Part 13 (1/2)
”I saw the notice in the paper-for the show-and I was a little miffed that I hadn't been invited. I decided to drop in anyway.”
Her smile was definitely sarcastic. ”I waited till the receptionist was busy-there's always some nouveau-riche idiot who has to bully the help. I pretended I was waiting to meet someone until she was occupied with one of those and I convinced security that I was the sister of the guest of honor. Maybe the guy forgot to mention it to you. He was very young and had a gap between his front teeth. Ask him.”
Thinnes remembered him. He hadn't mentioned any sister. ”I will.”
”Of course,” she added, ”he was so busy studying my cleavage, he never asked my name.”
Thinnes heard a strangling sound to his right and looked to see Oster choking on that. Personally, he didn't blame the guard. ”Then what happened?”
”I went through the museum, looking for the one who died, getting more angry by the minute-or, I should say, by the atrocity. When I found him-I don't remember my exact words but I believe I was less than tactful.”
Thinnes waited. She didn't say more. ”How did he respond?”
”He laughed. He always knew which b.u.t.ton to push to get me going.”
”You and this artist didn't get along.”
”That implies...”
”Well?”
”He was a phony. I hate phonies-but not enough to kill one.”
Thinnes waited.
”He was from here. He was never one of us. You can't be one of the Dine-what you call Navajo-and not be from the Dinehta.” She looked from Thinnes to Oster. ”Oh, he lived there for a while-rented a house, went to a few sings to soak up the local color, but he was always an outsider. His mother was white; he couldn't even name his father's clan.
”And?”
”He was an exploiter. Do you think anyone would have bought that junk he made if he hadn't claimed to be an Indian?”
”Why'd he do it?”
”I don't know. Well...Most of my people grow up being ashamed of being Native American. But how can anyone grow up white in this country and not be ashamed, sickened...”
The question seemed rhetorical, so Thinnes let it pa.s.s.
”Why did you go to the reception?”
”To see him. He'd been avoiding me-we used to be lovers, before he met that belagana b.i.t.c.h.”
Thinnes waited.
”I just wanted to see him-you know?” When he didn't answer, she shrugged. ”I wanted to see what he was doing artistically. I was out of town when he had his last show. He used to do tourist stuff when we were together-Arizona Highways landscapes, stereotyped Indian portraits, that kind of c.r.a.p. I wanted to see how he could get rich and famous doing that.”
”Did you?”
”Sure! He sold s.h.i.+t to suckers.”
”You know who killed him?”
”No.”
”Who might have wanted to?”
”Anyone who knew him well.” Thinnes waited. ”He had this way of making everything your fault. Nothing was ever his fault. He'd drive you to the edge of distraction, then ask you why you were upset.”
”Specifically, who might have wanted him dead?”
”How about that developer he made fun of?”
”Wingate?”
”Yes. The publicity he was getting can't have been helping his business.”
”Anyone else?”
”It's the custom of my people, when someone is being-like he who was killed-to avoid him. Whoever did it wasn't one of us.”
”How long ago were you and he an item?”
”Five years ago. For a summer. Then she got her hooks into him and it was good night, Irene. To give her credit, though, I think she loved him. I think she'd have killed for him. And she could do more for him than I could have.” There was a grudging tone to the last sentence that made what she said sound true.
”When was the last time you talked to him-prior to Thursday night?”
”When he told me he was dumping me for that belagana.”
Thinnes remembered what Caleb had asked Bisti's mother. ”What was the significance of Blue Mountain Cat? Why a cat?”
”I don't know.”
”Is there such a thing as a blue mountain cat?”
”It would have to be a cougar. Blue Mountain is Tsodzil, in New Mexico. I have no idea what significance it had for him.”
”Why a mountain lion?”
She shrugged. ”I would have thought he'd have chosen a coyote.”
After she'd left Thinnes said, ”So if you can't be Navajo unless you live in Navajo land, what's Irene Yellow doing in Chicago?”
”The pot calling the kettle black,” Oster said. ”Why don't we get her back and ask her?”