Snake Dreams (34 page)

Police?
Daisy blinked.
What is she babbling about?

“Ever since the shooting, I have existed in a state of confusion.” Miss Muntz raised her palms, stared at the ceiling. “I
awaken in the morning, certain that I understand exactly what happened here. But by the time I go to bed, I wonder whether I really know anything at all. This whole business really has me quite beside myself!” She gazed at the shifty old Indian. “I’m just
bursting
to tell someone—a person I can trust.”

Daisy assumed a brand-new expression, this one absolutely reeking of saintliness and wisdom. Imagine a combination of Mother Theresa and Abe Lincoln. “You can trust me.”

Well.

“Yes, I believe I can.” Miss M, bless her soul, had no idea whom she was talking to. In that manner that is so often described as
meaningful,
she glanced toward the adjacent room, where Sarah Frank tarries near the scene of the crime and Jake Harper fumes and fidgets in the closet. Mr. H fumes because he is annoyed at those three females who have interrupted his attempted burglary without so much as a by-your-leave. But why does the felon fidget? One would rather not say.

“Don’t worry about the girl.” Daisy took a firm grip on her walking stick. “I know how to get rid of her.”

Just as the woman with the sturdy oak staff advised Miss Muntz not to worry about the girl, Sarah’s heels clicked. No, not together, as if she were attempting to transport herself from Oz back to Kansas. The heels made the clicking sounds as she walked across the hardwood floor.

CLICKING SOUNDS
on the floor that are getting closer and closer to his place of concealment are just the sort of noises that make a burglar concealed in a dark closet get a case of the clenched-teeth cringes. Which, when added to fumes and fidgets, tend to create considerable agitation. And this was not the
best possible time to agitate Mr. Harper. As so often occurs with lowlife malefactors, a recent discretion had come back to haunt him. Or perhaps it would be more to the point to say that it had come
up
to
torment
him. What was the nature of this dreadful visitation? In a word,
gastronomic.

The imprudent diner could feel the red-hot fire of Hoke’s Firehouse Chili rising in his throat.

AS IF
drawn forward by some perverse magnetism, the half-frightened girl slowly approached the closet. As if by its own accord, her right hand reached out, the fingertips touched the white porcelain knob on the door, gave it just the slightest turn . . .

“Hey!”

Startled by this exclamation, Sarah turned to see Aunt Daisy, who was not alone. The prim little landlady was looking over the Ute elder’s stooped shoulder.

JAKE HARPER
was also startled by the “Hey!” So much so that he almost . . . But it is a delicate matter. And there are legal issues to be considered. Yes, burglars who are ill have a right to privacy. But here is a hint: Harper’s distress is related to the potential projectile ejection of partially digested Firehouse Chili.

DAISY SHOOK
her walking stick at the embarrassed girl. “What’re you doing?”

In response, the sixteen-year-old uttered one of those childish replies that sounds like a pack of bald-faced lies: “Um—I don’t know—I mean . . . I’m not sure . . . um . . .” In this instance, it was the perfect truth right down to the final “um,”
but Sarah had no doubt that she was about to get a tongue-lashing for snooping around in the dead man’s office.

Imagine the girl’s surprise when Daisy gave her a twenty-dollar bill.

Sarah stared at what appeared to be a rather generous reward for unseemly behavior.

Like a kindly old granny, Daisy patted the girl’s head. “Drive that old pickup over to the supermarket and buy us some ice cream.”

“Oh, your needn’t bother.” Miss Muntz, who had already forgotten Daisy’s promise to “get rid of the girl,” beamed at Sarah. “I have some strawberry ice cream in my freezer.”

“She don’t like strawberry,” Daisy snapped.

Sarah Frank responded with a bright-eyed, “Yes I do!”

“Well I don’t.” The Ute woman glared at the girl. “Strawberries give me the hives.” Having made her point, Daisy switched on a wicked little grin. “Go buy us some butter pecan. Or peach. Or plain vanilla. But don’t bring it here—we’ll be across the street by the time you get back. Now scat!”

And that was that.

EXCEPT THAT
Jake Harper was hanging on every word. And praying that he would not vomit all over himself. Do not doubt it for a moment—when they’re in a tough spot, burglars pray up a storm.

A MOMENT
after the girl had departed, Daisy addressed her host: “What’s got you so worried?”

Millicent Muntz blinked owlishly at her guest. Licked her lips. Blinked again. “I hardly know where to begin.” She braced herself. “I can tell you this—if I were to go to the police with what I know, it would—what do they say on those
TV cops-and-robbers shows?” She tried to recall. “Oh, yes—it would blow this case wide open!”

Daisy cocked her head. “This fella who did the shooting—could you help the police put the cuffs on him?”

Miss Muntz cocked her head. “Yes. I believe I could.”

JAKE HARPER’S
gut rumbled. The desperate man chewed on his lip, clenched his hands.
Oh, please. Not here. Not now.

HOPING TO
be the exclusive co-owner of whatever juicy secret her new friend was about to share, Daisy wondered how close-mouthed this white woman really was. “You haven’t said a word about what you know to Scott Parris?”

“I suppose I should have. And perhaps I shall decide to do just that.” Miss Muntz’s arid sigh was like a dry breeze in the pines. “But the situation is rather complex.”

The Ute woman suppressed a groan. With whites, everything was complicated.
Most of these
matukach
can’t fry an egg without making plans the day before.
She opened her mouth to offer some helpful advice, when—

Sarah’s face appeared in the doorway. “Is it okay if I get chocolate ripple?”

Daisy raised her sturdy oak walking stick in a menacing gesture. “If you don’t get outta here right this minute and go to the store I’m gonna ripple
you
!”