Coffin Man
Page 32
Though gratified by this well-deserved praise (she couldn’t have put it better herself), the old woman shrugged and replied with the humility of a medieval saint, “Oh, it wasn’t all that much.”
Sidewinder seemed to be highly impressed by the old woman’s self-effacing protest, but his apparent concentration was a brazen canine sham. Though he stared at Daisy’s left knee as if hanging on every word she uttered, the hound could hardly have cared less about her self-congratulatory narrative—
But wait. The animal’s intense doggish gaze is not focused on the arthritic joint between Daisy Perika’s femur and shinbone. His keen eyes are peering beyond his human companion’s leg, at something or other behind the puffed-up storyteller. Like others of his ilk, this descendants of wolves occasionally exhibits peculiar behavior.
Her appetite for admiration whetted, the tribal elder was about to brag about an incident she’d skipped over earlier. “I bet you’d enjoy hearing what I did to keep half-wit Whitsun from stringing himself up.”
Perhaps Sidewinder would have, but the dog was entirely focused on another, more urgent issue. Like a well-trained pointer who had just spotted a scaled quail under a tumbleweed, the hound was standing stock-still, his nose aimed at … Aha—there it is! Something in the undergrowth along Too Late Creek.
The vain storyteller had become aware of the canine’s interest in something other than the center of her smallish universe. “What’re you gawking at, you old goofball?”
Sidewinder responded to her question in honest doggish lingo—the bristly quills on his neck prickling porcupine-style, a low growl rumbling in his throat.
Charlie Moon’s mystified aunt watched the peculiar animal stalk off toward the brushy tree line along the creek bank.
Daisy’s stalwart escort, who viewed her as a child in his charge, was determined to defend his human companion with all the self-sacrificing instinct of any domesticated wolf who might accompany you during your midnight stroll along Lonely Street. Despite his deadly serious intent, the four-legged creature approached this particular menace with deliberate prudence. Was Sidewinder afraid? Certainly not. The intelligent animal advanced slowly and with due caution because he needed time to think. Think about what? Why, about how to deal with this atypical opponent—an adversary who could not be harmed by a dozen mouthfuls of pointy hound’s teeth.
The old woman peered into the darkness—her so-called ghost-eyes now working fine—and she perceived the presence not twenty paces away. Yes. It was the very same feather-headed specter that had frightened Sarah earlier in the evening. The shaman had no doubt that the nosy Anasazi haunt had crept close with the ulterior intent of overhearing what she was saying to the dog. She was just as certain that it was a futile attempt: this ancient soul could not understand a word of English, Ute, Spanish, Spanglish, pig Latin, or any other major modern language listed in Daisy’s repertoire. But that was quite beside the point; there was an issue of Principle involved. Though proud of her expertise in the subtle art of eavesdropping, the old woman valued her own privacy and was prepared to severely punish those who dared invade it. Miss Daisy stooped to pick up a hefty, smoothish rock. After taking careful aim, she tossed it at the spirit. Did her missile connect? You know it did!
There was a startled yelp.
One might reasonably conclude that feather-headed haunts have feelings, too, and do not appreciate being stoned. But commonsensical as a startled ghost-yelp might seem, there is another possibility that cannot be dismissed out-of-hand.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
THAT FINAL STRAW
Listening to the latest telephone report, Charlie Moon could hardly believe his ears. “She did what?”
Little Butch Cassidy was pleased to repeat himself. “The old lady pitched a rock at Sidewinder.” He added with a snicker, “Hit ’im too.”
“Well that tears it.” Moon disconnected. With Parris at his heels, the rancher stomped out of his office, along the long hallway, down the stairs into the parlor, and outside onto the west porch. Hearing the thumping commotion of heavy boots in locomotion, a curious Sarah Frank hurried forth to serve as a caboose. Sidewinder was already at the door, hankering for some show of sympathy. Whining pitifully, the offended hound leaned against the boss’s lean leg and looked up at Moon with big, soulful eyes.
“Poor thing!” Sarah stooped to hug the animal and murmur in his ear. “What’s wrong?”
Daisy Perika came trudging across the yard, muttering angry expletives under her breath.
Mr. Moon’s stern face did not soften as he helped the aged woman up the porch steps. “What’ve you been up to?”
“Nothing that’d interest you.” She scowled at the annoying dog. “My throwing arm ain’t what it used to be, and that big fleabag got in the way.” Daisy pointed her walking stick in the direction of Too Late Creek. “But if I see old Feather-head again, I’ll set the rascal ablaze with a blowtorch—and when he dances and hollers for mercy I’ll give him a gallon of kerosene to put the fire out!”
Feather-head? Knowing the futility of asking for a clarification, Charlie Moon let the matter drop.
Knowing precisely whom Daisy was referring to, Sarah kept mum and hugged the hound all the harder.
Scott Parris, who hadn’t had so much fun in weeks, was doing his best not to laugh too loudly but his braying was heard inside the bunkhouse by half-a-dozen wide-eyed cowboys and Butch to boot, who was making his way down from the barn loft.
Daisy scowled hatefully at Sidewinder, who—presumably fearing another unprovoked missile attack—had positioned himself behind Moon.
Aside from Parris’s hilarity, the electrified atmosphere fairly crackled with tension.
But pent-up anxieties fade away after a few minutes; the important issue is: was the tribal elder displeased with the outcome of her somewhat one-sided contrived conversation with Sidewinder?
Not in the least.
Having unburdened herself to the hound, Daisy Perika was now free to enjoy the full recovery of her “ghost-eyes.” She had already made up her mind to return to her home on the morrow and was looking forward (so to speak) to seeing dozens of her deceased friends, acquaintances, and enemies again. To give the crafty old soul due credit, Daisy was also pleased to know that Sarah Frank would be spared the discomfort of seeing every haunt who happened by—such as that dapper young officer Sarah had shared the park bench with.
Which, at least for some of us, raises a nagging question: was Daisy Perika correct in her bold assertion that the spook who’d chatted with Sarah was the long-dead brother of Miss Emily Boyle? The answer is: perhaps. One cannot be certain about such murky issues. But Daisy was definitely right in her educated guess about a related matter.
Freddy Whitsun did indeed deposit Betty Naranjo’s earthly remains above an old oaken coffin wherein moldered the bones of the distinguished old soldier. The testimony to this fact that can be faintly seen on the limestone grave marker that Sarah had seated herself on whilst conversing with the suicidal Mr. Whitsun.
CPT. ERASMUS BOYLE—U.S. ARMY
1888–1917
The terse epitaph demands an addendum. We take chisel and hammer in hand.
HERE LIETH THE GENUINE COFFIN MAN
And here endeth the account.
Almost.
EPILOGUE
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS
THE HANDYMAN DOES NOT ESCAPE JUSTICE
The dual morals of this sad vignette shall be provided right up front.
“Homicide, even when unintentional, leaves the victims just as dead.”
And: “Never trust an undocumented Panamanian who offers a dandy Dodge pickup in trade for an over-the-hill handyman van.”
That’s right. The pickup with Utah plates had been stolen in Provo—and from an assistant DA, no less. Freddy Whitsun was apprised of this jarring fact when he attempted to register the tainted motor vehicle in the Lone Star State. Needless to say, the authorities did not buy his story about having traded
his van for the misappropriated pickup. “Pure fiction” was the verdict. Moreover, the pickup’s rightful owner was determined to see the presumed thief charged with grand theft auto, be declared guilty by a jury of his peers, and sentenced to umpteen years in the well-known slammer.
Freddie’s ensuing trials and tribulations—which may be deemed due reward for committing two inadvertent homicides in Granite Creek, Colorado—shall not be described in detail. Except to note that he might not have beaten the bad rap except for a resourceful young Nacogdoches attorney who acquired written and video depositions from a pair of trustworthy witnesses, which proved that at the very moment when the Dodge pickup was being pilfered in Provo, the accused handyman was in the historic section of the Granite Creek Cemetery, dealing with some business of an intensely personal nature. (The embarrassing matter of suicide by hanging did not come up.) The witnesses were, of course, Daisy Perika and Sarah Frank—who did not reveal the fact of their testimony to either Charlie Moon or Scott Parris.
But that was not quite the end of Freddie’s story.
WHERE DID MR. WHITSUN END UP AFTER ALL HIS TROUBLES?
Make that the former Mr. Whitsun. Both his business and person are currently identified by the new sign painted on both doors of a lime-green Ford E-250 van: FOX’S SMALL ENGINE REPAIR
As to where, Freddy Fox has settled into the mostly peaceful East Texas hill country and the gratifying mechanical profession of repairing lawnmowers, motorcycles, and outboard motors. He tends to a few other tasks for favorite customers, concentrating on small-job carpentry. But the former Mr. Fixit has traded his pipe wrench for a spirit level; he refuses all calls from locals who are suffering from troublesome plumbing.
And things are going tolerably well.
Nowadays, his slumbers are not disturbed by the Morris Meusser–Betty Naranjo twosome. Maybe they haven’t located him yet, but Freddy hopes that his testy accuser has forgiven his checker-playing buddy for whacking him with a shovel. Which gratifying change of heart would make it unnecessary for Betty’s ghost to appear and defend the hapless handyman who accidentally ran her down and buried her corpse over Captain Boyle’s coffin.
Happily, the recent immigrant to the largest state in the lower forty-eight is not bothered by haunts of any description. But just to be on the safe side, the cautious fellow resides in a modest rented cottage that is twenty-nine miles from the nearest cemetery.
MRS. WANDA NARANJO
Though Betty’s mother has been designated a person of interest in the violent death of Michael Kauffmann, this interesting person has not been located. This, in spite of the fact that Wanda has allegedly been spotted in Washington (Richland), Texas (San Antonio), Kentucky (La Grange), Missouri (O’Fallon), and Arkansas (St. Joe). One of the few communities where there has been no report of her presence is worthy of mention.
The curiosity of a long-haul trucker who lives in Granite Creek was piqued when his order for chicken-fried steak, mashed spuds with brown gravy, and a cup of black coffee was taken by a spunky little waitress in Waycross, Georgia. The alert fellow wasn’t taken in by Wanda Naranjo’s dying her hair a bright red, wearing blue contact lenses over her brown irises, and assuming an overdone southern drawl.
So why didn’t the trucker notify the legally constituted authorities?
One can only speculate.
It might have helped that Wanda winked at the lonely widower and addressed him as “honey-babe.” Plus the fact that the dyspeptic diner had no stomach for assisting in the arrest and punishment of a gun-toting momma who—according to the Todd County Sheriff’s Office bulletin—was suspected of shooting her boyfriend stone-cold dead. Experienced truckers are nobody’s fools and this one had stayed alive during his career by exercising a measure of caution. For all I know Wanda has a derringer stashed in her apron pocket.
But the combination of the waitress’s mild flirtation and the diner’s instinct for self-preservation were not the sole factors in his decision to leave well enough alone. Mike Kauffmann owed me twenty bucks and the welcher should’ve paid up before he took a bullet.
He gave the lady a knowing wink, a thumbs-up—and left a five-dollar tip.
REGARDING THE FATHER OF BETTY NARANJO’S UNBORN CHILD
There were, all told, five candidates. A sizable field of likely suspects, but Betty had not known who the daddy was—or given the matter much thought.
Why was she going to see Dr. Whyte on that fateful Friday morning? To extort a wad of cash money from the most prosperous of the potential fathers. The pregnant girl figured the psychologist was good for a hundred bucks.
A FINAL MATTER
We recall that Sarah Frank had advised Captain E. Boyle to take his grievance concerning a lullaby-singing young woman and her crying baby to the chief of police, and that he had agreed to do so. We also know that an officer is a gentleman, and that a gentleman keeps his promises. Which raises the pressing issue: was the frustrated complainant responsible for the presumed poltergeist activity in Scott Parris’s office? Did Miss Emily’s distinguished brother jiggle Parris’s coffee cup, make the cop’s desk lamp go on and off—and create the ceiling fan’s peculiar pendular motion? We simply do not know; the question shall be filed in that thickish folder marked UNRESOLVED.
Whatever mischief our limping soldier might have been up to in Parris’s workplace, may Captain Boyle’s weary soul and all others rest in peaceful sleep.
Speaking of which—a warm bed beckons, as does the dawn of a brighter, better day.
Good night.
ALSO BY JAMES D. DOSS
A Dead Man’s Tale
The Widow’s Revenge
Snake Dreams
Three Sisters
Stone Butterfly
Shadow Man
The Witch’s Tongue
Dead Soul
White Shell Woman
Grandmother Spider
The Night Visitor
The Shaman’s Game
The Shaman’s Bones
The Shaman Laughs
The Shaman Sings
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James D. Doss is the author of fifteen previous Charlie Moon mysteries, two of which were among the Best Books of the Year named by Publishers Weekly. Born in Kentucky, Doss now divides his time between Los Alamos and Taos, New Mexico.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
COFFIN MAN. Copyright © 2011 by James D. Doss. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Doss, James D.
Coffin man / James D. Doss.—1st ed.
p. cm.
e-ISBN 9781429983051
1. Moon, Charlie (Fictitious character: Doss)—Fiction. 2. Missing persons—Fiction. 3. Colorado—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3554.O75C64 2011
813'.54—dc23
2011026219
First Edition: November 2011