The Bluejay Shaman (Alix Thorssen Mystery Series) by Lise McClendon

Author:Lise McClendon [McClendon, Lise]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Thalia Press
Published: 2008-05-19T16:00:00+00:00

16

THE CANVAS FLAP fell behind her. It floated in the breeze of Tin-Tin's passing into the tepee. Little Cricket? Who in God's name?

The tepee ring was quiet. A few women sat on rocks, working on needlework in their laps. They must have been sweltering in the afternoon heat, in their long skirts and leathers, but they seemed quite serene, talking low and plying their needles. I wiped my sweaty palms on Melina's shorts, feeling out of place suddenly. The terrible morning. Now the heat. Who was Little Cricket? Think, girl, think.

The earth hardened under the summer sun. The grasses turned to straw. I wandered, trying to get my mind to remember where I had heard the name. At the ranch house I stopped, spun on my heel, and began to run toward the creek. The dry stalks cut my bare legs; I was glad I had put on tennis shoes. My breath came hot, hotter than this scorching day. I reached the creek, turning my ankle in a hole, catching myself, and running on. The clearing was empty. The fire had burned low, the coals gray now and barely smoking. The rocks Moody had placed there were gone. The sweathouse sat on its haunches by the willows, silent. I felt desperate suddenly: Where was he? He who was called Little Cricket. I put my hand on my damp forehead and moaned.

He came through the brush by the creek with a beat-up aluminum saucepan in his hand. When he saw me he started, sloshing the water. His eyes rounded for an instant, then he composed himself, walked to the sweathouse.

"Come back for a sweat?" Moody bent down, pulled back the flap, and poured the water over the rocks inside. They sizzled and hissed as the steam began to pour out the door. He lowered the flap and stood with his empty pan.

"This day is hot enough."

He looked solemn, troubled. His run-in with the twins had taken its toll. I couldn't help feeling he was naive to come to an all-women's conclave and expect to be revered for his special knowledge. Women could be as cruel as men. Whatever backbiting they might do against each other, they would take their frustrations out doubly on the only male present. Especially a male who held secrets they wished for themselves.

Secrets. I dabbed my damp cheek on my bare shoulder. "Can I talk to you a minute? Let's go sit in the shade." He set his pan down by the fire, following me to the creek, a spot of shade near willow bushes. The grass was cool there.

I splashed some water on my arms, rubbing up and down. Moody sat down, staring at the sandstone bluffs that radiated heat. "The woman who was killed?" I said. He glanced at me, then picked a blade of grass and examined it. "I told you her name was Charlotte Vardis." He nodded. "She was looking for something called a bluejay pictograph." I watched his reaction: a blink, a tightening, that was all.

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