Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  No response from the driver.

  Daisy mumbled again, “Mark my words—there’s some bad trouble coming.”

  Charlie Moon did not ask. Sleeping dogs and all that.

  As the silence lingered, the old woman’s face slowly turned to stone. Well, I wouldn’t tell you if you got down on your knees and begged me! It occurred to Daisy Perika that a certain someone would be interested in what she had found out tonight. And if she played her cards just right, things might start going her way. She nodded at the glove compartment door. It’s just as well I didn’t say a word to Charlie. Mr. Do-Right would take a dim view of the devious scheme she was beginning to mull over.

  Scott Parris used Beatrice Spencer’s telephone to put an emergency call through to dispatch. There was only the slimmest of chances that Andrew Turner might have survived, but slim was better than none. The chief lawman was laying down the law: “I don’t care where you’ve sent those on-duty units or who’s beating who over the head with a frying pan—if you have to, get some people out of bed. Bottom line is I want two units with four uniforms, a tow truck, and an ambulance. And I want them on the spot in twenty minutes flat, you got that?”

  The dispatcher got it.

  All the while, Beatrice paced back and forth across the spacious parlor, shaking her head.

  Count a thousand heartbeats.

  Far off into the night, a faint wail of sirens.

  Parris cocked his ear. “It’s one of our units. And an ambulance.”

  She gave no sign of having heard a word he had said.

  And why should she? They both knew Andrew was dead.

  Twenty-Seven

  The Call

  With Aunt Daisy and Sarah Frank snuggled warmly under the covers in their downstairs bedrooms, Charlie Moon switched off the parlor lights, paused for a moment to enjoy the sounds of the night. The snappity-crackle of a dying fire. A persistent pecking of sleet on windowpanes. Icy wind whining in the eaves. Thus fortified, he made his way up the stairs. This had been quite a day. But most of them were.

  For the owner of the Columbine Ranch, one day was not much like another. On the contrary. Sundays, which Moon usually spent on the Southern Ute reservation with his aunt and the teenage Ute-Papago girl, were (aside from the tribal elder’s verbal acid) generally quiet and placid. Mondays, when he was looking forward to the week ahead and making plans to improve the operation of his adjoining cattle ranches, were hopeful. Tuesdays were almost as good. By Wednesday, Foreman Pete Bushman would be at Moon’s elbow with the usual list of complaints and grim premonitions of utter disaster, most of which the cheerful Ute would dismiss with smiles, jokes, and general good humor, which annoyed his scruffy-bearded foreman no end. By Thursday—No. Forget Thursday, which was generally gloomy. Ditto Friday, which was Thursday-squared. Jump right over to Saturday, which was when more than half the hired help would depart from the ranch in Columbine pickups and such personal vehicles as were semiroadworthy, to descend upon Granite Creek’s seedy bars and smoky honky-tonks and get riproaring drunk. Almost every week, there would be knock-down-drag-out fights with employees from neighboring ranches, town toughs, and tattooed motorcyclists whose bulging biceps far outsized their brains. On the final evening of the week, it was not unusual for Mr. Moon to hear about a hung-over cowhand who was in jail, and (if the man was a good worker) go his bail. Less frequently, but all too often, he would visit a battered-up employee in the emergency room, and on three occasions during the past six years Moon had ID’d a cowboy’s cold body on a slab.

  This week had been one of the better ones. Not a single purebred Hereford had dropped dead from a mysterious ailment, all the horses were likewise healthy, and every single piece of equipment on the ranch was in tolerably good working order. On top of all this good fortune, on this Saturday evening, which Moon had spent escorting his aunt to Cassandra Spencer’s home and TV studio, not a single employee had been arrested—all were safely back on the Columbine well before midnight. (When the last pickup rolled up to the main bunkhouse, Pete Bushman—whose persistent goal was to find a black cloud lurking inside any silver lining that happened along—grumbled that “Today’s cowboys are gettin’ soft as girls, Charlie. Why, in my day, any hand who came back from town on Satiddy night still half sober and without his knuckles bloodied up was a A-number-one brass-plated sissy!” The pronouncement was punctuated with a spit of Red Man tobacco juice, which barely missed the polished toe of the Ute’s brand-new Tony Lama boot.)

  Charlie Moon knelt in his upstairs bedroom, offered up a grateful prayer of thanks. The Catholic finished with an Our Father. Including the hard part: Thy will be done…

  It would be.

  As the Seth Thomas clock in his upstairs office began to mark the midnight hour, he pulled a hand-stitched quilt up to his chin, exhaled a satisfied sigh. On the sixth gong, he yawned. On the ninth, he whispered, “Thank you, God.” On the twelfth, the consciousness of day was mercifully slipping away….

  The telephone rang.

  Moon did not open his eyes. Maybe it was just my imagination. Sometimes, just as I’m going off to sleep, I hear sounds that aren’t really there.

  The annoying sound that was not really there made itself heard again.

  The sleepy man entertained another hope: Maybe they’ll hang up.

  No such luck. Third ring.

  Maybe it’s a wrong number.

  Maybe twenty-dollar bills will grow on prickly pears. Brrriiinnng!

  He fumbled around in the dark, found the instrument. “Columbine Ranch.”

  “Charlie—that you?”

  He recognized his best friend’s voice. “Nope. This is a recording. When you hear the beep—”

  “Don’t mess with me, Charlie.”

  “—You can leave a brief message, one word or less.”

  “Charlie—”

  “If and when I’m of a mind to, I may get back to you. Beep!”

  “I ain’t got no time to fool around, so quit—”

  “Beep.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Beep-beep.”

  Parris chuckled. “That reminds me of a cartoon character. That Mexican mouse with the big sombrero—you know the one.”

  “No I don’t. The south-of-the-border rodent, he say Arriba-Arriba!”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Us computerized answering machines never make mistakes.”

  “Then who was it that said ‘beep-beep’?”

  “Señor Road Runner.”

  “That’s right. Beep-beep.” Parris appended a “Heh-heh.”

  “Pardner, I know it ain’t exactly none of my business, and I’m not one to pry—but during the past hour or two, have you been chugging down alcoholic beverages in sizable quantities?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, say a fifth or a quart—whichever’s more.”

  “Well, a quart—”

  “That’s way too much for a man with an ulcer.”

  “—is more than a than a fifth. Everybody knows that. And who says I got an ulcer?”

  “Practically everybody. All over town, it’s a subject of conversation and speculation.”

  “Now listen here—”

  “And now you’re getting testy—a sure sign of a man who can’t hold his liquor.”

  “Charlie, I’d appreciate it if you’d be quiet for about three seconds so I can tell you what I’ve got to say.”

  “Okay, pard. I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “Thank you. The reason I called was to tell you—”

  “Andrew Turner’s dead in a car wreck.”

  “How d’you know that?”

  “I don’t know it for a fact, but I was at his sister-in-law’s house, watching her on TV, when she told half the state of Colorado that Andrew Turner was dead. If I recollect correctly, the word violence was mentioned. See, I’d gone to Miss Spencer’s house to take Aunt Daisy because she was invited to be on the TV program—”
<
br />   “I saw Daisy on TV. I didn’t see the part where Cassie said Andrew Turner was dead—but from what I’m told, she didn’t say a word about him wrecking his car—so how’d you know about that?”

  “When Mr. Turner’s wife got the call from GCPD about a Wye-Star alert, I was sittin’ right next to her—close enough to hear every word she said. And most of what Clara Tavishuts was saying on the other end.”

  “Oh.” Parris listened to the slight buzz on the telephone line. Felt his heart thumping. Wondered when it would stop. Figured the day was not all that far away.

  Moon listened to the wind whip a cottonwood limb against the steel roof.

  Unable to bear the silence, the white midwesterner cleared his throat.

  Taking the hint, Moon restarted the conversation: “So is Mr. Turner dead in a car wreck?”

  “That’s the way it looks. About halfway down the mountain, there’s evidence that a vehicle went off the driveway, hit a tree, bounced off a boulder and into the Devil’s Mouth. Which is where I am now, with some other cops, an ambulance, and a tow truck.”

  “Have you recovered his car?”

  “Huh-uh.” A cough. “Haven’t even spotted it. Snow’s still comin’ down by the truckload.”

  “Then you don’t know for sure it was Turner’s car that—”

  “Charlie, please don’t make my life more complicated than it already is. If you want to get technical about it, I don’t even know for sure there was an accident. But the most likely thing is that Andrew Turner’s frozen corpse is strapped inside his fine General Motors machine, which is somewhere down there in the Devil’s Mouth.” And buried so far under the snow that we’ll be lucky if we ever find it. Parris recalled a Texas citizen who, in accordance with instructions in his will, was interred in his favorite Cadillac.

  “How’s Turner’s wife taking it?”

  “Bea’s pretty shaken up. But she’ll be all right—those Spencer sisters are tough as two-dollar steaks. And speaking of sisters, the one she’s got left is here with her now. Cassie drove by in her Caddy just a few minutes ago.” He wondered what Charlie would say about that.

  “She did, did she?” Sound’s like the lady recovered pretty quick.

  Subtlety having failed, Parris went for the hint. “It was pretty queer, the way Cassie seemed to know about her brother-in-law’s death—and within a few minutes of when it happened.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  The chief of police tried the direct approach: “What do you think about that spooky lady—how does she do it?”

  “Pardner, if you want to ask me about something I know a little about, like shoeing a skittish quarter horse or tuning up a pickup truck that’s old enough to have points and a carburetor, I’ll talk both your ears off. But when it comes to ladies on TV having visions about brothers-in-law kicking buckets, that’s not exactly in my line.”

  “Maybe not, but you’ve got a close relative who works pretty much the same side of the street Cassie does.”

  “You want to ask Aunt Daisy what she thinks, be my guest.”

  “I’ll consider that a bona fide invitation to drop by and chat with the elderly lady.”

  “I’ll look forward to your visit. Come for breakfast and stay for supper.” Moon wondered why this midnight call could not have waited until the sun rose over the Buckhorns. I’ll bet there’s another thing coming. He waited for it.

  “Uh, Charlie—there’s another thing.”

  Moon’s smile flashed in the darkness. “What’s that, pardner?”

  “Right after I got here—close to where Turner’s car went over the cliff—I thought I saw something.”

  “Something covers a lot of ground.”

  “Well, it was hard to see through the snow, which was coming down about an inch a minute, but it looked to me like a two-legged something.”

  “That narrows it down some.”

  “Well, I can’t narrow it much more.”

  “Any chance it could’ve been Turner?”

  Parris had not considered this possibility. “Uh—no. I don’t think so.” Not unless my vision’s going bad. The middle-aged man blinked, rubbed his tired eyes. Next thing you know, I’ll be wearing bifocals. Year after that, trifocals. By the time I’m drawing Social Security, I’ll be tapping my way around town with a white cane.

  “Maybe whatever you saw had something to do with Turner running off the road.”

  “That possibility had crossed my mind.” Parris took a moment to scratch at bristly stubble on his chin. “Charlie, don’t ask me why, but I got a funny feeling that something awfully peculiar is going on up here—”

  Charlie Moon knew what was coming.

  “—And I’d like to talk to you about it. I’d sure appreciate it if you’d drop by when you get a chance.”

  The Ute rolled out of bed, put his feet on the floor. “I’m practically on my way.”

  “You’re a true-blue friend, Charlie.”

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Where Did It Go

  Andrew Turner’s Corvette? Most likely, under the fluffy white stuff. Most likely.

  But there is no doubt about where last night’s late-spring storm has gone. After creating havoc on Spencer Mountain, the rip-roaring, sleet-spitting, hell-bent horde of rowdy night riders thundered away to plague tough-as-boot-leather Kansas wheat farmers and hard-eyed we-can-take-your-best-shot Panhandle cattle ranchers. The skirmish isn’t quite over, but the outcome is not in doubt. The violent storm will die on the prairie with gasps and whispers and sighs. The plainsmen and their sturdy families will survive. And endure. And thrive.

  The Colorado sky that had melted in the rosy glow of sunrise was now frozen anew, annealed into that pale hue of cobalt blue that tints the lips of new corpses. A frolicsome wind rolling down Spencer Mountain had heaped up knee-deep drifts along the long, winding driveway, briskly swept it clean in favored spots in between.

  At the tightest curve in the graveled road, a huge, red Ortega’s AAA tow truck was backed up to the edge of the Devil’s Mouth. This behemoth vehicle was flanked by a boxy white ambulance, the Granite Creek Mountaineers’ black Dodge van, Charlie Moon’s Columbine Expedition, and three low-slung black-and-white Chevrolets representing the Granite Creek Police Department. In a madcap orchestration of colored lights that produced a mildly hypnotic if not a pretty sight, the Mac wrecker blinked a mellow yellow rotation, the police vehicles accompanied with asynchronous blue-and-red pulsations.

  Mr. Ortega, a bewhiskered, fire-breathing enthusiast who could not abide being idle, waved his arms in general exasperation, barked orders at his wooden-faced brother-in-law assistant, paused every few breaths to shout helpful advice down to those half-dozen climbers who had rappelled into the Devil’s Mouth. The indolent brother-in-law proved impervious to the assault, and the tow-truck owner’s exhortations were ignored by those stalwart volunteers who were risking their lives in an attempt to locate a missing Corvette, which, since it was not on the rocky slope, must be concealed beneath the snow.

  A cluster of uniformed GCPD officers and EMTs watched the jolly entertainment and waited.

  Standing apart from the gathering, in the downwind shadow of a ninety-nine-year-old gnarly-barked juniper, were two men who happened to be the best of friends. The venerable tree provided scant protection from the wind. The tall, slender fellow and his broad-shouldered, barrel-chested buddy clutched at their hats.

  The chief of police said, “I must be stupid.” When his Indian comrade did not protest this brutal self-assessment, Scott Parris enlarged on the assertion: “Way I see it, we’re both stupid.”

  “Leave me out of it.” Charlie Moon grinned into the wind. “My IQ is high enough this morning to suit me.” About the same as the temperature.

  Parris used the hand that was not holding on to his hat to point at Mr. Ortega and his stoic in-law. “If we wasn’t stupid, we’d be wearing wool sock-hats that don’t blow off—like them wr
ecker-truck guys.” He gazed longingly at the warm, county-issue caps with furry earflaps that his officers had donned for the occasion. “Or we’d have us a couple of those Russian military-style caps.” What do they call them?

  “Ushankas,” Moon said.

  “Charlie, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t read my mind.”

  “Sorry. But what’s this sudden obsession with headgear?”

  Parris gave the Southern Ute tribal investigator a wry, sideways glance. “The point is—everybody else has hats that cover their ears. You and me, we’re wearing lids that don’t make any sense for this kind of weather.”

  “Of course we are.”

  “But don’t that make us stupid?”

  “Nope.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “It has to do with the Code of the West, which applies to all red-blooded American cowboys.”

  Though he was eager to believe this, Parris’s expression revealed just the slightest hint of doubt.

  “You can go look it up in the book. Section six, article four, paragraph two: ‘Real six-gun totin’, bronco-bustin’ cowboys don’t give a rooty-toot hoot about comfort or being practical or none of that kind of stuff. All they care about is looking good.’”

  “You telling me that’s actually wrote down?”

  “Yes I am.” The Indian patted the former Chicago cop on the back. “And you and me, we are sure-enough cowboys, pard.” Even if you are wearing a sixty-year-old Humphrey Bogart hat your daddy gave you.

  “My mother wouldn’t like hearing you say that.” As a tempestuous gust tossed icy grit into his teeth, the white man cracked a smile. “Momma didn’t want me to grow up to be a cowboy.”

  “Doctor or lawyer, huh?”

  Parris shook his fedora. “Investment banker.”

  “Don’t hold it against her. I’m sure she meant well.”