A Dead Man's Tale (20 page)

Evening, June 3
A Close Encounter in Granite Creek

More specifically—on Sand Hills Country Club property, of which institution Mrs. Bernice Aldershott was a member, and where she preferred to indulge in her nightly exercise on the golf course. The middle-aged lady, of sinewy build and iron will, was just short of her three-mile mark when—over Peggy Lee’s “I’m a Woman” vibrating the drum in her right ear canal—her left ear detected something out of the ordinary.

The jogger stopped abruptly, lowered the volume on her iPod, and listened intently.

Bernice heard a squeaky creaking.
What on earth is that?

Now a creaky squeaking.

It seems to be coming from somewhere over there.

(It would be helpful if the lady would be more precise.)

Somewhere near the groundskeeper’s toolshed.
What were the odds that someone would be working there after dark? Making it about twenty to one, the determined woman set her jaw and set about to investigate the source of all this confounded creaking and squeaking. Approaching the source of the mysterious sounds, she spied a dark something in the moonlight. The myopic woman squinted.
Someone is definitely messing about at the toolshed
.

But who? And for what unseemly purpose?

Like our other natural appetites, Curiosity demands to be satisfied.

The plucky lady pressed ahead. And got a better look.

Bernice’s lips made an 0. She whispered, “Oh my—someone is attempting to pry the shed door open with one of those whatchamacallits!” In an instant, the nighttime jogger realized that she had encountered Granite Creek’s infamous Whatchamacallit Burglar. What a glorious opportunity for a conscientious citizen to do her duty! Within a few heartbeats, she had her trusty mobile telephone in hand, punched in 911, and heard the graveyard-shift dispatcher’s snappy response. “Granite Creek Police—what is the nature of your emergency?”

She whispered, “I’ve spotted the ne’er-do-well who everyone is talking about.”
Or is it
“whom”
everyone is talking about?
Doing one’s level best to be grammatically correct was
so
trying. “The fellow is trying to break into the shed with his whatchamacallit.”

“His what?”

“His
whatchamacallit
, dammit—you know what I mean!”
Why can’t they hire people who understand English?

“If you could describe—”

“Oh, it’s one of those long thingamabobs with a hook on the end.” Bernice’s voice was teetering right on the ragged edge of shrillness.

The dispatcher tried harder. “A hook, huh…like an old-fashioned walking cane?”

“Well, I suppose it
looks
like one of those. But that’s not what it’s used for.” Explaining things to slow-witted men was irksome. “Carpenters use them to pry on things, and this miscreant is using his to break into the shed. And it’s made of iron.”

“An iron shed?”

“No.” The irate citizen held her breath and counted to three. “The
thingamabob with the hook
is made of iron.”

The light began to dawn on the dispatcher. “You talking about a crowbar?”

“Of course I am!”
I wonder why they call them that.
“Now would you please send a horde of club-waving constables to take this thieving vandal into custody?”

“Yes ma’am. What’s your address?”

“At a time like this, what on earth do you want to know
that
for?”

“Well, so I can dispatch officers to your home and—”

“I’m not at home, you nincompoop!”

“What is your present location?”

“I’m very near the thirteenth hole.”

Three heartbeats.

“You’re at the golf course, ma’am?”

“Of course.”
His brain must be the size of a peanut.

The dispatcher’s tone betrayed his suspicion that the caller was under the influence of a chemical substance. “Uh, what’re you doing on the golf course this time of night?”

“Practicing my putting!”

“Oh.” Three more heartbeats. “You wearing one of them baseball caps with a little flashlight on it?”

“No, I am not!” The fashion implications alone were horrid. “My remark about putting was an attempt at sarcasm. I’m jogging—or I was until I heard the creaky squeaking.”

“Yes ma’am.”
There’s an off chance she’s spotted the perp we’ve been looking for.
“Hold on a sec.”

Bernice Aldershott listened to the alleged Peanut Brain dispatch the nearest of two night-duty police units to the Sand Hills Country Club.
He does seem to be marginally competent. Perhaps I was too hard on him.

“A unit with two officers is on the way. ETA is about one minute.”

“Thank you, young man. I suppose I am a bit nervous; and I do owe you an apology. I’m sorry I called you a nincompoop.”

“Don’t give it a thought, ma’am. My mother-in-law calls me worse names than that. Now here’s what I want you to do. First of all, stay on the phone. And this is very important—don’t go near the suspect. You got that?” Silence. “Ma’am, are you there?” The GCPD dispatcher was talking to empty air.

Officer Eddie Knox pulled their unit away from Chicky’s Daylight Doughnuts. His longtime partner, E. C. “Piggy” Slocum, was riding shotgun. (Yes. Same sawed-off twenty-gauge.)

Knox was practically salivating at the thought of nabbing the Crowbar Burglar. “Nobody’s being threatened, Pig—so we’ll make our approach in stealthy mode. No siren, no lights.”

“Okay with me, Eddie.” Having just finished off the next-to-last doughnut, Slocum wiped powdered sugar from his mouth onto his sleeve.

Not quite a minute later, Knox eased the lights-out supercharged black-and-white Chevy into the country-club parking lot, cut the ignition, and pointed with his jutted chin. “The toolshed’s over yonder, behind that little grove of poplars.”

“I know, Eddie. I used to caddie here years ago, when I was in high school. Back then, there was only nine holes and—”

“When I want a history lesson, Pig, I’ll let you know.”

“Right, Eddie.”

Eddie Knox cut the ignition. “You go down the lane, straight in.” He checked his sidearm, then opened the car door and got out. “I’ll loop around to the back. We’ll pen the suspect in.”

“Right, Eddie.” Slocum checked his sidearm and the shotgun. As soon as his partner was out of sight, he made a grab for the last jelly doughnut.

Bernice Aldershott was tiptoeing toward the shed.
While the police are on the way, I’ll see if I can get a good look at the miscreant with the thingamabob. That way, if he should flee before he can be apprehended, I will be able to provide the authorities with a description.

Highly commendable.

Problem was, the fellow who’d been making the squeaky-creaky noise had spotted Bernice’s profile on the grassy ridge. Being too far away to hear the lady’s conversation with the police dispatcher, he didn’t know whether she had seen him and was summoning the cops or was merely calling home to nag her unfortunate spouse. Until he knew which way the wind was blowing, Crowbar Man thought it prudent to conceal himself behind the shed.

Which was why, as Bernice Aldershott approached that small wooden structure, she was unable to spot the alleged felon. “Oh, rats—he has gotten away!”

The lady should be so lucky.

The closer she came, the more the miscreant with the thingamabob was convinced that…
she knows I’m here. And she won’t stop snooping around until she finds me.

What to do? How could he rid himself of this meddlesome pest?

On occasion, even a ne’er-do-well has a great notion.

This one also had a sense of humor.

Oh, double rats!
Bernice Aldershott had no doubt that her quarry had fled.
If I hadn’t spent so much time trying to explain things to that lamebrain at 911, I’d have caught him red-handed!
The civic-minded citizen stared at the shed door, which had been broken open and was hanging on a single hinge.
I wonder what he intended to steal.
She had no idea what sort of tools the head groundskeeper kept locked up inside. But in the moonlight, by the corner of the modest structure, Bernice spotted something on the ground.
What is that?
The smallish rectangular object looked like a book.
But that’s silly; surely a burglar wouldn’t be taking time to read. Unless, like everyone else these days, thieves feel entitled to take regular breaks. But what would a common criminal read during a brief respite?
She speculated that the bookish-looking object might be a volume of popular short stories.
But the moonlight is not bright enough to read by.
She cocked her head at the perplexing object.
It looks like my father’s old cassette recorder.
But that seemed even more unlikely than a book. It occurred to her that this might be part of the burglar’s loot that he’d left behind.
Whatever it is, it will be an important clue.
As the clueless citizen was stretching out her hand to apply her fingerprints to the presumed physical evidence, she heard a low, guttural growl behind her. The terrified jogger turned to encounter a horrifying apparition.

The multitasker concealed under the black sock hat and black raincoat brandished the crowbar with his right hand, thumped his chest with the left, and stomped (alternately) with both feet.

The woman’s mind instantly responded with a memory of the ancient
King Kong
black-and-white flick she’d watched on the TV just last week.
It’s a gorilla!

Reinforcing this conclusion, another throaty growl, chest thump, and foot stomp.

Bernice was off like a gazelle. Or, if you prefer—an Aldershott fired from a cannon.

Encouraged by the success of his ploy, the supposed gorilla (as they say in these parts) “took off” after her. But only after retrieving the
smallish rectangular object
, and only for a few strides. The vandal was no world-class sprinter, and had no interest in putting the grab on the jogger.

With every raw fiber of her being, Mrs. Aldershott wanted to scream, but she was determined not to waste the breath. When being chased by a hideous, vicious ape that is armed with a whatchamacallit or thingamabob, the thing to do is to put considerable distance between the horrible beast and yourself. Having aimed her strained face toward the nearest path to the parking lot, she never looked back. By the time the jogger passed the Sand Hills flagpole, she had bested her all-time best one hundred yards by two seconds flat and was picking up speed.

Go, Bernice!

And go she did. A blur herself, the sprinter did not see the plump form of Officer E. C. “Piggy” Slocum until she was within a few strides of him. It was as if the dark, hunched form had materialized out of another dimension.

It’s another damn ape!

Hemmed in on both sides of the pathway by prickly hedges of holly, she slowed to a mere trot.

Startled by the sudden appearance of the dark, slender figure, Slocum assumed that this was the Crowbar Burglar making a run for it. The rotund cop, who had a mouthful of jelly doughnut and a sugary-slippery handful of shotgun, attempted to shout, “Stop right there!” What came out of his mouth was, “Sogg bipe bare!” The flustered cop dropped the shotgun and fumbled for his holstered pistol.

(This was one of those situations that can end badly.)

Convinced that she was hotly pursued by the first gorilla, her escape blocked by a second knuckle dragger, Bernice was trapped in a nightmare.
What can I do?

What the lady needed was sage advice.

What she got was a premonition of doom from her iPod.

Miss Peggy Lee crooned sweetly in Bernice’s left ear:
“It’s all over now…”

“The
hell
it is!” Filled with fury at this infestation of the Sand Hills Country Club by hairy primates, the charter member accelerated. Within five strides, she was rolling along like the Wabash Cannonball roaring down the mountain on a full head of steam.
Straight at King Kong Number Two.

What a woman!

Officer Slocum was bowled aside like a lone tenpin.

Mrs. Bernice Aldershott did not stop until she was inside her house, which residence was almost a mile away.

June 4
On the Evening When Professor Reed is Destined to Die

Irene Reed, who was dining with friends, was not expected home until well after dark.

A shadowy precursor of twilight was already thickening the atmosphere when Charlie Moon spotted Scott Parris’s black-and-white from the guest-house bedroom window. The Chevy lurched into the driveway and kicked gravel all the way to the guest house, where it skidded to a stop. In six seconds flat, the garage door was up, the squad car was inside, and the heavy door was slamming shut.

The Ute unlatched the upstairs door.

Samuel Reed ascended first, toting four plastic bags of groceries. In passing, he nodded respectfully to his silent bodyguard, then unloaded his burden on the kitchenette’s speckled granite countertop.

Scott Parris followed with a mumbled “Hello, Chuck” and placed a man-size backpack and a large canvas suitcase onto the parlor couch. With the exaggerated care of one who dares not damage county property, the cop removed the contents. A pair of GCPD portable radios. A disassembled Remington deer rifle and two full boxes of 6-mm ammo. An infrared 4X SniperScope for the rifle and Japanese photomultiplier/IR binoculars that required only the faintest starlight to illuminate the darkest night. When viewed with either optical instrument, a warm-bodied creature such as a loping coyote, a lop-eared jackrabbit, or a gun-toting biped would light up like electrified ornaments on a Christmas tree.

While Parris mounted the scope and Moon checked out the hardware, Reed prepared a light supper for his solemn companions.

There was no conversation during the meal of jack-cheese omelets, grilled brown trout, and lightly seasoned wild rice.

After the feast, Reed seated himself at his parlor desk and turned on a laptop computer.

Moon and Parris took turns at the windows with the binoculars.

Aside for a comical porcupine gnawing on a tasty cedar, there was nothing to see.

Aside from the balmy whisper of a late-spring breeze, all was quiet.

From time to time, the Ute would slip outside to circle the ten-acre property, then return to report that nothing was amiss.

Which lack of visible threat served to create a nagging stress.

The chief of police began to mutter under his breath.

The stone-faced Ute uttered not a word.

Aware of the increasing undercurrent of tension, Samuel Reed broke the silence by suggesting that the lawmen settle in and relax. “Nothing will happen before eleven o’clock. In the meantime, why don’t we pass the tedious minutes by entertaining ourselves?”

His bodyguard-guests acquiesced to this reasonable request.

“Good,” Reed said. “I’ll begin by telling you fellows a hilarious joke.”

Not a great opening.

Scott Parris barely suppressed a groan.

Charlie Moon was already amused.

“There were these two atoms.” The scientist was already smiling in anticipation of the upcoming mirth and merriment. “They were walking along the street and about to meet—”

“Which street?” Parris inquired.

“It doesn’t matter. The point is—”

“Matters to me,” the heckler grumped. “You could at least tell us whether it’s a street in Granite Creek.”

“Very well.” Reed strained to retain his smile. “These atoms are strolling along Seventh Street in our fair city. And before you ask for names, the individual meandering along in a northerly direction is Mr. Indium—”

“Hah—that must be Charlie.”

The sidetracked jokester sniffed. “These unseemly interruptions must cease, Mr. Parris.”

“Sorry.” The cop’s silly grin belied his apology.

“Now where was I?” Samuel Reed paused to recollect. “Ah, yes. As it happens, Mr. Indium is about to meet Miss Chlorine, who is clipping along quite briskly on a southerly course. And in point of fact, he does. But, each being distracted by one thing or another, the atoms collide and Miss Chlorine—a relative lightweight—is knocked over a hedge and into Auntie Antimony’s flower bed.”

“Bummer,” Parris said.

“Happily, no harm is done—Miss Chlorine lands in a patch of petunias.” The physicist paused to shake his head and sigh. “But sad to say, Mr. Indium is not so fortunate. After brushing pink petunia petals off her plaid gingham skirt, Miss Chlorine calls over the hedge to inquire after his health.”

Reed assumed a high-pitched voice that sounded exactly like Miss Lucre: “Oh, dear—are you all right, Mr. Indium?”

In a deeper, masculine tone (not unlike Charlie Moon’s) Mr. Indium booms, “No, I am not, young lady. Matter of fact, I have lost an electron.”

Shrill Miss Chlorine: “Oh, gracious—are you sure?”

“‘Yes.’ (Mr. Indium nods.) ‘I am
positive.
’”

Having delivered the punch line flawlessly, the physicist was prepared for an appreciative reaction.

Dead silence from Scott Parris.
What’s so funny about that?

The performer got a respectable chuckle from Charlie Moon, despite the fact that Mr. Indium had heard the joke before.

Though disappointed with this insipid response, Samuel Reed was determined that the entertainment should continue. He suggested that each of his guests contribute an amusing anecdote.

Normally the cowboy humorists would have been pleased to chip in, but witnessing the humiliating failure of a fellow comedian has a marked effect on his colleagues. Neither of the bodyguards was in the mood to tell a joke.

Reed accepted this refusal gracefully, but insisted that the show must go on. He asked the lawmen to relate an interesting story. The chief of Granite Creek police was urged to recall some account from his lengthy experience as a sworn officer of the law, after which the Southern Ute tribal investigator would then do his best to top his friend. “There will no requirement except this—your narratives must be entertaining.” Reed added, “The stories can be true, a total fabrication, or a satisfying blend of fact and fiction.”

This was more to their liking, and having no better notions for passing the time, Parris and Moon agreed to Reed’s conditions. But while one of them was busy spinning his yarn, the other would be keeping watch on the Reed residence from the guest-house bedroom window.