Jane laughed. "Boy, do I ever know what you mean! My dad traveled all over the world and took us along. I grew up being told that I was representing my whole country and that if I chewed my braids or didn't clean my fingernails, people would think all American girls were slobs. To my parents' credit, they didn't claim this was fair or right, just a fact of life."
"Lots of facts of life aren't fair, I guess."
"Am I keeping you from your work? I'm sorry. Tell you what. I need an excuse to sit down and get my breath before I trudge off again. Use the time you would have taken doing the girls' room and have a cup of coffee with me, would you? Doing their room would be a waste of time anyhow. They'll trash it again the minute they come back."
"Sounds good to me," Linda said.
When they were settled, Jane on the sofa, Linda back on the floor with Willard, Jane said, "Do you know there's some kind of demonstration going on at the main lodge?"
"Oh, right. Is that today? You mean HawkHunter, don't you?"
"What's it all about?"
"Hmmm, I'm sorry to say I haven't followed it all closely enough to talk with any kind of authority. I've been working here since I started my break. Something about the Flattop."
"The Flattop?"
"The mountain — well, hill really — behind the resort. It's called that. Some of the elders seem to believe it was once a burial ground, I guess. I'd never heard that before, but I don't always pay as much attention to the old stories as I should. Anyway, HawkHunter's a lawyer, you know, and it's part of his contract with the tribe to represent their interests. They're afraid that somebody's going to build a ski lift and disturb the graves up there. When word got out that Bill Smith was at the point of selling the resort, I guess somebody got concerned that the new buyers would do something like that."
"But Mr. Smith wouldn't have?"
"Oh, no. Bill has always been good to the tribe and the tribe's been good to him. He's an old-timer, you know."
"I haven't met him. Is he elderly?"
"He is, but I didn't mean that. I meant in the sense of being an old-fashioned Colorado type. Live and let live. Mind your own business. Don't antagonize your neighbors. Help without asking for thanks. Don't try to reform anybody. It's a very distinct mind-set. Anyway, he has it. And if he'd wanted to build a ski lift and the tribe said there were graves there, he'd have just respected it without question. But nobody knows about some unknown buyer. The tribe's unhappy that Bill's retiring, but nobody would butt into his business."
"But HawkHunter is doing exactly that, isn't he? Butting in, I mean."
"Well, yes, I guess he is."
"Look, Linda, I'll be honest with you. The reason I'm interested is because my friend's husband is one of the investors who are considering buying the resort."
"Oh, I knew that already. But thanks for being up front about it."
"So what does HawkHunter want? What's the point of the demonstration down at the lodge? To scare the investors off?"
"Oh, no, I don't think so. All he wants is something attached to the deed — that's not the term, but you know what I mean — a rider or something that makes any subsequent buyers have to respect the holy significance of the land and not put up buildings or roads there."
"Is that legal?" Jane asked, not mentioning that this simple-sounding request wasn't what Tenny had said HawkHunter wanted.
"Well, I guess it must be. HawkHunter's a lawyer."
"Then why doesn't Mr. Smith add it to the deed? You just said he had a good relationship with the tribe and would respect their feelings."
Linda scratched Willard's ears and made him mumble with pleasure. "You ask good questions and I'm sorry I don't really have the answers. All I know about this is what I've overheard my mom and dad say. I think — but don't quote me on this — I think Bill doesn't believe there are graves up there. And my own guess is that he doesn't think it's fair to bind future owners to anything that the law doesn't already require. That's just based on what I know of him."
"The live-and-let-live, the-less-government-the-better view?" Jane asked.
"Exactly."
"What do you think of HawkHunter? What's he like?" Jane succumbed to the lure of gossiping about celebrities.
"Have you met him?" Linda asked with a grin.
"No."
"Then wait until you do, and ask me again if you need to."
"What in the world do you mean by that?"
"You'll see," Linda said, getting up and taking their empty coffee cups to the kitchen. "Now I really do have to get back to work."
Wearing a good deal less bulky clothing, Jane set out again on her walk. She had a short, pleasant visit with the green-eyed white cat, who prissily picked its way over some crusted snow, arched its back for a quick pet, and meowed dismissal before moving on. Jane couldn't imagine her slothful cats at home getting along in all this snow. She had to shovel a path for them to the back of the yard when it snowed or they wouldn't go out at all.
Jane discovered why the "mountain" was called Flattop as soon as she got a little farther up the road. It looked like a little mountain ridge that some gigantic hand had leveled off. The resort's only ski slope was on the near side. It was a learner slope with a mild, smooth incline. A mob of people, mainly children, were all over it like brightly clad, but very awkward, ants. A rope looped on a line of stakes enabled them to claw their way back up the slope to keep making practice runs. Among the learners, a trio of obvious experts busily gave advice, helped them to their feet, reattached skis, and generally taught the basics of skiing.
Jane, who had once tried to teach a troop of Brownies, including two left-handers, to crochet, was all sympathy for the instructors.
There were benches at the bottom of the slope, where the winded and discouraged could sit down to recoup. She joined a little clump of them and listened politely as one of the instructors gave some basic information. skiing, she discovered, sounded a lot easier than it looked. When the bench cleared, Jane waited for a bit, watching. A minute later, one of the instructors (who had, to Jane's certain knowledge, helped the same lanky teenager to her feet five times) came over and sat down to recover his patience.
"Wouldn't it be easier if there were a lift?" she asked.
He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "A lift? Here? What for? Half the skill they need to learn is how to get around when it's not an easy downhill slope. Besides, it would cost a fortune to put a lift on a puny little hill like this."
How odd, Jane thought. If a lift on this slope was such a useless idea, what were HawkHunter and his adherents carrying on about? Jane looked up at the hill, and noticed the same red-clad skier she'd seen earlier. He or she, for it was impossible to tell at this distance, was standing still at the very top of the slope, looking down at the resort through binoculars.
"Is there an easier way to get to the top?" Jane asked the instructor.
"Without skis? Oh, sure. See that path leading into the woods? Just follow that."
Jane checked her watch. Ten-thirty. By the time she walked up there to admire the view, it would almost be time for another meal. And walking up there would burn off the calories she needed to get rid of to justify eating again.
Ten minutes later, and not very much farther up the hill, Jane decided that walking halfway up would probably be enough to earn a good lunch. In fact, a third of the way would almost certainly be sufficient.
Chapter 5
Jane was back at the restaurant at noon, feeling pleasantly tired and very, very hungry. The thin, deliciously cold mountain air was very appetite-provoking. Although the restaurant was starting to fill up with the lunch crowd, there was no sign of Shelley yet. Jane took a table near the windows and ordered a cup of coffee to sip while she waited. The demonstration was over, and the only people out front now were skiers coming in for a midday break. Jane recognized a few of them from the bunny slope.
She glanced around the dining room again and was surprised to discover that Ha
wkHunter and several of the tribe were among the diners. Strange that they'd feel comfortable on "enemy turf." But maybe not. HawkHunter could very well be a guest here. And the tribe, having always been on good terms with the owner, probably felt quite at home in the dining room. There were two young men, one very old one, and a woman at his table, all speaking intently.
HawkHunter was at the natural center of the group's attention. Jane vaguely remembered the picture of him on the dust jacket of his best-selling book. He had looked young and gawky then, as if he hadn't grown into his teeth yet. But that was fifteen years ago or more. Now he was an extremely handsome man in a very rugged way. And Jane was beginning to sense, even from this distance, what Linda Moosefoot had meant about meeting him and forming her own impression. Even from across the room, he exuded genuine, undistilled charisma. His gestures, a tad "actorish" were controlled but effective; his gaze was direct and penetrating, his body language subtle but macho.
Jane's eye was also drawn to the woman with them. She was quite as striking in her own way as he was. She was an Indian woman dressed in what Jane took to be authentic garb — or, more accurately, a stylish interpretation of authentic garb — a beautifully beaded taupe suede dress, high laced leggings/boots, and long midnight-black, glossy braids with beads and feathers woven in. She sat very still and straight, with the group but aloof from it at the same time. Jane guessed she was in her forties, but she could well be much younger or much older. Her features were classically Indian. She wasn't as pretty as Linda Moosefoot, but only because she didn't look as pleasant and happy. This was a woman who didn't look like she had an ounce of humor in her whole body. Her straight, dark eyebrows were drawn into a frown. As Jane watched, the woman said something, then got up to leave. The men at the table instantly rose to their feet.
Jane found this fascinating. It was her understanding that courtesies such as this were a very Western, almost chivalrous or Victorian, tradition. She remembered from HawkHunter's book that although he showed enormous respect for certain women who were his ancestors, there wasn't any sense of his treating women as if they were somehow fragile and due ostentatious courtesy. In fact, the feeling she had from his book was that women were generally regarded as a fairly likable subspecies of humans. She'd have to get a copy of his book and reread it. Perhaps she wasn't remembering it accurately. Still, in the back of her mind she felt sure there had been something about a medicine woman who was treated with great deference. Perhaps this woman was one such person.
While she was idly speculating, she had failed to notice the approach of a woman who could be none other than Doris Schmidtheiser.
"Hello, there," a gravelly voice said.
"Oh!" Jane said, surprised.
"I didn't mean to startle you. Are you one of our attendees?"
"I don't believe so. You're with the Holnagrad Society?"
"Yes. May I join you for a moment?"
Oh, dear. Shelley had warned her, but Jane was trapped. Even if she'd seen the woman coming, there wouldn't have been much she could have done to escape — short of taking a suicidal dive out the window.
"Certainly. I'm free until my friend arrives in a moment," Jane said, glancing at her watch.
Doris introduced herself as the first vice president of the Society and fussed around with her notebooks and folders, extracting a violently pink handout sheet. Jane decided that, close up, Mrs. Schmidtheiser looked more like an amiable horse than like Abe Lincoln in drag. She had a long, angular face with huge teeth and somewhat protruding eyes. Her voice had a neighing quality that emphasized the visual impression.
"I just wanted to make sure you knew about our classes for the public," she said. "We meet here every year to discuss our own concerns, but we also give an enormous number of very reasonably priced lectures to anyone else who wishes to attend. Beginners' tips, tracing Black ancestors, Jewish genealogy, how to access the National Archives, deciphering ship lists, special information on the Soundex, Miracode and census records, customs regarding Declarations of Intent and which courts to look in for them, writing family histories, preservation of documents and photographs…"
Jane held up her hand to stem the tide. "Thanks very much. It all sounds very interesting." (And incomprehensible, she thought.) "My friend is taking some of your classes this morning. That's who I'm waiting for."
"Perhaps you'd like to attend our debate this afternoon," Mrs. Schmidtheiser said, undeterred. She was thrashing among her papers again, presumably trying to find an announcement of the debate.
"Debate?"
"Yes, the Holnagrad Society exists to—"
This time Jane interrupted quickly. "I know about the Society. Lucky — Dr. Lucke — explained it this morning."
"Dear, dear Lucky. Such a fine man. Then you know we have a serious interest in Mr. William Smith, the owner of the resort."
"Yes. Do you mean the debate is about him?"
Mrs. Schmidtheiser nodded. "About Mr. Smith and a pretender back in Holnagrad." She laughed in a contemptuous, whinnying manner.
"A pretender? To the Russian throne, you mean?" Jane felt like an ass even saying the bizarre words.
But Mrs. Schmidtheiser was too deeply into the subject to recognize its inherent absurdity. "Yes. A member of our group mistakenly believes this gentleman in Holnagrad has a better claim to the title of Tsar than our Mr. Smith. Of course, there's a Eurotrash claimant as well, but nobody recognizes his claim except his playboy friends. Excuse me," she said, plunging her big, bony hand into her purse and extracting an orange pill bottle. She struggled with the lid for a moment, removed a tiny white pill, and popped it in her mouth, then took a swig of Jane's water to wash it down.
"This member," she went on, apparently unaware of any lapse of manners, "Stu Gortner, has been in contact with this man back in the Old Country and is forever promoting his cause. He and I are going to present our research to the membership. Of course, we're calling it a debate, but it really isn't. It's truly just a conflict between information on my part and foolish, self-serving speculations on his. Apples and oranges," she said, laughing loudly. Several people at nearby tables turned around to stare at the source of this shrill sound. "Apples and oranges," she repeated, as if she'd made up the phrase and was going to get as much mileage out of it as possible.
"It sounds very interesting," Jane lied. "Perhaps I'll attend if I'm free." She hoped Mrs. Schmidtheiser didn't try to pin her down on what else she had to do at a resort.
Mrs. Schmidtheiser clapped her big hands together in a gesture that would have been embarrassing if done by a prettier, more feminine woman and verged on the criminal in her case. "Oh, you absolutely must. It's going to be a rousing good time."
Apparently she had complete confidence in her view prevailing.
"I'm sure you're right," Jane said, glancing at her watch again as if she had a very busy schedule and hoping the genealogist would take the hint.
But hints were beyond Mrs. Schmidtheiser. "It's sad, really."
"What is?"
"That so many would be taken in by Stu Gortner. He's a P.R. man, you know." Her voice dripped with disgust. She might as well have been saying he was a known child molester.
"Oh, I see," Jane said weakly. How would I KNOW this? she wondered.
"Well, you know the sort." Doris was plunging on. "There's something in it for him. You can bet your bottom dollar on that! It's contrary to the whole purpose and traditional ethics of genealogy. You never start out to prove a particular point, but rather to immerse yourself in the research and let it guide you to the truth. Not that Stu Gortner is the only one to be misled. Alex Haley, of course, is a prime example. He dabbled in order to write a book. His research was the shabbiest thing. Great sloppy leaps of imagination, terrible documentation, all leading to downright falsehoods. It was a disgrace, but then, he did get a lot of people interested in genealogy. We must give him credit there. It wasn't his aim, but it was the result. Genealogy is the fastest-growing hobby in t
he world, you know."
Jane's head was spinning. She'd never quite known anyone to leap so capriciously from subject to subject and fling around so much casual slander and so many unsubstantiated claims along the way. Jane was beginning to appreciate what a really nice man Dr. Lucke must be to have described this woman so mildly. Most people who had to spend much time around her probably foamed at the mouth at the very mention of her name.
"Excuse me," Jane said. "I believe I saw my friend out there in the lobby, looking lost. Thank you for the information." With that, she snatched up the pink sheet and her purse and leaped to her feet. She had sprinted across the restaurant and out the door before Mrs. Schmidtheiser could even say good-bye.
She all but ran to the lost-and-found room, the only place she knew of to hide. After a few minutes, she cautiously peeked out. Shelley, chatting with Tenny Garner at the front desk, saw her. Shelley spoke to Tenny and pointed at Jane. They both laughed. Jane crept out and approached them. "You're laughing at me?"
"With you, Jane. Not at you," Shelley specified. "My guess is that Mrs. Schmidtheiser got you."
"The woman's a menace!" Jane exclaimed. "By my estimate, she can libel one person every forty-five seconds without even breaking into a sweat. Appalling!"
"She probably tried to get you to come to her debate, didn't she?" Tenny asked.
"Oh, yes."
"Poor old thing. I know better than most how annoying she can be. She's a snoop and a nuisance, and I wish Pete would quit encouraging her and she'd leave poor Uncle Bill alone. But for all that, I think she's going to really regret this debate. Stu Gortner will destroy her," Tenny added.
"Why? Is she that wrong? Or is he — God forbid! — even nastier than she is?"
"No, no. He's not nasty at all. That's why he'll win. He's as smooth as silk. A very accomplished speaker. The kind you go away believing without even knowing what he said. He's even talked me into deleting charges from his bill, and that's not easy. Poor old Doris will just get red in the face, pop her heart pills, and get nastier and more outrageous until she's alienated everybody in the room."
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