Death on the Greasy Grass by C. M. Wendelboe Page A

moved the collection.”
    Manny looked to the tables adjacent to the Beauchamp Collection. “Well, the journal’s gone now.”
    â€œMaybe 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.
    â€œDon’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?”
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œIf 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.”
    â€œUnless 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.”
    â€œOr knew, but figured it was worth more to him putting the bite on the thief.”
    â€œBlackmail?” 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.”
    â€œMaybe 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.
    â€œEven 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.”
    â€œBut his business dealings?” Manny asked. “Thought he was ruthless.”
    â€œHe 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?”
    â€œI can’t think of anyone.”
    â€œDidn’t you say Sam Star Dancer crashed here? That’d give him access to it.”
    â€œHe’s a drunk, not a thief. And he certainly couldn’t have arranged for Harlan’s ammunition to be switched.”
    â€œLet’s find him and interview him.”
    â€œI said he’s no—”
    â€œHumor me. Sam may not be a thief, but he may have ideas.”
    Stumper kicked the floor with