Shelley shook her head. "Not necessarily. That's one of the things the teacher talked about in that beginner's class I took the other day. It's something called chain migration. A town would sometimes collect the money to send some representatives of a couple of families to America to find a suitable place to move to. Then, once the place was chosen, they would follow along in a chain. The young bachelors first, to buy land and build a few houses, then some young families, and eventually the older generation. Sometimes, the teacher said, virtually the entire town moved itself halfway around the globe."
Jane smiled. "That's interesting. And it makes me feel better about it. I'm going to have to call my mother when we get home and see what she knows about our family's history."
"Aha! You're hooked."
Jane sipped her wine. "Well, maybe a little."
"Let's look at Doris's file."
Jane went and got it and, removing the papers, put them into tidy piles. The first pile was the census reports, which Shelley enjoyed as much as Jane had. "Look at the size of the families!" she exclaimed. "Good Lord! Here's a woman who says she's forty-six years old, and she has a four-year-old child at home as well as a twenty-four-year-old and a dozen in between! Twenty years of steady childbearing."
Jane was studying another sheet. "This one's odd. The mother is twenty-seven, but there's a child of fifteen. That doesn't seem likely."
"It doesn't seem nice, either," Shelley said. "No, look. The husband is forty. I'll bet these older ones are his children from a previous marriage. At least I hope so. See, the children are fifteen, thirteen, eleven, and then there's a gap, then a six-year-old and a three-year-old."
"I wonder who she was looking for on these," Jane said. "There isn't any highlighting or notation on the back of any of the reports. Where are they from?"
Shelley shuffled the papers. "One from a township in New York State. One from Denver — no, two from Denver. And one that looks like a farm community in Colorado someplace."
"How can you tell it's a farm community?" Jane asked.
"For one thing, all the men give their occupation as farmer."
Jane laughed. "I think that's a good way of guessing. I'm not sure I'm cut out to be a genealogist. Do you see any names that mean anything to you?"
Shelley ran a finger down the left column of each page. "I don't think so. Some of the names in the farm one look vaguely Russian or Slavic, but no Romanovs or even a Smith."
As Shelley folded up the census reports, Jane handed her the pile of clippings and photos. "Some of these aren't even in English," Shelley complained.
"No, but they each have a number written on the back. There are translations in the stack of paperwork. Most are Romanov cousins and people from Holnagrad, according to Doris's translations."
"Here's an obituary of Gregory Smith."
"Yes, but don't get excited," Jane warned her. "It doesn't tell much of anything about him. Just that he came from Europe and arrived in the community in the 1920s. Most of it's about his late wife, who was connected to the town. I'd guess that either Bill or his sister gave the information to the paper, and they either didn't know much more or were respecting their father's lifelong secrecy and didn't say what they knew."
"I wonder if this Sergei person in the portrait photograph with the Tsar is supposed to be Gregory's father."
"I have no idea."
"What else do you have there?" Shelley carefully bundled up the clippings and pictures and traded them for a thin sheaf of papers Jane had put together with a paper clip.
"Some of it is translations of the clippings. There are a lot that seem to be typed-up transcripts of interviews with old-timers around here who claimed to remember Gregory Smith."
"Have you read them all?"
"Only skimmed them, I'm afraid."
"Okay, you take half. I'll take half."
They dutifully read in silence for a while. Katie strolled through, stared at them for a minute, and said, "You look like you're doing homework. Want to do some of mine when we get home?"
"In your dreams, kiddo," Jane answered.
"Can't hurt to ask," Katie replied breezily.
"What's this about?" Shelley asked, handing Jane the typed sheet with the lists of names and book and page numbers.
"I don't know, except what it says. Sheepshead Bay court records."
"I can see why the two names are starred," Shelley said. "Roman and the one Smith name. Maybe that's the court where Gregor changed his name. If he did. But I wonder why one Smith is starred and the other one isn't. And why did she record the rest of these names?"
Jane understood these to be rhetorical questions and didn't answer. Instead she just put the page on her lap and gazed at it.
A moment later, she gasped.
"What's wrong?"
Jane sat with her mouth open for a minute, then said, "Did you see those greeting cards in the gift shop? The ones with the busy little repetitive patterns on them and you're supposed to stare at them for a long time and imagine you're looking through the page-"
"Yes, I think they're a Communist plot to brainwash people like you into thinking you're seeing a secret message."
"But I did see the message on them. And I have a feeling I'm seeing one here. Sort of through the page, if you know what I mean."
"I have no idea what you mean!"
"Look at the list. Look at the names that aren't starred. You're right. There's a reason for the rest of the names!"
Shelley went through the list and looked back at Jane blankly. "No secret message."
"Wait a minute. Let me think this out before I open my mouth and make a complete fool of myself," Jane said. She got up and paced for a few moments. Shelley waited patiently, pouring herself another scant tablespoonful of wine and putting another log on the fire.
Finally Jane sat back down and took a deep breath. "I think I know."
She talked for five minutes straight, pointed out the evidence of her theory in Doris's notes and with two other objects; then she sat back, feeling mentally exhausted.
"If this is right — and I suspect it is — I have two questions," Shelley said.
"Fire away."
"Don't sound so cocky," Shelley warned. "First, how did Bill Smith know?"
"Doris told him," Jane said smugly.
"But why would she?"
"Because she was a blabbermouth. She assumed since she found it interesting, everybody would. And Bill did. He found it useful, too. Next question?"
"You can really be insufferable," Shelley said mildly. "Next question is, how do we prove it?"
Jane's smug expression faded. "Gee — I don't know. Hmmm. Oh! Remember when Lucky was talking about professional genealogists in Salt Lake City? People you can hire to do your research? That's how. We hire a genealogist."
"And get put at the bottom of a list that'll take three months to work up to the top of."
"I believe that's where we have to get Mel into this. He is a professional detective, you know. And he could say so to someone without having to be specific about whether or not he's officially involved in this case."
Shelley cocked an eyebrow doubtfully. "I don't think he's going to like this one little bit."
"Well, if worse comes to worse, we'll have to tell the whole theory to the sheriff and get his people to ask someone there to do it."
"Okay, third question—"
"You said you only had two!"
"I thought of another one. And this is a big one. If the fact we're basing this on is true, it doesn't necessarily prove murder."
"Not just one fact, Shelley. A whole host of them. But I see your point. I think the shock treatment is the only way."
"And how do you plan to administer this shock without getting yourself killed? I like your kids, but I don't want to raise them for you."
Jane thought for a long moment, then raised her hand like a child who suddenly knows the answer to a question. "HawkHunter is doing a reading from his book tomorrow
night. Don't you think we could get everybody to attend?"
Shelley frowned. "Maybe so. You really think we can get all our ducks in a row by then? It's less than twenty-four hours away."
Jane lighted a cigarette and started pacing again.
She stopped at the sliding glass doors to the deck and looked up toward Flattop Mountain. "I'll bet—" She broke off, stared at the cigarette in her hand, and then back at the mountain. "Omigod! Shelley! I've got the rest of it, too! Mel was right! It was self-defense and money! Oh, Shelley, we have so much to do first thing in the morning. For one thing, we have to find that skier in the red oufit!"
"I'm sure this is going to make some kind of sense when you quit gasping and snorting and explain yourself," Shelley said.
"Oh, it will. It sure will!"
Chapter 23
In the end, it became necessary to explain to the sheriff. There was simply too much to do in one day that required the authority of law — or at least the seeming authority. The sheriff, to his credit, went along with Jane's plan. It wasn't so much that he believed her as it was pure and simple desperation. Although he didn't admit as much, he and his men were getting nowhere fast and he regarded any possible solution as better than none.
"He's just hedging his bets," Mel said. "If you're right, you might deliver a confessed murderer to him. If you're wrong, you've made a fool of yourself and he's got nothing to do with it except to witness it."
"You think so?" Jane asked as they headed down the road to the main complex of the resort.
"I'm sure of it. You've got everything, haven't you?"
Jane glanced through the canvas bag she carried, ticking off in her mind the items she needed and double-checking that each was in its properly labeled envelope. "I think so. I hope so."
"You're sure you don't want me to do this?"
"No, I'm fine."
That was a lie. Her stomach was in a knot; she was trembling with nerves. She couldn't wait for this to be over. She was certain the information she'd compiled pointed to only one conclusion, but whether she could pile it up effectively enough to elicit a confession was a different matter entirely. A person who could cold-bloodedly murder two other individuals was capable of anything — even brazening out an open threat.
In addition to nerves, she was suffering from weariness. She hadn't been able to sleep at all the night before because her mind had kept racing around and around. And today had started early. A long, frustrating interview with the sheriff and with several other people. Phone calls. A long trudge up to the top of Flattop Mountain. More phone calls.
Fortunately, Shelley had taken charge of the kids— keeping tabs on them, making sure they were entertained and out of the way. She'd even taken them to town and rented two complete sets of videos— everything she could find with Michael J. Fox for the girls and a half-dozen Sylvester Stallone films for the boys. It was she who ordered in vast quantities of pizza as well. Now the kids were all safely locked in their respective condos, gorging themselves and watching movies, and Shelley, Jane, and Mel were on their way to HawkHunter's reading.
It appeared to be surprisingly well attended. That shouldn't have been a surprise, Jane realized. The resort was still swarming with genealogists and they tended to be interested in history of any time and place. And the sheriff had "requested" that a number of people attend who might not otherwise have done so.
They entered the conference room and took seats halfway back along the aisle by the inside wall. At first glance, the room was a "Study in Black and White." More than half the audience were members of the tribe, most of whom Jane had never seen. They were quiet, dignified people, with a few unusually well-behaved children scattered throughout the group. Contrasting with their dark hair were many heads of white hair, belonging to the genealogists, who tended to be of "mature" years. There was a pleasant undertone of conversation as everyone waited for the program to begin. Jane glanced around, "taking roll."
Tenny Garner and Joanna Smith were sitting at the other end of the same row as Jane's group. Tenny was looking haggard and appeared a good ten years older than when Jane had arrived a few days ago. She was sitting with her hands folded in her lap, looking down at them as if deep in thought. The pose gave her an unfortunate suggestion of a double chin.
Joanna, beside her niece, was talking and crocheting as if nothing were wrong. As if nothing had ever been wrong. But as she watched the older woman, Jane realized that her posture was stiff, and Joanna paused several times to put her crochet hook down and flex her fingers. So mere was tension there. She was trying to suppress and ignore it, but wasn't succeeding completely.
Pete Andrews had chosen not to sit with his family. Well, they weren't really his family, after all. He was Bill's nephew, not related to Joanna and Tenny except through Bill's marriage. He was talking breezily with a guest, all smiles and rah-rah enthusiasm. He had a black eye and a cut lip from his fight with HawkHunter, but was making light of both, covering his eye with his hand and mugging comically. But as the guest turned away to find a place to sit, Pete's face went blank and became sullen, as if someone had erased the chalk drawing of cheerfulness.
Jane didn't want to appear too nervous about whether everyone was there, so she gazed with apparent calm at the front of the room for a few minutes. HawkHunter was in place already, sitting beside and a little behind the podium with Little Feather next to him. He had a book in his lap with slips of paper protruding. She was dressed this evening in designer jeans and a turquoise silk blouse and wore a fortune in silver-and-turquoise jewelry. She had white feathers and beads woven into her hair. They were talking together in a sporadic, relaxed manner.
Jane heard Lucky behind her as he and Stu Gortner came in. Thank God!
"I don't really know. I'll have to consult with the board and probably have to take the matter to a vote of the membership," Lucky was saying in what was, for him, a very sharp, cranky tone. "I've told you, it's far too important to be decided here and now. We'll have to study the Society's bylaws first to see if they even allow us to become involved in a commercial venture. And even if they do, I doubt the membership will approve of taking what could be construed as a political stand."
"Not even to financially benefit the group?" Stu wheedled.
If Lucky responded, Jane couldn't hear it. When she glanced around, they had taken seats two rows back.
Thomas Whitewing and Linda Moose foot were directly across the room from Jane. Their heads were together, their glossy blue-black hair appearing to mingle as they whispered to each other. Linda looked up, caught Jane's eye, and grinned. Jane tried to smile back, but her face was frozen with nerves. She glanced away quickly.
The woman who ran the bookstore came in, looking vaguely perplexed.
There were three people missing. Three important people.
"Where's the sheriff?" Jane whispered to Mel.
"In the hall outside. I keep catching a glimpse of him. He's out of uniform, that's why you didn't notice him."
That accounted for one of them.
Shelley nudged Jane. "Here she is!"
Jane breathed a sign of relief as the second, a tall, tanned woman, came into the room. She was thin, with severely short blond hair and a strong, graceful, mannish stride. She crossed the room at the front and sat down in the second row without any dithering or hesitation. She folded her arms across her chest and sat staring ahead at the front wall. No one spoke to her or seemed to recognize her.
Including Mel. "Who's that?" he asked in a low voice.
"Susan Maxwell. You know, the mysterious skier I kept seeing on the mountain," Jane replied. "I told you Shelley and I 'ambushed' her early this morning up there."
Practically on her heels, a huge middle-aged Indian in a red plaid shirt came in and took a seat in the first row. Linda Moose foot looked at Jane, pointed to the man, and nodded. He was the third necessary person.
Thomas Whitewing rose and approached the podium, tapping the microphone. Appare
ntly it wasn't working and he looked at HawkHunter. HawkHunter made an eloquent motion indicating that it was all right, that he didn't need it anyway.
Thomas turned to the audience. "Tonight we are fortunate," he shouted, then, catching Linda's signal, glanced at his notes and lowered his voice. "We are fortunate to have a noted author, HawkHunter, with us to read from his masterwork, I, HawkHunter. This book was a New York Times best-seller for over a year, three months of that time in the number-one slot. This work, a slightly fictionalized account of HawkHunter's own heritage, spoke to our country and to the world about the life and history of America's first people."
"HawkHunter will read some selected passages and will then entertain questions and discussion from the audience. I'm honored to present John HawkHunter."
Thomas, looking proud but relieved, went back to sit down by Linda, and HawkHunter took the podium.
He read from four different sections of the book. A superb speaker, he gathered the audience in immediately with his rich, beautiful voice. The sections he chose were both profoundly poetic and troublingly inflammatory. Perhaps the whole book was, Jane thought, sorry she hadn't had time to reread it all before attending this presentation. The first part he read was from the viewpoint of a medicine woman in the sixteen-hundreds, meeting the first white men the tribe had ever seen. In a few paragraphs, the listener got to know her, to recognize her wisdom and the respect the tribe had for her, and just as quickly was made to cringe at the ignorant, lumpish whites and their dismissive, if not downright lewd, regard of her.
The second and third sections HawkHunter read were much the same, albeit of different individuals and different time periods, but with the same theme: the superior Indian — spiritual, intelligent, and inherently noble and courteous — and the marauding whites — crass, greedy, and stupid.
For a moment Jane got so caught up in the content of the reading that she almost forgot that her purpose here was not to have a literary or cultural experience, but to unmask a killer. HawkHunter's reading was, to Jane at least, only a reason for her to assemble the people needed for her plan. Still, she found herself wondering what effect this provocative material was having.
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