Coffin Man

by James D. Doss

  The chief of police blinked at the girl in disbelief. “Really—and just because of my advice?”

  The girl nodded. And because I don’t ever want to see Captain Boyle again.

  Well, I guess there has to be a first time for everything. Was the hardened old cop deeply moved? Yes indeed. Coincidentally, there was something in the corner of Parris’s left eye that needed rubbing away with his knuckle. Most likely, a stray gnat that had landed there to take a quick sip from a tear duct.

  Elderly ladies find their entertainment where they can. Daisy Perika, who was enjoying scrambled eggs and white Wonder Bread for supper, had also enjoyed the small drama. And Charlie Moon’s irascible aunt was feeling more than a little smug. If that silly Ute-Papago girl knew one-tenth of what I do, she’d never set foot in that park again as long as she lived.

  After Sarah served up heaping helpings of Daisy’s peach cobbler to the men, the tribal elder waited just long enough to receive their well-deserved compliments before withdrawing to the headquarters front-porch swing.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  THE OLD WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

  Not that knowing ten times more about the recent crimes than Charlie Moon and Scott Parris combined could be characterized as excessive. On the contrary, having this edge on the lawmen was the delightful stuff that Daisy Perika’s happiest daydreams were made of—but only when she had an opportunity to gloat. And high-quality gloating couldn’t be had unless she told Charlie and Scott what she’d found out just by paying attention. In this instance, the shameless old braggart would be denied that delicious pleasure. She had agreed to Freddy Whitsun’s condition that the second installment of his confession be treated with the same confidence as the admissions he’d made to Sarah, and … Once you’ve given your word, you have to do what you promised to. Her secret knowledge must be taken to the grave.

  Aside from Daisy’s solemn promise to the suicidal handyman, there were personal reasons for concealing what she’d found out. Not the least of these was protecting the more sinister secrets of her arcane profession. I always intended to teach Sarah how to cure sores and stop bleeding and heal a bad cough. These tricks of Daisy’s trade were useful skills for the shaman’s probable successor to learn. But there are some dangerous things that the girl ought not to know—like how to steal another person’s power. Daisy supposed that Sarah’s theft was unintentional, merely an unintended consequence of a playful, almost childish prank. Nevertheless, the tribal elder harbored an uneasy suspicion that Sarah’s whimsical action might have been driven by some dark inner ambition that the girl was not aware of. It was just possible that … Deep down inside, something in her is yearning for the Power. If it was, that Something’s appetite must not be satisfied—and Sarah Frank must never realize what she had accomplished.

  There was still another reason why Daisy was compelled to conceal what she knew: If Charlie Moon finds out that Freddy Whitsun was about to hang himself, he’s bound to start asking questions. And when her determined nephew made up his mind to “look into a matter,” Charlie didn’t stop digging until he’d gotten to the bottom of it.

  As she sat on the front-porch swing, kicking herself gently to and fro, the tribal elder mulled over what she had to do. I’ll keep a close eye on that girl until Charlie forgets about Erasmus Boyle and Betty Naranjo’s vanishing act is last month’s news. Mr. Fixit was another matter. Freddy Whitsun knows where Sarah’s friend is—and he knows why Boyle was complaining about being kept awake nights by some young woman and her crying baby. But what Freddy don’t know is— Daisy was momentarily distracted when she sensed a presence in the yard, where twilight was gradually giving ground to inky darkness. The old lady stopped swinging and craned her neck. I don’t see a thing out there. Daisy concluded that it was probably one of Charlie Moon’s cowboys lurking around. What was I thinking about? Oh, right. What Freddy Whitsun don’t know is how to keep his mouth shut—not even when his worthless life depends on it!

  She hoped that Mr. Whitsun had taken her whispered advice and left town. But that don’t mean that Mr. Fixit won’t get picked up somewhere for running a Stop sign and start flapping his tongue about how haunts chased him out of Colorado. Daisy closed her tired eyes and sighed. She had done her best. But no matter how hard a person tries to make things right, there’s a hundred ways they can still go wrong. Especially with the legendary Southern Ute tribal investigator poking around. Without any help from me or Sarah or Mr. Fixit or anyone else—Charlie Moon has his ways of figuring out what’s been going on. This assertion was truer than she knew.

  Bewildered by the complexity of her difficulties, the frustrated problem solver resumed her swinging. She also shifted gears to consider a matter of some practical importance: First thing I need to do is straighten out this problem with Sarah. Daisy was wrapped so tightly in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the screened door open with a slight creak and shut softly. Neither did her ears pick up the muted padding of store-bought moccasins on the redwood porch. She did feel the weight on the swing as the subject of her musings seated herself beside her.

  Sarah Frank looped a slender arm around the old woman’s hunched shoulders. “Mind some company?”

  The tribal elder shook her head.

  Having interrupted the rhythmic motion of the porch swing, the willowy girl used her right heel to apply a slight push that was perfectly synchronized with her companion’s listless kick. “It sure gets dark quick.”

  Not inclined toward small talk, Daisy played the silent Indian. The senior citizen had a subject that she wanted to bring up, but did not know how to do it. Not without telling this silly girl things she oughtn’t to know.

  “Oh!” Sarah dragged her foot on the floor and pointed. “What’s that?”

  Annoyed to have her hundred-ton train of thought derailed by this mere slip of a girl, Daisy glared at the place where her companion was aiming her finger. “What’s what? I don’t see anything.” Which, as it happened, was precisely the point.

  “It looks like … a person.” Sarah shivered.

  “Your eyes are playing tricks on you.” Daisy recalled her recent impression that someone was out there in the shadows, watching her. “Or it’s one of Charlie’s dumb cowboys spying on us.”

  “No, it’s somebody with feathers on his head.”

  “Big Bird from the TV show?” The old woman cackled at her jest.

  Sarah shook her head, brushing Daisy’s cheek with a black braid. “It’s an Indian!”

  The tribal elder rolled her eyes. “So this is what the world’s come to—a Ute-Papago girl who’s afraid of redskins!” She elbowed Sarah. “You figure it’s a ’Pache come to scalp us?”

  The startled girl did not say a word.

  “PHYSICIAN, HEAL THYSELF.”

  The old woman turned her wrinkled face to stare into the moonlight-dappled darkness. There is something out there. She sniffed. I can smell its stink. Cocked her ear. And I can hear it mumbling something. But Daisy could not see it. Suddenly understanding, the Ute shaman seized this opportunity by the neck. “What you see is a dead person—an old spirit who probably lived in this valley ages ago.”

  “I know.” Sarah clenched her hands into knobby little fists.

  Assuming her best bedside manner, Dr. Daisy addressed her patient in a soft but knowing tone. “How long has this been going on?”

  “I don’t know. Not long.” Sarah shrugged. “A week or two, I guess.”

  Daisy reached out to touch the girl’s trembling shoulder. “Are you scared?”

  “Yes.” Relieved to tell someone about her fears, Sarah sucked in a deep breath. “Sometimes I’m afraid to go out at night.” She closed her eyes. “I guess I ought to talk to a psychologist … or a psychiatrist.”

  “Oh, there’s no need for that.” The old woman held her smile inside. “I can help you.”

  Opening her eyes, Sarah turned to focus her gaze on the aged woman’s shrunken profile. “You can?”

 
“Sure.” Daisy had not missed the hint of doubt in the girl’s question. “It’s like singing warts away or curing stomach cramps with a cold stone from the river.” I’ll tell the girl what she wants to hear. “There’s no magic to it—all it takes is what those know-it-all matukach doctors call ‘suggestion.’”

  “Really—it’s that easy?”

  Professionals have their pride. The shaman’s face stiffened. “It’s easy for those of us that know how.”

  “Can you do it right now?”

  “I could if I had the right things to do it with.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Well, a buffalo-hide drum would help. And a duck’s-head flute made from a north-pointing branch of a cedar.” Even in the twilight, she saw a shadow fall over the stricken girl’s face. “But in an emergency, I might get by with—oh, I don’t know … maybe a little feather.”

  Sarah blinked. “I have a feather!”

  “Do you, now?”

  Her head bobbed in a nod. “It’s in my hatband.” She hesitated. “Actually, it’s your feather.”

  “My feather?” Daisy feigned a puzzled expression. “What’re you talking about?”

  Sarah proceeded to tell Charlie Moon’s manipulative aunt how she’d found the feather in Daisy’s closet, and reminded the forgetful old soul that she had flicked the feather across her closed eyelids and that Daisy had awakened from her nap with a start and—

  “Oh, that feather.”

  “I’ll go get it.” Sarah ejected herself from the swing like a fighter pilot whose engine has flamed out.

  Pad-pad-pad-pad-pad go the girl’s soft doeskin moccasins.

  Creak-bang goes the screened door.

  Daisy let the smile out. For years, I’ve wondered what’d happened to my special owl feather—and all that time it was in the bedroom closet.

  Special, indeed. The night-fowl in question had suffered the singular misfortune of being perched on the branch of a tall ponderosa when that tree was struck by a bolt of summer lightning. Daisy Perika had witnessed the fortuitous incident and—determined to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—she had rushed to the burning tree and found the bird’s charred corpse on the ground. After a close inspection of the warm carcass, the shaman had removed a single tail feather. The feather of a lightning-killed owl was potentially so powerful that the tribal elder had decided to conceal her prize until a critical occasion occurred that would justify its use. Alas, as so often happens, only a few weeks passed before the old woman forgot where she had squirreled her treasure away.

  Sarah Frank is returning.

  Creak-bang goes the screened door.

  Pad-pad-pad-pad-pad go her moccasins across the redwood porch floor.

  She plops onto the swing. “Here it is.”

  Daisy accepted the offering. “This won’t take a minute.” She pointed with the feather. “Can you still see Mr. Feather-head in the yard?”

  Forcing herself to take a quick glance, Sarah nodded.

  “Okay, now close your eyes.”

  The girl didn’t have to be told twice.

  The shaman touched Sarah’s left lid, and muttered an incantation in an archaic version of the Ute tongue that the pitukupf would have understood, but not this Ute-Papago college girl. Daisy repeated the treatment on Sarah’s right eyelid, once again uttering the ancient words. The recitation was a piece of theater intended to enhance the drama. (Rough translation: “Rabbit stew is good for you.”) The placebo effect is powerful therapy. Particularly when combined with the tail feather of a lightning-scorched owl.

  “Now you can open your eyes.”

  The patient hesitated.

  “Go ahead,” Daisy said confidently. “There’ll be no spirit to see; you’re cured as you can be.” Even while making the confident assertion, the self-taught physician crossed the fingers of her left hand.

  Sarah opened one eye. Then the other. “Oh—he’s gone!”

  “Hah—what’d I tell you!” But he’s still there.

  How did the old woman know this? For the first time since that morning when Sarah had wiped the feather across her closed eyes, Daisy Perika could see dead people. Thus restored, the shaman felt like her old self again. How happy was she? Enough to cackle a raspy laugh, weep tears of joy that coursed down her leathery cheeks, and come very near losing control of her bladder. But she didn’t; Daisy’s victory was not quite complete. As if attempting to live up to her reputation, the alleged “meanest Ute woman ever to draw a breath” made a rude but meaningful gesture at the offensive specter. Sarah did not see the vulgar display of “sign language” but the Anasazi spirit evidently did. The offended haunt withdrew to the bank of Too Late Creek, concealing his humiliated presence in a cluster of trees.

  Immensely pleased with her clever self, Daisy pocketed the owl feather. Well, that turned out just fine.

  The delighted girl clapped her hands. “It worked—I really am cured.”

  “Sure you are.” And so am I! Daisy puffed up like a toad. “And when I cure folks, they stay that way!”

  The tribal elder’s boast was not entirely reassuring. Moreover, the instant result seemed too good to be true. Doubt’s cold breath began whispering misgivings in Sarah’s ear. She frowned at her proud benefactor. “But what if the suggestion wears off … what if I wake up in the middle of the night and see a ghost in my bedroom?”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be having a nightmare.”

  “But—”

  “Nightmare ghosts are all growl and bluff—just spit in Mr. Booger-man’s big, bloodshot eyeball and he’ll take off like a scalded hog.” The miffed healer rolled her beady little eyes again. Dumb kid.

  “But what if it isn’t a dream and I really do see another ghost, what should I—”

  “Take two aspirins and call me in the morning!”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  YET ANOTHER UNINVITED GUEST

  Sarah Frank had withdrawn into the sanctuary of the Columbine headquarters (where haunts were rarely encountered), leaving Daisy Perika queen of the swing. Despite a sudden sense of loneliness, the aged monarch was determined to enjoy the restoration of her shamanish insight, the serene silence of the balmy night—and the smug recollection of how she’d dismissed the troublesome spirit that had frightened Sarah. For the first time since the girl had stroked the owl feather across her eyelids, Miss Daisy was at peace—and very near to being happy. This blissful interlude had lasted for almost a minute, when …

  A big and bony Something commenced to bumpity-bumping under the porch.

  The old woman sighed. Soon as I get rid of one aggravation, up pops another to take its place.

  Emerging from his dark hideaway, the odorous descendant of wolves lurched up the porch steps to shuffle along the redwood planks and plop down by Daisy’s feet. For some reason or other, Sidewinder was fond of Charlie Moon’s grumpy aunt.

  The arrival of the Columbine hound made the old woman feel lonelier than ever, the animal’s presence serving only to emphasize the absence of human company. The tribal elder could have followed the nineteen-year-old girl into the big log house and found all the human companionship that a person of Daisy’s irritable disposition could stomach, but … Sarah would sit up all night talking my leg off about ghosts and goblins and whatnot. And her nephew? Charlie Moon would wonder what was bothering me. He wouldn’t go to bed until he made sure I was okay. Which reminded her of Scott Parris’s presence. The combination of two inquisitive lawmen was more than she cared to deal with. What it added up to was that being lonesome was the least of the evils she had to choose from. And it wasn’t like Daisy didn’t have something pleasant to contemplate in her solitude. Putting one over on the Ute-Papago orphan with the very same owl feather that Sarah had used to steal her ghost-eyes was enormously gratifying, and Daisy was delighted to be her old self again. But the original problem remained. She was in the frustrating position of an angler who had just landed a twelve-pound trout bu
t had no envious fishing buddy to show it to—or hear about the awful fight the rascal had put up. I need to tell somebody how I figured things out.

  Shifting to a more comfortable position on the porch floor, Sidewinder laid his heavy head on Daisy’s left foot.

  She glared at the presumptuous animal. “That’s all I’m good for—a pillow for an ugly jackrabbit chaser.” This observation raised a pertinent question: “What’re you good for, you hairy old bag of dog bones?”

  The one so described rolled his big, brown eyes at the crotchety old biped. Almost as if to say, What’s the problem, Granny? Almost.

  Another interpretation of Sidewinder’s highly evocative canine expression occurred to Daisy: “You need somebody to talk to, fuss-pot—and I’m all ears and all you’ve got.” She frowned thoughtfully at the hound. I guess that’s why people keep a dog around—you can say whatever you want to a mutt, and they might whine or bark or growl but they don’t actually talk back. And more important than that … A dog never repeats a word you say.

  Charlie Moon’s aunt pulled her foot from under Sidewinder’s jaw, which dropped with a thump. Pushing herself up from the swing with the oak staff, she leaned on the sturdy support and smiled slyly at the dog. “I’ve got something to say, Lassie—so listen up.”

  No offense was taken at the gender-bender designation. By the hound’s reckoning, a Sidewinder by any other name was just as noble a creature.

  Daisy addressed her companion in a distinctly upbeat tone. “I’ve got a notion that’ll do us both a world of good.”

  Such an utterance from the tribal elder’s crafty lips was sufficient to make strong men shudder, but the floppy-eared creature did not flinch. Deprived of his comfortable muzzle rest, the Columbine hound was open to interesting suggestions.

  She prodded his rump with her oak staff. “Let’s you and me go for a walk.”

  Though Sidewinder’s English vocabulary was limited, the dog did get the gist of about a dozen vile curses and a few happy phrases (“go for a walk”) that would cause his big ears to elevate just a smidgen and his tail to thump on whatever was beneath it.