A Dead Man's Tale (27 page)

Confirmation

Charlie Moon received the expected call the following morning. “Hello, pardner.” He took the telephone to his favorite rocking chair, which was waiting patiently by the parlor hearth.

Scott Parris was out of breath, not unlike a sedentary man who has just sprinted up four flights of stairs—or a keyed-up chief of police who’s found a cassette tape player on a shelf just inside the rear entrance of the Reed residence. A tape player that could have been turned on remotely by the thumb-size telephone controller that was concealed behind it. “Only there wasn’t any cable connecting the controller to the player.” He felt his temples begin to throb. “Or, for that matter, a cassette in the player.” Parris clenched his teeth and waited for the steel fingers to put the squeeze on his aging heart. When the coronary pain did not come calling, the grateful man thanked God.

Unaware that his friend was a candidate for triple-bypass surgery, Moon pitched a chunk of fragrant piñon onto the smoldering embers. “Sam Reed probably removed the connector cable and break-in-sound-effects cassette while you were checking his wife for a pulse.”
And I was tending to her wounded boyfriend
.

“Yeah. And I betcha the rascal tossed ’em both into his fireplace a minute later. But there’s more, Charlie.” Parris inhaled a deep breath that swelled his chest. “A twenty-second call was placed to the controller phone number a couple of minutes before ten
P.M
. on the night of the double homicide—from the tapped mobile phone Sam loaned to his wife. But we know who placed the call.”

The Ute nodded at the crackling fire. “And a few minutes before that, Sam Reed used the same ‘borrowed’ phone to send the fake text message from his wife that set up the meeting between Mrs. Reed and her boyfriend.”

“It all fits. Problem is, there’s no way to
prove
he made those calls.”

“Looks like he gets away with it.” Charlie Moon knew he should be angry. But he wasn’t and there was no getting around it.

Scott Parris was furious enough for both of them. “What really burns me is that you and me are Sam Reed’s alibi. The slicker was with us when he made both phone calls, and when the homicides occurred. The sneaky bastard
used
us, Charlie!”

“We let him do it, pard.” The Ute smiled at the picture his mind painted of Scott Parris’s red face. “But what’s done is done, so don’t go busting a blood vessel over us getting outfoxed. There is a bright side.”

“Please tell me what that might be.”

Moon settled back into the rocking chair. “The world is lots better off without the likes of Mr. Perez.”

“True. But Mrs. Reed ended up dead too.”

“Her husband couldn’t have foreseen that.”
But I wonder if he hoped it would happen.

The line went dead quiet while Parris thought about it. “I guess you’re right. Sam Reed wanted to stir up some trouble, but he had to realize there was a fair chance that Mrs. Reed would recognize her boyfriend when he showed up.”

The rancher nodded at his distant friend. “And even if Mrs. Reed thought Perez was a burglar and took a shot at him, she might’ve just winged him. I expect that would’ve been more than enough to satisfy her husband.”

“Still…” Parris’s protest tailed off into a wistful sigh.

“You’d like to arrest Sam Reed and charge him with something or other.”

“Yeah.” Parris allowed himself a half smile. “Like making fools of us.”

“It’s not the first time somebody’s done that.”
And not likely to be the last.

“But Sam Reed
lied
to us, Charlie—and he set up his wife so she’d make those two break-in calls that’d both look like fraudulent reports.”

“Not quite. Mrs. Reed was planning to shoot her husband, just like you figured early on. The first emergency call from Mrs. Reed was bogus as a nine-dollar bill.”

“How do you figure that?”

“The lady made the initial 911 call quite some time before Sam Reed recorded his break-in sound effects.”

“Okay, I’ll ask you again—how do you figure that?”

“Well, we know for a fact that Mrs. Reed placed her first break-in call several days before the golf-course jogger was chased by an ape.”

This statement made Parris’s head ache. “What’s
that
got to do with anything?”

“Unless I’m wrong—the ape on the golf course was you-know-who.”

“Sam Reed?”

“Sure. The jogger interrupted the professor while he was making a cassette tape recording of the sounds his crowbar made while he pried on the door of the toolshed.” Moon enjoyed a few slow rocks and a smile. “But that’s just a hunch.”

“Charlie…” Parris sighed into the telephone. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way. But it’d have helped some if you’d told me about this hunch yesterday.”

Moon stopped rocking long enough to toss another chunk of piñon onto the fire. “Didn’t want to overload you with too many speculations.”

The chief of police laughed into the tribal investigator’s ear. “Way I see it, you’re a lot like Sam Reed—both of you like to show off.”

Charlie Moon’s deep voice took on a somber tone. “Here’s the bottom line, pard—this business is over and done with. Nobody will miss Mr. Perez. I’m sorry that Mrs. Reed is dead, but sooner or later, one way or another—Sam Reed will pay for what he’s done.”

Scott Parris exhaled a long, melancholy sigh. “I sure hope so.”

The Assassin’s Payoff

Daisy Perika was in her bedroom when she heard Charlie Moon’s cowboy boots clunk-clunking down the hallway and into the headquarters parlor. He was walking like a man who had someplace to go and something to do when he got there. She cocked her head in the manner of an inquisitive spaniel.
I wonder what he’s up to.

No, the tribal elder was not more nosy than some other folks we know. She was endowed with an inquiring mind and a fervent desire to keep abreast of current events.

Charlie just got home for lunch, so it’s not likely he’s going out again.
She opened the bedroom door ever so slowly.

Not that she was sneaky. The door hinges were squeaky, and the thoughtful lady did not wish to disturb her nephew with an annoying noise.

Miss Manners poked her head into the hallway.
He’s opening the west-porch door to somebody.
Daisy squinted.
Probably just some smelly cow-pie kicker
. The practiced spy cocked her good ear.
No, that don’t sound like one of Charlie’s half-wit hired hands
. Daisy smiled as she recognized the Indian’s clipped speech.
Well—I didn’t expect him to show up so soon.
But it was a gratifying development.
The old geezer must’ve figured out who sent him the stuff and he’s come all the way from Oklahoma to thank me.
Which prospect was very pleasing.
But I can’t go out there looking like this.
Charlie Moon’s aged aunt withdrew into her bedroom’s private bathroom, where she commenced to wash her face and, one by one, brush her remaining peglike teeth. After inspecting her disheveled image in the mirror, Daisy clucked her tongue.
I look like the wolf that ate Grandma.
She applied a brush to her frazzled hair.

Charlie Moon invited his unexpected guest to sit in the padded leather armchair by the fireplace, which was one of the highest honors the Columbine had to offer.

The head man of the Blue Lizard Clan accepted this favor with the self-assurance of a person who expects nothing less than the very best. After seating himself and placing a fringed buckskin briefcase in his lap, Lyle Thoms curled his lip at the embers. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that’s the puniest fire I’ve ever seen.”

The towering Ute smiled down at the Chickasaw elder’s graying hair. “It is a little past its prime. But you should’ve seen it at breakfast time.”

“I had my breakfast with Oscar Sweetwater.”

“So how’s the tribal chairman getting along?”

“Ah, you know Oscar. Grumpy old man complains about most everything.” Thoms faked a shiver. “That fire don’t put out enough heat to warm a flea’s knees.”

Moon picked up an iron poker and made several sharp jabs at the dying fire, which responded with a few feeble pops and anemic sparks. He tossed a handful of cottonwood splinters onto the embers, then a resinous chunk of piñon. The newborn flames licked hungrily at the tasty meal. “We’re about to have lunch, Mr. Thoms—I hope you’ve brought along a healthy appetite.”

“I could eat a whole he-goat, hoofs, horns, and hide. All I got on my plate at Oscar’s place was a couple of sickly poached eggs and some dry toast.” He frowned at the disgusting gustatory recollection. “Oscar’s getting kinda paunchy, so his woman’s put him on a strict diet.”
And I had to starve along with Old Fatty.

“We’ll see that you don’t go hungry,” Moon assured his guest. “Come lunchtime, you’ll be looking at the finest pound of prime rib you ever put a fork in. And I won’t even mention the baked Idaho spud dripping with hand-churned butter that I buy from a sweet little old lady who keeps some Holstein dairy cows that don’t eat anything except the greenest grass this side of the front range.”

“That grub sounds like it might be all right.” Thoms’s mouth was watering.

“In the meantime, how’d you like a cup of coffee?”

“I guess that wouldn’t do me any harm.” The chilly clan leader held his palms to the fire. “But be sure it’s good’n
hot
.”

“I’ll go start us a fresh pot.”

When Daisy Perika had completed her primping (the Chickasaw was a fine-looking man for one of his years), she emerged from her bedroom and entered the parlor with the feigned nonchalance of a lady who believes she is alone in the house. Her entrance was wasted. The men were seated at the fire, sipping mugs of coffee—with their backs to the aged actress. No matter. When one ploy doesn’t work, Daisy generally has another up her sleeve. “Oh, excuse me, Charlie. I didn’t know you had a visitor.” She turned to depart, but not so quickly as to miss her nephew’s predictable invitation.

“Don’t go, Aunt Daisy.” Charlie Moon got up from his rocking chair. “Mr. Thoms has favored us with another visit.”

The Chickasaw clansman, who would have preferred to remain seated, grunted himself up from the comfortable armchair. Which wasn’t easy, with his briefcase in one hand and a cup of steaming coffee in the other. He focused a steely stare on the confounded Ute female who was responsible for his discomfort.

“Oh, I remember you.” Daisy smiled at the hatchet-faced Indian from Oklahoma. “You were here a little while back, with Oscar Sweetwater.” Leaning on her oak staff, she approached the guest and echoed Moon’s query, but not quite word-for-word. “So how’s that nasty old rascal getting along?”

Even among the distant Chickasaws, Aunt Daisy was almost as well known as her renowned nephew. Thoms grinned at the meanest Ute woman ever to draw a breath. “That shifty politician’s getting along a lot better than he deserves.”

I like this skinny old Chickasaw scalawag.
Daisy pointed her walking stick at Thoms’s briefcase. “What’ve you got in there?”

Momentarily discombobulated by this direct query, the clansman took a deep breath and exhaled it to reply: “Something for your nephew.”

“Oh.” Daisy’s face froze.
He must figure it was Charlie that sent him the box.
There was nothing she could do about that. Not at the moment.

“I guess I might as well give it to him now.” Thoms unbuckled his briefcase and removed a parcel that—like the one Daisy had mailed to him—was wrapped in brown paper and tied with white cotton twine. Unlike the shoe box that had contained Posey Shorthorse’s wallet and ID, his curled, bleached hair, and the pickled body parts in a mayonnaise jar—this package was about the size of Thoms’s hand. The old man offered it to his host.

A mystified Charlie Moon cut the string with his Meerkat pocketknife and unwrapped the brown paper. The man with the famous poker face was wide-eyed at what he saw inside.

As was his aunt.

A neatly framed, brand-new quarter dollar.

A shiny
Oklahoma
quarter dollar.

Daisy, who was supposed to be ignorant of the deal between the Chickasaw elder and her nephew, inquired with the innocence of a cloistered saint, “So what’s that for?”

Without so much as a glance at Daisy, Lyle Thoms said, “It’s private business—between me and Charlie.”

Neither man noticed that the old woman was beginning to smolder.

Though initially puzzled at why he was receiving his “fee” for executing Posey Shorthorse, Charlie Moon didn’t take long figuring things out.
Somebody must’ve killed Shorthorse and Lyle Thoms figures I’m responsible.
There was only one thing for an honorable two-bit assassin to do. “Thank you, Mr. Thoms.” He offered the payment to his guest. “But I can’t accept this.”

Ignoring the framed quarter, the Chickasaw glared at Moon. “Why not?”

“Because I didn’t carry out my end of the contract.”

Thoms blinked. “If you didn’t take care of business, then who did?”

Not caring to pursue this delicate matter in his aunt’s presence, Moon hesitated.

Sensing that something was wrong, the Chickasaw pressed on. “If you didn’t do the job, then who sent me the package with—”

“I don’t see what the problem is.” Daisy snatched the payment from Moon’s hand. “If Charlie don’t want this nice, shiny quarter, I’ll take it.”

Lyle Thoms turned his glare on the hard-looking old Ute woman. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Perika. That’s a special fee from the Blue Lizard Clan for the man who—”

“You don’t have to tell me nothing, you sawed-off little Chickasaw rooster! The reward is for the person that put the knife to Posey Shorthorse—who was calling himself Chico Perez—and then sent you his wallet and scalp and pickled ears!”

Charlie Moon might have been slapped in the face three times.
Wallet? Scalp? Pickled ears?
And…
Chico Perez and Posey Shorthorse were the same person
?

Unfazed by the startled men’s wide-eyed stares, Daisy pressed the framed quarter dollar close to her breast. “I’m going to hang this on the wall in my bedroom.” Jutting her chin, she smirked maliciously at the Chickasaw. “Next time you have a job a man can’t get done, come and see
me
about it.” With this parting shot, she turned and was gone. For the moment.

Thoms turned his questioning gaze on Moon.

The long-suffering nephew shook his head at the Chickasaw.
Leave it alone.

Daisy poked her head back into the parlor. “I hope you’re staying for lunch, Mr. Thoms.”

Lyle Thoms scowled at the rude old woman.

Charlie Moon held his breath.
What now?

“I’ve got a few pieces of leftover meat in the freezer.” Daisy’s tone was sweet as honey in the comb; her face radiated the wonderful purity of a sleeping infant. “I’m not saying whether it’s pork or venison or something else altogether, but there’s about enough for a batch of my secret-recipe posole.” Her black eyes sparkled at Lyle Thoms. “I call it Shorthorse stew.” The tribal elder made her second departure with a sense of soul-gratifying satisfaction that warmed her all the way down to her marrow.

As it happened, the head man of the Blue Lizard Clan did not stay for a helping of the Ute elder’s posole.

The reason for Lyle Thoms’s hasty departure remains uncertain, because the taciturn Indian left the Columbine without uttering another word to Charlie Moon. The visitor’s healthy appetite may have been diminished by an unexpected gastrointestinal event such as older men are apt to experience. It is just as likely that the busy Oklahoman remembered another pressing appointment. Or it may be that the Chickasaw gourmand—whose taste buds were all primed and ready for Charlie Moon’s tasty prime rib—did not care to settle for Daisy’s mediocre substitute. Or some combination of the above.

We simply don’t know why the famished man chose to pass on Daisy’s stew.

But there is a suggestive clue.

Lyle Thoms was seen later that afternoon in Granite Creek’s tiny health-food restaurant, which establishment is operated by a stern vegetarian. The ardent meat eater was dining on a triple helping of homemade peach-pecan yogurt.