The Bluejay Shaman (Alix Thorssen Mystery Series)

by Lise McClendon

  I sat back again. What good was this information? Unless I did a thorough background check on Vardis (which the police were probably already doing) this led nowhere. Just as poking around about Shiloh seemed futile. There was only one thing that seemed to link these two murders. And I was determined to find it myself.

  18

  POLSON, MONTANA, IS an odd mix: a reservation town that is also a tourist destination. It can't decide what sort of a place to be. While snuggled onto the southernmost tip of the expansive blue Flathead Lake, replete with boat rentals and marinas and a golf course, it is strangely grim. There is no joy, no liveliness, no fun. No clumps of pedestrians killing time on the sidewalks, looking in glitzy jewelry stores and junky souvenir shops, like in my hometown. Here the clumps of locals hang out on the sidewalks outsidethe state liquor store or Social Services or Lake County Chemical Dependency. Reminders of the devastation of the culture of the American Indian, of his hopelessness. A change from the superficial glitter and plastered westernism of Jackson should have been a relief. But Polson saddened me with its despair hard by its leisure class.

  Inside the Lake County Courthouse I waited to see Wade again. This time the room seemed cooler, not like a torture chamber hot box. I took this as a positive sign. Or maybe they finally turned on the air-conditioning. The pea-green walls still depressed me, looking like mold, reminding prisoners that they were the scum of society.

  Wade entered looking surprisingly fit and definitely cleaned up. His hair had been washed and combed into his graying ponytail and his prison scrubs were clean and tucked in. He must have been sleeping better; he looked more rested. He smiled and gave me a quick, surreptitious hug, with a glance at the guard who took up his standard position against the wall by the door. "Jesus, it's good to see you, Alix." He stopped halfway down into the chair. "Melina didn't

  come?" I shook my head. "She couldn't today. She was backed up on her lectures. But I needed to talk to you again."

  He settled himself and frowned. "I wish she'd have come." He sat forward, forearms on the table." Did you find out who killed Shiloh?"

  "Not yet," I said. He hadn't heard about Charlotte Vardis so I recounted the story again, just as I had for Paolo this morning. I told him of my connection, my contact with her. Wade rocked his chair back, a thoughtful look on his face. His beard was as unkempt as ever, and he stroked it as he listened.

  "So they both were looking for this bluejay pictograph?"

  I nodded. "You've got to remember something more, Wade. Anything connected with the bluejay shaman you told me about. Everything was missing from the library. All the old journals."

  "Damn students," he muttered. "Too lazy to copy something down so they just swipe it." "I didn't find anything in your files about it," I prompted him back to the subject.

  Wade shifted his eyes to the ceiling corner, twirling his beard through his lingers. "Bluejay pictograph. I've been racking my brain since you asked me before. I just can't remember ever hearing a thing about it. You're sure that's the name?"

  "That's what both Charlotte and Shiloh called it. That's all I know." I tapped my fingers on the table nervously. "What about the bluejay shaman? Is there a drawing he might use?"

  Wade squinted, then shook his head. "I don't know. There used to be that dance, in the winter, usually January. The shaman would rub himself all over with charcoal and dance for four nights straight, all night. Then he'd bug outand go sit in a tree until the tribe came and rescued him." He smiled, warming to his favorite subject. "But I don't recall

  anything about a drawing or painting. A pictograph is usually a painting on a rock slab or a cliff wall."

  "Why would these women want it?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "Beats me. There's plenty of collectors around though. And lots of illegal collecting from federal lands and reservation land. Down in the southwest mostly."

  "Owning such a pictograph wouldn't necessarily be illegal, would it?"

  "No. If it's collected on private land or bought from another collector who found it legally."

  "Did you know Shiloh had an extensive Indian art collection?"

  Surprise flashed across his face, then he nodded slowly. "I do recall seeing her with some dance sticks or war clubs or something once."

  I told him about the boxes in her garage that her roommate claimed contained her excess collections.

  "That's odd. I wouldn't store my prized collections of Indian artifacts in the garage," he said. "But then Shiloh was strange. She probably got tired of them and wanted to move on."

  Neither of us had any answers to that one. The guard behind me bit down hard on a fingernail; the sound of his teeth clicking echoed around the silent room. Wade didn't seem to notice, lost in thought.

  "You talked to Tilden about Shiloh?" he asked, breaking our stalemate.

  "Yes. But he wasn't much help. All he said was that he assumed she quit the program because you and she had some rift. Some argument."

  Wade frowned and let out an astonished chuckle. "Me and her? That's a new one. He probably told the cops that. He's had it in for me since that article." He leaned forward, leering, his eyes wide. "The word

  around the department was more like him and Shiloh."

  I blinked. "Are you sure?"

  "Hell, no. It was just a rumor. Something for the gossip mongers. But there's usually a grain of truth to most gossip."

  I cocked my head and smiled at him. "Something maybe like Melina and him? A flirtation?" His eyebrows lowered at the remark but he nodded.

  "Maybe."

  "They were interested in the same area, right? What was it?"

  "Religious rites of the Salish," he said.

  "And is the bluejay shaman considered a religious person? A holy man?" I asked. Wade nodded. "So where does that leave us?"

  "With two or maybe three people who are interested in the bluejay shaman and what is maybe a painting of him."

  My turn to nod and stroke my chin. The guard was quiet now behind me, either listening hard or dozing. The room was heating up again with our three warm bodies in its tiny space; beads of sweat wet my upper lip.

  Another thought came to mind: "And some antipapists." I had sent him the clippings from the Missoula newspaper about the further vandalism at St. Ignatius Mission with a note about seeing it myself. "That really bothered me at the mission."

  Wade scanned my face with his eyes. "Now you know how the Salish feel when somebody cuts limbs off the Medicine Tree or burns down their sweathouses. It's the same thing. The same fucking thing!" He pounded his fist on the table, angry again.

  "Do you think it was Tilden? Does he hate Catholics that much?"

  "That business with debunking Shining Shirt was a pretty direct hit. That was years ago. But then you say you found the paint can in your car? Maybe that ties in with trying to frame you for this Vardis woman's murder. Like the vandalism was continued to implicate you somehow. To tie you up so you would lose track of whatever it is you're getting close to." Wade raised his burly eyebrows, gripping the table edge with both hands.

  A lump of fear settled into my gut. "Would they kill a woman just to implicate me?"

  Wade shook his head. "I don't know, Alix. I don't even have an idea of who they are, how would I know what they'd do?"

  Driving back I wondered about Mendez--it was two-thirty, and I had missed the lunch date. It was unavoidable; I had no time for chitchat. He didn't need to be seen with me. Bad for his credibility. Besides, he distracted me; I didn't need that. If there was ever a time to concentrate, to cut out extraneous stimuli, to cut to the bone of a matter, this was it.

  19

  "I CAN'T GET IT." Melina's whisper hissed down the empty hallway. At seven on a Sunday evening between terms, the social sciences building was deserted, its linoleum hallways shining, smooth and silent. A dim malaise filled the unlit hall as we groped in the dark. We had no need to whisper. But the job seemed to demand it.

  From my sister I took the pass
key to the anthropology offices; Wade had told me where to find it in the mailroom, hidden on top of the cubbyholes. He used it occasionally if he lost or forgot his own office key. It was ironic, his hesitation telling me where the key was hidden. As much as Tilden had tried to undermine him, possibly even let him take the rap for a murder, Wade still had second thoughts about crossing his old mentor.

  Melina shivered though the air was stale, unmoving. The air-conditioning had been turned off for the day; the stagnant metallic smell of its residue hung in the air. I moved in front of Tilden's office door, slipped the key into the knob, and jerked on it. The painted metal door moved inward without a sound. We stepped inside and shut the door.

  "Nice office," Melina said, still whispering. She was nervous, her hands trembling until she stuck them in the pockets of her shorts. She wore a loose cotton blouse in a thin Indian weave, white and tan. It made her look pale. She had been tugging on her mane again, causing it to stick out. I moved behind Tilden's desk and sat down in his chair, feeling the warmth of its seat. Had he just been here? There was no fresh smell in the air, no aftershave, no cigar or pipe smoke. I looked on the desk for signs of his return: a half-full coffee cup, an open file or book, a burning cigarette. There was none.

  "Lock the door again," I whispered. Melina turned obediently and flipped the latch. "You start with the files over there. I'll do the desk."

  She nodded, padding over the worn oriental rug to a tall black file cabinet. She kicked off her shoes, opened the bottom drawer, and sat on the floor with the first file. I turned to my own mission, opening the middle drawer of the desk. The old desk, a lustrous mahogany, was a well-oiled machine, honed by years of loving use. The wood gleamed even in the light from the solitary desk lamp I switched on. The drawers moved smoothly and quietly, a sign of quality construction. I peered at the contents of the pencil drawer (pencils, natch), pens, paper clips, notepads, index cards, cafeteria meal tickets, receipts from restaurants in a little envelope like he was gathering them for his tax return. I glanced in the envelope and set it back down gingerly. Old buttons from presidential campaigns: Reagan '80, Nixon '68, I Like Ike. His heroes? Time to clean out the cobwebs, Mad Dog.

  The drawer slid silently in. I opened another, top right, normally a paper supply drawer. Judging from his office, Tilden was a compulsive type, had everything in its place. I smiled, enjoying the guessing game of what each drawer held. Melina shoved a file back into the cabinet and drew out another.

  Score one for me. The drawer held typing paper, envelopes, more index cards, manila envelopes, and in the back an index system for the large-format cards he must use in lectures. I pushed the "B" divider forward and pulled out the cards, leaning back to put them in my lap and read one by one.

  "Bella Coola," said one. Another Salish tribe, far from Montana. Basketry; Blackfoot (Siksika) Indians; Boats; Brule Sioux; Burial customs. Nothing on the bluejay shaman. I returned the cards to their place. What else to look under? I pushed to the "S" divider, drawing out the stack of index cards.

  SALISH. Its own divider card within the "S." I scanned the headings one by one: Bitterroot Salish or Interior Salish or Flathead. Alliances; Arms; Arts and crafts; Clark, William, (and Lewis); Costume; Disease; Dwellings; Enemies; Horse; Hostilities; Hunting; Language; Medicine men.

  I stopped and read carefully. Tilden's notes on the "Medicine men" card were brief and choppy; one word used to prod his memory in lecture. One word with no details. "Bluejay shaman," it said. Period. The end. A faded blue fountain pen scratching, looking many years old. That was all.

  I glanced through the rest of the headings. Here was one: "Religion." But again he mentioned only what I already knew: Shining Shirt, Jesuit missionaries, St. Mary's Mission, St. Ignatius, Catholicism. I scanned the remaining "S" cards and replaced them in the index.

  "Finding anything?" I asked.

  Melina looked up, sighing. "Mostly handouts. Copies of tests."

  The drawer below on the right contained files for what I supposed were Tilden's classes for the previous school year. There were six fat files, complete with grade sheets, tests, handouts, and lecture notes. One was a graduate seminar on the Salish and Kootenai. I opened it on the top of the desk and flipped through the notes. Again Tilden used only a memory-jogging key word; the notes were useless.

  Melina moved to the middle file drawer, pulling over the chair that I used for my first talk with Tilden. Her glasses slipped down her short nose as her freckled arms rose to grasp another file. I closed the drawer and turned to the left side. With my hand on the pull the sounds came through the door. Creak, creak. Melina looked at me, eyes wide. She nodded toward the desk light. I pulled its chain as quietly as possible and held my breath.

  Squeak, squeak, the sounds grew louder, closer. Rhythmic. Footsteps. Someone with rubber-or crepe-soled shoes. A bump. The jingle of keys. Melina and I looked at the doorknob, still locked. Who was in the hall? Could it be Tilden?

  A door opened down the hall. The shoes creaked a few times, then the door closed. Whoever it was came closer. Pushing or pulling something that rattled as it rolled. The janitor? I looked under the desk for the wastebasket. Where was it?

  I motioned to Melina to come over behind the desk. The wastebasket, a gray metal institutional model with a tan plastic liner, was to the right of the desk. I shoved it around to the front on the carpet. Melina and I crouched down into the kneehole of the desk, cramming ourselves together, holding each other's arms, desperate, cramped, and afraid.

  Another door opened, then closed. It was dark under the desk; my bad knee began to ache. Melina's nails dug into my flesh. She dropped her head to her knees. Squeaking outside our door, another bump, keys.

  I took a gulp of air; the tension swelling in my chest. The door opened. No footsteps sounded on the rug but the wastebasket scratched away from the desk. A thump as it was emptied; another, close to our heads, as it returned. God, did Mel leave the file drawer open?

  I squeezed my eyes together in agony. How had it come to this? It was so damn undignified to be hiding under a desk. We were frozen even as the cleaning person moved away down the hall, the reassuring squishy squeaks of his shoes on the linoleum fading away.

  Melina jerked her head up, bumping the desk drawer above. She moaned aloud, then caught herself. We stared at each other, gaping mouths, listening. I counted to one hundred slowly, waiting for a sound from outside the door. At last I let go of my sister's arms.

  "Let's go," I croaked. We crawled from the kneehole, stretching our backs and legs, careful not to bump anything. As I turned to sit again at the desk Melina grabbed my shoulders and hugged me, holding me against her chest, my face in her hair. I could feel her shaking still and patted her back. She released me and walked back to her post without looking in my eyes.

  Melina had expressed the same hesitations as Wade had about breaking into Tilden's office. At first she had said I should go alone if I must go at all. Then, at dinner, I could see her ruminating, fidgeting with her food, moving it around the plate like hockey pucks.

  "Mel," I said. "Come with me. It'll go faster. The faster I'm out of there the less chance of getting caught." She couldn't argue with that.

  But she had insisted we drive her car and park it far across the campus from the social sciences building. We wore our jogging shorts and shoes as if we were just out for some evening exercise.

  The contents of the top left drawer were strictly utilitarian. Markers, chalk, binders, more index cards, pens. I closed it, reaching for the bottom left drawer. Unlike the other drawers, it refused to budge. I pulled hard on the handle. Above the handle was a keyhole, an old brass model with a large opening. The drawer was locked.

  My heart began to pound. If only we could open it. Lock-picking was out of my league. Lamely I tried the passkey to the door. No way. I shoved it back in my pocket angrily.

  "Mel," I whispered. "Have you seen a big key? Old-fashioned kind?"

  She frowned, coming aroun
d the desk to see where I was pointing. "I'll look for it. But wouldn't he have it on him? On his key chain?"

  "Maybe. But it's possible since it's probably big that he keeps it somewhere here in the room." I shrugged. "Isn't it?"

  Melina went back to the cabinet, still frowning. "Sure." She didn't sound convinced. In the next few minutes we ran our hands under every shelf, picked up every stack of magazines, pulled out every book and looked behind it, looked in the bottom and back of every file and desk drawer, and checked underneath the chairs and the rug. And found no key.

  We stood in the middle of the small office, looking at the corners of the room. I felt the top of the window frame, the door frame. Nothing. "Go back to the files." Mel went to work on the top drawer as I turned to the bookshelves on the wall near the door. Books covered the small eight-foot by eight-foot wall completely, top to bottom. There were seven shelves, with books ranging from textbooks and scholarly tomes to paperback popular books. I spotted the trio by Carlos Castenada that I had enjoyed in college myself, and other works on shamanism and spirituality and Indian lore

  and life. Pulling down a few, one at a time, I checked indexes for Salish and for bluejay shaman, then set them back on the shelf. An old volume in tattered yellow hardcover held stories about the Salish written down in the twenties. In it Lone Pine, Chief of the Salish, is preparing the tribe for two strangers who might be Lewis and Clark. I took it to the

  desk and read for a few minutes.

  All very interesting but signifying nothing. What was in the drawer? I ran my fingers over the brass lock again and shook the drawer handle for good measure before slipping the Salish book back into its place on the shelf.

  If I were a key ... Crossing my arms, I tried to reason it out. Where would I hide? Perhaps Melina was right, he kept it on him. But a big skeleton key like that? It would be awkward. I spun to look behind the desk where a poster of an Indian fancy-dancer was framed and hung on the wall. Next to it hung Tilden's honoraria, his doctorate diploma from Arkansas, another certificate from an anthropological society. Carefully I took them from the wall and examined their backs and edges.