by Paul W Papa
“Come now, we both know that isn’t true.”
She nervously flicked the tip of the cigarette into the ashtray she had scooted in front of her. “I’m a reporter,” she said. “I have sources.”
“Very good ones, apparently.”
“So it is true?” Cassi asked, doing little to hide her surprise.
“Sure it’s true.”
“Is that why you went to Vera Krupp’s place after you left this afternoon?”
Mayer was impressed. “What do you know about our Mrs. Krupp?” he asked.
Cassi pulled the Stenopad from her purse, satisfying Mayer’s curiosity as to where she’d kept it hidden. She opened the cover and flipped the pages until she found what she wanted. “Well,” she began, “I know her name is Martha Vera Wilhelmine Hossenfeldt and she was born in Düsseldorf, Germanym in 1909, an only child. She attended the best private school and, of course, had access to home tutors. After graduation, she attended the Sorbonne in Paris and the University of Frankfurt, studying history, French literature, medieval art, architecture and literature.”
Mayer whistled. “Quite a spread.”
“She did some modeling in her early years, using her first husband’s last name of von Langen, then she divorced him in the mid-1930s and went on to become a successful actress in Berlin. I was able to see some photos of her from that time and she was quite the looker.”
“I imagine she was,” Mayer said. “Go on.”
“When the war broke out in 38, she emigrated to America, was married and divorced,” she looked up from her pad, then added, “Twice.” She flipped a page and continued. “She also became a naturalized citizen. In 1951 she moved back to Germany to care for her ailing mother, where she was reunited with a childhood friend, Alfried, the man who would become her fourth husband on May 19, 1952. She moved back to America, or more specifically, Las Vegas, in 1955, after her mother’s death, and bought Bar Nothing Ranch, which she then renamed Diamond V Ranch. As far as I can tell, she actually runs the ranch, working just as hard as her hands. Even brands calves.”
Mayer thought back to his earlier meeting, when he shook Vera Krupp’s hand and how it felt like that of a woman who didn’t shy away from hard work. “Doesn’t surprise me,” he said.
“It also doesn’t seem like they had much of a marriage at all. Alfried’s family was wealthy, perhaps she was drawn to that.”
“A gold digger?” Mayer asked. “Doesn’t strike me as the kind.”
“She does have a habit of cycling through husbands,” Cassi said matter-of-factly.
She had a point.
Cassi closed her pad and smiled smugly. “Rumor has it she is currently seeking a divorce.” She was about to continue when the waitress came with their food.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
Mayer held up his empty rum glass. “I’ll take another of these.”
Cassi declined a second.
When the waitress left, Mayer turned to his companion. “What would happen if you lost that Stenopad?” he asked.
“Do you want to hear more, or are you just going to be smart?”
Mayer motioned for her to continue.
“Apparently, infidelity is involved.”
“Is that so?”
Cassi nodded, then took a forkful of salad.
“Do tell.”
Cassi chewed a minute then continued. “There have been reports of a gentleman caller at the ranch. The couple has been seen riding off on two of Vera’s horses, at times not returning until very late in the evening.”
“You don’t say.” Mayer said as he cut his chops.
Cassi stopped and narrowed her eyes. “Hey, are you playing me for a sap?” she asked.
“No,” Mayer lied. “Just trying to get the angle.” Truth was that Mayer wanted to know what Cassi knew and, if he could find out, how she knew it. While he remembered Theodosia’s words, it didn’t mean he’d accepted them. It also didn’t mean he had to work with a newshawk.
“Okay,” Mayer said. “So you’ve done your homework. Now tell me how you knew about the will? That information wasn’t released and no one else knew anything about it.”
Cassi hesitated. “Give me that interview I’ve been asking for,” she said, “and I’ll tell you.”
“Pound sand,” Mayer said.
Cassi slumped. “Oh, don’t be that way. You’ve got to give me something here.”
The waitress returned with Mayer’s drink.
Cassi waited for her to leave, then continued. “I’ll start,” she said. “I know your father’s name is Elias Mayer and your mother’s name is Doris.”
“Was,” Mayer said.
“Excuse me?”
“Was,” he repeated. “That was my father’s name and it was my mother’s name.”
“Oh,” Cassi said. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
Mayer spoke before she could continue. “My parents were paranormal investigators who worked for the government. My mother was from California. She went to school there, studying Greek Mythology and Occult Studies at Berkley. She graduated with a Ph.d. My father was from Germany. He left there with his family when the Great War broke out. He met my mother in California and they married. I was born here.”
“How did they . . .” Cassi dropped the question when Mayer flashed a warning glare. She let the mood settle before trying another. “Why do you wear the onyx on your left wrist?”
“The ancient Egyptians believed a vein ran from the third finger of the left hand directly to the heart. The Romans called it the vena amoris. Onyx is a healing stone. On the left wrist, it protects that vein, and, therefore, the body.”
“Is that true?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.”
Mayer didn’t want to reveal that the real reason he wore the bracelets was because he was told to do so by Theodosia. That he really didn’t know the reason, except that Theo told him that onyx was indeed a healing stone, and if Theo told him to do it, then that’s what he did.
“And the rosary? Are you Catholic?”
“Religion is mostly invented by men,” Mayer said, “but the rosary has been blessed by a priest and it never hurts to cover your bets.”
Cassi smiled. “What about the tattoo? I’ve never seen a symbol like that before.”
Mayer glanced at his right arm. His sleeve had moved up just enough to reveal the Icelandic symbol. It had been a part of him for so long, that he often forgot it was there.
“It’s the Helm of Awe,” he said, “also known as the Helm of Terror. It was taken from the dragon by Sigurd, after he slayed the beast.” Mayer paused, then continued. “That’s all I’m willing to tell you, Miss Reyes. It’s all you need to know.”
The two sat in silence for several minutes, eating their respective meals.
“An old boyfriend,” Cassi finally said.
Mayer looked up.
“An old boyfriend of mine works in the sheriff’s department. He let me see the note.”
“He the one who told you about the gentleman caller?”
Cassi nodded.
“I don’t suppose he mentioned the goose’s name?”
“He doesn’t know it. Only sees them on patrol.”
Mayer nodded. It would appear past loves could come in handy.
“Let me ask you one final question,” Cassi said. “Why would R. J. Hawthorne leave his part of the project to Vera Krupp?”
“Well that’s the question, isn’t it?” Mayer answered. “Finish up, we have another stop to make.”
Twelve
MAYER PAID THE bill, tipped the waitress, and escorted Cassi back to his Hornet. Then he drove twenty miles east following the directions the shaman had given him. At one point he was forced to abandon the paved road in favor of a dirt one. Cassi held tight to the dashboard, Mayer the steering wheel, as they bounced down the trail, driving past each landmark the shaman had identified—sometimes an odd-looking cactus, other times a distinct
Joshua Tree—until he found a small, unassuming adobe house nestled in the heart of nowhere, the only house for miles. Not quite the end of the world, but Mayer was pretty sure he could see it from here.
The sun disappearing on the horizon cast an orange hue over the rolling clouds. Cassi got out of the passenger’s side and slung her purse over her shoulder. Mayer joined her.
“Where have you taken us?” Cassi asked.
“Just you let me do the talking,” he said, straightening his lid.
Cassi followed Mayer to the wooden front door, one that looked more like it belonged on the front of an old mission than a man’s home. There was no doorbell to ring, no knocker to knock. Instead, a brass bell with a long, leather string hanging down from the clanker was secured to the adobe wall. Mayer gave it a hard swing. Then another for good luck.
A dog barked.
A light lit.
The door creaked open, swollen from the summer heat.
“You must be Mayer,” the old man on the other side of the door said. He wore a Hawaiian shirt, covered by a brown leather vest. Two beaded necklaces peeked out from under the collar. He was a man much older than Mayer, his once black hair having turned all but completely gray. Except for his eyebrows. Although there were splashes of the color that had overtaken his crown, they were still mostly black. And while the marks of age had embedded themselves in his face, especially around the eyes, they somehow remained youthful and bright. “And you’ve brought a young lady with you.” He smiled. “Theodosia said you wouldn’t be alone.”
A brown and gray dog, with two different colored eyes, poked his head out from between the door and the frame. He sniffed Mayer’s pant leg, looked up at the man, and growled. Then he turned his attention to Cassi, wagging his tail.
“Won’t you come in?” the shaman said. “Don’t worry. Diogie won’t bite.”
Mayer and Cassi stepped inside. The shaman walked easily behind them. “Have a seat,” he said.
Three chairs were set in a manner that allowed their occupants to face each other. A side table was set between two of the chairs, which were placed a bit closer together to each other than to the third. Mayer removed his lid as he entered and placed it on the table.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the shaman asked. “I have tea.”
“Earl Grey?” Mayer asked.
“Prickly pear,” the shaman answered.
“I’ll pass.”
“Where are my manners?” the shaman said. He walked over to Cassi and held out his hands. “Thank you for coming to my home, my dear. I’m called Mahkah, and I am at your service.”
Cassi placed her hands in his. “I’m Cassi Reyes,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”
The shaman gave her a toothy smile. “Short for Cassandra, I imagine.”
“Cassiopeia, actually,” she said.
That caught Mayer’s attention. He had made the same assumption as the shaman—one that was clearly wrong.
“Aw, the wife of Cepheus,” the shaman said, “who was transformed into a constellation, lighting the northern sky. Fitting.”
Cassi’s face lit up. “That’s right,” she said. “And what does your name mean?”
The shaman led her to one of the chairs and motioned for her to take a seat. “Earth,” he said. Though it seems a bit of an imperious name for one man to carry. Will you take some tea?”
“Yes,” she said.
While the shaman made the tea, Mayer had a quick look around. Besides the usual trappings of chairs, tables, and lamps, there were also items that seemed particular to the home of a medicine man. Amethyst, bloodstone, carnelian, and other crystals Mayer didn’t recognize rested between books of Greek, Roman, French, English, and American literature. Shaman Mahkah was clearly well read.
A collection of apothecary herbs were laid out on one of the tables—some in dark brown bottles and others in tied bunches. Next to the collection of herbs were several mortars and pestles, as well as decorative bowls. A small bundle of sage, its end burnt, rested in one of the bowls, along with an assemblage of various totems.
The shaman returned with two cups of tea. He handed one to Cassi and set the other on a small table next to the offset single chair. Instead of taking the seat, the shaman instead picked up the bundle of sage and struck a match. He lit the end and allowed the sage to burn until it began to smoke.
He held the sage up high above his head. “Sacred and holy ones,” he began, “please clear this home of evil and negative energy so that we may commune in peace.” Then he lowered the sage to his mouth and blew the smoke into the air, using his free hand to assist with the spreading. He walked over to Cassi first and slowly moved the sage around her head and body.
The dog came over to Cassi and laid his head on her lap. “Diogie likes you,” the shaman said. “He’s a very good judge of character.”
“Such an unusual name,” Cassi said. “Does it mean something in Paiute?”
“No, the shaman admitted. “His name is simply Diogie. D. O. G.”
Mayer laughed. Cassi flashed him a look.
When he was done with Cassi, the shaman returned to the table and tapped the sage into the bowl where it had once rested to release the ashes. He motioned for Mayer to take a seat, then performed the same ritual he had done with his companion, though he seemed to linger longer than he had with her. “There is much energy in you,” he said as he passed the sage over Mayer’s head.
“Negative?” Mayer asked.
“Some,” the shaman responded. “More than there should be.”
“Dandy.”
When the shaman finished, he returned the sage to the bowl, letting it burn, and took his seat. “Now,” he said as he picked up his tea, “how can I be of assistance?”
Mayer sat upright in his chair and asked, “Are you familiar with R. J. Hawthorne?”
The shaman allowed himself a quick grin. “Of course I am. All Paiutes are familiar with the man who intended to build a resort on sacred land.”
“Then you know he offed himself last night?”
“I am aware the man took his own life, yes.”
“You don’t seem terribly shook up about it.”
“Everyone has their own path in life, Mr. Mayer. Surely you understand that. Mr. Hawthorne simply followed his chosen path.”
“Not everyone sees it that way, and I’m beginning to wonder myself.” Mayer went on to explain what he had found at the trailer. The missing holes in the wall, the reloading of the revolver, the hairs he found on the floor, and the hawk with the red eyes that seemed to follow him. He intentionally left out anything about Vera Krupp, the will, and the housekeeper who worked for both of them.
The shaman listened intently as he sipped his tea. “Do you have the hairs?” he asked.
Mayer removed the handkerchief from his pocket, opened it to reveal the hairs he’d taken from the floor of the trailer, then handed it to the shaman. The shaman opened the handkerchief and brought the hairs to his nose.
“Coyote,” he said. He took another sniff and twisted his face a bit. Then he took some of the hairs and brought them over to the table that held his herbs, totems, and bowls. He dropped the hairs into a bowl, then opened a bottle containing a reddish powder. He tapped the powder into the same bowl and watched. An orange smoke began to rise slowly, then grew stronger, ending with a bright puff.
“That can’t be good,” Mayer said.
“It is not good,” the shaman said over his shoulder. “Black magic.” He moved the bowl over to the smoking sage and let it rest. He turned to Mayer. “You say you saw a hawk with red eyes?”
“Well, I think it was a hawk,” said Mayer. “It could have been any type of large bird.”
The shaman took his seat. He folded the handkerchief and returned it to Mayer.
“I thought werewolf at first, but it doesn’t fit,” said Mayer. “And I don’t know where the hawk fits in.”
“I think I might,” the shaman said. “Though
, if it is what I’m thinking, you’re not far off.”
Thirteen
THE SHAMAN REACHED to the side of his chair and brought up a soft leather drawstring pouch. He pried open the strings, reached in, and took out a homemade pipe, which he then filled with what Mayer assumed was tobacco from the same pouch. But it could have been prickly pear, Mayer wasn’t certain. He tapped down the substance, then pulled a match from the table, snapped it alive with the nail of his thumb and lit the pipe. He drew in several deep breaths before the thing took. Once he was satisfied with his efforts, he spoke.
He blew a puff of smoke into the space above his head, then asked, “Have you ever heard of naagloshii or yee naaldooshi?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Mayer admitted.
“Maybe you’d know it by its English name—skinwalker.”
“Skinwalker?” Cassi repeated. “What on Earth is that?”
The shaman addressed Cassi. “A skinwalker is the Native American version of a werewolf,” he said.
“Oh, bother!” Cassi exclaimed. “Now there’s two of you.”
Mayer hooked his thumb at Cassi. “She doesn’t believe in werewolves.”
The shaman grinned. “There is an element of truth in every legend,” he said to Cassi.
She crinkled her nose. “You sound just like him,” she said with an accusatory finger.
“Can you tell me about this skinwalker?” asked Mayer.
The shaman rested the pipe in a bowl on the table next to him. Then he pressed his hands together as if he were praying, and brought them to his lips. He looked ahead, but not at anything in particular. Diogie left Cassi and moved over to the shaman. He laid down by his legs, but kept a weather eye on Mayer.
Mayer waited.
After several long and quiet minutes the shaman focused his deep, dark eyes on Mayer. “What you are asking is something that should not be discussed with outsiders,” he said. “Navajos fear the skinwalker so much that they will not even speak of the creature in their own homes. They especially will not speak of it to an outsider. In fact, most refuse to even utter the word at night for fear of retaliation. They believe just talking about the naagloshii can bring one upon you.”
