“A man convinced her the memoirs survived,” Vicky said.
“Oh, yeah.” The old woman shrugged. “Charlotte believed somebody was gonna get her the evidence. Imagine, a smart woman falling for a line like that. Well”—another shrug—“I figured she wanted to believe’cause she wanted that evidence so bad. It must’ve left a sour taste in her mouth. She kept on thinking it was gonna come to her.”
“Grandmother,” Vicky said, a persistent tone, “do you know who the man was?”
Anna shook her head. Vicky glanced up at Father John. Disappointment mapped her face.
“I remember asking two, three times,” Anna Scott went on. “She always told me he didn’t want anybody to know he had the evidence. I said, ‘Charlotte, why’s he gonna give you this precious thing?’ And she said”—the head still shaking—“ ‘Anna,’ she said, ‘you wouldn’t understand.’ ”
“She was in love with him,” Vicky said.
Anna smiled. “She thought I didn’t understand. She thought I was never in love with a man, wanting to believe all his promises. How’d she think I got myself Emmaline here?” She reached across the armrest and patted her daughter’s hand.
“Thank you, Grandmother,” Vicky said as she got to her feet. There was a mixture of discouragement and fatigue in the way she moved.
Father John reached over and took the old woman’s hand. It was light as a leaf. “You’ve both been very kind,” he said, nodding toward Emmaline.
“You don’t have to go.” Anna Scott scooted forward in the chair. “I like to talk to people.”
He wanted to tell her he’d be back, but that wasn’t true. Tomorrow he would be gone. “I’m sorry,” he said, part of his mind already at the mission. He’d left Kevin alone again, and for what? A wild-goose chase to prove an unprovable theory. The man in Charlotte Allen’s journal was a phantom.
Just as he started for the door, where Vicky stood waiting, Anna Scott said, “I got my suspicions.”
He turned back. Vicky had moved beside him. “About the man?” she asked.
“Now, Mom,” Emmaline said. “You shouldn’t be spreading gossip.”
The old woman jerked her head toward her daughter. “I like gossip. You hear lots of things, see things, too, if you just keep your eyes and ears open, and you know what? Most the time they’re true. I seen something in Charlotte when she got to talking about the people she met on the res. Something come into her eyes, and her voice went kind of soft whenever she talked about the student that was doin’ research for his dissertation, and I remember thinking, Yeah, she’s got herself in a tizzy about him, no matter he’s a lot younger’n her. He’s the one told her he’s gonna get her the precious evidence. Oh, and he was handsome all right, that Shoshone, all muscles and a smile that, I tell ya, it’d make your heart leap around.”
“Robert Crow Wolf.” Vicky said the name so quietly, Father John wondered if he’d heard correctly.
“How’d you know?” The woman flinched at the stolen punch line.
“I didn’t,” Vicky said. “Until this moment.”
30
“Do you know Crow Wolf?” Father John heard the sound of his own voice over the soft music—Verdi now, La Traviata. He took his eyes from the highway a half second and looked over at Vicky. She’d been so quiet since they’d left Casper, he wondered if she’d fallen asleep.
“I’ve met him several times. A handsome and charming man, the kind women always like, at first. Twenty years ago he was probably even more attractive. A young graduate student, making himself an expert on the early days of the reservation. Yes,” she went on in a musing tone, “I can understand what Charlotte saw in him for a while.”
“What are you saying?” Dried stalks poked out of the snow in the barrow ditch, marking the edge of the asphalt. Snow fluttered in the headlights.
Vicky exhaled a long, quiet breath. “Charlotte probably came to her senses. Sometimes it takes a while to see that a handsome, brilliant, charming man may not be all he seems. She probably took a closer look and saw someone ten years younger and still in graduate school. After all, she was a professor. And . . .” She hesitated. “She was white; he was Indian. It might have been a passionate love affair, John, but Charlotte didn’t see ‘future’ written on it. A good reason to keep the affair secret.”
The logic was locked into place now, Father John thought, the patterns a seamless whole. “Crow Wolf must’ve hit upon the idea of the memoirs when Charlotte tried to break things off. She never mentioned Toussaint in the journal until he brought up Sacajawea’s memoirs. And then she wrote it down.” He smiled at the consistency of it; of course, a historian would keep a record of something as important as the memoirs, even if she’d kept the name of the source in her own code.
“He could have loved her,” Vicky said.
The idea surprised him, shaded the logical propositions ever so slightly. He’d assumed Crow Wolf was only using the woman, an older, established scholar in a position to further his own career. An attractive woman willing to get involved with him. He hadn’t thought Crow Wolf might have fallen in love with her.
“The man never would have taken such a gamble if he hadn’t been desperate to hold on to her,” Vicky was saying. “He made up a story about the memoirs surviving the agency fire, hoping that if he held on to Charlotte long enough, she’d decide to stay with him. He must’ve copied a lot of information into an old notebook and told her it was the memoirs.”
She sighed, an expulsion of air, and went on: “He’s not the first man to promise the moon to keep a woman from leaving. Who knows what lies Sacajawea’s husband fed her to get her to stay with him? You’ve got to hand it to men like that. They can be very persuasive.”
That was true, Father John thought. Crow Wolf had even persuaded Charlotte that he intended to give her the memoirs, instead of publishing them himself.
“Oh, I can imagine what happened,” Vicky continued. He winced at the realization that she was talking about herself now. “Oh, how he loved her. No one would ever love her the way he did. They were meant to be together, two halves of a half-consumed peach. She was his woman. What more could she ask? And all the time the tension was building because he knew she was leaving. Finally he exploded. And he got away with it, John, for twenty years. He would have gotten away with it forever if he hadn’t panicked when Laura showed up with the journal. He had no idea what Charlotte might have written.”
Father John was quiet a moment. Riverton lay ahead, like a miniature Christmas village blinking in the snow. “When I asked Theresa if she’d talk to Laura, she already knew Laura was on the res looking for information on Sacajawea. Phyllis Manley had called her after Laura came into the cultural center. Theresa must’ve called her granddaughter, and—”
“Hope told Robert.” Vicky finished the thought. “He had no idea of what was in the journal. But he knew that Charlotte’s body had been found. He must have figured that sooner or later Laura might connect him to Charlotte’s murder and turn the journal over to the fed. He had to get the journal.”
She shifted forward on the seat. “My God, John. Now Crow Wolf’s promised the memoirs to Hope Stockwell. What if they’ve been having an affair, and she’s decided to break it off? He could be using the same excuse to keep her.”
Hope Stockwell. Father John could see the young woman. Beautiful, hopeful, ambitious. And trusting. She might not even think of authenticating the memoirs that came from a scholar like Crow Wolf. But if she did . . .
“We have to see Gianelli,” he said. “We have a name now.”
The snow was lighter as he drove through the wide, flat streets of Riverton and turned onto the slick pavement of a fast-food restaurant. Inside Vicky went to the order counter while he found the phone in the corridor near the rest rooms. He dropped a quarter into the slot and dialed Gianelli’s number. In the background was a clatter of dishes, a medley of shouts. Finally the ringing stopped.
He hung up on the answering machine and tried the agent�
��s home number. The phone rang into a vacuum. He pushed the disconnect lever. Vicky was at his shoulder, holding a large white food bag. “Gianelli’s not in,” he told her, fishing another quarter out of his jeans pocket and dialing Banner. The operator picked up on the first ring. He identified himself and asked for the police chief. A hollow sound came on the line followed by the familiar voice: “What’s going on, John?”
“Vicky and I . . .” He paused. They had a theory, but what proof did they have? An old woman’s suspicions that Charlotte Allen had been involved with Robert Crow Wolf? Their own suspicions that the Shoshone was the man Charlotte wrote about in her journal? It didn’t add up to proof that Crow Wolf had killed the woman. It certainly didn’t prove he’d killed Laura.
Before he could go on, the chief said, “Gianelli’s already filled me in on that crazy theory you and Vicky came up with about some guy named Toussaint.”
“Robert Crow Wolf killed Charlotte Allen and Laura Simmons,” he said.
A whistle of exasperation sailed over the line. “Robert Crow Wolf never killed anybody. He’s a good man, John, one of the best. So what if he might’ve known the victims? They’re all historians.”
“It’s more than that.” Father John could tell by the exasperation in Vicky’s eyes that she was following the conversation. “Crow Wolf made promises to Charlotte that he couldn’t deliver. She challenged him, and he killed her. He killed Laura because he thought she had the evidence to connect him to the murder.”
“Look, John, you’re way off the track. Crow Wolf might have a reputation for liking the ladies, but he’s no murderer. Gianelli got some lab reports this afternoon. Toby Becker’s fingerprints are all over the Simmons car. The fed flew out of here about an hour ago with a warrant for the man’s arrest. Said he wanted to bring the bastard back. Took a real personal interest. You know he’s got four daughters, and he wants to protect ’em from slimeballs like Becker. He’ll bring Becker back tomorrow.”
“Fingerprints!” Father John shouted. “Becker was her boyfriend. Of course his fingerprints are in her car.” Vicky shook her head and looked away. He went on, making an effort to lower his voice. “Crow Wolf probably wore gloves when he drove Laura out to Sacajawea Ridge and beat her to death.”
A low sucking noise punctuated the silence at the other end, as if the chief had just taken a drink of something hot. “I’m sorry, John. Crow Wolf isn’t on the res. He lives in Laramie.”
“He’s here, Banner. He’s still trying to find Charlotte Allen’s journal. He’s involved with Hope Stockwell, and she could be in danger. You could pick him up, ask him some questions, keep him from harming anyone else.” Father John felt his stomach muscles tightening. What if Hope tried to end the affair tonight? “We can be at the police department within the hour. We’ll fill you in on the details.”
“You mean, fill me in on your theory? I can’t haul Robert Crow Wolf in on some vague theory. What kind of hard evidence are you talking about?”
No evidence. No fingerprints. Nothing written down. Just a series of propositions that yielded a simple, elegantly logical conclusion. “Believe me, Banner, it makes sense.”
There was another sigh edged with exasperation. “It’s already been one hell of a long day, John. Two bad accidents, couple assaults. I was just heading out the door when you called, and the minute I hang up, I’m going home. Maybe priests and lawyers work all the time, but I like to go home once in a while. Take your theory to the fed when he gets back tomorrow. He’s gonna tell you he’s got the Simmons case wrapped up.”
Father John set the receiver in its cradle and lifted the phone book attached to a metal chain. He flipped through the white pages. “We’ve got to warn Hope,” he said, taking in the number. He fished another quarter out of his jeans pocket and started dialing.
“Let me talk to her.” Vicky took the receiver from his hand. A moment passed. “Grandmother,” she said, “it’s Vicky Holden. Is Hope there?” She glanced up, giving him a half smile of success. Then: “Hope, I’m a friend of Laura Simmons. I have to talk to you about something very important.” Another moment of silence before she went on: “Tonight, Hope. We have to talk tonight. I’ll be there in forty minutes.”
She hung up slowly and turned to him. “She’s waiting for an important call, probably from Crow Wolf.”
Father John nodded. “We’ll get over there right away. I have to call Kevin first.” He plugged another quarter into the slot.
“Kevin? What’s he have to do with Crow Wolf?”
“Crow Wolf could show up again looking for the journal,” he explained. The phone was ringing; he could imagine the shrill sound echoing through the quiet of the administration building. He was about to hang up and try the residence when the buzzing stopped.
“St. Francis Mission.” Father John felt a surge of relief at the sound of Kevin’s voice.
“It’s John,” he said. “Everything okay?”
“Sure.” The other priest sounded tense.
“Make sure Leonard locked up the museum,” Father John said. “If he’s still around, ask him to stay until I get back.”
“He’s already left.” The tense voice again.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?”
There was a pause. “When will you get back?”
“As soon as I can.” Father John replaced the receiver again, an uneasy feeling gnawing at him.
“What is it?” Vicky asked as they walked through the dining area and out the glass doors. The snow licked at his face. Think logically. “Kevin’s been handling things by himself most of the day,” he said. “He’s probably tired.”
“It’ll take some time to convince Hope that Robert Crow Wolf isn’t who she thinks he is,” Vicky said as she climbed into the Toyota. “I know you want to get back to the mission. Just take me to the Bronco. I’ll drive over to see Hope.”
He walked around and got in behind the wheel, the uneasiness chafing like a bur in his skin. “Are you sure?” he said, turning the ignition. The engine spurted into life.
“I’m sure.”
He pulled into the traffic and after several miles headed west on Seventeen Mile Road. She’d handed him a hamburger, which he munched as he drove. Except for the lights twinkling from the occasional house by the road, they were surrounded by the flat, white plains.
“Suppose Hope won’t listen to me,” Vicky said.
It was possible, he thought, chewing on the lukewarm beef. Banner called the idea crazy; Gianelli would probably say the same thing tomorrow. “We need evidence,” he reminded her.
Yes, she understood all about evidence. She was a lawyer, had he forgotten? She took a bite of her own hamburger. After a moment she said, “If I can get Hope to admit that Crow Wolf is the one who promised her the Sacajawea memoirs, it would support our theory.”
“It’s not physical evidence.” Father John turned right on Ethete Road.
“It’s something, John,” Vicky said as he slowed, pulled into the yard, and stopped behind the Bronco. A mantle of white draped over the hood and windows. The house was dark.
“Aunt Rose’s bingo night,” Vicky said, gathering up the remains of their meal and crumpling the bag. She gripped the door handle and got out. Then she leaned back. “What time does your plane leave tomorrow?”
His plane. He’d forgotten about his plane. He was packed; he was ready to go. “Five in the afternoon,” he said.
“I can meet you at Gianelli’s office in the morning. Call me as soon as you get ahold of him.”
He promised.
He waited until the Bronco’s taillights flicked on before he started to back out.
31
Vicky eased the Bronco to a stop in front of Theresa Redwing’s stoop and hurried up the snow-slicked steps. The front door flew back as she was about to knock. A young woman stood in the opening, a small figure framed by the light shining behind her.
“Oh! I thought you were someone else,” she said in a voice airy wit
h disappointment.
“You must be Hope,” Vicky said.
The door opened wider, and Theresa Redwing sidled next to her granddaughter. “I told Hope I didn’t want her going nowhere till she seen you. Arapaho lawyer drives all the way out here to tell her something, it’s gotta be important.” The woman reached down and took Hope’s hand, leading her back into the room. Vicky followed.
“You sit down right over there.” Theresa gestured with her chin at an easy chair and closed the door. “The two of you can have a good talk while I get us some coffee. Cold night like this, you can use some hot coffee.” Her eyes stayed on Vicky a moment before she disappeared into the kitchen beyond the small living room.
Vicky glanced at the young woman, who was truly beautiful, she thought, with thick, glossy hair framing an almost perfect face, a coppery complexion, and dark, almond-shaped eyes that watched her with a mixture of distrust and annoyance. “You could be in danger, Hope,” she said softly. She didn’t want to alarm Theresa.
“What?” Hope pulled back the sleeve of her red cable-knit sweater and stared pointedly at her watch. “Whatever it is you’re talking about, you’d better tell me. I don’t have a lot of time. I’m expecting a call.”
“From Robert Crow Wolf?”
Hope’s head snapped back. Vicky caught the effort just below the surface of the blank, unreadable expression. She pushed on: “He’s promised you the Sacajawea memoirs, hasn’t he?” A leading question, she knew, but this wasn’t the courtroom.
“Suppose he has.” Hope moved past her and plopped down on the sofa.
“When did he promise them?” Vicky perched on the chair across from the young woman. She might have been her own daughter, only a few years older than Susan. “After you decided to break off a relationship with him?”
“My relationship with Robert is none of your business.” The dark eyes blazed with indignation.
“You’re not the first woman he promised the memoirs,” Vicky said. “He’s used them as an excuse before to get what he wanted.”
The Spirit Woman Page 19