“Tolerable.” This man who hung his wide-brimmed black hat smack in the middle of a piece of paradise that he held clear title to, knew it wouldn’t do to push his luck by bragging.
“How’s your aunt?”
“Oh, same as ever. Daisy’s taking her after-lunch siesta.”
“How’re the girls getting along?”
“Okay.”
The chief of police shot a glance at the front door. “They in the house?”
“An hour or so ago, Sarah and Nancy rode off on a pair of pinto ponies.” Moon pointed his chin in a northerly direction. “By now, they’ll be on the far side of Pine Knob. Probably won’t be back until suppertime.” So you can talk all you want to about the Wetzel killing.
The town’s top cop didn’t let on that he was pleased to hear this.
Scott’s as easy to read as a comic book. But which one? With that hat, Dick Tracy. “I hope you’ll be staying for supper.”
“Thanks, Charlie. Maybe I will.”
“Glad to hear it.” It would be fun to tweak him a little bit. “So, besides shouldering your way up to the feed trough, what brings you way out here?”
Parris hesitated. The seasoned lawman had an overpowering sensation that someone besides Charlie Moon was listening to every word he said. And someone was, but that person was not Sweet Alice, the homely little mare who had a crush on the boss and was never far from Moon when he was on the Columbine. Nor do we refer to Sidewinder, the hound who was sleeping on the warm porch planks, dreaming of a meal where the main course was warm, furry cottontail. And of course, we would never suggest that Sarah’s spotted cat (who was curled up by the dog) would eavesdrop. In the entire course of recorded history, no one of the feline persuasion has ever paid the least attention to a single word uttered by a human being—though, on occasion, the sly creatures have been known to pretend.
The guilty party is a third human being, recently arrived. Daisy Perika. By means of a mysterious episode of women’s intuition, the crafty old shaman had awakened suddenly from her nap, realized that something was up, toddled out to the parlor to find out what it was, and had at this very moment concealed herself by an open window just behind the porch swing where Parris was back-and-forthing. Daisy’s right ear was pressed close to the screen. She had not made a sound, but (ladies should take note of this) men have intuition too. Cops who are not well endowed with that essential gift do not stay healthy for very long, and Scott Parris’s sixth sense was operating at full throttle. Which was why he responded to Moon’s question (“So, besides shouldering your way up to the feed trough, what brings you way out here?”) by suggesting an immediate change of venue.
Moon cocked his head. “Lake Jesse?”
“You heard me right.”
The old woman, who had also heard him loud and clear, whispered a rude word.
The Ute, who was aware of his aunt’s eavesdropping, greeted his friend’s request with a wry twinkle in his eye. “A man of your mental caliber hankers to match wits with a fish that has a brain about the size of a piñon nut?”
The hopeful angler nodded his classic fedora. “I’m feeling lucky today.”
ON THE crest of Pine Knob, the young women eased their spotted ponies along at a slow walk. Their full-speed chatter was frequently punctuated by girlish laughs. As if she’d spotted a rattlesnake in her path, Nancy Yazzi suddenly reined her mount to a dead stop. Squinting in the sunlight, she pointed across the river at the Columbine headquarters. “Look. Charlie Moon and some guy are getting into a pickup.”
Shading her eyes, Sarah Frank verified the truth of this statement.
Nancy leaned forward in the saddle. “Who’s that man with him?”
“It’s too far away to be sure.” The sixteen-year-old frowned. “But that old car looks like the one Mr. Parris drives.”
The name sounded familiar. “That policeman who was at your table last night?”
Sarah nodded, patted her spotted pony’s neck. “Mr. Parris is the chief of police.”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “It looks like they’re leaving.”
Sarah watched the Columbine pickup kick up a puff of dust along the dirt lane that wound around the big horse barn before crossing a rocky ridge studded with spruce and pine. “They’re headed toward the little log cabin.” A grim memory of what had happened there a couple of years ago gave the Ute-Papago girl a sudden chill. “Or maybe they’re going to the lake.” Something terrible had happened there as well. In an attempt to chase the memories away, Sarah said, “There are lots of pretty wildflowers near the lake.” She turned to gaze at her companion. “Want to head back to the house?”
Nancy shook her head.
Eager to get going, Sarah’s mount stamped at the hard earth, whinnied. “What do you want to do, then?”
Hermann Wetzel’s stepdaughter assumed a mischievous smile. “Let’s follow Charlie and that cop—without them knowing it.”
Sarah frowned. “You mean . . . spy on them?”
“Why not?” Nancy laughed. “It’d be fun, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” But she did. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“Oh, okay—if you’re going to be a wet blanket.” The older girl rolled her big eyes. “I guess we can go sit on the corral fence and count horseflies.”
Unable to abide the wet-blanket charge, Sarah came up with a compromise: “I guess we could flip a coin.”
Nancy fished a quarter out of her pocket. “Call it in the air.” She thumbed the silver-plated copper disk.
“Tails!”
Up, up it soared, sketching a perfect parabolic arc.
There was an infinitesimal pause at the apex, then—down, down to the ground.
So what was it—heads or tails?
As it happened, the quarter was difficult to see from their vantage point. Impossible, actually—the contrary coin landed behind a plump clump of prickly pears. The riders had to dismount to determine whether they would (a) go spying on the men or (b) count horseflies.
Twenty-Six
A Fishing Expedition
Decked out in a skirt of red willows trimmed with cattails and a blue-and-white blouse of reflected sky, Lake Jesse was dressed in her Sunday best. From the west, a sage-scented breeze barely rippled her glassy surface. From time to time, an iridescent, almost luminescent trout would break the water to snatch a tasty insect, then vanish into the blue-green depths.
On the shore, the alleged anglers sat about two yards apart, Scott Parris on a cottonwood log, Charlie Moon on the ground. The spinning outfits provided by the host were propped on a scarified basalt boulder left behind by the most recent glacier. Close at hand was a lard can filled with black river-bottom soil, coffee grounds, and about two dozen earthworms who might have just about concluded that they need not fear the dreadful fate of becoming fish bait that afternoon. As an afterthought, Moon had also brought along a minnow bucket, which stood beside the lard can.
The fishermen friends had not bothered to wet a line.
And why should they? Reeling in a sizable, scrappy fish requires intense concentration, which tends to distract a man from what he profits most from—which is a quiet hour away from work, worries, and needless conversation. Which was the reason why barely four dozen words had passed between them. Three-and-a-half dozen of these had traveled from the white man’s mouth to the Indian’s ear. Not a word about local crime, county politics, or devastating bovine diseases.
About thirty feet offshore, a big rainbow rolled over the surface, slurped up an unwary six-legged creature. Moon watched the concentric ripples spread and vanish. About a five-pounder. He picked up his spinning outfit, fumbled in the bucket for a lively minnow, found the unlucky candidate, deftly slipped the hook through mouth and gill without injuring the scaly creature. Moon executed a skillful flick of the wrist to place the live bait on the spot where the trout had surfaced. Bull’s-eye!
Parris admired the expert cast.
The happy angler released
sufficient translucent six-pound test filament to let his line go slack, watched it run this way and that as the minnow began to dart about. Come to dinner, Mr. Trout. Moon waited. Not for long. A big tug as a relative from higher up the food chain hit the minnow. He let the predator take the bait down the shoreline for a few yards, then gave the line a jerk. The empty hook sailed out of the water, over his head, snagged on a willow branch. “Dang!”
A true-blue friend would merely have chuckled. Parris sniggered. And compounded the offense by offering unsolicited advice in a high-hatted, know-it-all tone: “You got over-eager. Should’ve given that trout time to swallow the bait.”
As the frustrated fisherman was extracting the barbed hook from a spindly branch, he loosed a sharp little dart: “You had any luck identifying the fellow who shot Hermann Wetzel—like finding some clean prints on the murder weapon?”
“FBI’s still got the .38. It’ll still be a while before we hear anything about prints.” Parris flipped a pebble into the water. “But it won’t be long before we know who he is.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”
“Hey, you can take it to the bank—the shooter’s as good as behind bars.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Moon put a fresh minnow on the hook, cast the line back to the sweet spot. Next time, I’ll let Mr. Trout swallow the tiny fish down past his tonsils before I set the hook. “You must have a pretty good clue or two.”
“Sure I do.” Parris tugged his hat brim down to shade his eyes from sunshine reflecting off the water. “And I expect you’d like to hear all about it.”
“Not particularly. But since you’re just bustin’ to make a big brag about what a great detective you are, go right ahead—let it all out.” Moon flashed a toothy grin at his friend. “And I’ll pretend like I’m hanging on every word.”
“Thanks, Charlie—but I don’t like to mix police business with fishing.”
“That’s a sensible policy.” He doesn’t have anything to hang his hat on.
But Parris did. Quite a lot. Which, for the moment, he was keeping to himself. The cleverest chief of police in Granite Creek inhaled, blew some smoke at his friend. “The perp entered the Wetzel home without breaking a window. Which means either a door was left open or he had a key. And Miss Muntz—she’s the landlady, who lives across the street—tells me that Hermann Wetzel generally kept his doors locked.”
Moon watched the line drifting slowly to his left. This ain’t a very lively minnow. Another possibility occurred to him: Or maybe he’s just playing it smart. “Maybe the burglar picked the lock.”
“Can’t be ruled out, but it’s a long shot.” The social critic commenced to explain. “It’s a sad commentary on our society that not one housebreaker in fifty has the know-how to pick the sorriest fifty-cent padlock you ever saw. It’s this younger generation, Charlie—they’re too bone-lazy to learn a useful skill. Most of ’em toss a big rock through a window, or they break through a door with a crowbar or sledgehammer. So when the thief doesn’t bust up something, it’s almost a sure thing that he had a key.”
“So where’d our lazy burglar get a key?”
“Now that’s the question.” And wouldn’t you like to know the answer. Parris straightened his spine, pushed his hat back. “Hey, pay attention—you’ve got a bite!”
A good one, too. “That’s just the minnow making a run for it.” With exaggerated casualness, Moon leaned the rod into the crotch of a sturdy willow. Only a sure-enough ham would have faked a yawn. But that’s what he did.
“Charlie, that’s a bite for sure!”
He sat down on the log beside his buddy. “So how’d the burglar get a key to the Wetzel house?”
Parris put on a smug expression. “I’ve got an idea I’m working on.”
The Young Ladies
Did they ride over to the corral to count horseflies or trot off on a delightfully despicable little spy mission?
Sarah Frank and Nancy Yazzi were—at this very moment—sitting very quietly. Watching one of the most humongous horseflies that had ever been seen within the confines of the Columbine.
Sarah cringed as the massive insect landed on her knee. “You better not bite me!”
“If he does, you’re good as dead.” Nancy Yazzi’s observation was offered with a smirk. “See his red eyes? That’s a vampire horsefly and he’s after blood. He’ll sink his fangs into you, suck your dry.”
The potential victim raised her hand, gave the hideous creature a healthy smack.
The Angling Lawmen
As he counted his catch, which ranged from fourteen to twenty-two inches, Charlie Moon addressed Parris in a soothing tone that was fine-tuned to irritate his friend to the bone. “Don’t feel so bad about hooking just one little fish. I doubt that cutthroat was much more than ten inches long.” Well-timed pause. “Definitely not worth worrying about.”
Parris’s growl was low and throaty. Like a hungry old cougar who wanted to get some fresh, bloody meat between his teeth.
“Anyway, that pygmy trout is long gone.” Moon managed not to grin. “Like the guy who shot Wetzel.”
This did not help Parris’s temper.
The Ute didn’t let up. “I’ll lay you even money—say twenty bucks—that this time next year, that’ll still be an open case. It’ll turn out to be one of those killings where you’ll never have the least idea who did it. But someday when you’re in the nursing home, some fresh-faced cop right out of the academy will take a glance at an old, yellowed file and spot something you missed—like a silver shirt stud found under Wetzel’s coffee table that has the shooter’s name and address etched on it. And it’ll turn out the bad guy was an evil locksmith, who’d just broke out of Folsom Prison and—”
“Make it a hundred clams and you’re on.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Charlie. Let’s shake on it.”
“What exactly are we shaking on?”
“Just what you said. That this time next year, I won’t know the shooter’s name.”
Maybe he does know something. Then again . . . He might be bluffing.
Whatever the case, your proud Rocky Mountain gambling man does not back down. Code of the West. Look it up.
Moon reached for the outstretched paw, shook it.
Parris’s grin went Cheshire. No—better than that. No cat could split his face so wide, display all that enamel. This was in-your-face, grade-A gloating.
Uh-oh. Moon set his jaw, prepared himself for a big dose of bad news. “So what d’you know that you haven’t told me?”
Parris looked away, to the center of the lake, where a handsome pair of ring-necked ducks were skimming to a landing. “Oh, not enough to impress a big-shot tribal investigator who figures us town cops for a bunch of doughnut-munching yokels.” He watched one of the ducks go bottom-up. “But when we get back to the ranch headquarters, I intend to ask a certain somebody some questions.”
Moon lowered his voice. “Nancy Yazzi?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You figure she might know something that could help you ID the shooter?”
“Let’s just say I intend to ask her a question or two.”
“Sorry, pardner.” Moon shook his head. “Not in my house.”
“What?”
“If you want to interrogate the young lady, that’s your business. But you’ll have to ask your questions at the police station.” Moon’s tone was very firm. “Here on the Columbine—she’s under the protection of my hospitality.”
“I appreciate that.” Parris didn’t. “But if I take Wetzel’s stepdaughter into town, she’ll know something’s up and it’ll give her plenty of time to come up with a story.”
“I appreciate the spot you’re in, pardner. But it don’t make any difference. Long as Miss Yazzi is a guest in my house, she can expect the usual courtesy offered by the Columbine.”
Parris’s face was getting red, veins were bulging on his forehead, and his voice was increasin
g in volume. “Now listen here, Charlie. That girl knows—”
“Shhhh!”
“What?”
“For quite some time now, we’ve had an audience. Sarah and Nancy tied their horses over at the cabin, tried to sneak up on us.”
“Damn!” Parris peered through the willows, saw nothing amiss. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, I didn’t want to let on that I knew they were there—that’d spoil all their fun.”
“Where are they?”
“About fifty yards behind us, in a shallow little arroyo, peeking from behind a juniper.”
I can’t see a thing. “You absolutely sure?”
“Hey, I’m one hundred percent Indian. Anybody who ever watched a grade-B Western picture show knows we can track a Mormon cricket over ten miles of solid sandstone, and spot a kangaroo mouse snacking on a grasshopper in the next county.” The Ute grinned at his matukach buddy. “They couldn’t have heard a word we’ve said so far—but just in case the wind shifts, you’d better speak softly.”
It was an unnecessary caution.
Twenty-Seven
Seating Arrangements Are Important
As any one of those fortunate souls who has chowed down at the Columbine would attest to, the menu was invariably first-rate. The food was never fancy, but Charlie Moon was a pretty good cook, and whatever culinary skills he lacked were more than compensated for by the foreman’s wife. When guests were expected for supper, Dolly Bushman was likely to show up right on time with her famous peach cobbler, a gallon of hand-cranked strawberry ice cream, and a side dish such as chived and buttered new potatoes or crispy fried green tomatoes. Though it was early in the season for those particular delicacies, the grub on this night was not bad.
The man of the house was seated at the north end of the dining-room table, gazing down its considerable length at his spunky relative.
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