Snake Dreams (44 page)

“You imagine wrongly, Mr. Parris.” Miss Muntz was standing with her spine ramrod straight. “I am not at all tired. On the contrary, I feel quite energized.”
And very much alive.

But after such a stunning performance, to what end could our innovative storyteller apply all this pent-up energy?

And what about Daisy Perika—was the tribal elder tired to the bone and ready to go home with her nephew?

Shortly, we shall see.

“Excuse me, ma’am . . .” This was Charlie Moon.

Miss Muntz flashed a motherly smile at the Indian. “Yes, dear boy?”

Parris shook his head.
Why do all the women like Charlie so much?

“I enjoyed your story.” Dear Boy frowned at a plate of gingersnaps in his lap. “Would you mind very much if I asked you something?”

“Of course not.” The gracious lady had forgiven her tallish guest for the door-shutting incident.
Daisy’s nephew is such a sweetie.
“Ask away.”

“It has to do with food.”

And he has such a healthy appetite.
“If you wish to take the surplus gingersnaps home, you certainly may.”

“Well, thank you, ma’am.” Moon set the cookie plate on the coffee table, then unfolded his long, angular frame as he got up from the chair. “But that wasn’t what I was going to ask you about.”

“What then, pray tell?”

“In your story, Mr. Burkowitz would have taken the food you ordered into Mr. Wetzel’s rental house.” Moon looked down his nose at the ninety-pound lady. “If he followed your instructions, the Sunburst Pizza deliveryman would have put the calzone in the oven—then went looking for his tip.”

“Yes,” she said. “That is exactly what Alvin would have done. How very clever of you to realize the critical importance of that point.”

Daisy Perika was bursting to tell the lawmen that she had smelled the lingering scent of calzone in an oven that
“neither
Mr. Wetzel nor his stepdaughter ever used.”
But the Ute elder held it all inside. This was Milly’s time in the limelight.

Moon shot a glance at Scott Parris. “Did any of your officers find a calzone in Wetzel’s oven—or anywhere in his house?”

“No, they didn’t.”
Ol’ Charlie’s done it again.
The chief of police turned to Miss M. “But I bet you can explain that away with no trouble at all.”

“Well, I shall give it my best effort. But please allow me a brief moment to gather my thoughts.” She frowned. Pursed her lips. Blinked at Mr. Moriarty’s still form in the wicker basket. And (this is always helpful) cocked her head. “Ah—I have it! When I entered my tenant’s home after the shooting, I removed the calzone from Mr. Wetzel’s oven and slipped it under my raincoat. Upon arriving home, I put it in my freezer.”

Scott Parris frowned at the mention of that major appliance.
That’s what she told the pizza-delivery guy today—that the calzone was in her freezer.
“Then let’s have a look at it.”

“I would be happy to oblige you, but it is no longer there.”

The chief of police rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Forgive me, Mr. Parris, for this candid observation—but you are a rather cynical young man.” She regarded him with sad eyes. “I suppose that comes with being a policeman.”

He laughed in her face. “You bet it does. And this cynical copper figures you’re cornered—and stalling for time.”

“Not in the least. In a modest little addendum to my story—which I’m sure you will admit is more interesting that your version—the calzone is concealed in a very secure location. Actually in
two
locations.”

Parris laughed louder this time. “But you’re not gonna tell us where.”

“Oh, but I am.” Miss M observed the chief of police with an expression of enormous gratification. “Do you recall the snack
I served upon your arrival? In particular, the hors d’oeuvres with the delicious bits of cheese on top?”

Parris felt himself nod. His stomach grumbled.

The teller of tales pointed a finger at his slightly bulging tummy, then at the slender Indian’s flat-as-a-washboard abdomen. “This evening, you gentlemen consumed that critical evidence.”

As the lawmen gawked at the elderly lady, Daisy Perika began to grin. What a fine evening this had been! The grin was joined by a jolly chuckle that caused her belly to shake and tears to well in her eyes.

All Is Not Well in Mudville

Since vacating Miss Muntz’s Cozy Asylum for night’s infinite space, neither Charlie Moon nor Scott Parris has uttered a word. Standing elbow-to-elbow at the curb, the men gaze at heaven’s black velvet curtain and wonder what marvels might lie beyond that dark veil the cosmic architect has studded with white-hot diamonds. Until the end of time and history the answer must remain a deep mystery, but to us mortals who cannot fully comprehend the violence of an exploding sun or see beyond a billion whirling galaxies to perceive the warp of space and time, the vast void appears to be so wonderfully quiet . . . so dreamily peaceful.

SCOTT PARRIS
treated himself to a long, wistful sigh.
I wonder if there’s aliens living way out yonder among all those sparkly little stars and whether they have as much aggravation to contend with as I do.
The policeman conjured up an image of a six-legged praying-mantis version of Miss Muntz, complete with huge bulbous eyes, a pair of knobbed antennae sprouting from her lime-green forehead. Miss Mantis was upbraiding a local constable who wore a nine-point kryptonite shield on his shirt pocket and a glum expression. She was addressing him
thusly:
Sheriff Zorp, you could not solve a crime if the felon snuck up and bit you on the butt!

AS CHARLIE
Moon gazed at the night sky, his thoughts also drifted to a woman. In contrast to his friend’s dreadful vision, this one was young, lovely, and as bright as any star he could see. But, like others of her gender, Lila Mae was a mystery.
I wonder why she’s mad at me.
The way to find out was right from the pretty lady’s mouth.
But she hasn’t returned my calls.
No matter. When a cowboy gets bucked out of the saddle, he gets up, dusts off his britches, and gets back onto the horse.
I’ll phone her right now.
He remembered how late it was.
She’s probably been in bed for a couple of hours.
Which might give him an edge.
If I wake Lila Mae up from a sound sleep, she might not realize it’s me.
Mr. Moon flashed a crescent smile at his orbiting counterpart.
She’d probably think it was an FBI emergency and pick up before she looked at the caller ID.
The Ute found his cell phone, scrolled down to the programmed number in Thousand Oaks, pressed the button.

During the third ring, the familiar voice crackled in his ear. “Wha-what—who’s calling?”

“We’ve got us a serious situation, Agent McTeague.”

“What kind of sit—”

“Code Crimson.”

She was wide awake now. “Code
what
?”

“Crimson. Burgundy. Red. As in Native American.”

“Charlie?” A moaning groan. “Is that you?”

“Hey—who else would call you this time of night?” Three heartbeats. “I miss you.”

A long, languorous sigh. “I miss you too.” It was true.

“There’s a ready remedy.”

“Charlie . . .”

“Say the word and I’m on my way to California.”

Eight heartbeats. (Three of Moon’s, five of the lady’s.)

“No.”

“Ahh . . . that wasn’t exactly the word I was hoping for.”

“I’m sorry, Charlie.”

He turned away from Parris, broached the fearful subject in a hoarse whisper. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Not now. Not on the phone.”

“When, then?”

“I’m on flights between L.A. and D.C. at least once a month.” She inhaled deeply, crossed her fingers. “Next chance I get, I’ll arrange a stopover in Colorado Springs.”

“I’ll be waiting for you at the airport.”

“Okay. Goodbye, Charlie.”

“Good night, Lila—” Moon was talking to a dead line. He stuffed the cell phone into his pocket.
What’s going on? Might be something I did at Sarah’s birthday party. Like when I danced with Bea Spencer.
Other possibilities crossed his mind. Such as:
Lila Mae’s a big-city girl. Maybe she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life on a cattle ranch.
The mystified man heard Scott Parris’s voice croak behind him.

“So what’d your sweetheart have to say?”

“Goodbye.”

“Oh.”
Poor ol’ Charlie.

Long, heavy silence.

“D’you figure your aunt actually shoved that pizza guy down the cellar stairs?”

“No, I don’t.”
She didn’t have to. Not with an ankle-high trip cord stretched across the seventh step down.
Moon’s hand was in his jacket pocket with the trusty Meerkat and the remnant of evidence the elderly women had carelessly left on the basement stairway banister post—a loop of six-pound test fluorocarbon fishing line that Daisy had taken from his tackle box.

Parris removed his battered hat, rubbed an aching forehead. “What do you think about Miss Muntz’s tale about how she got mixed up and gave the pizza-delivery guy Hermann Wetzel’s address, and how tonight her and Daisy was waiting for Burkowitz to show up and—”

“Don’t think I ever heard that one.”

“What d’you mean you never—”

“But I do love a good story.” Charlie Moon also loved a pretty lady who worked for the FBI, and he was thinking about Lila Mae as he watched the winking wingtip lights on a red-eye flight to L.A. “When I was about knee high to a cricket, my grandmomma told me one about how little Black Hair Girl got in a heap of trouble. Way it happens, she goes out to gather some wild plums but she can’t find none and she gets lost in the forest. By and by, when she’s hungry enough to eat a porcupine, hide-toenails-and-all, Black Hair Girl comes across this fine log house—we’re talking three bedrooms, two baths, and a Jacuzzi. Seems like she’s drawn four aces, but as it happens this is where these three black bears live. There’s Papa Bear and Momma Bear and—”

“There ain’t no Black Hair Girl in the Three Bears. That was Goldilocks.”

“That’s her name in the European version, which is what we Indians call a derivative.”

“A
what
?”

“A more recent version—a shameless knock-off where a few minor details like names get changed to suit the audience. About a thousand years ago, when the Utes made up the original Three Bears tale, the hungry little girl who got caught eatin’ Baby Bear’s corn-and-squash mush was Black Hair Girl—you can take my word for it.”

“I don’t give a tinker’s damn about any three bears you care to name—”

“Well, you should. It’s a Native American classic.”

“What I asked you was what you thought about Miss Muntz’s story.”

“Did that sweet little lady spin us a yarn?”

“Don’t play games with me, Charlie—you know damn well she did!”

“Then I must’ve disremembered it.” Moon patted his buddy on the back. “My daddy used to tell me that a man’s head is like a clay bowl—it can only hold so much stuff before it starts
running over. That being so, it’s best to pour out those memories you never needed in the first place. Like recollections of gossip and rumors and . . .
bad news.
”

Somewhere on the wooded ridge behind the Wetzel house, a wise old owl got off a triple hoot.

Somewhere close-by, a chief of police got wiser.
Charlie’s daddy was right. I guess I ought to disremember what Miss Muntz said too.
He watched the red-eye flight vanish over the mountains. “I ain’t been serious drunk since my wife got killed by that lumber truck up in Canada.” Scott Parris put the comfortable fedora back on his head, pushed it down to his ears. “But I’m thinking I’ll drop by Soapy’s Corner Bar and order up a quart of the cheapest rye whiskey he’s got in stock. Soon as I’m feeling no pain, I’ll trade a twenty-dollar bill for eighty quarters and play ‘I Still Miss Someone’ till I run out of change or the jukebox breaks. After I’ve said good night to Johnny Cash and emptied my bottle, I’ll pick a fight with the two biggest guys in the joint.” He elbowed the Indian. “You want to come along and watch?”