"That's Tenny Garner," Shelley explained to Jane. "The owner's niece. Or rather, his wife's niece, I think."
They returned to their table on the far side of the room, now cleared. The waiter immediately returned and offered more coffee, which they turned down.
While he was trying to talk them into just another half cup, Tenny joined them. She was probably forty years old, with long, streaky, dark blond hair pulled into a loose bun at the back of her neck. She shed her shawl and said to the waiter, "Bring me about a quart, Al, would you please? Shelley, I'm sorry about this. I'm sure it's all because your husband and his group are here, but how he knew about—"
At that moment a young man Jane immediately categorized as a misplaced surfer stormed into the room. His artfully streaked blond hair, California tan, and muscular physique would have been very attractive if it hadn't been for the furious scowl that distorted his features.
"Tenny!" he exclaimed, striding toward their table. "What are they doing? What are you doing about them?"
"They're demonstrating and I'm having some restorative coffee."
"But you can't let them just march around out there!"
"I can't stop them. They have a permit. HawkHunter showed it to me."
"HawkHunter! That—"
"Pete, this is Mrs. Nowack," Tenny said quickly.
That stopped him in his tracks. He gulped, visibly fought for control of his temper, and rearranged his face into a charming, if insincere, smile. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't kn — uh — Mrs. Nowack. How very nice to meet you. I hope you and your family and guests are enjoying your stay."
Tenny and Jane launched into introductions. The young man was Pete Andrews, Bill Smith's nephew.
"So you and Tenny are brother and sister?" Jane asked.
"No!" they both said in unison.
"Pete is Bill's nephew," Tenny explained, apparently embarrassed. "I'm Joanna's niece. Aunt Joanna is Uncle Bill's wife. Pete and I are no relation at all."
"But you both work here?" Jane asked.
Pete preened. "I handle all the entertainment aspects of the resort. Tenny handles the housekeeping." His almost-sneer made it clear that entertainment was the difficult, skilled, imaginative job and housekeeping was both easy and beneath notice. Jane and Shelley, who were both "entertainment directors" and "head housekeepers" of their own homes, exchanged quick glances.
Shelley had sat up very straight and was getting her smiting-down-the-enemy look, so Jane quickly said, "I'm sure you both must work awfully hard. It's nice to see a business that involves the whole family. My late husband was part of a family business." Mention of a late husband usually managed to force people to be courteous, she had discovered.
"Oh — uh — that's nice," Pete said. "And it's been nice meeting you both. I have things to — uh—"
"Run along, Pete. Make sure you get all the quarters out of the video games," Tenny said.
He scowled at her and left.
She stared after him. "That wasn't really nice of me," she mused. "There's no sport in getting the best of him. Poor twit." Then, realizing she was with the wife of a potential investor, she said, "But he's really very good at what he does. Having spent all his useless life 'playing', he knows all about games and leisure pursuits."
"I heard you mention HawkHunter," Jane said. "Is that the same HawkHunter who wrote the book?"
Tenny nodded. " 'Fraid so."
"Book?" Shelley asked. "What book?"
"Oh, Shelley, you remember. We read it in book club about ten years ago. A very good book, but horribly depressing."
"Sounds like most of what we read in that book club. Depressives Anonymous, we used to call it before we finally had the sense to bail out."
Jane chuckled. "I think it was Ethan Frome that put us over the edge. This guy's book was just called HawkHunter, wasn't it?"
"I, HawkHunter," Tenny corrected her.
"Oh, yes, that's right. Anyway, it was sort of an Indian version of Roots. A story of his family from about the fifteen-hundreds up through his own childhood on the reservation. It really was fascinating, but bigoted in its own way. HawkHunter himself claimed not to have a single drop of 'evil' white blood, but virtually all his ancestors had been hideously mistreated by the white man."
"I'm sure that would have stuck in my mind," Shelley said.
"I don't know how you missed reading it," Jane went on. "Actually, I'm making it sound awful, but it was very interesting. Lots of nifty stuff about the history of this country from the Indian viewpoint. It was a big best-seller for months and months."
"So what's this HawkHunter person doing out there?" Shelley asked Tenny.
"Rabble-rousing," Tenny said grimly. "There's a tiny reservation that abuts Uncle Bill's land — only about ten acres where the village and a couple of houses sit — and HawkHunter's convinced a few of the Indians that they're entitled to our poor little squashed-down mountain. It's a stupid, technical thing, but he's a lawyer, you know. Used to finding niggles. The worst of it is, he's trying to spoil the relationship we have with the tribe."
"How's that?" Jane asked.
"Well, we hire lots of them here. They're wonderful workers and we pay them well and it's been a nice working arrangement ever since Uncle Bill started the resort. Back in the old days, when this was just some primitive hunters' cabins, they worked as guides. Then, when he built it up like it is now, he employed about half the tribe in the construction. Our chef is one of them. So are our accountant and our conference planner, as well as most of the waiters and cleaning crew."
"So what do the placards mean? Especially the 'No Lift' one?" Jane asked.
"HawkHunter is claiming the top of our pathetic little mountain is an ancient tribal burial ground. I don't think the tribe ever believed that until he turned up, and there's no proof whatsoever that there's anything buried up there but a few unfortunate chipmunks that got in the way of a rock slide. But HawkHunter has some of the tribe convinced that somebody — Uncle Bill or the investors — is planning to build a ski-lift mechanism at the top. Which is stupid. It's just a silly hill, and nobody would build a ski lift for a bunny slope."
She took a long, appreciative sip of her coffee.
Shelley had been listening politely, but now asked sharply, "What's the legal niggle?"
Tenny smiled. "Don't worry. Your husband and the other investors know all about it. Uncle Bill hasn't concealed anything from them. There is a sheaf of legal opinions and precedents in the financial packet he had prepared for them."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply—"
"I know. But even HawkHunter isn't sure enough of himself to file a suit. He just keeps threatening. And considering how easy it is to file a nuisance suit these days, I think that says a lot about how flimsy his reasoning is."
"So what is it he wants?" Jane asked. "What are the threats about?"
"Oh, not much," Tenny said sarcastically. "He just wants Uncle Bill to give the resort to the tribe."
Chapter 4
"I'm sorry," Tenny said to their questioning looks. "I've really got to get back to work. I left Aunt Joanna at the desk and she's probably knocking things off people's bills left and right. She can't stand the slightest hint of discontent. I really just came in to let you know that there's a big storeroom off the lobby that has all sorts of boots, mufflers, even snow-shoes and sun goggles. If you want to go adventuring but don't have the equipment, feel free to help yourself. It started out as a lost-and-found, but now we just let guests help themselves."