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As they drove down a long dirt road, a small but neat battenboard house came into view, painted white and shaded by cottonwoods. Coldmoon parked the car in the driveway. They got out, walked up onto the porch, and Coldmoon knocked on the door.
It was quickly opened by a tall woman, clearly Mrs. Twoeagle, wearing jeans and a checked shirt, her long hair spilling over her shoulders. They introduced themselves and entered. As he stepped into the living room, Coldmoon saw the ubiquitous pot of coffee on a wood stove, near a table where a plate of freshly baked cookies had been laid out. He’d called ahead, and Coldmoon realized she had baked these cookies especially for them.
“Please sit down,” Mrs. Twoeagle said, and they took their seats. “Coffee? Cookies?”
“Both,” said Coldmoon.
Pologna also helped himself.
She waited expectantly, hands folded, saying nothing.
“I want to start out,” Coldmoon began, “by saying how sorry I am for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“And we appreciate your being willing to answer a few questions.”
“Why now? I just heard about the arrest on the radio. What a surprise that was.”
“We’re just tying up a few loose ends.”
“Very well.”
Coldmoon hesitated, thinking about her comment. “So you were surprised by the arrest of Running?”
“Well,” she said, “Grayson was about to pay Running what he owed. And he told him so.”
Coldmoon was startled. “So Runningknewhe was about to get paid? In full?”
“In full.”
“Do you still have the money he was going to use?”
“It’s in the safe. He was going to take it from the ten thousand dollars you’ll find in there.”
“Ten thousand dollars?” Coldmoon said, incredulous. “Where’d all the money come from?”
“A big sale. Grayson made replicas of Lakota artifacts, and he was the finest artist on the entire Rez—his work is in the Lakota Museum, in fact.” She didn’t try to hide the pride in her voice. “You should go and see it if you have time. It’s his legacy.”
“What was the sale?” Coldmoon asked.
“It was ceremonial pipes. What they call ‘peace pipes.’ He’d been working on them for a while.”
“Is that why he was collecting stone when he was shot?”
“Yes. Pipestone, or more properly catlinite, is only found in one place—that outcrop.”
“Who did he make the sale to?”
“It was that curator from back east. Dr. Mancow.”
“Mancow?”
“He’s an anthropologist at the Natural History Museum in New York—an expert on the Lakota. Even speaks some. He’s been coming here for years, doing research and such. He’s an old friend of Grayson’s.”
“And he bought things from your husband?”
“Yes. He was a good customer. Buying for himself, I mean. Being a curator, Dr. Mancow’s not allowed to collect genuine artifacts. That’s one of the museum’s rules, he explained. But he loves Lakota craft, and on his most recent visit, I remember he took a special interest in the ceremonial pipes my husband was working on. Grayson didn’t usually discuss business with me, but he did mention he could pay off his debt because Dr. Mancow had just made a big purchase.”