Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague looked up the slope. Here and there among the sandstone rubble, a forlorn little dwarf oak or a plucky tumbleweed had taken opportunistic root and enjoyed such temporary residence as nature allows. The strikingly handsome woman shaded her violet eyes from the midafternoon sun. “The place where Sarah Frank was hiding—it’s up there?”
Daisy nodded. “After you have a look at what’s under these rocks, I’ll show you that little cave.”
“The forensics team will examine the grave.” The federal law enforcement officer glanced at her wristwatch. “The helicopter should be here shortly.”
Charlie Moon turned, painfully walked a dozen paces away, paused—stared off into empty space.
As if unaware of his silent departure, Lila Mae McTeague continued her conversation with Daisy. “I’ll want to examine the site where Sarah encountered the deputy, but you needn’t take the trouble to make the climb. I’m sure I can find the place—”
“Oh, I’ll take you up there.” Daisy gripped her staff with both hands, took a squinty-eyed look at the high shelf. “I’ll have to stop from time to time to get my wind, but I can make it all right.”
The white woman knew that the Ute elder had never liked her. She always thought I was going to steal her nephew away from her. “While we’re waiting for the forensics team, perhaps you would like to tell me about that morning.”
Daisy looked blankly at the white woman. “What morning?”
Her mind certainly does wander. “The morning when you entered the canyon to find Sarah Frank, and make certain that she was—”
“And what I found was what’s under this.” The Ute elder rapped her walking stick on the cairn of rocks, sharp clicks bounced off Dog Leg Mesa’s mottled wall, returned to ricochet off the Three Sisters cliff. “I’ll tell you all about it.” Her black eyes sparkled at the young woman who carried a Glock 9-mm automatic in her black leather purse. “But first, you tell me something.”
Not accustomed to being interrogated by mere civilians, the FBI agent hesitated. “Like what?”
“That feud between those two white men in Utah—what’s the story on that?”
McTeague chanced a sideways glance at Charlie Moon, who had meandered even farther away. “Your nephew hasn’t told you?”
Daisy shook her head. “Lately, he’s been awfully close-mouthed.” Even when Charlie’s in the same room with me, its like he’s someplace else. I guess Father Raes’s murder is as hard on Charlie as it is on me. But Daisy suspected that was not the entire story. Something’s gone sour between Charlie and this matukach woman. The tribal elder watched a mountain bluebird flutter by, land on a spindly juniper limb. The impudent little bird stared back at Daisy with tiny black-bead eyes. The feathered creature seemed almost ready to speak, but what Daisy heard was the FBI agent’s voice.
“Being in poor health, Ben Silver believed himself unlikely to survive another year. He was determined that his half brother Raymond Oates should not inherit any of his property, particularly the object which had originally belonged to their mother. I refer, of course, to the remarkable Native American artifact—a quartz effigy of a butterfly. Since the death of his stepfather, Mr. Silver had kept the family treasure concealed under his shirt, in a canvas wallet suspended from his neck. His intent was to will the family heirloom to the University of Alabama, but before he visited his attorney, Sarah Frank did something that upset all his plans.”
With an expression of overwhelming sadness, the tribal elder nodded. “She snitched it.”
“Certainly not.” So Charlie really hasn’t told her. “What Sarah did was confess.”
Daisy’s expression reflected her confusion. “Confess what?”
“The girl revealed the sordid truth to Mr. Silver—that Raymond Oates had urged her to steal the quartz butterfly, and that she was sorely tempted. Sarah not only apologized for even considering such a wretched act, she also gave Mr. Silver the cash that Mr. Oates had paid her to commit the theft, and asked him to return it to his half brother. Mr. Silver was not surprised that his sibling would stoop to corrupting a child, but he was astonished to hear Sarah’s confession—and immensely impressed with the poverty-stricken girl’s integrity. He insisted that she keep Oates’s cash, and made quite a bold decision—he gave her the artifact right on the spot, along with the canvas neck wallet.”
Not sure she had heard right, Daisy cocked her head. “He gave it to Sarah?”
McTeague nodded. “As a reward for her honesty, and on the firm condition that she must never let the family heirloom fall into Mr. Oates’s hands. Subsequently, Mr. Silver visited his attorney in Salt Lake and had a will prepared, which stipulated that the stone butterfly was bequeathed to Sarah Frank, and already in her possession.” She recalled an important detail. “The wallet also contained several hundred dollars in cash.”
The elderly Ute took a deep breath. “That’s a pile of money—especially for a little girl who hardly ever had two dimes to rub together.”
The fed watched a hawk circle, rise gracefully in a thermal. “Sarah had always dreamed of moving back to Colorado, and the Southern Ute reservation. Now, thanks to conniving Mr. Oates and generous Mr. Silver, she finally had sufficient travel money.”
The shaman turned her head, aimed her eye at Dog Leg Mesa, and the shadowy sanctum of Quiet Shade House. “So she was all set to come and move in with me.” And I guess she still is.
“That was her immediate objective.” But I believe Sarah’s ultimate goal was to move in with Charlie Moon. As if he didn’t have troubles enough. A sigh. Poor, dear Charlie.
Daisy shook her head. “It’s hard to imagine them two white men fighting like cats and dogs over a piece of rock.”
Having done her homework, McTeague felt compelled to share her recently acquired knowledge: “The butterfly effigy—not to be confused with the so-called ‘butterfly bannerstone’—was crafted from what is commonly called rose quartz because of the color, which varies from a delicate pink to deep crimson. Technically, the mineral is known as ferruginous quartzite.”
Daisy muttered something in her native tongue. Something rude.
“According to explanatory text in Mr. Silver’s will, when his mother was a small child, she found the prehistoric artifact in Alabama, on what was probably a riverside Indian campsite. Archaeologists, who examined the object while his mother was still alive, estimated the pink butterfly to be between five and seven thousand years old.”
She talks like one of them uppity professors at Fort Lewis College. Daisy’s voice fairly dripped with sarcasm: “Thank you for explaining that.”
“You are quite welcome.” The fed recalled a pithy proverb that warned of the folly of casting one’s pearls before the swine.
The swine in question had an avaricious glint in her eye. “Is this stone butterfly worth anything?”
McTeague pretended to misunderstand. “Such out-of-context surface finds have virtually no archaeological value.”
The frugal old woman clarified her question. “I was talking about cash money.”
The erudite young lady suppressed a smile. “A wealthy collector of antiquities might pay quite a large sum for the ferruginous quartzite butterfly effigy—which is probably a unique specimen.” McTeague was determined to get back on track. “Now perhaps you would like to tell me about your discovery of the corpse—”
Daisy cut her short: “What’s going on between you and my nephew?”
Lila Mae caught her breath, paled. “Why—what do you mean?”
The tribal elder shook a crooked finger in the white woman’s face. “Listen—I’m older’n these piñon trees and I could die before I draw another breath! So don’t you waste what little time I got left asking silly questions like”—she pursed her lips and mimicked the white woman’s innocent tone—“‘What d’you mean?’” Daisy snorted. “I may be a little slow, but I ain’t mole-blind or stone-deaf. For the last hour, you two ain’t hardly said a word to one a
nother.” She cocked an iron-gray eyebrow. “So what’s up—you and him had a spat?”
Miss McTeague jutted her chin. “I really don’t see how that’s any business of—”
“Well it is my business!” Daisy banged her walking stick on the ground. “I’m Charlie’s closest living kin, and it’s my job to look after him.” She pointed the stick at McTeague’s knee. “You two been hanging around together for a long time, and most likely doin’ a lot more than just holding hands and the way I see things—”
“Well, really!” The pale face was blushing pink.
“Don’t interrupt me—it’s bad manners!” Daisy’s brow wrinkles deepened into perplexed furrows. “What was I saying when you made me forget?”
McTeague rolled her pretty eyes. “Something about ‘the way you see things.’”
“Oh, right. Thank you.” Daisy reached out to pat the matukach woman’s arm. “The way I see things, it’s high time you and Charlie Moon got married. Settled down. Had yourselves some children. Two girls and a boy.”
It was McTeague’s turn to arch a brow.
Sensing that she was making some headway, Daisy pressed on: “You ain’t been a teenager for quite a few summers, and take it from somebody who knows—the more years you put on, the harder it’ll be to find yourself a halfway decent man.” She stared at the woman’s neck, added darkly: “You already got some skin hangin’ loose under your chin.”
Of its own accord, McTeague’s chin lifted, her right hand went to examine the alleged sag.
“Ha-ha—I was just teasing you.” Daisy’s knobby little frame jiggled with merriment. “Don’t worry, your skin’s still tight as rawhide on a drum.” Reverting to form, she shook the finger again. “But it won’t be long—next winter, maybe the one after that—some cold, gray morning you’ll pick up the looking glass and won’t like what you see. So now’s the time to marry yourself a good man and start making babies!”
McTeague tried to smile. “My—you make it all sound so terribly romantic.”
“You listen to me, young lady—I’ve outlived three husbands and what matters is these things.” Daisy counted them off on her fingers: “One—does he earn a decent living. Two—does he stay sober most of the time. Three—does he leave other women alone. Four—does he take a bath at least once a week. Five—does he understand that if he ever hits you, he’ll wake up dead the next morning.” Having folded up fingers and thumb, she raised a fist for the punch line: “Romance is for storybooks and picture shows.”
The white woman drew in a long breath. “If I was willing to discuss such a personal matter with you, I might begin by saying that I am rather surprised.”
“Surprised at what?”
“At your matchmaker’s choice—I have always been under the impression that you did not approve of me.”
“Well, I’d naturally rather Charlie married a nice Ute girl, or even one of them peculiar Pueblo women.” And one of them Mexican señoritas might be okay. Daisy glared at the white woman. “But for whatever reason, my nephew seems to be stuck on you.” She shook her head at this impenetrable mystery. “So I guess I’ll have to go along with it.”
“That is very generous of you, I’m sure.” McTeague prepared to score a point. “But you seem to have overlooked a critical issue.”
“What’s that?”
“Charlie has not asked me to marry him.”
Daisy was quick as a flash. “Well of course he hasn’t.” Charlie’s aunt explained with an air of weary patience: “Amongst us Utes, it’s the woman that asks the man.” She looked up to heaven. I ain’t exactly lying—more like joking.
McTeague blinked. Twice. “Do you actually mean to tell me that—”
“Sure.” The way Daisy saw it, once a person told a whopper she might as well get as much mileage out of it as possible. “You might not know it, but Charlie’s more of a traditional Ute than he lets on—especially when it comes to serious things like buying horses and getting married.” Not one to deny herself the protection of a matukach superstition, the Ute storyteller crossed her fingers. “My nephew’s been waiting for you to pop the question.”
McTeague stole a quick glance at the tall, silent man who had by now wandered halfway across the canyon. “Has Charlie actually told you that he’s…I mean, waiting for me to bring up the subject of…” She could not make herself say the word.
Daisy’s little-used conscience was beginning to prickle. Going on the assumption that a deceptive gesture was not so sinful as a spoken-out-loud lie, she settled for a nod.
The old trickster’s probably making all of this up, hoping I’ll say something to her nephew and make a perfect fool of myself. Then again…Charlie is an uncommonly shy man. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt if I were to simply mention—No, that’s absurd. On the other hand… Uncomfortable with being Lila Mae, she assumed her Special Agent McTeague demeanor, addressed the Ute woman in a stern tone: “Let’s drop this subject.”
“Suit yourself.” Daisy shrugged. “But someday when you’re an old maid living with some fuzzy poodles and Charlie’s got a dozen children and grandchildren playin’ on his cabin floor, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The victim closed her eyes, started counting to ten. Settled for seven. “Tell me how you discovered the corpse.”
Knowing she had gotten under the white woman’s skin, Daisy took a deep breath and began.
The FBI agent held a microcassette recorder under Daisy’s chin while the woman gave a detailed account of her experiences on that grim morning.
The witness completed her narrative with a scowl: “And after I chased them ugly buzzards away, I covered up the body with some rocks and sticks and stuff.” There was nothing left to say.
A damp breeze brought a pungent scent of juniper-spiced rain from the upper reaches of the canyon, paused to rustle about in the willows as if searching for something lost, whispered a melancholy sigh, drifted away.
In Quiet Shade House…
The silent figure has neither moved, nor altered her gaze.
Her spotted cat dozes in the shadows, beholds visions of spotted leopards stalking prey in steaming equatorial jungles.
The chuff-chuff of an approaching helicopter awakens the feline dreamer.
While Charlie Moon remained on the canyon floor, and the skilled technicians meticulously dismantled the grave the Ute elder had so cunningly constructed, Daisy Perika led Special Agent McTeague up the long path to the shelf at the crest of the talus slope. The federal agent spent almost an hour poking around, making measurements with a steel tape measure, recording various coordinates with a miniature GPS receiver, penciling numerous entries into her notebook, and, of course—taking dozens of digitized color photos.
As inky shadows poured out of fissures and crevasses, Daisy and McTeague retraced their steps to the canyon floor, arriving in time to witness the shattered corpse being removed from its lonely place of rest.
After a hushed exchange with forensic experts, the FBI agent set her face toward Charlie Moon.
From the corner of her eye, Daisy Perika watched her nephew and the white woman. For some time, they stood at arm’s length, evidently engaged in earnest conversation. I wonder if Miss Fancy-Pants’ll ask Charlie to marry her. Hoping to count such a coup, the Ute shaman strained all of her senses to hear. The effort was in vain. Daisy winced as they laughed and glanced her way—I bet McFigg told Charlie what I said about Ute women asking the men to marry them. The old woman’s annoyance faded as the couple drifted ever closer. Suddenly, there was a brief embrace and the matukach woman departed. Daisy muttered to herself: “I wonder what happened between those two. Not that Charlie Moon would ever tell me anything.” But by and by, I’ll figure it out.
In the meantime, she stood by the empty grave, waiting as only the very old can wait.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The Orphan
Observing Charlie Moon’s limping gait, Sarah Frank realized the time had come to depart from the place
of shadows. When he ducked his head under the rock shelter’s overhang, the thin girl reached out, took the tall man’s hand.
The Ute looked down at her. “You doing okay?”
She nodded, grimaced at a sudden flicker of pain on his face. “Where Groundhog shot you—does it hurt awfully bad?”
He grinned. “Only when I do cartwheels.”
Sarah bit her lip to keep from smiling. “Charlie, I’m really sorry I called Marilee from Father Raes’s cabin—that was a dumb thing to do.” She waited for him to insist that it wasn’t really so dumb. He did not.
Moon was occupied with his thoughts. Aunt Daisy should’ve never left you at the ranch without telling me. I probably ought to have a hard talk with her. He grunted. Right. Lot of good that would do.
Believing the grunt was meant for her, Sarah tried to explain: “I just wanted to let Marilee know I was all right. I knew she would be worried about me.”
The Ute assumed a stern look. “I was worried about you, too.”
The unspoken question hung in the air between them.
“I wanted to tell you I was there, Charlie.” The girl looked at her dusty shoes. “But Aunt Daisy told me not to talk to anybody except Father Raes.”
“Don’t give it another thought.” Moon’s expression softened. “You didn’t get hurt—that’s what matters.”
The forgiveness Sarah had been seeking did not satisfy her. “But if I hadn’t used the priest’s telephone, Al Harper wouldn’t have found out I was hiding on the Columbine and Mr. Oates wouldn’t have sent Groundhog and Bearcat to find me and if Father Raes hadn’t hit Bearcat with the poker, he would still be…” Alive. The word had caught on the lump in her throat. But the priest is dead. And all because of me.
Sarah was right, of course.
And wrong.
And therein is concealed a fragment of the eternal mystery.
Moon saw the haunt of guilt in her eyes, felt its dreadful weight. “You’re not responsible for what happened to Father Raes.” Raymond Oates will have to answer for that. And before another Judge, Groundhog and Bearcat.
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