Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  Daisy Perika was struggling. “I’ll give you a brand-new, crispy dollar bill.”

  She’s not a zombie—just an old weirdo. “Make it two old wrinkled dollar bills.”

  Little matukach thief. But the Ute elder was in a tight spot. “Okay.”

  Mrs. Murple found her husband and the sales manager, who was winding up for her final pitch on the Family Bereavement Plan, and startled them with wild-eyed babbling about a “hideous old dead woman in a coffin” who “reached out and grabbed me by the throat.” In spite of the fact that she had substituted “throat” for “wrist,” and that “hideous” was somewhat over the top, and the fact that Daisy was not dead, it would be unconscionable nit-picking to describe the rattled woman’s report as grossly inaccurate. The purveyor of burial insurance, who did not deal with the cadaver side of the business, hurried off to locate a member of the Martinez clan.

  When Mr. Murple arrived in the display room with his hyperventilating wife trailing three paces behind—you know what they found. The small Sunrise casket was empty, the alleged corpse nowhere to be seen. The husband eyed his mate. Sternly.

  “But she was right there—in that coffin!” As if she thought it would add weight to her claim, Mrs. Murple pointed, repeated, “In that coffin!”

  At this moment, Ronny, who had two dollars in his pocket and a certain knack for dramatic timing, reappeared at the scene of the crime, entering stage left.

  The distraught woman seized her child with near-hysterical joy, shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Tell Daddy, darling—tell him about the horrible old dead woman in the coffin who grabbed me by the throat!”

  Oozing innocence from every pore, the lad glanced at the coffin, at his father, settled a bewildered gaze on his mother. “What dead woman, Mom?”

  Oh, that Ronny. Such a little scamp.

  Eighteen

  At the Sugar Bowl Restaurant

  Unaware of the lasting impact she’d had on the Murple family—Momma Murple in particular—Daisy Perika’s thoughts were concentrated on her favorite subject. Herself.

  I wonder how many people will come to my funeral. More than came to Sally Sweetwater’s, I bet. She should’ve been kinder to the neighborhood children. It was just awful [Daisy barely kept the smile inside] how Sally would load up her slingshot with rocks, and pepper those nice little Girl Scouts who was selling cookies. A self-pitying sigh. But there won’t be nearly so many mourners show up for me as came to weep and wail for Nahum Yaciiti. Some people say Nahum was a saint, and I guess he was. Which suggested that a certain mending of her ways might be in order. Starting right now, I’m going to be a lot nicer to people. And that goes for every single person I know. Even the ones that ain’t worth a thimble full of spit. No matter what those bone heads do to make me mad, I won’t have a mean word to say about one of ’em. These uplifting thoughts were interrupted by the tired-faced waitress who brought coffee and pastry on a tray. The Ute woman reached for her purse, asked, “How much?”

  Mandy eyed the wrinkled woman. “You want your check now?”

  “No, I don’t need no bill—just say out loud how much I’m gonna get ripped off for this greasy coffee and stale doughnut, and I’ll settle with you.”

  Well aren’t you the sweet one. She scribbled on her order pad. “That’ll be two-fifty for the stale doughnut, two dollars for the greasy coffee, which with tax comes to four dollars and eighty cents.”

  On account of having only a few more days to live, and knowing she would not have any need of cash money after she crossed over that deep, wide river, Daisy Perika thought she might as well be generous. It was the sort of thing God approved of, and the closer you got to the Almighty, the more you wanted to please him. She gave the young woman a five-dollar bill. “Keep the change, toots.”

  Toots? “Uh—thank you.” Mandy accepted the currency, hurried away to deal with a fat man who wanted his Diet Pepsi refilled. And another piece of coconut crème pie.

  In 1939, at the picture show in Pueblo, Daisy had watched a good-looking white man on the silver screen say those very words to a platinum blond hussy with eyelashes big as hummingbird wings and a little, pointy nose. Daisy had particularly admired the thin mustache. (No, the man had the mustache.) Liking the taste of the phrase, Daisy rolled it over her tongue again: “Keep the change, toots.” She shook her head at the novelty of it. “I guess that’s the very first time in my life I’ve ever said ‘keep the change.’” The experience was surprisingly satisfying. So much so that she could not help smiling. “There goes Ol’ Daisy Perika,” they’ll say, “the big spender from the Southern Ute reservation. From what I hear, she lights her pipe with ten-dollar bills!” It had been a fine morning for someone who was planning her funeral. And the day was far from over, the best yet to come.

  Not quite a mile away, a sleek Cadillac sedan was transporting its occupants along a course that would intersect with the tribal elder’s crooked path. Woe be unto them.

  As she sipped the coffee and nibbled at the chocolate doughnut, Daisy ignored the other diners, preferring instead to peer through the window and watch the external world go by. Hurry by was more like it. Seen by a typical viewer, this would have been ordinary, everyday traffic. For the rugged old recluse who spent most of her days in the silent, canyon-country wilderness, a visit to town was fascinating entertainment. Daisy gawked at shiny automobiles, muddy pickups, transport of every size and description, heading this way and that, some with out-of-state license plates, a low-rider Chevy with no plate at all.

  But more than the jumble of motor vehicles, it was the human beings who galvanized her attention.

  Such as the cute little black boy running ahead of his harried mother, stopping to pick up a penny and put it in his mouth. I bet he’ll swallow it. He did. What he needs is a good whack on the butt. The child’s mother evidently agreed with this sentiment. Hah! Serves the little bugger right!

  Such as that tall, flabby fellow in yellow knee-length shorts and a sweat-soaked white Cattleman’s Bank T-shirt, jogging along the sidewalk with a pained look on his red face. Poor man looks like he’s hurting worse than I am. What he needs is a glass of cold lemonade, a hot bath, and a two-hour nap.

  As the jogger vanished from view, a box-shaped UPS van double-parked, and the uniformed driver rushed away with parcels under both arms. This brought back sweet memories of many delightful things (mostly gifts from Charlie Moon) that had been delivered to her remote home by the big, boxy trucks. I remember the Christmas Charlie sent me that big box of fancy cheeses and them canned hams, and my birthday in 1992 when he bought me the brand-new rocking chair and—Before Daisy (who believed it was more blessed to receive than give) had time to recall even a fraction of her nephew’s love offerings, the UPS vehicle was gone.

  Distracted by the approach of that category of vehicle she had always wanted to ride, Daisy leaned forward. Oh, my, look at that—here comes a big black motorcycle. And indeed, here it came—chug-chugging along, engine buggity-bugging, rusty exhaust pipes vibrating like they might fall off in the street. The lean, mean, flat-black machine, without a glint of chrome to be seen, reminded the elderly woman of those motorcycles back in the 1950s, like Charlie Moon’s father used to ride around Ignacio, showing off his bulging muscles and big white-toothed smile and offering rides to all the pretty, giggling girls. By contrast, this pale rider would have had to get a lot healthier just to look like death warmed over, and his blank-eyed girlfriend—clad in brown leathers that might have been moleskin—clung to her sickly man like a persistent scab. Daisy noticed other interesting details, like how they didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Maybe these two don’t have no place important to go. As they came closer, she noticed that the man had a stubby black cigar clenched between a wide gap in his teeth, but the stogie produced no smoke. Probably a couple of druggies.

  Then, Daisy realized that there was no exhaust coming from the throbbing twin pipes—and there was a long, jagged streak of scarlet running from
the girl’s hairline down to the corner of her lips. Looking right through them, the Ute shaman watched a mongrel dog trot by and give the riders a wary eye. Daisy was only mildly startled. She knew that there were more ghosts roaming about than people thought, and if you didn’t look close you could mistake them for live people. She murmured, “Poor things—they must’ve been killed in a bad accident, and been riding around ever since—maybe for years and years.” It occurred to her that the pair might not know they were dead.

  Suddenly feeling Death’s cold fingers clutching at her heart, his sour breath on her neck, Daisy prayed, “Please, Jesus—when my time comes, take me directly home to you.”

  In the fullness of time, her request would be granted.

  The Cadillac slipped into the restaurant parking lot, stopped in a spot where, only minutes ago, the manager’s assistant had placed a Reserved sign. The driver, a bald, almost muscle-bound man, got out to open the door for the lady in the passenger’s seat. She emerged with the grace of a gazelle, eyes shaded behind tinted glasses, head covered in a droopy-brimmed black hat, slim body swathed in a black, beaded cape, and stepped smartly across the asphalt. Muscle-Man matched her stride for stride, opened the door, and they were inside.

  Watching the pair arrive, and noticing the pale, big-eyed blond girl following a few paces behind, Daisy summoned the waitress, asked the question that she thought she knew half the answer to: “Who’re they?”

  Mandy half whispered, “That’s Cassandra Spencer and—”

  Daisy interrupted: “I thought so—I’ve seen her on TV.” She murmured, “One of her sisters got killed by a bear.” At least that’s what they say.

  Under the impression that she was still a party to this conversation, Mandy lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “It was Astrid who was mauled to death—poor thing—and then Beatrice—that’s Cassandra’s other sister—why, she married Astrid’s husband.” Mandy sighed. “And Andrew Turner is the best-looking fella that ever hit this town.”

  Daisy was watching the slim, pretty minicelebrity, who clung to the big man’s arm. “Who’s the bald-headed guy?”

  Interrupting her Andrew Turner daydream, the waitress provided the requested information: “That’s Nicky Moxon. He’s Cassandra’s agent or business manager or something like that.” Determined to get back to the spicy stuff, Mandy leaned close to Daisy’s face. “I’ll tell you something about those two Spencer sisters—if you’ll promise not to mention it to a soul.” Without waiting a microsecond for Daisy’s cross-my-heart assurance, she commenced to dish the dirt: “It happened right here in this restaurant, just a few days after Astrid’s death.” The compulsive gossip shot a furtive glance over her shoulder, then locked eyes with the old woman. “If I tell you what Bea and Cassie did, right over there at table number twelve—you won’t believe a word of it!”

  Daisy grinned. I probably won’t, but go ahead and give it your best shot.

  “Those brazen rich women actually drew straws to see which one of them would marry Mr. Turner!” Though Mandy attempted to project a kilowatt of big-eyed outrage, her semihonest face settled for a small measure of unadulterated pleasure.

  Having compliant features that served her all too faithfully, Daisy had no trouble looking doubtful. “They really drew straws?”

  “Well, toothpicks, actually.”

  “Oh, well—that’s different then.”

  Lacking even a single sense-of-humor gene, Mandy did not realize that she was being ribbed. “Bea broke one of the toothpicks in half. One piece was supposed to be the short straw.”

  “Then the whole toothpick was the long straw.” Daisy was having entirely too much fun for one day.

  “It was supposed to be. But Bea got rid of the whole toothpick, and had the two broken pieces in her fingers.” Another over-the-shoulder glance. “So Cassie was bound to draw herself a short one. And that’s how Cassie got cheated and Bea got the man.”

  Daisy rolled this over in her mind. “I wonder.”

  Mandy arched a penciled brow. “Wonder what?”

  “Uncle Blue Hummingbird knew lots of them old sayings. One of ’em was ‘Cheaters cheat themselves.’” The Ute elder explained with an impish grin, “Maybe the sneaky sister ended up getting the short end of the stick.” The woman who had survived three husbands explained to the puzzled waitress, “Not one man in ten is that much of a prize.”

  Unaware of the slanderous gossip being dispensed by his waitress, the manager of the restaurant greeted Ms. Cassandra Spencer and Mr. Nicholas Moxon with a genuine smile and a discreet “please follow me” nod. He had taken no notice of the skinny blond woman whose big eyes followed the psychic.

  A moment later, the Spencer-Moxon party was seated in a private dining room with a single table. The privileged patrons would not have to suffer the attentions of Mandy. The most attractive, competent waitress in the establishment was already pouring Silver Springs mineral water into spotless crystal goblets.

  The manager’s crisply attired assistant appeared with a bottle of fine Belgian wine (1982), removed the cork with a pleasing pop, offered the aromatic stopper to the gentleman for his approval.

  The lady’s escort was no gentleman, but the fact that he preferred Budweiser beer and burgers to “candy-ass” wines and tasteless broiled fish garnished with tiny green weeds is not the reason for this observation. Decompose the descriptor, and it becomes clear that a gentleman is, of necessity, a gentle man. There was nothing gentle about this man. Though his tastes tended toward the more popular foods and beverages, Mr. Moxon understood what was expected of him. He sniffed the cork, nodded absently to the gratified assistant manager, who poured the appropriate amount of amber wine into elegant, long-stemmed glasses.

  It took perhaps another two minutes to order, and then they were alone.

  The bald man reached inside his jacket, where a hard-eyed fellow such as himself might carry a 9-mm Glock semiautomatic. Or, if he was on the far side of fifty, a .38-caliber revolver. This male person being of indeterminate age, it is difficult to predict what his choice might have been in matters of deadly weapons. Never mind; he removed a small, gift-wrapped parcel from the inner pocket and pushed it across the polished granite tabletop to the pretty lady.

  Her hand went to her throat. “For me?”

  He resisted the temptation to reply, “No, for the big snow owl sitting on your shoulder.” What he said instead was: “I hope you like it.”

  Cassandra untied and untangled the red silk ribbons with exaggerated care, as if she might be preserving them to wear in her raven-black hair. This task accomplished, she removed the beige wrapping, opened the hinged Moroccan-leather box, and stared wide-eyed at what nestled inside, cushioned in comfy folds of snowy satin—a lovely antique brooch and matching earrings. “Oh, Nicky—you shouldn’t have!”

  He laughed. “Maybe you’re right—these baubles set me back almost ten grand.”

  She slapped playfully at the cheeky man’s hand, then removed the largest of the Italian cameos from the box. “It must be a hundred years old!”

  “These babies go back closer to two centuries. And I had them mounted in platinum silver.”

  She pinned the brooch onto her dress. “It is so lovely.”

  “Try on the earrings.”

  Cassandra removed the pearl earrings from her pierced ears and clipped on the dime-size cameos. She tilted her chin. “How do they look?”

  “Super, kid. But not half as good as you.”

  Daisy Perika was about to leave the restaurant for the Dollar Store when she noticed the forlorn figure. Poor thing looks like she didn’t know what to do next. The Ute elder had seen her earlier, this yellow-haired woman who had arrived with the psychic and the bald man. The big-eyed creature was hovering near a door marked PRIVATE. Daisy hesitated. The smart thing to do would be mind my own business. There were street people all over town. Some were dangerous. Others were just down on their luck. Maybe she’s hungry. The old woman approached the s
lender youth. “Hey—are you okay?”

  The peculiar person seemed not to hear. Kept right on staring at the closed door.

  Daisy raised her voice: “When I ask you a question, Blondie—I expect an answer!”

  Slowly, the head turned. The huge gray eyes stared vacantly at the Ute woman. “Were you talkin’ to me?”

  Daisy cringed at the nasal drawl. Oh, Lord help me—it’s one of them hillbillies from Dogpatch or Grinder’s Switch. “I asked if you was okay.”

  A taut silence while the full lips thinned, then: “Tell me…what do I look like?”

  She’s a crazy hillbilly. “You look like you ain’t had a bite to eat in days.”

  “I don’t look…horrible?”

  I ought to just turn around and walk away. But just in case St. Peter happened to be watching at this very moment, Daisy decided to do the right thing. She leaned on her sturdy walking stick, opened her purse. “Listen, Blondie—if you need something to eat, I’ve still got a couple of dollar bills I can spare.” A couple that the money-grubbing matukach midget at the funeral home didn’t rip off. “You could buy yourself a nice hot—”

  “No.”

  Surprised, Daisy looked up. “You don’t want the money?”

  The pale face almost smiled. “No, thank you.”

  At least the hillbilly’s got some manners. The crotchety old woman decided that this good-works thing wasn’t half bad—especially when the intended object of the charity turned down hard cash. Which encouraged Daisy to give it another try. I could take her down to that Salvation Army place on Copper Street, let them deal with her. But something about the wistful stranger begged for personal attention. “If you’re not hungry and you don’t need money, is there something else I could do for you?”