Where the Bones are Buried by Jeanne Matthews Page B

Man’s shoulders. “Karl May made many mistakes in his books about the Indians, but with Winnetou and his German blood brother Old Shatterhand, he evoked a spirit of loyalty and comradeship. Like the knights of legend, they rode through the wilderness, fighting off enemies and righting wrongs.”
    The kettle whistled and Little Deer lifted it off the fire and stood up. She was as tall as her husband, with an athletic body and a goading smirk. She smirked at Dinah and asked, “Did the Seminoles take the scalps of white people as trophies?”
    â€œIn rare cases,” said Dinah, staring pointedly at her blond bob.
    Drumming Man looked as if he might strike his wife, but Eichen intervened. “We each have our view of the Indians and their history. It is not required that we believe the same things in order to enjoy a shared general interest.”
    Dinah didn’t perceive an excess of congeniality among these Indians, but she hadn’t seen or heard anything to suggest they might have shanghaied her mother. If what Farber had said about Hess was true and he hadn’t participated in the club’s powwows for a long time, it was possible that Swan’s interest in this group was incidental to her dealings with Hess. In any case, Dinah was back to square eins . “It was a pleasure to meet you all, but I need to check on my friend Margaret and find my mother.”
    â€œWe look forward to seeing the three of you this evening at the powwow,” said Eichen, shaking her hand again.
    She said good-bye, shook hands again all around, even with Little Deer, and Florian Farber ushered her back through the shop. The chair where Margaret had been resting was empty.
    â€œShe must have gone out for a breath of air,” said Farber.
    Suckered again, thought Dinah. Another of Cleon Dobbs’ geheimnisvoll ex-wives was in the wind. She wondered if Margaret knew all along where Swan had gone and was on her way to meet her, or if she’d had a brainstorm. Either way, Dinah ruled out abduction. She almost felt sorry for Reiner Hess.

Chapter Eight
    Dinah stormed out of the Happy Hunting Ground and collided with a woman encumbered with too many shopping bags.
    â€œ Pardon ,” said Dinah.
    â€œ Ist nicht ,” said the woman, summing matters up better than she knew. “Nothing,” as in nothing good. As in, nothing but clouds.
    The first fat drops of rain splashed onto the pavement and umbrellas began to go up. Dinah ducked under a construction scaffold and considered her options. She could A, stake out the gallery and hope that her mother eventually turned up; B, call the friendly cop she had promised to call and report her missing; C, hang around with the Indians and try to cajole some information about Hess out of them; or D, go home and prepare for her class next Tuesday.
    Arguing against Option A, there was no guarantee Swan would turn up ahead of her heralded appearance at the powwow tonight. In light of the note she’d left, Option B seemed premature. Why would the police waste manpower scouring the city for a ditzy American tourist who’d been missing for only a couple of hours? There were factors that might galvanize them into action. She could show them the mutilated Indian doll. Germany had laws against hate crimes based on ethnicity or national identity. But something about that doll, or Swan’s reaction to it, smelled fishy.
    As for Option C, Florian Farber had seemed none too eager to discuss Hess, and if he did tell her where to find him, what could she do? Telephone for an appointment? Ask him if he’d taken a potshot at the Golf? Demand money—Swan’s and Margaret’s just desserts for time they spent married to Cleon? The more she thought about that scheme, the nuttier it sounded. No, Option D was the only one that made sense. D as in delay. D as in don’t make matters worse. D as in denial, which had always been her strong suit. Like