A Dead Man's Tale

by James D. Doss

  “Don’t go, Aunt Daisy.” Charlie Moon got up from his rocking chair. “Mr. Thoms has favored us with another visit.”

  The Chickasaw clansman, who would have preferred to remain seated, grunted himself up from the comfortable armchair. Which wasn’t easy, with his briefcase in one hand and a cup of steaming coffee in the other. He focused a steely stare on the confounded Ute female who was responsible for his discomfort.

  “Oh, I remember you.” Daisy smiled at the hatchet-faced Indian from Oklahoma. “You were here a little while back, with Oscar Sweetwater.” Leaning on her oak staff, she approached the guest and echoed Moon’s query, but not quite word-for-word. “So how’s that nasty old rascal getting along?”

  Even among the distant Chickasaws, Aunt Daisy was almost as well known as her renowned nephew. Thoms grinned at the meanest Ute woman ever to draw a breath. “That shifty politician’s getting along a lot better than he deserves.”

  I like this skinny old Chickasaw scalawag. Daisy pointed her walking stick at Thoms’s briefcase. “What’ve you got in there?”

  Momentarily discombobulated by this direct query, the clansman took a deep breath and exhaled it to reply: “Something for your nephew.”

  “Oh.” Daisy’s face froze. He must figure it was Charlie that sent him the box. There was nothing she could do about that. Not at the moment.

  “I guess I might as well give it to him now.” Thoms unbuckled his briefcase and removed a parcel that—like the one Daisy had mailed to him—was wrapped in brown paper and tied with white cotton twine. Unlike the shoe box that had contained Posey Shorthorse’s wallet and ID, his curled, bleached hair, and the pickled body parts in a mayonnaise jar—this package was about the size of Thoms’s hand. The old man offered it to his host.

  A mystified Charlie Moon cut the string with his Meerkat pocketknife and unwrapped the brown paper. The man with the famous poker face was wide-eyed at what he saw inside.

  As was his aunt.

  A neatly framed, brand-new quarter dollar.

  A shiny Oklahoma quarter dollar.

  Daisy, who was supposed to be ignorant of the deal between the Chickasaw elder and her nephew, inquired with the innocence of a cloistered saint, “So what’s that for?”

  Without so much as a glance at Daisy, Lyle Thoms said, “It’s private business—between me and Charlie.”

  Neither man noticed that the old woman was beginning to smolder.

  Though initially puzzled at why he was receiving his “fee” for executing Posey Shorthorse, Charlie Moon didn’t take long figuring things out. Somebody must’ve killed Shorthorse and Lyle Thoms figures I’m responsible. There was only one thing for an honorable two-bit assassin to do. “Thank you, Mr. Thoms.” He offered the payment to his guest. “But I can’t accept this.”

  Ignoring the framed quarter, the Chickasaw glared at Moon. “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t carry out my end of the contract.”

  Thoms blinked. “If you didn’t take care of business, then who did?”

  Not caring to pursue this delicate matter in his aunt’s presence, Moon hesitated.

  Sensing that something was wrong, the Chickasaw pressed on. “If you didn’t do the job, then who sent me the package with—”

  “I don’t see what the problem is.” Daisy snatched the payment from Moon’s hand. “If Charlie don’t want this nice, shiny quarter, I’ll take it.”

  Lyle Thoms turned his glare on the hard-looking old Ute woman. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Perika. That’s a special fee from the Blue Lizard Clan for the man who—”

  “You don’t have to tell me nothing, you sawed-off little Chickasaw rooster! The reward is for the person that put the knife to Posey Shorthorse—who was calling himself Chico Perez—and then sent you his wallet and scalp and pickled ears!”

  Charlie Moon might have been slapped in the face three times. Wallet? Scalp? Pickled ears? And…Chico Perez and Posey Shorthorse were the same person?

  Unfazed by the startled men’s wide-eyed stares, Daisy pressed the framed quarter dollar close to her breast. “I’m going to hang this on the wall in my bedroom.” Jutting her chin, she smirked maliciously at the Chickasaw. “Next time you have a job a man can’t get done, come and see me about it.” With this parting shot, she turned and was gone. For the moment.

  Thoms turned his questioning gaze on Moon.

  The long-suffering nephew shook his head at the Chickasaw. Leave it alone.

  Daisy poked her head back into the parlor. “I hope you’re staying for lunch, Mr. Thoms.”

  Lyle Thoms scowled at the rude old woman.

  Charlie Moon held his breath. What now?

  “I’ve got a few pieces of leftover meat in the freezer.” Daisy’s tone was sweet as honey in the comb; her face radiated the wonderful purity of a sleeping infant. “I’m not saying whether it’s pork or venison or something else altogether, but there’s about enough for a batch of my secret-recipe posole.” Her black eyes sparkled at Lyle Thoms. “I call it Shorthorse stew.” The tribal elder made her second departure with a sense of soul-gratifying satisfaction that warmed her all the way down to her marrow.

  As it happened, the head man of the Blue Lizard Clan did not stay for a helping of the Ute elder’s posole.

  The reason for Lyle Thoms’s hasty departure remains uncertain, because the taciturn Indian left the Columbine without uttering another word to Charlie Moon. The visitor’s healthy appetite may have been diminished by an unexpected gastrointestinal event such as older men are apt to experience. It is just as likely that the busy Oklahoman remembered another pressing appointment. Or it may be that the Chickasaw gourmand—whose taste buds were all primed and ready for Charlie Moon’s tasty prime rib—did not care to settle for Daisy’s mediocre substitute. Or some combination of the above.

  We simply don’t know why the famished man chose to pass on Daisy’s stew.

  But there is a suggestive clue.

  Lyle Thoms was seen later that afternoon in Granite Creek’s tiny health-food restaurant, which establishment is operated by a stern vegetarian. The ardent meat eater was dining on a triple helping of homemade peach-pecan yogurt.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  July 9

  He Dithers

  Since the unpleasantness at his residence, Samuel Reed had gotten accustomed to bunking in the Silver Mountain Hotel’s sumptuous presidential suite. After the police investigation of the crime scene was completed and two hundred yards of black-and-yellow tape had been removed from his domicile, the widower would drop by the Shadowlane homestead from time to time to make sure that everything was in order. But, though he had tried, Professor Reed could not manage to stay overnight. Grim memories of the violence that had occurred on the premises haunted the recently bereaved husband, and he was considering putting the place up for sale and moving to warmer climes. The wealthy man was toying with the notion of purchasing a secluded island in the Caribbean. Nothing ostentatious. He imagined a modest and tasteful hideaway that would not attract undue attention. The house should not have more than ten rooms. There must be essential infrastructure, such as a protected harbor with a dock for a sixty-foot yacht. Also a landing strip that would accommodate a Lear jet. He promised himself not to spend more than five hundred million dollars. But finding just the right property would probably take a year or two. In the meantime, he needed something to keep his mind occupied.

  Sam Reed was at loose ends. Ennui had fixed its lethargic eye on him, and for the first time in his vigorous life, the concept of a quiet retirement was beginning to look attractive.

  Sadly, Samuel Reed’s favorite pastime (making money hand over fist) would not suffice. Ever since the unnerving evening of June 4, he had apparently lost whatever ability he had to “remember the future,” which rendered him unable to foresee with certainty trends in the stock market or the outcomes of sporting events. One can imagine his dismay, but despite this handicap and to his credit, Reed did keep his hand in the game. He w
ould spend an hour or two of each day in his office over the Cattleman’s Bank. During these quiet interludes, he would pace and sigh and remember splendid days gone by when he had amassed small fortunes in mere minutes. When wearied of pacing, sighing, and waxing nostalgic, Reed would find diversion by surfing Internet financial blogs for rumors of upcoming mergers, hot tips about which major midwestern bank was teetering on the brink of failure, or hints that a certain former Fortune 500 company was looking Chapter 11 right in the eye. From time to time the investor would purchase a few hundred shares of a promising stock or place a thousand-dollar wager on a major sporting event. As often as not, the stocks tanked. But even in his present debilitated state, Reed exhibited a modest knack for prognosticating the outcomes of horse races, baseball games, prizefights, and the like. This was gratifying, but he was unable to regain his former enthusiasm for life. His verve had taken a vacation.

  What the man of business needed was some interesting business to conduct, but aside from the mildly entertaining diversion of playing games with his pocket money, Samuel Reed did not have enough work to occupy either his time or his mind. With nothing better to do, he became a familiar figure on Copper Street, which boulevard serves as Granite Creek’s main drag and provides most of the goods and services that a finicky nabob might require, including a variety of food and drink in a half-dozen restaurants, Fast Eddie’s Barbershop, suitable clothing in Eubank & Son’s Men’s Fine Apparel, and a variety of essential financial services in the bank below his office. The widower’s life was more orderly than ever. And dull as a butter knife.

  Even so, there was bound to be the occasional perturbation that would prove jarring to this man who placed a high value on predictability. One such event was about to occur as Samuel Reed approached the customary barbershop for a touch-up, which occurred promptly at 10 A.M. on alternate Fridays.

  A Dangerous Lady

  Though it was barely five weeks after his wife’s untimely demise, it was fated that dapper Samuel Reed would encounter a captivating woman who would catch his eye. Just as he glanced at his wristwatch to verify that he would arrive at Fast Eddie’s clip joint at precisely 9:59 A.M., a sleek black Lincoln pulled up alongside the yellow-painted curb.

  The woman on the passenger side lowered the window. “Excuse me.”

  As he turned, Reed put on the perfunctory smile that is expected of civilized men who are queried by disoriented tourists who park beside shiny red fireplugs. As he got a gander at the attractive brunette whose eyes were concealed behind rose-tinted sunglasses, Reed’s smile began to feel welcome on his face. His left hand got the message and tipped the homburg.

  Her matching rose-tinted lips smiled and said, “You must be Professor Reed.”

  “If I must, then so be it.” But who are you?

  The lady lowered the rosy shades just enough to reveal a pair of stunning blue eyes. “But of course you don’t know who I am.”

  “Alas, no. But I hope that oversight will be promptly remedied.”

  The woman in the blue pinstripe suit who emerged from the luxury car was tall, and of the type often referred to as willowy. She offered him a business card.

  Reed inspected the rectangle and mouthed aloud what was written thereon: “‘Theodora Phillips, Attorney at Law.’” He lost the smile and arched his left brow by almost a full millimeter. “That’s all—no name of your firm. No address. Not even a telephone number.”

  “My name and profession will be sufficient, Professor Reed.” Looping a black leather purse over her shoulder, the elegant lady took him firmly by the arm. “This brief meeting shall be our only contact.” As she ushered her captive down the street and away from the barbershop, Ms. Phillips smiled.

  Such behavior was more than a little off-putting, but Sam Reed’s curiosity was pleasantly piqued and so he went along without protest. Glancing back at the Lincoln—which had a Nevada license plate—he saw an older, tough-looking fellow emerge from the driver’s side. The broad-shouldered man, who wore a black shirt, black trousers, and black cowboy boots, could have passed as a lumberjack if outfitted in a black-and-red flannel shirt, faded jeans, and big muddy shoes with cleated rubber soles. Obviously a combination chauffeur-bodyguard. Reed treated himself to a mildly supercilious smirk. “Who is that—your law partner?”

  Theodora Phillips replied in a coolly professional tone, “Alex is my driver and personal assistant. Not being privy to my business affairs, he will remain at a discreet distance while we drop into that quaint little restaurant”—she pointed her cute, turned-up nose—“where you will be immensely pleased to buy me a cup of tea.”

  “The Sugar Bowl?”

  “The very same. I am reliably informed that they serve Tangerine Orange Zinger, which is my favorite chai.” She laughed. “You may also treat me to an order of buttered whole-wheat toast.”

  Being endowed with a sense of humor that leaned toward irony, Samuel Reed did not mind occasionally being manipulated by a forceful woman. But something about this attorney was beginning to make him feel uneasy. Looking for a graceful escape, he checked his wristwatch again. “I have a rather busy schedule this morning. I suggest that you call my office and leave a brief message on my voice mail—”

  “Out of the question.”

  Reed deliberately slowed his pace. “What’s this all about?”

  As an openly curious passerby walked by them, Theodora Phillips lowered her voice. “I have been dispatched to convey some critical information to you.”

  “Information?” This couldn’t be good news. “About what?”

  “A matter of importance.”

  Reed’s left brow arched again, and quite noticeably. “How important?”

  The blue eyes behind the pink shades smoldered. “It falls into that category often referred to as ‘life and death.’”

  “Whose life, my dear?” He smiled at the delightful little turned-up nose, which was liberally sprinkled with tiny orange freckles. “And whose death?”

  “Why yours, of course.” With a gentle feminine relentlessness that could not be withstood by a gentleman, she maneuvered him to the entrance to the Sugar Bowl Restaurant. “Let’s go inside. After I have had my tea and toast, I will explain.”

  They did and he did and she would.

  Theodora Phillips’s driver/assistant followed, at a respectful ten paces. While a host took Samuel Reed and the out-of-town lady to a table with a fine view of Copper Street, Alex seated himself at a booth where he was well out of earshot of whatever conversation the pair might engage in.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  The Lady Explains

  Though despairing of the delayed haircut, while Samuel Reed sipped tentatively at black coffee he got a better look at the fortyish woman’s face. Outside in the high-altitude sunlight, her features had been soft and alluring as a tree-ripened peach. In the restaurant’s artificial twilight, the attorney’s finely chiseled features were cold and hard as graveyard marble. The exception to this grim aspect was her lips, which were genetically obliged to curl upward at the edges. Theodora’s friends interpreted this perpetual smile as evidence of her vivacious good humor. Not so her current companion, who had inherited a marked tendency toward obsessive suspicion. Unnerved by the persistent smirk, Reed was nagged by the conviction that the attorney was amused by some secret knowledge. Being a thoroughly self-centered man, he had no doubt that the irksome woman was privy to confidential information concerning himself.

  Ever so often, a paranoid egoist’s suspicions are justified.

  As a prelude to taking control of the situation, Reed cleared his throat. “You have your tea and toast and my undivided attention. Now what’s all this twaddle about a matter of life and death?”

  Theodora swirled a bag of aromatic tea in her china cup, watching the amber whirl pool with intense interest. Then, as if she had just heard his query, the lady looked up. “You have been found guilty.”

  This was hardly what the hopeful widower had wanted to h
ear from the attractive woman, especially on what practically amounted to their first date. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Don’t bother.” Her remarkably expressive lips curved into a genuine smile and her next words sent a chill rippling along Reed’s knobby spine. “I am merely a messenger for the Committee, but I can assure you that they do not issue pardons. The Big C conducts thorough investigations, makes final decisions—and hands down sentences. That’s it.”

  “What on earth are you talking about,” Reed heard himself say. “I mean, what am I supposed to be guilty of?”

  “Improper conduct.”

  “What the blazes does that mean?” He glowered at the impudent attorney. “And what in hell is the committee?”

  “I object to your coarse language.” Theodora placed the spent tea bag onto a saucer. “An apology is in order.”

  “Please forgive me. I am immensely contrite.”

  “Accepted.”

  “Allow me to rephrase the query.” Professor Reed raised his chin imperiously. “What in heck is the ‘committee’?”

  “First of all, I don’t have any notion of who serves on the Committee—that is none of my business. I’m merely a—”

  “Yes, I know—you’re merely a messenger.” Reed’s hand trembled as he pushed his coffee aside. “I don’t know what kind of con you’re attempting to run on me, Theodora—but let me assure you that I am not a moron.”

  “It would never have occurred to me that you were, Samuel.”

  “And neither am I without influential friends.” He aimed his high-caliber steely stare at the aggravating woman. “Among them is the local chief of police—who would no doubt be pleased to meet you.”