Stone Butterfly (16 page)

It was Sheriff Popper who had pecked his knuckles on Marilee Attatochee's door. He offered the face in the window a bashful grin, raised his hand in a halfhearted salute.

Marilee opened the door, fixed him with a mean-as-a-scalded-pit-bull grimace. And just in case he hadn't noticed her teeth, she barked: “What're
you
doin' here, you beady-eyed old son-of-a-bachelor?”

The lawman's grin faded. “Well, I just thought I'd drop by and—”

“When I loaned you that snapshot of Sarah and her cat, you never told me you'd give it to them TV vultures.” She pointed at the antique RCA console. “Now almost ever time I turn the tube on, I see my poor little cousin—and hear them so-called news reporters talking like Sarah was wanted for some kinda horrible crime.”

After having subsided to a barely noticeable tremor, the throbbing ache in Popper's head started quaking in the neighborhood of seven-point-six on the Afflictor Scale. He rubbed at the patch of bandage above his eye. “I'm sorry, Marilee—but I was elected to do a job for the county—”

“If you run again, you damn well won't get my vote!”

“—and I hafta do it the way I see fit.” He tried to look past her. “Mind if I come in for a minute?”

She cranked her malevolent glare up to gale force. This had about as much effect as throwing marshmallows at a brick wall. “Oh, no. I don't mind. In fact, of all the Tonapah County sheriffs we got, you're just about my favorite.”

The stream of abuse rippled over the thick-skinned old alligator's back. Knowing it would annoy her, he tipped his hat, winked. “Why thank you, ma'am.”

As he mounted the sandstone-slab doorstep, the lady of the house stepped aside and tried again. “Maybe you'd like a cup of gourmet coffee I made with hand-ground Hawaiian beans—and how about a big piece of strawberry shortcake with whipped cream?”

“Oh, I'll take a rain check on the shortcake—strawberries make me break out all over.” Ned Popper removed his hat, waved it at Moon and McTeague. “And I've already had my limit of coffee for the day. But if you've got a cold bottle of soda pop, I wouldn't say no to that.”

Marilee muttered something rude under her breath, stomped off to the kitchen.

Easing himself into Marilee's fine rocking chair, Popper addressed the out-of-towners on the couch. “I hope you folks don't mind me dropping in.”

Speaking on behalf of Moon and herself, McTeague made it clear that they did not mind in the least.

“After you're through talkin' to Marilee, I figured you two might like to take a run over to Ben Silver's house.”

McTeague appreciated the local lawman's invitation, and said as much.

“After this business is finished, let 'em go ahead and elect someone else—I'm getting tired of this line of work.” The old man closed his eyes, rocked back and forth. “After I hang up my spurs, this is how I'll spend every day of the week.” He exhaled a deep, satisfied sigh. “Except for now and again, when I'll bait me a hook, drop it in Plumbob Creek.”
And while the bobber drifts on downstream, I'll lean my head on a willow stump and drift off to sleep.
The rocking chair went squeak-squeak. Then slower. Squeak…squeak…

The disgruntled woman in the kitchen picked this tranquil moment to begin banging percolator parts. Pots and pans. A coffee can. The cacophony suggested a demented drummer.

The sheriff sighed. “What that feisty little spark plug needs is a day off to rest.”
I'd be glad to take her fishing.

Presently, Marilee Attatochee appeared with a tray, plopped it on a wicker coffee table. She described what could be clearly seen: “There's two cups of coffee and a Diet Coke for Ned. And some packets of sugar and non-dairy creamer. And a box of little sugar donuts.”

Special Agent McTeague took a cracked mug of the black liquid, thanked her host, performed a discreet one-sip taste test.
This is really excellent.

Reading her face, Marilee said: “I put half a dozen ground-up piñon nuts in every pot. And some little pieces of eggshell.”

Ned Popper helped himself to the carbonated beverage. “Thank you kindly, Marilee.” He took a fizzy sip, presented a sly grin. “Come next election, you wouldn't actually vote against me?”

Glowering at the man who had taken her rightful place in the rocking chair, the registered voter seated herself on a stool. “I may
run
against you.”

The sheriff winced at the threat.

Noticing that no one among those present was showing any interest in the tiny tire-shaped pastries, Charlie Moon took the box of Little Debbie's finest and balanced it on his knee. He also helped himself to all the packets of sugar, emptied them into his coffee cup.

Halfway through the soft drink, the sheriff cleared his throat. “There's no word yet on Sarah.” He dared not meet the Papago woman's stony gaze. “But I wouldn't worry. She'll turn up.” He rolled the aluminum can between his hands. “And soon as she does, I'll make sure—”

This statement was interrupted by a scritchy-scratchy sort of noise, such as beady-eyed vermin are apt to make.

The Intruder

Marilee and her guests sat very still, listened.

The sounds came from the yonder end of the shotgun house.

The was a rusty creaking as the doorknob turned.

The Papago woman and the three officers of the law waited.

A sinister screee-eeek as the back door opened on rusty hinges. As it closed, a metallic clickety-clatch of the latch.

Floorboards squeaked as footsteps approached.

A pause, as if the intruder was having second thoughts. Then third ones.

Then, more squeaks on the oak floor.

Marilee got to her feet, the expression on her face speaking louder than words. She knew who this was.

Alphonse Harper approached the dimly lit parlor blinking, muttering to himself. “Tubby must be off somewheres.”

Now her words were heard: “No she ain't!”

To say that he jumped two inches off the floor and swallowed half his tongue would be but a slight exaggeration. He also made a sound which can only be described thusly: “Eeeow-wah!” When Mr. Harper had regained some small portion of his composure, he frowned at his girlfriend. “Whatta you mean—scarin' me half to death?”

“Hah!” she replied, and added for clarification: “Halfway is not what I had in mind.”

The sometimes man-about-the-house noticed the other visitors. Sheriff Popper, with whom he had from time to time had “professional encounters,” was no stranger to Al Harper. He jerked a thumb at the strangers. “Who're they?”

Marilee Attatochee parried this inquiry with one of her own. “Where've you been—hanging out with your boozed-up, half-wit friends?”

Being a man with considerably more pride than substance (as quite a few women believe is common among the hairy-legged gender) Alphonse Harper straightened his back, gave the short, stumpy woman a comical, cross-eyed look that was intended to be stern. “I comes and goes as I please.” He hiccuped. “So don't you be callin' on me to do any…any…” The word he was vainly searching for was “explaining.”

The Papago woman caught a whiff of his breath. “You've been drinking.”

Mr. Harper attempted to hold his breath as he replied, which is well-nigh impossible. “I ain't not.”

Though not a grammarian of the first water, Miss Attatochee had her standards. “You ain't
what
?”

As the fascinated audience watched, her boyfriend began to wilt. “Well, maybe a beer or two.”

“You stink like a six-pack or two.” In preparation for laying down the law, she squared her shoulders. “You want to drink yourself pie-eyed, that's your business, Al—but don't come home drunk. And buy what you drink with your own cash.” She pointed in the general direction of the kitchen. “Don't go stealing my hard-earned money out of my toolbox.”

His good eye bulged with righteous indignation. “Did not.”

“Yes you did.”

Another hiccup. “No I didn't. Swear on my momma's gravy—”
No, that wasn't what I meant to say…

“Then who took it?”

There are times when a man should keep his mouth shut. Or, if he is bound to speak, avoid outright lying. The petty thief would have been better off if he had simply admitted to the petty theft, thrown himself on the mercy of the court. But Al did what came naturally. “Sarah stole it.”

The tough little woman seemed to expand in all directions. Until she was approximately the diameter of a fifty-five-gallon drum. A drum full of explosive material. “What did you say?”

Mr. Harper did not notice the sign on the drum, which clearly warned of the
DANGER
of making sparks in the immediate vicinity. Indeed, he was of the opinion that this conversation was going his way. “Hells bells, it's all over town—everybody in Tonapah Flats knows the kid's a burglar.” He shrugged. “It was Sarah that took your piddlin' eighteen dollars and sixty-five cents.”

Neither Moon nor McTeague could suppress a smile.

Ned Popper opened his mouth and laughed out loud.

Considerably offended that the sheriff had dare cast aspersion on his well-honed falsehood, Harper gave the gray-haired old copper a haughty look. “Well, she did.”

Marilee Attatochee had a strange look in her eye. It was one that her boyfriend had never seen there before. The expression was not merely one of unabated hatred. Not simply white-hot anger. Nor could it be summed up as signaling a serious intent to do him grievous bodily harm. It was more like a combination of all three.

Enhancing the illusion, her voice was calmness itself. “That does it.”

He grinned at the little woman. “Does what, Poopsie?”

She pointed at the back door. “Go.”

The brevity of her command confused him; this verb needed a subject. “Where?”

“Outside.”

“Oh.” Mr. Harper believed he was beginning to get the gist of the plot. “You want me to go for a walk so you can talk to these folks—”

“Hit the road, Al. Make tracks. And do it right now.”

He did not appreciate her tone. No female was going to talk to him like that, especially not in front of witnesses. A man had his reputation to think of. He looked down his crooked nose at the pushy Papago woman. “I'll go when I'm damned good and ready.”

She approached in quick stomps that came very near to punching holes in the hardwood floor.

Alphonse Harper's feet contained about sixty more IQ points than his brain; they backed him into the dark hallway, barely keeping him out of her reach.

A moment after he backed into the kitchen, his voice was heard again. “Hey—what're you doin' with that skillet.” A brief silence was followed by an answer to this pertinent question. It presented itself as that sort of soft, thudding sound such as might be produced if a husky person smacked a ripe pumpkin with a heavy, cast-iron object. This was immediately followed by an “Ow!” and the sound of clomping boots beating a hasty retreat, which was matched by the woman's heavy steps. Plus two more thuds on Harper's pumpkin. “Ow! Ow!”

In alphabetical order, the visitors in the parlor offered comments.

McTeague (alarmed): “She is assaulting the man!”

Moon (looking askance at the television—where a furious Elmer Fudd, armed with a stubby double-barrel shotgun—was chasing Bugs Bunny through an apple orchard, firing both barrels sixteen times each without reloading): “Sometimes I am inclined to agree with those folks who say there is too much violence on TV.”

Popper (disappointed at hearing the back door slam): “Dang. Sounds like Al's got away.”

Approximately one minute of heavy silence ensued, during which McTeague glared at those callous lawmen who showed not the least interest in whether Citizen Harper lived or died. Such unprofessional behavior irked the fed right down to the marrow.

Precisely eighty-nine seconds after the last “Ow!” Marilee Attatochee returned. Wearing an immaculate pink apron and a big, pearly toothed smile, she was obviously much refreshed—even to the point where an astute observer would have concluded that the harried soul had assumed a bright new outlook on life. It was true. Having rid her home of the pesky nuisance, the five-foot female was, in short, a new woman. She paused by the rocking chair, patted the local sheriff on the shoulder as if he was her favorite brother. “Any of you cops want your coffee heated up?”

As the barge-like bus drifted slowly down a Durango avenue, Sarah's nose was pressed against the window. She was
so
close to home now. Or, since her parents had died, the closest thing she'd ever known as home.

Soon, the town was behind them.

The girl gave up a sigh that was transformed into a yawn.

The driver began to sing, oh so softly.

His honeyed baritone drifted off to conjure up a faraway yesterday: