Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

As Charlie Moon entered his elderly relative’s home, he removed his black workaday Stetson, placed it crown-down on a chair. (The sensible Indian did not put any stock in those cowboy sayings—If you lay your hat brim-down, all your luck will spill out—but even when it came to absurd matukach superstitions, he tended to exercise due prudence.)

  Realizing that a lecture was coming, Daisy Perika seated herself on the couch. Folded her hands in her lap. Set her jaw.

  Realizing that she was about to witness some entertaining family friction, Sarah Frank seated herself on an armchair that would provide an excellent view of the drama.

  Realizing that it was time for his late-afternoon nap, Mr. Zig-Zag curled up on the hearth, enjoyed a toothy yawn, drifted off into a deep, untroubled feline sleep.

  Realizing that he would have to handle this delicate situation just right, Charlie Moon seated himself across the maple coffee table from his aunt. He began by presenting a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry you’re not going to be on Cassandra’s TV program tonight.”

  “No you’re not! And don’t show me that silly possum grin.” Daisy jutted her chin. “Get on with what you’ve got to say.”

  The smile evaporated, his voice took on a flinty edge, cut right to the bone: “You’ve gotten yourself into some serious trouble.”

  Daisy face flushed hot. “What are you talking about?”

  Ignoring her question, the lawman laid down the law: “Until some things get sorted out, you’re going steer clear of Cassandra Spencer.”

  His aunt was angry enough to chew up nails and spit bullets. But once Charlie Moon got his mind set, arguing was a waste of time. On the other hand—I’m lots smarter than he is. The sly old woman consulted her vast inventory of Deceitful Ploys. She rejected Intimidation. Mood he’s in, a bolt of lightning wouldn’t singe his skin. She also passed on Heart Attack. He’d see right through that. But what about a scaled-down version of the Big Diversion. Yes, that might just do the trick.

  Interpreting her thoughtful silence as a sign of remorse, Moon thought perhaps a bare-bones explanation was called for. “Miss Spencer has a business manager—fellow by the name of Nicholas Moxon. And this Moxon—”

  Sensing an opportunity, Daisy interrupted, “You talking about Cue Ball?”

  Moon’s brow had every right to furrow, and did. “Who?”

  Pleased that this distraction was showing some promise, Daisy pressed her advantage: “Cassie didn’t like me calling that bald white man Daddy Warbucks, so now I call him Cue Ball.” Even when people made petty demands, Daisy was always willing to go the extra mile.

  “How do you come to know Cue—uh, Moxon?”

  Daisy shrugged. “Oh, I ran into him and Cassie at a restaurant in Granite Creek.” She frowned. “It was the Sugar Bowl. They have stale doughnuts and a waitress that likes to tell tales.” To further confuse her inquisitor, she enlarged on the theme: “That was on the same day I tried out a coffin at the funeral home across the street and scared that money-grubbing little white boy and his uppity momma who come to look at me and thought I was a corpse.”

  Sarah Frank clamped a hand across her mouth, barely suppressed a giggle.

  Oblivious to the comedic effects of her impromptu performance, the seasoned actor was recalling further details. “And while I was in the restaurant, having me a doughnut, I saw those dead people riding by on a motorcycle.” With a shudder, she said, “They was dripping with blood.”

  Charlie Moon stared at the unpredictable woman. Trying out a coffin—dead people on a motorcycle? Maybe she’s getting too old to understand what I’m talking about. It occurred to him that there was a more likely explanation: Or maybe that’s what she wants me to think. Sure. The old lady was trying to flummox him. And doing a fair job of it. “You can tell me about your adventures some other time. Right now, you’d best listen to what I’ve got to say.” He commenced to say it: “Nicholas Moxon and Cassandra Spencer are up to their ears in serious crime. First-degree arson for sure. Probably even murder.”

  Daisy blinked at her nephew.

  Now I’ve got her attention. “There’s a good chance they’ll both end up behind bars.”

  Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Even if that’s true—what does it have to do with me?”

  This was precisely the question Moon wanted to answer. “The hard proof the DA needs revolves around how Moxon transmits information to his client—while she’s on live TV.” He paused for a few heartbeats. “And I think you know how it’s done.” He saw the flash of alarm in Daisy’s eyes. Aha!

  To avoiding his penetrating gaze, the tribal elder proceeded to examine the backs of her hands. The familiar surfaces, cross-corded with dark veins, occupied her entire attention.

  Moon leaned toward his relative. “Well?”

  It seemed that the old woman with the acid tongue had finally lost the power of speech. Not so. Daisy was busy thinking. I could just tell Charlie what I found out. For a moment, she seriously considered a full confession. No, I won’t. Put it down to stubbornness. I don’t have to say a word if I don’t want to. And pride. Now and then it feels good to know more about something important than Smarty Mr. High Pockets. And a faint, lingering hope for fame. If all this stuff about Cue Ball and Cassie doing bad things turns out to be a mistake, I might still get to be on her TV show.

  It was true that her nephew suspected more than he knew, but he knew how to do two plus two and come up with an alarming result. By Charlie Moon’s sinister calculation, the summing went something like this: Start with the chicanery between Moxon and the psychic, add to that Daisy’s under-Cassandra’s-coffee-table image on the DVD, plus the windfall TV contract—the bottom line was blackmail. The even-tempered man was as close as he had ever been to being flat-out angry with his elderly relative. He did not raise his voice, nor did he scowl at Daisy’s downcast face. He spoke softly, but the suppressed rage smoldering in the man’s dark eyes frightened Sarah Frank.

  Moon addressed his recalcitrant aunt: “You found out how Cassandra pulls off her ‘vision’ stunt. And if you didn’t use that information to pressure the shady lady into giving you what you wanted—which was more time on her TV show—then look me straight in the eye and tell me so.”

  It took considerable courage, but, as the old saying goes, Daisy Perika had plenty of grit in her craw. She raised her face, met his hard gaze. Not a word passed her lips, but Daisy’s impertinent glare seemed to say, So what if I did?

  Moon responded to the unspoken question with hard words that struck Daisy like hammer blows: “Think about this. If Mr. Moxon is the sort of man who’d murder a complete stranger just to promote his client’s career, do you think he’d think twice about doing the same to somebody who knows about his scam?” The tribal investigator shot a glance at Sarah. “Or someone who happened to be with you when he showed up?”

  Having had just about enough from Gourd Head, Daisy shook a finger in her nephew’s face. “You listen to me—I was taking care of myself a long, long time before you was born into this world.” She pointed the finger at the Ute-Papago orphan. “And I can take care of Sarah, too.”

  Realizing that he might as well be talking to a fence post, and afraid he might say something he would regret for the rest of his days, Charlie Moon got up, jammed the black Stetson down to his ears, stalked to the nearest exit.

  Expecting a door slam that would rattle windowpanes and shake dust off the rafters, Sarah Frank closed her eyes, clenched her teeth, scrunched up her thin shoulders.

  Observing the tensed-up girl, Daisy offered this reassurance: “Charlie Moon don’t make noise when he’s mad. He gets real quiet.”

  It was true. As the door closed, they did not even hear a click of the latch.

  Outside, Moon paused to cool off, took several deep breaths of the crisp, sage-scented air. He addressed Officer Bignight, who was leaning against his SUPD unit. “I’ll talk to Chief of Police White horse and get things set up so my aunt and the girl are guarded around the
clock until Moxon’s picked up. But in the meantime, please don’t let either one of ’em out of your sight.”

  The Taos Pueblo man rested his right hand on the grip of a holstered Glock 9-mm automatic, nodded. “I’ll look after ’em, Charlie.”

  “Thanks, Danny.” At this moment, another SUPD unit appeared on the lane. Two officers were inside. The Ute police vehicle was followed by an Archuleta County Sheriff’s van. The troops Parris had called for were finally here. Daisy and Sarah’s safety was no longer in doubt. Moon removed a cell phone from his inside jacket pocket, pressed the buttons for Scott Parris’s programmed number. One ring. Pick it up. Three rings. Answer! After four more rings, he got his best friend’s voice mail. He must have the thing turned off.

  Thirty-Eight

  Driving the Lady Home

  As the long ribbon of blacktop slipped under the Cadillac, Scott Parris was in the driver’s seat. But despite his confidence, the chief of police was not quite in the catbird seat.

  Cassandra Spencer was at his elbow, arms folded, looking straight ahead. Since being informed that Daisy Perika was not coming along for the ride to Granite Creek, the professional psychic had not uttered a solitary word.

  Now and then, Parris would steal a glance at the attractive woman. Even a dope would know something’s up. Despite her deficiencies, Cassandra had an IQ of 132. Well, I might as well get this over with. Realizing that the conversation might take a while, he slowed to fifty-five. “We need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Nicholas Moxon.”

  “You talk. I’ll listen.” She brushed a raven lock away from her left ear.

  Okay. Here goes. Deep breath. “When’s the last time you saw your business manager?”

  Her chin rose in a defiant gesture. “I cannot see why that is any of your business”

  “Humor me.” Parris turned his head long enough to flash a smile. “I’m a curious sort of fellow.”

  “I was with Nicky yesterday afternoon.” She made a fist of her right hand, pretended to inspect her manicure. “We were discussing the fact that Daisy Perika’s guest appearance produced a huge spike in the ratings. It was a no-brainer that we should bring her back.”

  “And you haven’t heard from Moxon since?”

  “On the contrary. While I was at Daisy’s home, Nicky called on my cell phone.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “What time was that?”

  “I did not look at my watch.” A shrug. “An hour or two ago, I suppose.”

  “Where was Moxon when he called you?”

  “Oh.” Frowny-eyed pause. “Let me think.” Longer frowny-eyed pause, accompanied by a tapping of fingertip against lower lip. “Nicky was with an attorney.”

  That figures. The bastard’s been tipped that the state cops are looking for him on a homicide rap, and he’s already hired himself a lawyer! “This attorney—anybody I know?”

  “I imagine so. Nicky was at Mr. Boxman’s office. He handles all the legal issues for the television show. And if you must know, he and Nicky were working on a contract for Daisy’s future appearances, which will involve a fee.”

  Parris knew Roderick Boxman quite well. The highly respected, semiretired attorney dealt with the occasional will or contract. But not criminal cases. And Boxman’s office was in his home, which was only a couple of blocks from Moxon’s house. Maybe Moxon walked over to the lawyer’s office to help hammer out the contract. If that’s where he’s been all day, then he doesn’t know we’re looking for him.

  Cassandra kicked off her shoes, put her long, silk-stockinged legs onto the seat, hugged her knees. “Why are you asking me all these questions about Nicky?”

  “Ahh…maybe to pass the time of day.”

  “Right.” Her lips curled in a smirk. “Now tell me what this all about.”

  Parris had a choice to make. He decided to give it to her straight. “Mr. Moxon is what we refer to as a ‘person of interest.’ State police would like to have a talk with him.”

  The smirk slipped off her face. “About what?”

  “A homicide.” After a suitable pause, he added, “He’s the suspect.”

  She blinked. “You must be joking.”

  “Not a chance. There’s nothing funny about gunning a man down.”

  “Who?” She shook her head. “I mean who is Nicky supposed to have…” She could not get the word out of her mouth.

  “You remember that vision you had during your TV show—the one where the fella at the truck-stop lunch counter got shot in the back?”

  Cassandra felt her head nodding.

  “The Huerfano County Sheriff’s Office and the state police have interviewed an eyewitness to the shooting.” An eyewitness who doesn’t believe the earth is round. “This citizen is ready to testify in a court of law that he saw Mr. Nicholas Moxon pull the trigger.”

  “That is totally absurd!” As if she had caught a sudden chill, Cassandra was trembling. “Nicky is not a murderer!”

  Parris approached a huge RV with Florida plates. “If Moxon didn’t shoot the trucker, he’s got nothing to worry about.” He passed the motorized behemoth. “And if he’s not in serious trouble, neither are you.”

  Her face blanched. “What do you mean by that?”

  As if he had not heard her, the chief of police watched the RV recede in the rearview mirror. Dead silence is potent stuff.

  When she posed the next question, the elegant brunette’s manner was wary, suggesting a sleek, black cat stepping her way across a rushing stream on slippery, wet stones. “This shooting—what could it possibly have to do with me?”

  “Don’t bother playing dumb, Cassie.” His pale face was like marble. “Your business manager’s number one job is to take care of his client. One way Moxon does that is by providing you with information about breaking news while you’re on the air.”

  “If you’re daring to suggest that I would—”

  “Moxon’s been feeding you hot news for months. It’s a fact and you know it, and I know it.”

  “What, precisely, is it that you ‘know’?”

  Time to lower the boom. “For just one thing—I know about that TV monitor in your parlor.” Thanks to good ol’ Charlie Moon. “The one under your coffee table.”

  The psychic opened her mouth. Started to say something. Shut it.

  “I also know that Moxon was making bad things happen.”

  Cassandra found her voice. “That is an absolutely outrageous charge. I cannot believe Nicky would commit an act of violence.”

  “Believe whatever you want, but your business partner’s responsible for at least one murder, probably three. Plus two counts of felony arson. And he’s going down for it.” Parris slowed for a half-dozen deer that were crossing the road, chose his next words with particular care: “Which, if you knew what he was up to, makes you an accomplice.”

  “Well I certainly did not—do not know of any such thing!”

  Parris watched a six-point buck lead his harem into the underbrush.

  She reached over to touch his sleeve. “Scott—I swear on my mother’s grave—Nicky never tells me anything about what he’s doing.” She took a deep breath. “You’ve got to believe me!”

  “What I believe don’t matter. You—more likely your lawyer—will have to convince the Huerfano County DA you’re not involved in Moxon’s felonious activities. My job is to make sure you live long enough to have your say.”

  “Are you suggesting that my life is in danger?”

  “Use your head, Cassie. All the DA needs to put the rope around Moxon’s neck—figuratively speaking—is a witness who can testify as to how he was passing information about the trucker shooting to you while you were on the air—at the same time the victim was shot.” He waited for that to sink in, then: “If I was in Mr. Moxon’s shoes, I’d be awfully worried about Miss Cassandra Spencer telling the authorities what she knows.” An Elk Crossing sign flashed by. “And I’d be tempted to make sure she didn’t.”


  There was a taut-as-a-banjo-string silence before she replied, “I know quite well how the police use every means imaginable to intimidate innocent people. But it is quite pointless, attempting to frighten me.”

  “Well, I gave it my best shot.” And I’ve pretty much shot my wad. But then he had a tantalizing thought: “You’re bound to have Moxon’s cell number. Why don’t you give him a call.”

  Her words lashed out at him: “And tell him what—that you have accused him of murder?”

  Parris realized that once again, his big mouth had gotten ahead of his brain. If Moxon don’t know about the eyewitness that’s fingered him for the trucker shooting, Cassie spilling the beans could mess things up proper. But the chief of police had started this dangerous game, and was committed to play it till someone made the final score. “It don’t matter a particle to me what you two chat about. The weather. County politics. The price of crystal balls in Rumania.” He managed a weak grin. “As long as you find out where he’s at.”

  Cassandra Spencer hesitated, then shot the cop a venomous look. “Very well, I will do just that.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Suspicion

  As he stared at the caller ID on his cell phone, Nicholas Moxon was mildly surprised. Cassie should be on the way back to Granite Creek. Why would she be calling me now? There could be a hundred reasons, ninety-nine of them of no great importance. He was tempted to answer, but thought it best not to. If and when I want to talk to the silly bitch, I’ll do the calling.

  After ten rings, Cassandra Spencer got Moxon’s voice mail. That’s odd. Nicky always answers his cell phone. She decided against leaving a message.

  Scott Parris took another risk. “You could give Rod Boxman a call—maybe Moxon’s still there.” But if he is, please don’t tell him you’re with me. He crossed his fingers. Mentally, so she could not see.

  The well-organized lady also had the attorney’s number stored in her telephone.

  Mr. Boxman answered on the second ring. “Hello, Cassie—how in the world are you?”