Bad News

43

Little Feather didn’t know what to do. Here it was Monday morning, almost noon, and everything was going according to plan, and yet nothing was going according to plan.

The part that was Marjorie Dawson’s plan had ticked along like a charm. Her lapse in failing to send the announcement of appeal on to Max Schreck’s office in New York had created exactly the delay it was supposed to create, stalling the DNA test over the weekend, so that Fitzroy or John or somebody could come up with the solution to the open Burwick Moody grave. But that left the part of the plan that included the solution to the open grave, and so far Little Feather didn’t see any solution forthcoming.

It was true that John, when he and the others had left here last Thursday, had seemed almost cheerful, and certainly self-confident, saying this, at last, was a job for him, exactly the way Clark Kent says, “This is a job for Superman.” And it was also true that Andy had E-mailed Fitzroy on Friday evening that everything would soon be okay, and had E-mailed Fitzroy again yesterday that somebody would be coming up from the city today, but since then, Fitzroy hadn’t been able to reach Andy or anybody else—it was never possible to reach John—so what did this mean? Was somebody coming up from the city today? Who? And what difference would it make?

Little Feather and Marjorie and Fitzroy and Irwin were all gathered in the motor home this morning, hunched over Marjorie’s cell phone like a group of early settlers over a campfire. Max Schreck, still miffed over Marjorie’s “error,” had phoned from Albany at twenty minutes past ten to say the Three Tribes’ appeal had been denied, so the DNA test could go forward forthwith, and an investigator from the local DA’s office would be coming to the motor home between twelve and one today to collect the hair sample. And here it was 11:30, and now what?

Little Feather asked Marjorie the question direct: “Now what?”

“We can only hope,” Marjorie answered, “that someone, John or Andy or whoever, actually does come up here this morning, and that he or they actually do have some solution to offer to our problem.”

Irwin said, “What if Little Feather were kidnapped?”

They all looked at him. Sounding wary, Marjorie said, “I don’t follow, Irwin.” Ever since their shared pizza the other night, they were all on first-name basis.

“Well,” Irwin said, “here you’ve got this heiress, gonna be worth millions any minute now, so maybe somebody came in here last night and kidnapped her and left a ransom note—we can use those magazines there, cut out words for the ransom note—and now she’s disappeared and it’s not our fault, but we just can’t do the DNA.”

“One,” Marjorie said, “we’d have to call the police, and once they discovered the fraud, which they would, we’d all go to jail.”

“Two,” Little Feather said, “where am I gonna hide around this neck of the woods that they wouldn’t find me in twenty minutes?”

“Three,” Fitzroy said, “to whom is this ransom note directed?”

“Well,” Irwin said, “the tribes.”

They all hoorawed at that. “The tribes!” Fitzroy exclaimed. “Irwin, that’s ‘The Ransom Of Red Chief’! The tribes would pay the kidnappers to keep Little Feather!”

“Well,” Irwin said, “it was just an idea.”

“No, it wasn’t, Irwin,” Marjorie told him, but in a kindly way.

“So what I’d still like to know is,” Little Feather said, “what am I gonna do when the DA’s person gets here? Maybe I should just run away right now.”

“Oh no, Little Feather,” Marjorie said, “don’t do that.”

“Never give up, Little Feather,” Fitzroy said.

Little Feather said, “Why not? I can’t give any investigator my own hair, cause Judge Higbee will put me in jail if the DNA doesn’t match. So what do I—”

A knock at the door.

They all leaped like startled fawns, except Fitzroy, who leaped like a startled yak.

“Oh no!” cried Little Feather. “He’s early!”

“Maybe,” Marjorie said, “it’s Andy, or someone like that.”

“We shouldn’t,” Fitzroy said, “be in this room, if indeed the investigator is who that is.”

“We’ll be in the bedroom, Little Feather,” Irwin said, as they all faded from view.

“And I’ll be in the bathroom,” Little Feather muttered, “as soon as I can.”

The knock at the door was repeated.

“All right, all right,” Little Feather complained.

What was she going to do? What was she going to do? Trying to think of a way out, fretting, frightened, furious with herself for getting into this mess in the first place, she went over to open the bus-type door and look out at a guy she’d never seen before in her life. A blunt-featured, stocky-bodied guy with carroty hair and a calmly indifferent manner that suggested he was nothing to do with her at all, but had knocked on the wrong motor home.

“Who,” she said, “are you?”

“You’re Little Feather, right?” this fellow said. “I’m Stan. Andy sent me.”

“Andy! Come in, come in.”

Stan came in, and Little Feather shut the door behind him as she called to the others, “It’s okay! He’s one of us!”

The other three came out to look curiously at Stan. Fitzroy said, “One of us? Which one?”

“Stan,” Stan said. “They asked me to come up because I’m the best driver, I’ll make the best time. I would of come yesterday except for the snow, and I didn’t have the plow anymore.”

Marjorie said, “Do you have a message for us?”

“Naw,” Stan said. “I got this.” And from his carcoat he pulled a Ziploc bag, which he extended toward Little Feather.

Who looked at it with some revulsion. Inside the bag were some strands of black hair. Unwilling to touch it, she said, “What’s that?”

“Your DNA,” Stan told her.

“Did that—did it come from a grave?”

Stan looked both astonished and disgusted. “A grave? No, whadawe wanna do with a grave? This come from a lady in New Jersey. Well, from her hairbrush.”

Fitzroy, sounding awed, said, “You got into Thurstead?”

“Sure,” Stan said. “Why not?”

“But—” Fitzroy was having a lot of trouble here. “It’s so well guarded. There are many valuable works of art at Thurstead.”

“There sure are,” Stan said. “We made out like bandits. Well, I guess we are bandits, so that’s how we made out.”

Little Feather had unzipped the bag and taken out most of the hair. It was a little finer than hers, but black, and mostly straight like hers. She sorted it into a kind of swatch while the others continued to talk.

Irwin said, “Do you mean you robbed the place? Thurstead?”

“Well, we were there,” Stan said.

“I’m not hearing this,” Marjorie stated.

Fitzroy said, “But what if the police catch you? Isn’t it possible they’ll, they’ll find us?”

“I don’t think they’re looking,” Stan told him. “Nothing in the paper yet. There was that big snowstorm over the weekend, you know, maybe they won’t even know it happened until weeks from now.”

“Oh-kay,” Little Feather said.

They all looked at her, and she held up the swatch of hair, which she’d arranged between her thumb and first finger so that it looked as though she’d just cut it off her own head herself just this minute. “Now it’s gonna be okay,” she said.

Fitzroy said, “Little Feather? Are you sure you can make the investigator believe that’s your hair?”

“Watch me,” Little Feather advised. “You don’t get a blackjack dealer’s license in Nevada without knowing how to use your hands.” She had gone in an instant from confusion and fear directly to absolute self-assurance. “Bring on that investigator,” she said.

“And if I can just make a quick pit stop,” Stan said, “I’m outta here.”

Marjorie said, “You’re going to drive all the way back? Today?”

“You bet,” Stan told her. “My pals down there are waiting for me. We’re gonna sell some property we just come into, and we all want to be there to cut up the jackpot. So, could I?”

“Oh, the bathroom,” Little Feather said. “Sure. It’s right down the hall there.”

“Thanks.”

Stan went down the hall, Marjorie moved into a corner to use her cell phone, to find out exactly when the investigator would arrive, and Fitzroy said, “Irwin. We’re off.”

“Right,” Irwin said.

As they shrugged into their coats, Little Feather said, “Where you two going?”

“We shall follow,” Fitzroy told her, “our new friend Stan. I believe he shall lead us to our former partners.”

“Former,” Little Feather said.

Irwin said, “And I believe we’ll find them counting a jackpot. See you, Little Feather.”