Authors: James D. Doss
Parris admired the expert cast.
The happy angler released sufficient translucent six-pound test filament to let his line go slack, watched it run this way and that as the minnow began to dart about.
Come to dinner, Mr. Trout.
Moon waited. Not for long. A big tug as a relative from higher up the food chain hit the minnow. He let the predator take the bait down the shoreline for a few yards, then gave the line a jerk. The empty hook sailed out of the water, over his head, snagged on a willow branch. “Dang!”
A true-blue friend would merely have chuckled. Parris
sniggered.
And compounded the offense by offering unsolicited advice in a high-hatted, know-it-all tone: “You got over-eager. Should’ve given that trout time to swallow the bait.”
As the frustrated fisherman was extracting the barbed hook from a spindly branch, he loosed a sharp little dart: “You had any luck identifying the fellow who shot Hermann Wetzel—like finding some clean prints on the murder weapon?”
“FBI’s still got the .38. It’ll still be a while before we hear anything about prints.” Parris flipped a pebble into the water. “But it won’t be long before we know who he is.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”
“Hey, you can take it to the bank—the shooter’s as good as behind bars.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Moon put a fresh minnow on the hook, cast the line back to the sweet spot.
Next time, I’ll let Mr. Trout swallow the tiny fish down past his tonsils before I set the hook.
“You must have a pretty good clue or two.”
“Sure I do.” Parris tugged his hat brim down to shade his eyes from sunshine reflecting off the water. “And I expect you’d like to hear all about it.”
“Not particularly. But since you’re just bustin’ to make a big brag about what a great detective you are, go right ahead—let it all out.” Moon flashed a toothy grin at his friend. “And I’ll pretend like I’m hanging on every word.”
“Thanks, Charlie—but I don’t like to mix police business with fishing.”
“That’s a sensible policy.”
He doesn’t have anything to hang his hat on.
But Parris did. Quite a lot. Which, for the moment, he was keeping to himself. The cleverest chief of police in Granite Creek inhaled, blew some smoke at his friend. “The perp entered the Wetzel home without breaking a window. Which means either a door was left open or he had a key. And Miss Muntz—she’s the landlady, who lives across the street—tells me that Hermann Wetzel generally kept his doors locked.”
Moon watched the line drifting slowly to his left.
This ain’t a very lively minnow.
Another possibility occurred to him:
Or maybe he’s just playing it smart.
“Maybe the burglar picked the lock.”
“Can’t be ruled out, but it’s a long shot.” The social critic commenced to explain. “It’s a sad commentary on our society that not one housebreaker in fifty has the know-how to pick the sorriest fifty-cent padlock you ever saw. It’s this younger generation, Charlie—they’re too bone-lazy to learn a useful skill. Most of ’em toss a big rock through a window, or they break through a door with a crowbar or sledgehammer. So when the thief doesn’t bust up something, it’s almost a sure thing that he had a key.”
“So where’d our lazy burglar get a key?”
“Now that’s the question.”
And wouldn’t you like to know the answer.
Parris straightened his spine, pushed his hat back. “Hey, pay attention—you’ve got a bite!”
A good one, too.
“That’s just the minnow making a run for it.” With exaggerated casualness, Moon leaned the rod into the
crotch of a sturdy willow. Only a sure-enough ham would have faked a yawn. But that’s what he did.
“Charlie, that’s a bite for sure!”
He sat down on the log beside his buddy. “So how’d the burglar get a key to the Wetzel house?”
Parris put on a smug expression. “I’ve got an idea I’m working on.”
Did they ride over to the corral to count horseflies or trot off on a delightfully despicable little spy mission?
Sarah Frank and Nancy Yazzi were—at this very moment—sitting very quietly. Watching one of the most humongous horseflies that had ever been seen within the confines of the Columbine.
Sarah cringed as the massive insect landed on her knee. “You better not bite me!”
“If he does, you’re good as dead.” Nancy Yazzi’s observation was offered with a smirk. “See his red eyes? That’s a
vampire
horsefly and he’s after blood. He’ll sink his fangs into you, suck your dry.”
The potential victim raised her hand, gave the hideous creature a healthy smack.
As he counted his catch, which ranged from fourteen to twenty-two inches, Charlie Moon addressed Parris in a soothing tone that was fine-tuned to irritate his friend to the bone. “Don’t feel so bad about hooking just one little fish. I doubt that cutthroat was much more than ten inches long.” Well-timed pause. “Definitely not worth worrying about.”
Parris’s growl was low and throaty. Like a hungry old cougar
who wanted to get some fresh, bloody meat between his teeth.
“Anyway, that pygmy trout is long gone.” Moon managed not to grin. “Like the guy who shot Wetzel.”
This did not help Parris’s temper.
The Ute didn’t let up. “I’ll lay you even money—say twenty bucks—that this time next year, that’ll still be an open case. It’ll turn out to be one of those killings where you’ll never have the least idea who did it. But someday when you’re in the nursing home, some fresh-faced cop right out of the academy will take a glance at an old, yellowed file and spot something you missed—like a silver shirt stud found under Wetzel’s coffee table that has the shooter’s name and address etched on it. And it’ll turn out the bad guy was an evil locksmith, who’d just broke out of Folsom Prison and—”
“Make it a hundred clams and you’re on.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Charlie. Let’s shake on it.”
“What exactly are we shaking on?”
“Just what you said. That this time next year, I won’t know the shooter’s name.”
Maybe he does know something.
Then again . . .
He might be bluffing.
Whatever the case, your proud Rocky Mountain gambling man does not back down. Code of the West. Look it up.
Moon reached for the outstretched paw, shook it.
Parris’s grin went Cheshire. No—better than that. No cat could split his face so wide, display all that enamel. This was in-your-face, grade-A
gloating.
Uh-oh.
Moon set his jaw, prepared himself for a big dose of bad news. “So what d’you know that you haven’t told me?”
Parris looked away, to the center of the lake, where a handsome pair of ring-necked ducks were skimming to a landing. “Oh, not enough to impress a big-shot tribal investigator who figures us town cops for a bunch of doughnut-munching yokels.” He watched one of the ducks go bottom-up. “But when
we get back to the ranch headquarters, I intend to ask a certain somebody some questions.”
Moon lowered his voice. “Nancy Yazzi?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You figure she might know something that could help you ID the shooter?”
“Let’s just say I intend to ask her a question or two.”
“Sorry, pardner.” Moon shook his head. “Not in my house.”
“What?”
“If you want to interrogate the young lady, that’s your business. But you’ll have to ask your questions at the police station.” Moon’s tone was very firm. “Here on the Columbine—she’s under the protection of my hospitality.”
“I appreciate that.” Parris didn’t. “But if I take Wetzel’s stepdaughter into town, she’ll know something’s up and it’ll give her plenty of time to come up with a story.”
“I appreciate the spot you’re in, pardner. But it don’t make any difference. Long as Miss Yazzi is a guest in my house, she can expect the usual courtesy offered by the Columbine.”
Parris’s face was getting red, veins were bulging on his forehead, and his voice was increasing in volume. “Now listen here, Charlie. That girl knows—”
“Shhhh!”
“What?”
“For quite some time now, we’ve had an audience. Sarah and Nancy tied their horses over at the cabin, tried to sneak up on us.”
“Damn!” Parris peered through the willows, saw nothing amiss. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, I didn’t want to let on that I knew they were there—that’d spoil all their fun.”
“Where are they?”
“About fifty yards behind us, in a shallow little arroyo, peeking from behind a juniper.”
I can’t see a thing.
“You absolutely sure?”
“Hey, I’m one hundred percent Indian. Anybody who ever watched a grade-B Western picture show knows we can
track a Mormon cricket over ten miles of solid sandstone, and spot a kangaroo mouse snacking on a grasshopper in the next county.” The Ute grinned at his
matukach
buddy. “They couldn’t have heard a word we’ve said so far—but just in case the wind shifts, you’d better speak softly.”
It was an unnecessary caution.
Seating Arrangements Are Important
As any one of those fortunate souls who has chowed down at the Columbine would attest to, the menu was invariably first-rate. The food was never fancy, but Charlie Moon was a pretty good cook, and whatever culinary skills he lacked were more than compensated for by the foreman’s wife. When guests were expected for supper, Dolly Bushman was likely to show up right on time with her famous peach cobbler, a gallon of hand-cranked strawberry ice cream, and a side dish such as chived and buttered new potatoes or crispy fried green tomatoes. Though it was early in the season for those particular delicacies, the grub on this night was not bad.
The man of the house was seated at the north end of the dining-room table, gazing down its considerable length at his spunky relative.
Aunt Daisy had taken her rightful place at the southern extremity.
The chief of police had seated himself at Moon’s left, where, from time to time, he smiled across the table at the young ladies.
Sarah Frank (sitting as close to Charlie Moon as she could) was still on a high from an afternoon of skulking around and spying that had proved to be lots more fun than she had expected. The shy teenager smiled back at the thoughtful gentleman who had provided her with the learner’s permit.
Nancy Yazzi, whose expression suggested acute disinterest, had not so much as glanced at the visiting lawman.
From time to time, Moon shot his best friend a look that could not be misread. It plainly said,
You ask my guest what time it is, you’ve crossed the line.
The chief of police made no inquires, and had very little to say, all the way from the appetizers (Dutch-chocolate mints, macadamia nuts, and prime buffalo jerky) through the main course: butter-grilled catch-of-the-day trout, potatoes fried in Sicilian olive oil, San Luis Valley pinto beans boiled in lightly salted well water, and home-baked sourdough bread.
Having progressed from lip smacking to hearty burping, Parris was helping himself to a second helping of Dolly’s peach cobbler.
Moon was enjoying black coffee, sweetened with Tule Creek honey.
Ditto for Sarah, whose pleasure it was to match Mr. Right move for move.
Nancy Yazzi—probably just to be contrary—had opted for iced tea. Which the young lady sipped with a raised pinky.
La-di-da.
Daisy was drinking unsweetened black coffee, thinking blacker thoughts.
This all seems so nice, but something don’t smell quite right.
Mr. Zig-Zag? Sarah’s spotted cat was under the table, nibbling daintily at a finger-size morsel of grilled trout. Not a dog’s life.
Which brings Sidewinder to mind. The Columbine hound was outside, under the porch, gnawing a meaty beef bone.
The confident expression on Scott Parris’s mug was counterfeit; the lawman was feeling distinctly uneasy. Here he was, sitting across the table from a young woman who might be able to help him get his hands on the man who had murdered
her stepfather. But he was strictly forbidden to ask her a single question.
And if I take her back to the station, she won’t say a word. Except: “I never heard of anybody by that name.”
Or:
“I want to talk to a lawyer.” Somehow or other, I need to bring up the subject of the killing.
But it would have to be done with considerable delicacy or Charlie Moon would take umbrage. Tons of umbrage. And get all hot under the collar.
How to broach the subject of homicide? It was a knotty problem.
Solutions sometimes come from the most unexpected sources.
“So, have you figured out who killed this girl’s stepfather?” Yes, Daisy Perika. Parris could’ve hugged the tribal elder.
All present gazed at the one who had offered the cop this splendid opening.
Parris put on a doubtful look, and replied with shameless hypocrisy, “I don’t know as I should talk about that particular subject.” He glanced at Nancy Yazzi, who quickly concentrated her attention on the tea glass. “I mean with the young ladies present and all.”
Moon, who was eyeing Parris, had turned on The Look. Full intensity.
The old woman snorted. “These girls won’t mind. Tell us what you’ve found out.”
Ignoring his friend’s steely gaze, the chief of police addressed the female members of his rapt audience. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you a thing or two. Most of it’ll be in the newspaper tomorrow.” He paused to spear a slice of fried potato, lift it to his mouth. Between chews, he said, “The shooter—who evidently ain’t too bright—left us some prints on a doorknob.”
Moon saw his one hundred dollars fly away.
So that’s what he’s been holding back.
“You got a match yet?”
A nod as Parris swallowed the starchy mouthful. “The fella’s had a few run-ins with the law. His prints were on file in Texas, Nebraska, Florida—and with the FBI.” He added, “This bad guy drives a black 2006 Jeep Wrangler—with Colorado plates.”
Nancy Yazzi was staring at a slivery remnant of the last ice cube in her tea.
Daisy did not like the waiting game. “So what’s the yahoo’s name?”