A Fortuitous Encounter
Millicent Muntz, who had seen the Columbine pickup from her parlor window, approached the passenger-side door. “Hello there.”
Because the window adjacent to Daisy was closed, the occupants did not hear the greeting.
The resident of 751 Beechwood Road tapped on the glass.
The Ute elder lowered the window, growled at the paleface, “Who’re you and whatta you want?”
Miss Muntz lifted her chin, the better to stare down her perfectly straight nose at this impertinent tourist. “I might well ask you the same.”
“You might, but I asked you first—so who are you and what’s on your mind, toots?”
Being addressed in this manner called for a stiff reply: “I am Millicent Muntz.” She pointed over her shoulder at the dwelling partially concealed by dwarfish juniper and piñon. “I live here.” The local resident sniffed. “Now perhaps you will identify yourselves and explain your presence in the neighborhood.”
Daisy’s scowl was transformed into a semisweet smile. “You must be Hermann Wetzel’s landlady.” Just who I wanted to see.
“Indeed I am.” Miss M raised her chin another notch. “But if you do not identify yourselves, I shall be compelled to—”
The girl intervened. “Uh, ma’am—I’m Sarah Frank and this is Aunt Daisy. We just wanted to stop for a minute or two and look at Nancy’s house.”
The youngster’s name seemed familiar. The landlady leaned to get a better look at the young person behind the steering wheel. “Are you one of Nancy Yazzi’s young friends?”
Sarah hesitated, nibbled at her lip. “We were good friends—until she ran off with my pickup truck.”
“My goodness—what a dreadful thing to do!” And it doesn’t sound a bit like Nancy. “Perhaps she only borrowed it, dear—and intends to return it.”
“Sure she does.” Without losing the smile, Daisy snorted. “And I bet she’ll probably bring it back loaded with groceries.” She rubbed her hands together. “I hope she don’t forget to pitch in a case of canned peaches.”
Among Miss Muntz’s few deficiencies was an occasional difficulty in recognizing sarcasm. “Well . . . though I suppose that cannot be entirely discounted, I rather imagine that a simple apology is more likely.”
Daisy barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. This white woman don’t have enough sense to pour cider out of a boot. But among her people, she was probably the smartest of the lot. “When you was younger and could hold down a job, I bet you was a schoolteacher.”
Wide-eyed with astonishment, Miss Muntz reflected Daisy’s counterfeit smile with what is commonly known as the real McCoy. “Well, that is quite a remarkable insight. I taught in the Denver public school system for almost forty years.”
Daisy: I knew it!
Oblivious to the Indian woman’s amusement, Miss Muntz continued. “My specialties were mathematics and music. After my retirement, I have continued to teach piano to a few gifted students.” Unhappy memories pulled the smile off her face. One should not dwell too much on days gone by. Suddenly feeling lonely, Miss Muntz made a proposal: “Would you ladies like to come inside and visit? I could brew us a pot of tea. And I have some absolutely scrumptious oatmeal-raisin cookies that I made this morning.”
“Cookies would be very nice.” Sarah gave Charlie Moon’s crotchety aunt a pleading look. Big eyes and all.
Though eager to conduct some shady business with Hermann Wetzel’s landlady, Daisy grimaced. “I don’t like tea. It gives me cramps.”
Miss Muntz reached inside the cab to pat the crabby woman’s shoulder. “What do you like to drink, dear?”
Flinching under the white woman’s feather-light touch, Daisy shot back, “Rotgut whiskey laced with lye!”
“I shall call the local saloon and order up a quart.”
Daisy looked up at the twinkling blue eyes. Maybe she’s not so bad as I thought. “Could you boil a pot of coffee?”
“Blindfolded. With one hand firmly tied behind my back.”
“At home, I don’t make nothing but Folgers.” Daisy’s small black eyes twinkled wickedly back at the landlady. “But none of that sissy decaf stuff—I use the hundred-proof kind in the red can.”
ACROSS THE street, in the former Wetzel residence, Jake Harper’s right eye peered between a pair of heavy drapes. They’re going into the landlady’s house. Now’s my chance to get the job done. He backed away from the curtain. Paused. But maybe I better stay at the window for a few more minutes . . . just to make sure they don’t come over here.
Regarding the formerly decisive fellow, it is hard to say what the matter was. Being shot at with malice aforethought had no doubt taken its toll on Harper’s psyche. Shaving off his curly hair and manly beard may also have been a factor in this crippling attack of uncertainty.
Unable to come to a decision, the burglar dithered.
A pitiful case.
Forty-One
A Pleasant Little Interlude
The coffee was black and bitter, which suited Daisy Perika.
Sarah Frank had a ginger ale. Because she was “watching her figure,” the skinny girl limited herself to two cookies. Then, two more.
After taking a dainty sip of green tea, Miss Muntz directed her guests’ attention to an array of framed photos on the parlor wall. “Every one of my piano students is represented in this group. Most have children of their own by now.” She yielded to a wistful sigh. “Two that I know of have . . . passed on.” After a moment’s melancholy reflection, she dismissed the distressing recollection, turned from the display of youthful faces to regard the Ute elder’s wrinkled visage. “Would you like more coffee, dear?”
Daisy shook her head.
“A cookie, perhaps?”
“No, thanks.” It was time to get down to business. The Ute woman fixed her gaze on the kindly old lady. “I don’t expect Hermann’s stepdaughter’s likely to come back anytime soon.” If she does, she’ll be slapped in jail for stealing Sarah’s truck. “And even if she did, it’s not likely she could pay the rent on that big house across the street.”
“No, I suppose not.” Miss Muntz, whose mind had been occupied with so many pressing issues, had hardly given a thought to the future of her vacant rental property. “Once the police investigation is completed and they take down the yellow tape, I suppose I shall have to advertise it.”
“So what’ll you be asking?”
Miss Muntz blinked at the tribal elder. “Are you interested in the house?”
“Oh, I suppose I might be. If it suits me.” The wily old bargainer gulped the last swallow of coffee. “And if the price was right.”
“Well.” I don’t know whether you are quite the sort of tenant I would be looking for. “Do you live by yourself?”
Daisy nodded.
Sarah cleared her throat.
Daisy jerked her head to indicate her companion. “Except for her.”
The girl seems very sweet. “Any pets?”
Sarah nodded. “I have a cat.”
“Oh, that would not be a problem.” Cats create very little fuss. Mr. Moriarty was a particularly easy pet to live with. “But you would have to keep your kitty inside at night. I would not want to hear it yowling about the neighborhood.”
Daisy put her china cup on a marble-topped coffee table. “How about you show us the place.”
“Oh, I don’t think I could.” The landlady pointed in an across-the-street direction. “The police have put up yards and yards of official tape, and there are stern signs on all the doors that warn—”
“That’s just to keep nosy people from snooping around.” Daisy grinned at the innocent. “They wouldn’t mind if you was to show the place to somebody that might want to rent it.”
Miss M put her teacup down, frowned. “I don’t know. . . .”
The sly old Ute shot a poisoned arrow: “Who owns that house—the cops or you?”
The barbed projectile hit one of Miss Muntz’s sor
e spots. Though brought up to be respectful of both civil law and civilized traditions, the prim little spinster resented being pushed around by the authorities. She also had a way of coming to snap decisions. “Very well.” She got up from her armchair. “Shall we go have a look?”
FINALLY DONE with his dithering, Jake Harper also made a snap decision. He abandoned the front window, hurried into Hermann Wetzel’s office, got down on his knees, shone a pen-light through the heating vent, and—Wow!
There it was, just like Nancy had said—a black leather pouch. The alluring object was hanging on a small nail, just inches away. As Harper commenced to lift the register, he was practically counting the greenbacks—
But wait.
What is this—is the confounded thing stuck?
Not exactly.
Damn! Hermann has fastened the register down with a dozen screws. But that was not the worst news. These were not ordinary fasteners. Oh, great. The jerk used tamper-proof screws. The frustrated burglar put his face close to the problem, focused on one of the offending screw heads, and concluded that it was a Torx.
Useful information, to be sure. But what size?
Looks like either a twenty-five or a twenty-seven. Either way, ol’ Hermann must have the matching Torx bit somewhere in the house. But it won’t likely be in a toolbox—the sneaky bastard probably hid it somewhere. Harper considered his options. I could come back later with the tools I need. That would be the sensible course of action. Or I might be able to find a crowbar or something to pry the register up, screws and all. But that would make a lot of noise and—
The burglar heard the distinct click of the front door latch.
The squeaky creak of hinges.
The soft thud of the door closing Faint voices in the hallway. Getting louder by the second.
In a flash, Jake Harper slipped into the office closet and closed the door.
Forty-Two
The Burglar Is Cornered
And therefore, extremely dangerous. Jake Harper stood motionless among Hermann Wetzel’s coats and sweaters, listened to the voices and footsteps come down the hallway, into the kitchen, and then—into the dead man’s office. He held his breath.
The Landlady Makes Her Pitch
Believing it better to deal with the lurid issue of murder right up front, Miss Muntz pointed at the open cellar door and the masking-tape outline the medical examiner had placed on the floor. “That is where I found the body.” With a barely discernible hint of self-importance, she added, “I was on the scene only moments after the killer fled.” She frowned at the dark-brown stains on the top steps and door sill. “I was too late to be of any help. Mr. Wetzel was quite dead.”
Sarah Frank was barely able to suppress a fit of the cold shudders. It must hurt awful to get shot with real bullets. I wonder what it’s like to die . . . all by yourself. Nancy’s brutish stepfather must have experienced terrible pain and loneliness as he slipped away from this bright world of warm sunshine and sweet birdsongs to . . . to what? Aunt Daisy could have told her, but would the sensible sixteen-year-old have believed such a tale of ghostly monkeyshines?
During her long, difficult life, the Ute elder had encountered more corpses than she could count on both hands—including three husbands. This being the case, Daisy had little interest in the dwelling’s recent history of violent death. What galvanized her mind was the dead man’s alleged treasure trove of hard cash. But even though she was posing as a prospective tenant to conceal her money-hunting motives, the tribal elder was beginning to take her assumed role more seriously. I wouldn’t mind living in a nice place like this that was so close to town. If I was to get bad sick or fall down and break my hip, I’d be close to a hospital. And this place isn’t all that far from the Columbine—Charlie Moon could stop by every day or two. Her mouth curled into an avaricious grin. And if I lived here I’d have all the time I needed to look for Hermann’s money. “Does this house have city water and sewer?”
Miss M nodded. “Oh yes.”
“How about natural gas?”
“Indeed it does, which is quite a rare blessing in such a semirural setting. Only about a half mile farther out of town, everyone burns either wood or propane.”
The comfort and peace of mind that such conveniences would provide made the Ute elder fairly prickle with envy. When this old matukach woman has a problem, all she has to do is pick up the phone and call the county and they send somebody out to take care of it. Which was not so at the yawning mouth of Cañón del Espíritu. Just imagine, never having to worry about well pumps breaking or septic tanks backing up or the propane deliveryman not showing up because the snow’s knee deep or the summer rains turned the road into muck that’d bog his truck up to the axles. The calculating old soul did some adding and subtracting. If I was to rent my place for a fair price, maybe I could afford to move into this one. “Let’s go have a look at the kitchen.”
BEING AN ordinary mortal with run-of-the-mill lung capacity, Jake Harper had not been holding his breath for this entire interlude. What the hell—it’s just two women and a girl. But the burglar concealed in the closet was just beginning to be dimly aware of a more potent threat. Something evil was brewing here . . . he could feel it. Practically taste it.
BARELY AWARE of the departure of Daisy and the landlady for the kitchen, Sarah Frank stood in the office, gawking at the bloodstains and the tape outline of the body. There was also a bullet hole in the wall, marked by a blue tape-on arrow and a yellow sticky note upon which someone had hand-printed:
#2. 9 mm (?)
I wonder what that little sign means. There was so much to wonder about in this mysterious life. I wonder if Mr. Wetzel’s ghost is still here and that’s what I saw at the front window. I wonder if he can see me right now—
An unseen Something passed by her face. A cold and clammy Something. And it smelled funny. Like an animal. Probably an effect of the girl’s active imagination.
Sarah’s blood ran cold; her teeth began to chatter. She wanted more than anything to run, but her shoes might have been nailed to the floor.
JAKE HARPER could not see the girl from his dark concealment in the office closet. Nor could he hear Sarah Frank’s rapid breaths. But he knew she was there. And the boxed-in burglar was beginning to experience what those spin doctors in the medical profession refer to as discomfort. Considerable discomfort. Compared to this, the dull throb in his left buttock was downright comfortable.
DAISY WENT from one kitchen appliance to another, touching this, tapping on that, taking every opportunity to look doubtful. But, whatever she pretended to examine, what was beneath her feet continually occupied the old woman’s attention.
Miss Muntz commenced to point out features that commended her property. “The refrigerator is less than a year old, and it has a wonderful ice maker.”
“There’s one of them things on my refrigerator,” Daisy said. “It’s been nothing but trouble.”
“Really—what sort of trouble?”
“For one thing, it leaks.” Daisy rubbed the small of her aching back. “My nephew’s had to fix the water hookup two or three times. And it’s noisy as a pig eating corncobs. Sometimes it wakes me up in the middle of the night.”
Miss M’s tone was firm. “This ice maker has never leaked a drop. And your sleep would certainly not be disturbed by the slight noise it makes—the bedrooms are located well away from the kitchen.”
Daisy cast a suspicious gaze at the cooking stove. As if it might explode and incinerate them all.
Sensing an imminent complaint, the landlady launched a preemptive defense. “This gas range was installed just last month. Neither Mr. Wetzel nor his stepdaughter ever used the oven.” Shaking her head to express disapproval, Miss Muntz confided, “I doubt that Nancy could bake a pan of biscuits if her life depended on it. Aside from warming up canned soups and such on the range, those two managed with just the microwave. Nancy and her stepfather preferred . . .” she could barely get the horrid phrase
past her lips, “frozen dinners.”
Daisy grunted as she bent to open the oven door. There was not the least blemish on the enamel. Not a stray crumb to be seen.
Considerably more flexible than her guest, Miss Muntz squatted beside Daisy. “Isn’t that oven just as spotless as one you’d expect to see in a Sears and Roebuck showroom?”
The Ute elder, who had not heard anyone tack “Roebuck” onto “Sears” for at least thirty years, was pleased that someone besides herself remembered such significant historical lore. She might have agreed with the landlady, who had every right to talk up the place. But, being who she was, Daisy sniffed at the oven. Cocked her head just so. Frowned. “Oh, I expect they must’ve used it once or twice.”
From Miss Muntz’s slightly elevated eyebrow, one might have concluded that this response did not please her.
Daisy noticed this, and more. This old white woman is awfully edgy about something or other. Something must be wrong with this kitchen. But what? One way or another, I’m going to find out. The Ute elder’s mind, which had a talent for conjuring up trouble, was beginning to froth and bubble. She played a hunch. “I think you know a lot more than you’re telling me.”
Miss Muntz’s rosy little face blanched. “Why, what do you mean by that—I’ve been quite forthcoming about my rental property and I must say that I resent—”
Snake Dreams Page 22