Jane's eye was also drawn to the woman with them. She was quite as striking in her own way as he was. She was an Indian woman dressed in what Jane took to be authentic garb — or, more accurately, a stylish interpretation of authentic garb — a beautifully beaded taupe suede dress, high laced leggings/boots, and long midnight-black, glossy braids with beads and feathers woven in. She sat very still and straight, with the group but aloof from it at the same time. Jane guessed she was in her forties, but she could well be much younger or much older. Her features were classically Indian. She wasn't as pretty as Linda Moosefoot, but only because she didn't look as pleasant and happy. This was a woman who didn't look like she had an ounce of humor in her whole body. Her straight, dark eyebrows were drawn into a frown. As Jane watched, the woman said something, then got up to leave. The men at the table instantly rose to their feet.
Jane found this fascinating. It was her understanding that courtesies such as this were a very Western, almost chivalrous or Victorian, tradition. She remembered from HawkHunter's book that although he showed enormous respect for certain women who were his ancestors, there wasn't any sense of his treating women as if they were somehow fragile and due ostentatious courtesy. In fact, the feeling she had from his book was that women were generally regarded as a fairly likable subspecies of humans. She'd have to get a copy of his book and reread it. Perhaps she wasn't remembering it accurately. Still, in the back of her mind she felt sure there had been something about a medicine woman who was treated with great deference. Perhaps this woman was one such person.
While she was idly speculating, she had failed to notice the approach of a woman who could be none other than Doris Schmidtheiser.
"Hello, there," a gravelly voice said.
"Oh!" Jane said, surprised.
"I didn't mean to startle you. Are you one of our attendees?"
"I don't believe so. You're with the Holnagrad Society?"
"Yes. May I join you for a moment?"
Oh, dear. Shelley had warned her, but Jane was trapped. Even if she'd seen the woman coming, there wouldn't have been much she could have done to escape — short of taking a suicidal dive out the window.
"Certainly. I'm free until my friend arrives in a moment," Jane said, glancing at her watch.
Doris introduced herself as the first vice president of the Society and fussed around with her notebooks and folders, extracting a violently pink handout sheet. Jane decided that, close up, Mrs. Schmidtheiser looked more like an amiable horse than like Abe Lincoln in drag. She had a long, angular face with huge teeth and somewhat protruding eyes. Her voice had a neighing quality that emphasized the visual impression.
"I just wanted to make sure you knew about our classes for the public," she said. "We meet here every year to discuss our own concerns, but we also give an enormous number of very reasonably priced lectures to anyone else who wishes to attend. Beginners' tips, tracing Black ancestors, Jewish genealogy, how to access the National Archives, deciphering ship lists, special information on the Soundex, Miracode and census records, customs regarding Declarations of Intent and which courts to look in for them, writing family histories, preservation of documents and photographs…"
Jane held up her hand to stem the tide. "Thanks very much. It all sounds very interesting." (And incomprehensible, she thought.) "My friend is taking some of your classes this morning. That's who I'm waiting for."
"Perhaps you'd like to attend our debate this afternoon," Mrs. Schmidtheiser said, undeterred. She was thrashing among her papers again, presumably trying to find an announcement of the debate.
"Debate?"
"Yes, the Holnagrad Society exists to—"
This time Jane interrupted quickly. "I know about the Society. Lucky — Dr. Lucke — explained it this morning."
"Dear, dear Lucky. Such a fine man. Then you know we have a serious interest in Mr. William Smith, the owner of the resort."
"Yes. Do you mean the debate is about him?"
Mrs. Schmidtheiser nodded. "About Mr. Smith and a pretender back in Holnagrad." She laughed in a contemptuous, whinnying manner.
"A pretender? To the Russian throne, you mean?" Jane felt like an ass even saying the bizarre words.
But Mrs. Schmidtheiser was too deeply into the subject to recognize its inherent absurdity. "Yes. A member of our group mistakenly believes this gentleman in Holnagrad has a better claim to the title of Tsar than our Mr. Smith. Of course, there's a Eurotrash claimant as well, but nobody recognizes his claim except his playboy friends. Excuse me," she said, plunging her big, bony hand into her purse and extracting an orange pill bottle. She struggled with the lid for a moment, removed a tiny white pill, and popped it in her mouth, then took a swig of Jane's water to wash it down.
"This member," she went on, apparently unaware of any lapse of manners, "Stu Gortner, has been in contact with this man back in the Old Country and is forever promoting his cause. He and I are going to present our research to the membership. Of course, we're calling it a debate, but it really isn't. It's truly just a conflict between information on my part and foolish, self-serving speculations on his. Apples and oranges," she said, laughing loudly. Several people at nearby tables turned around to stare at the source of this shrill sound. "Apples and oranges," she repeated, as if she'd made up the phrase and was going to get as much mileage out of it as possible.
"It sounds very interesting," Jane lied. "Perhaps I'll attend if I'm free." She hoped Mrs. Schmidtheiser didn't try to pin her down on what else she had to do at a resort.
Mrs. Schmidtheiser clapped her big hands together in a gesture that would have been embarrassing if done by a prettier, more feminine woman and verged on the criminal in her case. "Oh, you absolutely must. It's going to be a rousing good time."
Apparently she had complete confidence in her view prevailing.
"I'm sure you're right," Jane said, glancing at her watch again as if she had a very busy schedule and hoping the genealogist would take the hint.
But hints were beyond Mrs. Schmidtheiser. "It's sad, really."
"What is?"
"That so many would be taken in by Stu Gortner. He's a P.R. man, you know." Her voice dripped with disgust. She might as well have been saying he was a known child molester.
"Oh, I see," Jane said weakly. How would I KNOW this? she wondered.
"Well, you know the sort." Doris was plunging on. "There's something in it for him. You can bet your bottom dollar on that! It's contrary to the whole purpose and traditional ethics of genealogy. You never start out to prove a particular point, but rather to immerse yourself in the research and let it guide you to the truth. Not that Stu Gortner is the only one to be misled. Alex Haley, of course, is a prime example. He dabbled in order to write a book. His research was the shabbiest thing. Great sloppy leaps of imagination, terrible documentation, all leading to downright falsehoods. It was a disgrace, but then, he did get a lot of people interested in genealogy. We must give him credit there. It wasn't his aim, but it was the result. Genealogy is the fastest-growing hobby in the world, you know."
Jane's head was spinning. She'd never quite known anyone to leap so capriciously from subject to subject and fling around so much casual slander and so many unsubstantiated claims along the way. Jane was beginning to appreciate what a really nice man Dr. Lucke must be to have described this woman so mildly. Most people who had to spend much time around her probably foamed at the mouth at the very mention of her name.