Bead onTrouble Read online

  "I don't have any idea what kind of contract. Just that she's looking for new jewelry designs and—"

  "Cordy!" someone shouted from the dining hall below us. "Cordy!"

  "Oh, brother," Cordy said. "It's got to be about the cook or the plumbing, and that tone doesn't sound like good news." She turned in the direction of the caller.

  "Wait," I said. "So, who is the Tivolini buyer?"

  "Cordelia!" the call came again.

  "I've been sworn to secrecy," she said. "Which seems pretty darn silly. Drama queen stuff. But you might bribe me with a couple of glasses of wine. You did bring some didn't you?"

  "You must be kidding. I'd never break the no-alcohol rule," I said. It was a lie, and we both knew it. We al brought liquor.

  "That rule was my first mistake," she said, and then rolled her eyes. "Oh, wait, you brought that terrible wine_

  What's it called?"

  "Muscovito, and it's not terrible. I happen to like it a lot, which is why I brought three bottles."

  "For a woman who's hobnobbed with the rich and famous, you sometimes have the worst taste in the world."

  "I prefer to think of my taste as eclectic," I said. "Oh, but I did bring some beer, too. Beth's bringing some margarita mix and a blender?'

  "Cordy!" The shout was even more exasperated than before.

  "Save me a beer, then. Or several. Gotta run." And she did exactly that, disappearing downward on her long legs toward the dining hall.

  I went inside the Assayer's Office and checked in, and then peeked into the Old Tyme General Store where the booths were already set up. I found myself being drawn toward the beads the way a crow is drawn to shiny objects; I had to remind myself that I could gaze to .my heart's content later, but now I had things to do. I got back in the Land Rover, and with a feeling of homecoming, drove up the hil to the Lazy L.

  Tucked there in the trees, the cabin looked just about the way it had the first time I'd seen it almost fifty years before. Like most of the cabins, the Lazy L has waist-high walls and screens to the ceiling. Actually, there was no ceiling, just the interior of the roof, with the scribbled names of some of the braver campers who had slept there over the years.

  The floor was concrete on the lower level, and wood on the second. I took all three bedrolls and carried them into the sleeping porch. It was the smallest of all the rooms, containing only three metal bunks, each with two tiers. The metal had once been painted silver, but that was during the senior Bush's administration so now there's only a rusty brown color left.

  There were two new mattresses, which I immediately switched onto my bunk and Beth's, and then I made up our beds. As soon as I was done, I moved my Land Rover to the parking area near the front entrance and trotted back across the camp. I counted that as my exercise for the day and decided to take a rest at one of my favorite spots, a rock above the Lazy L that overlooks most of the camp.

  I sat down and sighed. During my very nasty, not to mention very public, divorce many years back, Green Clover was a place I could hide out; rumors and newspaper stories couldn't seem to penetrate the trees around the camp. My dad always said I was a trooper during his political campaigns, but when I was the one in the spotlight and it became too much, I hid here. At Green Clover no one cared who your family was, or what you did for a living, or what your soon-to-be-ex-husband had been up to.

  Contentment oozed through me as I watched the activity below. I spotted Tony Campanelli's dark hair and slim body as he carried boxes into the store. He was stopped every few feet by women who wanted to pat and pet him, and even from up here he looked pretty dam charming.

  I saw May Feather taking the steps three at a time as she came up from the dining hall toward the road and the store.

  Most Native Americans I know are short and strongly built, but May was the Disney version of a beautiful Indian maiden. Her body was long and lean, and her hair was dark brown and heavy. She wore jeans and a white shirt with a denim vest. She also wore beads. I couldn't tel exactly what they were, but at her throat was turquoise with something coral, and of course, silver. Her designs are good, no doubt about it.

  May isn't pure Native American. She's part Arapahoe, but when I pressed her on the subject once, I discovered that she was three-fourths something else, and she knew as much about being Arapahoe as I did about being Scottish, German, English, Greek, Swedish, and French, which are all part of my genetic makeup. May had never lived on a reservation, although she had a cousin who did.

  Her ancestors, whatever their race, passed down some outstanding genes. May is absolutely stunning, and when she wears a piece of jewelry, other women want it, but I think, mostly they want to look like May. She's not shy about her appearance, either. She usually has on low-cut blouses or has her shirt undone more than the usual one or two buttons, although it may be to show off the necklaces she makes. Whatever the reason, with May, cleavage is a bonus for the men around her. I'm always in awe of women with that kind of self-confidence, if that's what it is.

  As I watched, a man came up the path behind her. He must have said something because her body stiffened as she swung around_

  He was tall, slender, and fit his jeans and T-shirt quite nicely, although his age was hard to judge. Not too young, since there was gray glinting in his dark hair. Or was that just brown? Late forties? Fifties? I was too far away to tell. His back was to me, but I could see that he was nodding. Was he the new cook? No, he didn't look like a cook. Maybe a new handyman.

  May jerked her head up, and she looked angry. He half-turned, and I caught my breath—it wasn't ... it couldn't be ... or was it?

  I was craning forward now. "Turn your head, you sumbitch," I said under my breath. I was almost sure that it was him—kb Wright. Cordy's older brother. But what the hell would he be doing here? Last I'd heard, which was quite a while back since no one mentions his name to me anymore, he'd gotten married to an investment banker in New York. Nice move for a CEO of some financial company. He'd been planning to build an empire, and I was going to help. I thought.

  It had started when I was coaching him on his public speaking skills. In those years, right after my messy divorce, I was just getting started training again, and Cordy had been pleased to recommend me to Jeb. My credentials were exactly what he was looking for; besides my degree and several years of training for an international conglom-erate, I was a Camden. Camdens know about politicking—

  it's in our blood.

  And so I'd helped Jeb. I'd taught him to organize his thoughts and speak them with passion. How to sell his dream to others. At some point the relationship went from professional to personal. We dated, we made love, and one of us, the not-so-smart one, fell in love. That was me.

  Just hearing his voice on the phone was enough to make me stammer. When we worked together, with his eyes staring into mine, and his beautiful voice filled with the fervor that I taught him, I let all my defenses down.

  Back then he was in his late thirties, three years older than I'd been, and he had big plans for the rest of his career. He kissed me good-bye with deep regret and went back to New York. It tore my heart in two, even though he said he'd call often and I'd be flying up to join him soon.

  Right. Unfortunately, the calls tapered off and I never even visited. Instead, I got the bad news from Beth one day: Jeb was engaged and would never be coming back to Austin.

  Watching him now, I could feel my stomach doing the roller coaster thing just like it had when we'd dated. And I wasn't even sure it was him.

  I stared down at the two of them. The sun was lowering to that golden time when the world shimmers, and even women my age, fifty-seven, can look really beautiful. Or at least, we remember the days when we were young and thought we were beautiful. The final sunlight made his dark hair glisten. But was it Jeb? Or was I just hoping? And why in the world would he be here . . . in jeans, arguing with May Feather?

  I let out a breath, Beth would call this another "Jeb sighting." She likened them to
UFO sightings, since they were just about as dependable. Right after his engagement I'd seen him everywhere, calling Cordy to find out if he was in town. It never was Jeb, and finally I stopped mentioning when I thought I saw him—I couldn't take the pity.

  This was probably May's new assistant. I seemed to recall that her assistant had been a young female, but that could have changed. The man could be her husband—

  just because she used to be divorced didn't mean she couldn't have gotten married again.

  He reached out holding something in his hand, and she swung around and raced down the hill toward the dining hall. For a moment he watched her go, his body taut, then he went farther along the path and disappeared among the trees.

  May was scheduled for one of the premier demonstrations that night, which meant that soon enough rd know who and what that man was. And he'd better not be Jeb Wright, because if he was, I had a few choice words for him I was debating my next move when a vehicle pulled up in front of me, the tires skidding on the gravel.

  "Excuse me—" I started to complain but I was facing the steel of a Hummer 2, The door opened and a woman's arched foot with pale metallic-lavender toenails appeared.

  The foot was wearing high-heeled platform sandals that would never do for trotting up and down the dirt trails of Green Clover, It was attached to a leg clad in tight jeans.

  Eventually the entire woman appeared. While her body was slim and youthful, the skin on her face was leathery and sagged. She had to be my age, but she hadn't weathered well. She looked, as we say in Texas, as if she'd been rode hard and put away wet.

  She was holding something in her arms that was covered by half a sheet. It appeared to be a human head.

  She pointed a lavender acrylic nail at the cabin. "Is that the Lazy L?"

  "That's it," I said.

  "And are there empty bunks?"

  "Should be some in almost any room."

  "But, I can't park here, right?"

  "Well, you can unload here, but then you have to move that hunker to the area near the front gate."

  She rolled her eyes. "How come there're so many damn rules around here? No cell phones, no alcohol, you have to park by the gate—what kind of a Nazi camp is this?"

  I wanted to tell her that she was welcome to leave at any time, but I remembered my upbringing. "Some of the rules we don't take very seriously. You know, it's like Camus said, 'Every man has a moral code of his own likes and dislikes.' Only we have rules that we follow or not, depending on our likes and dislikes."

  She raised one eyebrow. "Camus and I aren't that well acquainted." She glanced around. "I'm meeting my cousin, and she wants to be in the main cabin of Lazy L."

  "Go right through that door and pick any bunk you want." I was too curious to let her go. "Who's your cousin?"

  "Sandra Borders. She's flying in from L.A. tomorrow."

  "Oh. I see." Sande is little, cute, and vibrant with life—

  just about as opposite of this woman as anyone could get.

  "I haven't introduced myself. I'm Katherine Camden.

  Kitzi." I held my hand out, which she ignored.

  She looked me over, a tiny smile twitching at her mouth, or maybe it was a sneer; it was hard to tell. "I'm Lynn Donaldson!' She looked at the bracelets on my wrist. "Did you make those?" I thought I heard amusement in her voice.

  The bracelets are very basic, just beads on elastic cording, but I think they're quite gorgeous. Most are black glass, intermixed with some delicate gold carved beads, and then a variety of different green ones to add color.

  They were made by my mother, who can't handle latches and such, with the help of my granddaughter, Shelby.

  Shelby, who is five, picked out the beads because she has unlimited funds—when she's with my mother.

  "A gift," I said, putting my hand back on the rock. In my opinion, it's not the hours that go into a project, but the final look that counts. I thought these had turned out exceptionally well, and I've received many compliments on them. Not only that, they have great sentimental value.

  "What kind of bead work do you do?" I asked.

  "All kinds." She touched the intricate necklace at her throat which probably took a week to make, and looked like a shiny, thin rattlesnake coiled around her neck. "I put beads on mannequins and heads, too."

  "You do?" I looked at what she was carrying and understood.

  Artists decorate almost everything from baskets to bird-cages with beads_ All are pretty much a feast for the eye, but the work I've seen on mannequins, or to create figures, are most fascinating to me. Many would be right at home in museums, and they take months to create with an amazing mix of textures and colors.

  And the woman in front of me beaded mannequins. It would follow that the shape under the sheet was that of a Styrofoam wig stand, covered with beads and whatever else came to her lilac-nailed hand.

  "Have I seen your work in Beadwork magazine or Bead and Button?" I asked, trying not to look at the sheet.

  "There were some articles—"

  "Those weren't about rne. My pieces are noir." She held out her arms as if to tempt me with the hidden piece.

  "Would you like to see?"

  "Sure. I'd love to."

  I stood up and helped her lift the sheet straight up, trying not to pull any tiny pieces loose, but a black seed bead still hit the ground. Then I stepped back and did my best not to choke.

  It was a woman's head, the top covered in deep garnet glass beads, like a tight fitting cloche. The face was beaded as well, the olive green eyes ringed in lashes of tiny black crystals. The lips glistened lusciously, but it was the neck and its accoutrements that stunned me. A beaded dagger with a black hilt had been stabbed in it, and maroon beads had been strung to form droplets of blood. It was beautiful and downright disturbing at the same time.

  "Wel ," she said, her tiny smile challenging me. "What do you think? Is this your kind of thing?"

  I stared at the brilliant, but garish, head. "It's amazing," I said, at my most diplomatic. I hoped the enthusiasm in my voice made up for the lack of compliment in my words. "Absolutely incredible. It must have taken you forever."

  She dismissed my answer. "Just one divorce." She threw the sheet back over the head. "One really ugly divorce."

  I stared at the woman, wondering if my bitterness had ever showed so clearly on my face. I sincerely hoped not, but it wasn't something I would have recognized. I said,

  "I'm sorry. I've had one of those myself."

  She looked at me for a very long time before the half-smile came back. "Yeah?"

  "Yes. Unfortunately. In fact, I read somewhere that one in four of us will go through a very tough divorce."

  Again she took her time; finally she said, "You know something?" She studied my face. "That's no fucking consolation."

  She turned, and with her head under her arm, swept into the Lazy L.

  Four

  "We're the crafty campers

  We're beadin' buddies all day long

  We like to bead, and that's our creed,

  And this here is our song."

  [repeat faster, four times]

  "We're the big headers, at Camp Green Clover."

  Camp Green Clover retreat song

  "We call this the gourd knot," May was saying.

  Everyone crowded around as her beautiful hands

  wove bright aqua beads into a bracelet. We'd had dinner, sung the first of our camp songs, and then adjourned to the saloon where the demonstrations were taking place.

  "It looks just like the peyote stitch," Beth said.

  May brought up her lovely face and said, "Native Americans only call it the peyote stitch if you are actually making a peyote."

  Whatever the hell a peyote was.

  I wasn't planning on sitting through all of May's presentation, but I wanted to get into the bead of things_ I was really waiting for Beth's demonstration because she always has some trick or twist that gives even the really good headers a new
idea. Beth is very popular. When you schedule her for an hour beading demonstration, you may get her for half a day if that's what it takes to make sure everyone understands what she's teaching. She answers every question and helps anyone who needs it. And her humor, which admittedly can be used with scalpel-like precision, is usually directed at herself, rather than at the bead klutzes like me.

  Beth stepped closer to me, and I said to her, "May's hands move like a Balinese dancer's."

  May smiled at the group in general. "As I'm sure you all know, Native Americans have been doing beadwork for hundreds of years, so the skills and knowledge have been passed down from generation to generation."

  Beth put her hand over mouth and whispered to me, "I'l bet my great grandmother and her great grandmother swapped techniques. And beads."

  I could see the women on the plains, working away together, using beads to bridge the language barrier.

  "Beads have long been a Native American tradition,"

  May continued. She bent over and gave us a view of her lacy black bra. "But despite what you may have heard, Manhattan was not purchased for twenty-four dollars'

  worth of beads. In fact, on the bill of sale, no beads were mentioned. Manhattan Island was purchased for approxi-mately sixty guilders.

  "The tribes in that area did use wampum. The actual word is wampumpeake, and it's not money. It is small, tu-bular beads made of white or violet seashells." She looked up from the array of materials in front of her. "Jennifer?

  Jennifer." Her assistant appeared, a curly haired blonde with short, bright red nails. I had met her briefly at dinner.

  Being the youngest two at camp, she and Shannan had cho-sen to sit at a far table by themselves and to slip out as soon as the meal was finished.

  The man who'd looked so much like Jeb, might be Jeb, was definitely not May's assistant.

  "Did you need something?" Jennifer asked, from the edge of the crowd.