Trouble at the Red Pueblo (23 page)

Spider fished his pen and notebook from his pocket, sounding out the name as he wrote it down. “Where does she live?”

Neva looked at Martin but received no help from him. “I think she lives in St. George.”

“I’ll see if I can talk to her on Monday.” Spider put his notebook away. “Are you ready for good news?”

Neva clasped her hands in front of her chest. “We’ve been waiting weeks for some good news.”

Spider passed the folder to Neva. “I don’t think you’ve met Karam Mansour. He’s visited the museum several times, and he was able to help us out. If you’ll open the folder to the first page?” He gave them time to read Karam’s letter attesting that the report was a true representation of his research and listing his credentials.

“How much did this cost us?” Neva asked. “He sounds like a heavyweight guy.”

“It’s been covered,” Spider said. “Don’t worry about it. Now, please turn to the next page.”

Neva did as he asked and held the book, so Martin could read it along with her. “What’s this? A pedigree chart?”

“Yes. This is the Goodman line for the woman who is bringing suit. You’ll see that her line goes back through Jacob Goodman, who entered the United States in 1882 as Jacob Guttman. The immigration official must have changed the spelling when he was processed.”

Neva stared at the chart. “Her people came from Germany?”

“Decades after the Civil War,” Martin added.

Spider nodded. “Turn the page, please. You can see here that Oscar Goodman, the soldier in the Lincoln Letter, died without any children shortly after the war. Not only that, but he was the last of his line. There is no way that Alyssa Goodman could have any claim on the cache.”

Neva looked at Spider, a frown furrowing her brow. “But they submitted a family tree that went from her clear back to Oscar. It was a direct line.”

“It was fake. They probably banked on your accepting their official-looking documents. You’ve got proof in your hand that their suit is without merit.”

Martin and Neva looked at each other as if seeking confirmation in the other’s eyes.

“It’s true,” Spider said. “It’s over.”

“Thank you,” Neva said. “I don’t want to sound like a worry wart, but what’s to keep him from trying some other scheme to disable us and get the ranch?”

“A couple things.” Spider leaned forward, marking each point on his fingers. “First, I’m going to talk to him— maybe this weekend, maybe Monday— and make sure he knows we’re onto him. Second, we can see if we can prove fraud, especially if he was connected to the bathroom incident. We need to make it so painful for Austin Lee that he will think twice about tangling with the Red Pueblo again.”

“Is there any chance—?” Neva stopped and made a
never mind
gesture.

“Go ahead and ask,” Spider said. “There are no dumb questions.”

“I was wondering. If Austin Lee was behind the bathroom suit— if it was fraudulent and all— is there a chance we could get the money back?”

“You’ll have to talk to a lawyer about that one,” Spider said. “But I think it’s worth exploring.”

Martin flicked his hand up. “Now I have a question. Does Mattie know Austin Lee’s part in all this?”

Spider picked up his hat. “Pretty much. I told him last night.”

Martin’s face looked drawn. “What was his reaction?”

“He figures someone needs to put a stop to what he’s doing.”

Neva put her hand on Martin’s knee. “But he’s willing to let that someone be you, isn’t he?”

Spider looked from one to the other. “Is there something I’m missing? Something you need to tell me?”

Martin lowered his eyes and shook his head, but Neva said, “Mattie’s got a temper. Combine that with tunnel vision about the museum and a stubborn nature…” She shrugged. “It’s hard to stop him when he’s set out to do something he thinks has to be done.”

Spider picked up his hat and stood. “Be sure to tell him the latest news about the cache and the Lincoln letter. That should cool him down a degree or two.”

Neva stood, too. “We will. Thank you for everything. And tell Mr. Mansour how grateful we are for the research he did.” She led the way to the front door and opened it.

Spider stepped out onto the weathered porch and turned to take his leave. “I’ll let you know what I find out on Monday.” He put on his hat, touched the brim, and then crossed the patchy lawn to the sidewalk.

Why had he thought walking to the Taylors’ was a good idea? It was four blocks back to Denny’s Wigwam, and he was supposed to meet Karam there in two minutes.

AS PART OF
Western Legends, twenty pioneer-era craftsmen had set up displays in the wide concrete expanse in front of Denny’s Wigwam, a thriving tourist emporium. Spider found Karam watching a blacksmith make wrought iron nails. Next to the blacksmith, a rope maker coached tourists as they twisted long, coarse fibers into strands of twine. Beyond the rope maker, a saddler worked at his craft, and on the corner, someone had built an ingenious display to show the power of a water wheel.

Karam smiled as Spider approached. “This is a step back in time for most Americans, but I have been in villages in the Middle East where this would be considered modern technology.”

“I guess we’re not going to wow you with any of these displays, then,” Spider said.

“On the contrary. I am enjoying them immensely.”

Spider and Karam spent the hours before dusk wandering through the exhibits and talking to the artisans. When people started closing up shop, the two friends drifted to a gravel area behind Parry Lodge where silver-haired men in cowboy boots and large belt buckles tended Dutch ovens set out in ranks over glowing coals.

“That smells delicious,” Karam said. “What are they cooking?”

“Looks like fried chicken, potatoes and onions, and biscuits. Let me buy you dinner.”

“Will Laurie be meeting us here?”

Spider shook his head as he paid a lady in a sunbonnet and directed Karam to the feeding line. “She’s setting up for the program tonight. We’ll mosey over after supper, but we have to sit through some cowboy poetry before she sings.” He paused a moment as an idea took form. “I haven’t taken the Yugo to get it gassed up yet. It’s still parked where we left it this morning. Do you want to take some time to do it after supper?”

A concerned look came over Karam’s face. “But we’d miss some of the cowboy poetry, wouldn’t we?”

Spider picked up two paper plates and handed one to his companion. “Wouldn’t want to do that, I guess. Grab a handful of those napkins and stick them in your pocket. We’ll need them.”

They loaded their plates and found a place to sit at a table in the shadows. The tender chicken oozed juice as they ate it with their fingers. “You know the chicken’s done just right when it drips off your elbows,” Spider said.

Karam wiped his hands on the last napkin. “I have never tasted anything so good. I’m almost tempted to—” He broke off as he stared out toward the street.

“What?” Spider peered into the dusk, trying to find what Karam was looking at.

“Nothing. I saw Amy. It was a nice experience, seeing a new acquaintance while in a strange place.”

“Was she with Jack?”

“No. She was with someone else.”

“Tall and blond?”

“Yes.”

“Shoot.” Spider drummed his fingers on the table. Should he go chasing after them, so he could say what he had to say to Austin Lee? He didn’t like the picture of himself dodging around in the dark or the thought of a public confrontation. Let it go for now.

“Is anything wrong?”

Spider looked up to find Karam standing with his plate in his hand. “Nah. Just things on my mind. Are you going for seconds?”

“Do you mean am I having more? Yes. I think I will have more potatoes.”

Spider glanced at his watch. He could hear the faint sounds of the loudspeaker at the Pavilion, over behind the museum. “Take your time,” he called after Karam’s retreating figure. To himself he added, “If we’re lucky, we’ll miss the cowboy poetry altogether.”

As it turned out, they almost did miss it altogether. As they walked into the entrance of the pavilion, they caught the tail end of the last poet. Edging in to join the watchers on the periphery, Spider recognized the man on stage.

Jack stood with his hands at his side, speaking in a quiet voice and looking into the darkness beyond the back row. The audience sat in rapt attention, leaning forward, faces solemn as they listened to the last stanzas of his poem.

Farewell to red rock arches,

Farewell to wonderstone,

Goodbye to sturdy cottonwoods

Shadin’ springs I’ve called my own.

I’m goin’, but don’t you worry,

I’ll be back again.

I’ll be in the sage-y fragrance

That follows on the rain.

I’ll be in the airy thermals

Carryin’ eagles in their flight

And in the purple evening

That eases into night.

I’ll be in red dust rising

From some lonely cowboy’s trail.

Oh, I’ll be back. I may have to go,

But return? I will not fail.

Jack stopped speaking but continued staring into the darkness. Not a person in the audience moved or made a sound until he dropped his eyes and gave a small nod. Then they erupted in applause.

Standing behind Spider, Karam tugged on his sleeve. “That was really good. Will he do another?”

“I don’t think so.” Spider pointed to Jack walking off the stage. “That looks like the end of the poetry program.”

“I shouldn’t have gone with seconds for the potatoes.”

“Gone for seconds.”

“Gone for seconds.” Karam pulled out his phone and began keying in the idiom.” Oh, look,” he said as he pocketed it again. “Laurie is going to sing.”

“Let’s find a seat.” Spider led the way to a bench front and center with two empty places as Laurie and Jack approached the mikes. They both took a moment to check tuning before Jack introduced Laurie. The crowd applauded politely.

“We’re going to sing a song I wrote when I was sixteen,” Jack announced before he and Laurie swung into a song about a cowboy who falls in love with an auburn haired lady. They sang about how he loved her from afar because he knew their worlds were far apart. Laurie took the melody when they hit the refrain.

I’ll ride away at the end of the day,

Lonesome, with no one to love me.

That auburn haired gal, I’m tellin’ you, pal,

I reckon she’s too far above me.

Her clear, soaring voice gave Spider chills, and when she broke into the traditional yodeling passage, the crowd erupted into spontaneous applause that lasted so long she had to wait to begin the next verse.

When the song was over, Karam whispered to Spider, “I think I’m in love with your Laurie.”

“You’ll have to get in line,” he muttered, watching Jack put his arm around Laurie and kiss her cheek. Got to remember not to let that oily versifier get the hackles up.

The emcee thanked Jack and Laurie and announced it was time for the quilt guild drawing. The guild president walked on stage with the prize quilt unfurled and held it up on display while Miss Kane County drew the winning ticket and slowly read the number.

Spider pulled his stub out of his pocket and checked it. “I’m one number away,” he told Karam. “Check yours. You may have won a quilt.”

“Do you think so?” Karam began searching through his pockets, finding it as the number was being read for the third and final time.

“I’ve got it,” Karam whispered to Spider. “I have the number.”

Spider stood and hollered, “Here. We’ve got a winner.” To Karam he said, “You need to take your ticket up and give it to her.”

“Well, come on up.” The quilt lady’s eyes twinkled as she watched Karam approach the stage. She took his stub, checked the numbers, and held up both tickets for all to see. The crowd applauded and whistled until she called for quiet. “What is your name, young man?”

“Karam Mansour.”

“And where are you from, Mr. Mansour?”

“Originally I am from Gaza, but I have lived in Dubai since the age of ten.”

“My goodness.” She blinked. “I’m not sure I even know where Dubai is.”

“It is part of the United Arab Emirates, located on the Persian Gulf.”

“Well, that’s a long way from Kanab. We like to think of a bit of Kanab going halfway around the world, and we hope you’ll remember us when you look at it.”

Miss Kane County had been folding the quilt, and she handed it to Karam, smiling brilliantly at the audience as she did so.

“Thank you very much,” Karam said. He carried the quilt in front of him like a satin pillow as he descended the steps and returned to his seat, acknowledging congratulations as he went.

“I’d say your
qadar
is working pretty well,” Spider said in an undervoice as Karam sat beside him.

“Say it lower in your throat,” Karam whispered. He demonstrated the pronunciation and said, “Try again.”

“
Qadar
,” Spider said obediently.