As Vicky started to get to her feet Pat reached out and took her hand. “This got something to do with that Indian kid they found in the river?”
“I’m afraid so.” She pulled back her hand.
“Good God, Vicky.” The investigator was on his feet. “Stolen ledger book. Murder. Whoever’s behind this is gonna be a determined and vicious son of a bitch. Police get paid to hunt down sons of bitches. Stay out of it! You get in a killer’s way, you don’t know what could happen.”
He was wrong, Vicky thought. She knew exactly what could happen. She had seen Todd’s body at the morgue. “Thanks for the warning, Pat,” she said as she turned and started for the car, ignoring the alarm and frustration in his eyes.
* * *
A few people occupied the pews at St. Elizabeth’s Church—a scattering of mourners, Vicky thought as she slipped into a back pew. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows on the side walls, casting a tinge of orange, green, and brown over the wooden pews, the tiled floor. A faint smell of lilacs hung in the air, which was hot and stuffy, despite the fan softly whirring on the right side of the altar.
Vicky let her eyes roam over the people ahead: Doyal and Mary in the front pew, several grandfathers and grandmothers around them, a group of older white men who looked like professors. She spotted Emil Coughlin among them, arms folded across his chest, head turning from side to side as he glanced about. The rest looked like students—a few whites here and there, clusters of Indians. It struck her that Julie could be among them, but she had no idea what the girl looked like.
Then she spotted the young black-haired woman sitting alone in a side pew near the front, head bowed over something in her hand—a missal, perhaps. Suddenly the head jerked up, and Vicky saw it was Tisha Runner, the girl she’d met yesterday at the Indian Services Office. The girl who claimed she didn’t know Todd Harris. Why was she at a memorial Mass for someone she didn’t know? If she had lied about Todd, maybe she’d also lied about his roommate.
Vicky decided to join the girl. She started to slide out of her pew just as the drums began pounding—a steady thump, thump, thump, like that of her own heart. She remained in her place. Three old men had taken seats around the small drum near the altar. There was a shuffling noise, a shifting of atmosphere, as people got to their feet and two elders started up the aisle. Behind them was John O’Malley, tall and redheaded, wearing a white chasuble embroidered at the edges in geometric designs—the Arapaho symbols of life. His hands were pressed together in prayer.
The elders gave little bows before slipping into a front pew while Father John walked to the altar and faced the congregation. “We’ve gathered here to pray for the soul of Todd Harris,” he said. His voice resonated through the church.
Vicky kept her eyes on the priest as he began the prayers of the Mass, head bowed, hands clasped. She was glad he had returned to the people, that he was here when Todd’s grandparents needed him, that he would be at St. Francis Mission when others needed him. She didn’t want to think of what it might have been like if he hadn’t returned, if she never saw him again: a kind of death.
Voices rose around her: Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord, hear us. Christ, graciously hear us.
Then quiet filled the church, broken by the whirring of the fan, the clearing of a throat, a little cough. “The souls of the just are in the hands of God,” Father John said. Then he began talking about Todd, how he’d gloried in his life and used the talents God had given him to serve others, how he had touched everyone who knew him. A low sobbing noise came from the front pews where the grandmothers and elders sat as Father John walked over to a chair angled next to the altar and sat down.
“Father, I want to talk.” An elder’s voice mingled with the whir of the fan. A commotion followed as the old man worked his way into the aisle. Now, Vicky knew, was the time for the criers—like the men who had gone through the villages in the Old Time, crying out the news, telling what had happened, urging the people to be of strong heart.
The old man stood in front of the altar, gazing out over the church, thin brown arms dangling from the sleeves of his plaid shirt. “This was a good boy,” he said. “Just tryin’ to do right. People shouldn’t forget him, now he’s gone to the ancestors.”
The next elder was already beside him. Then a line of old men, one after the other, walked to the altar and cried out the same message. A good boy. Don’t let your heart get discouraged. Gotta keep going on. Finally they filed back into the pews, and Father John resumed the Mass.
When he finished, the drums started again, loud thuds in the hushed quiet as Father John walked down the center aisle. Vicky watched the pews empty behind him, people following him toward the door. Suddenly she realized she’d lost sight of Tisha Runner. The girl wasn’t in the crowd. She must have gone out a side door.
Darting out of the pew, Vicky hurried up the side aisle. She found a door inside a small alcove. On the other side was a hallway that led past the sacristy to an outside door. She pushed it open and stepped onto a shady stretch of lawn next to the church. People were already getting into cars and pickups on the street; a brown pickup pulled out in a grating of gears. The girl was nowhere.
Vicky walked across the lawn to the front, where students and elders pressed around Father John, stretching out their hands. She saw the way he took each hand and held it a long moment—a comforting touch, she knew.
Emil Coughlin seemed to be awaiting his turn, standing back, surveying the crowd. He had the look of a professor about him—the dark blazer over a blue shirt and loosely knotted tie, the wrinkled slacks. Catching her eye, he walked over. “Nice to see you again, my dear,” he said, extending his hand. His grip was as firm as she remembered.
He smiled at her. “Any luck finding that roommate of Todd’s?”
“Not yet,” Vicky said, taken back by the question. The professor had said he had no interest in the personal lives of his students.
“I hoped she might be here.” His eyes went to the group hovering around Father John. “The police say some fool broke into Todd’s apartment and stole his computer. Must have had the only copy of his thesis, since they didn’t find it in any papers. Todd did some solid work. I would hate to see his research disappear. His roommate might know if he kept a backup disk somewhere else. Smart thing to do, you know. And Todd was a smart kid. Trouble is, the roommate seems to have disappeared.”
Vicky was quiet a moment. They had reached the same conclusion: Julie might know something about the thesis. She said, “It’s possible Todd found some very significant information.”
“Absolutely!” The professor nodded. “He was a first-rate researcher.”
“He may have discovered the Arapaho ledger book in the museum.”
“My dear,” Emil began in a pleading tone, “I’ve explained to you there is no such book—”
Vicky interrupted. “It exists, Emil. And it tells the story of Sand Creek.”
The professor rocked back on his heels. “That would be a significant discovery, indeed,” he said. Raising his head, he gazed at some point beyond her. “It would have changed the entire thrust of Todd’s thesis. I find it quite puzzling that he did not mention such a find to me.”
“I think he was scared,” Vicky said. “Someone didn’t want the ledger book found. That’s why Todd was killed.”
A smile cracked at the corners of the professor’s thin mouth. “Oh, my dear, I’m disappointed at your obsession over this so-called ledger book. I’m afraid my worthy colleague Bernard Good Elk may be right about you. This is just a ploy, a smoke screen that you insist upon raising in an attempt to prove Arapahos were involved in the Sand Creek debacle. A fantastic story. Well . . .” He glanced at the last cars pulling from the curb. “It must be difficult for Todd’s family, all this speculation on why the poor boy was killed. The police know why he was killed. The evidence seems clear. Shouldn’t you content yourself with trying to reclaim the Arapaho artifacts in the museum
?”
“Not until I find the ledger book,” she said.
“I see.” Emil exhaled a long breath. “And how do you propose to conjure up this ledger book?”
Vicky turned away. The crowd was thinning out. A few elders talking to Father John, grandmothers waiting in parked cars. Looking back, she said, “I’m not sure. But if Todd found the ledger book, I can find it. I intend to follow his footsteps.”
Giving the professor her best professional smile, she started toward the crowd thinning out around Father John just as a blue Honda rounded the corner, Tisha Runner at the wheel. “Tisha, wait!” she called, waving both hands overhead, running into the street. The Honda gathered speed as it swung around a corner. In another instant it was lost in traffic on Speer Boulevard.
Vicky stepped back onto the curb. There was shock and disapproval on the faces of the grandmothers staring at her from the cars. So undignified. And she, an Arapaho woman.
She walked toward the dwindling crowd in front of the church. Emil Coughlin was gone. She waited until the last students had turned away and started down the sidewalk. Father John was alone. She told him that the Mass was beautiful and comforting; that she was glad he had returned. Then she said, “I had a surprise visitor last night. Bernard Good Elk.”
Father John left his eyes on hers a moment. Without saying anything, he took her arm and gently propelled her back into the church and down the center aisle. A musty odor filled the air, a residue of perspiration and grief. They genuflected—a sign of respect for the Blessed Sacrament—and walked through the side door into the hallway where, a few minutes ago, she’d run after Tisha Runner. The door outside stood partway open, and cool air floated toward them. They stepped through the door on the right into a small sacristy walled with cabinets and shelves. An old man puttered about: Mass book here, chalice there.
“Meet Father Cyprian,” Father John said. The other priest shot her a sideways glance before going back to arranging the shelves. These younger priests. Drums at Mass. A woman in the sacristy. Vicky felt out of place, as if she’d blundered into the center of the male universe.
Father John had already shrugged out of the white chasuble. “What did Good Elk want?” he asked, hanging the garment inside a small closet.
“He claims the Arapaho ledger book doesn’t exist,” Vicky said. “It’s a figment of my imagination, a story I’ve made up. Emil Coughlin agrees wholeheartedly.”
“The man outside.” Father John nodded toward the front of the church as he pulled on a black suit jacket over his black shirt. The garb of a priest, Vicky thought, so different from the blue jeans and plaid shirts, from the way she was used to him on the reservation.
“Look, Vicky,” he went on. “We don’t know who may be involved in Todd’s murder. It’s time you talked to the police.”
Suddenly the old priest stepped between them. “What’s this? If either of you knows something about the murder of this young man, it is my moral duty to remind you that you must tell the police.”
Father John took the old man’s arm and guided him aside. “Of course, Father,” he said, glancing at Vicky. “We’re going to do just that.”
“Of course.” Vicky fixed the strap of her bag into the crook of her shoulder. Looking past the old priest, she gave Father John a little wave and hurried out the side door.
Before she took her theory to Steve Clark, she intended to have another meeting with the curator at the Denver Museum of the West.
18
Vicky wheeled the Taurus around the southern edge of downtown Denver, catching a one-way street in the wrong direction, making a series of turns before she was heading in the right one. She’d frequently gotten lost in the maze of old downtown streets that followed the banks of the South Platte River. New sections of the city had grown up in a straight grid, which left the downtown streets angling into thoroughfares and butting into dead ends.
Finally she passed the white marble columns marching across the Denver Museum of the West. She drove the car to the same parking lot where she’d left it two days ago.
Inside the museum, the same elderly woman sat at the horseshoe-shaped desk. She frowned in disapproval as Vicky approached. “The curator has been trying to reach you,” she said.
Vicky made her way to the third floor, where she found the office door open, the curator staring at the computer screen. She looked up just as Vicky was about to rap on the doorjamb. “Do come in,” she called. The hint of a smile played on the red-lipsticked mouth. “We’ve solved our little mystery.”
“Mystery?” Vicky crossed the office and took one of the chairs facing the desk. She kept her handbag on her lap, the leather cool in her hands.
“The mystery of how one of your elders could have seen a ledger book in the museum. The answer is quite simple.” Rachel Foster’s smile widened into a grin, exposing a row of perfect, white teeth.
Vicky felt a profound sense of relief tinged with confusion. If the ledger book was in the museum after all, why had the book dealer seemed to believe one was about to come on the market? She wondered if Rachel Foster had made inquiries, then had decided against trying to sell the book. Was it their meeting two days ago, when she had told the curator she knew about the book, that had changed the woman’s mind? It didn’t matter. Now the book could be returned to her people. “I’m glad the ledger book is safe,” she said.
“No, no, no.” The curator raised both hands in protest. “I’m afraid you misunderstand. We do not have a ledger book in our collections. We’ve checked the records from the day the museum opened through 1920. There is no record of an acquisition. We did find this, however.” The curator opened the center drawer and withdrew a small red booklet. She handed it across the desk.
On the cover, in smeared black type, were the words: Bulletin of the Denver Museum of the West, June 1920.
“Your storyteller may be correct,” Rachel Foster said as Vicky opened the booklet. “The museum had an exhibit on Plains Indian art during the summer of 1920. It’s possible the ledger book was part of the exhibit. We did not own the book, however.”
Vicky glanced up. The bulletin felt light in her hand. “What are you saying?”
Another wide smile. “A private collector must have loaned the book for the special exhibit.” She nodded toward the bulletin. “It’s all there.”
Vicky slowly turned the pages. At the top of page four, in bold type was the heading: The Unique Art of the Plains Indians. A short paragraph told of the painted tipis, war shields, women’s dresses, and warrior shirts on exhibit throughout the month of June. There was no mention of a ledger book.
“Museums often borrow items for special exhibits,” Rachel Foster explained. “Two collectors loaned us some of the weapons for our current exhibit on Sand Creek. Obviously the curator in 1920 borrowed the ledger book.” She waved one hand—a pesky matter settled.
Laying the bulletin on the desk, Vicky said, “I believe an Arapaho student found the ledger book in the museum last week and was using it for his thesis. His name was Todd Harris. Perhaps you read about him. He was murdered Monday night.”
Rachel Foster gripped the edge of the desk and pulled herself forward. “What possible evidence could you have to link this museum with that horrible murder? You are dangerously close to slander, Ms. Holden.” She picked up the bulletin and rapped it hard against the edge of the desk. “This was in the library stacks. This is what your graduate student found.” Another whack. “He must have jumped to the conclusion that the exhibit included a ledger book.”
“Ms. Foster,” Vicky said, getting to her feet, “I would like to know which research materials Todd worked with last week. Could I see the sign-in sheets?”
The curator stood up, still gripping the desk. “This is outrageous. You are persisting with this . . . this”—she reached out one hand, as if to pull the appropriate expression from the air—“preposterous theory. Do you have any idea of the trouble you are causing? The Cheyennes and Comanches say
they won’t agree to the list of artifacts we supplied, since the Arapahos are contesting their list. You have ruined our reputation among the tribes. Why? Because some student found a bulletin and concocted an elaborate story. Well, this has gone far enough.”
Vicky stepped closer to the desk. “I can ask for a court order to see the sign-in sheets,” she said. A bluff, she knew. What she had was a theory. A theory wasn’t evidence. The museum records were public record.
The curator drew her lips into a thin, red line. Her cheeks took on a paleness. After a moment she picked up the phone, tapped out some numbers, and cradling the receiver in her shoulder, huddled over it. She spoke quickly. Vicky Holden, Arapaho attorney, sign-in sheets, Todd Harris. Turning back, the phone still in hand, she said, “The research librarian will help you.”
* * *
The young woman with the wedge of brown hair, the watchful eyes behind tiny, round glasses, sat at the desk inside the library. She picked up a file folder and handed it to Vicky. “The sign-in sheets you requested.” Her voice was a whisper.
Vicky thumbed through the typed sheets. There were three—dated Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday of last week. Under Patron’s Name on each sheet was a sharp, angular scrawl: Todd Harris. Under Materials Requested, the same scrawl: Smedden Collection.
“What is the Smedden Collection?” Vicky leaned across the desk, her index finger underlining the words.
The librarian swiveled toward a computer on a small table next to the desk. A few keystrokes, and she was squinting at the monitor through the little glasses. “Collection donated by James J. Smedden and family in 1903. Miscellaneous documents pertaining to Kiowa County, late 1800s.”
Vicky felt the muscles clench in her stomach. Sand Creek was located in Kiowa County. “May I see the collection?” she asked.
The Story Teller Page 13