Death on the Greasy Grass (5 page)

“Commission from this collection alone would have set Harlan up for life.”

“If he actually had provenance for all these.” Willie ran his finger down the list. “In college, we studied relics being sold from private collections and even museums that assumed authenticity. Common con nowadays is to pass off fakes with contrived documentation.”

“Harlan was always careful about verifying authenticity,” Stumper said. He grabbed his can of Copenhagen, but put it right back in his pocket when he saw Willie eying it. “That's why Harlan spent time in jail this spring, for beating the starch out of that artifaker that consigned fakes he claimed were genuine.” Stumper tapped the flyer with his pocketknife. “Harlan had provenance for everything. At least in the Beauchamp Collection.”

“You saying some of these other relics he listed at auction weren't genuine?”

“Most are genuine, but most have been handed down from generations in families. The only provenance is word of mouth, and the only thing going to auction was Harlan's opinion that it was ancient.” Stumper stood and closed his pocketknife.

“Now, the Beauchamp Collection—that's different. Harlan had documentation from the great-grandson of the original owner, Blaise Beauchamp. Proof in spades, from what Harlan bragged.” He dropped back into Harlan's railroad chair, careful not to let the broken arm gouge his side. “Especially that item in the middle: the journal.”

Manny had been reluctant to wear the reading glasses stuffed in his pocket. He had lost his and borrowed Clara's spare pair before he'd left for vacation. But now he needed them, and Willie and Stumper exchanged smirks when Manny donned the paisley-framed glasses with rhinestone-studded bows. Manny kept quiet, content to let them read whatever they wanted into the glasses as he read:

Journal of Levi Star Dancer, Crow scout attached to the 7th Cavalry, Company E. Only journal of any Custer's scout known to exist.

“People from all over the country and some from overseas came just to bid on the journal,” Stumper said. “There have been prospective buyers parading through here all week.”

“And this Levi Star Dancer is Chenoa's ancestor?” Willie said.

Stumper nodded. “Levi Star Dancer is Chenoa's great-grandfather.”

“What's the connection to Beauchamp?”

“Not entirely sure, but I think Levi Star Dancer and this trapper Beauchamp were good friends. At least they lived among the Whistling Water clan at the same time. I asked Harlan about the journal that day I drew security here . . .”

“Did Harlan need security?”

“He thought he did,” Stumper answered. “He had advertised the Beauchamp Collection extensively, and he didn't want to take any chances. Especially with the journal.” He nodded to a small safe in the corner, the door standing open. “That's the only real security he had here, and I doubt if he ever used it.”

Manny bent to the safe, one of those hundred-year-old monsters that stood two feet high, but weighed more than a piano, the actual space used to store things about a foot square. “If he stored anything in there, it's gone now.”

Willie whistled and tapped the flyer. “If Harlan's flyer was right—and if he could provide the provenance on the only journal of one of Custer's scouts—he would have earned a bunch of greenbacks in commission alone.”

“He wasn't charging a dime commission for the journal, big man. The entire Beauchamp Collection had been donated, and the proceeds were to go to the Little Big Horn College. And Harlan was donating his commission for the rest of the collection as well.”

Manny tossed the flyer on the desk. “Benevolent man, your Harlan White Bird.”

Stumper laughed. “Just this once. Harlan didn't have a benevolent bone in his old body when it came to business dealings. Harlan figured—rightfully so—that the Beauchamp Collection was sure to draw bidders from all over the country. From around the world. This would have been Harlan's biggest auction ever. Publicly announcing his intent to donate his commission to the college fund made other folks open their pocketbooks to the other items he was to auction off. Or so he thought would happen.”

Manny nodded to a safe in the corner. “Surely that's not big enough to hold this collection. Is part of it . . .”

Stumper held up his hand. “Harlan was smarter than the average thief. Besides leaving the alarm pad that didn't work by the front door so everyone could see it, he hid the collection in plain sight. Table D,” he nodded. “Items four through thirty-eight.”

Manny and Willie followed Stumper to rows of tables on the far side of the building to one marked D. “These pieces make up the Beauchamp Collection.”

Manny stood with his hands on his hips. The artifacts took up the entire table. “This collection's too valuable to leave out in the open.”

Stumper laughed. “Harlan looked like your run-of-the-gin-mill rummy, but he was actually shrewd. He said no one would suspect him of leaving the collection out in the open.”

“Hidden in plain sight.” Willie walked around the table, squatting and looking at the collection from different angles. “This Beauchamp fella must not need the money if he just donated the artifacts.”

“I'm with you,” Manny said as he ran his finger over the items on the flyer, matching them with those displayed on Table D. “This collection will yield a fortune at auction.” He looked over the flyer at the collection. Beauchamp had donated a pair of women's beaded leggings that matched a quilled vest, the light blue background typical of the Crow. An elk-hide possible bag, a single row of beads adorning the closure, sat beside a painted hide shield and bird's head pipe. Gauntlets and beaded saddlebags were displayed next to an ornate red clay pipe. “Where's the journal?” Manny said at last.

“What?”

“The journal,” Manny repeated. “Where's Star Dancer's journal? It's not here.”

Stumper brushed past Manny and leaned over the table. “It was here yesterday.”

“You saw it?”

Stumper's face lost color and he looked over the next tables. “I didn't see it myself. But it was here.”

“How do you know if you never saw it?”

“Harlan stopped the bidder's inspection yesterday,” Stumper said over his shoulder as he walked the rows of tables adjacent to the Beauchamp Collection. “He wanted security while bidders looked at it during the day.” Stumper pointed to an empty table beside Harlan's office. “I drew the duty of standing around over there looking ugly all day picking my nose while people filed in and examined the collection.”

Manny held up his hand. “I'm not passing judgment. Just trying to find the journal.”

Stumper breathed deeply. He rubbed his forehead as he came back to the table displaying the collection. Except the journal. “All I was supposed to do was hang around in case someone decided to make off with something. As soon as the bidders left, Harlan moved the collection to this table while I hung around the office sipping ice tea. He said no one would dream that he left things so valuable out in the open, and he moved the collection.”

Manny looked to the tables adjacent to the Beauchamp Collection. “Well, the journal's gone now.”

“Maybe this Beauchamp came back and decided he didn't want to donate the journal,” Willie said. He grabbed Stumper's can of Copenhagen from his back pocket and began stuffing his lip.

“Don't you ever buy your own?”

Willie ignored him and replaced the lid. “Maybe Beauchamp decided to keep the journal. Maybe he came and got it.”

Stumper laughed nervously as he frantically walked the tables looking for the journal. “If he did, he had a hell of a trip. Adrian Beauchamp donated his great-grandfather's personal items, and the man still lives outside Paris. Harlan said he spoke with Beauchamp the morning I was here for the security detail.”

Manny rubbed his head, feeling woozy, needing to eat something. He fished in his pocket for a candy bar. “And Harlan never reported the theft?”

“He would have if he would have known about it,” Stumper called from five tables over, still walking the display, looking for the journal. “It had to have been stolen after Harlan left for the reenactment.”

“If it is stolen,” Willie called to Stumper three rows over. “Doesn't make any sense. If someone stole the journal after Harlan left for the reenactment, there wouldn't be any reason to set Harlan up to be killed.”

“Unless Harlan knew who had taken the journal.” Manny licked chocolate from the Snickers bar from his fingers, his head clearing. “And didn't have time to report it just then.”

“Or knew, but figured it was worth more to him putting the bite on the thief.”

“Blackmail?” Stumper had reached the last table and worked his way back. “Guess Harlan could put the bite on someone, particularly if they had deep pockets.”

“Maybe that's why he didn't need the commission money,” Willie said. “Maybe he found new money from whoever stole it.”

Manny walked to the end of the display tables and dropped his Snickers wrapper in a trash can. “Then we're back to figuring who hated Harlan badly enough to substitute live rounds for blanks.”

Stumper shook his head as he grabbed his can of snuff from the table. He glared at Willie when he opened it and found it empty. “Harlan was like a Komodo dragon—had no natural enemies.” He tossed the can in the trash.

“Even when he was a drunk?” Willie reluctantly handed Stumper his can of snuff.

Stumper nodded. “Even drunk. Some people are mean drunks. Harlan was a happy drunk, especially when he had someone to drink with.”

Willie turned away. Manny caught Willie's shame of the bottle, but Stumper didn't. “Half the people on Crow Agency owed Harlan.”

“But his business dealings?” Manny asked. “Thought he was ruthless.”

“He was. But folks on Crow Agency couldn't afford bidding at Harlan's sales. Even when he had less-than-collectibles up for sale. But apart from business, he was generous, whether it was a meal Harlan bought for someone down on their luck, or a cord of wood delivered to someone in the dead of winter, or letting kids use his shop to play ball, people owed him.”

Manny tapped the flyer and turned to Stumper. “Somebody wanted the journal. Who would be at the top of your suspect list?”

“I can't think of anyone.”

“Didn't you say Sam Star Dancer crashed here? That'd give him access to it.”

“He's a drunk, not a thief. And he certainly couldn't have arranged for Harlan's ammunition to be switched.”

“Let's find him and interview him.”

“I said he's no—”

“Humor me. Sam may not be a thief, but he may have ideas.”

Stumper kicked the floor with his boot. “All right. I'll put out the word we need to talk with Sam. But it won't be easy with a drunk like Sam who crashes wherever he gets the urge.”

“Find Itchy, too, if he crashed here with Sam.”

“All right.” Stumper held up his hands as if surrendering. “As soon as we turn over the right rocks and find them, I'll notify you.”

Manny smiled and laid his hand on Stumper's shoulder. “What else you got to do? Work those meth cases?”

C
HAPTER
6

“Not the friendliest soul I've ever met.” Willie watched Stumper's marked Tahoe disappear around the corner of the parking lot. He unlocked the door of Manny's Oldsmobile and draped his arm over the jamb. “Son of a bitch acts like he doesn't want to work with us to find out who set Harlan up. Acts like his shit don't smell.”

Manny paused before sliding into the blistering passenger seat, and he pulled his shorts down as far as they would go. He wished he had bought cloth seat covers for the old car. “You weren't exactly the ideal ambassador for the Lakota Nation yourself.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Besides using up all his Copenhagen, you were on the prod to climb Stumper's frame the moment you met him.”

“Bullshit.”

“Bullshit no shit. It was like you felt obligated to be openly hostile to him 'cause he's Crow. Just like in the old days.”

Willie looked away, and Manny knew he mulled that over in his mind. The Crow were historic enemies of the Lakota, even scouting for the government in the old days in their hunt for the Lakota. “Maybe I wasn't Officer Friendly with him.” Willie rolled the window down. “I guess I'm just upset for being stuck here, especially since I'm not convinced Harlan's death was anything but an accident.”

“I hope you're right.” Manny flipped open his cell and punched in the Billings Field Office. “I hope this was an accident and we can wrap this up quick. We got a week left on our vacation, and I feel Old Faithful calling our names.”

An operator came on Manny's cell, a soft, bedroom voice, much like Clara's last night urging him to come home soon. Clara had been the one to suggest he and Willie get away together, away from work, away from Pine Ridge, and just relax. “So you can have one guy vacation,” she had said, and Manny knew what she meant: after he and Clara were married, there would be little guy time for Manny to get away. And right now, Manny regretted coming to Crow Agency. If he'd have just listened to Willie, bypassed the Little Big Horn reenactment and headed straight for Yellowstone . . . “Can you connect me with Special Agent McGinnis.”

After a brief pause, McGinnis came on the line. “Get that accidental death taken care of?”

“I need you to call a guy and get him patched through to me.”

“Minute.” Papers shuffling on the other end. “All right. Shoot.”

“Guy named Adrian Beauchamp.” Manny spelled his name phonetically.

“Okay. Where?”

“Outskirts of Paris.”

“Georgia?”

“France.”

“Do you know what time it is there?” McGinnis said after a long pause.

Manny quickly calculated Paris time. “A little after two in the morning. And your point?”

“My point? You want me to wake up some poor bastard at two in the morning so you can talk to him about an accident?”

“Might not be accidental.”

McGinnis sighed loudly into the receiver. “You want me to call this Frenchman now?”

“Bob, if you'd rather work this reservation case yourself, I'll call Beauchamp . . .”

Manny let the threat hang, enjoying the long pause on the other end of the line as Bob McGinnis weighed working a case on Crow Agency. “Damn you, Tanno. Spell this guy's name again.”

* * *

“Do you really think the journal could be that important?” Willie pinched snuff into his lower lip, carefully stuffing less Copenhagen in than when he'd pinched from Stumper's can. “With everything else of value up for auction, someone could have taken many things of great value.”

“A journal of one of Custer's scouts? That'd bring megabucks.”

“It'll be next to impossible to off the journal in the black market.” The strong tobacco odor brought up urges and Manny rolled the window down. “The thief could have taken any number of other items that hadn't the publicity the Star Dancer journal had.” Willie stuck the car in gear and started out of the parking lot of the Justice Building.

“Unless theft for sale wasn't the motive. Brings us back to that blackmail theory.”

Willie stopped and turned to face Manny. “Stumper never saw the journal. He assumed Harlan had it in that cedar box. There's the possibility that Harlan sold it sometime yesterday before he left for the reenactment.”

“So you think Harlan stole the journal, sold it, and was going to claim that someone came in and lifted it during the show?”

Willie raised an eyebrow. “Remember Stumper said Harlan was paranoid, built his auction house on a dead-end street so he could better monitor people coming.”

“Go on.”

“If he was so paranoid, why didn't he fix his alarm system? Why didn't he repair the broken window in the spare room? I'm thinking he didn't because he wanted to point to those places as a way a thief could gain entry unnoticed.”

Manny smiled, proud that Willie was working things out on his own. Just one more step toward his becoming a top investigator.

“Or maybe the journal's a diversion.”

Manny fumbled with Willie's iPod, which he'd wired into Manny's car as a condition of going on vacation together. Willie reached over and hit the power and Creedence Clearwater Revival faded away.

“Maybe Harlan was into something else, and the disappearance of the journal is just a diversion.”

“Don't get more of a diversion than getting killed.”

Willie nodded. “I guess we can assume Harlan wasn't counting on that.”

“You're talking us right into an extended stay on Crow Agency.”

Willie slipped his Ray-Bans on. “I'm just spouting shit here. I'm sure by tonight we'll close this as a tragic accident, then Stumper and the BIA can worry about what became of the journal.”

They took the I-90 Hardin exit and pulled in to the Custer's Revenge Motel. Willie stopped in front of a faux hitching rail replete with rusty horseshoes nailed to the weathered top rail. Manny started to get out, but Willie made no move to shut the car off. “You staying out here?”

“The less time I got to spend in that place the better.” He nodded to their motel room. “That's the last time I let you book a room.”

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘what'? Did you think a motel by the name of Custer's Revenge would be Indian-friendly? The last time I looked, we were still Indians.”

“The staff is friendly enough . . .”

“But lazy as hell. The lights don't work half the time, and that bathroom's a nightmare. That crack in the toilet seat pinched my butt last night and I thought it'd never let go.”

Manny laughed. “You could have yelled a little softer. You woke me up.”

Willie shook his head. “Custer's Revenge. By the looks of the place, we're the only business the place has had all year. Custer's Revenge.”

“Could have been called Montezuma's Revenge.”

“That's all I need, a case of Montezuma's revenge and trying to fight that toilet seat from grabbing my ass.” Willie spit tobacco juice out the window. It slid down the side of Manny's Oldsmobile. “And this?”

“What?”

“This?” Willie wiped his mouth with his bandanna and slapped the green metal dash. “Don't see why you ever got rid of your nice Accord and bought this.”

Manny feigned pain as he wiped the dust from the dash of his '55 Olds. “The Accord had a ton of miles on it. It kept nickel-and-diming me to death. Besides, there's more metal here than my Honda had.”

Willie nodded. “Guess the more iron you have the less likely you'll be hurt when—not if, but when—you have your next wreck. Next year at this time, this thing will look like every other rez rod prowling Pine Ridge. And”—he shook his head—“you should never buy a car you can't push. And this one's too heavy to push.”

“You're the one who insisted on driving my car rather than your truck.”

Willie shifted in the seat. “Just because you said this heap had air-conditioning.”

“It does,” Manny said. “It just doesn't work.”

“I can live sweating my butt off without air. But between the lumpy bed and the toilet seat and wrestling this thing around without power steering, I woke up feeling like I'd gone ten rounds with the Turtle Tree boys.”

“When was the last time you tangled with those rowdies?”

Willie's hand shot to his cheek, still sporting a faint discoloration. “Two weeks ago when I backed up Hollow Thunder. Point is, that bed about beat me to a draw.”

“My bed's just fine.”

“And the hot water? Do you like your hot water running out halfway through?”

Manny had done the two-step this morning when the shower turned as cold as a mountain stream partway through. “I notified the manager. Besides, we're not exactly rolling in the dough. It was the most cost-effective room we could get.”

“Cost-effective? That's just another way of saying you're cheap.”

“Frugal.”

“How frugal?”

“They gave me a veteran's discount.”

“How frugal?”

Manny looked out the window. “$22.90 a night.”

“What! Does that include that rough TP? I got a paper cut with it last night.”

“Oh, bull.” Manny swore he'd gotten wood chips in his butt last night from the paper. But he wasn't going to admit it to Willie. “So it's not Charmin. When you're trying to be frugal, you have to skimp on some amenities.”

“The softest toilet paper a man can use isn't splurging. It's the highest on the priority list.” Willie slapped Manny on the arm. “You're just cheap. For the rest of the trip, I'll make the reservations. I'm willing to pay a little bit more for a good night's sleep. And for a butt that isn't healing from a thousand unkind cuts.”

Manny opened the door, but Willie made no move to follow. “So you're pissed, and you're going to sleep out here tonight?”

Willie looked away. “I'm going to catch an AA meeting in town.”

Manny put his hand on Willie's arm. “Wish I could be of some help.”

Willie shook Manny's hand off and turned in the seat. “What could you possibly do? How could you possibly know what real addiction is? It's not like you got much stress to deal with.”

Manny wanted to confess he struggled with his smoking habit. And his weight. And his stress level soared with his on-again, off-again relationship with Clara, reaching an all-time high level now that they were engaged. And his guilt over the Red Cloud homicide. And his relationship with his brother Reuben. Manny knew stress.

Willie forced a smile and slapped Manny on the leg. “I know you just want to help. But I'll be all right as soon as I hunt up that meeting.”

Manny closed the car door and leaned in the window. “We'll watch some TV tonight when you get back.”

“The TV doesn't work.”

Manny watched Willie as he drove out of the parking lot.
Damned that Olds has got nice lines.
He turned to their motel room. His key caught and stuck partially into the lock. Manny pushed on the key and the door swung in, unlatched. He tried pulling the key out, but it remained jammed in the lock, and Manny made a mental note to notify the desk clerk in the morning.

Manny clapped, but the light didn't come on. He clapped again. And again, hoping no one saw him clapping like a fool. He had turned to leave for the manager's office when he clapped a last time. A wagon-wheel chandelier missing two bulbs flickered on and washed the room in dirty light. It hung low enough that Manny had to duck around it as he plopped onto a stained blue sofa. A spring jabbed him in the butt, and he moved to the opposite side of the couch. He had started taking his boots off when his cell phone rang.

“I've got your man on the line,” Bob McGinnis shouted in the receiver as if he'd been hollering all the way to Paris. “But he's hard to understand. His English isn't very good.”

“'Bout like your French?”

“Piss on you, Tanno.”

There was a short pause while McGinnis patched Adrian Beauchamp through. Between the language differences and the fact that Beauchamp had been awakened in the middle of the night, Manny strained to understand him.

“The
gendarme
said you need to speak with me right away, Monsieur Tanno.”

“Oui, mon ami.”
Manny didn't trust his French any further and switched to English, speaking slowly. After explaining he had examined the Beauchamp Collection, he asked Beauchamp about the artifacts he had donated for the auction.

“These things belonged to Great-Grandfather Beauchamp . . . Blaise. He spent time trapping Crow country before the Custer Massacre, but he left Crow country some months before the battle.”

The line went quiet and Manny wondered if they had been disconnected, when Beauchamp continued. “Blaise moved back east in your country. Started a trading company that dealt with Indians in your west.” Beauchamp laughed. “Your Wild West. Anyway, he made his fortune in trade before returning to France. He lived out his days here. The
gendarme
who woke me said the collection has caused much trouble in your country.”