Where the Bones are Buried Read Free Page A

Cleon had held a gun to her head. Literally. He had pointed a gun and reeled off a summary of his sins against the world, against her, against his ex-wives and their grown children, and against his current wife and her young children. To spite them all, he had exhausted his legitimate assets. There was nothing left but a nefarious bank account in Panama and if Dinah didn’t assume control of it, his minor children would be out in the cold, reduced to rags. He had stated his terms and then he’d turned the gun on himself. Ironically, he didn’t have the guts to pull the trigger. Margaret had done that for him.
    When he was dead and his betrayals revealed, Dinah felt bound to do what she could for the sake of the people he screwed. She had traveled to Panama, met with Cleon’s shady “personal banker,” showed him the number and code Cleon had given her, and withdrawn money to pay for Margaret’s defense lawyers. No questions asked. Thereafter, she periodically took out money for the ongoing needs of his children. She had never spent a penny on herself, although she’d been tempted once or twice. She would gladly have washed her hands of it if she could. If she explained the situation to Thor in that way, would he understand? Somehow, she didn’t think so. He was as incorruptible as salt. He would never allow himself to be maneuvered into an illegal bind.
    The jam up ahead cleared suddenly and traffic spurted ahead. A bus in the left-hand lane sloshed a cascade of dirty water across the windshield. She gave it a couple of squirts of washer fluid and boosted the wiper speed.
    â€œI’ll bet you’re a sensation here in Berlin,” said Swan. “The Germans are positively obsessed with us Injuns.”
    Dinah had a master’s degree in sociocultural anthropology and zero teaching experience. But no one at Humboldt University had alluded to her ancestry and she attributed the offer to teach a survey course in Native American cultures to Thor’s connections. She said, “I haven’t met anyone who’s obsessed.”
    â€œWell, I have. Online. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather.” She laughed and wiggled two fingers over her head. “It seems there are thousands of Indian clubs. A man named Florian Farber who calls himself Thunder Moon found my name in the Seminole tribal registry and asked me to friend him on Facebook. He collects ‘friends’ from every native tribe in America. I’m his first Seminole, but the main interest over here is in the Western tribes. Apaches and Comanches.”
    â€œWeird,” said Dinah.
    â€œA little. But Florian is so enthusiastic you can’t help but like him. He and his club hold powwows in the woods every summer. He posts pictures of their parties on the Internet, everybody with painted faces and animal skins dancing around a fire whoopin’ like in an old Western movie. It’s the funniest thing.”
    â€œSick,” Margaret croaked from the backseat.
    Dinah didn’t know if she was referring to the whooping German Indians or herself. “Should I take you to a pharmacy, Margaret? Most Germans speak some English. They could tell you what medicine you should take.”
    â€œAll I need is a stiff nightcap and a soft bed to stretch out on.”
    â€œWe’ll be home soon. I booked you into a bed and breakfast that’s practically next door to our apartment.”
    Swan looked hurt. “We can’t stay with you?”
    â€œYou’ll be more comfortable at the Gasthaus Wunderbar. Friendly as you and Margaret have become, I didn’t think you’d want to share a bed. And our sofa is hard and short, more of a loveseat really.”
    â€œI don’t care where we sleep as long as we get there soon,” said Margaret.
    Swan swiveled her head and recited. “‘Don’t Care was made to care; Don’t Care was hung; Don’t Care was put in a