Read Online Death on the Greasy Grass by C. M. Wendelboe - Free Book Online Page B

slapped Manny on the leg. “I know you just want to help. But I’ll be all right as soon as I hunt up that meeting.”
    Manny closed the car door and leaned in the window. “We’ll watch some TV tonight when you get back.”
    â€œThe TV doesn’t work.”
    Manny watched Willie as he drove out of the parking lot.
Damned that Olds has got nice lines.
He turned to their motel room. His key caught and stuck partially into the lock. Manny pushed on the key and the door swung in, unlatched. He tried pulling the key out, but it remained jammed in the lock, and Manny made a mental note to notify the desk clerk in the morning.
    Manny clapped, but the light didn’t come on. He clapped again. And again, hoping no one saw him clapping like a fool. He had turned to leave for the manager’s office when he clapped a last time. A wagon-wheel chandelier missing two bulbs flickered on and washed the room in dirty light. It hung low enough that Manny had to duck around it as he plopped onto a stained blue sofa. A spring jabbed him in the butt, and he moved to the opposite side of the couch. He had started taking his boots off when his cell phone rang.
    â€œI’ve got your man on the line,” Bob McGinnis shouted in the receiver as if he’d been hollering all the way to Paris. “But he’s hard to understand. His English isn’t very good.”
    â€œâ€™Bout like your French?”
    â€œPiss on you, Tanno.”
    There was a short pause while McGinnis patched Adrian Beauchamp through. Between the language differences and the fact that Beauchamp had been awakened in the middle of the night, Manny strained to understand him.
    â€œThe
gendarme
said you need to speak with me right away, Monsieur Tanno.”
    â€œOui, mon ami.”
Manny didn’t trust his French any further and switched to English, speaking slowly. After explaining he had examined the Beauchamp Collection, he asked Beauchamp about the artifacts he had donated for the auction.
    â€œThese things belonged to Great-Grandfather Beauchamp . . . Blaise. He spent time trapping Crow country before the Custer Massacre, but he left Crow country some months before the battle.”
    The line went quiet and Manny wondered if they had been disconnected, when Beauchamp continued. “Blaise moved back east in your country. Started a trading company that dealt with Indians in your west.” Beauchamp laughed. “Your Wild West. Anyway, he made his fortune in trade before returning to France. He lived out his days here. The
gendarme
who woke me said the collection has caused much trouble in your country.”
    â€œWe’re not sure the collection has caused any trouble. We are just covering our bases.”
    Beauchamp chuckled again. “Like your baseball. You wish to swat a home run.”
    â€œHit a home run,” Manny corrected. “Tell me about the journal you donated.”
    â€œAh,” he said after a long pause. “I sent the journal along with other artifacts
sur un coup de tête
. On a whim.”
    â€œHow is it that Blaise came to own a journal belonging to Levi Star Dancer?”
    â€œAh, I regret I cannot say. I have never read the journal. It is in English. I speak your language, but do not read it so well. My son Emile who fell in love with all the things Indian, and especially with Crow culture, has read it so many times he can recite it from memory. As a young boy, he and his friends would play with the collection. Emile always insisted on being the Indian.”
    That’s a first: a White man wanting to be an Indian.
“Can I speak with Emile about the journal?”
    Beauchamp laughed. “Emile became tired of everything Indian as he grew. No, Emile discovered that women are so much more interesting than a musty hundred-years-old book someone scribbled in.
Volages.
Children are so . . . fickle
these days. Emile is away.”
    Manny felt his