Free Dead Soul by James D. Doss

picture on file?”
    “We got a high school yearbook photo from Wilma’s mother. It’ll be in the folder—I’ll get you a copy made.”
    “Tell me about her mother.”
    “Jane Brewster. Widow. Early to mid-sixties.”
    “Where would I find her?”
    Parris gave his friend a complicated set of directions.
    The tribal investigator scribbled notes on a small pad. “The mother have a job?”
    “Mrs. Brewster mostly lives off her Social Security check. But she picks up some work here and there. Whenever she can.”
    “What kind of work?”
    “Cleaning homes. Laundry. Ironing. But primarily, the woman is a first-rate cook.” Parris held his tongue for a moment. As if he didn’t want to say it. “Before her daughter left town, the old lady spent three or four days a week fixing meals for Senator Davidson.”
    The Ute gave his friend a look. “Seems like all roads lead to the BoxCar Ranch.”
    The chief of police bristled his eyebrows into a frown. “Charlie—I sure hope this is a coincidence.” He looked up at a cloudy sky. “You hear any more from this Wilma Brewster look-alike, you be sure to let me know.”
    “I’ll do better than that—if this redhead contacts me, I’ll give her your unlisted telephone number. Tell her it’s okay to call you any hour of the day. Or night.”
    “Thanks, pardner.” Scott Parris felt like he was getting a fever. “And if I should pick up a serious case of the flu, I’ll be sure to cough in your face.”

Chapter Nine
    THE WIDOW
    CONCERNED THAT HE MIGHT HAVE TAKEN A WRONG TURN , CHARLIE Moon continued down the weed-choked dirt road. Around a hard left turn, he passed under the brittle arms of a diseased elm and slammed on the brakes. The little-used lane was blocked by a rusted Dodge pickup; the hulk was perched precariously on wooden blocks.
    The tribal investigator checked his scribbled notes. This layout was more or less what Scott Parris had described. Between by an orchard of sickly peach trees and a tumbledown barn, there was a small cottage. The dwelling had a pitched roof covered by tar shingles, deathly gray clapboard walls, a redbrick chimney that leaned ever so slightly southward. In stark contrast, the sparkling clean windows were flanked by freshly painted green shutters. The dusty yard had been broom-swept. The overall effect was a melancholy mixture of grinding poverty and stubborn pride.
    This has to be the place.
    The Ute got out of the truck, approached a sagging porch.
    A small mixed breed dog appeared from under the house. After scratching at an invisible colony of fleas and shaking off some excess dust, she yapped dutifully at the intruder. Turned to look expectantly at the front door.
    Moon paused to offer a kind word to the half-starved animal.
    The mutt responded with a wag of a drooping tail.
    A woman, looking a decade older than her sixty-some years, appeared at the door. Jane Brewster wiped reddened hands on a cotton apron. Dark red hair bobbed on plastic curlers. The work-hardened face was flat, without expression except for a hint of don’t-mess-with-me-buster. Only the eyes were alive. Her frank blue orbs engaged the Ute’s dark face. Her voice was tired. “You the Indian policeman?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” The visitor removed the black Stetson. “Charlie Moon.”
    “The chief of police—Mr. Parris—he told me you’d be stopping by.”
    “Hope this isn’t a bad time. I would have called first, but…” Jane Brewster’s telephone had been disconnected.
    “I didn’t pay the bills, so they pulled the plug.” She laughed mechanically. “Anyway, don’t worry about schedules. Out here, one time is about the same as another.” She clicked her tongue at the dog. “I expect there’s something you want to talk about.” There was not the least sign of curiosity on her face. “It’s too chilly to stand out here on the porch.” She turned toward the door. “C’mon in.”
    The inside of Jane Brewster’s home was like the outside.