Where the Bones are Buried by Jeanne Matthews Read Free Book Online Page B

reaffirmed that trust and re-elected her in a landslide. They called her Mutti , or mommy.
    In the window of a second-hand bookshop, the lurid covers of pulp crime novels reminded Dinah of the gun inside her purse. She stopped and stared at the images of blood-drenched corpses, terrorists brandishing machine guns, and scantily clad babes with pouty lips and pistols. Feeling slightly absurd, she shifted the purse from one shoulder to the other. She ought to call that policeman Thor had mentioned, but there was no point until she knew whether her less-than-trustworthy Mutti had been snatched or gone off of her own volition.
    â€œYou won’t get rid of me so easily,” said Margaret, coming up alongside her. She wheezed and blew her nose. “Are we close?”
    â€œIt’s somewhere in the middle of the next block, I think.”
    They walked on together until they came to a window that displayed a bronze sculpture of an Indian brave standing over a dead buffalo. The sign on the door read die ewigen Jagdgründe . She took out her smartphone and Googled it. The phrase translated to the Happy Hunting Ground.
    â€œGeronimo,” she said, and pushed open the door.
    The air was thick with the incense of desert sage and piñon and the plaintive sounds of a flute wafted through the interior. Colorful canvases of Indians adorned the walls—Indians hunting, Indians dancing, Indians riding horses, Indians contemplating the mountains and the plains, and ghost Indians looking down from the sky. She felt momentarily disoriented, as if she’d been teleported to Santa Fe in the blink of an eye.
    â€œ Guten Morgen !”
    â€œGod’s sake,” said Margaret, as an Indian loomed from behind a stack of fur throws and pelts. His red-painted dome was bisected by a brownish mohawk and a necklace of mottled grizzly claws curved against his bare chest. A painted black hand cradled his chin and mouth, the thumb jutting up on his left cheek and the fingers extending up the right side of his face to his eye. A diagonal line of white dots extended from above his left eye to the tip of the black thumb.
    Dinah didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Somehow, she managed to keep a straight face. “Good morning. We’re here to see Herr Florian Farber.”
    His smile, in the context of all the war paint, appeared fierce, but his tone was friendly. “I am Florian Farber. Welcome to my gallery.” He shook both of their hands. “Please do not be alarmed. I am dressed for an event later tonight. How may I help you?”
    â€œI believe my mother had an appointment with you today. Mrs. William Calms. Is she here?”
    He beamed. “You are Frau Pelerin, Swan’s daughter? Yes, of course. I should have recognized you. She told me you had moved to Berlin and would be visiting the gallery. Willkommen . Come in. It is Dinah, ja? May I offer you a cup of tea?”
    â€œThanks, no.” She ran her eyes around the place. Interspersed among the paintings were intricately painted masks, Hopi, she thought. They looked like those worn during religious ceremonies. A glass display case with an assortment of artifacts and jewelry cut through the center of the gallery. In the southeast corner was an ordinary business desk. In the southwest corner stood a stone statue, a fearsome combination of lion and bear and lizard that would have looked more at home in the Museum of Cairo.
    â€œIs the lady here?” demanded Margaret.
    â€œNo. I don’t anticipate that I will see Frau Calms until tonight at our powwow.”
    â€œWhen do you anticipate that Mr. Hess will arrive?”
    â€œReiner Hess?” The name seemed to rattle him. “Reiner has not been to a powwow since…a while.”
    Margaret scowled. “You mean since the police came after him for tax evasion?” She balled her fists on her hips as if she might clobber him if he didn’t say what she wanted to