Coffin Man

by James D. Doss

  The tiny, shrunken figure might have been an Egyptian mummy that a morbid prankster had propped in the wheeled chair.

  As he came closer, Charlie Moon noticed that her gnarled hand was stretched forth, frozen in a reaching gesture. On the floor was a wadded-up piece of tissue paper. A viscous fluid dripped from Miss Boyle’s nostrils. He shook his head. Poor old soul. The lawman knelt, picked up the tissue, and wiped the woman’s nose.

  She turned her head; the cool blue eyes examining the stranger with a frank disinterest. Her lips parted to exhale a whispered, “Thank you.”

  Unwilling to yell into the deaf woman’s ear, Moon murmured, “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m not quite so hard of hearing as they think, but don’t you go telling anyone.” The lips that had whispered curled into a mischievous smile. “Playing deaf is my way of avoiding annoying conversations—and finding out what people really think about me.”

  “Well, you had me fooled.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Charlie Moon.” The Ute squatted to get his eyes level with the lady’s. “I’m here on police business.”

  “Do tell?” The aged lady looked hopeful. “Has someone in the nursing home committed a heinous felony?”

  “Not so far as I know. But if you don’t mind too much, I’d like to ask you a question or two.”

  “Go right ahead, copper.” She snatched the tissue from his hand and gave her nose another wipe. “But I can’t remember what I had for lunch, and that was just a few minutes ago.”

  “I bet you can remember a lot about your family.”

  “Oh, my.” She arched a slender gristle of cartilage where an attractive eyebrow had once graced a lovely face. “Has one of my straitlaced relatives gotten crosswise of the law?”

  “I hope not.” On this occasion, Moon popped the critical question with ease: “Do you know a young man by the name of Erasmus Boyle?”

  “Erasmus!” Miss Emily’s back stiffened, her face froze. “I should have known he’d be in some kind of trouble.”

  Pay dirt! “Has he every been in the military?”

  “Him? I should say not!” The old lady laughed. “My nephew has neither the desire nor character to pursue any kind of honorable profession.”

  “What kind of work does he do?”

  The elderly woman turned her face toward the TV, where Fred and Barney were watching a cute pet dinosaur cavort about the cave.

  The determined lawman pressed on. “Anything you could tell me about Erasmus would be very helpful—”

  “No—it is out of the question!”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m sorry; you’re a nice young man. I have already made it clear that Erasmus is the black sheep of the Boyle family.” She raised her chin in a stubborn gesture. “I have nothing further to say about him.”

  “All I need to know is where he’s living—”

  “Good day, sir!”

  And that was that.

  Accepting defeat gracefully, the deputy unfolded his lanky form until he was erect. Standing tall again, Charlie Moon smiled down at the resolute face glaring at the TV. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Miss Emily had reverted to her stone-deaf persona.

  As he took his leave, it was inevitable that this visit would remind Charlie Moon of his recent encounter with Patsy Poynter. Which it did. It is said (by Those Who Know) that A Sensible Man Learns from His Failures. Aunt Daisy’s nephew was no exception to this rule. After recalling any number of pithy old sayings that had nothing to do with anything in particular, and applying his keen intellect to several seconds of deep analytical thought, our philosopher came to an insightful conclusion that is far too erudite for a detailed exposition herein. But any cowboy cook worth his pepper and salt knows how to bile that cabbage down and Charlie Moon summed it up thisaway: This hasn’t been a good day for talking to blue-eyed ladies.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  A BRIEF CONVERSATION

  As he motored away from the nursing home, mulling over what he’d learned from Miss Emily Boyle, Charlie Moon’s mobile phone played a few bars from one of Scott Parris’s all-time favorite cowboy ballads (“O’ Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie”).

  His deputy took the call. “Hello, pardner.”

  “And a big howdy to you, Charlie.” The chief of police cleared his throat and got right down to business. “Just had a chat with my contact at the hospital. Since Friday morning last week, nobody at Snyder Memorial has seen hide nor hair of Wanda Naranjo—and that feisty little nurse’s aide is automatically sacked if she don’t show up by five P.M. today. I’d give a day’s pay to know where she’s gone to ground.” One way or another, that woman’s up to no good. “Did you have time yet to interview Emily Boyle?”

  “Yes I did.”

  “So what’d you find out?”

  “About half as much as I wanted to.” Moon slowed for a traffic light that had turned from green to yellow. “But it turns out that the Erasmus Boyle that Sarah met in U.S. Grant Park is Miss Boyle’s nephew.”

  “That’s great, Charlie.” Parris’s big voice boomed in his ear. “I figured the old lady would be a dead end.”

  “Well, that’s all I got. Except that the senior citizen doesn’t think too highly of her nephew.”

  “So where do we find Erasmus Boyle?”

  “That’s the half I didn’t find out, pard. Maybe the old lady don’t know where her relative hangs his hat, but if she does she wasn’t about to tell me.” Moon stopped at the red light. “Mr. Boyle is probably renting an apartment somewhere in Granite Creek—or somebody’s spare bedroom.”

  “Wait a minute—did I hear you say Mr. Boyle?”

  “You did. He’s no captain. His aunt says he’s never been in the military.”

  “When a young man meets an attractive young lady, a little bragging is understandable, Charlie. But a fellow that lies about being an officer in the United States armed services is not a suitable companion for Sarah.”

  “That’s the way I see it.” As the Ute watched the stoplight, a dot of red fire glinted in each eye.

  “D’you suppose Sarah has any plans to see this rascal again?”

  “I don’t think so.” Charlie Moon pulled away as the traffic light winked a green eye at him. “But she hasn’t finished that university project to interview homeless folk in Grant Park. Maybe Miss Boyle’s disreputable nephew plans to meet Sarah there.”

  Parris chuckled. “If he does, guess who else’ll be there to say howdy to this counterfeit captain.”

  The Ute Indian presented a flinty grin. “You and me, pard.”

  Very commendable. And the combination of Charlie Moon and Scott Parris had proved formidable on any number of previous do-or-die run-ins with hardened felons. Even so, Erasmus Boyle was not a man to trifle with—and despite our best intentions, events have a way of getting ahead of us.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  TROUBLE IN PARADISE

  The paradise referred to is not, of course, that idyllic realm with a capital P. The lesser version—though barely a dim shadow of the real McCoy—is nevertheless the one place on this earth that is most like heaven to Charlie Moon. Not that he plays a harp at all hours and whiles the day away with old friends who’ve passed away. Daisy Perika’s nephew is a plucky banjo plucker who leans toward bluegrass, and though his voice is not unpleasant to hear, the lonely rancher whose range includes both baritone and bass generally confines his crooning to the privacy of the prairie or his shower. Speaking of the latter, he is just about ready to go upstairs and lather up. And would have except for one of those annoying circumstances that tends to occur at the most inconvenient of times—and on this occasion, served to remind the part-time deputy that he was a full-time rancher.

  PSEUDO-TROUBLE

  Pete Bushman rapped his knobby knuckles on the kitchen door.

  Charlie Moon opened the oak portal, but not quite wide enough to admit his fuzzy-faced foreman, who had a wad of Red Man chewing to
bacco bulging in his left jaw.

  “G’mornin’,” Bushman said. His eyes darted about for a suitable place to deposit spittle.

  Moon shook his head. Spit on my fine redwood porch and you’re dead.

  Receiving the message loud and clear, the foreman went to spit into the yard. Thus relieved, he returned to confront the tall Indian who blocked the doorway.

  “So what’s up, Pete?” Like I don’t know.

  Bushman consulted his pocket watch. “We was supposed to meet almost half an hour ago.”

  The Ute jutted his chin. “Who says so?”

  Moon’s ranking employee puffed up his meager chest, returned the ticking chronometer to his vest pocket, and glowered at the owner of the outfit. “Yesterday afternoon, I called and left a message on your phone and said we’d get together this morning at half past—”

  “Not going to happen,” Moon said.

  The foreman’s eyes popped. “What?”

  “Don’t ‘what’ me, Pete—you heard what I said.”

  Mr. Bushman blinked at this curt response from the generally amiable Indian. He was, to say the least—peeved. To say the most—nonplussed. “Well … when do you want to get together and talk about all the ranchin’ problems we need to deal with?”

  “If and when I do, I’ll let you know.”

  “Could you at least give me some idea, so I can—”

  “No.”

  The foreman’s jaw dropped. “No?”

  “Yes.” Moon offered a genial smile. “Good day, Pete.” That wasn’t any trouble at all. The boss closed the door with a sense of soul-glowing gratification.

  So what is about to turn sour in Mr. Moon’s little slice of paradise? We are about to find out.

  THE ACTUAL TROUBLE

  Preferring to be served up somewhere between frozen solid and well done, Charlie Moon started his morning shower the same way every day, by running water from the tub faucet into his hand until the temperature was Too Blamed Hot, then mixing in some cold HO until the combo was Just Right. But something wasn’t quite. Right, that is.

  I don’t like the feel of this. He cranked the hot-water valve wide open and waited with his fingers under the spout, hoping the temperature would eventually rise from tepid to steaming hot. It did not.

  “Dang it!”

  Yes, that’s what the disappointed bather said. One morning when he was six years of age, little Charlie had repeated his father’s favorite cuss word in his mother’s presence and Momma had washed his mouth out with homemade lye soap. This hard lesson had made a lasting impression on the youth. Having reported and analyzed what he said out loud, we may proceed to what he thought:

  Pilot light in the water heater must’ve gone out.

  Without reason or rhyme, things like that do happen from time to time.

  Five minutes later, dressed in faded denim jeans and down-at-the heels deerskin moccasins, Charlie Moon was downstairs. More specifically, he was in the tool room off the kitchen, where, in addition to a fascinating variety of hand and power tools, resided the Columbine headquarters’ primary eighty-gallon propane water heater. Also the backup.

  All he had to do to direct hot water to the upstairs bathroom was turn a couple of valves. Which he did. The backup tank was working fine and there was no big hurry to fix the one that was on the blink. But Mr. Moon was not the sort of mechanic who can walk away from a problem without at least checking things out. He got on his knees, removed the corroded metal cover from the bottom of the water heater, and got a gander at the main burner. “Aha!” Just as I suspected.

  The pilot light was out on the main heater. It makes a fellow feel good when his prediction turns out to be spot-on. Makes him feel even better to find a problem that is trivial to remedy. This one was straightforward.

  I can take care of that in a jiffy.

  He turned the control knob to Pilot.

  Grabbed the charcoal lighter that was hanging on a nail conveniently near the water heater and switched on the blue butane flame.

  Pressed the water-heater button that enabled gas to flow to the pilot light.

  Heard the slight hiss of propane.

  Touched the butane lighter to the pilot light nozzle.

  Smiled to see the pilot fixture ignite.

  Counted slowly to thirty while the pilot light heated the adjacent thermocouple assembly. For good measure, he added another twenty counts.

  Then released the Bypass button.

  Watched the pilot flame shrink … and go out.

  That old thermocouple must be shot. Not a problem. Next time I’m in town, I’ll pick up a new one.

  Five minutes later, Charlie Moon was in the upstairs shower again, enjoying hot water from the backup tank. Also singing loudly. “Jack of Diamonds.” (There’s another man who sings it better, but Michael Martin Murphey was busy rehearsing for a gig down in Red River, New Mexico.)

  Showers are not only good for singing, but there is something about the pleasant sting of hot water and the smell of soap that makes a man think.

  About what?

  All sorts of important matters.

  What he’ll have for breakfast. Big slab of ham and three eggs.

  Going to check out the grass over on the east five sections. A nice little thundershower passed over that pasture last night.

  How glad he is that he’ll be able to fix the water heater without calling a plumber and his helper to come do the job and pay the plumber’s bill, which wouldn’t be peanuts considering that he’d have to drive all the way out to the ranch from town and then back again. A hundred bucks minimum, and that’s before they get the toolbox outta the truck.

  And, Wanda Naranjo. How so? Because … When the lady had a little leak under her kitchen sink that she could’ve fixed herself if she’d known how, she had to call a plumber. And is so often the case, the guy hadn’t even shown up. The fella was probably working on another job and it took longer than he thought it would.

  Charlie Moon toweled himself off and commenced to get dressed.

  I wonder which one Mrs. Naranjo called?

  Most folks had a favorite barber, auto mechanic, dentist—and plumber.

  After pulling on his old, comfortable work boots, Moon stomped across the upstairs hallway to his office, where he found the Granite Creek telephone directory. He let his fingers walk through the Yellow Pages until he got to the Ps. There are five plumber shops in town. Nowadays, they called themselves “mechanical contractors.” The rancher reached for the cordless phone on his desk. Twelve minutes later, he’d talked to the boss or dispatcher in all five shops and asked every one of them the same question—and gotten precisely the same answer: “No.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  SOME THINGS TO THINK ABOUT

  During a late-morning breakfast with the ladies, Charlie Moon pretended to listen while Aunt Daisy made enough petulant complaints to outdo quarrelsome foreman Pete Bushman on his best day. The amiable nephew “mmm-hmmed” at frequent intervals, but Daisy knew that his thoughts were faraway. I might as well be talking to a cedar stump.

  After the meal, Charlie Moon helped a remarkably silent Sarah Frank wash the dishes. These duties duly attended to, the meditative man wandered away in what appeared to be a more or less aimless fashion. Inevitably, Moon ended up down at the riverbank—a solitary place where a fellow could do some thinking. Nothing earthshaking. The cowboy ruminated about ordinary matters. How tasty this morning’s ham and eggs had been. When the gray rain clouds might drift over the Columbine again. How water heaters failed right when a man was primed and ready for a hot shower. And about plumbers who charged an arm and a leg for fixing a piddling little leak—assuming Mr. Pipewrench bothered to show up to do the job. But these are hard times and a hardworking man don’t miss a chance to make an extra dollar or dime. Not without a good reason.

  Which was enough to make a man think even harder.

  And we all know how one thought tends to lead to another.

  Befor
e long, the Southern Ute tribal investigator was experiencing a thunderous brainstorm. As white-hot flashes of lightning illuminated hidden cerebral landscapes, and cold rain mixed with hail rattled on the roof, a dark wind began to blow in the scent of something sinister—the inklings of another hunch. Like his earlier gut feeling that Betty Naranjo and her brand-new baby might be living upstairs over Erasmus Boyle—Charlie Moon figured this one for another long shot. A gnat’s eye at five hundred yards. Sorry, no 4X scope—we’re talking iron sights. And a brisk crosswind.

  The way Moon summed it up was: I guess this notion stinks like something the cat drug in or the dog rolled in.

  Then again …

  * * *

  And that’s how thinking too much about mundane matters can disturb a man’s precious peace of mind. But there’s no way out—what a fellow isn’t thinking about can cause him just as much trouble.

  Here’s a pertinent for-instance: the rancher hadn’t given a thought to wagging tongues.

  GOSSIP

  Sarah Frank was in her Columbine bedroom when the cell phone in her purse began to play a snippet from her favorite cut from a limited edition (one hundred copies) of the Columbine Grass’s only CD. Her favorite banjo plucker was playing his version of “Shady Grove” to Sarah on her sixteenth birthday. And Mr. Moon was singing that she was his little lady! The little lady unsnapped the small ostrich-leather purse Charlie had given her on the nineteenth anniversary of her birth and fumbled around until she found the instrument under a jumble of girlish necessities. She slipped the high-tech communications device under her long, black locks and just above a nugget of Hopi turquoise that dangled from the lobe of her right ear. “Hello.”

  “Hello Sarah it’s me Junie and you simply won’t believe what I picked up at the public library and you’ll just die when I tell you.” Junie “Bug” Vincent, whose major talent was speaking with minimal punctuation, took a break to suck in a gasp of air and wait for Sarah to ask what.

  Sarah rolled her big brown eyes. “A book?”

  “No, silly, what would I want with a dumb old book?” A sigh to express her exasperation. “I heard from Lillian who works part-time in the library to help with her tuition at RMP that Charlie Moon was in there yesterday and you won’t believe who he was all cozied up to at her desk like they was two lovebirds in a nest!”