Death on the Greasy Grass

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Manny nodded to the other cot in the room, a blue wool military blanket with USN in faded white lettering adorning the front. A piece of wood had been stuck under a broken leg on the cot, yet it still listed to the starboard. “Harlan crash here, too?”

  Stumper shook his head. “That one’s for Itchy. Harlan just passed out in his chair.”

  Willie and Manny looked to Stumper for an explanation. “Itchy Iron Cloud. Cubby’s—Chenoa’s husband Cubby’s—kid brother. They kicked Itchy out of the house when he started getting into more trouble than he was worth while still in high school. Harlan lets him crash here with Sam when he needs it.”

  “Drunk?”

  “Some of that. More a drug problem than the booze with Itchy.”

  Willie brushed past Stumper and stepped into the doorway, eying Chenoa’s photo. “So if I get this right, Chenoa’s brother, and her husband’s brother, both hung with Harlan?”

  Stumper smiled. “Just a nice, little dysfunctional family, don’t ya think?”

  Manny followed Stumper out of the tiny room back into Harlan’s office. He slipped on a Twinkie wrapper and caught himself on the edge of a filing cabinet, spilling a stack of flyers onto the floor. Manny bent and grabbed them. “The Beauchamp Collection,” Manny read aloud, placing the stack back on top of the cabinet.

  “A unique chance to own a piece of history,” Willie read over Manny’s shoulder. “You heard of this?”

  “Who hasn’t?” Manny grinned.

  “Well, excuse the hell out of me,” Willie said, giving Manny a dirty look. “I don’t get up here to Crow Agency often.”

  “It’s not like I get up here either.”

  “Then how you know about this Beauchamp Collection?”

  “I just know things.” Manny smiled again, waiting for that to sink in. “Look, the sale of this collection’s been all over the news. I just didn’t realize Harlan was the consignee.”

  Stumper tapped the flyer with his finger. “This collection has been advertised for months on the Internet, and every western newspaper you’d ever pick up. Every serious relic collector in the country—if not the world—will want to bid on the items.”

  Manny spread the flyer out on the top of the filing cabinet. It listed items ranging from parfleches used to carry personal items, to quivers stuffed with arrows made of local hickory, some tipped with stone points and others with metal trade points. Buffalo robes traced to pre-reservation days were listed next to Pendleton wool blankets used by fur companies plying the mountain region.

  “Commission from this collection alone would have set Harlan up for life.”

  “If he actually had provenance for all these.” Willie ran his finger down the list. “In college, we studied relics being sold from private collections and even museums that assumed authenticity. Common con nowadays is to pass off fakes with contrived documentation.”

  “Harlan was always careful about verifying authenticity,” Stumper said. He grabbed his can of Copenhagen, but put it right back in his pocket when he saw Willie eying it. “That’s why Harlan spent time in jail this spring, for beating the starch out of that artifaker that consigned fakes he claimed were genuine.” Stumper tapped the flyer with his pocketknife. “Harlan had provenance for everything. At least in the Beauchamp Collection.”

  “You saying some of these other relics he listed at auction weren’t genuine?”

  “Most are genuine, but most have been handed down from generations in families. The only provenance is word of mouth, and the only thing going to auction was Harlan’s opinion that it was ancient.” Stumper stood and closed his pocketknife.

  “Now, the Beauchamp Collection—that’s different. Harlan had documentation from the great-grandson of the original owner, Blaise Beauchamp. Proof in spades, from what Harlan bragged.” He dropped back into Harlan’s railroad chair, careful not to let the broken arm gouge his side. “Especially that item in the middle: the journal.”

  Manny had been reluctant to wear the reading glasses stuffed in his pocket. He had lost his and borrowed Clara’s spare pair before he’d left for vacation. But now he needed them, and Willie and Stumper exchanged smirks when Manny donned the paisley-framed glasses with rhinestone-studded bows. Manny kept quiet, content to let them read whatever they wanted into the glasses as he read:

  Journal of Levi Star Dancer, Crow scout attached to the 7th Cavalry, Company E. Only journal of any Custer’s scout known to exist.

  “People from all over the country and some from overseas came just to bid on the journal,” Stumper said. “There have been prospective buyers parading through here all week.”

  “And this Levi Star Dancer is Chenoa’s ancestor?” Willie said.

  Stumper nodded. “Levi Star Dancer is Chenoa’s great-grandfather.”

  “What’s the connection to Beauchamp?”

  “Not entirely sure, but I think Levi Star Dancer and this trapper Beauchamp were good friends. At least they lived among the Whistling Water clan at the same time. I asked Harlan about the journal that day I drew security here . . .”

  “Did Harlan need security?”

  “He thought he did,” Stumper answered. “He had advertised the Beauchamp Collection extensively, and he didn’t want to take any chances. Especially with the journal.” He nodded to a small safe in the corner, the door standing open. “That’s the only real security he had here, and I doubt if he ever used it.”

  Manny bent to the safe, one of those hundred-year-old monsters that stood two feet high, but weighed more than a piano, the actual space used to store things about a foot square. “If he stored anything in there, it’s gone now.”

  Willie whistled and tapped the flyer. “If Harlan’s flyer was right—and if he could provide the provenance on the only journal of one of Custer’s scouts—he would have earned a bunch of greenbacks in commission alone.”

  “He wasn’t charging a dime commission for the journal, big man. The entire Beauchamp Collection had been donated, and the proceeds were to go to the Little Big Horn College. And Harlan was donating his commission for the rest of the collection as well.”

  Manny tossed the flyer on the desk. “Benevolent man, your Harlan White Bird.”

  Stumper laughed. “Just this once. Harlan didn’t have a benevolent bone in his old body when it came to business dealings. Harlan figured—rightfully so—that the Beauchamp Collection was sure to draw bidders from all over the country. From around the world. This would have been Harlan’s biggest auction ever. Publicly announcing his intent to donate his commission to the college fund made other folks open their pocketbooks to the other items he was to auction off. Or so he thought would happen.”

  Manny nodded to a safe in the corner. “Surely that’s not big enough to hold this collection. Is part of it . . .”

  Stumper held up his hand. “Harlan was smarter than the average thief. Besides leaving the alarm pad that didn’t work by the front door so everyone could see it, he hid the collection in plain sight. Table D,” he nodded. “Items four through thirty-eight.”

  Manny and Willie followed Stumper to rows of tables on the far side of the building to one marked D. “These pieces make up the Beauchamp Collection.”

  Manny stood with his hands on his hips. The artifacts took up the entire table. “This collection’s too valuable to leave out in the open.”

  Stumper laughed. “Harlan looked like your run-of-the-gin-mill rummy, but he was actually shrewd. He said no one would suspect him of leaving the collection out in the open.”

  “Hidden in plain sight.” Willie walked around the table, squatting and looking at the collection from different angles. “This Beauchamp fella must not need the money if he just donated the artifacts.”

  “I’m with you,” Manny said as he ran his finger over the items on the flyer, matching them with those displayed on Table D. “This collection will
yield a fortune at auction.” He looked over the flyer at the collection. Beauchamp had donated a pair of women’s beaded leggings that matched a quilled vest, the light blue background typical of the Crow. An elk-hide possible bag, a single row of beads adorning the closure, sat beside a painted hide shield and bird’s head pipe. Gauntlets and beaded saddlebags were displayed next to an ornate red clay pipe. “Where’s the journal?” Manny said at last.

  “What?”

  “The journal,” Manny repeated. “Where’s Star Dancer’s journal? It’s not here.”

  Stumper brushed past Manny and leaned over the table. “It was here yesterday.”

  “You saw it?”

  Stumper’s face lost color and he looked over the next tables. “I didn’t see it myself. But it was here.”

  “How do you know if you never saw it?”

  “Harlan stopped the bidder’s inspection yesterday,” Stumper said over his shoulder as he walked the rows of tables adjacent to the Beauchamp Collection. “He wanted security while bidders looked at it during the day.” Stumper pointed to an empty table beside Harlan’s office. “I drew the duty of standing around over there looking ugly all day picking my nose while people filed in and examined the collection.”

  Manny held up his hand. “I’m not passing judgment. Just trying to find the journal.”

  Stumper breathed deeply. He rubbed his forehead as he came back to the table displaying the collection. Except the journal. “All I was supposed to do was hang around in case someone decided to make off with something. As soon as the bidders left, Harlan moved the collection to this table while I hung around the office sipping ice tea. He said no one would dream that he left things so valuable out in the open, and he moved the collection.”

  Manny looked to the tables adjacent to the Beauchamp Collection. “Well, the journal’s gone now.”

  “Maybe this Beauchamp came back and decided he didn’t want to donate the journal,” Willie said. He grabbed Stumper’s can of Copenhagen from his back pocket and began stuffing his lip.

  “Don’t you ever buy your own?”

  Willie ignored him and replaced the lid. “Maybe Beauchamp decided to keep the journal. Maybe he came and got it.”

  Stumper laughed nervously as he frantically walked the tables looking for the journal. “If he did, he had a hell of a trip. Adrian Beauchamp donated his great-grandfather’s personal items, and the man still lives outside Paris. Harlan said he spoke with Beauchamp the morning I was here for the security detail.”

  Manny rubbed his head, feeling woozy, needing to eat something. He fished in his pocket for a candy bar. “And Harlan never reported the theft?”

  “He would have if he would have known about it,” Stumper called from five tables over, still walking the display, looking for the journal. “It had to have been stolen after Harlan left for the reenactment.”

  “If it is stolen,” Willie called to Stumper three rows over. “Doesn’t make any sense. If someone stole the journal after Harlan left for the reenactment, there wouldn’t be any reason to set Harlan up to be killed.”

  “Unless Harlan knew who had taken the journal.” Manny licked chocolate from the Snickers bar from his fingers, his head clearing. “And didn’t have time to report it just then.”

  “Or knew, but figured it was worth more to him putting the bite on the thief.”

  “Blackmail?” Stumper had reached the last table and worked his way back. “Guess Harlan could put the bite on someone, particularly if they had deep pockets.”

  “Maybe that’s why he didn’t need the commission money,” Willie said. “Maybe he found new money from whoever stole it.”

  Manny walked to the end of the display tables and dropped his Snickers wrapper in a trash can. “Then we’re back to figuring who hated Harlan badly enough to substitute live rounds for blanks.”

  Stumper shook his head as he grabbed his can of snuff from the table. He glared at Willie when he opened it and found it empty. “Harlan was like a Komodo dragon—had no natural enemies.” He tossed the can in the trash.

  “Even when he was a drunk?” Willie reluctantly handed Stumper his can of snuff.

  Stumper nodded. “Even drunk. Some people are mean drunks. Harlan was a happy drunk, especially when he had someone to drink with.”

  Willie turned away. Manny caught Willie’s shame of the bottle, but Stumper didn’t. “Half the people on Crow Agency owed Harlan.”

  “But his business dealings?” Manny asked. “Thought he was ruthless.”

  “He was. But folks on Crow Agency couldn’t afford bidding at Harlan’s sales. Even when he had less-than-collectibles up for sale. But apart from business, he was generous, whether it was a meal Harlan bought for someone down on their luck, or a cord of wood delivered to someone in the dead of winter, or letting kids use his shop to play ball, people owed him.”

  Manny tapped the flyer and turned to Stumper. “Somebody wanted the journal. Who would be at the top of your suspect list?”

  “I can’t think of anyone.”

  “Didn’t you say Sam Star Dancer crashed here? That’d give him access to it.”

  “He’s a drunk, not a thief. And he certainly couldn’t have arranged for Harlan’s ammunition to be switched.”

  “Let’s find him and interview him.”

  “I said he’s no—”

  “Humor me. Sam may not be a thief, but he may have ideas.”

  Stumper kicked the floor with his boot. “All right. I’ll put out the word we need to talk with Sam. But it won’t be easy with a drunk like Sam who crashes wherever he gets the urge.”

  “Find Itchy, too, if he crashed here with Sam.”

  “All right.” Stumper held up his hands as if surrendering. “As soon as we turn over the right rocks and find them, I’ll notify you.”

  Manny smiled and laid his hand on Stumper’s shoulder. “What else you got to do? Work those meth cases?”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Not the friendliest soul I’ve ever met.” Willie watched Stumper’s marked Tahoe disappear around the corner of the parking lot. He unlocked the door of Manny’s Oldsmobile and draped his arm over the jamb. “Son of a bitch acts like he doesn’t want to work with us to find out who set Harlan up. Acts like his shit don’t smell.”

  Manny paused before sliding into the blistering passenger seat, and he pulled his shorts down as far as they would go. He wished he had bought cloth seat covers for the old car. “You weren’t exactly the ideal ambassador for the Lakota Nation yourself.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Besides using up all his Copenhagen, you were on the prod to climb Stumper’s frame the moment you met him.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Bullshit no shit. It was like you felt obligated to be openly hostile to him ’cause he’s Crow. Just like in the old days.”

  Willie looked away, and Manny knew he mulled that over in his mind. The Crow were historic enemies of the Lakota, even scouting for the government in the old days in their hunt for the Lakota. “Maybe I wasn’t Officer Friendly with him.” Willie rolled the window down. “I guess I’m just upset for being stuck here, especially since I’m not convinced Harlan’s death was anything but an accident.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Manny flipped open his cell and punched in the Billings Field Office. “I hope this was an accident and we can wrap this up quick. We got a week left on our vacation, and I feel Old Faithful calling our names.”

  An operator came on Manny’s cell, a soft, bedroom voice, much like Clara’s last night urging him to come home soon. Clara had been the one to suggest he and Willie get away together, away from work, away from Pine Ridge, and just relax. “So you can have one guy vacation,” she had said, and Manny knew what she meant: after he and Clara were married, there would be little guy time for Manny to get away. And right
now, Manny regretted coming to Crow Agency. If he’d have just listened to Willie, bypassed the Little Big Horn reenactment and headed straight for Yellowstone . . . “Can you connect me with Special Agent McGinnis.”

  After a brief pause, McGinnis came on the line. “Get that accidental death taken care of?”

  “I need you to call a guy and get him patched through to me.”

  “Minute.” Papers shuffling on the other end. “All right. Shoot.”

  “Guy named Adrian Beauchamp.” Manny spelled his name phonetically.

  “Okay. Where?”

  “Outskirts of Paris.”

  “Georgia?”

  “France.”

  “Do you know what time it is there?” McGinnis said after a long pause.

  Manny quickly calculated Paris time. “A little after two in the morning. And your point?”

  “My point? You want me to wake up some poor bastard at two in the morning so you can talk to him about an accident?”

  “Might not be accidental.”

  McGinnis sighed loudly into the receiver. “You want me to call this Frenchman now?”

  “Bob, if you’d rather work this reservation case yourself, I’ll call Beauchamp . . .”

  Manny let the threat hang, enjoying the long pause on the other end of the line as Bob McGinnis weighed working a case on Crow Agency. “Damn you, Tanno. Spell this guy’s name again.”

  * * *

  “Do you really think the journal could be that important?” Willie pinched snuff into his lower lip, carefully stuffing less Copenhagen in than when he’d pinched from Stumper’s can. “With everything else of value up for auction, someone could have taken many things of great value.”

  “A journal of one of Custer’s scouts? That’d bring megabucks.”

  “It’ll be next to impossible to off the journal in the black market.” The strong tobacco odor brought up urges and Manny rolled the window down. “The thief could have taken any number of other items that hadn’t the publicity the Star Dancer journal had.” Willie stuck the car in gear and started out of the parking lot of the Justice Building.