Wife of Moon

by Margaret Coel

  Eunice pushed away from the table, got to her feet, and disappeared through the archway behind her. There was the sound of drawers opening and closing, then she was back. “The lady came last week, and I showed her this,” she said, slapping a large, sepia-toned photograph with curled corners next to the brochure. “Plain as day,” she said. “Thunder had a real distinctive nose and big chin, and he had dimples in his cheeks. Don’t see many Indians with dimples.”

  Father John pulled the brochure and photo in front of him. The man in the photo looked tall and muscular, with a clump of hair standing up from his forehead and thick braids that hung down the front of his fringed shirt. He smiled into the camera a hundred years ago, and the smile showed the dimples that made him seem relaxed and content. But in the dark eyes was a mixture of wariness and surprise, as if he wondered how much of himself the camera might capture. There was no doubt about it: The smiling man in the snapshot was the warrior with the feathered headdress and broad stripes of paint that looked like lightning zigzagging across his face and naked chest. Same forelock pulled up from his forehead, same nose and squared jaw and dimples.

  “What did the curator say?”

  “Oh, she got real excited. Wanted to know where I got the photo. ‘Portrait,’ I told her. Stories that come down in the family say that Curtis took the portrait in his tent out there by Black Mountain. Thunder got killed, you know, after Curtis set up that attack on a so-called Arapaho village. Other warriors got killed with him. Them others didn’t leave any descendants.”

  “How did they die?”

  The woman was quiet for so long that Father John wondered if she’d heard. He sipped at his coffee and waited. Finally she went on: “Wasn’t something Dad wanted to talk about, but one time he told me that people said Thunder and the others killed a woman in Curtis’s village. Told me the family had it real hard afterward, and no sense dwelling on the past. “She reached over, picked up the snapshot, and stared at it. “Dad said that Curtis took lots of portraits of people in his tent. Had people come in and dress up in fringed shirts and beaded necklaces that Curtis brought along, some of it from the Sioux. Even made the village look like a village in the Old Time. That’s it right there.” She tapped the brochure.

  Father John was quiet a moment. “Who was the woman Thunder was accused of killing?”

  Eunice shook her head and blew out her breath. “He was innocent, Father. All three of them warriors was innocent.” She looked away a moment, then, bringing her gaze back to his, she said, “Name was Bashful Woman, the daughter of Sharp Nose. That’s how come Thunder and the others had to die, I guess, ’cause people wanted revenge for a chief’s daughter getting shot.”

  “You told Christine about this?”

  The woman started nodding. “She wanted to know if I had a magnifying glass. So I went and found an old one in the desk and gave it to her. She stared at the village, moving the glass around, studying this and that, not saying anything for a long time. Then she handed me the brochure and the magnifying glass. ‘You see the women in the village?’ she says. I told her, ‘My eyes aren’t gone yet.’ And she wants to know, who was the woman that got shot. I said, ‘How would I know that?’ ‘Somebody must’ve told you what she looked like,’ she says. I tell you, Father, I got fed up with that pushy white woman. I said, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I showed you what I got, and I told you what I know.’ I quit talking then, and that encouraged her to leave. But you know what she says on the way out? Says she could get me a thousand dollars for my photograph, and would I like to sell? I told her I wasn’t selling any image of my ancestor. Then she wants to know who else on the rez has Curtis photos, and I told her, ‘Nobody,’ but that didn’t satisfy her.”

  Father John picked up the brochure and studied the image of the village. He could make out the figures of women in the shadows. Black hair in braids, light-colored dresses with fringe that dropped over their moccasins. One carried an infant on her back; another sat in front of a tipi, cradling a small child in her lap. He could almost feel the curator’s excitement at the possibility of identifying more people, of making sense out of what had happened.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “Christine wanted the names of Chief Sharp Nose’s descendants.”

  “Oh, she wanted names, all right.” Eunice shrugged. “I told her, ‘That was a big family with descendants scattered around the rez. You can find lots of people that come down from Chief Sharp Nose. He was the last chief, and people got a lotta respect for the old chiefs.’ ”

  “Did you give Christine the names of any descendants?” Father John could think of two or three elders who were great-grandsons of the last Arapaho chief—Max Oldman was one—but an outsider like Christine wouldn’t know who they were unless someone told her.

  Eunice shook her head. “Sharp Nose family’s had enough trouble down the years, you ask me. Max Oldman’s nephew got himself shot some years back, and now Denise . . .” She let the thought trail off.

  Father John didn’t take his eyes from the woman. Denise Painted Horse was also a descendant of Sharp Nose, and chances were good that Christine Nelson had gone looking for descendants with Curtis photographs. He swallowed hard against the gaps in the logic. There were probably dozens of Sharp Nose descendants on the rez, and Eunice hadn’t given Christine any names. What was the connection? Where was the proof that Denise and Christine had even met?

  He drained the last of the coffee and got to his feet. “Thank you, Eunice,” he said.

  “See, that’s the difference between you and white people like her.” The woman stood up next to him. She barely came to his shoulder. “They never say thank you for what they get. You think that white woman went looking for one of Sharp Nose’s people and got herself into some kind of trouble? You think that’s why she’s disappeared?”

  “I don’t know,” Father John said. The lines in the woman’s forehead deepened, and he realized that it was now his turn to give the gift of information. He said, “I think she could have been on her way to meet someone on the reservation when she disappeared.”

  “If she asked any Arapaho that come into the museum about the Sharp Nose people, she would’ve heard about Max Oldman.” Eunice stepped back and pushed her chair against the table. It made a sharp noise, like the ring of a hammer. “Oldman’s head of the family now.”

  Father John pulled on his jacket, only half following what the woman was saying: something about how she hoped the white woman would turn up okay. He was thinking that he’d drive over to Max’s place and have a talk with the elder. But before he did, he wanted to find out what had happened at Curtis’s village.

  He was outside and around the corner, following his boot prints along the side of the house, when he heard Eunice call out: “Come back any time, Father. I always got the coffee on.”

  He slid behind the steering wheel and, leaning across the seat, fumbled through the papers in the glove compartment for his cell. The cab was warm in the sun. He rolled down the window and pushed in the number for the mission.

  “Father Damien.” The voice on the other end was clear and confidant and . . . Dear Lord. Damien was at the mission and in control.

  “Everything okay?”

  “You had a few calls, but I took care of them.”

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  “No need to hurry,” the other priest said.

  Father John hit the end key and tossed the cell onto the passenger seat. Then he started the engine and shot out onto the road. He had to laugh at the irony. Finally an assistant who took a real interest in the mission. It looked as if his prayers had been answered. The problem was, he now had an assistant who could replace him.

  13

  SOMETHING ABOUT THE sound of the front door opening, the scuff of footsteps on the wood floor, made Vicky glance away from the computer monitor. Beyond the beveled glass of the French doors was the tall figure of Adam Lone Eagle. The black hair smoothed back, blurring into the collar of his d
ark coat. She felt a jab of annoyance. Here he was, when she’d decided he’d probably never call again. Just walk away after a half-dozen dinners, the way you’d walk away from an acquaintance you ran into every time you went to the grocery story. The muffled sound of Adam’s voice floated through the doors. Then Annie’s, giggling and nervous.

  Adam had a way of making women nervous, Vicky thought, just like he had a way of appearing at inopportune moments. She was about to leave for the reservation. She’d gotten to the office early and spent the morning finishing up some work—a lease for a client renting out an office in Lander, a threatening letter to an insurance company that refused to pay another client’s claim—after spending most of the night pacing her apartment, her thoughts running in a continuous loop over the meeting in Gianelli’s office. Always circling back to the beginning: T.J. was innocent. Somewhere in the night, with the green iridescent numbers on the clock blinking 3:10, she’d decided to check out T.J.’s alibi herself. One witness who had seen T.J. at the office Monday night, and Gianelli would have to look elsewhere for the killer.

  Vicky got up and yanked open the French doors just as Adam was reaching for the knobs. “Got a minute?” he asked, his eyes traveling over her before coming back to rest on hers. He was smiling, as if he were pleased with the image he’d taken in.

  “That’s all I have,” Vicky said, moving back toward the desk, annoyed at the way he made her stomach flutter with the way he looked at her, the most ordinary question he asked. The man always took her by surprise, as if there were things about him she’d forgotten since the last time she’d seen him. The determination in the way he carried himself: head high, shoulders square inside the black leather jacket. There was determination, too, in the set of his jaw, the sharp cheekbones and finely shaped nose with the hump at the top, the eyes like black stones that absorbed everything and revealed nothing. He might have been a warrior who’d stepped out of one of the old photographs.

  He was still smiling at her. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

  She gripped the edge of the desk. Dinner ten days ago, then nothing. “We’re both busy,” she said.

  “Come on.” He leaned close. The smell of aftershave on his skin mixed with the faint odor of leather. “You didn’t miss me a little?”

  “Adam, I’m very busy.”

  He held up one hand, palm outward in the sign of peace. “How about tonight? We can have dinner over at Hudson. There’s something I want to talk over with you. Seven o’clock.”

  “You don’t give a woman a chance to say anything, Adam.”

  “Say yes. I’ll pick you up at your place.”

  Vicky drew in a long breath. “I’ll meet you at the restaurant,” she said finally.

  Adam reached out and ran a finger along the curve of her chin, a light touch that sent a jolt of electricity through her. “See you tonight.” Then he was gone, striding through the outer office, letting himself through the front door.

  Vicky gathered up the papers scattered over her desk and slipped them inside a folder. She was about to file the folder in one of the desk drawers when she realized that Annie was standing between the French doors, holding onto the knobs. She was young. Twenty-three years old, half of Vicky’s age, the age of her own kids, Lucas and Susan, with an “I’ve seen it all” look on her face.

  “That Lakota sure knows how to get what he wants,” Annie said.

  Vicky set the folder in place and slammed the drawer. She had no intention of discussing Adam with her secretary. She told her that a client would be stopping by to pick up the rental lease this afternoon, and the letter to the insurance company had to make today’s mail.

  “People been talking about . . .”

  Vicky cut in. “I don’t want to hear the gossip, Annie.”

  The woman’s head snapped back as if she’d been struck. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  Vicky took her coat from the coat tree and shrugged into the soft gray wool. Oh, she could guess the gossip on the moccasin telegraph. Adam Lone Eagle, lawyer from Casper. Lakota. Handsome. They’d been seen together in restaurants, holding hands, and walking down Main Street. But there were days and weeks with no phone calls, when she wondered if she’d ever hear from him again, and she’d told herself it didn’t matter. She wasn’t sure whether she was attracted to him, or whether she’d talked herself into the idea because. . . because, at times, the man seemed so attracted to her and because he was available.

  “I’ll check in later,” Vicky said, fixing the strap of her black bag over one shoulder and brushing past the secretary. She hurried across the office and let herself outdoors, pulling the door shut against the secretary’s gaze.

  She drove north on Highway 287, stomping on the accelerator to pass the old pickups lumbering down the middle of the asphalt. Clumps of brush floated past the window like bales of sunshine. She passed Plunkett Road and turned onto Blue Sky Highway. After several miles, another right into the graveled parking lot that wrapped around the squat, redbrick tribal headquarters building. She left the Jeep in a vacant space at the end of a row of vehicles and walked back to the entrance through the warmth of the sunshine washing over the sidewalk.

  Across the tiled floor of the lobby, a wave toward the receptionist behind the desk, then down the hallway on the right past a procession of closed doors with panels of pebbly glass. Savi Crowthorpe’s door was open. The councilman was curled over the papers spread across his desk. He was a slim man with muscular shoulders, a hawklike nose, and straight, black hair that hugged the curve of his neck. The capable, long fingers of the basketball player he’d been at Wyoming Indian High flipped through the papers. Glancing up, he waved Vicky inside with his eyes.

  “Gotta make this short,” he said, skipping the polite preliminaries. “I have a meeting in ten minutes. Take a seat.”

  Vicky sat down on the metal-framed chair halfway between the door and the desk. The office was stuffy, hot air angling like a blowtorch out of the overhead vent. She unbuttoned her coat. “I’m here about T.J.,” she said.

  “You and the fed.” The councilman squared the edges of the stacked papers. “Gianelli was waiting in the lobby when I got to work yesterday. Wanted to know what time T.J. left the office on Monday. I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told him. After the council meeting, T.J. and I worked late on Senator Evans’s visit next week. How we’re gonna handle the crowds at Fort Washakie; how much food we gotta serve, ’cause people aren’t coming out if they don’t get fed; and how we’re gonna end the program so the senator can get over to St. Francis Mission. Finished up about six-thirty, and I went home. It was the wife’s birthday, so she wasn’t real keen on me working late. Kept calling wanting to know when I was coming home.”

  “What about T.J.?”

  “Still in the office when I left. Said he was gonna work on the comments he was gonna make at Fort Washakie about the importance of getting another environmental study before we start polluting the reservation. His exact words, as I remember. Like I told the fed, if T.J. says he worked late, that’s what he did. Works all the time, that man. He’s the one who discovered how the BIA was trying to push a weak environmental analysis on us that was done by a consulting firm hired by the oil companies, so the companies could start their drilling.”

  “Anybody else here?”

  “At six-thirty?” The councilman gave her a crooked smile. “The place was a tomb.”

  Vicky shifted her gaze to the window. She could feel her heart pounding. T.J. had no alibi.

  The phone had started to ring, and the councilman stretched out his long fingers and lifted the receiver. “Don’t start without me,” he said, jumping to his feet. He dropped the receiver back into place. “Sorry, Vicky. Gotta go.”

  “Thanks for your time, Savi.” Vicky stood up and turned toward the door.

  “He didn’t kill his wife, you know,” the councilman said. “Woman gets shot, the husband’s the first one they’re gonna suspect. Maybe
T.J. isn’t perfect, but he doesn’t have killing in him. You gotta help him, Vicky.”

  “Look, Savi,” she began. “If you think of anybody who might have seen T.J. here on Monday night . . .”

  “Patrol car,” he cut in.

  “What?”

  “Police patrol comes around during the night, checks to make sure the building’s locked up, everything’s okay.”

  “Thanks.” Vicky gave the man a wave and started down the hall, pulling her cell phone out of her bag. She stopped at the front door and tapped out a number, then stepped outdoors and retraced her steps to the Jeep, moving between the crisp cold of the shadows and the warmth of the sunshine, the phone pressed against her ear.

  “Wind River Police.” A woman’s voice came on the other end.

  “Let me talk to Chief Banner.” Vicky got in behind the wheel and pulled the door shut. “It’s Vicky Holden.”

  “Hold on. I’ll see if the chief’s available.”

  “It’s important.”

  “I’m sure.”

  A couple of minutes passed. The Jeep came alive—engine running, cool air pouring from the vents. Finally the chief’s voice: “Vicky? What’s going on?”

  “I’d like to talk to the patrolman on duty Monday night, the one checking the tribal headquarters.”

  “This about T.J.?” There was a clicking noise at the other end, as if the man was tapping a pencil against the phone.

  “T.J. was working late. He needs a witness.”

  The tapping stopped. “Looks like my boy was on duty in Ethete that night. Patrick’s real conscientious about checking on the tribal buildings.”

  “Can you connect me to him?”

  “Doesn’t come on duty until . . .” Tap. Tap. Tap. “He clocks in at five. Where you gonna be?”

  She told him that she was on her way to Vera Wilson’s place. Then back to Lander.

  “Patrick’ll find you. Take it easy, Vicky.”

  “Wait, Banner,” she said. “There’s something else.”