Snake Dreams (33 page)

FINALLY DONE
with his dithering, Jake Harper also made a snap decision. He abandoned the front window, hurried into Hermann Wetzel’s office, got down on his knees, shone a pen-light through the heating vent, and—
Wow!

There it was, just like Nancy had said—a black leather pouch. The alluring object was hanging on a small nail, just inches away. As Harper commenced to lift the register, he was practically counting the greenbacks—

But wait.

What is this—is the confounded thing stuck?

Not exactly.

Damn! Hermann has fastened the register down with a dozen screws.
But that was not the worst news. These were not ordinary fasteners.
Oh, great. The jerk used tamper-proof screws.
The frustrated burglar put his face close to the problem, focused on one of the offending screw heads, and concluded that it was a Torx.

Useful information, to be sure. But what size?

Looks like either a twenty-five or a twenty-seven. Either way, ol’ Hermann must have the matching Torx bit somewhere in the house. But it won’t likely be in a toolbox—the sneaky bastard probably hid it somewhere.
Harper considered his options.
I could come back later with the tools I need
. That would be the sensible course of action.
Or I might be able to find a crowbar or something to pry the register up, screws and all. But that would make a lot of noise and—

The burglar heard the distinct
click
of the front door latch.

The squeaky
creak
of hinges.

The soft
thud
of the door closing Faint voices in the hallway. Getting louder by the second.

In a flash, Jake Harper slipped into the office closet and closed the door.

The Burglar Is Cornered

And therefore, extremely dangerous. Jake Harper stood motionless among Hermann Wetzel’s coats and sweaters, listened to the voices and footsteps come down the hallway, into the kitchen, and then—into the dead man’s office. He held his breath.

Believing it better to deal with the lurid issue of murder right up front, Miss Muntz pointed at the open cellar door and the masking-tape outline the medical examiner had placed on the floor. “That is where I found the body.” With a barely discernible hint of self-importance, she added, “I was on the scene only moments after the killer fled.” She frowned at the dark-brown stains on the top steps and door sill. “I was too late to be of any help. Mr. Wetzel was quite dead.”

Sarah Frank was barely able to suppress a fit of the cold shudders.
It must hurt awful to get shot with real bullets. I wonder what it’s like to die . . . all by yourself.
Nancy’s brutish stepfather must have experienced terrible pain and loneliness as he slipped away from this bright world of warm sunshine and sweet birdsongs to . . . to
what?
Aunt Daisy could have told her, but
would the sensible sixteen-year-old have believed such a tale of ghostly monkeyshines?

During her long, difficult life, the Ute elder had encountered more corpses than she could count on both hands—including three husbands. This being the case, Daisy had little interest in the dwelling’s recent history of violent death. What galvanized her mind was the dead man’s alleged treasure trove of hard cash. But even though she was posing as a prospective tenant to conceal her money-hunting motives, the tribal elder was beginning to take her assumed role more seriously.
I wouldn’t mind living in a nice place like this that was so close to town. If I was to get bad sick or fall down and break my hip, I’d be close to a hospital. And this place isn’t all that far from the Columbine—Charlie Moon could stop by every day or two.
Her mouth curled into an avaricious grin.
And if I lived here I’d have all the time I needed to look for Hermann’s money.
“Does this house have city water and sewer?”

Miss M nodded. “Oh yes.”

“How about natural gas?”

“Indeed it does, which is quite a rare blessing in such a semirural setting. Only about a half mile farther out of town, everyone burns either wood or propane.”

The comfort and peace of mind that such conveniences would provide made the Ute elder fairly prickle with envy.
When this old
matukach
woman has a problem, all she has to do is pick up the phone and call the county and they send somebody out to take care of it.
Which was not so at the yawning mouth of Cañón del Espíritu.
Just imagine, never having to worry about well pumps breaking or septic tanks backing up or the propane deliveryman not showing up because the snow’s knee deep or the summer rains turned the road into muck that’d bog his truck up to the axles.
The calculating old soul did some adding and subtracting.
If I was to rent my place for a fair price, maybe I could afford to move into this one.
“Let’s go have a look at the kitchen.”

BEING AN
ordinary mortal with run-of-the-mill lung capacity, Jake Harper had not been holding his breath for this entire interlude.
What the hell—it’s just two women and a girl.
But the burglar concealed in the closet was just beginning to be dimly aware of a more potent threat. Something evil was brewing here . . . he could feel it. Practically
taste it.

BARELY AWARE
of the departure of Daisy and the landlady for the kitchen, Sarah Frank stood in the office, gawking at the bloodstains and the tape outline of the body. There was also a bullet hole in the wall, marked by a blue tape-on arrow and a yellow sticky note upon which someone had hand-printed:

#2. 9 mm (?)

I wonder what that little sign means.
There was so much to wonder about in this mysterious life.
I wonder if Mr. Wetzel’s ghost is still here and that’s what I saw at the front window. I wonder if he can see me right now
—

An unseen Something passed by her face. A cold and
clammy
Something. And it smelled funny. Like an animal. Probably an effect of the girl’s active imagination.

Sarah’s blood ran cold; her teeth began to chatter. She wanted
more than anything
to run, but her shoes might have been nailed to the floor.

JAKE HARPER
could not see the girl from his dark concealment in the office closet. Nor could he hear Sarah Frank’s rapid breaths. But he knew she was there. And the boxed-in burglar was beginning to experience what those spin doctors in the medical profession refer to as
discomfort
. Considerable discomfort.
Compared to this, the dull throb in his left buttock was downright comfortable.

DAISY WENT
from one kitchen appliance to another, touching this, tapping on that, taking every opportunity to look doubtful. But, whatever she pretended to examine,
what was beneath her feet
continually occupied the old woman’s attention.

Miss Muntz commenced to point out features that commended her property. “The refrigerator is less than a year old, and it has a wonderful ice maker.”

“There’s one of them things on my refrigerator,” Daisy said. “It’s been nothing but trouble.”

“Really—what sort of trouble?”

“For one thing, it leaks.” Daisy rubbed the small of her aching back. “My nephew’s had to fix the water hookup two or three times. And it’s noisy as a pig eating corncobs. Sometimes it wakes me up in the middle of the night.”

Miss M’s tone was firm. “This ice maker has never leaked a drop. And your sleep would certainly not be disturbed by the slight noise it makes—the bedrooms are located well away from the kitchen.”

Daisy cast a suspicious gaze at the cooking stove. As if it might explode and incinerate them all.

Sensing an imminent complaint, the landlady launched a preemptive defense. “This gas range was installed just last month. Neither Mr. Wetzel nor his stepdaughter ever used the oven.” Shaking her head to express disapproval, Miss Muntz confided, “I doubt that Nancy could bake a pan of biscuits if her life depended on it. Aside from warming up canned soups and such on the range, those two managed with just the microwave. Nancy and her stepfather preferred . . .” she could barely get the horrid phrase past her lips, “frozen dinners.”

Daisy grunted as she bent to open the oven door. There was not the least blemish on the enamel. Not a stray crumb to be seen.

Considerably more flexible than her guest, Miss Muntz squatted beside Daisy. “Isn’t that oven just as spotless as one you’d expect to see in a Sears and Roebuck showroom?”

The Ute elder, who had not heard anyone tack “Roebuck” onto “Sears” for at least thirty years, was pleased that someone besides herself remembered such significant historical lore. She might have agreed with the landlady, who had every right to talk up the place. But, being who she was, Daisy sniffed at the oven. Cocked her head just so. Frowned. “Oh, I expect they must’ve used it once or twice.”

From Miss Muntz’s slightly elevated eyebrow, one might have concluded that this response did not please her.

Daisy noticed this, and more.
This old white woman is awfully edgy about something or other. Something must be wrong with this kitchen.
But what?
One way or another, I’m going to find out.
The Ute elder’s mind, which had a talent for conjuring up trouble, was beginning to froth and bubble. She played a hunch. “I think you know a lot more than you’re telling me.”

Miss Muntz’s rosy little face blanched. “Why, what do you mean by that—I’ve been quite forthcoming about my rental property and I must say that I resent—”

The tribal elder raised a hand to silence the protest, assumed a stern “I already know” expression, which invites confession. “You’ll feel a lot better if you get it off your chest.”

The white woman stared at the inscrutable Indian for the longest time, then finally hung her head and said, “Yes. You are quite right.”

Hah! I knew it
. Daisy guessed that the dark secret would have something to do with bad plumbing.

The landlady held her a breath for a moment. Pursed her lips. Tapped her fingers on a granite-topped counter. “I suppose I should go to the police.”