Death on the Greasy Grass by C. M. Wendelboe

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.”
    â€œHidden 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.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œYou saw it?”
    Stumper’s face lost color and he looked over the next tables. “I didn’t see it myself. But it was here.”
    â€œHow do you know if you never saw it?”
    â€œHarlan 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