“He happen to mention what It was?”
“He didn’t have to.” The small woman looked past Moon, toward the street. “I saw him myself.”
Moon arched an eyebrow. “The It was a Him?”
“Well of course it was!”
“And where did you see It—I mean Him? In the mirror?”
“No, you big telephone pole.” She pointed at the front window. “He was standing right out there on the sidewalk—looking in through the glass.”
The Ute was muttering to himself. “Then It…was just a man.”
“But not just any man,” Harriet snapped. “This old blister was Dr. Blinkoe’s twin.”
Moon felt a deep chill creep along his spine, right up the nape of his neck to the back of his hat. “You absolutely sure about that?”
“Sure as week-old roadkill stinks. The fella outside the window was the spirit and image of Dr. Blinkoe.” She shuddered. “Just imagine—two of them Weird-Beards loose on the streets!”
11
The Estate on Moccasin Lake
As soon as he was out of town, Charlie Moon slipped a Chet Atkins CD into the slot. The disc spun up with Canned Heat. A dozen miles north of Granite Creek, while Mr. Atkins was plucking and picking “Centipede Boogie,” the Expedition began the gradual descent from an arid sandstone plateau into a wide, shallow portion of the Moccasin River basin. Overhead, the midday sun sizzled, a filmy sheet of cirrus shimmered, a sinister formation of Messerschmitt Nazi blackbirds dived at a hapless B-24 raven on its way back from a cross-channel run. Below this nostalgic display, an interlocking patchwork of dry and irrigated fields pretended to be a giant brown-and-green quilt that some thoughtful grandma had spread over the sleepy valley. The road made a gradual arc to the left, aligned itself with the rocky stream. Suggesting a chance encounter of land and water serpents, road and river proceeded along their winding way west.
During the guitar picker’s rendering of “Jitterbug Waltz,” Moon slowed at a sign. The script on the redwood plank informed the motorist that he was about to pass Moccasin Lake Estates. He turned the Columbine flagship onto a narrow asphalt lane that was in better condition than the blacktop road he had taken from Granite Creek. Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe had recited the directions over the telephone. Take the second right, which is Sundown Trail, then hang a hard left on Deadwood Lane. The orthodontist’s residence was reportedly at the end of Deadwood. And so it was.
Moon pulled to a stop in the shade of a picture-book spruce, graciously allowed the late Mr. Atkins sufficient time to fade away under his “Rainbow” before he shut down the CD player. The Ute sat quietly in his big automobile, examined what could be seen of the Blinkoe property.
In the paved driveway that terminated at a detached garage, a glistening yellow Mercedes sedan was parked beside a freshly waxed gray Chevrolet pickup. A much older, rusty GMC pickup with Kansas plates was half hidden on the far side of the garage. A muddy black Suzuki motorcycle had been leaned against a utility pole.
A steep stairway provided outside access to an apartment over the garage. Someone was looking out between a slit in the red-and-white curtains. The pale face disappeared as soon as the Ute looked up. That’ll be the guy who rides the Suzuki. Maybe he looks after the place when the Blinkoes are away.
Sheltered by a small forest of ponderosa, spruce, and transplanted aspens was the place Dr. Blinkoe called home. The massive house—Moon estimated twenty rooms—was constructed of brown and orange bricks. The porch roof was supported by a half-dozen fluted granite columns. Mullioned windows were lined up along the first and second floors. In the attic, a few smaller windows peeked duncelike from under gabled hats. Massive red sandstone chimneys shouldered up against each end of the structure.
A grassy lawn fell off gradually to the edge of the lake, where a redwood dock jutted into still waters. A magnificent pontoon houseboat was tied there, a twelve-foot bass boat floated beside it. As if the lake water might not be entirely suitable for his bathing, a kidney-shaped swimming pool had been placed in the shade of the trees. A few pine and spruce cones floated on the surface. Moon smiled. Dr. Blinkoe knows how to live. And has the means to do it.
Moon was opening the Expedition door when Manfred W. Blinkoe appeared on the porch. The man with the forked beard wore crisply ironed khaki slacks, a black turtleneck sweater, old-fashioned penny loafers.
Behind the spectacles, Blinkoe’s bulbous eyes bulged with enthusiasm. “Hey, there—Charlie.” He waved at his visitor. “Did you have any problem finding the place?”
Moon assured him that his directions had been more than adequate.
He hurried out to shake the Ute’s hand, then glanced back at the house. “My wife doesn’t know why you’re here. I told her you were interested in buying my boat.”
The man could not hiccup without telling a lie. “Which one?”
“What?”
“We’ll have to keep our stories straight.” Moon tried not to grin. “So am I interested in the big boat or the little one?”
“Uh—the houseboat, of course. I mean, why would you want the small one?”
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind having a bass boat on my lake.”
His lake? Balderdash. It’s probably nothing more than a dug-pond. Knowing no other way to smile, he grinned crookedly at the Ute. “You have an honest-to-goodness lake on your ranch?”
Reading Blinkoe’s mind, the proud owner of the Columbine nodded. “Sure do. Great big one, too. Chock-full of native trout.” And Lake Jesse wasn’t made by damming up a fine creek and filling a sandstone canyon with water. Nature had made Moon’s alpine lake thirty thousand years ago, using a glacier for a plow.
The wealthy man jerked his chin toward the lake. “Let’s amble on down to the houseboat, where we can confer in private.”
It was a minute too late for that.
“Hey—Manny.”
Moon looked toward the source of the shrill voice. A stunningly shapely young woman stood on the porch, hands on her hips. She wore a tight black dress with a deep V neckline. The silk garment did not quite reach her knees. Cornsilk-yellow hair framed the pretty face, flowed over her shoulders in a honeyed waterfall. He could not help staring.
As if he had not heard the summons, the allegedly deaf husband set his face toward the dock and began to amble thataway.
She called out again in the screechy voice. Louder this time. “Hey!” For punctuation, she stamped her foot.
Recognizing defeat, Blinkoe turned, padded toward the porch.
The Ute followed.
Mrs. Blinkoe looked over her husband’s head at the tall, slender man.
Moon removed his black John B. Stetson. Smiled shyly at the cover girl.
Blondie cocked her head. “Who’re you?”
“Uh…” The Ute tried to remember his name. Did. “Charlie.”
“Charlie who?”
His response was faster this time. “Moon.”
“You really interested in Manfred’s dumb old boat?”
Moon glanced at the sleek bass boat. “Yes, ma’am. And I’ll buy it if the price is right.” Like fifty bucks.
“Ah, he’d never sell you that big tub.” She glared at her husband. “Would you?”
Blinkoe shrugged. “I’m thinking about getting a larger one.”
The young woman approached the Ute. “I’m Pansy Blinkoe.”
Moon had no trouble putting on a stupid look. “Oh—I didn’t know Dr. Blinkoe had a daughter.”
The pretty face broke into a smile. “Oh, you are just shameless.” She took the visitor’s arm. “And I like that.”
Moon’s face burned.
Pansy felt the heat. “Before you look at Manny’s silly old barge, you want me to show you around the house?”
The Ute looked to his host for permission. Do I?
Blinkoe caught a wicked look from his wife, surrendered. “When you’re through with the guided tour, I’ll be down at the boat.” No longer having the heart to amb
le, the man of the house shuffled slowly away toward the dock.
Pansy took her guest across the sixty-foot-long parlor, down the carpeted hall, into a huge corner bedroom. A pair of bay windows looked down onto the lakeshore. “Isn’t this pretty?”
The man nodded dumbly.
“You know what room this is?”
He thought he did. “The master bedroom?”
The blue eyes burned at him. “Manny ain’t my master, mister—and he don’t sleep in here. This is my bedroom.” She pointed a carmine fingernail at a canopied bed, provided an utterly unnecessary piece of information. “That is my bed.”
It was high time to change the subject. Moon focused on a large color print in a frame over the mantelpiece. “Who’s that?”
“My mommy and daddy, of course.” She pouted. “Don’t you see the family resemblance?”
He admitted that he had. Mommy and Daddy also had pretty blue eyes. But not nearly so pretty as Pansy’s.
The young woman released Moon’s arm, kicked off her red slippers, plopped down on the bed. Flat on her back. She smiled prettily at the dark stranger.
He barely managed not to stare at the woman.
She looked halfway through him. “You didn’t come way out here to look at some stupid old boat. What’re you really here for?”
“You want the unvarnished truth?”
“No man ever tells a woman the truth.” She giggled. “But get as close as you can.”
“I’m in the beef-ranching business.”
“Hah,” the pouty mouth said. “I don’t believe a word of that.”
Then I’m making some progress. “And I’m not all that interested in the boat.”
“I knew it!”
“It’s the motorcycle.”
“What?”
“The one out by the garage.”
“Oh, you don’t want that.”
“You’re not willing to sell it?”
“It don’t belong to me.”
“Then maybe Dr. Blinkoe will make me a price.”
“That ain’t Manny’s motorcycle. It’s…it’s Clayton’s.”
“Clayton?”
“Clayton Crowe. He’s my brother. Before I was a Blinkoe, I was a Crowe. That ugly old GMC pickup belongs to Clayton too, but it don’t run half the time.”
“Then I’ll have a talk with your brother about the motorcycle.”
“Oh, no. Clayton is—he’s sick today. Real sick. In bed with the flu or something.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
The blue eyes narrowed. “You really want to buy a dirty old motorcycle?”
“Not unless the price is right. Mostly, I’m just enjoying talking with you.”
“No you’re not.” She tugged at her wedding band. “You’re just teasing me.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. Truth is, I really do own a cattle ranch out west of Granite Creek. And I’m here to do some business with your husband.”
“What—you gonna sell Manfred some cows?” It would be just like my stupid husband to buy a bunch of stupid cows and put them out to graze in the stupid yard. “Well?”
“Can’t say.”
She pushed herself up on an elbow. “Why not?”
“My business with Dr. Blinkoe is confidential.”
Pansy fluttered the long eyelashes. “You won’t even tell poor little me?”
“I especially won’t tell poor little you. If you want to know, ask your husband.”
“Oh, foo.” She got off the bed, found her slippers. “I hate my husband.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Don’t you?” She did not wait for a response. “Tell me something, Mr. Moon. Do you think I’m pretty?”
Moon found himself stumbling around for an answer.
“Just tell me this one thing. Do you think I have a nice smile?” She flashed it at him.
Dazzled, Moon muttered, “Well—‘nice’ don’t get halfway there.”
“Thank you. Now let me tell you something.” She pointed in the general direction of the lakeshore. “When you go down to the dock to see my stupid old husband, you know what he’ll tell you?”
Moon shook his head.
“He’ll tell you that when he picked me up in Reno, I was waiting tables—when I wasn’t turning tricks. That I wasn’t nothing but a bucktoothed hillbilly slut.”
“I don’t believe he’d ever say a thing like that.”
“You believe it, cowboy! And then he’ll tell you that he made this pretty smile. That four of my top front teeth are fakes.”
The Ute gentleman did not know what to say. But he said it anyway. “I don’t care what anybody says, Mrs. Blinkoe—you’ve got a million-dollar smile.”
Tears filled her eyes. She fell back onto the bed, stared at the ceiling. A hint of the screech returned to her voice. “I hate all men to death. They’re all a bunch of rotten, no-good, stinking liars.” She pointed at the nearest member of the despicable gender. “Including you.”
He had backed his way to the door. “I am sorry you feel that way.”
The blue eyes flashed at the exasperating man. “You should be.” Pretending to think he could not hear her, she murmured, “If you’d been nice to me, I might’ve been nice to you.”
Moon put his hat on, pretended not to hear. Made himself disappear.
12
The Boat
Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe took the tribal investigator on a tour of the houseboat, which had SWEET SOLITUDE painted on both of her aluminum pontoons. The lower deck boasted a glistening stainless-steel galley, two comfortable bedrooms separated by a full bath. Though marginally smaller, the upper deck was dominated by a well-appointed parlor. This walnut-paneled room featured a regulation-size pool table, a suite of comfortable leather couches and chairs. The control room was just aft of this space, and jutted a full yard above it. The upper deck was all windows; the flat roof bristled with antennas and lights. As a backdrop to the spoked captain’s wheel, there were two panels filled with modern navigation and communication instruments. As the proud captain explained the function of each, Moon did his part by nodding and looking suitably impressed. When the show-and-tell was complete, the men returned to the lower deck.
Blinkoe leaned with both hands on the polished brass railing, gazed expectantly toward the house. Pansy was at the window, like he knew she would be. Watching. “Did she show you her bedroom?”
Moon ignored the question.
“She’s a very good-looking woman, my Pansy.”
“She is a special lady.” He gave his client a warning look. “You’re a lucky fellow.”
“You won’t believe this,” Blinkoe’s eyes narrowed, “but when I met Pansy, she was waiting tables in Reno. That’s what she did in her spare time. And as for that pretty smile, why, she had teeth like a woodchuck—”
“Dr. Blinkoe, unless what you’re about to tell me bears directly on the question of your personal safety, I don’t want to hear it.”
The orthodontist gave the Ute a wide-eyed look. “I was only going to tell you about the work I did on her dent—”
“Keep it to yourself.”
Blinkoe’s mouth was still open. About to say something.
The Ute shot him the do-and-you’ll-die look that had once stopped a full-grown cougar in its tracks. “You understand me?”
“Okay. You don’t want to hear it, fine.” Blinkoe waited a few racing heartbeats. “So what did you and Pansy talk about?”
This was getting tiresome. “Ask her.”
Anger was welling up in Blinkoe’s throat. “Who are you working for—me or my wife?”
“Neither of you.” Moon produced his wallet, removed the hundred-dollar bills. It was like saying good-bye to twenty of your best friends, but he pressed them into the noxious man’s hand. “But I like her a lot better than you.”
Blinkoe stared at the small fortune. “You drove all the way out here to return my money?”
“That was
n’t my original intention.” Moon looked toward the house, felt Pansy staring straight at him. “I’m here to give you some advice.”
“More advice, eh?” A wry smile crinkled his mouth. “About my compulsive tendency to cheat at cards?”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t care if you carry six-dozen aces around in your sleeves.”
Blinkoe clenched the bills in his fist, plopped down in a canvas deck chair. “What, then?”
“First time I saw you, you told me that whoever shot that woman at the restaurant was aiming at you. At the time, I figured you were a little bit paranoid. After I talked things over with Scott Parris, I didn’t have any reason to change my mind.”
“Then why—”
“Let me have my say.”
“Very well. Say away.”
“After I talked to the chief of police I dropped into Harriet’s Rare Books.”
“For what purpose?”
“To find out what It was.”
Blinkoe dismissed this with a snort. “Well, I could have told you that would be a waste of time—no one can see It but myself.”
“Harriet saw It.”
“Balderdash! The woman is a sixty-six-year-old fruitcake.”
“You want to hear her description?”
“I can hardly wait.” Blinkoe smiled. “In fact, I am all a-twitter with anticipation.”
“She said the It was a Him.”
The fork-bearded man raised his left eyebrow by a millimeter. “Indeed.”
“You want to hear more, or have you stopped twittering?”
“Oh please go on! The suspense is barely noticeable—or practically palpable. I cannot remember which.”
“She said It was a fella who looks enough like you to be your twin.”
Blinkoe lost the smile, along with most of the blood in his face.
The Ute picked up the grin. “What do you say to that?”
“She could not have possibly seen…”
“Seen what?”
Blinkoe assumed a passable poker face. “I cannot say.”
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