A Dead Man's Tale (13 page)

Sarah Makes Her Report

But not during suppertime at the Columbine, when she was seated conveniently at Charlie Moon’s right hand. Though the tribal elder’s beady little black eyes sparkled with anticipation, Sarah Frank said not a word about what she had accomplished.

Sarah also kept mum while drying the supper dishes that Charlie had washed.

Daisy Perika took her time clearing the table, wiping imaginary spots off the red-and-white-checkered oilcloth and tending to any unnecessary task that would keep her within earshot of her nephew and Granite Creek County’s youngest private eye.

It was not merely Daisy’s expectant hovering that unnerved the girl. During supper, Sarah had been thinking over her adventure. After considering the risks she had taken, how the pair of snoopy GCPD cops had almost spoiled everything, how close she had come to having a terrible automobile accident, not to mention (which she couldn’t) how Aunt Daisy had come within a hairsbreadth of turning her stakeout of Mrs. Reed and her boyfriend into a humiliating fiasco—the amateur detective began to feel very amateurish indeed. Sarah seriously considered concealing the entire matter from Charlie Moon. On the other hand…
I did find out something that might help Mr. Parris.
On the
other
other hand…
Charlie might get upset if he finds out what I did.

No matter. What it all boiled down to was—
I have to do what’s right.

Sarah waited until the man of the house had withdrawn to his upstairs office and shut himself inside to tend to some business. When she tapped a tentative knuckle on the door, Moon was busy copying receipts that documented operating expenses he would deduct on next year’s tax return. If there was a next year for his cattle operation. Leaving his Canon PC copier to shut itself down, he opened the door to smile at his favorite teenager.

Avoiding his direct gaze, Sarah spoke barely above a mumble. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought you might like some after-dinner coffee and something sweet.”

“A cup of something hot will hit the well-known spot.” Moon winked at the winsome lass with long dark locks draped over her thin shoulders. “But besides yourself I don’t see anything sweet.”

He thinks I’m sweet?
Indeed he did, but the man she firmly intended to marry had never, ever paid her such a compliment. The confused girl glanced at the tray and felt her face burn. “Oh—I forgot the cookies. I’ll bring them to you later.”

“That’ll be nice.” He reached for what she had brought.

When Sarah refused to let go of the tray, Moon got the message. “You can put it on my desk.” When she did, and showed no sign of leaving, Moon got it again. “If you don’t have anything better to do, have a seat.” He pointed his chin at the ninety-year-old leather couch. “You can keep me company while I get some work done.”

Sarah seated herself primly. Pointedly ignoring Moon’s curious gaze, she rubbed a barely perceptible wrinkle from her blue denim skirt.

Figuring it was going to take some time for the girl to decide to say what she had on her mind, Charlie Moon restarted the Canon and copied a receipt from the company that had repaired the remote-control opener on the Columbine front gate for the fourth time in three years.
If those guys would fix it right, it’d save me two or three hundred bucks a year.

His pensive guest exhaled a long, wistful sigh.

Moon ignored the signal.

Sarah upped the ante with an “ahem.”

The rancher copied a receipt for a $1,240 payment to a local veterinarian.
Vaccinations get more expensive every year.

“Charlie?”

“Yeah?” Unconsciously imitating his aunt, Moon shot the girl a sideways glance.
She looks kinda nervous.

“There’s something we need to discuss.”

The rancher switched off his copying machine. “Okay, let’s discuss.”

“I did something today.” Sarah repeated the wistful sigh. “Something that I suppose you won’t be pleased about.” The girl clasped her hands in prayerful fashion and offered up a hopeful big-eyed look that would’ve melted a glacier. “I hope you won’t be really, really mad at me.”

He smiled.
She’s cute as a spotted puppy.

He doesn’t
look
mad
. Sarah tried to smile back.

Moon swallowed the smile and replaced it with a fair-to-middling scowl. “So what’d you do, run your pickup into one of my prime Hereford bulls and make a big dent in his fender?”

“Oh, no.” Sarah shook her head. Recalling her close call at the intersection in Granite Creek, she felt her face warm again.
I’ve got to tell him straight out.
Getting started was the hard part. In preparation for her confession, the girl cleared her throat. “You remember how you and Mr. Parris were talking about Mr. Reed’s wife?”

So you were listening outside the door.
Moon’s phony scowl was transformed into a genuine frown.
The kid’s picking up bad habits from Aunt Daisy.
“Yes, I do.”

“And how Mr. Parris said he’d like to keep a close eye on Mrs. Reed—if only he had the officers available?”

“I remember that too.” Moon seated himself beside Sarah on the couch.

“Well, I thought I might be able to…to help.”

Sensing that she was about to burst into tears, Moon looped his arm around the slender girl’s shoulders. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

Her eyes moist, she turned to smile at this man she would gladly have died for. “You can guess what I did, can’t you?”

“When it comes to the ladies, I generally don’t have a clue. But let me try some wild speculation and see how close I can get.”

Entranced by his light embrace, she waited.

Moon “hmmed.” Scratched his head. Then: “I bet you turned on your snazzy little laptop and got on the Internet and did one of those searches to find out whether or not the lady has a criminal record—”

Sarah was shaking her head.

The tribal investigator “hmmed” again. Stared intently at a sizable knot on the pine-paneled wall. “Okay, how about this. When you and Aunt Daisy went pickuping into town this morning, you started talking over what you could do to amuse yourself. After considering one thing and other, you two decided it might be fun to follow Mrs. Reed and find out if she was up to something. And so you drove over to her neighborhood.”

Sarah nodded.

“Lemme see now. What would’ve happened when you got there?” The Ute continued to gaze at the pine knot. “Okay, here’s how I see it. You decided to park your truck someplace where you could eyeball the Reed residence, but you needed some cover so if Mrs. Reed happened to zip out of her driveway, she wouldn’t spot you.”

She nodded again.
He is
so
clever!

“Hold on a minute, I think I’m getting the picture.” It was evident that Mr. Clever was pleased with himself. “Right, I can see how the whole thing unfolded. You parked your fine Ford pickup on a vacant lot across the street from the subject’s home. And while you were waiting for Mrs. Reed to drive away in her pink Cadillac, a couple of GCPD blue-suits showed up in their black-and-white and tried to hassle you, and Aunt Daisy told ’em she had every right to be there because she was thinking about buying the real estate you was parked on and—Ouch!” (Sarah had elbowed him in the ribs.)

“Oh—you knew all the time!”

Despite the sharp pain in his side, Moon laughed.

She glared at the fun-loving tribal investigator. “Those two gossipy cops must’ve told you.”

“Not directly.” Moon gave her a quick hug before unfolding his lean frame from the couch. Now out of elbow-gouging range, he towered over the seated girl. “Eddie Knox gave the chief of police the lowdown and Scott called me on the phone. He said, ‘Tell Sarah she’d better leave police business to them that knows how to do it.’” Moon cocked his head. “He didn’t give me any advice to pass on to Aunt Daisy, because everybody knows she don’t listen to a single word I say.”

This was
so
embarrassing. Sarah’s face felt hot as a flapjack sizzling in a skillet. “So what else do you already know?”

“Only that Knox and Slocum followed you after you took off after Mrs. Reed, but they lost you when they got involved in an accident at an intersection.”

Sarah went ice cold. “Accident?”

“Nobody was hurt, but it was a close thing.” Moon grinned at his recollection of Parris’s narrative about how the hapless cops got a whole load of cement dumped on their unit. “I figure I’ve said about enough.” He grinned at the girl, who was particularly pretty when she was angry. “It’s your turn, now. Tell me what you found out about Mrs. Reed.”

Sarah got up from the couch, smoothed her skirt again. “Oh, I don’t think I found out anything you’d want to hear about.”

“Try me.”

“Well…she has a boyfriend.”

A frown found its way to Moon’s brow. “Is that a fact?”

Sarah’s head bobbed in a perky nod. While Moon listened intently, the debut gumshoe provided a quick summary of what she had witnessed at the Sand Hills Country Club. Except, of course, for Aunt Daisy’s dog walk where the old woman had stumbled and practically fallen into the muscular young man’s arms. After pausing for a breath, she added, “I tried to follow—to
tail
Mrs. Reed’s boyfriend when he left the golf course, but I lost him.”

Charlie Moon tried to think of what he should say. At the moment, there was no purpose in reminding Sarah of what she already knew. If there was no danger in playing at detective, it wouldn’t be any fun. Later on, when she was calmed down, he would have a long talk with her about how it wasn’t smart to mess around in other people’s private business. In the meantime, he would take it easy on the teenager. “You’ll need to tell Scott about this boyfriend.”

“You two apparently like to talk about what I’ve been doing.” The girl lifted her chin in an impudent gesture. “Tell him yourself.” Sarah marched out of Moon’s office, closing the door behind her. It would be an exaggeration to say that she slammed it. But not by much.

And despite the fact that Charlie Moon spent the next ten minutes on the telephone updating Scott Parris on what the Ute-Papago youth had found out about Mrs. Reed and her boyfriend—during which interval he could have benefited from a boost in his blood sugar—Sarah Frank did not bring him a single cookie.

The Chief of Police Seizes the Day

Scott Parris spent a mostly sleepless night wondering whether Sarah Frank’s titillating discovery was of any importance.
Ten to one, the boyfriend will turn out to be a dead end. A waste of time. A snipe hunt.
Like a gristmill waterwheel churning up stream-bottom muck, the questions would surface for consideration, sink into the murky depths—only to rise again and recirculate through his consciousness.
Does Mrs. Reed’s romance with the golf-course groundskeeper have anything to do with Sam Reed’s conviction that he’ll be murdered on his wife’s birthday?
June 4 was getting closer with every sunrise.
If so, is Professor Reed aware—or at least suspicious—of his wife’s fling with this employee of the Sand Hills Country Club?
The dapper scientist-turned-investor was something of an enigma to the down-to-earth cop, and also something of a plain pain in the butt.
And if Reed does know his missus is messing around, why didn’t he tell me about it right up front?
Because he was a proud man, and embarrassed to talk about it?
Or does he want me to uncover the dark family secret on my own?
Then, back to square one.
One’ll get you ten, this boyfriend will turn out to be a dead end.
With this gloomy assessment, the insomniac’s internal dialogue would start all over again.

When the cold gray glow of dawn began to evict the darkness from his bedroom, Scott Parris rolled out of the brass four-poster, shaved his sunburned face, and showered while singing the lines he could remember from “Tennessee Stud” loud enough to wake up the neighbor’s dog. The man who was pushing the far side of middle age combed his thinning hair in thoughtful silence. After a breakfast of oatmeal seasoned with blueberries and walnuts, GCPD’s top cop called in to advise the dispatcher that he would be out of the office for most of the day. Before leaving his home, the ex-Chicago policeman paused at the hallway mirror for a last-minute inspection of his person. He started at floor level, admiring a new pair of Roper boots, approving the knife-edge creases in his black dress slacks, skipped the slightly bulging belly and homely face, and made his way up to the cherished brown fedora he had inherited from his father.

Considering the nature of his destination, Parris fastened the top button of his white cotton shirt and straightened the glistening gold shield clipped to his morocco belt. Last, he checked to make sure that the beige nylon shoulder-holster harness was tastefully concealed under his powder-blue corduroy jacket. On most days, the longtime lawman was barely aware of his sidearm, which was merely part of his attire. Today’s business should be entirely peaceful, but on this particular morning the cop was oddly comforted by the cold, heavy presence of the snub-nose Smith & Wesson .38 nestled snugly under his left armpit.

As Scott Parris watched the balding, somewhat overweight fellow in the mirror reflect a frown back at him, he knew perfectly well what his two-dimensional counterpart behind the looking-glass was thinking.
Be careful out there, chum. A man in our line of work never knows what he’s liable to run into—or the day when he’ll draw his last breath
.

Not so very far away, another, younger man was also grabbing the day by the gullet.

Granite Creek Municipal Building

It was 8:02
A.M
. when Chico Perez strode though the door to find the office occupied by three employees who were beginning another day’s work. A sleepy little bureaucrat was setting up the coffeepot and mumbling something to himself about the damn
rat race
. An energetic lad of twenty had opened a white box of assorted doughnuts, turned on the copy machine, and was happily filling a half-dozen hardwood trays on the countertop with various and sundry forms to be filled out by citizens who had business related to the operation of motor vehicles. Perez headed directly for the third public servant, who was giving him the big-eye. Irene Reed’s boyfriend leaned his elbows on the Formica-topped counter and flashed a smile at the middle-aged woman. “Hello, Phyllis.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Perez.” The lonely woman stared through rose-tinted spectacles that magnified her eyes, giving the impression of one who has been frozen in a state of perpetual surprise. “So what brings you here—did you misplace your driver’s license again?”

Goldilocks laughed. “I dropped by to see your pretty face.”

“I bet.” She smiled.
I wish.
“So what’s on your mind?”

“Official business.” Perez rapped his knuckles on the counter. “I’d like to buy me a dandy used pickup.”

“Not a problem. Bring the owner with you, and make sure he’s got the registration and title—”

“That’s the problem, Phyllis. I don’t know who owns this nifty little F-150—which is just what I’ve been looking for. I spotted it in the Smith’s supermarket parking lot, and there was a For Sale sign taped onto the rear window. I was on my way to get a closer look at the truck—and damn my bad luck—the guy drives it away before I can find out who he is.”

“I don’t see how I can help you.” Phyllis tapped her ballpoint pen on a stapler. “There are probably a thousand Ford pickups in the county, and lots of them are red.”

“But only one of ’em will have this number on the license plate.” Perez pushed a small square of lined yellow paper across the counter.

The clerk looked through the bottom of her bifocals at the number, then rolled her brown eyes up to gaze at the handsome young man. “I’m sorry—I can’t help you.”

“But it’s in your computer.”

“Well…yes. But I’m not allowed to give you that information.” Darting a wary glance at her co-workers, Phyllis lowered her voice to a whisper. “I could lose my job.”

“No way we’ll let that happen. But I’d
really
like to buy that pickup.” He leaned closer and winked at the flustered lady. “You busy tonight?”

She held her breath for several heartbeats.
Oh, what the hell—nobody’ll know but me and Chico.

The Sand Hills Country Club

As was his customary practice, Howell Patterson arrived right on time at precisely 8:58
A.M
., to back his Prius into the space marked manager. Unaware that he was being shadowed by an impulsive and dangerous man, the thin, gray-suited, black-tied emigrant from Mary land emerged from his efficient automobile, closed the door with just sufficient force to latch it, and—key ring in hand—aimed his distinguished face toward the sprawling brick building where Granite Creek’s privileged elite enjoyed the company of their peers. The senior administrator was turning the key in the door lock when he felt the weight of a massive hand on his shoulder. A lesser gentleman than Mr. Patterson might have cursed, yelped, or at the very least stiffened slightly at the unexpected touch. This man from Glen Burnie was made of sterner stuff. Ignoring the intrusion for the moment, Howell Patterson removed his key from the door and pocketed the key ring. Ready to face down anything from a hardened criminal to the village idiot, he turned his head just enough to raise a critical left eyebrow at the man with the heavy paw. “Oh.” There was a feigned trace of disappointment in the “Oh” the merest hint of a sneer curled his upper lip. “It is
you
.”

Whom did he see?

John Law.

The Chief of Police is Subtle

Scott Parris grinned at the snootiest man in Granite Creek County. “G’morning, Howie.”

Duly distressed at being addressed in this manner, the manager of the Sand Hills Country Club raised his nose at the affront and sniffed like a pedigreed French poodle appraising a back-alley mutt. “To what do I owe the dubious distinction of an early-morning visit from the township’s chief constable?”

The chief of police chuckled. “I’m here to do you a humungous favor.”

“Indeed?” Howell Patterson placed his right hand over the left side of his chest, whereunder he firmly believed his blood pump to be located. “Oh, be still my racing heart!”

“Ha!” The big cop slapped him on the shoulder. “I like to drop in on you, Howie—you always cheer me up. And you don’t fool me—under that uppity exterior, you’re a regular, ordinary snob.”

The Mary lander arched his brow again. Under it, his left eye emitted a minuscule twinkle. “When I update my résumé, may I use you as a reference?”

“Sure.” Parris pushed the battered fedora back from his forehead. “But only if you’re applying for a job a long ways east of the muddy ol’ Mississip’.”

“I will be delighted to comply with that condition.” The manager opened the door. “Please come inside. While I prepare a fresh pot of English breakfast tea and warm up some scrumptious homemade crumpets which I have in my briefcase, we can continue to exchange asinine remarks which in these parts pass for witticisms.”

Parris accepted the invitation and was surprised—nay, astonished—to learn that Mr. Patterson was serious about the tea and not kidding about crumpets in his valise. After waving off a sterling silver cream pitcher, downing the steaming black tea in two gulps, and making short work of a couple of crunchy crumpets, the cop broached the business that had brought him to Howell Patterson’s office so early on a fine May morning. “Here’s the deal—I need some information that’ll help me protect and serve the citizens hereabouts. But do I go to the DA and ask for a warrant—which I’d get in a Colorado minute—but which would cause a big stink here at the country club and embarrass my friend Howie no end?” Parris shook his head. “I do no such thing. To spare you the humiliation of anything that might look the least bit like a potential scandal, I drive all the way over here to provide my favorite country-club manager with the opportunity to tell me what I need to know
right up front
. That way, we avoid all the nasty rumors that’d keep rich folks’ tongues wagging around here for months on end, maybe even weeks.”

After removing an immaculate linen napkin from his lap, Howell Patterson clasped his hands together. “What, precisely, do you wish to know?”

“Now that’s the spirit.” It was essential to avoid raising any suspicion about a particular groundskeeper, whom Howell P. might already know was enjoying clandestine meetings with Mrs. Reed. Parris leaned forward and lowered his voice to a discreet whisper. “The names and addresses of all your employees.”

Howell’s left eyebrow arched for the third time in one day, which was practically unprecedented. “May I assume this has something to do with the groundless allegations that someone—presumably a club employee—has been pilfering unlocked vehicles in the members’ parking lot?”

This is too easy.
Grateful for the unexpected gift, GCPD’s top cop assumed a deadpan expression that hinted that Patterson was right on the mark. “At the moment, I’m not in a position to respond to that question.” The chief of police attempted one of those semi-sly shrugs that is intended to be interpreted as
meaningful
. “But I will go so far as to say that you’re nobody’s fool, Howie.”

“I am entirely undone by such high praise.” The manager unlocked a desk drawer, removed a leather-bound loose-leaf notebook, and placed it on the precise center of the glassed desktop. Both eyes twinkled at Parris. “As it happens, I am not authorized to release such information without a warrant.” With a practiced flick of the finger, Howell Patterson opened the notebook at a green plastic separator labeled
CONFIDENTIAL EMPLOYEE INFORMATION.
He consulted his Rolex Oyster. “If you will excuse me for—let us say a quarter of an hour—I shall leave my office and attend to some unspecified business.” He got up from his chair. “Please feel free to help yourself to whatever may tempt your fancy…among the remnants our light breakfast.” Before departing, he thoughtfully turned on his copy machine.

Twelve minutes later, Scott Parris left the Sand Hills Country Club with a napkin-wrapped crumpet in his jacket pocket and, for dessert—the name, birth date, and Social Security number of Mrs. Reed’s lover, also a slightly blurred facsimile of the muscle-bound man whose curly yellow locks hung to his broad shoulders.

When the time was right, the chief of police figured he would pay a courtesy call on the boyfriend and offer the reckless young fellow some sage advice about how it was inadvisable to mess around with another man’s wife, especially in a county where ninety-eight husbands out of a hundred packed six-shooters and the other two used razor-sharp bowie knives to get the point across.

But that public-service work was somewhere near the bottom of Scott Parris’s to-do list. It would have to wait until the busy cop had a few minutes to spare.