But even for Daisy P.—who is accustomed to seeing dead people in broad daylight and talking to them about this and that and whatnot—it is somewhat jarring when the person you are viewing in the luxuriously quilted casket is also standing beside that costly coffin, and making complaints. In the case of Daisy and the elderly lady who had been trapped in the wrecked pickup, their conversation went something like this:
Daisy (politely): “Pardon me for asking, Toadie—but how d’you manage to be two places at one time?”
Hester: “This ain’t my actual funeral, Daisy—it’s a silly dream you’re having.” A miffed expression. “I bet you won’t even bother to show up at the real send-off.”
Daisy: “Oh, I might—if I’m not too busy doing something important.”
Hester: “Like what—trimming your toenails?”
D.: “That’s not a bad idea.” A smirk. “When other folks show up to celebrate your going away, I might be at home clipping an ingrown nail on my big toe.”
H. (shaking a finger at the smart aleck): “I sent Danny Bignight to warn you, Daisy—you’ll be sorry if you don’t show up to mourn at my funeral!”
D. (regretfully): “I’m already sorry, Toadie.”
H. (doubtful): “Are you—really?”
D. (nodding): “You bet! I’m sorry your momma and daddy didn’t get run over by a Greyhound bus when they was five years old.”
H. (transformed into a hideous toadstool with a thousand bloodshot eyeballs, every one of them glaring at her hateful enemy): “I’ll get you for that!”
D. (rolling her two eyes): “Being dead hasn’t made you any more likable.”
Not much of a comeback for acid-tongued Daisy Perika, but she may be excused for being somewhat off her usual form. Even those who have dreamed of being trapped in the center of a railroad trestle bridge (over a deep arroyo filled with snarling grizzly bears, six-foot rattlesnakes, and millions of purple scorpions) with two humongous steam-engine locomotives approaching from opposite directions at ninety-nine miles per hour to smash the dreamer flat as a fritter will be compelled to admit that Daisy’s confrontation with a thousand-eyeball toadstool was, at the least, unnerving. Charlie Moon’s aunt opened her eyes and groaned. Well, I’m glad that aggravation is over.
But it wasn’t. Not quite. Hester “Toadie” Tillman’s impudent threat to return from the grave and haunt her rankled the tribal elder. If she so much as shows her homely face, I’ll make that silly old woman wish she’d never died in the first place. The tribal elder’s mouth gaped in a soul-satisfying yawn. She snuggled her head into the feather pillow. Now I’ll get me a healthy dose of shut-eye and forget all about ol’ Toadie.
And so she would.
Until the next haunt came along.
CHARLIE MOON
Daisy Perika is a tough act to follow, but for the sake of triangular symmetry, the third member of the small family shall be visited.
As it happens, the tribal elder’s nephew has not yet fallen asleep. The hardworking stockman has a lot on his mind. Some pleasant things to think about, some otherwise. Here is the list:
His pretty sweetheart, Patsy Poynter.
The gored cowboy at the hospital.
The trouble Six-Toes is always creating.
The sinking price of beef on the hoof.
The rising costs of operating the Columbine, and …
The sudden realization that his quarterly tax report is overdue.
Those folks who always see the bright side might say one out of six ain’t so bad, but they have probably never tried to make a decent profit raising cattle.
Number seven was a more or less neutral issue. We refer to a recent offer Mr. Moon had gotten a from a consortium of Las Vegas investors to buy the Columbine Ranch—which formal proposal expired in six days. The stockman began to mull it over. If I sold this big ranch for the price those high-rollers quoted, I could buy that dandy little three-section spread on the Gunnison. It was well-watered, and not only that … I’d have enough cash left over to last me for the rest of my life and then some. He hung a Cheshire cat smile in the darkness. I might raise a few quarter horses just for fun, but—and this was a solemn promise—I’d never work hard another day in my life. He nodded as well as a man can whose head is reclining on a firm pillow. I’d turn in my deputy badge to Scott and my tribal-investigator badge to Oscar Sweetwater. Why not? Scott don’t really need a deputy and the tribal chairman hasn’t given me a job to do for almost a year. Then, there was Moon’s immediate family to consider. Daisy and Sarah would enjoy a little horse ranch on the Gunnison just as much as being here on the Columbine. Which raised another issue: I wonder what Patsy would think about raising horses. Which, quite naturally, got him to thinking about the prettiest lady in Granite Creek County.
This general line of middle-of-the-night mulling continued for quite a while, until—as a man does from time to time—the Ute sat up in bed and flat out made up his mind. I’m going to do it.
Which raises the burning question:
IS HE REALLY GOING TO DO IT?
It would appear so. But don’t go betting your best boots and Mexican saddle on it.
The issue seemingly settled, Charlie Moon has stretched out on his bed again and is about to drift off to sleep, but by the time the sun comes up and he wakes up, the rancher mostly likely won’t remember very much about these wee-hour musings. And even if he does, he’ll probably shake his head and wonder, What got into me—to even consider such a thing?
Of course, there’s always the onion-skin-thin chance that he really will. (Do it.)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE WELL-OILED MACHINERY OF GOVERNMENT HAS BEGUN TO HUM
Comforted by this assurance, we shall not fret about the potential troubles brewing for Charlie Moon and Scott Parris. Somehow, the lawmen will muddle through; they always do. In the end, things will turn out all right. Unless they don’t.
Which government?
Uncle Sam’s, of course—the one in Washington, District of Columbia, on the Potomac. Comprised primarily of the Executive Branch (headed by a POTUS who knows precisely what to do and always acts decisively), a bicameral Congress whose sole intent is to look after the public interest, and a Supreme Court whose members are dedicated to preserving the original intent of the U.S. Constitution. Not to mention more bureaus, departments, administrations, and offices than a centipede could count if she had twenty toes on every foot.
Oh, very well—fret if you must. But the widely held view that the feds cannot get anything done right or on time borders on the very edge of cynicism—and strictly speaking is not true. Not one hundred percent of the time. Despite the best obstructive efforts of those hundreds of thousands of dedicated bureaucrats who had jobs for life and elected officials who had benefits beyond the fondest dreams of the average working citizen—every once in a while, things do fall into place, and promptly so. And all because of a modest proportion of highly dedicated public servants among both feds and government contractors who put in long, hard days—and without a penny of overtime pay—all with minimal appreciation from the aforementioned average working citizen.
Recall, by way of sterling example, FBI Special Agent Mary Anne Clayton, aka Marcella Clay, who—at considerable risk to life and limb—made the clandestine video recording of Mrs. Francine Hooten’s mouth whilst the bereaved purse snatcher’s momma was uttering felonious instructions to a hired assassin. And recall how the undercover agent had (via mobile telephone) transmitted the video data stream of the old woman’s moving lips to her Bureau contact. A creditable day’s work for a government employee, but her labors were not complete. When the butler discovered the misplaced “bug” on the garden pathway, the so-called Marcella Clay had alerted a Bureau handler of her intention to withdraw immediately from the Hooten residence. A pretty good performance for an underpaid fed, and though the daring FBI operative was definitely the star of act one of that melodrama, there were other players (yet to step onstage) who de
serve our appreciation.
Only hours after the data was received, it was processed (so that only Mrs. Hooten’s mouth was digitized for analysis) and then transmitted to four internationally recognized experts—three of the human species, the fourth belonging to no known biological category. A trio of deaf-from-birth lip-reading experts (located in Greenville, South Carolina, Medford, Oregon, and Medicine Hat, Alberta) eyeballed the processed version of Francine Hooten’s mouth forming words unheard except by the speaker and the unseen (alleged) assassin. All three of these contract lip-readers recognized the words Paris and moon, and naturally assumed some sort of French Connection with lunar overtones that suggested an astrological element.
While the humans were watching Mrs. H.’s thin lips form syllables, a skilled MIT-educated computer scientist in the Hoover Building in D.C. was uploading the digitized video frames into a souped-up HP parallel-processor desktop wherein the latest version of a custom-developed Bureau software (LIPanalyze IV) would compete with the three human professionals. It was not so much a matter of who would win the game—a distinguished linguist at the University of Texas in Austin (who reads lips while conducting her all-deaf Sunday-school class at a congregation of happy Presbyterians) would review the four independent reports and produce a written summary of Mrs. Hooten’s “most probable” remarks.
But before you begin bemoaning the slowly turning wheels of the federal bureaucracy—be advised that the entire process was completed in twenty-two hours flat. How’s that? Go ahead, admit it—doesn’t knowing how the government’s toothed gears twirl and mesh make you feel measurably better?
You want to know what happened to the Sunday-school-teacher’s report? (Bringing up such issues is in poor taste, and suggests a distinct lack of patriotic fervor.) The report was distributed, of course.
Who (if anyone) on the distribution list would actually take time to read the document, what action (if any) would be initiated—and who (if anyone) would carry out the prescribed action?
Very well, if you insist on exhibiting nitpicking negativity.
The answer to all three questions is: FBI Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague.
Those who know the formidable lady will be visibly impressed, but if you’ve never heard of this remarkable public servant—that just goes to show how little recognition a really top-notch fed gets for working six days per week for an average of about twelve hours a day. More to the point, Scott Parris is acquainted with McTeague, and so is Charlie Moon—the slender Ute rancher’s acquaintance with the lady being of a much more personal nature than that of the brawny matukach chief of police—whose relationship is strictly professional and not always friendly.
For those who desire clarification about Mr. Moon’s connection with the drop-dead gorgeous fed, here is a tidbit of nonmalicious gossip to chew on and digest: once upon a time, Charlie and Lila Mae came this close to a merger of the martial kind. No, reverse the order of i and t to make that marital. (Sorry—one of those embarrassing Freudian slips of the typographical category.) Where were we? Oh, yes—recalling the potential Moon–McTeague amalgamation of some years past. Alas, as is so often the case—the deal fell through at that proverbial last minute. And all on account of a smart-aleck, quarter-wit Columbine employee (one Six-Toes) who didn’t know the difference between wholesome cowboy humor and stupidity. And still don’t. Doesn’t. Whatever.
But we digress.
The point is this: the FBI is deadly serious about nailing Francine Hooten’s tough old hide to the late Mr. J. Edgar’s barn door. With so many critical irons in the fire, why is the Bureau heating up still another one—and just to put a pathetic invalid mobster’s wife into the well-known clink? Thank you for asking. One cannot be absolutely certain, but the federal cops might be especially hot under the collar because one of their own has, as the odd saying goes, “gone missing.” Not a solitary word has been heard from Special Agent Mary Anne Clayton, aka Marcella Clay, since Mrs. Hooten’s employee called in the evac code and presumably hit the road to Terre Haute to meet a Bureau team dispatched from Indianapolis. The lady has, in a word—vanished. Dropped off a cliff.
No doubt with an enabling push from that miscreant known to the FBI as the “Cowboy Assassin.”
But this is not exactly a morale booster. What we need is a few minutes of R & R from the dark, seamy side of life—a pleasant diversion in the bright sunshine. Which suggests some lovely spot where yellow butterflies flutter by, happy little bluebirds sing their tiny hearts out, and good, honest, salt-of-the-earth folks are occupied with having themselves an innocent good time. The Methodist picnic in Logan County would do the trick, but that congregation of upstanding citizens has long since packed up their high-calorie leftovers, softballs and bats, and plastic horseshoes—and gone home.
Never mind.
There are bound to be some other solid citizens hereabouts who will fill the bill.
Aha! There are—word has just come in about a fine old gentleman and his wholesome grandson. They are enjoying one of those memorable days that inspired Mr. Norman Rockwell to illustrate covers on the old Saturday Evening Post with nostalgic and heartwarming scenes that remind aging romantics of what Small Town USA life was once like in the Lower Forty-eight. For those who slept through four years of high school except for lunch breaks and Pep Club, this was before the toasty-warm Sandwich Islands and the Seward’s Folly deep-freeze were admitted to the federal union. Which celebrated historical events occurred in nineteen hundred and fifty-nine A.D. (On January 3 and August 21, respectively.)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A BIG CATCH
Eighty-year-old Grover T. Washington was seated in the narrow end of an aluminum bass boat, happily running his trotline, which was submerged across a narrow section of the Wabash. What made the old man so doggone happy was not only a fine catch of channel catfish (not one of those slippery rascals was under three pounds) and a respectable assortment of drum and carp, but the fact that his twelve-year-old grandson was along for the fun. “Uh-oh,” he muttered through his gray, tobacco-stained beard as he tugged at the taut line. “Feels like we got us a shore-enough big ’un!”
The blue eyes in the boy’s charmingly freckled face bulged, and his changing voice croaked as he said, “What is it, Granddad—one a them hunnerd-pound jug-head catfish that lays on the bottom, just waitin’ for somethin’ tasty to drift by that he can swaller?”
“Could be, sonny—them lazy old buggers don’t put up much of a fight.” But this feels like dead weight. He shrugged and sighed. “More likely, it’s just a waterlogged poplar stump, or a rusty old ’frigerator that some jackass dumped into the river, or—” He got his first look at a portion of the catch, and dropped the line before the boy could see the monstrous thing he’d hooked. With admirable presence of mind, Grover muttered, “Damned old log.” He motioned to the boy in blue overalls. “Row us back to the bank. Before I get this line untangled, I’ll need to get some special tools from the green tackle box.”
“Okay, Gramps.” As the man-child leaned into the oars, he licked his chapped lips. “Can we have us a riverside fish fry afore we go home?”
The elderly man did not respond.
“Granddad?”
“Oh—I don’t think so.” The dispirited angler glanced at his wristwatch. “We’ll have our fish fry at home. While I’m tending to business here, you hoist this string of fish over your shoulder and take the shortcut across the cornfield.”
The boy’s face fell. “Why can’t I ride home in the pickup with you?”
“Because you need to go tell Grandma that I’ll be running late. I need to get my line untangled from that danged old log.”
A suspicious expression shadowed the lad’s honest face. “Why don’t you call her on your cell phone?”
Danged smart-aleck kid. “Because if I do, she’ll start pestering me with silly questions—just like somebody else I won’t mention!”
“Okay, then.” The youngster grinned as he tied
the bass boat to a sycamore limb. “But I’ll tell Gran’ma what you just said.” And lickety-split, off he went with the catfish, drum, and carp.
Even before his grandson was out of sight, Grover Washington put in a 911 call. When the dispatcher asked what the emergency was, the grim fisherman described the horrific thing that was entangled on his line.
* * *
The sheriff and his deputy showed up in fifteen minutes flat, and an Indiana state trooper was not far behind. What did the lawmen find?
A cinder-block-weighted corpse that might never have been discovered had a strong undercurrent not taken it a few miles downstream to a fateful encounter with an aged fisherman’s trotline.
The preliminary finding was that the body was that of a forty-five-to-fifty-five-year-old Caucasian female, who’d had her throat cut. Even in rural southern Indiana, a few such unfortunates are never identified, and those that are rarely attract overmuch attention by those in the upper echelons of law enforcement.
This instance would prove an exception.
A subsequent examination by the McLean County Medical Examiner’s office would lead to a positive identification: FBI Special Agent Mary Anne Clayton, aka Marcella Clay—until quite recently, maid and live-in companion to Mrs. Francine Hooten.
Despite the Bureau’s best efforts to connect the homicide to the purse snatcher’s momma, and the telephone record of the undercover agent’s hurried departure from the Hooten residence, there would not be a shred of solid evidence to support an indictment—much less a conviction.
Very depressing. Let us leave Indiana and the tree-lined Wabash banks behind.
And go where?
How about—a far piece west of here, in sunny Colorado, where most rivers are too shallow and transparent to conceal the corpse of an adult Caucasian female. But for the moment, we shall not visit Granite Creek. (We have friends in Pueblo.)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE TOWN LAWMAN’S DAY OFF
Scott Parris is the lawman in question, and he had taken a day of precious vacation to spend with his best friend in the whole world. Why? Because Charlie Moon had asked him to, that’s why. Which, as answers are wont to do, raises still another question. Which is: why did Parris’s deputy make such a presumptuous request of the busy chief of police, who saves up his vacation days like wild-eyed old misers hoard gold coins? Because the owner of the Columbine had made up his mind to do it, and was determined to reveal his life-changing decision to Scott Parris so that they could celebrate with a big day on the town down in Pueblo. The Ute could not wait until tomorrow, which—as we all know—never comes for some of us. Anyway, when Moon proposed the impromptu holiday, Scott said, “Let’s go,” and they took off on a joyride. Had a danged good time, too.
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