The Girl with Braided Hair (A Wind River Reservation Myste) by Margaret Coel Page A

like him, huh? A Lakota. Arapahos in the Old Time stayed as far away from them as they could. They were fighters, those Lakotas. Take over the entire plains, if they could’ve figured a way.”
    “He’s a good man.”
    “Made you forget about that priest?”
    “Auntie, please. There was never anything…”
    Aunt Rose threw up one hand. “You don’t have to tell me. Didn’t stop you from having feelings.”
    “We’re friends. We work a lot together. Cases come up—” Vicky shrugged. Her heart was thumping. Why was she going on like this? She could feel Aunt Rose watching her, peering through her skin to what was going on inside.
    She said, “I wanted to talk to you about the nineteen seventies.”
    The old woman’s eyes widened into large, black stones that turned opaque, as if she were now staring at her from behind a curtain. “This about that girl with the bullet in her skull out in the canyon?”
    Vicky nodded.
    “Skeleton’s all that was left of her, the newspaper said. She’d been there a long time. I figured she might’ve gotten killed back then. Lots of trouble with those AIM people.”
    “Diana Morningstar and some of the other women came to see me. They’d like to see the girl get justice.”
    Aunt Rose nodded and sipped at her tea. A moment passed before she said, “Everywhere I go on the rez, gas station, convenience store, senior center, women are talking. Girl oughtta be buried with her own name. Killer oughtta be caught. They asked me if you’d make sure that detective in charge keeps looking for the killer. I tol’ em not to bother you. Not your business. Sounds like some of ’em bothered you anyway.”
    “I want to see her get justice, too, Auntie.”
    The old woman nodded. “What good’s our wanting it gonna do?”
    “I’ve talked to Detective Coughlin. He’s working the investigation, but she was murdered more than thirty years ago. If we can give him names of people who might be willing to talk about that time, he’d have something concrete to go on. If we can…”
    “We?”
    “I’ve asked Father John to talk to people who were on the rez then. People trust him.” Vicky ignored the knowing look that froze in the old woman’s face. “It’s possible some of the women will talk to me. Even the smallest piece of information might help the investigation.”
    “You shouldn’t get involved.” Aunt Rose finished off her tea, then shifted sideways and set the glass down hard on the little table next to the chair.
    “I’m hoping you can help me, Auntie.”
    “Your mother and me, we stayed away from AIM and their demonstrations and marches. Closed down the curtains, kept to ourselves. You were just a kid, going to school. Your mother worried all the time things were gonna blow up on the rez, like they did at Pine Ridge where those Indians took over a whole town. Held on to it, too, for a couple months. Little kids in that town with their folks, and the Feds were shooting at all of ’em. It was bad, and we were scared they was gonna do the same here. Worst part is, some folks went along. Said AIM was gonna get our rights. They was looking out for the people, running Indian culture schools.” She gave a snort of laughter and rolled her eyes upward until only the whites showed in her brown face. “City Indians never been on a rez before, and they was teaching people about being Indian!”
    “Who went along?”
    “What?”
    “Any women, that you remember?”
    “Vicky…”
    “Please, Auntie.” Vicky stopped herself from telling her about the girl in the alley in Denver. It would only worry her. She’d lie awake nights thinking about what might have happened if there had been a weapon and the man had turned on Lucas or Susan or her. “It’s important,” she said.
    “It’s always important when you get yourself into dangerous stuff you oughtta stay out of. Practice your law. Take care of your man. Take care of yourself.”
    “It’s part of that,” Vicky said.