A Dead Man's Tale (8 page)

Daisy’s Self-Appointed Guardian

Daisy Perika was not half as surprised by the dwarf’s appearance as was Sarah Frank, who had followed the shaman into
Cañón del Espíritu
.

Sarah had not visualized the entirety of the
pitukupf,
but she had seen the lower portion of his anatomy with crystal clarity, and the sight of a pair of spindly little legs standing on the log beside Aunt Daisy was enough to send chills rippling along the Ute-Papago orphan’s spine, constrict her throat so that speech was impossible, make the delicate hairs on the back of her neck stand up like porcupine quills, plus other physiological responses too numerous to enumerate. Staring fixedly at the disembodied limbs, she opted for denial.
That can’t be real.
That being the case, she was obliged to provide a satisfactory explanation for the apparition.
I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast and my blood sugar’s low so I’m having a hallucination.
Sarah closed her eyes and prayed for the vision to go away. She cracked her left lid. The horrid little legs were still there and Aunt Daisy was talking to the empty space above them! The girl reclosed the eye, clasped her cold hands, and prayed
very hard.
When she opened both eyes, Daisy was talking to completely empty space. Greatly relieved, Sarah thanked God and her guardian angel. To restore her dwindling supply of glucose, the girl unwrapped what she thought was a candy she’d found in her pocket—and popped a mentholated cough drop into her mouth. Sarah made a face and a promise to herself:
As soon as I get back to Daisy’s house I’ll eat some chocolate-chip cookies and strawberry ice cream.

But something else was about to happen that would make the girl feel distinctly uneasy. Something that all the sugar in Colorado wouldn’t help.

Here it comes.

Watch the coal-black raven flutter down from
somewhere up there
and settle lightly on Daisy’s left shoulder. This sudden appearance was enough to spook the eighteen-year-old, but in addition to the dramatic entrance—the bird put her beak very close to the old woman’s ear and began to gabble.

Sarah Frank was goggle-eyed with astonishment.
Oh, my—that crow looks like it’s
talking
to Aunt Daisy!

Indeed it did. But what made the effect
perfectly eerie
was that the Ute elder was obviously listening to every word, even nodding now and again.

The girl began to harbor the hopeful suspicion that…
I’m not really here and this isn’t actually happening.
Then what was going on?
It’s a bad dream and I’ll wake up in my bed at the Columbine and laugh about it. Ha-ha.
But she knew better.

After Delilah D. had had her say, she unfolded her dark wings and flap-flapped away.

As if nothing out of the ordinary were transpiring, Daisy Perika resumed her conversation with the dwarf, which (according to the little man’s custom) was conducted in an archaic version of the Ute dialect.

What did they talk about? The usual. How the weather wasn’t like it used to be years ago. Olden times when everything was better. Long-gone friends and enemies who had passed on. And, in closing, the critical subject.

Without saying why, the dwarf sternly advised his aged Ute neighbor to
steer clear of Chickasaws
.

Daisy Perika realized that the
pitukupf
must be referring to Lyle Thoms, the crotchety Chickasaw elder who had offered Charlie Moon twenty-five cents to kill a man by the name of Posey Shorthorse. She waited to hear the rest.

There wasn’t any more. That was it.

Well. Talk about your anticlimax.

Daisy was furlongs and miles beyond disappointed.
I can’t believe I went to all this trouble to hear that.
But touched to realize that the little man was concerned about her welfare, the tribal elder did not complain. Not explicitly. Daisy merely assured her diminutive companion that while she appreciated his good intentions, she was in no need of such advice. As the Ute elder saw it, Chickasaws, Choctaws, Navajos, and Apaches were pretty much birds of a feather, and each in kind was to be avoided. “The next time you want to tell me something I already know, send me a penny postcard.”

The
pitukupf,
who was a sensitive soul, got her drift. And he was more than a little miffed.

She turned her gaze to the darkening sky. “I shouldn’t have set here so long—I’m stiffer than this pine log.” Pushing herself erect with the sturdy oak staff, the creaky-jointed old woman brushed bits of rotten ponderosa bark off her cotton skirt, bade the sullen dwarf a polite goodbye, and began to retrace her trek along the deer trail.

As Daisy Perika slowly made her way to the mouth of Spirit Canyon—every step bringing her ever nearer to hearth and home—did she have the least notion that the Ute-Papago orphan had been spying on her?

Well of course she did.

How
did Daisy know?

Miss Delilah Darkwing had told her so.

The Emergency

When Mrs. Irene Reed was picking up the parlor telephone to place an urgent call to the local constabulary, the lady was at home alone.

Which raises that ages-old question: where is a husband when a woman has need of the brute? The query is somewhat too general for a meaningful response, but in this particular instance Samuel Reed was miles away from both his home and his spouse. Moreover, the absent helpmate was enjoying himself immensely.

Do not judge the fellow too harshly. As wives gather with one another to chat about this and that, husbands must also occasionally have some time off for manly recreation and conversation, and Professor Reed was no exception. On the evening in question, he was in a private dining room at the Silver Mountain Hotel with three hairy-chested friends who shared his love of a cappella vocals that are characterized by consonant four-part chords (for every note, and in a predominantly homophonic texture). They call themselves the Velvet Frogs. No, not the chords, notes, or homophonics.

We refer to the happy male foursome.

Having tucked away succulent slabs of prime rib, buttered baked potatoes, melt-in-your-mouth apple pie, and splendid Bishop’s Blend coffee, the barbershop quartet was tuning up its fourfold voice for a practice session. The program included such favorites as “Down by the Old Mill Stream,” “Wait Till the Sun Shines, Nellie,” “Goodbye, My Coney Island Baby,” and “Sweet Georgia Brown.” That wasn’t all, and the V-Frogs always saved the best for last. Their big finish and surefire crowd pleaser was “Shine On Harvest Moon.” It is difficult to imagine a more innocent, wholesome gathering of menfolk.

There is yet another reason to cut Sam Reed some slack. Even though his spouse is at home without her husband, and about to place a 911 call, Irene Reed is as calm as an alpine lake on one of those still days when there is no breeze to make the slightest ripple on its glassy surface.

And why shouldn’t she be calm? The lady has nothing whatever to fear, save being charged with
making a false emergency call.

The Cops

It had been a busy evening for GCPD dispatcher Clara Tavishuts. In addition to the usual complaints about barking dogs, howling drunks, and a low-flying saucer-shaped UFO whose uncouth occupants had allegedly abducted an enraged senior citizen’s favorite tomcat, three citizens—all nervous women at home alone—had called 911 to report suspicious activity. Each of them was convinced that the notorious Crowbar Burglar was prowling about her neighborhood, and one lady was certain that she had seen the malefactor skulking in her rose garden with evil intent. GCPD units were duly dispatched, but without turning up any sign of the fellow whose nighttime pastime was prying his way into residences and scaring the daylights out of those householders he encountered.

The first and third calls had been taken by Officers Eddie Knox and E. C. “Piggy” Slocum.

The former was in the passenger seat riding shotgun. Literally. Sawed-off Savage 20-gauge. Over-and-under double barrel. Loaded with buckshot. Officer Knox addressed the driver as follows: “Wanna know what I think, Pig?”

The plump cop with the swinish nickname grunted.

Being familiar with the tonal content of his partner’s abbreviated replies, Knox recognized this as an affirmative response. “I figure the odds against us taking this pry-bar guy alive to be about twenty to one.”

Another grunt.

“Why? Well it’s plain as the nose on your face—this Gomer’s been lucky so far, but his pocketful of four-leaf clovers is just about used up. It’s all a matter of statistics, Pig.” Knox set his jaw in that manner which signaled that he was about to educate his partner. “Did you know that four out of every five homes in Colorado contains at least one loaded firearm?”

Recognizing a rhetorical question when he heard one, the driver did not waste a grunt.

“This night-crawler has already broke into six homes that was occupied. It’s a wonder he ain’t been shot already by some feisty old granny with a big horse pistol.” Knox jutted his chin at Slocum. “You mark my words. Before the month is over, Mr. Crowbar will break into the wrong house and get his nasty self pumped full of Pb.”
That’ll rattle his cage.

E. C. Slocum blinked at the windshield. “Pumped fulla
pub
?”

Eddie Knox spelled it out: “P-B.” He grinned at his partner. “Which, as any ten-year-old with a big forehead knows, is lead—which is used for making sinkers, toy soldiers, and bullets.”

Slocum coughed up a derisive grunt. “I never heard of any such a thing.”
Eddie’s making that up.

“I don’t mean to be overly critical, Pig—but when you’re not busy turning the pages on Spiderman comic books or watching Donald Duck cartoons on TV, you might want to take a gander at the periodic table.”

This reference suggested victuals to the perpetually hungry man. “Where’s that at?”

The Fourth Call

Officer Knox was about to tell him when the dispatcher’s voice interrupted their conversation: “Unit 242—proceed to 1200 Shadowlane Avenue. Prowler report. See the lady. Mrs. Irene Reed reports that someone is in the process of breaking into the rear entrance of her residence.”

Eddie Knox barked into the microphone, “We’re on it, Clara.” He grinned at his partner. “Step on it, Pig—maybe we can get there before the lady stops ol’ Crowbar’s clock!”

Slocum had already pressed the pedal to the metal.

“But no emergency lights or siren,” Knox said. “I don’t want to scare this varmint away. Let’s go in dark and silent and nail his hide to the barn door.”

“We can’t do that.” Slocum shook his head and quoted from The Book: “‘When a citizen is in imminent danger, standard procedure is to use emergency lights and siren in hopes of diverting a potential assailant from doing serious bodily harm.’”

“Dammit, Pig—we’ll never catch this guy by goin’ by the stupid rules!”

E. C. Slocum’s grunt was an eloquent and final statement. The issue was closed. He turned on the flashing red-and-blue lights and flipped the siren switch.

All their noisy way to 1200 Shadowlane Avenue, Eddie Knox sulked.

Officer Slocum hit the Reeds’ driveway in a sliding turn that kicked up buckets and bushels of white gravel. That, and the screaming siren and flashing emergency lights sent a lone coyote loping away like all the hounds of hell were nipping at his tail. The driver slowed enough for Knox to eject himself from their sleek black-and-white Chevrolet. Slocum sped around the circular drive and braked the GCPD unit to a lurching halt behind the Reeds’ guest house.

After Eddie Knox circled the brick house and met Slocum in the Reeds’ backyard, he sullenly announced that there was “no sign of any burglar, as might be expected the way you came a-roarin’ in like a Texas twister on steroids. If Mr. Crowbar was in the vicinity, he’s probably in the next county by now.”

The amiable Slocum took no offense.

Having heard them coming from some two miles away, Mrs. Reed opened the back door of her home and waved at the cops. Slocum holstered his sidearm, and Knox propped the shotgun over his shoulder as they approached the citizen, who was already yelling at them. “You must have frightened him away, but he was here—trying to break into this door!”

Both cops aimed black five-cell “skull crusher” flashlights at the specified door.

Slocum grunted twice.

Knox interpreted his partner’s observation for the civilian: “There’s no evidence that anybody was attempting a break-in, Miz Reed.” He gestured with the flashlight. “See? Not a mark on the door, or the frame.”

“Oh.” She stared vacantly at the uniformed cops. “Maybe it was a different door.”

“Maybe so.” Knox tipped his hat. “Don’t you worry about a thing. Me’n my partner will check out all of your doors and windows.”

“Thank you.” She hugged herself and shuddered. “This whole business has been very unnerving.”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ll knock on your front door before we leave and get a statement about exactly what you heard and saw—the whole ball of beeswax.”

Irene Reed nodded and closed the door.

Knox arched an eyebrow at his partner. “Nice-lookin’ lady, wouldn’t you say?”

Considering his partner’s observation unprofessional, E. C. “Piggy” Slocum did not respond.

A Lawman’s Hunch

At ten minutes past nine the following morning, Scott Parris was seated at his desk with a cup of coffee, perusing last night’s duty reports. It was dull, tedious work, but part of what the chief of police got paid to do. When Charlie Moon’s best friend saw the caller’s name on a terse report filed by Knox and Slocum, his brow furrowed as if it had been plowed for planting corn.
First, Sam Reed shows up in my office predicting his murder. A few days later his wife places a 911 call about a prowler.
The cop reread the report, focusing on those phrases that practically jumped off the page:

Staring unblinkingly at the routine call report, Parris forgot all about the warm coffee mug in his hand. Somewhere deep in the lawman’s instincts, a tiny alarm bell started to ring—and a plausible scenario began to take root in the fertile imagination under his freshly plowed forehead. His lurid imaginings were accompanied by a haunting suspicion.
Maybe Sam Reed ain’t a nutcase after all.
Which worrisome possibility called for an appropriate course of action.

Right off, Scott Parris knew what to do.

He left his office, got into his black-and-white, and went and did it.

Then he placed a call to his best friend and advised Charlie Moon that he was on the way to the Columbine.