Snake Dreams (14 page)

NANCY YAZZI’S
boyfriend switched off the Jeep’s headlights, turned off Beechwood Road and onto a dirt lane that circled behind the GC Propane Company’s nine-foot chain-link fence. He parked the four-wheel-drive vehicle in a cluster of junipers, eased his 238-pound frame to the ground, hitched up his thick leather belt, and took the first step in a short walk to the Hermann Wetzel residence.

The young man was not afraid, but neither was he a fool. Jake Harper felt just edgy enough to sharpen his senses—and his instincts. But would it be enough to see him through the next few minutes? That remains to be seen.

But let us leave the fellow to his dark business, and return to the festivities.

A Delicate Situation Arises

As soon as Charlie Moon had crooned the final verse of “Shady Grove,” plucked the last
twang
on the banjo strings, the object of Sarah Frank’s affection set aside his instrument, bounded off the stage to take several long-legged strides (the spotlight tagged along) in the general direction of Lila Mae’s table, where he planned to ask the lady to dance, after which he would—if he could get up the nerve—offer her the engagement ring.

The fact that the potential fiancée was seated in the shadows beyond Sarah turns out to be a detail that is of some significance. As Moon was approaching the birthday girl’s table, he realized to his horror that
both
ladies were smiling;
both
were about to get up from their chairs and accept his gracious invitation. Uh-oh.

Just about everyone else had realized this, too, which led to one of those
expectant hushes
we hear so much about.

The audience watched, wondering how Charlie Moon would deal with this terrible dilemma.

Might he pretend to stumble over some imaginary object and simulate a sprained ankle, which rendered him incapable of dancing? Not a chance. Such a cowardly subterfuge would be beneath the man’s dignity. Besides, he did not think of such a clever ruse.

Should he yell “Fire!” and clear the ballroom? This had
worked like a charm for Paul Newman when Alfred Hitchcock placed him in that Eastern bloc opera house where the snake-eyed ballerina recognized him as a spy and summoned the dreaded Secret Police. The Hitchcock/Newman ploy might well have solved Charlie Moon’s immediate problem, but it did not occur to the banjo picker to create a riot where dozens of innocents might be trampled to death. (Do not be overly critical; keep in mind that he had only a fraction of a second to come up with a plan.)

So what did he do?

Nothing.

Moon’s deliverance appeared in the form of an attractive lady with golden hair that flowed over her shoulders like spun honey.

No, not the girl singer. Patsy Poynter was onstage with the other players.

The attractive lady was Beatrice Spencer, who had taken an interest in Charlie Moon when their paths had crossed about a year ago. Bea had been eyeing the Ute ever since she had arrived (uninvited) at Sarah’s birthday party. As if conjured up to rescue him, the shapely apparition appeared between Moon and an uncertain fate, stretched out her arms, and murmured with a seductive smile, “Dance with me, Charlie.”

Does this woman have brass? Indeed she does—tons of it. Also gold and silver and bank accounts and blue-chip stocks and gilt-edged bonds and deeds to the Yellow Pines Ranch and Spencer Mountain.

What happened next? Just what you’d expect.

The bass player picked up Moon’s left-behind banjo, the Columbine Grass Minus One hit a few hot licks of “Pike County Breakdown,” and Charlie Moon danced Bea away like his feet were on fire.

How did the two abandoned ladies respond? Imagine gaped mouths. Gasps exhaled from those gaped mouths. Moreover,
little daggers
came zinging from their eyes. Sarah’s delicate stilettos and Lila Mae’s oversized butcher knives were focused
on Charlie Moon. Sounds fanciful? Maybe so. But he felt them sting the back of his neck.

Almost everyone in the ballroom had witnessed what had happened. Most had sense enough to keep quiet, and did so by holding their breaths. The other 49 percent (the men) were either snickering or haw-hawing like jackasses.

Still unaware of the presence of Charlie Moon’s sweetheart, Sarah Frank was humiliated to the core or the marrow, whichever is deeper. She wanted to crawl under the table with Mr. Zig-Zag, hug him and have a good cry, and die. Or fall into a faint and expire of a broken heart. Whichever was faster.

The FBI lady was (unconsciously) reaching for that place where she normally carried her Glock automatic. It was merely a subconscious reflex. Lila Mae would not actually have
shot
her sweetheart with a 9-mm slug. Not in front of so many witnesses.

It did not help that Charlie Moon, who thought he’d carried things off pretty well, was obviously having a fine old time. Kicking up his boot heels with vim and vigor, grinning ear-to-ear at the delightful armful.

And it also didn’t help that Bea Spencer, who had never danced with a man of this caliber, was quite swept away in his arms. Or that she snuggled just a little closer to Charlie than was absolutely necessary.

Things were about to go from bad to badder when, out of nowhere, the Wyoming Kyd appeared, snatched Sarah up, and danced her to the middle of the ballroom floor. It is not for nothing that Mr. Kydmann is known as Charlie Moon’s right-hand man. Within a heartbeat, a tall, handsome gent outfitted in hand-tooled ostrich-hide boots, a three-thousand-dollar suit, and a white Stetson asked Lila Mae McTeague would you like to dance, ma’am. Ma’am allowed as how she would and away they whipped across the floor like a couple of West Texas whirlwinds.

It seemed that the pair of lady bombs had been defused.

The women in the room exhaled the breaths they had been collectively holding.

From their dates: loud shouts of “Wa-hoo!” “Whoopee!” “Let ’er rip!”

As if on cue, a grizzled, potbellied old stockman who hankered to cut in tapped Charlie Moon on the shoulder. The Ute rancher graciously gave up a piqued Miss Spencer and tapped the Kyd, who released Sarah with just enough reluctance to please the young lady.

Ah, the resilience of youth! In an instant, all was forgiven. Dancing on air with the love of her life, the brand-new sixteen-year-old was lost in a dream. This was Sarah’s day—and Sarah’s night.

As the final twangy strain of “Pike County Breakdown” faded, there was enthusiastic applause, whistles, shouts of “More!”

Which was when Charlie Moon made his strategic retreat to the stage, got his banjo back in hand. Now firmly in the groove, the Columbine Grass settled down to do their thing, which was to pick, pluck, and sing and create quite a big commotion that would compel even shy, uncoordinated folks into high-gear locomotion. All over the ballroom, chairs were shoved away from tables as the happy crowd got up to kick heels and stomp and shout.

Oh, and did they dance!

In the entire history of Granite Creek, Colorado—even back in the days of hardworking miners with little pouches of precious metal, coldhearted madams with rouged faces, shifty-eyed cardsharps with cuffed aces, and hardcase drifters with umpteen notches carved on ivory-handled six-guns—there had never been such a rip-tootin’ celebration. Not even that time when they hanged Big Sam Carp from a cottonwood limb for shooting the mayor’s brother in the . . . But that’s another story, and one best forgotten.

Now it just so happens that the leader of the band is a natural-born traveling man and Charlie Moon likes to ride the rails, which is why they took the Orange Blossom Special over to Big Rock Candy Mountain, where they stopped to sit a spell with Cotton Eyed Joe and Old Joe Clark and boiled some cabbage
down before they flagged down that New River Train, which got ’em to Cumberland Gap just in time to watch the Blue Moon of Kentucky rise and shine on the Little Cabin on the Hill, which was where they caught that
sixteen coaches long
Night Train to Georgia, which made an unscheduled stop In the Pines so’s they could pick pretty Miss Patsy Poynter a bouquet of Wildwood Flowers. It was a mighty busy trip, but somewhere or another along the way, they found time to Walk the Dog.

In spite of the fact that the girl singer was absolutely first-rate, one or two Nashville music critics might’ve been of the opinion that the Columbine Grass was not right up there with such classy outfits as those put together by Bill Monroe or Flatt and Scruggs or Doc Watson or Ricky Scaggs, and that Mr. Moon’s singers and string pluckers weren’t quite ready for the Grand Ole Opry, but none by-gosh said so out loud—not that night in Granite Creek—because they dang well knew what was good for them! Besides, what the CG lacked in raw talent, they more than made up for with red-blooded, cowboy enthusiasm.

But no matter how much zest and zeal a musician has, he must be fed.

And so, after about a half-dozen more high-octane pieces, the Columbine fivesome put aside their instruments, rested their voice boxes, and joined the crowd for dinner—which was being brought on in sizable helpings. There was a huge iron pot of barbecued pork, a side of roasted prime Columbine beef, eight mouthwatering Virginia hams, and don’t even talk about the gallons of pinto beans, trays of buttered corn on the cob, bowls of mashed potatoes (with enough thick brown gravy to float a twelve-foot bass boat), home-baked breads, and desserts—well, we could go on all night about fresh California strawberries and hand-cranked ice cream in six different flavors, and—But that is enough. Except for mentioning the towering birthday cake delivered on a six-wheeled cart by two nervous waiters. The cake’s five layers weighed eighty-four pounds; it was topped by hand-made beeswax candles (sixteen,
of course). The weighty centerpiece was ever-so-gently hoisted onto the table by Charlie Moon and Chief of Police Scott Parris.

It shall be mentioned that Sarah received a light kiss on the cheek from Charlie Moon (this almost resulted in a genuine swoon), a suffocating hug from Dolly Bushman, and a lighter embrace from Lila Mae McTeague, who—ever since Sarah had come to Colorado from Tonapah Flats, Utah—had realized that this little slip of a girl represented The Competition, and was taking what had initially seemed to be merely a frivolous teenage crush as something that might have to be reckoned with.

The sudden realization that Charlie Moon’s sweetheart was present at her party was quite a shock to the birthday girl. But Sarah hugged her rival right back.

After the dessert, the tables were cleared. Great urns of coffee were brought into the ballroom, and a few flasks were stealthily removed from men’s pockets and one woman’s purse.

After whistles were duly wetted, the time had come for the giving of gifts.

It was one of those completely disorganized, totally delightful times that beggars description. Suffice it to say that as well-wishers passed by, a great multitude of prettily wrapped and ribboned parcels were piled onto the table in front of Sarah Frank. And though she would not examine the bounty until the following day, the loot including a thick red woolen shawl Daisy had knitted while Sarah was away at school, a lovely wristwatch Special Agent McTeague had purchased that afternoon, another lovely wristwatch from Scott Parris, and so on. When the thing was (almost) done, Charlie Moon made the observation that this was quite a pile of stuff. Why, it would take a pickup truck to haul all these gifts to the Columbine. Which just happened to remind him. . . . He reached into his jacket pocket, produced a small, white box that was just about big enough to hold a diamond bracelet or a state-of-the-art cell phone or . . .

Sarah stared at the enticing box, looked up at Charlie Moon.

He smiled back at the girl, who was happier, prettier than she had ever been. His eyes urged her on.
Go ahead. Open it.

She did. And inside was a ring! No, not that kind—a silver key ring. On a smaller circle attached to it was a lump of turquoise. Also, there was a pair of keys. Ford keys. Sarah sighed a long, blissful “ooooohhh.”

Moon laughed. “I hope you liked that rebuilt pickup Mr. Kydmann brought you here in. It’s still parked out front by the curb, and it’s all yours now.”

She let out a shriek that would have startled the biggest, baddest banshee you can imagine, gave Moon a running hug that would have felled a lesser man, all the while yelping a long series of thank-yous, which eventually terminated with, “I’ll drive it to the Columbine tonight!”

Scott Parris, who represented the law in these here parts, had something to say about that. What he said (loudly) was, “Ahem,” which got most everyone’s attention. He added, “You’ll need a driver’s permit before you can drive that pickup away from the curb.” Taking note of Sarah’s pitiful expression, he inquired, “You don’t have one?”

The thin little girl shook her head.

Parris looked almost as sad as the sixteen-year-old. “I’m sorry, kid—but you can’t operate it on a public highway until you have a duly issued driver’s permit.” He brightened. “But that shouldn’t be any trouble. I just happen to know that you took driver’s ed at Ignacio High School and made the second-highest score in your class.”

Moon scowled at his best friend. “She’ll need that permit right away.”

Parris scowled back. “I hope you’re not suggesting—just because you’re my buddy—that I use my influence as chief of police to pull some strings.”

The Ute shot back, “I sure as shootin’ am.”

“Well, okay—if you put it that way.” Granite Creek’s top cop fumbled inside his jacket, produced a small envelope, and gave it to Sarah. As the girl opened it and stared at the document in her hand, Parris grinned so hard that it hurt his face.
“That’s your learner’s permit. It’s okay for you to drive as long as any of the people who’ve signed it are in the truck with you.” He patted Sarah’s shoulder. “Which includes me and Charlie and the Wyomin’ Kyd and Pete and Dolly Bushman and a half-dozen Columbine ranch hands.”

It was Scott Parris’s turn to get hugged. There was no shriek this time, only tears on his shirt.

A few softhearted women started to sob again. Their men began to haw-haw.