Snake Dreams (15 page)

Everyone was having a grand old time.

An Unsettling Development

After entering into a conspiracy with Nancy Yazzi that might turn out to be the most ill-advised enterprise she had ever undertaken, Millicent Muntz (who rarely ventured out at night) had returned home with no appetite. The elderly lady could not imagine even a light snack of crackers and cheese, much less an Italian sausage calzone—such a heavy meal as that would have to wait until her nerves and digestive system had settled down. She picked up her cat and withdrew to the upstairs corner room where she did her sewing, crocheting, knitting and kept a watchful eye on the neighborhood.

Leaving the sewing room lights off (the soft glow of a hallway lamp was sufficient to see by), she placed Mr. Moriarty in his favorite spot under the potted palm and seated herself in a comfortable armchair. As was her habit, the spinster lady began this period of relaxation by reviewing her day. She smiled at the memory of each modest accomplishment, pausing to reprove herself for a task that could have been done better. By this process, she passed quickly through the morning and afternoon hours, up to the point when she had crossed the street to initiate the intrigue with Nancy Yazzi. That was when things had begun to get—what was the saying? Ah, yes—things had gotten
dicey.
She shook her head and sighed.
When I was younger, this evening’s exertions would not have been such a challenge, but the frenetic activities of the past hour have
been almost too much.
She knew that despite an intelligent woman’s most meticulously prepared plans, there were so many things that could go amiss as a result of small miscalculations, ill-advised assumptions, and general imponderables. And most vexing of all—unexpected developments.

Such as:
What if Hermann Wetzel came up from the basement while I was away and happened to be looking through a front window when I drove my car into the garage?
This worry begot a daughter fret:
If he did, he might wonder about my early return.
The fertile offspring promptly produced another:
What if Hermann calls me on the phone and asks to speak to Nancy?
The very thought of such a calamity made her spine tingle.
What would I say to that?
Miss M came up with a simple ploy:
If the telephone rings, I shall not pick it up.
She frowned.
But if I did not answer, he might assume that something was wrong over here and cross the street to pound on my door.
The worrier clasped her hands on the varnished maple chair arms.
It is enough to give a person a case of the flibberty-jibbers!
She smiled at her ludicrous thoughts.
Oh, I am a silly old goose to worry so much—I simply must relax.

To that end, she leaned back in her chair and considered life’s many blessings.
I have excellent health. Worthwhile things to do. A very nice home. And it is so peaceful here.
Not for the first time, the frugal woman congratulated herself on investing her inheritance in the two properties on Beechwood Road, and at a time when real estate was an excellent investment. The homes, built by the same contractor, were virtually identical, but . . .
I’m so glad I rented 750 Beechwood to Mr. Wetzel. When I lived over there, I could hardly see a thing for that veritable forest of trees in the front yard. But here at 751, and particularly from this upper window, I have a wonderful view. Especially of the mountains and sky.

The landlady also had an exceptional view of her rental property across the street, though not for long at this hour. Already misty wisps of darkness—those sinister night-soldiers—were coalescing into menacing platoons that would creep in to occupy
territory abandoned by sunlight. It happened every night: The ghostly brigades would convert cool shady glades into eerie black enclaves, and charming clusters of junipers into miniature jungles where all manner of red-eyed vermin rustled about with evil intent.

Determined to put her mind at ease, Miss Muntz assured herself that Hermann Wetzel—a creature of ingrained habits—had undoubtedly remained in the basement “rec room” to peruse his collection of fishing, hunting, and gun magazines.
Well, at least he doesn’t spend all his time watching TV
. Aside from this observation, it was difficult for Miss M to think of anything positive about her tenant, but not because he was a vulgar, stupid fellow—he couldn’t help that. Such conditions were, as Daddy used to say (prior to the discovery of DNA), “in the blood.” What bothered her was how Hermann abused his pretty stepdaughter. And not only verbally. Nancy Yazzi had never actually come right out and told her about it, but there were signs that Miss Muntz recognized, such as bruises on the girl’s face and neck. Also on her wrists . . . and legs. Miss M shook her head. Men like that should be put in jail. Better still, eliminated from the face of the earth. But most of the women (and young girls!) they molested would not admit to having been victimized, much less testify in a public trial. The humiliation was too much to bear, the probability of a conviction too small. She rapped her knuckles on the chair arm.
But one way or another, Hermann will get what’s coming to him.

If someone had suggested that Miss Millicent Muntz had “second sight,” she would have disagreed. She did not think of herself as special.

Her eyes having adjusted to the low light level, the lady picked up her knitting, got to work on a yellow cat-sweater that was not quite half finished. She made a valiant effort to concentrate on her work. Clickety-click. Clickety-click.
I just can’t do this and look out the window too.
On most evenings she had a magnificent view of soaring granite peaks, great sprays of stars sparkling like tiny diamonds. But not tonight. It had been
cloudy all day, with intermittent rain. At this very moment, a few plump little drops began to pelt the windowpanes.

So peaceful.

After another clickety-click or two, the neighborhood’s self-appointed guardian set her knitting aside. She would spend this “quiet time” listening to the light rain.

Several minutes passed. Also a motor vehicle or two.

Then, something quite interesting attracted her attention.

Miss M leaned closer to the window, frowned.
Well, now.

Hermann Wetzel was thumbing through a dog-eared copy of
Rod & Gun
when the cell phone in his shirt pocket vibrated. He scowled at the caller ID.
What’s Muntzy got ants in her pants about this time?
He pressed the Talk button. “Hey.”

The voice in his ear said, “Mr. Wetzel?”

“Nope, it’s the butler.” A snicker. “What’s up?”

“I thought that I should advise you that—”

“Hey—what was that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I just heard somebody upstairs.”
And it ain’t Nancy come home early—that little slut slinks around like a damn alley cat—never makes a sound.

“That is what I was calling you about, Mr. Wetzel—” There was a sharp click in her ear.
Well—the man has the manners of a goat!
Leaving Mr. Moriarty behind, Miss Muntz hurried down the stairs.

HERMANN WETZEL
switched off the rec-room lights, listened intently as the footsteps passed rapidly over his head and continued for a few paces before falling silent.

It’s a burglar. All the lights are off upstairs—the thieving bastard must figure there’s nobody home.

More creaking of boards overhead.

Automatic pistol firmly in hand, Wetzel looked up at the darkened ceiling.
Where’s he going now?
Miss Muntz’s tenant thumbed the Safety button on his weapon and began a silent ascent of the basement stairs in his soft-soled house slippers. A thin fan of light flashed under the stairwell door.
The bozo’s turned on the lights!
Unnerved by the brazenness of the intruder—who was either armed or stupid or both—Wetzel momentarily considered a strategic retreat to the cellar, a discreet telephone call to the police.
But only a brass-plated sissy would do that and I got a gun and this guy don’t know I’m here.

Which settled the matter.

Drawing a deep breath, Wetzel reached out to slowly twist the porcelain knob a quarter turn. The barely audible click of the latch set his teeth on edge.
I hope he didn’t hear that.
But there was no turning back. He pushed the door open just a crack. Immediately saw the intruder.
What the hell—

MISS MUNTZ
had barely gotten downstairs when she heard the crisp cracks of pistol shots.
Oh my!
She slipped on her black raincoat, snatched up a cordless telephone, and opened her front door just in time to see a shadowy figure burst from the rental house and make a dash for it. She did not see the intruder toss a pistol into the bushes, and perhaps it was just as well. For one who already had a serious case of the flibberty-jibbers, Miss M had heard and seen quite enough. Still, the cool-headed landlady dialed 911 and reported the unnerving incident.

As soon as Clara Tavishuts had the caller’s name and address, she assured Miss Muntz that officers would be on the scene very shortly. The dispatcher also instructed the elderly lady (whom she assumed was safely in her home) to remain inside with the doors locked—and to stay away from windows.

Ignoring this sensible advice, the landlady dropped the telephone into her coat pocket and headed (at a trot!) directly across the street to 750 Beechwood. As she did so, an automobile turned a corner about a block away. The headlights illuminated a man who was crossing Beechwood in the opposite direction. There was a screech of brakes. Miss Muntz could not see the fleeing man’s face, but it was apparent that he was a burly fellow, wearing a cowboy hat. At such stressful moments, it is odd which impressions pop into our minds. The thought struck her that for such a big fellow, he was certainly making tracks.

The driver of the automobile saw the elderly lady by the curb and stopped to ask what was going on. Breathless from the excitement, Miss Muntz paused long enough to explain to the neighbor (a young mother, with a toddler secured in a car seat) that there had apparently been a shooting in the Wetzel residence and that she had already called the police. The neighbor, now quite alarmed, said that she had gotten a pretty good look at the man who’d crossed the street, and thought she might recognize him if she ever saw him again.

The women heard a roar, turned to see a Jeep lurch out of a vacant lot near the GC Propane Company storage yard. It bounced over the curb and almost flipped over as the driver made a hard left turn. The sturdy vehicle righted itself with a thud and sped away straddling the white center line.

“Well,” said Miss Muntz. “This used to be such a peaceful neighborhood.”

The neighbor (who had forgotten where she was going) executed a quick U-turn and drove back home.

After watching the young woman depart, the landlady hurried up to Wetzel’s front door, which was open. She went through the parlor, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, where she paused to inspect these familiar surroundings. Her Felix the Cat clock tick-tocked on the wall over the refrigerator. Even more arresting were familiar scents, some quite pleasant to the senses: the potted African violets in the south windows. Pine-Sol.
The lingering aroma of an uneaten supper. But there was another, quite unpleasant odor. Fresh blood.