The Story Teller (17 page)

“
W
e’ll need a story,” Vicky said, wheeling the Taurus through the traffic, conscious of the man beside her: the plaid shirt, the blue-jeaned legs, the cowboy hat, the faint odor of aftershave. She hurried on: “Todd’s killer will have to come up with a good story. Any reputable book dealer will want to know where the ledger book came from. What can the killer say? I stole it from a museum and murdered the kid who found it? Nobody knows about it.” Nobody, she was thinking, except a scared Lakota girl named Julie and the man beside her. And herself.

She went on: “How about this? You’re a wealthy man. I’m your wife. We collect Indian artifacts, and we’ve been yearning to own a ledger book from one of the Plains Indian tribes. Preferably Arapaho.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “We’ll never sell that story. No one would take me for being wealthy. And who would believe a woman like you would lose her mind and marry a man like me?” He gave out another laugh. “We’d better stick to who we are—a brilliant and beautiful Arapaho lawyer and a broken-down, middle-aged priest. Anyway, the minute we walk into a bookstore, the dealer will make up his own story about us. It will probably be more interesting than anything we could do.”

Vicky switched lanes, bypassing a bus that burped black clouds of exhaust. It crossed her mind that her
story might have been true—could have been true—if only for the moment it would have taken to tell it.

Gradually the parking lots and office buildings and stores along the sidewalks gave way to squat, one-story buildings, a mixture of small cafés, vintage-clothing stores, stores selling rare books and antiques. Vicky set the Taurus at the curb, and Father John was already around at her side as she slid out. They waited for a break in the traffic before dashing across the street, ahead of the cars roaring toward them.

The first shop, Vicky saw, was crammed with antiques: oak dressers and tables, gilt-framed mirrors and curved Victorian chairs. The furnishings of rich people from another time—whites her ancestors had never met. There were a few books, fine leather volumes with gold lettering on the spines—decorator items.

They tried the next store: old comic books and magazines on the shelves, red Formica kitchen tables and plastic chairs, low-slung sofas and little triangle-shaped tables. A salesgirl behind the counter dropped the comic book she’d been flipping through and tossed them a hopeful smile. Out of the corner of her eye, Vicky saw Father John nod—an apology for blundering into a store specializing in the 1950s. She led the way back into the sunshine.

They stood on the sidewalk a moment, taking in the shops up and down the street. On the glass pane of the third door down were black letters that blurred in the sun:
RARE BOOKS.
They started toward the door, as if they’d seen it at the same moment. A bell jangled overhead as they walked into the small space. Books bulged from the shelves lining the walls. “We’re looking for rare books on the Plains Indians,” Father John told the elderly man scrunched behind the front counter.

The man stared at them, disappointment in his eyes. “Richard Loomis specializes in Indian stuff.” He gave a little nod. “Down a half block.”

They found the shop near the corner. Black letters on the plate-glass window read:
NATIVE AMERICAN BOOKS AND ARTIFACTS.
Another bell jangled as they stepped inside. The shop was narrow and dimly lit, with rows of shelves sagging under the weight of books. In a glass case against the wall was a beaded vest, two painted parfleches, a quiver case. There was a heavy smell of dust and dried paper and the metallic smell of old ink in the cool stillness.

“May I help you?” The man’s voice came from the rear, and they walked through the dimness toward a desk Vicky hadn’t noticed at first.

“We’re interested in books on the Plains Indians,” Father John said, a matter-of-fact, businesslike tone. So unlike him, Vicky thought.

The man behind the desk slowly got to his feet. “Allow me to introduce myself. Richard Loomis.” It surprised her how young he was—mid-twenties, perhaps—with blond hair receding from a long, sloping forehead, and dark, hooded eyes that had a wary look. “Ah.” He nodded, glancing at Vicky, as if a Native American seeking books on Native Americans seemed perfectly reasonable. Then his eyes switched back to the white man beside her, and a look of understanding came into his expression. She wondered what kind of story had formed in his mind about the couple who had walked into his shop. “Perhaps I can direct you to something specific.”

“We’re interested in Native American art,” Father John said.

“There are several galleries downtown.”

“A ledger book.”

The bookman’s eyes moved from Father John to Vicky and back again. Was she wrong, or was there the smallest twitch, an involuntary reflex, in the man’s face? “You’re interested in a ledger book?” His voice was
low, confidential, although they were the only people in the shop.

Vicky said, “We understand an Arapaho ledger book has just come on the market.”

The bookman gazed at her a long moment, as if he hadn’t taken the full measure of her earlier. “What makes you think that?”

“Word spreads very quickly.” Vicky shrugged and glanced at Father John.

“I’m Father John O’Malley,” he said quickly, reaching out to shake the other man’s hand. “I’m opening a museum of Arapaho artifacts on the Wind River Reservation.” He touched Vicky’s arm. “This is Vicky Holden, my attorney.”

She nodded. A good story, she was thinking, with certain qualifications left out. John O’Malley hoped to open the museum, and she was not his attorney. No, she was not his.

There was the sharp jangle, the shush of the door opening. Vicky glanced back at the thick-shouldered young man with black hair and dark skin—an Indian—holding the door, a hesitant look about him, as if he wasn’t sure whether to come in. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the quick movement of the bookman’s hand, as if he was flicking away an annoying fly. The Indian wheeled about, pulling the door behind him.

She knew him. The Lakota in the Indian Services office at CU-Denver this morning who had jumped up and denied knowing anyone named Julie. What was he doing here? And why had Richard Loomis motioned him away, as if he’d stumbled into the wrong place?

“Ledger books rarely come on the market,” the bookman was saying, as if there had been no interruption. “When they do, they are very expensive.”

“Our donors are very generous,” Father John said.

The bookman extracted a pencil from his shirt pocket and tapped it against the palm of one hand like
a metronome. “One page would be worth . . .” He stopped tapping and glanced at the ceiling, totaling the figures in his head.

Father John said, “The museum is only interested in the book if it is intact.”

The dealer looked back, pencil poised in midair. “Most museums are content with one or two pages.” He gave a little shrug. “Every page is valuable. But the entire book, well . . .” Another shrug. “No dealer could let a book like that go for less than he could get by selling the pages individually. And I must warn you, foreign collectors are very interested in this material.”

“A million and a half,” Vicky said.

The man’s thin lips curled into a smile. “Would you put that bid into writing?”

“As soon as we see the book.” This from Father John.

“Well,” the bookman began, a long drawing out of the word, “should I hear of such a book, you can be sure I will contact you immediately. Where can I find you?”

Before Vicky could reach inside her handbag for one of her business cards, Father John set his hand over hers. “We’ll be in touch,” he said.

*   *   *   

They found a little Italian restaurant around the corner and sat at a table on the patio in back. The air was cool, with daylight slanting past the branches arched overhead. Vicky watched the waiter set two bowls of spaghetti and a basket of garlic bread on the table. She was feeling light-headed, almost giddy. Her theory was right.

When the waiter moved away, she said, “The dealer knows about the ledger book. Probably every rare-book dealer in Denver knows about the book and hopes to get his hands on it.” She stopped, suddenly realizing where her thoughts were headed.

Father John gave her a knowing smile. “The book hasn’t been sold yet,” he said. “Whoever has it is waiting on the highest bid. The police—”

“The police!” she interrupted, an image of Steve Clark flashing before her: the clenched jaw, the determined eyes. Another drug murder, he’d called Todd’s death. “We don’t have the ledger book, John. All we have is a theory.”

They went over the theory again as they ate the spaghetti and finished the garlic bread. Todd had found the missing ledger book in the museum; someone took the book and killed him; and now the killer was trying to sell the book. The more they talked, Vicky thought, the more implausible the theory seemed. A series of stories plucked out of thin air, hardly the kind of evidence to convince a homicide detective—even one who was an old friend.

“We can’t prove it,” Vicky said, pushing her plate aside—it was almost empty. “Even if a ledger book is on the market, we can’t prove it came from the museum.” The museum. It always came back to that.

Father John said nothing for a moment. Then: “Museums keep records of the materials researchers use. Maybe—”

She held up her hand. Of course. Why hadn’t she seen it? If she could retrace Todd’s steps last week, check the materials he had been using when he found the ledger book, she might discover something that would prove the book had been in the museum. She said, “I have a meeting tomorrow with Rachel Foster. When she gives me a story on how there are no records of the book, which I’m sure she’s already prepared, I’ll ask to see the research materials Todd was using.”

*   *   *   

The last band of daylight crept along the ridge of the mountains in the distance as Vicky parked in front of Marcy’s. She had left Father John at the residence and
driven through the quiet streets with a growing sense of confidence and determination. Even if the records were gone, there might be other proof of the ledger book—a sign of some kind—and she would find it. She would not stop until she found it.

She slammed out and marched around the car. The evening was cool; long blue shadows fell over the bungalows and drifted across the front lawns. As she started up the sidewalk she heard a car door snap open. She whirled around. The massive body of a man had emerged from one of the cars at the curb and was moving toward her. “Ms. Holden,” he called. His voice came from somewhere deep within the barrel-shaped chest.

She froze, keys clutched in her hand, aware of the stillness, the closed doors up and down the block, the darkness at Marcy’s windows. Nobody else was around. The man stopped a couple of feet from her, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his blue jeans. Thick braids rode down the front of his dark shirt.

“Who are you?” she asked. She knew the answer. The round face, the broad cheekbones, and sliver-thin eyes of the Cheyenne—the Shyela, as her people called the tribe with whom they had lived on the plains.

“Bernard Good Elk,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you. We need to talk.”

Vicky kept her place. She said nothing.

“My colleague Emil Coughlin tells me you paid him a visit this morning. Said you got a problem with the inventory of Arapaho artifacts over at the museum.”

“The inventory is incomplete,” Vicky said.

“So I hear.” The man rolled his shoulders; knots of muscles rippled along his arms. “Emil says you think the museum has an Arapaho ledger book.” He let out a snort. “I’ve spent a lot of time in that museum. There’s no such ledger book.”

Vicky said, “The ledger book was written by No-Ta-Nee. You’ve heard of him, I’m sure. He rode with Chief Niwot. He was with him at Sand Creek. The book is an Arapaho account of the massacre.”

Bernard Good Elk drew in a long breath, nostrils flaring. He moved close—so close she could smell the stale odor of coffee on his breath. “I figured that’s what this is all about. Your people want some of the land that rightly belongs to Cheyennes. So you’ve come up with a cockamamie story about a ledger book that says the Arapahos were at Sand Creek. Well, it’s not going to work. Sand Creek was a Cheyenne village. Weren’t any Arapahos hanging around.” He squared his shoulders and threw his head back. “You’re lucky your people weren’t there.”

Vicky could feel the muscles tightening in her chest, the dryness in her throat. Were the ancestors at Sand Creek to be forgotten? Lost in a new interpretation of history? “Government records prove both of our peoples were there,” she said.

The Indian let out a deep laugh. “White people never could tell one Indian from another.” Then, eyes narrowing into tiny slits, he said, “Cheyenne tribal officials have heard you people think the museum is holding out, so they’ve decided to wait before claiming Cheyenne artifacts. A couple of other tribes are doing likewise.” He loomed above her. “This story of yours is causing everybody a lot of trouble, Ms. Holden. I strongly advise you to drop the matter so we can all get about the business of reclaiming what belongs to us.”

Suddenly he rocked sideways and regarded her a long moment before he started moving backward toward the car. Even in the darkness, she felt his eyes on her. “Forget about the ledger book,” he said, flinging open the door. “It doesn’t exist.” He folded himself inside. In an instant the engine spurted into life, and the
car pulled away and started down the street, taillights blinking in the night.

Vicky hurried to the front door, fumbling in her bag for the key Marcy had given her. She let herself inside, slammed the door with her body, and rammed the bolt into place, her legs trembling beneath her. Then she groped for the wall switch. A white light flooded across the walls and wood floors. Little specks of light sparkled in the chrome legs of the chairs, the glass coffee table.

The Shyela! Did Bernard Good Elk really think he could intimidate her? Scare her into advising her tribe to sign off on the inventory and forget about the ledger book? Forget about the lands that belonged to them as much as to the Cheyenne? Why did he think it would work? Because the Cheyennes were warriors, while her people were traders and diplomats? Well, her people were also warriors. They fought for what was theirs.