The Bluejay Shaman (Alix Thorssen Mystery Series)

by Lise McClendon

  Tiernan laughed, nasally. "Otherwise we drew a blank, like I said. Oh, wait." Papers rustled. "You asked me to run your customer through--Vardis? I came up with something. She made an inquiry about a year ago."

  "About what?"

  "Some Indian artifact."

  I waited. "And?"

  "We didn't have anything on it."

  My heart began to pound. Why was everyone so interested in Indians all of a sudden? "What artifact?"

  "She called it, ah, the bluejay pictograph. Some kind of stone carving or painting," he said. A dry chuckle. "I don't think we ever had any pictographs reported. They'd be too big to sell."

  I frowned. "Unless it was small. Chain-sawed off a rock wall."

  "Oh, well, right," the agent said. "Sure, unless it was small."

  "Was it stolen?"

  "Uh, not that it says so in the file. Looks like she just wanted to check up on it. Maybe she's the owner."

  When Melina got home about six I had made us a dinner of sausages and salad. It wasn't much, I admitted to her, but she didn't have much in the refrigerator. She was tired and therefore grateful. I was glad to see she ate dinner, at least. I told her about my car disappearing and reporting it to the police. She seemed distracted. My old car was the least of her worries. Shoot, her husband might never come home. Who cares about a rusty heap of a car?

  "Mail's on the counter in here," I called over my shoulder, taking our plates to the kitchen. "I'll make some coffee."

  Melina brought more dishes in, rifling through the mail. Shestared at a white business envelope before ripping it open.

  "It's from Mom." She stood in the middle of the kitchen floor reading the long handwritten letter on large sheets of white paper. Two photographs fell to the floor. She stooped, handing them to me. "They're from Syttende Mai last month."

  Syttende Mai, "Seventeenth of May," is Norwegian Independence Day, celebrated much like the Fourth of July. It also serves as a spring festival after the long winter months. Lots of food and dancing and wearing costumes from the old country.

  "I didn't know Una still belonged to the Sons of Norway. I mean since Rollie died," I said. The snapshots showed our svelte, young-looking mother in a red weskit and white puffed-sleeve blouse dancing with her new husband, Hank Helgeson, at the Billings Elks Club. "Hank looks like he's a good dancer." Hank was shorter than Una

  but they looked good together.

  "Not as good as Rollie, I bet. " Melina put the letter on the counter. "You can read it if you want." Her voice sounded angry suddenly. Her defense of Rollie was both touching and out of proportion to Hank's crime.

  "I like Hank," I said, turning back to the dishes while Melina poured herself some coffee. "Mom seems happy."

  "I'm sure she is," Melina said, cradling the steaming cup in herhands. "I like Hank too. It's just that--" Her voice trailed off.

  "What?"

  "Oh, God, Alix. I still miss Daddy." She choked on her words then laughed at herself, a harsh sound. "Look at me. This is so stupid. " She resumed blowing on her coffee.

  I turned to her. "I miss him too, Mel. I guess we always will."

  She looked me in the eye. ''You were always so strong. So together. Independent. And you're the one who suffered the most. I had Daddy all my growing-up years. He saw me get married. He gave me away at the wedding."

  The tears welled up and spilled over; I set the towel down to go to her. But she waved me away. "It's more than missing him, you know." She took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling with red-rimmed eyes. When she spoke her voice was a whisper: "He was the same age as I am now. When he died."

  Her pale skin was splotched with red now, making her look worse. I felt paralyzed. I wasn't good at this. My heart went out to her but I had my own heartbreak to contend with. I loved him too. I missed his rough hands and his mischief making smile too. When he drowned in Flathead Lake, his body never found, a piece of me always felt it was unfinished business. But business I kept in a hard, hard box. To take it out, to take on both of our heartbreaks, would sink me.

  "Mel,"I I whispered. My words stuck in my throat.

  She took a sip of coffee. "I'm sorry. I'm really a wreck with... all this--all this about Wade." She turned, taking her cup into the other room. I finished the dishes, feeling her pain grow in me. She may think I'm strong but I'm only a better actor. I don't show it. It doesn't mean I don't feel the losses, the sorrow. I do, I do.

  In the living room the doorbell rang. In a moment Melina's footsteps hurried toward the kitchen. She didn't even pause to give me her message: "You answer the door."

  She headed out the door that led to the stairs, leaving me with little choice. I flipped on the porch light in the dusk. The familiar outline momentarily stopped me from pulling on the handle.

  "Dr. Tilden. What a surprise." The bulb on the porch slanted harsh light over his features, the shadow from his nose slashing across his cheek like a scar.

  "May I come in?" he asked, pulling the screen door from me. I backed away to let him pass, leaving the inner door ajar. Tilden wore the same khakis and short-sleeved plaid shirt, now with half-moons of sweat under his arms. His lined forehead was sticky. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around the living room with curiosity. "Is Melina here?"

  "She's not feeling too well. All the stress with Wade, you know."

  He nodded, frowning. What a repertoire of expressions the man had. "I was thinking about our talk today, Alix." He turned and faced me, staring at me in a way that was too familiar. "Did you know I brought Wade here to Missoula? We were both from Arkansas."

  "No, I didn't know that." I decided to humor him.

  "It's true." He sank into a chair without ceremony, a faraway look in his big black eyes. "I was his professor there. Hogback U. Wade came here for graduate school. Oh, we had some good times then. We used to go up on the reservation and stay all summer. Camp in tepees. Have bonfires, ceremonies with the Salish, the Kootenai. Sing and drum. Oh, how we'd sing."

  The clock ticked on the mantle. I hooked my thumbs over the waistband of my sweatpants. Was this the man I had thought a crusader for Indian rights? Some Marlon Brando he'd make. His jaw continued to move as if he was talking to himself. He was lost in the past. He looked spent suddenly and I pitied him.

  "Do you still go up on the reservation?"

  He jerked his head toward me. "Hmmm? Oh, yes, sometimes. But not so much as ... then."

  I thought about what Father Percy had said. Tilden sat like a statue, immobile, staring. How could I bring up the mission? Say, Father Percy thinks you have an attitude problem? What gives? Then, without explanation, a chill went up my spine. Tilden was strange, off, somehow.

  Out of his reverie Tilden smiled. Suddenly he was banal and harmless, reminiscing about times gone by. Then just as quickly he turned to me, his eyes flashing. "Would you like to see my sweathouse?"

  The night breathed cool velvet air, apologizing for the day's heat. I rolled down the window on my side of Tilden's old Dodge, letting the air whistle by my ears. His house was on the other side of the campus, an older, nicer neighborhood. We walked up the dark driveway to his garage.

  Crickets sang to the moon, hanging like a silver dollar in the dark sky. Tilden grabbed the handle of the garage door. The rumble of the door going up sent another shiver up my spine. I wondered, not for the first time, if this was a safe thing to do. The Victorian windows of the house were lit, and a figure passed by in the light. Someone else was close by, just in case.

  I shrugged off my fear. Okay, he was a little different. He was an academic, a brain. I'd always cut Wade a little slack for that. Besides, I wouldn't stay long.

  He turned on an overhead light. "This is it." A large domed structure filled most of the two-car garage. It looked like a warm weather igloo. The bent-willow structure, some four feet tall, was strewn with quilts, throw rugs, and blankets. On the left side of the room a wood-burning stove sat against the wall, a pile of rocks on it anda smokesta
ck through the garage roof.

  "I'm heating up rocks right now. That's why it's hot in here," he explained, rounding the sweathouse and smiling brightly. "You want to go in?"

  He pushed back a quilt that served as an entry flap and bent down to go in. "Take off your shoes. And metal jewelry," he instructed. "And move from left to right around the circle." I did as I was told, slipping off a bracelet and dropping it into my clog. The dome had evergreen branches stuck in between the quilts and the frame.

  "This is where we put the rocks when they're hot," he said, sitting cross-legged on the blankets spread for a floor. He pointed to a hollowed-out bowl in the floor close to the entrance. I stood awkwardly bent over. "Sit."

  I sat. To me, fully dressed, the small space was hot enough. The garage must have been an oven today. I couldn't imagine staying in here with steam heat and the flap closed. I was ready to tell him I was claustrophobic (not far from the truth) when he began to sing. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back with the rhythmic song, keeping the beat with his palms on his knees. The words, if that's what they were, meant nothing to me. The song had a familiar chant to it, a cadence of the wild, an untamed rhythm. I began to bob my head,keeping time with his music, loosening.

  My eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Even so Tilden was a bare outline, his white teeth flashing with moonlight that came through the open flap. I couldn't see the house windows but their reflective glow covered the backyard. What a strange man, I thought, listening to him sing. So didn't enjoying it make me weird? But his chanting calmed me, as if the rhythm nurtured something primal in me. I nodded along, trying to feel instead of think.

  But as soon as I got a little comfortable the absurdity of all this would hit me. And try as I might, I didn't trust the man. I shifted on the hard floor, my hip bones beginning to ache. Sweat ran down my back. My throat felt parched and dry.

  "Dr. Tilden," I whispered. He continued, eyes shut, Adam's apple bobbing with the throaty chant. "Dr. Tilden," I repeated, louder. He stopped abruptly. "Can I get a glass of water?"

  "Of course." He blinked at me as if he'd forgotten I was there. "This is not a ceremony." He closed his eyes again. I rose awkwardly in the low dome and shuffled out. The chant began again. Stretching my back, I was relieved to be out of the tiny structure. I slid on my bracelet and clogs and wandered into the cool backyard to find a faucet.

  The stars shone now, pinholes in the sky's mantle, twinkling their little hearts out next to the shimmering moon, not quite full. The backyard of Tilden's house looked white in its glow, neat but sterile, just a rectangle of lawn surrounded by a chain link fence. A hose hungby the back steps. I turned the faucet on for a drink.

  I gulped, spilling the water down my chin and neck. Up the back stairs a door opened. In the darkness a woman stepped from the house, lit by the moon. ''Who's there?" she barked.

  I cranked the faucet off quickly. "Uh. My name is Alix Thorssen. Dr. Tilden was showing me his sweathouse and I got thirsty. I'm sorry if I bothered you."

  "Oh." Her voice softened. She turned her face toward the garage. "Well, you better go now." She stepped back inside before I could say he had driven me over.

  In the garage Tilden still sang, his voice as strong as ever.

  The blisters from this afternoon screamed on my feet; I had my share of walking today. I had no intention of asking the professor for a ride home; he was otherwise engaged. Let him have his little chanting session. Reluctantly I mounted the back steps and knocked.

  The woman was shorter than she looked from the bottom of the wooden steps. She opened the door again, silver hair cascading past her shoulders. She wore a flowing cotton skirt in a batik print. Her features could have graced a Greek statue. Even with annoyance masking her natural expression, I thought I had seen her before.

  "Sorry to bother you again." I smiled and tried to look nonthreatening. "I need to use your phone to get a ride home."

  "The phone's there." Her kitchen was old but spotless. Neat rows of wine glasses sparkled on homemade shelves. A throw rug with an apple design lay below the sink. I moved to a white telephone on a side counter.

  "Melina?" I said when my sister answered. "Could you come get me at Tilden's?"

  "What are you doing there?"

  I looked behind me. Mrs. Tilden stood sentry at the door, lips pinched. "Yes, that would be great," I said, ignoring her question. "In a few minutes. Thanks, Mel." I hung up. Mrs. Tilden threw back her hair.

  "Melina Fraser?"

  "My sister," I said. "I'm here from out of town -- to visit." She didn't want to hear our family troubles. Every family has them. Then I recognized her. "Didn't I see you at Shiloh's service?"

  She glanced away, smoothing her hair. "I spoke there. She was a friend, a colleague." I stuck out my hand. "I guess we didn't get introduced properly, Mrs. Tilden."

  She took my hand in a weak shake. "My name is Sylvie Kali."

  "Alix Thorssen." I put my hands in the back of my waistband.

  Sweat had dampened the fabric. "Shiloh was a colleague?"

  She licked her lips. "We were in the same field. Holistic counseling. Family therapy, dream work." She frowned as if irritated with herself. "It doesn't matter. Anyway, some of her friends asked me to speak at the memorial." She paused. "And I was glad to."

  I tried to think of more questions for her. A sadness clung to her. She too mourned the loss. Shiloh had a lot of friends. We listened through the door to Tilden's rhythmic singing. It seemed to float on the night air, magical, otherworldly. "He's really very good," I said.

  "Yes. He is."

  "Melina will be here in a minute," I said, heading toward thedoor. "Thanks for the phone." The singing grew louder as I stepped into the night. Sylvie closed the door behind me without a word.

  The old orange Volkswagen sedan pulled up to the curb. My sister waited for me to climb in, smiling as she pulled out. "Let's go get something to eat," she said.

  I assumed she would question me about what was going on at the Tilden's her calm smile confused me. Wasn't she just irritated a moment ago? Or was it crying? I couldn't keep up. She turned the wheezing car around dark corners, over the bridge, parking in front of Montana Pies.

  After ordering pie (she: cherry, me: pecan with whipped cream) and coffee, Melina laid her hands on the table. "Paolo called just as I was going out the door to get you."

  "Yeah?"

  "He said to tell you he couldn't find anything about any Jackson Pollock paintings from the 'dreepee' period being for sale or in small collections."

  I smiled at her imitation of Paolo's accent. "Thanks."

  "And you're supposed to call the woman. The client." Melina took a sip of coffee. "He's so sweet, Alix."

  I readied my defenses and took a bite of pie. "Don't start."

  "Such a shame. I guess some men never quit fooling around. Just not cut out for monogamy." She stared out the window that reflected the bright lights and nauseous pastels of the restaurant. Straight from the Marriage and the Family text.

  But I agreed. "Paolo, for one."

  "He said your horse was spotted near Nora's Fish Creek Restaurant," she said after a swig of coffee. "Eating out of the dumpster."

  "Valkyrie always did like pancakes." Only I didn't need a renegade horse right now.

  Melina looked me in the eye. "We have to go see Wade tomorrow. Hondo called. I want to be able to tell him we're making progress." Her face pleaded with me for some crumb of reassurance. I ate pie. "What did Tilden want?" she asked.

  "He wanted to show me his sweathouse." I leaned forward. "Do you know his wife? Sylvie?"

  "No," Melina said. "He's always been secretive about her. She never came to departmental functions, parties, or whatever. When I was going."

  "You don't go anymore?"

  "1 got sick of it. Wade didn't care one way or the other." She twisted her fork on her crumb-strewn plate. "Alix, I have to tell you something." She straightened up, closing her eyes as she sighed. "It's about me
and Wade."

  I opened my mouth to protest. I didn't want to hear this. What was between her and Wade should stay there. But she held up her hand to stop me.

  "Just let me say it. I love Wade. But you know he can be pigheaded too. I've been applying to doctorate programs." I raised my eyebrows. I didn't know she was going for her Ph.D. "Yeah, it happen when you pass forty. Now or never." She smiled, like the prospect excited her. She twisted a lock of her hair around her finger as she talked.

  She took a deep breath. "I got accepted to a program at Brown. Back East, Rhode Island. I was so excited." Then she frowned. "But Wade doesn't want to go. And he told me in no uncertain terms that if I go without him not to come back."

  I looked at her downcast face, her smeared glasses over her fair cheeks. "He didn't mean it, Mel."

  "I think he did." Her voice was small. "Of course that was before ... all this."

  A group of blue-uniformed officers rose from a booth across the room just then, talking among themselves as they carne down the aisle past our table toward the door. Policemen are always taking coffee breaks. The last one in the bunch seemed to hang back. I glanced up to see Officer Mendez give me a furtive smile before he rejoined the others.

  Melina watched me return a weak smile. She pinched her eyebrows together. I ignored her and grumbled: "Let's get out of here."

  11

  "I BROUGHT YOU SOMETHING, WADE."

  He snapped his head up at the sound of Melina's voice. He looked at her, then the sack. "Cookies," she said softly.

  A spider inched up the cement-block wall in the small, hot room in the bowels of the Lake County Courthouse. Had Melina said progress? Well, physically we were backsliding. The dark circles under Melina's eyes were darker. Her glasses were smeared from a teary episode in the car on the way up. A wad of tissue hung in her jacket pocket like a bundle of contraband. As for me, the heat, a stolen car, blisters, and zero leads made me cranky.