Snake Dreams (43 page)

“Good for you.” Miss Muntz reached out to pat his hand. “We all have our limitations, and it does no harm to maintain these little illusions.”

Daisy Perika cackled.

Charlie Moon almost choked on his gingersnap.

How did our Marshal Earp–wannabe react? With a thin smile. But the sugary tea was now bitter in Parris’s mouth.

Miss Muntz raised her hand for silence. “I shall now commence.”

“Let us return to that evening when Mr. Wetzel was shot to death. While driving my tenant’s stepdaughter to the sweet little Indian girl’s birthday party, I made a stop at Sunburst Pizza. While Nancy Yazzi waited in the car, I went inside and asked Alvin Burkowitz to deliver my order
within the hour.
I instructed him to take the calzone into the kitchen and put it into the oven, and I told him that his gratuity would be in the
office just off the kitchen. More specifically, in the desk.” Seeing a quizzical look on the white cop’s face, the narrator added a small detail. “The house was unlocked.”

Parris grunted.
That I can believe.

Your ardent storyteller does not appreciate being interrupted by any sort of critical comment, most especially a grunt. Miss M arched an eyebrow at the rude fellow. “Now pay very close attention—the following point is of some importance.” She held her breath, then: “Alvin Burkowitz did
not
put a cal-zone in my oven that evening.” Seeing Parris’s mouth about to open, Miss Muntz asked the burning question: “But
why
did Alvin fail to make the delivery to my home?” Like a willowy fairy queen about to pluck the fabled golden apricot off the enchanted tree, the performer lifted her right hand in a theatrical gesture. “Because I gave him the wrong address. I directed him to Mr. Wetzel’s residence!”

Daisy Perika chuckled.

Charlie Moon’s expression was inscrutable.

Scott Parris offered a gaped-mouth stare.

Was the performer enjoying herself? Most certainly. Was her pale face luminous with delight as she continued her monologue? Of course. “But—and this is a critical point—the error did not occur because I am an old woman teetering on the brink of senility.” She raised her chin in a defiant gesture. “For several years I lived across the street at 750 Beechwood, and moved here just a few months ago when I rented my former home to Mr. Wetzel. Therefore, it is hardly surprising that when someone—such as a deliveryman—asks for my address, I am in the habit of saying, ‘750 Beechwood Road.’ ”

There is nothing as thrilling for an entertainer as an entranced audience. Aware that she was on a roll, Miss Muntz did not pause for applause. “I may well have repeated the error when I called the police station that evening and the dispatcher asked for my address.” Her eyes sparkled merrily at Scott Parris. “But of course, as all 911 calls are recorded, you would already know that.”

But of course, he did not. And like so many who encounter
a well-crafted piece of fiction, the chief of police had slipped into that well-known state of suspended disbelief. “But if you knew the pizza guy went to the wrong house, why didn’t you tell me right off—”

“Please do not interrupt.” Stern glance. “And do keep in mind that this is merely a made-up story.”

The bearish fellow raised both paws. “Sorry.”

“Very well. Now where was I?” Her smooth forehead came very near wrinkling. “Oh, yes.” The elderly narrator picked up the string. “After dropping Nancy off downtown, I finished my other errands rather quickly and returned home earlier than I had planned. I went upstairs to sit by my sewing-room window, which is where I was when I witnessed the arrival of the pizza restaurant delivery van.” She waved a fragile hand. “Imagine my surprise when I saw it turn into
Mr. Wetzel’s
driveway and watched Alvin get out of the motor vehicle and approach the front door—which Mr. Wetzel often forgets to lock. I realized, of course, that my tenant might also have ordered an evening snack. But just in case Alvin had arrived at the wrong address, I immediately called Mr. Wetzel to advise him that someone had entered his residence. Before I could explain my concern about a possible delivery mix-up, my tenant hung up. Moments later, I heard gunshots—and as I stepped outside, I saw Alvin emerge from the house and flee in his van as if a dozen demons were pursuing him. As I was crossing the street, I witnessed the hasty departure of a second person—a rather beefy fellow, who I did not realize at the time was Mr. Harper—the young man Nancy had been chatting with in the Sunburst Pizza parking lot
not an hour earlier
.” She shook her old gray head. “After I found Mr. Wetzel shot to death, I realized that I was almost certainly responsible for Alvin’s bungled delivery. But had this unfortunate error led to the shooting of my tenant?” She paused, apparently to consider this question. “That, of course, depended upon who had fired the fatal shot. Was it that big, burly, bearded fellow Mrs. Burch and I saw trotting across Beechwood Road? Or, unlikely as it might seem, did Alvin customarily go about his rounds with a pistol in his pocket?
And if so, had he—perhaps in self-defense—fired at Mr. Wetzel? As you can imagine, the situation presented me with a terrible dilemma.” She focused her gaze on the chief of police. “Under the circumstances, you can surely appreciate why I preferred not to mention the fact that I saw Alvin’s van arrive and depart.”

Scott Parris returned a squinty-eyed stare.

Miss M continued with her narrative. “When the authorities concluded that Mr. Harper was the murderer, and I realized that he was most probably the young man I had seen with Nancy at the Sunburst Pizza parking lot, I decided that I was quite justified in shielding Alvin—and myself—from undue public attention. But a day or two later, after I had time to think things over, I tended toward the conclusion that Alvin—even if he had entered the dwelling unarmed—might well have shot Mr. Wetzel.” She smiled expectantly at Scott Parris.

He was on the edge of his chair. “Why would you think that?”

Having practically invited this interruption, Miss Muntz was obliged to tolerate it. “It was because of one of those peculiarly unfortunate coincidences. You see, I had instructed Alvin to look for his gratuity in my desk, which is in a small office just off my kitchen. As it happens, there is a similar room adjacent to the late Mr. Wetzel’s kitchen, and there is also a desk in it—which is where my tenant kept a loaded pistol.”

Parris murmured like a man in a daze, “How would you know that?”

She felt almost sorry for the clueless cop. “As Mr. Wetzel’s landlady, I have a passkey to 750 Beechwood. I daresay there was precious little about either my tenant’s possessions or habits that I was unaware of.”

Scott Parris bowed his head, studied his scuffed Roper boots. “So, in your story, Jake Harper and Al Burkowitz aren’t partners. Burkowitz was just making a botched food delivery and didn’t know Harper was—”

“Please do not presume to sum up my account before I am finished.” Having made her point, the tale teller continued.
“To recap, it was quite possible that on account of a slip of the tongue on my part, a simple calzone delivery had turned into a killing. If so, I was obligated to report what I knew to the authorities. On the other hand, Nancy’s boyfriend might well have fired the fatal shot—in which case I bore no responsibility. Moreover, informing the police about Alvin’s presence in the Wetzel residence at the critical moment might well implicate him in a crime which he had no part in.” She sighed. “One way or another, I felt compelled to determine the truth of the matter. But I was stymied as to how to do that.” She turned to the Ute elder. “Daisy, I find myself in need of an extra character. Would you mind terribly if I included you in my tale?”

The character, who had been back-and-forthing in a maple rocking chair, paused long enough to give her consent. “Not a bit, Milly—as long as I come out looking good.”

“Thank you, dear—you certainly shall.” Miss Muntz returned her attention to the male portion of her audience. “With my friend’s permission, I shall assert that Daisy was extremely helpful—that this clever lady came up with the thrilling finale to my plot.”

At this mention of his elderly relative in the context of
plotting,
Charlie Moon felt a sudden sense of dread.

Scott Parris’s grim visage resembled chiseled stone. Visualize Wyatt Earp on Mount Rushmore.

Daisy Perika took no notice of the suspicious looks she was getting from the lawmen.

With admirable skill, the star of the drama drew attention back to herself. “Alvin Burkowitz did
not
arrive unexpectedly tonight.” She pointed toward the front door. “I
lured
him here.”

Scott Parris was gripped with the eerie sense that he was drifting into another nightmare. Any moment now, he might be attacked by an enraged flock of two-headed, four-legged Rhode Island Reds.

Miss M was having
so
much fun. “You are no doubt wondering how I managed that. I shall not keep you in suspense. When Mr. Parris was with me at Sunburst Pizza earlier today, I gave Alvin an envelope. No, wait—that is not entirely accurate.”
Her satisfied smirk easily trumped Parris’s earlier effort. “
You
gave it to him for me.” She was pleased to see the lawman’s red face turn chalky white. “There was no check inside; merely a note printed in capital letters.” Again, she patted Parris’s hand. “Now, you may interrupt to ask what was in my message to Alvin.”

“Okay,” he grumped.
I’ll play your silly game.
“You ginned up a blackmail note. ‘Pay attention, Dirt Bag—here’s the deal. I know you offed Wetzel and I can prove it. Show up at my place tonight with a satchel full of greenbacks or I spill my guts to the coppers and you’re dead meat. And I’m talking roadkill!’ ”

Miss Muntz pressed her hands to her face. “My goodness—you are considerably more imaginative than I had given your credit for. Though my prose was not nearly so colorful, if you will give me a moment to recollect, I believe I can recite the message almost word for word.”

The chief of police leaned back in his chair. “Take all the time you need.”

Miss M gazed dreamily at a paneled wall that was covered by photographs of her former piano students. Two of whom had died of drug overdoses. “Ah . . . yes, I have it.” She addressed the town cop: “You may feel free to write this down in your cute little leather policeman notepad.”

“This is my day off,” he shot back. “I left it in my cute Wyatt Earp shirt.”

“How unfortunate.” Shutting her eyes, she began the recitation:

“I WATCHED YOU ENTER MR. WETZEL’S RESIDENCE IMMEDIATELY BEFORE HE WAS SHOT TO DEATH. I ALSO SAW YOU FLEE FROM THE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY THEREAFTER. AFTER MUCH SOUL-SEARCHING, I HAVE DECIDED THAT I AM OBLIGATED TO INFORM THE POLICE. HOWEVER, BECAUSE I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR SENDING YOU TO MY TENANT’S ADDRESS WITH THE CALZONE, I SHALL WAIT UNTIL NOON TOMORROW TO REVEAL WHAT I KNOW TO
THE CHIEF OF POLICE. THIS DELAY WILL PROVIDE YOU WITH APPROXIMATELY TWENTY-FOUR HOURS TO MAKE YOUR ESCAPE.”

She opened her eyes so that they might sparkle at the most important member of her small audience. “What do you think of that?”

“Fair to middling,” her critic said.

“Thank you. I was rather pleased with it myself.” She made a scribbling gesture in the air. “Once I get pencil in hand and the creative juices begin to flow, I have a tendency to get quite carried away.”

The middle-aged cop felt a sudden rumbling in his gut. “But Al Burkowitz didn’t make a run for it.”
I wonder if she’s got any Alka-Seltzer.

“No.” Miss Muntz spoke very softly. “Alvin came here tonight, intending to murder me.” She could not suppress a shudder. “With that terrible knife.”

“But you were expecting him.”

“Certainly.” She cocked her head. “Men of that sort are so predictable.” What the lady had almost said was an abbreviated version:
Men are so predictable.
“When Alvin entered my front door I was waiting in the cellar, where I had turned off the main circuit breaker more than an hour earlier. Hearing his footsteps, I called out a warning so that he would know precisely where to find me.”

“A dandy plan.” The chief of police recovered a feeble remnant of the smirk. “And you hoped he’d trip on the way down the stairs.”

Miss M opened her mouth, then shut it.

“Aha!” Parris pointed at the somnolent Mr. Moriarty. “A hole in your story big enough to pitch that fat cat through!” He re-aimed the finger at the gray-haired lady. “I can practically see those conniving little wheels turning in your head—you’re trying to think up some way to plug it.”

“Let’s see if I can help her.” Waving off an imminent protest from Millicent Muntz, Daisy Perika glowered at her nephew’s
best friend. “I’m in this story too, y’know. What do you think I was doing when that murdering
matukach
pizza guy showed up—taking a nap?”

Parris, who knew the Ute elder well, was beginning to feel uneasy. And, because of something he had eaten, slightly queasy.

Charlie Moon’s intense expression pleaded,
Keep your mouth shut.

Daisy jutted her chin. “When that white man was about two steps down the cellar stairs, telling Milly what he was gonna do to her with his knife, I slipped up behind him, jammed the end of my walking stick right between his shoulder blades, and give him a good shove! Down he went—and landed on that big garden fork we’d put at the bottom of the steps.”

How did Moon respond to this assertion? Oddly, with a measure of
relief.

Chin-deep in denial, Parris slapped his thigh. “Way to go, Daisy—that’s a big save for Miss Muntz’s fantastic tale. I’m sure she’s grateful.”

“Indeed. I am quite appreciative.” Miss M smiled at her presumed coconspirator. “Daisy is very resourceful. She has been more help to me than you might imagine.” The enthusiastic storyteller smiled at Scott Parris. “Well, what do you think of my version of recent events?”

The weary chief of police got to his feet. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Miss Muntz. Not only have you got ten times the imagination of a dumb cop like me—you also spin a pretty good yarn.” He waved the battered fedora. “But it’s been a long day and it’s time for me to go home and hit the hay.” He aimed a weak grin at his host. “I imagine you’ll be glad to get some sack time yourself.”