
Charlie Moon’s shrug could be translated: Glad you like it.
Daisy edged closer to the important business. “While I paid a visit to the cemetery this afternoon, Sarah went over to U.S. Grant Park and sat on a bench.”
Moon’s polite reply to this revelation ranged somewhere between a grunt and a “Hm.” Aunt Daisy, who generally expected to die before the week was out, visited cemeteries and funeral homes on a regular basis.
The tribal elder gummed an almost toothless smile at the girl. “She met a young man in the park.”
Embarrassed to the core, the girl picked up a teacup and took a gulp of Lipton Choicest Blend.
Daisy shifted her gaze to the disinterested nephew. “A nice-looking young man.”
Sarah took a second hit of the orange pekoe and pekoe cut black.
As befitting one who sticks strictly to the facts, Auntie D. added, “Or so she tells me—I didn’t get that good a look at him.”
Realizing that some sort of response was expected, Charlie Moon smiled at the girl who was like a daughter to him. “The young man anybody I know?”
“No.” Sarah shook her head. “I don’t think so.” I don’t think Captain Boyle even knew about the Columbine.
Daisy took a sip of 2 percent sweet milk that left a thin white ring around her mouth. I know how to set her off. “I expect Sergeant Doyle is an out-of-towner.”
“Sergeant Boyle.” Sarah cringed. “I mean Captain Boyle.”
Charlie Moon was frowning. Any man who’d made captain couldn’t be all that young. Sarah must be confused about his rank. Either that or Boyle was lying.
“Now ain’t that something.” Daisy’s dark eyes sparkled wickedly. “You just met the young fella this afternoon, and by suppertime he’s already got himself a big promotion.” She cackled with immense satisfaction. “I guess he’s got what we used to call ‘get-up-and-go’!”
The nineteen-year-old put her fork aside. Closed her eyes. Began to count to ten. By the shortcut. Two—four—six …
Moon had rarely seen Sarah so angry. What’s going on here? The man of the house thought he’d best put a stop to what looked like an impending hen fight. “This Captain Boyle—what’s his first name?”
“Rats-butt,” Daisy snapped.
“It’s Erasmus.” Sarah shot a look at Aunt Daisy that startled the old woman.
Well, Miss Milk-sop can get her dander up. “Oh, right. Corporal Erasmus.”
Realizing that the situation was teetering right on the brink of explosive, Moon reached out and put his hand over Sarah’s clenched fist. “So tell me all about this Captain Erasmus Boyle.”
“Oh, he’s…” His warm touch had drained all the anger out of her. Sarah’s big brown eyes beamed adoration back at the man she’d set her cap for a long, long time ago, when she was little more than a toddler. Weary of Daisy’s play with military titles, she provided Captain Boyle with an honorable discharge to civilian status. “Mr. Boyle is someone I met in Grant Park.” She strained to make the next assertion. “He’s not anybody important.” Her expressive eyes said otherwise.
Moon shook his head sternly. “Any young man who makes a play for my Sarah is a few notches more than important.” There was only the slightest hint of humor in Moon’s tone, the merest sparkle of fun in his eye.
My Sarah was deaf and blind to both. “Would you really like to hear about him?”
“I won’t eat another bite till I know the fella inside and out.” The gallant man looked longingly at the venison enchilada cooling in his platter.
With Moon’s big hand resting lightly on hers, Sarah’s fist gradually unclenched, and once her tongue got started it wouldn’t stop until she’d flat run out of things to say about Erasmus Boyle. She went on and on about how he had cowboyed down in Texas and how hot the weather was, and how he’d been injured in the military but wasn’t on active duty now, his problem with the upstairs neighbor who didn’t respond to his pleading for peace and quiet and how he went walking in the park to get away from the noise and, (after catching her breath), how Boyle had, with some reservation, agreed to Sarah’s suggestion that he should make a complaint to the police. In hopes that Charlie Moon would exert some influence on Scott Parris, Sarah emphasized the fact that she had assured the sleepless man that the chief of police would be happy to send an officer to speak to the woman who sang lullabies to her little baby who cried night and day.
All the while she was chattering, Moon was listening, but not intently. He had only a moderate interest in the young man Sarah had encountered in the park—until she mentioned that Boyle’s noisy neighbor was a young woman with an infant. It seemed unlikely that Betty Naranjo’s baby had been born prematurely during the past two or three days—and an even longer shot that Sarah had happened to meet Betty’s downstairs neighbor. But every once in a while Fate dealt a player a full house, and the longtime lawman couldn’t shake the nagging hunch that this might be the big break in the missing-pregnant-teenager case. In the casual manner of one inquiring about the price of alfalfa hay, the rancher asked, “Does Captain Boyle live in Granite Creek?”
Sarah nodded. “At 144 Hollybush Street.”
Moon thought about it. “Don’t think I know that one.”
“It’s in the Walnut Hills part of town,” she said. Which must be within easy walking distance of the park.
Being a cowboy who liked to play poker now and again with his friends, Charlie Moon had a face that was well-nigh impossible to read when he switched his expression to Blank Page. Which he had.
Sarah hadn’t noticed a thing, but—
But Aunt Daisy (who had dealt a few aces and eights of her own over the decades) had seen her nephew’s wooden-Indian face appear at the girl’s mention of a young woman with a baby.
When Sarah’s account of her encounter with Erasmus Boyle had finally run its course, Charlie Moon graciously allowed as how this young fellow wouldn’t be the last in a long line of prospective beaus who’d be queuing up at the Columbine headquarters front door with flowers and candy and the like. Mistaking the disappointment that glazed her eyes for fatigue at the end of a busy day, he committed an even worse error with a well-meant offer: “Would you like to invite Captain Boyle to supper some evening?”
Unable to speak past the lump in her throat, Sarah shook her head. A few broken heartbeats later, she got up from her chair and hurried away before the tears came in a flood.
A mystified Charlie Moon watched the girl vanish into the hallway and heard Sarah’s bedroom door shut softly behind her. The clueless detective eyed his aunt with a worried expression. “Something seems to have upset her.” Probably something she ate.
Daisy Perika rolled her beady black eyes. A minute don’t pass that someplace in the world some jackass of a man is aggravating a poor woman.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE LONG SHOT
TUESDAY EVENING
It may be fairly said that understanding the tender gender is not the tall man’s long suit. Where women were concerned, Charlie Moon was about as befuddled as the average hairy-leg. But when it comes to taking care of something in his line of work, Aunt Daisy’s nephew is the man for the job—and he jumps on it right now.
One minute flat after Sarah had locked herself in her bedroom and fallen onto the bed to cry her brown eyes dry, the lawman she adored was upstairs in his office, getting ready to tend to some serious business. Was the tribal investigator strapping the heavy .357 Magnum revolver onto his waist and pinning the GCPD deputy’s badge onto his rawhide vest?
No. Things hadn’t yet come to that.
Charlie Moon was turning pages in the Granite Creek telephone directory. After checking the B surnames (no Boyles) and H-street listings (no Hollybush), he placed a call to his best friend.
* * *
Having just settled into his comfy recliner to watch something or other on cable TV, Scott Parris took a quick look at the caller-ID and answered on the second ring. “What’s up, Chucky?”
“Beef prices, at about a nickel a pound.”
“I’m always glad to hear good news.” Still annoyed by the Monday-afternoon episode involving Wanda Naranjo, Parris gave his deputy an account of how “that crazy woman called 911 again and insisted on me coming to see her personally. But when I showed up, she wasn’t even at home.”
“That was about twenty-four hours ago, pard; has Mrs. Naranjo come home yet?”
“I don’t know, Charlie—and frankly, I don’t much give a damn.” But the hard-nosed cop did, and he was mildly embarrassed by his unprofessional remark. “She’s a nurse’s aide over at Snyder Memorial. When I get around to it, I’ll check to see if she’s reported for work at the hospital.” Parris preferred a less vexing subject of conversation. “So tell me what’s on your mind.”
The Ute provided a summary of Sarah’s chance meeting with the man who called himself Captain Erasmus Boyle.
Like Moon, Parris was intrigued when he heard the part about the noisy neighbor who sang lullabies to her baby. “And this guy told Sarah he’d make a complaint at the police station.” Parris mumbled this comment to himself.
“But don’t hold your breath until he shows—I expect the fella was just humoring Sarah.”
Coffin Man Page 18