Read Death Along the Spirit Road Online
Authors: C. M. Wendelboe
Death Along the Spirit Road (18 page)
“What do you think?” Manny asked.
“He was so scared he nearly fell off the chair. He knew that if he jerked you around, and you caught him in a lie, you really would take him back to Pine Ridge.”
Manny nodded. “I think he was truthful, too, but I had a problem when I asked him if he had killed Jason. He hesitated when he denied it.”
“But what would he gain by killing him?”
“Jason could finger him for the Prairie Edge burglary. With prior pen time, it would be enough to get five years added to the sentence.”
“But that would mean Jason would have had to testify he’d hired Bell.” Soske shook his head. “That would have ruined his business. What was left of it.”
Manny fumbled for the key to the rental car.
“If Ricky killed Jason Red Cloud, he isn’t telling us all he knows about the burglary,” Soske said as they walked to the parking lot.
They shook hands again before Manny opened the door.
“It was a pleasure watching you work,” Soske said. “Where are you off to now?”
“Shopping for artifacts.”
Manny pulled out of the parking lot, and failed to see a city garbage truck driving in the same lane he turned into. Brakes squealed. The odor of burnt brake lining drifted inside the rental car as the truck driver laid on the horn. From the rearview mirror, Manny watched the woman driving the truck mouth obscenities as she stabbed her middle finger out the window. Manny smiled and waved, then sped to get out of her path. Once again, his
wopiye
saved him, and he patted the medicine bundle tucked deep into his jacket pocket. Perhaps there was something to the powers of the old ones after all.
wopiye
saved him, and he patted the medicine bundle tucked deep into his jacket pocket. Perhaps there was something to the powers of the old ones after all.
CHAPTER 9
Manny draped his coat over his arm as he enjoyed walking in downtown Rapid City. Old Town’s touch of the West reminded him of the area’s roots. Bronze frontiersmen stood mute, guarding the corners, symbols of the hardy souls who had first settled here. Or rather, had driven the Lakota off their rightful land, away from their sacred Black Hills to the desolate reservations they occupied today.
Since coming back to Pine Ridge, Manny fought the cynicism. Hadn’t the bureau been good to him, hiring a Native American? Except for the reservation assignments, the bureau treated him as an equal with White agents. He kept telling himself that all Pine Ridge meant to him was a childhood full of painful memories, yet with each passing day he wished there were something he could do to change things there. He fought the feelings, convinced that they would subside once he returned to Virginia after this assignment.
Manny smiled at each person he passed. Each one would look him in the eye and throw out a genuine “Good morning” or “Good day” or “How’s it going?” as if they were actually interested how life was treating this stranger from another place. They couldn’t tell he was a temporarily displaced FBI agent from the East. All they knew was that they had spoken to an Indian man in passing. Indian-White tensions of the early 1970s had indeed eased, and he looked forward to the next person who wished him a good day so he could return the gesture.
The Black Hills air was crisp and clean, and he picked up the pace, walking without being winded thanks to his stepped-up road regime every night. He thanked Jenny Craig for his diet, and he thanked those young agents who took time from their workout at the bureau gym to help and encourage him. And oddly, he thanked Niles the Pile for sending him out here, even though he’d have to hustle to solve this homicide in time for the next class. By the time Manny walked the mile to the Prairie Edge, it was late afternoon, and the heat of the day faded into a cool puff of air that followed him into the store.
A bell tinkled above the door. He stopped just inside and listened to the mellow music that surrounded the room. He closed his eyes, and cherished the falsetto of the flute, the bass drum in the background setting the beat of the song. How many powwows had he attended where such music was sandwiched between the Shawl and the Jingle dancers? How many had he missed being away so long? Maybe that’s why he liked polka, with its distinctive beats reminiscent of his native music.
He opened his eyes, and drew in a deep breath. Sage and sweetgrass burned somewhere in the room. It was another thing he missed: the fragrance of sacred, burning grasses.
A rawhide war shield hung from one wall, and Manny stepped closer to examine it. A traditional geometric pattern was beaded in the colors of the sacred winds: black, red, yellow, and white. Each row of beads was perfectly aligned, too perfect to be an original. The price of two thousand dollars was steep for a replica. But an original Sioux war shield would have cost ten times that amount.
He turned to another wall where a brain-tanned deerskin shirt hung. The pale, milk-supple hide had been beaded on every inch. Like the war shield, it detailed intricacies that original artifacts never possessed. Beaded rattles and drums and knife sheaths hung beneath the shirt, awaiting buyers wealthy enough to afford them. “If something moved, an Oglala woman would bead it” was a saying he had heard often growing up.
In an adjacent room were gifts that tourists, not purists, would buy. Knives and mass-produced beaded purses and pouches sat in glass display cases. Their quality was shoddy compared to the art made by native hands, which the price difference reflected. People unfamiliar with the culture would parade these things in front of their friends to show they had something genuinely Sioux and say they supported Indians by buying them, perhaps taking off the “made in Hong Kong” stickers before showing their friends.
In the back room, bins of beads waited for artisans to purchase them. Trade beads, they were called in the days when the White man traded the pieces of glass made in Europe for valuable fur to sell in the cities. Two old women stood hunched over the bins. One squinted through reading glasses missing one bow, while the other fingered a small leather coin purse as she dug for enough to cover the price of their beads.
Manny returned to the main room and spoke with a young woman behind the counter wearing an elk-hide vest adorned with imperfect rows of beads. It was ancient, beaded perhaps a hundred years ago by a Lakota woman on a winter night. When the clerk spoke, a distinct Brulé accent greeted him, thicker and more inclined to draw out the nasal vowels than the Oglala dialect.
“I’m looking for the manager.”
“Ms. Horkley is upstairs.” As she spoke, she cut strips from a piece of suede with a razor blade. She saw him watching her. “For moccasins,” she said. “We can buy commercially made moccasin strings, but these are authentic. Besides, they last longer.”
He thanked her and walked upstairs. The books for sale were arranged with Western settler history separated from Indian history separated from books about the Dakotas. The room had the air of a well-organized, albeit small, research library. A plump lady who could have passed for Manny’s grandmother squatted beside CDs marked “Language.”
“Ms. Horkley?” Manny opened his ID and badge wallet.
She gasped as she pushed her gray hair behind her ears. “Don’t tell me I have to go to the police station and identify that Mr. Bell again?”
Manny shook his head. “I’m just here to ask you some questions about the break-in.”
“The thefts could have been a disaster for us.” She set the CDs on a table, and used the side of the bookcase for support to stand. She turned to a desk and took three Oreos from a pack, and offered Manny a cookie. He hadn’t eaten this afternoon, and he accepted two cookies. “We deal in replications by a select group of artists, mostly local and mostly Lakota, though sometimes we acquire some Cheyenne and Crow pieces. All those are replaceable. But not the artifacts that were stolen. They were all original Oglala and Sicangu.”
“Detective Soske said you remembered seeing Ricky Bell in here before.”
“He showed me a whole page of pictures, and I spotted Mr. Bell right off. He browsed the store the day before the break-in. I understand he worked for the Red Cloud Development Corporation, which is a coincidence.”
“How so?”
Ms. Horkley once again turned to the Oreo pack to give her strength to continue. “Jason Red Cloud was the best customer we had for authentic Lakota antiquities. I was delighted that he was able to purchase them, being Oglala himself.”
“Did he buy things often?”
“Heavens, yes.” She smiled. “Mr. Red Cloud bought something every month.”
“Every month?”
“Yes. Except last month there was an unfortunate problem.”
Manny waited until she’d swallowed her cookie before continuing. “Mr. Red Cloud came in to buy a star quilt. At least he intended buying it. Very old. Rumored to have been made for High Back Bone.”
“Who?”
“Hump.”
Manny flushed with embarrassment. He should know old Lakota leaders as well as this White woman did. “Jason paid with a corporate check, as he always did. Even for the best of customers like Mr. Red Cloud, we do a bank verification for any amount over a thousand dollars, you understand.”
“Fully. But there was a problem?”
“Yes.” Ms. Horkley sat on the edge of the desk. She brushed cookie crumbs off her dress into her hand. “When I checked with the bank, there were insufficient funds to cover the purchase. Mr. Red Cloud became very angry. He said he’d be back when he got it straightened out with his banker and stormed out. But he never came back to pick up the quilt.”
“Did his checks ever bounce before?”
“Never. The bank always honored them. This was the first time the bank declined it. I thought they’d made an error. But when I called the bank president personally, he said there was no mistake. He said there just wasn’t enough money in the Red Cloud Development account to cover the purchase.”
“Tell me,” Manny said, recalling the photo of the quilt when it was returned, “did you usually fold in the edges of quilts like that?”
“Heavens, no.” She took a small step back as if Manny had called her a profane name. “We always store our quilts like those.” She pointed over the balcony to four quilts in the art section of the store; each hung on individual wooden presentation rods. “That’s the proper way to store antique quilts.”
He thanked Ms. Horkley and had started toward the door when she stopped him. “What do you think will happen to Mr. Bell?”
“He’ll be prosecuted under state statute. With his prior arrest record, he’ll go back to the penitentiary.”
“That’s such a shame,” she said, eating the last of the Oreos. “They don’t feed them very well in jail, do they?”
“I thought I’d never find you.” Passing cars nearly drowned out Sonja Myer’s voice. She locked an arm in Manny’s.
“Don’t tell me. That nice Lieutenant Looks Twice?”
“He’s been so helpful. Now all I have to get is your help with my story and I’ll be all set.”
Sonja moved closer and her fragrance once again overwhelmed him. Her face was inches from his. “I’m not jerking you around, I just don’t really have anything new,” Manny lied.
“Then we’ll just go someplace where we can talk. Where I can enjoy intelligent conversation for a change.”
Manny could not think of a single reason not to go somewhere with this beautiful woman. Except, like any other beautiful woman coming on to an over-the-hill man, she had other motives. He’d go with her, as much out of amusement as curiosity about what she knew.
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