was relieved when some of the film crew and a couple of women from the other families led them away to console them elsewhere. Well, he would get around to suspecting the immediate family later, when they werenât so obviously upset.
Part of the film crew wasnât at the site. Heâd gotten that from the producer, a big man with prematurely graying hair who seemed more concerned about what the death was going to do to his schedule than the grief visited upon the Ramseys. The rest, another dozen or so, went about putting together coffee and food for everyone. They had the disturbing habit of disappearing into the cluster of big recreational vehicles that made up their offices and living quarters. He couldnât keep track of them, but, by setting up his investigation under an awning attached to one of those vehicles, he kept a clear view of the road into the pasture. He contented himself with being sure no one was making a break for it in the variety of cars and trucks associated with the project.
Wynn was pretty confident that Daphne Alights on the Cloud wasnât the killer. Maybe sheâd been at the scene, but she was obviously an innocent bystander. Wynn let his glance travel over the remarkable curves hardly disguised by the shorts and halter sheâd put on after reporting the death. He was not the sort who would normally try to picture what things looked like while a murder happened, but he couldnât stop thinking about Daphne in the altogether. That, of course, was one of the reasons she couldnât be guilty. Where would she hide the murder weapon?
It was his job, he reminded himself, to recreate the crime scene in his mind. Unfortunately, he had a hard time putting the deceased in the image that resulted.
He was leaning toward the old Cheyenne guy, Mr. Stone, as the best candidate for an appointment with the stateâs executioner. Bud Stone was part of the village, though participating in a different capacity. The other families were descendants of Native Americans. But none of them had been living in their original culture in their day-to-day lives. They were from the outside world. That was the gimmick for this TV program. Get a bunch of modern Indians who had never lived like Indians, take them out in the middle of the Great Plains, and see how well they mastered a lifestyle that had been gone for nearly a hundred and fifty years. Not too well, from what heâd heard. That reassured him somehow.
Old man Stone and a couple of his kin were staying in the encampment with the rest of the Indians, only they were the real thing. The guy was a living, breathing Cheyenne. Of course, he didnât normally reside in a tent either, but he knew his culture and could tell them how his ancestors had lived. The old man was there to help see that this was done authenticallyâto guide the rest of the participants and make sure nothing sacred got mocked.
Since the kid was killed by a real Cheyenne arrow and the old man was the only person there who even seemed to know what one looked like, Wynn figured he was also the only one who might have made it. From which, his deductive powers led straight to a conclusion. Elementary, the old bastard was guilty. He even had a motive. The kids were out there fooling around, something real Cheyenne folks would have frowned on, or so Stone had said.
Wynn had a strategy for tricking confessions out of killers. He tried it now. âThat why you killed him?â he asked Stone.
The old man was standing at the edge of the awningâs shade, staring off across the flat pasture at a distant line of Osage orange trees.
âDidnât,â the old man said, not bothering to turn and look Wynn in the eyeâone more reason for suspicion, in the deputyâs mind.
âWho else could have made that arrow?â Letâs see the coot answer that one, he thought.
âGood question,â the old man nodded. âYou should find
Part of the film crew wasnât at the site. Heâd gotten that from the producer, a big man with prematurely graying hair who seemed more concerned about what the death was going to do to his schedule than the grief visited upon the Ramseys. The rest, another dozen or so, went about putting together coffee and food for everyone. They had the disturbing habit of disappearing into the cluster of big recreational vehicles that made up their offices and living quarters. He couldnât keep track of them, but, by setting up his investigation under an awning attached to one of those vehicles, he kept a clear view of the road into the pasture. He contented himself with being sure no one was making a break for it in the variety of cars and trucks associated with the project.
Wynn was pretty confident that Daphne Alights on the Cloud wasnât the killer. Maybe sheâd been at the scene, but she was obviously an innocent bystander. Wynn let his glance travel over the remarkable curves hardly disguised by the shorts and halter sheâd put on after reporting the death. He was not the sort who would normally try to picture what things looked like while a murder happened, but he couldnât stop thinking about Daphne in the altogether. That, of course, was one of the reasons she couldnât be guilty. Where would she hide the murder weapon?
It was his job, he reminded himself, to recreate the crime scene in his mind. Unfortunately, he had a hard time putting the deceased in the image that resulted.
He was leaning toward the old Cheyenne guy, Mr. Stone, as the best candidate for an appointment with the stateâs executioner. Bud Stone was part of the village, though participating in a different capacity. The other families were descendants of Native Americans. But none of them had been living in their original culture in their day-to-day lives. They were from the outside world. That was the gimmick for this TV program. Get a bunch of modern Indians who had never lived like Indians, take them out in the middle of the Great Plains, and see how well they mastered a lifestyle that had been gone for nearly a hundred and fifty years. Not too well, from what heâd heard. That reassured him somehow.
Old man Stone and a couple of his kin were staying in the encampment with the rest of the Indians, only they were the real thing. The guy was a living, breathing Cheyenne. Of course, he didnât normally reside in a tent either, but he knew his culture and could tell them how his ancestors had lived. The old man was there to help see that this was done authenticallyâto guide the rest of the participants and make sure nothing sacred got mocked.
Since the kid was killed by a real Cheyenne arrow and the old man was the only person there who even seemed to know what one looked like, Wynn figured he was also the only one who might have made it. From which, his deductive powers led straight to a conclusion. Elementary, the old bastard was guilty. He even had a motive. The kids were out there fooling around, something real Cheyenne folks would have frowned on, or so Stone had said.
Wynn had a strategy for tricking confessions out of killers. He tried it now. âThat why you killed him?â he asked Stone.
The old man was standing at the edge of the awningâs shade, staring off across the flat pasture at a distant line of Osage orange trees.
âDidnât,â the old man said, not bothering to turn and look Wynn in the eyeâone more reason for suspicion, in the deputyâs mind.
âWho else could have made that arrow?â Letâs see the coot answer that one, he thought.
âGood question,â the old man nodded. âYou should find
Similar Books
All Bets Are On
Charlotte Phillips
Glasswrights' Progress
Mindy L Klasky
In the Lone and Level Sands
David Lovato
Hero is a Four Letter Word
J.M. Frey
Over You
Christine Kersey
Trinity Blacio
Embracing the Winds
Heroes Never Die
Lois Sanders
Peanut Butter Sweets
Pamela Bennett