A String of Beads

by Thomas Perry

  Ellen Dickerson nodded slowly. “Greed, jealousy, revenge. Sometimes people are a disappointing bunch.”

  “Yes,” said Jane.

  “We need to clear our minds.” Ellen stood and went to a kitchen cabinet, opened the door, and took down a big coffee can. “Come on out in the back.”

  She took Jane out onto the wooden deck in back of the house, which overlooked a path into the woods. She opened the can and poured a pile of tobacco onto a small rustic table that had been covered with a piece of sheet metal. Jane recognized it as oyenkwa:onwe, “the real tobacco,” which was greenish and dried to almost a powder. It didn’t look much like the tobacco sold in stores.

  Ellen whispered for about thirty seconds. Jane could tell that they were Seneca words, but did not listen to them because she was aware that they were not addressed to her. Ellen knew things that were the property of secret societies, so Jane kept her distance and didn’t try to hear any of it. Ellen lit the tobacco with a match, and the smoke began to rise straight up in the windless air. She said in Seneca loud enough for Jane to hear, “We burn oyenkwa:onwe to give thanks for keeping both of our children safe and out of the hands of enemies. We ask for clear minds to help us find a way through this trouble.”

  It was simple and clear and it reminded Jane of things she had always loved. Senecas weren’t in the habit of praying to ask for gifts. They gave thanks. When they did make a request, it was almost always to be better—more worthy, more able, braver, wiser. She silently added the strength of her mind to the prayer, willing the fire to send the stream of tobacco smoke upward to the sky.

  After a few minutes the tobacco burned out and Jane followed Ellen to the door. She felt almost reluctant to leave the quiet, private space, the platform surrounded by tall, thick-trunked trees with the patch of deep, starlit sky above. It occurred to Jane that there never seemed to be anywhere in Western New York where the sky was as full of stars as over the reservation. She saw Ellen watching her.

  Ellen said, “It was nice of you to come and fill us in.”

  “It may be a while before I can do it again.”

  “We’ll understand.”

  Jane said, “I think I’m going to have to get a lawyer involved now. Jimmy won’t ever be safe until the law is satisfied.”

  Ellen said, “The clan mothers aren’t opposed to lawyers. Ely Parker learned to be a lawyer to help save the reservation. He and Mr. Martindale are two of the reasons that there is a reservation.”

  Jane nodded. The Mr. Martindale Ellen was talking about was the attorney who had engineered the clan mothers’ twenty-five-year strategy of delaying tactics and lawsuits that had secured the reservation title in the 1850s. And the Tonawanda Seneca chief Ely S. Parker was also the Union general who wrote the terms of the Confederate surrender at Appomattox in 1865. A few generations were an eye­blink to the clan mothers. “This lawyer is a friend of mine.”

  “We trust your judgment.”

  “The lawyer is—”

  “We trust your judgment.” Her voice was still soft, still patient.

  “Thanks. I’d better be going,” Jane said.

  Ellen enveloped her in a hug that reminded her of the hugs she had received as a child, a strong and protective embrace that seemed to cover her entirely for a moment. Ellen released her, reached into the pocket of her jeans, and pulled out two soft deer-leather pouches. “Take this tobacco. One is for Jimmy, and the other for you. It wouldn’t hurt to toss a little on the road before you go.”

  “Thank you,” said Jane. She took them, went out the door and into the night. Somehow the night felt a little different from the way it had before. Now the darkness was a covering, a thing that had protected her in the past, and was protecting her again. She reached Ray Snow’s Volkswagen Passat and remembered what Ellen had said. She sprinkled a pinch on each of the car’s tires, and then tossed another into the air above the road in front of the Passat. “It’s me,” she said. “Onyo:ah. You know what I’m trying to do. Thanks for letting Jimmy and me get this far alive.”

  17

  The next morning Jane drove to a shopping mall in Batavia and parked near the street far from the stores, where mall security cameras might pick her up. She dialed the cell phone number of her old college friend Allison.

  “Hello?” Jane could hear the familiar melodious voice, almost see the blond hair and the long, graceful neck. Allison didn’t look or sound like a trial lawyer.

  “Hi, Allison. It’s me.”

  “I didn’t expect to hear your voice. I see you have another new number.”

  “Nearly every week.”

  “I suppose that makes sense. If this is your phone call to your attorney, tell me where they’re holding you. They don’t have to let these calls go on and—”

  “It’s not,” Jane interrupted. “I’m not the one in trouble.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Allison. “Who is?”

  “A guy I grew up with. He’s an Indian like me.”

  “If he got caught, he’s not much like you. What’s his name?”

  “James Sanders. Goes by Jimmy. About two months ago a drunk took a swing at him in a bar in Akron, New York. He dropped the drunk and went home. The police got a complaint from the drunk, whose name was Nick Bauermeister, and arrested Jimmy. No big deal, until about a month later, when Bauermeister was murdered. He was shot with a rifle through the front window of his house.”

  “What’s the evidence against your friend?”

  “A man came forward to tell the police he’d had a garage sale and sold Jimmy a rifle of the right caliber and some ammo before the murder.”

  “A selfless act, since he was admitting to an illegal transaction. He sold it to Jimmy, not just to some guy who looked a bit like him?”

  “He supposedly picked Jimmy’s picture out of a stack and said he was the one. I went to see who this witness was last night and noticed he has a brand-new Porsche, a new Jet Ski, and a giant new television set. His house is a teardown, but he seems to have had a shot of money recently.”

  “What’s the victim’s name again?”

  “Nick Bauermeister. I guess that’s probably Nicholas.”

  “Got it. And where are they holding your friend Jimmy?”

  “They’re not. They’re hunting for him.”

  “Here we go again. You’re hiding him. I’ll need to talk to him before he turns himself in.”

  “I’ll arrange that when I can. Should I keep using this number?”

  “Yes. Can’t you bring him to see me, or take me to him?”

  “I’m sorry, Allison. The problem is that he can’t turn himself in just yet. There are people trying to kill him. I don’t know who they are yet, but I’ve actually seen some of them. And I have reliable information that there are also some who have gotten themselves sent to jail to wait for him.”

  Allison sighed. “I knew this couldn’t be a simple case of getting a false charge dismissed.”

  “No,” Jane said. “And this time it’s not me just asking for a quick favor. It’s a real case, and I expect to pay your exorbitant fees, including the billable time for this call. If I know you, it’ll be the best money I ever spent.”

  “We’ll talk money later,” said Allison.

  “As long as you don’t try to weasel out of your paycheck when the time comes.”

  “Can I get Karen Alvarez involved in this? She’s great on murder.”

  “I’d love to have her. She knows how to keep a secret.”

  “That and obfuscate. It’s what we do all day. Let me start nosing around this case without letting anybody know I’ve been retained and see what I can find out, and what ideas Karen has. Did you say the murder was in Akron? Is that Monroe County?”

  “The murder was in
Avon. That’s in Erie County.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Thanks, Allison. And give my regards to Karen.”

  “I’m about to go down to her office now. Go do whatever it is you need to do. If anything goes wrong, call me and I’ll be there as soon as I can to bail you out.”

  “What could go wrong?”

  “Just make sure he has my number and knows enough to tell the police he won’t talk until I get there.”

  “I will. And thanks again.”

  “Don’t mention it. And I really mean don’t. Bye.”

  Jane thought about Allison. She had been one of Jane’s friends at Cornell nearly twenty years ago. She was beautiful in the conventional ways—very blond, very white complexion, with blue eyes. Those qualities had made it easy to dismiss her at first. But she had also been quick-witted, with a ferocious critical intelligence that made her one of Jane’s favorites. She had been one of the inner circle at the party on the night when Jane realized that a male friend of theirs who was about to go to prison had another option.

  Years later, Allison had become a lawyer in New York City, and she had called Jane. She said, “Remember the night when you helped John?”

  “Yes,” Jane said.

  “I have a client who’s in the same position. He’s innocent. He’s out on bail during the trial. Sometime tomorrow when the jury comes in, he’s going to jail, and I think this judge will give him a life sentence. Do you think you can still do what you did that time?”

  “Are you sure that’s what he needs?” Jane asked.

  “He needs to be left alone, and given a chance to live a life. That’s not what’s going to happen if he’s still here when the verdict comes in.”

  “I’ll be there tonight,” Jane said.

  “What time?” Allison said. “I’ll meet your plane.”

  “Don’t,” said Jane. “Be somewhere far from the airport, and be sure there are lots of other people who will remember they were with you. Just give me his address and phone number.”

  Allison’s client had been gone for fifteen years now. Jane heard from him by mail about once a year, but he’d never tried to get in touch with Allison again. There was a chance that even now some law enforcement agency might be waiting for him to make that mistake. Their friend John, the first one Jane had taken out, had been gone for nearly twenty.

  Karen Alvarez was a partner in Allison’s firm. A year ago when Jane had needed to pretend to be a lawyer in order to sneak James Shelby out of the Clara Shortridge Foltz criminal courthouse in Los Angeles, Karen Alvarez had let her use her identity. Both women were tall and thin, with long black hair and olive skin, and Jane had impersonated her easily. Jane had succeeded in getting Shelby out and into a car, but Jane had not made it far from the courthouse. The memory of it made Jane’s thigh hurt again where the bullet had passed near the bone.

  Jane took out the pages she had copied in the business center, and took another look. This time what caught her eye was the name of the man who owned Box Farm Personal Storage—Daniel Crane. She took out her phone, went to Google, and typed in the name with her thumb. She found one in Williamsville, New York, then used her corporation’s subscription service to run a quick background check on him. It took her several minutes of staring at a little wheel spinning at the top of her phone’s screen before things began to appear. She read the new information, turned off the phone, plugged it into the car’s electrical outlet to recharge, and drove.

  The house was technically in Williamsville, but the distinctions were a bit vague. Williamsville was surrounded by Amherst, and that was where she and Carey lived, but their house was not near his. She found the proper number on the rural mailbox, drove on, and parked about a quarter mile farther down the road, then walked back.

  When she returned to the address, she avoided the curving cobbled driveway and took a shortcut through the brush and trees that hid the house from the road. When she reached the edge of the stand of trees she saw that the garage beside the house was open. One of the cars inside was a black Corvette. The other was a Range Rover.

  Jane moved closer and compared the Range Rover’s license plate with the picture on her cell phone. They were the same. Daniel Crane had to be the man she had seen at Chelsea Schnell’s house. The man this girl had been sleeping with was her dead boyfriend’s boss. Jane thought about the revelation without drawing any conclusion yet. People who weren’t supposed to fall in love often did.

  Jane walked around outside of the house, staying in the trees, away from the margin of light that spilled outward from the big windows. The house was big and modern, and everything she could see through the glass looked expensive. It made sense that a man who was collecting hundreds of dollars a month for each empty ten-by-fifteen-foot space of a large complex would have plenty of money. He didn’t have to be much of a salesman—the real salesmen had been the ones who had sold the customers more stuff than they had room for.

  Jane watched the house all night, and then returned the next day and the next. The neighborhood was an easy one for watching because the houses were so far apart. Down the road was a small, modern commercial district. She found that she could park at any of three medical and dental buildings where each doctor’s staff would assume she had an appointment with another doctor, in the lots of two nearby golf courses where she could approach Crane’s house without crossing a road, or at a mini-mall that contained a supermarket and a couple of restaurants.

  She studied Crane’s routines. Every morning, Crane drove off in the Range Rover around eight. Every afternoon around four he returned, showered and changed, and went to take Chelsea Schnell somewhere for dinner. One night he returned alone, and the others he brought her home with him. Chelsea Schnell was always dressed up in the evening, but beginning the second night she brought with her a small overnight bag and changed into jeans in the morning for the trip home. Her clothes made Jane think the girl might be attracted to the man rather than his money. The clothes, both the dress-up outfits and the casual ones, were items Jane had seen hanging in Chelsea Schnell’s closet on her first visit. That meant Chelsea wasn’t taking money from Daniel Crane and buying things for herself.

  Crane’s clothes were more extravagant, but he seemed to buy them on websites. In the three days Jane watched the house, she saw the UPS truck deliver four packages and leave them on his porch. She opened all of them, found they contained clothes he had ordered online, rewrapped them, and left them on the porch.

  Each day a woman about fifty years old drove up at ten and went inside to clean the house, do laundry, and sometimes drive out to perform some light grocery shopping. She spent about half her time washing the huge windows, doing a couple each day until she had done them all, then starting the next ones, in a continuous rotation. Each day she raked the small Japanese garden in the courtyard. She was always gone before Crane came home at four. Jane timed her and chose the moment when she was busy with the windows on the back wall of the house to open her car door and read the registration in her glove compartment. The car’s owners were Wilfred and Verna Machak.

  Jane visited the inside of the house on the second and third mornings at eight after Crane had driven off. On those mornings Chelsea Schnell left with him, having stayed the night. Jane found little in the house that surprised her. She confirmed that the two had slept together by the state of the bed in the master bedroom, the only one that had been touched. She could see that they had been drinking, at least moderately, from the champagne flutes left in the bedroom one morning and cognac snifters the next. She noticed that although Chelsea Schnell had now slept in the house at least three times in a short period, she had not left any of her belongings anywhere in the house. It was possible that she was very well organized, or that she was being careful not to scare Crane off. It was also possible that Chelsea wasn’t yet sure sh
e really wanted Crane, and was trying to avoid having to gather toothbrushes and panties when she left for the last time.

  On the fourth evening at sunset Jane drove to the reservation to visit Mattie Sanders, Jimmy’s mother. Jane parked at the old cemetery by the council house and walked. It was a windless evening and Jane could hear the chirps of sparrows and the warbling of robins competing with the crickets as she walked. She was aware of the sounds her feet made as she went, and found herself treading carefully along the shoulder of the road to avoid frightening the animals into silence. She turned off the road onto a trail through the woods to the smaller road that led to Mattie’s house, but stopped to watch the road through the trees and to study every building, every parked car. She was searching for the presence of strangers—anyone who might be watching the Sanders house or the approaches to it.

  All the way to Mattie’s house she watched and studied, and when she arrived she had still seen nothing. It was almost as disturbing as it would have been to see something. It would have been reassuring to see signs that the state police were watching Mattie, but if they had been, they weren’t tonight. Someone must have been monitoring Mattie’s telephone, or the false cops would have had no way to find her and Jimmy in Cleveland. As Jane walked, the birds went to their nests and night fell.

  When Jane stepped onto the front porch and knocked, Mattie opened the front door a few inches. “Janie,” she said. “Come on in.”