Coffin Man

by James D. Doss

  “Do whatever pleases you, pardner.” Whatever the outcome, Charlie Moon would not be pleased. It always hurts to be proven wrong, but even if his theory turned out to be dead-on, there was a downside. He liked Freddy Whitsun and hated the thought of the hardworking craftsman spending a long stretch behind the walls. Even if the handyman was guilty of two homicides, there must’ve been extenuating circumstances. The instance of Betty Naranjo was easy enough to figure: even the most cautious driver might run someone down in a blinding rainstorm. But not many would haul the victim away and bury her body in the cemetery. The killing of Morris Meusser was another matter. Moon found it hard to imagine easygoing Freddy Whitsun committing a cold-blooded murder—particularly when the victim was his checker-playing buddy. But when a fella’s caught red-handed concealing the corpse of a missing teenage girl, and another killing looks like his only way out—the desperate man is liable to take desperate measures. The kindhearted Ute hoped that Whitsun had been surprised by Meusser in the darkness, and did not realize whom he’d bludgeoned until after the violent deed was done. But we do waste a lot of precious time in pointless speculations. Within a few minutes, Moon would conclude that his musings about Whitsun were irrelevant.

  As things turned out, Scott Parris would not go looking for Freddy Whitsun tomorrow morning. Even if he had, the town cop would have found the cemetery custodian’s quarters vacant—and Mr. Fixit’s van long gone. The suicidal custodian had taken Daisy Perika’s parting advice, which was reminiscent of the classic Old West sheriff’s directive to an undesirable element: “You get outta town before the sun goes down—and don’t ever show your ape-ugly face in these here parts again!” Freddy had hit the road shortly after his miraculous deliverance from a self-inflicted lynching.

  But where is the missing Mr. Whitsun, and what are his plans?

  HE IS SEEKING GREENER PASTURES

  Upon arriving in Raton, New Mexico, the enthusiastic tourist had traded his Mr. Fixit van and a spare battery-operated DeWalt drill motor to an undocumented Panamanian migrant for a dandy Dodge pickup with Utah plates, a powerful Cummins diesel engine, and a shiny aluminum camper shell. As soon as that hasty transaction was completed, Mr. Whitsun had transferred the tools of his trade to the replacement vehicle and headed in a southeasterly direction.

  Eager to put the “haunts” far behind him, the handyman has already passed through Clayton and is currently rolling along Route 87 toward Texline. Forever cured of his suicidal tendencies by Dr. Daisy Perika’s no-nonsense shock therapy, he is about to say adios to the Land of Enchantment and howdy to the Lone Star State. After that crossing, Freddy doesn’t know where he will eventually end up. But the former cemetery custodian is already giving the matter some thought.

  I might keep right on going toward Oklahoma. A flash of sheet lightning illuminated a leaden sky. Or I could head south through Texas and cross over into Old Mexico. Somewhere far behind him, thunder rumbled a warning. Maybe I’ll go all the way down to Yucatán and get a look at some of those old limestone pyramids. A big, fat bug splattered on the spiffy pickup’s pitted windshield. I’ll make up my mind when I get to Dalhart. A brighter flash of lightning. Or maybe Dumas.

  He has troubles enough, but unlike so many of us, Mr. Whitsun is not the least concerned about finding employment. Anywhere I decide to set up shop, folks’ll need a handyman.

  TWO TELEPHONE CALLS

  The first was a routine communication.

  Charlie Moon’s mobile phone warbled unpleasantly. Before pressing the instrument against his ear, he checked the caller-ID. “What’s up, Butch?”

  “Nothing much, boss. Just wanted to let you know that your aunt’s okay. She’s down by the river with Sidewinder.”

  Why is he telling me this? “So where’re you?”

  “In the hayloft over the horse barn.”

  “That’s a fine lookout.” I don’t want to hurt his feelings. “Unless Daisy gets into some mischief, you don’t need to call me again.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good night.” Just as Moon was slipping the telephone back into his pocket, Scott Parris’s communications device sounded off with a three-note chime that identified the caller. The chief of police addressed his hardworking dispatcher. “H’lo, Clara—what’s up?”

  Miss Tavishuts told the boss what was up. And then some.

  As Parris listened intently, his sunburned brow gradually furrowed into a frown. After almost a minute: “Got it. Thanks.” Disconnecting, he fixed his gaze on Charlie Moon. “Ol’ buddy, I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this.”

  For some reason or another, the tribal investigator doubted the sincerity of this declaration. Perhaps because the white man’s blue eyes were sparkling merrily. “I’m listening.”

  THE NEW WRINKLE

  “As far as the cemetery custodian’s death is concerned, you can forget all about your handyman-plumber theory.”

  “Tell me why, pardner.”

  “Because the Wyoming State Police have arrested a thief in Laramie—one Maximillian Schilling. The habitual criminal—who is wanted in five states besides Colorado—broke into an upstanding Wyoming citizen’s trailer home, where he murdered the occupant. He also stole the victim’s Browning automatic shotgun and eighty-some dollars in cash money. But I get ahead of myself. Before he broke in—are you ready for this?”

  “No, but go ahead and completely ruin my day.”

  “Before he broke in, Max cut the phone line.”

  Moon made the expected protest. “That similarity to our cemetery-custodian homicide is interesting, but I don’t think any jury in the land would convict him of killing Morris Meusser on something that slim.”

  “Well of course not, but—” Parris pretended to be momentarily confused. “Did I forget to tell you that when he was arrested, the dangerous felon had Morris Meusser’s pocket watch in his possession—and Meusser’s five-dollar-gold-coin watch fob?”

  Charlie Moon’s fine poker face concealed his dismay at this news. “Before you string me along any further, I’ll make a wild guess—Mr. Maximillian Schilling confessed to murdering Mr. Meusser.”

  “We should be so lucky.” The Granite Creek chief of police allowed himself a vinegar-bitter grin. “The suspect claims he peeked through the window and saw Meusser napping on the couch. Doing what just comes naturally, Max cut the phone line, and when he was about to apply his handy pry bar to the latch, he was surprised to find the door to the cemetery custodian’s residence unlocked. After he got inside, he discovered that Meusser was banged-up some, but he told the Wyoming authorities he figured the man had been in a bar brawl and come home seriously intoxicated to crash on the couch. Max felt sorry for the bunged-up old drunk, but not wanting to leave empty-handed, he ripped off the custodian’s watch and gold-coin fob.” Parris added a chuckle to the sardonic grin. “Probably for mementos. Max claims he was about to check out Meusser’s wallet when some guy drove up in a truck.”

  “Freddy Whitsun.”

  “The very same. We know this is so, because the thief remembered the Mr. Fixit logo.”

  “Well, at least that part of his story was true.” Charlie Moon didn’t feel the least bit like smiling. “So he insists that he left with the pocket watch, without having the least notion that Morris Meusser was dead.”

  “That’s what he said.” Parris pretended to recall a minor detail. “Oh, and one other thing.”

  “I kinda figured there would be.”

  “Max also told the Wyoming cops that he never laid a hand on the victim in Wyoming—he had a simple explanation for the bloody baseball bat they caught him red-handed with. The burglar just happened to notice the bat in the dead man’s closet when he was stealing the shotgun, and ever since Max was knee-high to a day-old beagle puppy, he’s had a hankering for a genuine Louisville Slugger.”

  “That just about wraps it up, then.” Moon could not suppress a melancholy sigh. “Well, there goes my dandy handyman theory—down the well-kn
own drain.”

  “Hey, don’t be a Gloomy Gus—look on the sunny side of the creek. Our hardworking brother coppers in Wyoming have arrested Morris Meusser’s killer. And since you were way off base blaming our upstanding Mr. Fixit for murdering his buddy, odds are you were also dead wrong about Betty Naranjo being dead and buried in our fine cemetery. Chances are, she’ll turn up in a month or two with a brand-new bouncing baby of one gender or the other. What it all boils down to is that you and me can kick back and relax.” Ready to commence with his portion of that leisure activity, Parris leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. “Don’t feel so bad, Charlie. You gave it a good try, and I like your made-up story a whole lot better than what actually happened.”

  This compliment provided little consolation to Deputy Moon. For a man who takes pride in being able to figure things out, giving up on a great notion is like pulling a sound molar with wire pliers—and the tribal investigator’s simple solution to the mystery of the missing girl and the cemetery murder had seemed so promising. But there was another reason for his discomfort: Charlie Moon had noticed that Scott Parris’s crocodile grin was getting wider with every tick-tock of the clock and displaying … about two dozen more teeth than a normal man ought to have in his mouth.

  (Charlie Moon’s quasi-orthodontic observation concludes the fast-breaking news.)

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  WE RETURN NOW TO OUR SCHEDULED PROGRAM (THE INTERRUPTED DAISY–DOG DIALOGUE)

  … Sidewinder spoke without moving his lips: That’s a real head scratcher—wondering how it’ll all turn out is likely to keep me awake all night.

  “That was just for starters, fuzz-face.” Daisy Perika’s mouth curled into a self-satisfied smirk. “The really good stuff’ll make your floppy ears stand straight up and your droopy old tail twist into a corkscrew!”

  If the hound harbored any disdain for the shameless utterance of such blatant hyperbole, his somber expression did not reveal it.

  Daisy launched into a revelation of Freddy Whitsun’s confidential pre-lynching confession, which (though she didn’t know it) entirely justified her nephew’s suspicions. Daisy’s gripping narrative provided a blow-by-blow account of how the handyman had responded to Wanda Naranjo’s leaky-plumbing call, accidentally run down the woman’s pregnant daughter in the rainstorm, loaded the injured girl into his Mr. Fixit van, and did his level best to keep her alive. “And then, after nursing Betty along all of Friday night and into Saturday—”

  Sidewinder cleared his throat.

  The narrator glared at the bad-mannered animal. “What?”

  Why didn’t Mr. Whitsun take the girl to the hospital?

  “Well that’s a dumb question!” But realizing that the dog expected an explanation, she drew in a deep breath and let it out with: “Freddy has already had some troubles with the police. He’s been arrested in other states for killing deer out of season and selling pigs that wasn’t his and hitting an elk with his truck while he was drunk and tooting on a brass trumpet. You can imagine what a judge would do if he was to be charged with running down a human being—”

  Or worse still, a dog.

  “Hush!” Daisy detested these unseemly interruptions. “That’s why Freddy was afraid to take the girl to see a doctor.”

  Sidewinder: He should’ve taken her directly to a competent veterinarian. There’s an excellent practitioner over on Second Street who provides complimentary liver-flavored doggy biscuits and just last month she cured me of a bad case of bloated—

  “This is serious business.” The tribal elder shook her walking stick at the impertinent creature. “D’you want to hear the rest of the story, or would you rather have a big lump on your noggin?”

  After thinking it over for six milliseconds, the hound opted for the former.

  When the somewhat deflated storyteller got back into the groove, she provided a heartrending account of Betty’s subsequent death on Saturday evening and Freddy Whitsun’s fateful decision to bury her corpse in the old section of the cemetery that night—a dismal procedure that was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a shadowy figure who got banged on the head by a startled, shovel-wielding Freddy Whitsun.

  As Daisy pausing for a refreshing breath of air, Sidewinder posted another question: So did he bury both of them in the same hole?

  “No, he did not.” Having a sensible conversation with this smart-aleck dog ain’t as easy as I thought it’d be. “Mr. Meusser was still alive and Freddy was awfully surprised when he found out he’d knocked his best friend cold as a Popsicle. He hauled the unconscious man away on the same little electric truck that Meusser had rode in on. Soon as he got Meusser inside his little cemetery house, Freddy laid him out on the couch. He figured his buddy would wake up later with a bad headache, and wonder what’d happened to him and who did it and how he’d gotten all the way back home on his own. Freddy hurried back to where he’d already buried Betty and spent quite some time fixing the ground so there’d be no trace of a new-dug grave.” Daisy paused to sigh about how—despite our best intentions, careful plans, and hard work—things have a way of going wrong. “When Freddy came back to check on Meusser not long after daylight, he found the poor fellow dead as a petrified polecat—and not only that—some rascal had stolen the dead man’s watch!”

  The dog was visibly impressed. And Mr. Whitsun confessed all of this to you?

  “Of course he did.”

  Why would he do a thing like that?

  “Because I’m easy to talk to, that’s why! Now what do you want—a sharp stick jabbed in your eye or would you rather hear about the peculiar man our sweet little Sarah met in the park—a smooth-talking stranger who might turn out to be dangerous?”

  Sidewinder decided on the latter—and within four milliseconds flat of the threat being made.

  Daisy proceeded to describe Sarah’s meeting with Erasmus Boyle, terminating with: “This young fellow told Sarah he was being kept awake all night by some young woman who was singing songs to her crying baby. Sarah thought the girl and her child was upstairs, above Boyle’s apartment.” She baited the hook: “And he gave her his address—144 Hollybush.”

  Sidewinder swallowed it whole. So we know where to find this suspicious character and put the bite on him!

  “We would—except there ain’t no Hollybush Street in Granite Creek—never was.”

  So why’d he lie about his address?

  “He didn’t lie about that.” Or about his name and military rank. Foreseeing another vexing question, Daisy raised her palm to forestall the pushy dog. “I’ll explain about that later, but before I do I’ll tell you what I found out from Miss Emily Boyle over at the nursing home—and after that at the public library.” Which Daisy proceeded to do. “The most important thing I learned from that old white woman was that her nephew had called her the day before and asked for money.”

  Why’s that so important?

  “Because…” Daisy paused. “Unless no-account dead men make phone calls to their aunties and hit them up for a few bucks—the old woman’s nephew is still among the living.”

  Sorry—I seemed to have missed something here.

  Sidewinder had. And Charlie Moon’s aunt was about to fill in the blank space.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  FINALLY, THE GOOD STUFF

  Daisy leaned to impale the hound with her patented beady-eye gaze. “That day when I walked from the cemetery over to the park and found Sarah sitting on a bench—she was talking to a fellow who wasn’t there.”

  Sidewinder: Like on that creepy old radio show—The Invisible Man?

  “Yes,” Daisy said. “Well, more or less. I already knew I couldn’t see dead people anymore—but that was when I found out that Sarah could see them. She was talking to a spirit that very minute.”

  But wouldn’t she have been scared by a ghost?

  “I’m glad you asked.” She leaned to pat the homely hound’s head, then straightened up with a grunt. “From time to time, Sarah h
as seen some spooky things, but mostly at night—but the girl ain’t used to seeing dead people walking around in broad daylight.” A passing night cloud exposed the earth’s pockmarked satellite, which bathed Daisy’s wrinkled face in a faint glow of moonlight. “That girl didn’t have the least notion she was talking to a dead man.” Pausing to inhale a bracing breath of icy night air, she shuddered with a sudden chill. Recovering, she continued. “When I saw her talking to empty space, I realized right away that the girl must’ve stolen my ghost-eyes. It took me a little while longer to figure out how she’d done it and how I might put things right—but you already know all about that.”

  Right. So tell me more about this ghost Sarah was talking to. If he didn’t lie about his street address—how come it was bogus as a plastic chew bone?

  “First of all, because it wasn’t a street address.” Daisy paused to watch moonlight ripple eerily along the river like thousands of slivering silver snakes wriggling in a viperous mating dance. “An old cemetery map and a burial list I found in the library was a big help. Turns out that in 1917 a Captain Erasmus Boyle was buried in the old graveyard—which in those bygone days was called Walnut Hills Cemetery. He was laid to rest in the Hollybush Section, plot number 144.”

  Aha! The address he gave Sarah. Hounds can frown and this one did. But an Erasmus Boyle who was buried way back then must’ve been—

  “Sure he was—Sarah had been talking to Miss Emily Boyle’s elder brother—and in the park that bordered the county cemetery. I figured that wherever Captain Boyle was buried, the girl singing to her baby was planted somewhere close-by—probably right over his coffin. And that dead girl had to be Betty Naranjo.” Daisy waited for a congratulation.

  A simple “good for you” would have sufficed, but the dog outdid himself: That is way beyond amazing, Daisy. Why, if word gets out about how clever you are at figuring out who killed who and where the bodies are buried, Scott Parris will pin a deputy’s badge on you and tell Charlie Moon to stick to raising stinky old cows!