The tribal elder raised a hand to silence the protest, assumed a stern “I already know” expression, which invites confession. “You’ll feel a lot better if you get it off your chest.”
The white woman stared at the inscrutable Indian for the longest time, then finally hung her head and said, “Yes. You are quite right.”
Hah! I knew it. Daisy guessed that the dark secret would have something to do with bad plumbing.
The landlady held her a breath for a moment. Pursed her lips. Tapped her fingers on a granite-topped counter. “I suppose I should go to the police.”
Police? Daisy blinked. What is she babbling about?
“Ever since the shooting, I have existed in a state of confusion.” Miss Muntz raised her palms, stared at the ceiling. “I awaken in the morning, certain that I understand exactly what happened here. But by the time I go to bed, I wonder whether I really know anything at all. This whole business really has me quite beside myself!” She gazed at the shifty old Indian. “I’m just bursting to tell someone—a person I can trust.”
Daisy assumed a brand-new expression, this one absolutely reeking of saintliness and wisdom. Imagine a combination of Mother Theresa and Abe Lincoln. “You can trust me.”
Well.
“Yes, I believe I can.” Miss M, bless her soul, had no idea whom she was talking to. In that manner that is so often described as meaningful, she glanced toward the adjacent room, where Sarah Frank tarries near the scene of the crime and Jake Harper fumes and fidgets in the closet. Mr. H fumes because he is annoyed at those three females who have interrupted his attempted burglary without so much as a by-your-leave. But why does the felon fidget? One would rather not say.
“Don’t worry about the girl.” Daisy took a firm grip on her walking stick. “I know how to get rid of her.”
In Hermann Wetzel’s Office
Just as the woman with the sturdy oak staff advised Miss Muntz not to worry about the girl, Sarah’s heels clicked. No, not together, as if she were attempting to transport herself from Oz back to Kansas. The heels made the clicking sounds as she walked across the hardwood floor.
CLICKING SOUNDS on the floor that are getting closer and closer to his place of concealment are just the sort of noises that make a burglar concealed in a dark closet get a case of the clenched-teeth cringes. Which, when added to fumes and fidgets, tend to create considerable agitation. And this was not the best possible time to agitate Mr. Harper. As so often occurs with lowlife malefactors, a recent discretion had come back to haunt him. Or perhaps it would be more to the point to say that it had come up to torment him. What was the nature of this dreadful visitation? In a word, gastronomic.
The imprudent diner could feel the red-hot fire of Hoke’s Firehouse Chili rising in his throat.
AS IF drawn forward by some perverse magnetism, the half-frightened girl slowly approached the closet. As if by its own accord, her right hand reached out, the fingertips touched the white porcelain knob on the door, gave it just the slightest turn . . .
“Hey!”
Startled by this exclamation, Sarah turned to see Aunt Daisy, who was not alone. The prim little landlady was looking over the Ute elder’s stooped shoulder.
JAKE HARPER was also startled by the “Hey!” So much so that he almost . . . But it is a delicate matter. And there are legal issues to be considered. Yes, burglars who are ill have a right to privacy. But here is a hint: Harper’s distress is related to the potential projectile ejection of partially digested Firehouse Chili.
DAISY SHOOK her walking stick at the embarrassed girl. “What’re you doing?”
In response, the sixteen-year-old uttered one of those childish replies that sounds like a pack of bald-faced lies: “Um—I don’t know—I mean . . . I’m not sure . . . um . . .” In this instance, it was the perfect truth right down to the final “um,” but Sarah had no doubt that she was about to get a tongue-lashing for snooping around in the dead man’s office.
Imagine the girl’s surprise when Daisy gave her a twenty-dollar bill.
Sarah stared at what appeared to be a rather generous reward for unseemly behavior.
Like a kindly old granny, Daisy patted the girl’s head. “Drive that old pickup over to the supermarket and buy us some ice cream.”
“Oh, your needn’t bother.” Miss Muntz, who had already forgotten Daisy’s promise to “get rid of the girl,” beamed at Sarah. “I have some strawberry ice cream in my freezer.”
“She don’t like strawberry,” Daisy snapped.
Sarah Frank responded with a bright-eyed, “Yes I do!”
“Well I don’t.” The Ute woman glared at the girl. “Strawberries give me the hives.” Having made her point, Daisy switched on a wicked little grin. “Go buy us some butter pecan. Or peach. Or plain vanilla. But don’t bring it here—we’ll be across the street by the time you get back. Now scat!”
And that was that.
EXCEPT THAT Jake Harper was hanging on every word. And praying that he would not vomit all over himself. Do not doubt it for a moment—when they’re in a tough spot, burglars pray up a storm.
A MOMENT after the girl had departed, Daisy addressed her host: “What’s got you so worried?”
Millicent Muntz blinked owlishly at her guest. Licked her lips. Blinked again. “I hardly know where to begin.” She braced herself. “I can tell you this—if I were to go to the police with what I know, it would—what do they say on those TV cops-and-robbers shows?” She tried to recall. “Oh, yes—it would blow this case wide open!”
Daisy cocked her head. “This fella who did the shooting—could you help the police put the cuffs on him?”
Miss Muntz cocked her head. “Yes. I believe I could.”
JAKE HARPER’S gut rumbled. The desperate man chewed on his lip, clenched his hands. Oh, please. Not here. Not now.
HOPING TO be the exclusive co-owner of whatever juicy secret her new friend was about to share, Daisy wondered how close-mouthed this white woman really was. “You haven’t said a word about what you know to Scott Parris?”
“I suppose I should have. And perhaps I shall decide to do just that.” Miss Muntz’s arid sigh was like a dry breeze in the pines. “But the situation is rather complex.”
The Ute woman suppressed a groan. With whites, everything was complicated. Most of these matukach can’t fry an egg without making plans the day before. She opened her mouth to offer some helpful advice, when—
Sarah’s face appeared in the doorway. “Is it okay if I get chocolate ripple?”
Daisy raised her sturdy oak walking stick in a menacing gesture. “If you don’t get outta here right this minute and go to the store I’m gonna ripple you!”
The face vanished.
“Oh dear,” Miss Muntz said, clasping a hand over her mouth. “I wonder how much she overheard.”
“Kids are born sneaks,” the Ute moral philosopher asserted. “You can’t trust a one of ’em.” Especially when they’re half Papago.
The landlady waited until she heard the front door close, then addressed her confidante. “I suggest we retire across the street to my parlor.”
Daisy agreed.
JAKE HARPER clenched his fists. Yes! Go across the street or to Oklahoma City or Doo wah diddy—just vamoose, so I can get outta this damn closet! Of all the worldly treasures sought after by men, what he wanted most was a stiff dose of baking soda stirred (not shaken) in cold water.
IT APPEARS that Hermann Wetzel’s money bag will have to wait until another day, when his former earthly residence is not crawling with landladies, prospective tenants, and curious teenagers. On his next visit, Mr. Harper will undoubtedly come prepared with the proper tool kit, and one might expect that his preburglary meal on that occasion will consist of plain low-fat yogurt and a slice of white bread.
Forty-Three
The Purloined Pickup Goes Home Again
Was Charlie Moon happy? Indeed he was. It was a pleasure to be behind the wheel of the recovered birth
day truck, imagining how happy Sarah Frank would be. As Moon rolled serenely homeward, he conjured up images of the sixteen-year-old squealing, jumping up and down, squealing again, then turning cartwheels across the Columbine driveway. There were also several backflips. Such an imagination.
Scott Parris was locomoting gloomily along behind the Ute, trying not to think about malformed chickens. This impossible task was interrupted when the chief of police received a radio call from Officer Eddie “Rocks” Knox. He pressed the microphone against his chin. “What’s up, Eddie?”
“Hemlines and hog bellies. Heh-heh!”
His teeth on edge, Parris tried again: “Why’re you calling?”
Like other die-hard comedians, Eddie Knox was unfazed by those members of the audience who did not appreciate his art. “You’ll never guess.”
“So tell me!”
Knox was determined to drag this out. “You remember that ol’ Muntz woman—Hermann Wetzel’s landlady?”
Parris’s stomach churned. I hope this ain’t bad news. “Is she okay?”
“I’d say so. When Me ’n’ Piggy spotted her a few minutes ago, she was moving along at a pretty lively clip.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Well, it had to do with her crossing the road.” Knox loved to create little mysteries. “And where she was crossing it.”
What is he babbling about? “So what’s the charge—jaywalking?”
“Now, I’d a never thought of that.” The jolly cop whistled. “I s’pose that’s why you’re the grand high mucky-muck and I’m just a flatfoot grunt.”
The chief of police set the formidable jaw; his ominous silence roared at the insubordinate subordinate.
Knox was not intimidated, but he got the point. “The landlady was walking across Beechwood toward her house.” Pause. “She was coming from the residence where Hermann Wetzel got shot to death, where we used about two hundred yards of pretty yellow tape to seal the premises off from curious civilians.”
Parris groaned. “I hope she hadn’t been inside.”
“While you’re at it, you might as well hope for thirty-cent-a-gallon gasoline.” The wit chuckled at this snappy comeback, cleared his throat, and got back on track. “Me ’n’ Piggy checked out the Wetzel residence, took a close look at all the doors and windows. Turns out that somebody—and we all know who that was—has messed with the tape on the front door.”
Parris’s roared “What?” boomed inside the black-and-white, and without waiting for a response to this vague query, he shouted into the microphone again, “Why didn’t you and Slocum stop her?”
Knox, who knew how to set his boss up, assumed an injured tone. “Because when we spotted Miss Muntz, we’d just showed up.”
“Oh.”
The constable on patrol was enjoying every word of this conversation. “You’d never guess who was with the landlady when she crossed the street.”
“Right again.” Parris’s tone was deadly cold. “But you’re going to tell me in two seconds flat.”
“It was that wacky old Indian woman—Charlie Moon’s aunt.”
Parris murmured to himself, “Daisy Perika?”
“Far as I know, Daisy’s the only wacky old aunt Charlie’s got. And her and the landlady was real chummy with one another. Matter a fact, Daisy’s in Miss Muntz’s house right now, and I bet that them two old hens are cacklin’ up a storm and hatching a batch of trouble.”
Parris cringed at the feathery reference. It occurred to his troubled mind that between them, Daisy and Miss Muntz had four legs and two heads. Had the chicken-farmer dream been a dark omen?
Knox assumed a blatantly phony apologetic tone. “Normally, I wouldn’t bother a busy man such as yourself with a piddlin’ little matter like this—me and Piggy would take care of it ourselves. But seeing as how you and Charlie are good buddies and Daisy is a favorite dancin’ partner of mine, there’s all kind of nasty opportunities for conflicts of interest to pop up. So I thought maybe you’d like to advise me on how to proceed.”
Silly nitwit. “You and Slocum go knock on Miss Muntz’s front door and—and . . .”
“Yes sir?” And what?
Which was precisely Parris’s thought. He furrowed the highly expressive brow. This could get dicey. Miss Muntz owns the house we taped off and she probably believes she has a right to go inside. She don’t, of course, but she could cause me a lot of heartburn if she phones the mayor and kicks up a fuss about private-property rights and whatnot. And if Knox goes barging in, it’d be just like Daisy to get excited and whack him over the head with her big walking stick. And Knox don’t have any more sense than Daisy, so he might arrest her for real this time, and it’d take him and Slocum both to haul her away to jail. He could imagine the headlines.
LOCAL COPS BRAWL WITH AGED
NATIVE AMERICAN WOMAN
“Uh, you and Slocum go back to your regular patrol. Soon as I get back to town, I’ll take care of this business with Miss Muntz.”
“Thanks, Chief. I told Piggy that you’d know the right thing to do.” The insolent cop appended a final “heh-heh.”
Parris ground his teeth. Someday, Knox—you’re gonna push me too far. But this wasn’t someday and he had a more immediate problem to deal with. The thought of facing the Daisy-Muntz combination alone was unsettling. Then, he remembered what best friends were for. He switched on the emergency lights to get Charlie Moon’s attention, also toggled the siren switch twice.
As the Ute pulled the pickup into a wide spot on the shoulder, Parris parked beside him, lowered the passenger-side window, and passed on the troubling news.
Moon was not surprised. “Sounds like Daisy sweet-talked the landlady into giving her a guided tour of the murder house.” I bet she wanted to see the bloodstains where Hermann Wetzel got shot to death. Another thought occurred to him: I wonder why Knox didn’t mention Sarah. Maybe she was smart enough to stay clear of the Wetzel house. Also: I wonder where Butch is. He grinned. I bet Daisy gave him the slip.
Parris switched off the flashing lights. “Charlie, seeing as how Daisy’s your aunt—”
“I don’t appreciate the reminder.”
“—You’ve got to help me with this.”
The Indian raised an eyebrow. “How?”
“You can go with me to Miss Muntz’s house and give Daisy a good talking-to.” The chief of police glanced at the rearview mirror, watched a yellow Corvette approaching at a good clip, and switched the emergency lights back on. “Explain to your aunt how she don’t have any business mucking around a crime scene.”
“I don’t think that’d help.” Moon adjusted his black workaday John B. Stetson hat to a jaunty angle. “The elderly relative don’t pay me much attention.” It’ll be like talking to a fence post. Only less fun.
“Well you gotta try.” Parris watched the spiffy sports car slow and pass by. A pretty redhead waved. The distracted cop returned a halfhearted salute. “This could turn into a real mess.”
The tribal investigator’s smile went off like a dozen flash-bulbs. “Hey, how much trouble could a couple of little old ladies get themselves into?”
Forty-Four
A Couple of Little Old Ladies
Officer Knox’s image of Daisy Perika and her new friend as two old hens “cacklin’ up a storm” was somewhat off the mark, but “hatching a batch of trouble” was an apt metaphor. As might be expected, it was the Ute woman who had settled onto the nest, which was the most comfortable chair in a cozy sanctum chock-full of comfy places to sit.
Daisy got right to the point. “That silly girl’s liable to show up again and ask me if it’s all right to buy ten dollars’ worth of bubble gum, so tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I shall.” Her back poker-straight, Miss Muntz was seated across from the Indian woman. “But there is a condition—this is for your ears only.”
Oh, this was sounding good. “I won’t breathe a word of what you say. Not unless you give me the okay.”
A nod.
With this assurance, Millicent Muntz commenced to tell her hair-raising narrative. When she had finished, the tribal elder was struck dumb. But only for a few rapid heartbeats. “You’re in a real fix.”
“Indeed I am.” The landlady clasped her hands in her lap. “But now that I’ve shared my secret, I feel much better.”
The tribal elder offered up an off-the-cuff proverb: “Feeling better won’t get the job done.” As she thought things over, Daisy studied the carpeted floor. Also the landlady’s feet, and Miss M’s tasteful footwear. “If I was in your shoes, I’d figure out a way to fix things.”
Convinced that her guest was already figuring, she leaned forward. Expectantly.
The Ute problem-solver took quite some time to mull it over. By and by, after discarding a few so-so notions, Daisy came up with what she knew was a surefire solution.
When Miss Muntz heard the result of Daisy’s brainstorm, she clapped her hands. “That is just splendid—you are absolutely brilliant!”
The recipient of this generous compliment shrugged with a modesty that was as genuine as a politician’s election-day promise. “It oughta work.”
True. It oughta. And cottonwood trees oughta grow crispy twenty-dollar bills instead of shiny green leaves. But Daisy’s track record for schemes that actually worked was not one to brag about. Perhaps one in twenty.
Miss Muntz, of course, was unaware of these dismal statistics.
CHARLIE MOON and Scott Parris were about three blocks away, approaching the address on Beechwood Road, when Sarah Frank pulled up at the curb at Miss Muntz’s home with a half gallon of chocolate-ripple ice cream.
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