The Old Gray Wolf (29 page)

But enough of this pandering to those Distinguished Professors of Zoology and Botany, who would merely sniff and make persnickety corrections to our pathetic display of pretended erudition. Having dispensed with them, here is something for the rest of us: a tufted-ear squirrel sits in a spruce.

A big ho-hum? Not sufficiently compelling?

Be forewarned, then: it is time to begin paying
very
close attention.

For one thing, this is no idle rodent. Whilst gnawing on a pungent cone whose seeds are deemed as ham and cheese on rye among her kind, she watches a two-legged creature approach the edge of a stream that was known as Granite Creek long before either the county or the incorporated township was so named.

The coated, booted, hatted bipedal creature stood stock-still for about half a minute, looking this way and that, as if to verify that no one was watching. Apparently satisfied, said biped selected two hard objects from the water's edge—one much like the other—and concealed the three-pound items stealthily in opposite coat pockets before walking away.

If bushy-tailed rodents were capable of having their say (and expressing their opinions in English), this one might have said, “Human beings are very strange creatures, indeed.”

Indeed they are. We are. But more to the point, the aforementioned
fullness of time
has blossomed, and you have already guessed the revelation, which is: a collector of
rocks
.

Two of them, if you weren't counting.

Black-and-yellow-speckled granite, to be more precise—each made tolerably smooth by eleven dozen decades of slowly tumbling along in an icy-cold creek bed, all the while bumping coarse elbows with others of their durable tribe until all the rough, grainy edges rubbed off. Not a particularly interesting existence, but imagine how honored one (or two) such individuals must feel to be selected from such a multitude of her (or his) fellows for some significant purpose—which shall be revealed in a second (just-around-the-corner) fullness of time, which is to say
right away
.

SHORT
AND
TO
THE
POINT

Just minutes after the sun had set, Professor Tiffany Mayfair responded to a tentative tap-tap on her front door. As the hospitable citizen opened it with a smile, Scott Parris's lady friend was struck firmly on the forehead with a you-know-what. (Rock.) Not wishing to disturb the neighbors unduly, her courteous assailant closed Professor Mayfair's door with a barely discernible click and departed as silently as the clack-clack of hard boot heels would allow.

YE
OLDE
GRAY
WOLF
DOTH
APPEAR
AGAIN

It would be more colorful to assert that the out-of-towner's pickup
materialized
from the shadows of early evening—and (entirely by chance) barely thirty yards behind the 1989 Bronco piloted by that lady who prefers to call herself Missy Whysper. But such descriptors (as
materialized
) should be limited to learned articles on honest-to-goodness actual quantum mechanics, dodgy (unfalsifiable) speculations on parallel universes, and whatever category of science fantasy may suit one's taste.

As it actually happened, the driver of the pickup had made a left turn at a quiet residential intersection and immediately found himself about a quarter block behind the Bronco. The lean, elderly man behind the wheel eased the toe of his gray boot off the accelerator pedal so as not to close the distance between his vehicle and yonder SUV, which was rolling along rather slowly. “Well … this is a fine piece of luck.”

Maybe so. But a man in his line of work had good reason to be wary of unexpected opportunities—which were liable to turn around and bite him first chance they got.
It would probably be smarter to stay as far away from her as I can, at least until I can figure out what she's up to.
On the other hand …
Things generally turn out fine if I just go with my instincts
.

“Fine” meant getting to tomorrow alive and spry, and his instinct at the moment was to follow Miss Louella Smithson and find out where she was going.

There was always the chance that …
I might see something that goes against the grain, and if I do I'll be right on the spot to sort things out.

Most of us, be we pipe-wrench-wielding plumbers, union-card-carrying electricians, cynical law-enforcement officers—or downright bad outlaws—tend to see ourselves in a role that suits our preferred outlook on life, which is likely to be more self-serving than strictly accurate. Basically, the Old Gray Wolf saw himself as a troubleshooter. With the emphasis on
shooter
.

In addition to this fortuitous encounter with the one woman in town who most occupied his thoughts and concerns, a couple of other surprises awaited him. The first would be Miss Whysper's destination—none other than the residence of Miss Patsy Poynter, Charlie Moon's intended. The second was—

But wait. Miss Whysper has just braked the Bronco at 250 Second Street, which is Patsy Poynter's address. She has also turned the battered SUV into the driveway—which is empty. She frowns as if saying “hmmm.” The absence of a motor vehicle in the driveway might well indicate that Miss P. had not yet returned from some last-minute errand. (Or a round trip to Colorado Springs—which journey Miss Whysper was unaware of). On the other hand, it might be that Patsy's automobile was parked in the garage, where neither the so-called Miss Whysper nor the so-called Old Gray Wolf could see it.

That latter citizen cruised slowly past Miss Poynter's address and squinted as the driver emerged from the SUV. It was hard for him to see the lady with any clarity, because it was moderately dark except for starlight filtered through a swath of clouds that might rightly be described as diaphanous. (The corner streetlights were both a half block away, occupied with helpfully illuminating Stop signs.) Nevertheless, the OGW did get a good look at the woman as she mounted the front porch steps, because Patsy (whether she was inside or en route) had left the over-the-door thirty-watt yellow bulb turned on—presumably so she would be able to see—in an instance such as this—who it was that pressed the buzzer button by her front door.

Which Miss Whysper did.

Bzzz.

Turning her gaze from the buzzer button, Miss Whysper glanced at the passing pickup—and experienced an eerie sensation that the unseen driver was staring at her. Dismissing this suspicion as an amateurish case of the jitters, she pressed the button again. Longer, this time.

Bzzzzzzzzz.

She was relieved to hear the click of high heels in the darkened hallway.

The door opened.

The visitor was effectively blinded by the yellow bulb, but a familiar voice that she immediately identified as that of Charlie Moon's pretty fiancée said, “Well, hello.” A silver-bell tinkle of a laugh. “Miss Whysper, I presume?”

“Yes. May I come in?”

“Sure you can, honey.” Miss Poynter opened the door. “You're right on time.”

 

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

HE MAKES AN ON-THE-SPOT DECISION

His thin lips set tight as a steel trap, the Old Gray Wolf deliberately ran the illuminated Stop sign, made a tight (but not tight enough) U-turn in the intersection, bumped over a corner of concrete curb, uttered an oath appropriate for such a mishap—and headed back to the Poynter residence lickety-split—where he braked the pickup to a stop with a spine-jerking lurch.

Was he upset? You bet.

But a seasoned old pro does not make hasty decisions. After taking thought for about three ticktocks of his Hamilton pocket watch, the man under the cowboy hat deliberately eased the pickup forward until it
blocked the driveway exit
.

THE
NEIGHBOR

An alert resident across the street had emerged onto her front porch with a small flashlight to look for the evening newspaper—and noticed the decrepit old Bronco pulling into Miss Poynter's driveway. Mrs. Buxton had also seen the shiny pickup pass by slowly, turn around at the end of the block, and return to park in front of the Poynter driveway—thus preventing the exit of the SUV.

Much like that tufted-ear squirrel gnawing on a cone in that spruce tree that abutted the small creek for which the town was named, she thought this behavior sufficiently interesting to pause and take careful note of. For a while, not much occurred that was worth gawking at—but presently her curiosity was amply rewarded.

It is accurate to assert that the ultimate event turned out to be very interesting indeed, and that Mrs. Buxton shrieked like a woman who had seated herself on a prickly pear cactus that was in full prickle. She dashed inside her cozy home, snatched up the nearest cordless phone, and dialed 911.

THE
GRANITE
CREEK
PD
DISPATCHER

“GCPD—what is the nature of your emergency?”

“This is Margery Buxton on Second Street—I want to report a fire!”

Clara Tavishuts responded in a dull monotone, “What is the location of the fire, Mrs. Buxton?”

“Oh, I don't know—I can't remember the number—but it's right across the street from my house. And I'm at … oh, gracious—I just can't
think.
” She closed her eyes. “I'm at 249 Second Street, so Patsy might be 248 or maybe 250—I don't know for sure.”

Clara Tavishuts knew the town like the back of her hand and the names of most of the residents and their pets. “Patsy Poynter's house is on fire?”

“Yes! Well, no. Patsy's house is across the street, but it's not on fire—it's her car—well, not
her
car, but the car that parked in her driveway just a few minutes ago!”

“Please stay on the line, ma'am—I'm dispatching the fire department.”

“Well, hurry!” Mrs. Buxton turned to watch the blaze flickering outside her front window.
If that car explodes and blows sky-high
(they always did on TV thrillers)
it's liable to shatter my window and the pieces of glass will slice me up like a ripe tomato!
Backing away from the window, she crouched behind the protection of an overstuffed La-Z-Boy recliner.

Within a few of the caller's racing heartbeats, Clara's voice crackled in her ear: “The firemen will be there within three minutes. Please stay inside, ma'am—a burning automobile can be extremely dangerous.”

“Oh, don't you worry about
that
—I wouldn't go out there for all the tea in China!”

“Good for you.” Clara's task now was to calm the distraught citizen, and the best way to do that was to keep the lady talking. “Now tell me
everything
that you know about this fire.”

Mrs. Buxton did. What she actually knew was limited, but what she had
seen
proved interesting to the dispatcher. She ended her account almost breathlessly: “And after the lady came out and told the man in the pickup to move it out of her way—I didn't actually see him because it's so dark—but I'm
assuming
it was a man—nothing much happened for two or three minutes. I couldn't see the lady or the man in the pickup, but right after she walked up to the truck, I'm sure I heard a popping sound, like someone had dropped a lightbulb, and then it was quiet for a while. Finally, I heard a car door open and close—it might have been the pickup or the car parked in Patsy's driveway—I just don't know—then the pickup drove away and I thought, ‘Well,
that's
over with,' and was about to come back into my house when I noticed a little fire on one side of the SUV and then
whoosh
! I mean the whole car went up in flames and I could feel the heat on my face clear across the street!” She peeked around the recliner. “I'm afraid it'll explode and blow all of my front windows out.”

Clara Tavishuts had frowned at the mention of a “popping sound” and she was beginning to have an uneasy feeling about this fire report. Her intuition kicked in with:
That woman has been shot dead—and her body left to burn up in the SUV.
“Ma'am—did you recognize the lady who came out to confront the driver of the pickup?”

“Oh, no—it was too dark.”

Now for the
big
question: “Could she have been Miss Poynter?”

The caller's answer was immediate: “Oh, no—this woman was about half a head taller than Patsy.”

Charlie Moon's old friend closed her eyes.
Thank you, Jesus.
Thankful though she was, the dispatcher couldn't help wondering why Patsy Poynter hadn't made a 911 call to report a car on fire in her driveway.
Maybe she isn't at home.

 

CHAPTER FIFTY

THE FIRST DOSE OF SERIOUSLY BAD NEWS

As Parris and Moon had just finished off a gooey, half-pound Reuben sandwich (the chief of police) and a man-size serving of the Sugar Bowl's semifamous green chili beef stew (the deputy), the stew eater's mobile phone began to buzz in his pocket.

Laying his soup spoon aside, Charlie Moon checked the caller ID. “It's Butch.”

His attention focused on the dessert menu, Parris shrugged. “Wonder what that tough little cowboy wants.”
I want a great big chunk of strawberry shortcake.
He glanced down at his bulging belly.
But I guess I ought to settle for a little bowl of sugar-free red Jell-O.

“I'll ask him.” Moon pressed the instrument against his right ear. “What's up, Mr. Cassidy?”

Dead silence.

“Butch—are you there?”

A long, raspy sigh rattled in Moon's ear.

Something's wrong.
The owner of the Columbine Ranch frowned. “Talk to me.”