The Witch's Tongue (28 page)

Durango attorney Walter Price shouldered the lobby door of the Price Building with all the enthusiastic aggression of a seasoned NFL linebacker, glanced at the platinum watch strapped on his wrist, vaulted up the stairs three at a time, twisted the porcelain knob on the outer office door at precisely 8:58
AM
. He very nearly bowled over Miss Weiss, who was waiting near the threshold.

“Ah—excuse me.” Price removed his hat, exposing a neatly groomed head of silver-gray hair that was the envy of every bald man in Durango.

“Good morning, sir.” She had something in her hand.

He placed his hat on a tasteful teakwood rack. “What is this?”

“Your mail.”

“Impossible. The post does not arrive until eleven-twenty.”

“This was a special delivery.” She held the smile inside her mouth.

“How very odd.” The attorney accepted the dirty white envelope, held it gingerly between immaculately manicured finger and thumb, turned up his nose. “It is soiled.”

“That is probably because I stepped on it.”

He frowned at the woman. “Why, pray tell, would you put your shoe on a piece of office correspondence?”

“I did not see it on the floor. Before I arrived at seven thirty-four, someone had slipped it under the door.”

He noted that there was neither stamp nor return address. Someone had printed “W Price” on the envelope. “This is really quite irregular.” He gave the thing back to the secretary.

“Shall I open it for you, sir?”

“If you must.” He hung his topcoat just under the hat.

Miss Weiss applied a singled-edged razor blade to the envelope, removed a page of cheap lined paper. “Sir, I believe you should read this.”

The attorney snatched the page from her hand. Squinted at the block-printed words:

Walter Price tossed the note onto his secretary’s glass-topped desk. “This is truly appalling.”

“Yes, sir. When I saw how insulting this person was to your profession—”

“The spelling, the grammar, the punctuation—absolutely atrocious.”

“What do you intend to do, sir?”

“It is no doubt some sort of sophomoric hoax. And even if it were not, I would never associate the firm with such a…” He could think of no adequate descriptor.

“No, sir. Of course not.” Miss Weiss allowed herself just the hint of a smile. “Not even if Jane Cassidy would be eternally indebted to you for helping her recover the family’s stolen property.”

“Hang Jane Cassidy and all her kith and kin. I detest the woman.”

“Yes, sir. It is not like the firm needs to woo a wealthy client.”

He glared at the woman. “Miss Weiss, are you being impertinent?”

“Only a wee bit, sir. It adds a bit of spice to my otherwise humdrum life.”

“Very well then. Carry on.”

“Shall I file the Yellow Jacket note?”

“If you wish. But do not think that I will not stoop to dealing with common burglars. Or, for that matter, with Jane Cassidy.”

“Of course not, sir.”

Walter Price barged into his spacious corner office. “Get me some coffee.”

“Before or after I call Mr. Moon?”

“After.”

CHARLIE MOON
was at the kitchen table, listening to a string of complaints from his foreman. Pete Bushman’s negative narrative was interrupted when the downstairs telephone in the Columbine headquarters rang.

Knowing it would rattle his employee, Moon ignored the nerve-jangling sound.

Bushman sat though seven rings, began to grind his remaining teeth. “Ain’t you gonna answer that?”

The boss took a sip of sweet coffee. “Do you think I should?”

The foreman banged his fist on the table, yelled through his whiskers, “Shoot yes—this is supposed to be a bidness we’re runnin’ here. That could be McDonald’s callin’. Or Burger King. Or one a them big supermarket chains.”

Moon went into the parlor, put the plastic instrument against his ear. “Columbine.” A momentary pause. “Sure, I’ll hold for Mr. Price—if he don’t take too long.” A longer pause. “Hi, Walter. What’s up?” A very long pause. “That’s an interesting piece of mail you got. But ten to one it’s some kinda joke.” He listened to the lawyer’s response. “Walter, I don’t want to get mixed up in anything to do with the Cassidys. That cranky woman’s already hired and fired me—and she’s never paid me a dime for my time.” Moon counted off the seconds as Price made his case. “Well, go ahead, talk to her if you want to. But I’m not making any promises.” He hung up the phone, returned to the kitchen.

Despite an earnest effort to eavesdrop on the boss’s conversation, Pete Bushman had heard nothing but a few muffled mumbles. “Well, who was that?”

“Some lady who said she was a buyer for some company called Krugers. Or something that sounded like that.”

Must’ve been Krogers
. The foreman’s face went pale under his sunburned skin. “What’d she want?”

“From what I could tell, she’s interested in buying some beef.”

“Oh my goodness—what’d you tell ’er?”

“Told her I’d never heard of no Krugers outfit. But that if she’d send some credit references, the Columbine might consider doing some business with her. But I don’t think she will.”

Bushman felt his stomach knotting up. “Why not?”

“She hung up on me.”

The light began to dawn. “Charlie—would you be funnin’ me?”

Moon’s face split into a mischievous grin. “Would a muskrat musk?”

Charlie Moon rolled out of bed when the big dipper was scooping the last few stars from the sky. The ice-cold river was splashing over black basalt boulders. To the south, ripples in Lake Jesse glittered in the galactic glow. The peaceful, sweet-smelling morning on the Columbine had all the makings of a fine, soul-satisfying day.

The Ute made a deliberate decision to enjoy these precious hours. He had a brief but serious talk with his dog, walked down the lane to stand on the Too Late bridge and watch the darting rainbow trout.

After a few minutes of smiling at the fish, he stopped at the foreman’s house to enjoy pleasant conversation and a fine breakfast with Pete and Dolly Bushman. The kindly woman had made enchiladas rancheros with green chili, refried beans, and flour tortillas buttered with the genuine article. Between bites, Pete reported a fair stand of grass on the four sections north of Pine Knob. All it needed was “a couple inches more rain, and it’ll grow so high we’ll be losing calves in it.” On cue, puffy clouds were already piling up a mile high over the Misery and Buckhorn ranges.

Moon returned to the ranch headquarters, took a seat at the fireside, and turned on the radio. According to the stockman’s report broadcast from the Grand Junction station, the price of beef had gone up four cents a pound in the last week.

He closed his eyes. Smiled.
What could go wrong on a day like this?

THE TELEPHONE
in the foreman’s house rang. Dolly Bushman answered it. “Columbine Ranch.”

A now-familiar voice barked back at her.

The foreman’s wife sucked in a deep breath before responding. “It’s not my fault if Charlie don’t call you back—I gave him all of your messages.” The amiable woman listened patiently to the expected complaint. “If he don’t answer the phone at the big house, it’s most likely because he’s got better things to do…”
Than talk to the likes of you
. Dolly’s eyes popped. “You’re out at the main entrance?”
I’ll let the boss deal with this
. “Well, I suppose you might as well come on up the lane.” She pressed a button to unlatch the gate.

CHARLIE MOON
was relaxing before a crackling fire of split pine. The owner of the spread was reading the yellowed pages of a book Will James had written in 1929,
Lone Cowboy: My Life Story
.

Had it not been for a singularly annoying banging on the door, the ranch headquarters would have been soothingly silent.

Her voice screeched like a falcon falling toward its prey: “Charles—I know you’re in there. Now open this door!”

He enjoyed another paragraph.

The determined woman kicked at the heavy door with her opentoed shoe, yelped with pain.

The Ute smiled at the near-miraculous account of Will finding Smoky again after the stolen animal had been missing for years.
That hard-case cowboy sure did love that ol’ horse
.

She called out in a childlike whimper. “Charles, I believe I have injured myself.”

He took a sip from a mug of very sweet, very black coffee, heard a happy bark from Sidewinder.

There was an immediate response from his female visitor: “Get away from me you horrid, filthy beast!”

Moon marked his place with a two-dollar bill, put the book aside, got up from his rocking chair.

Another round of barking.

“Charles, I demand that you call off your nasty dog!”

He unlatched the door, took note of his hound, eyed the shiny black Cadillac parked by his dusty F-350, smiled at the white woman on the porch. “Look who’s come to visit—the rich lady who fired me.”

Without waiting for an invitation, Jane Cassidy brushed past him. “Do not attempt to be snide, Charles—it does not become you.” She limped across the dark parlor, plopped down on a leather couch near the massive granite fireplace.

“Make yourself right at home,” he said. “Have a seat.”

Her lips parted in a snarlish smile. “Sarcasm is not your long suit.”

Moon glanced back at the Caddie, where Bertie sat behind the wheel. “Shall I ask your nephew to come inside?”

“Certainly not. I had to listen to Bertram whine and complain all the way here. Leave the little insect in the car.”

He closed the door, sat down beside her. “Could I get you something to drink?”

She patted her hair into place. “A stiff shot of bourbon would do nicely.”

“I was thinking more like coffee.”

“I was thinking more like eighty-proof alcohol.”

“Can’t help you there.”

“A glass of wine, then. A crisp, flinty Chardonnay would do nicely.”

“Don’t have any of that.”

“Do you have a Grignolino port?”

The rancher admitted that he did not.

Her voice betrayed a hint of alarm. “Surely you have a wine cellar.”

He shook his head. “We keep potatoes and onions and rutabagas down there.”

“You must be joking.”

“Only about the rutabagas.”

“Oh well, I suppose a Bavarian beer will suffice. Do you keep Reissdorf Kölsch?”

“Nope.” He grinned. “But I could call my foreman, see if Pete’s got a six-pack of Bud in the fridge.”

“That is
not
funny.” An ugly suspicion was beginning to form in her mind. “Charles, I hate to sound accusative—but are you some kind of temperance freak?”

“I’m some kind of alcoholic.”

“Oh, of course,” she murmured. “I suppose all of you Indians tend to drink too much.” Generously deciding to dismiss her host’s shortcomings, Jane Cassidy held her palms out to the warmth of the dancing flames. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I came all the way to this dreadfully remote and dusty place to see you?”

“Nope.”

She turned to make round eyes at the Ute. “You’re not?”

He shook his head.

“Why?”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Charles—that is positively…” She searched for the word. “Discourteous.”

“And even if I did, there’s no point in asking. You’re going to tell me anyway.”

She sniffed. “Well, if you take that attitude, I may not tell you a thing.”

He tilted his mug, took a long drink of coffee.

She shot him a venomous look. “I may just get up and leave without saying so much as another word.”

That’ll be the day
. Moon picked up a copy of last week’s
Southern Ute Drum
.

She glared at the flames licking the bark off the pine logs. “The least a guest can expect is a little conversation.”

“Beef prices are up.” The rancher turned a page. “Four cents a pound.”

She flung her arms up. “Well, wa-hoo!”

“Those of us poor souls who must work the land for a living care about such things as beef prices. And the cost of nails and horseshoes and baling wire.”

“Oh blast you and your smelly cattle.” Jane Cassidy resigned herself to the distasteful but inevitable task. “I suppose you expect an apology.”

“No.” Moon suppressed a grin.

“Well, you shall have one anyway.” She avoided looking at his face. “I regret my behavior during our previous encounter. I was…well, in a somewhat snappish mood when you called. I should not have questioned your competence, or your advice about the best course of action for ensuring the recovery of my stolen property.” Tapping a finger on her knee, she waited for an agonizingly long three seconds. “Well?”

“Meteorologist in Denver says we’re in for a hard winter.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“I sent you an itemized bill. And not for the two hundred dollars an hour you agreed to, but for just a quarter of that. You never paid me.”

“Money, money, money.” She clutched her purse tightly to her bosom. “Is that all you ever think about?”

He considered this question with some care. “No. I also think about all the hours I spent trying to get your property back. I think about my unpaid bills. And if there’s any time left over, I think about the unjust way some rich folks treat those less fortunate than themselves.”

She sighed. “Well, if it is any comfort—I am deeply sorry I fired you. As of this moment, consider yourself back on the payroll.”

Moon shook his head.

Her mouth gaped. “You are refusing to be rehired?”

He nodded.

“But why?”

“Working for you was no fun. Neither was it profitable.”

A lengthy silence grew tense.

“Charles, there must be some way to settle our differences.”

The Ute stared at a feathered war club mounted above the mantelpiece.

She wrung her hands. “Oh, I really must clear my conscience.”

He turned a page in the
Drum
, smiled at the obituaries. “I can only spare you a few hours.”

Jane Cassidy took a deep breath, held it as long as she could, then: “I am willing to confess that…” This was very hard. “That you were quite right.”

“Right about what?”

“About how to recover my property.”

He laid the paper down. “Aha.”

“Oh please, spare me your triumphant ‘aha’—it is most annoying.” She examined a row of painted fingernails.

Walter Price has agreed to represent an anonymous scoundrel who calls himself Yellow Jacket. This individual claims to be able to return the items stolen from the Cassidy Museum—in exchange for the exorbitant reward you persuaded me to offer.”

“Sounds like things are beginning to look up for you.”

“I happen to know that Walter Price has informed you of the fact that this felon will only make the exchange if you act as his stand-in.”

Moon folded his hands over his silver belt buckle, closed his eyes.

Jane knotted her hands into pale fists. “Must you be so annoyingly taciturn?”

No response.

“Charles, you simply
must
cooperate. Otherwise, this horrible Yellow Jacket person may dump our family treasures in the river.”

“Why should I care?”

“That is a very mean thing to say.” Jane Cassidy found a laced silk hankie in her purse, dabbed the pink textile at her dry eyes. She leaned close to the tribal investigator. “Besides, I would feel much more confident if you were there with me.”

“There where?”

“At Walter Price’s office in Durango. That is where the exchange would take place. A representative from my Denver law firm will be present. And Bertie, of course. I really do want you there to protect my interests, Charles. After all—this million-dollar-reward thing
was
your idea.” She watched the Indian’s closed eyes. He seemed to be mulling it over. The rich woman played the only card she had. “I will of course pay you well for your time.”

He opened one eye. “How much?”

She told him.

Charlie Moon shook his head.

“Do you have a figure in mind?”

He did. And told her.

“Charles—you cannot be serious!”

“And I get paid up front.”

“Well, really—surely you trust me to keep up my end of the arrangement.”

“Miss Cassidy—you cannot be serious.”

“That is very cruel.” She dropped her hand into a sweater pocket, found the willow ring the Ute had braided for her. “But of course you have me over the proverbial pot.”

“Barrel.”

“Whatever. But I agree to your conditions. Now do you promise to help me get my property back from this Yellow Jacket scoundrel?”

“Not till you make things square between us. You still owe me for time and expenses.”

“Well, of course I had anticipated that small matter.” She searched her purse. “Here is your check.”

He held the slip of paper at arm’s length. Released it. Watched it fall to the floor.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“I want to see if it bounces.”

“Charles!”

He watched the inelastic landing. “It looks to be okay, but I am obligated to remind you that passing bad paper is a serious offense.”

“Oh, phooey! Now
please
call Walter Price, tell him that you’ll help me get my stolen property back.”

The Ute leaned back, stared at the beamed ceiling. “There’s one last thing.”

“What?”

“That morning you fired me, you insulted Sidewinder.”

“Who?”

“My dog. And his feelings are still hurt. So on your way to your Cadillac, make your apologies.” He added, “Loud enough so I can hear.”