'But what about your aunt?' Jane asked. 'Didn't she see him after that?'
'No, he never came back to their place.'
'Oh, dear—' Shelley said.
Tenny smiled. 'No, no, don't worry. I didn't mean to alarm you. I'm certain he's just gone off to do a little hunting. He'll turn up in his own good time.'
'Does he do that? Just go away without telling anyone?' Mel asked.
Tenny nodded. 'Every once in a while. He's an old mountain man with only a thin veneer of civilization. Something nicks the veneer deep enough and he takes off. He'll turn up by lunchtime, muddy and bloody and as cheerful as a chipmunk. Well, maybe that's going too far. As cheerful as he's capable of being, I should say.'
'Tenny, what did he really think about Mrs. Schmidtheiser's claim that he was the rightful Tsar?' Shelley asked.
Tenny thought for a minute. 'That's really two questions and I know the answer to only one of them. The first question is: is he the person she claims he is? And the second question is: does he want to act on it in any way? On the first, I have no idea. On the second, no way! He's not interested in politics. I don't believe he's ever even voted once in his life. Joanna is always telling him it's his patriotic duty, and he says anybody who wanted to try to run a country or even a county was crazy to begin with, so there was no difference between them.'
'He could have a point,' Jane said. 'But hasn't he ever talked about who he is? Or rather, who his father was? Father or grandfather? I've forgotten already.'
'His father,' Tenny confirmed. 'Oh, he talked about him some, but only to Aunt Joanna and me. And then not often. Mainly just things old Gregory had told him about hunting or mountain lore or nature.'
'So you don't know anything about Gregory?' Mel asked.
'Oh, I know some. But most of it's from a local history book somebody here in the county did about twenty years ago. The author of the book was taken with the legend of old Gregory Smith and interviewed a lot of the old- timers about him. How accurate any of it was is anybody's guess.'
She thought for a moment. 'Old Gregory turned up in Colorado sometime in the 1920s, I believe. Nobody knew where he lived or what he did. He'd just show up from time to time and trade gold for supplies. Apparently he had a small mine someplace in the mountains. Or maybe a stream he was panning. Then, in about 1925 or so, he came out of the mountains with a substantial amount of gold, bought this land, married a local girl, and settled in. People figured his mine had played out, and he didn't exactly deny it, but he told folks he thought a man didn't have the right to take more from the earth than he needed.'
'Interesting attitude,' Mel said. 'Sort of suggests there might be a mine still worth mining.'
The waiter came with Jane's and Shelley's breakfasts, and Tenny's recital was halted while Mel ordered.
'One of the things Doris found out,' Tenny went on when the waiter had gone, 'was that the gold he used to buy the land was melted down into little ingots — I think that's what you call them.'
'So?' Jane said.
'So it wasn't proper nuggets or dust out of the ground or a streambed. Doris thought it was melted-down jewelry rather than anything he mined.'
'Could that be true?' Shelley asked.
Tenny shrugged. 'I don't know much about it, but I don't think the process for melting down either nuggets or jewelry is awfully high-tech. Anyway, he married and the two children — my uncle Bill and his sister, Carol, who was Pete's mom — were born and then their mother died. Uncle Bill says he has no memory of her at all. Old Gregory stuck around after that. Did some hunting, a little farming, and some of the women from the tribe helped him raise his children. That's why Uncle Bill's always been so close to the tribe. Gregory died at just about the end of World War Two, when Bill was only sixteen, and Bill, who'd been hunting practically since he could walk, built the little hunters' cabins. There were about a dozen of them and a big cookhouse-lodge. A few of the cabins are still around. We use them for storage.'
'What was Gregory like? What did he look like?' Jane asked.
Tenny shrugged again. 'I never saw him. And as far as I know, nobody dared take a picture of him. He was known for not allowing it. Uncle Bill once said he had a picture of himself with his mother and father, but when I asked to see it, he hemmed and hawed and said he'd lost it. Years later, I asked him about it again and he said I'd imagined the conversation. So I don't know if there really is one or not. But even if there wasn't, don't assume that means anything. Most of the old-timers around here were like that. Private to the point of paranoia. The local history book has a drawing of Gregory, based on what people said he looked like. To tell the truth, the drawing resembles Rasputin more than it does any tsar,' she said with a laugh. 'Long, straggly beard, spooky-looking eyes. But then, half the men in the mountains used to look like that. Apparently a beard is real warm in the winter.'
Jane noticed that Mel was gazing into the middle distance and stroking his chin. 'Don't even think about it,' she said.
He grinned. 'You don't see me as a mountain man?'
'Was there anything else about him in the book that encouraged Doris in her claims?' Jane asked Tenny.
'Yes. The book said he spoke with a heavy, mysterious accent. And Uncle Bill did say that though his father couldn't read or write English, he kept his account books in something that looked like Russian.'
'Looked like Russian? Couldn't that be determined pretty easily?' Jane asked.
'Yes, except that Gregory had Bill burn all of them when he — Gregory, that is — was sick with his final illness. At least that's what Uncle Bill said happened.'
'You don't believe him?'
'I don't know. Uncle Bill's a very private man. He might have said that just so nobody would bug him about seeing the account books. Then again, he didn't need to even admit that he thought the writing was Russian, so it might well be true. There's also a highly questionable story the local historian picked up, about some Russian visitors here once who talked to Gregory in their native language and he was able to talk with them. I don't know that I buy that. There's never been a time I know of that Russian tourists happened through this area. I don't think you often find Russian tourists anywhere.'
'Did you ever ask your uncle straight-out whether he thought his father was the person Doris Schmidtheiser claimed?' Jane asked.
'Oh, sure. About five years ago, when Doris found him and the group started meeting here. You know, that was Pete's doing. He loves all this silly stuff about Uncle Bill being the Tsar.'
'He must be upset about Mrs. Schmidtheiser's death,' Mel said.
'Frantic,' Tenny agreed. 'Since Uncle Bill and Aunt Joanna have no children, I think Pete has always seen himself as the 'heir presumptive'. Poor dolt.'
'You mean he took it seriously?' Jane asked.
'Oh, he pretended to scoff, but he was always quietly getting together with Doris and her adherents. And trying to convince Uncle Bill to go along with it all. It's the sort of thing designed to appeal to him. Pete's not exactly into the work ethic. He works harder at trying to find an easy way to get rich than most people actually work at their jobs. He was a stockbroker in California before his mother died and he came here. I think he sailed pretty damned close to the wind and something went badly wrong. When he first came here, he asked us to tell anybody who called looking for him that we hadn't seen him for years. But whatever it was apparently blew over after a while.'
'You don't like him much,' Mel observed.
'Oh, he's really okay most of the time. Sort of an amiable fool. A rah-rah guy who's perfect for his job here. He'd have made a good entertainment director on a cruise ship. He's dumb and chirpy, except for an occasional burst of bad temper. Our customers here are on vacation. They don't want deep thoughts. And he buzzes around like a mindless goodwill ambassador. He's valuable in his own way, I guess. If he'd just stay in his proper place,' she added grimly.
Mel picked up on her tone. 'What do you mean?'
Tenny looked disconcerted. 'I've blabbed too much already. I shouldn't be boring you with all this. It's not your problem.'
'But it might soon be,' Shelley said significantly.
Tenny stared at her for a long moment, then said, 'Well, Uncle Bill gave orders that we were to be absolutely honest with the investors. I guess you might as well know. It doesn't matter anyway, except that it makes me
