Free Grave Danger by Rachel Grant Page A

cruelty.
    Jason opened the front door and she entered a tiny vestibule with a second door inlaid with stained glass. He opened the interior door and she stepped into the entrance hall. A central fireplace with an elaborate mantel sat cold and empty. Arched doorways flanked the fireplace on either side. To the right of the door was the staircase, decorated with ornate railings, which zigzagged to the upper floors. Above the first landing were the round stained-glass windows with a flowery design that glowed with warm shades of red, orange, blue, and purple in the afternoon sun. In spite of the vibrant hues, the entire entry hall seemed cold, forlorn. A letdown.
    The front room was stark. No knickknacks on the mantel, no coatrack, no umbrella stand. Not even a comfy bench to sit on while removing muddy shoes. The room—larger than her bedroom—was a space one passed through on the way to more important things.
    “It doesn’t look like anyone lives here,” she said to Jason.
    “Aunt Laura says this is the way their father liked it.” He shrugged. “Lyle’s only been dead for twelve years, and Aunt Laura is seventy-eight.” He smiled as though that explained it, and she supposed it did.
    He led her to the sitting room to the left of the foyer. “Wait here. I’ll round them up.” He disappeared through a different doorway leading to the back of the house.
    She wandered around the room, which at least held furniture, and a few items that gave her clues to the occupants of the house. One shelf held an array of artifacts, including arrowheads and other projectile points in identifiable styles. Someone had traveled throughout the Pacific Northwest and into the Great Basin to collect artifacts from different archaeological sites. There were several point styles from Eastern Washington and beyond.
    The artifacts reminded her of her purpose in being here. Rosalie Warren and the Kalahwamish tribe were counting on her to be their voice. She had to give Rosalie the report she wanted without opening herself up to a lawsuit. She’d decided on a course of action. She couldn’t publish conjecture or supposition, but she could publish verbatim transcripts of her interviews with the living members of the Montgomery family. She had to get them to say what she needed.
    She sat on the couch and pulled out her annotated Montgomery family tree, which would help clarify the familial relationships while she conducted the interviews.
     

     
    Jason returned with Laura Montgomery in tow. Laura was a whisky-voiced chain-smoker with stooped shoulders and more wrinkles than rayon at the bottom of a laundry basket. She was also the one Libby had pinned most of her hopes on. As the eldest living child of Lyle and Millie, she’d be most likely to have the information needed. The transcript of this interview could become a vital piece of Libby’s report.
    Laura sat in a silk-covered chair with a tiny dog in her arms. The dog glared at Libby for several seconds before settling in its owner’s lap and going to sleep. Libby placed her tape recorder on the coffee table and hit the record button before asking Laura whether she agreed to the taping of the interview.
    “Fine,” Laura said.
    Libby’s eyes flicked to Jason, who sat in a chair behind Laura, facing Libby. His expression remained passive. “And, Ms. Montgomery, will you grant me permission to publish a transcript of this interview as an appendix to my report?”
    Jason looked as if he wanted to object.
    Libby tried to look ingenuous.
    “Whatever,” Laura said. “I don’t care. I know why you’re here. We know more about what’s going on in this town than Jason gives us credit for. That awful Indian woman, Rosalie Warren, wants you to write a history of Coho that only includes the Indian side of the story. I don’t give a damn about Jack’s permit or his Cultural Center. Why would we want to celebrate the Indians and their backwards practices? Waste of money if you ask