Hole in One by Walter Stewart Page A

and there was a body inside?”
    Joe Herkimer suddenly appeared at my elbow, causing me to start like a frightened roe.
    â€œNo,” he said, “you’re going to tell them you had an appointment this morning with Dr. George Rose, and—”
    â€œThe late Dr. George Rose?”
    â€œThe late Dr. George Rose. And when you knocked on his cabin door, you noticed that it was ajar, so you went in and found him dead.” He added, “That is actually what happened, except that I was the one who had the appointment.”
    â€œThen why aren’t you the one who’s going to call the cops?”
    â€œFigure it out,” said Hanna, again.
    â€œOh, you think the cops will come down on you like a ton of bricks, because of the notice and the tomahawk and everything.”
    â€œDon’t you?”
    I thought about it. “I guess I do. You mean, you know the cops are bound to tie this murder in with your people, but you think the mixture would be too rich if you were the one who found the body.”
    He nodded. “We’re not trying to obstruct justice, Carlton, but you will admit that the treatment of native Canadians before the courts leaves a little something to be desired.”
    Of course I would admit it; anyone would admit it; it stuck out a mile.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
    Hanna, who had been rushing around photographing everything in sight, suddenly let her camera dangle on its cord and rushed over to me, and, I could tell, was going to give me a hug, before she suddenly remembered that I was Public Enemy No. 1. So she punched me on the arm instead.
    â€œGood for you, Carlton,” she said. And added, “I’ll bring flowers to you, in jail.”
    â€œYes, well, just before I call this in, you can tell me about Dr. George Rose, and what he’s doing in the Bide-a-Wee Motel.”
    â€œHe was working for us,” Joe explained.
    â€œBy us, you mean . . .”
    â€œThe Circle Lake Band.”
    â€œWhat does he do?”
    â€œHe’s an anthropologist, a colleague of mine at Trent University. We hired him as a consultant as soon as we began to suspect there might be a native burial ground on the golf course out at Bosky Dell.”
    â€œHas this got something to do with the burial-ground business you went to see Tommy Macklin about?”
    â€œIt does. As you know, we think there may be an ancient burial site under part of what is now the fifth fairway, but we only have some old documents that may or may not give an accurate location. We could get an injunction to stop any development if we could come up with some hard evidence, so we hired Dr. Rose to check it out. He’s been poking around for a couple of weeks, now, whenever he could get a day or two off. Last night, he called me at home. He said he had found something very puzzling on the fifth fairway.
    â€œI asked him if it had to do with a burial ground, and he sort of laughed and said he didn’t think so. But he thought it ought to be looked into.”
    â€œWell, what was it?”
    â€œHe said it was some sort of leather pouch.”
    â€œA leather pouch? An Indian leather pouch?”
    â€œI asked him that, and he said, no, definitely not. It was machine sewn.”
    â€œSo, he found a leather pouch. Was that why he called you?”
    â€œNo. He said it was time for a meeting with the elders to talk about the project. He hadn’t found anything yet to point to a burial ground, and we were going to have to decide whether to spend more money on the next stage, which would involve some digging. We’d have to go through the channels of getting permission from the golf club. I said I would bring some of the band council around this morning, about ten. He said there was something else he wanted to talk to me about, and I said, sure, I’d come over earlier, and we’d have breakfast together.
    â€œThen, of course, a club member