Snake Dreams (32 page)

BARELY THREE
miles away, Daisy Perika was sitting placidly in the Columbine pickup that Sarah Frank was driving along Beechwood Road. The old woman was pleased that the nervous girl had finally settled down.
The trouble with young people these days is they get all excited over nothing.

He Returns to the Scene of the Crime

After driving past the late Hermann Wetzel’s former residence three times and seeing no sign of the local police, Jake Harper had deposited the stolen Escape two blocks away, in a church parking lot. Now, crouched on a forested ridge behind the rental home, the burglar behind the pink shades grinned.
The place looks dead as Nancy’s nasty stepdaddy.

After a stealthy approach, he used a pocketknife to slice through the
POLICE
tape on the back door, which he then opened with the key that Nancy had provided. Once inside the open doorway, Harper spliced the severed tape with a transparent Scotch product he had purchased for that very purpose. His intention, upon departing with a bag of cash, was to crawl under the tape. If Confucius did not say this, it was an oversight: In any enterprise, a successful outcome depends upon attention to details.

While Harper was making his unlawful entry, Sarah Frank was driving the borrowed Columbine pickup along Beech-wood Road practically at a crawl, so that Daisy Perika could read the house numbers painted on mailboxes.

“Seven thirty-seven.” She muttered a few additional addresses. “It must be comin’ up pretty quick.” Daisy uttered an expletive in her native language, which is untranslatable. “We must’ve passed it—there’s seven fifty-one.”

“Seven fifty is right across the street.” Sarah pulled to the curb and turned off the engine. It was a serenely quiet neighborhood. She eyed the house.
It’s a pretty place. I wonder if Mr. Wetzel’s ghost is haunting it.
She enjoyed a delicious little shiver.
If he is, I bet Aunt Daisy could see him. Maybe he’s in one of those upstairs windows
. The shaman’s apprentice knew very well that haunts prefer upper floors.
He could be looking down at us right now, wondering who we are and what we’re doing here.
Sarah suddenly thought she saw the dead man’s face between the curtains in a
downstairs
window. A blink of her eyes and the face was gone.

Sarah’s follow-up shiver was anything but delicious.

A youthful fantasy? No.

BEFORE HE
got down to the serious business of plundering the murdered man’s earthly treasure, Jake Harper, aka Onion Head, had gone from window to window, surveying the landscape for any sign of curious constables or nosy neighbors. The count in each instance was zero, but one item had piqued his interest—the pickup parked across the street, which was distinguished from other such vehicles by the blue-and-white Colorado state flower painted on the door. And just below the logo
COLUMBINE RANCH
. The skinny little girl from the restaurant was behind the wheel, which made it a cinch that the mean-mouthed old woman was with her. Harper was torn.
Should I grab the money and get out of here? Or should I keep an eye on these two until I know what they’re up to?
Unable to make up his mind, the burglar would withdraw to Hermann’s office for a moment, then—anxious about the prospect of unexpected visitors—he would hurry back to the front window.

Millicent Muntz, who had seen the Columbine pickup from her parlor window, approached the passenger-side door. “Hello there.”

Because the window adjacent to Daisy was closed, the occupants did not hear the greeting.

The resident of 751 Beechwood Road tapped on the glass.

The Ute elder lowered the window, growled at the paleface, “Who’re you and whatta you want?”

Miss Muntz lifted her chin, the better to stare down her perfectly straight nose at this impertinent tourist. “I might well ask you the same.”

“You might, but I asked you first—so who are you and what’s on your mind, toots?”

Being addressed in this manner called for a stiff reply: “I am Millicent Muntz.” She pointed over her shoulder at the dwelling partially concealed by dwarfish juniper and piñon. “I live here.” The local resident sniffed. “Now perhaps you will identify yourselves and explain your presence in the neighborhood.”

Daisy’s scowl was transformed into a semisweet smile. “You must be Hermann Wetzel’s landlady.”
Just who I wanted to see.

“Indeed I am.” Miss M raised her chin another notch. “But if you do not identify yourselves, I shall be compelled to—”

The girl intervened. “Uh, ma’am—I’m Sarah Frank and this is Aunt Daisy. We just wanted to stop for a minute or two and look at Nancy’s house.”

The youngster’s name seemed familiar. The landlady leaned to get a better look at the young person behind the steering wheel. “Are you one of Nancy Yazzi’s young friends?”

Sarah hesitated, nibbled at her lip. “We
were
good friends—until she ran off with my pickup truck.”

“My goodness—what a dreadful thing to do!”
And it doesn’t sound a bit like Nancy.
“Perhaps she only borrowed it, dear—and intends to return it.”

“Sure she does.” Without losing the smile, Daisy snorted. “And I bet she’ll probably bring it back loaded with groceries.” She rubbed her hands together. “I hope she don’t forget to pitch in a case of canned peaches.”

Among Miss Muntz’s few deficiencies was an occasional difficulty in recognizing sarcasm. “Well . . . though I suppose that cannot be entirely discounted, I rather imagine that a simple apology is more likely.”

Daisy barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.
This white woman don’t have enough sense to pour cider out of a boot
.
But among her people, she was probably the smartest of the lot.
“When you was younger and could hold down a job, I bet you was a schoolteacher.”

Wide-eyed with astonishment, Miss Muntz reflected Daisy’s counterfeit smile with what is commonly known as the real McCoy. “Well, that is quite a remarkable insight. I taught in the Denver public school system for almost forty years.”

Daisy:
I knew it!

Oblivious to the Indian woman’s amusement, Miss Muntz continued. “My specialties were mathematics and music. After my retirement, I have continued to teach piano to a few gifted students.” Unhappy memories pulled the smile off her face.
One should not dwell too much on days gone by.
Suddenly feeling lonely, Miss Muntz made a proposal: “Would you ladies like to come inside and visit? I could brew us a pot of tea. And I have some absolutely scrumptious oatmeal-raisin cookies that I made this morning.”

“Cookies would be very nice.” Sarah gave Charlie Moon’s crotchety aunt a pleading look. Big eyes and all.

Though eager to conduct some shady business with Hermann Wetzel’s landlady, Daisy grimaced. “I don’t like tea. It gives me cramps.”

Miss Muntz reached inside the cab to pat the crabby woman’s shoulder. “What do you like to drink, dear?”

Flinching under the white woman’s feather-light touch, Daisy shot back, “Rotgut whiskey laced with lye!”

“I shall call the local saloon and order up a quart.”

Daisy looked up at the twinkling blue eyes.
Maybe she’s not so bad as I thought.
“Could you boil a pot of coffee?”

“Blindfolded. With one hand firmly tied behind my back.”

“At home, I don’t make nothing but Folgers.” Daisy’s small black eyes twinkled wickedly back at the landlady. “But none of that sissy decaf stuff—I use the hundred-proof kind in the red can.”

ACROSS THE
street, in the former Wetzel residence, Jake Harper’s right eye peered between a pair of heavy drapes.
They’re going into the landlady’s house. Now’s my chance to get the job done.
He backed away from the curtain. Paused.
But maybe I better stay at the window for a few more minutes . . . just to make sure they don’t come over here.

Regarding the formerly decisive fellow, it is hard to say what the matter was. Being shot at with malice aforethought had no doubt taken its toll on Harper’s psyche. Shaving off his curly hair and manly beard may also have been a factor in this crippling attack of uncertainty.

Unable to come to a decision, the burglar
dithered.

A pitiful case.

A Pleasant Little Interlude

The coffee was black and bitter, which suited Daisy Perika.

Sarah Frank had a ginger ale. Because she was “watching her figure,” the skinny girl limited herself to two cookies. Then, two more.

After taking a dainty sip of green tea, Miss Muntz directed her guests’ attention to an array of framed photos on the parlor wall. “Every one of my piano students is represented in this group. Most have children of their own by now.” She yielded to a wistful sigh. “Two that I know of have . . . passed on.” After a moment’s melancholy reflection, she dismissed the distressing recollection, turned from the display of youthful faces to regard the Ute elder’s wrinkled visage. “Would you like more coffee, dear?”

Daisy shook her head.

“A cookie, perhaps?”

“No, thanks.” It was time to get down to business. The Ute woman fixed her gaze on the kindly old lady. “I don’t expect Hermann’s stepdaughter’s likely to come back anytime soon.”
If she does, she’ll be slapped in jail for stealing Sarah’s truck.
“And even if she did, it’s not likely she could pay the rent on that big house across the street.”

“No, I suppose not.” Miss Muntz, whose mind had been occupied with so many pressing issues, had hardly given a thought to the future of her vacant rental property. “Once the
police investigation is completed and they take down the yellow tape, I suppose I shall have to advertise it.”

“So what’ll you be asking?”

Miss Muntz blinked at the tribal elder. “Are you interested in the house?”

“Oh, I suppose I might be. If it suits me.” The wily old bargainer gulped the last swallow of coffee. “And if the price was right.”

“Well.”
I don’t know whether you are quite the sort of tenant I would be looking for.
“Do you live by yourself?”

Daisy nodded.

Sarah cleared her throat.

Daisy jerked her head to indicate her companion. “Except for her.”

The girl seems very sweet.
“Any pets?”

Sarah nodded. “I have a cat.”

“Oh, that would not be a problem.”
Cats create very little fuss.
Mr. Moriarty was a particularly easy pet to live with. “But you would have to keep your kitty inside at night. I would not want to hear it yowling about the neighborhood.”

Daisy put her china cup on a marble-topped coffee table. “How about you show us the place.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could.” The landlady pointed in an across-the-street direction. “The police have put up yards and yards of official tape, and there are stern signs on all the doors that warn—”

“That’s just to keep nosy people from snooping around.” Daisy grinned at the innocent. “They wouldn’t mind if you was to show the place to somebody that might want to rent it.”

Miss M put her teacup down, frowned. “I don’t know. . . .”

The sly old Ute shot a poisoned arrow: “Who owns that house—the cops or you?”

The barbed projectile hit one of Miss Muntz’s sore spots. Though brought up to be respectful of both civil law and civilized traditions, the prim little spinster resented being pushed around by the authorities. She also had a way of coming to
snap decisions. “Very well.” She got up from her armchair. “Shall we go have a look?”