Esmeralda Explains Curse To Manito

In the preceding chapter of “Jack Manito, Spokane Detective,” our hero has recovered a mystery envelope, only to have it snatched from his grasp by a shadowy figure on a mountain bike in front of the Ridpath Hotel. His beautiful client tells him that it contains something called “The Spokane Curse.” We rejoin the story :

“The Spokane WHAT?” I barked like an angry poodle.

“No, not the Spokane WHAT,” said Esmeralda Wandermere, my glamorous yet enigmatic client. “The Spokane Curse.”

“Listen, honey,” I said, grabbing her by the elbow and frog-marching her down Sprague. “You’re going to buy me a big, dripping slice of cheese pizza. Then you’re going to tip the kid at the cash register. Then you’re going to TELL ME WHAT THE HECK YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT.”

I steered her into David’s Pizza on Howard. We grabbed a couple of slices. I popped open a cold T.W. Fisher’s, and I said, “Spill it, sister.”

She did. We mopped it up with napkins, and then she launched into her story.

“Back in 1858, shortly after the Battle of the Four Lakes, Col. George Wright lured the Indian chief Qualchan into his camp on Latah Creek,” said Esmeralda. “No sooner did Qualchan arrive than Col. Wright’s men tied him hand and foot. Then they took Qualchan to a tree and hanged him. Ever since, Latah Creek has been known as Hangman Creek.”

“This is fascinating,” I said, yawning ostentatiously. “You sound like my high school history teacher.”

“No,” she said, sweetly. “This sounds like your high school history teacher: Shut up and listen, little Jack Manito, or I’ll hold you back another year.”

Wow. This woman had done her research.

“Are you listening now?” she said. “Good. Col. Wright wrote the only account of this incident: ‘Qualchan came to me at 9 o’clock and at 9:15 a.m. he was hung.’ At least, we thought it was the only account. Then, a century later, another account surfaced, in the papers of one of Wright’s officers. This officer had stood with quill in hand as the noose was lowered over Qualchan’s head. This officer wrote down, verbatim, the chief’s final words.”

“What were they?” I asked. “Something like, ‘Hey, guys, stop it.’ Or ‘Quit kidding around’?” She stared at me coldly.

“His words were moving, profound, filled with passion, eloquence and resignation,” she said. “They were also filled with bitterness. He said that the ‘sky, the rivers and the mountains will seek retribution, unto many generations.”’ The hairs stood at alert on the back my neck. She had my attention now.

“Wow,” I said. “And that’s the Spokane Curse.”

“Not quite,” said Esmeralda. “The Spokane Curse, it seems, is on the document itself. Three people have owned that document after it was discovered. Two of them died particularly gruesome deaths. The first owner crashed through the Davenport Hotel’s roof in 1963, making a hole in the Tiffany skylight the exact shape of his body. The second owner was tragically crushed to death on opening day of Expo ‘74 by one of those giant mechanical butterflies.”

“What about the third owner?” I asked, picking some mozzarella off my Bloomsday T-shirt.

“I am the third owner,” she said.

I was so startled, I dropped my pizza in my lap.

“The document was in that envelope, the one that was stolen by that man on the bicycle,” she said. “And that’s why I need your help, Jack Manito, Spokane detective.”

“Whoa there,” I said, recovering my composure, which is hard to do with cheese in your lap. “If this thing is cursed, you’re better off without it. Let that pony-tailed slacker on the bike keep it.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, beseeching me with those big blue peepers. “I don’t want it anymore. It’s just too dangerous. But it’s worth big money to an antiquities dealer, or to a museum.”

“How big?” She took a deep breath.

“The Cheney Cowles Museum will hand me a check for $250,000 upon receipt of that document,” she said. “I was on my way there when I lost it. If you can get it back for me, Jack Manito, you are entitled to 10 percent.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s about … about …” “$25,000.”

I emitted a long, low whistle. I also emitted a piece of pizza crust, which landed on Esmeralda’s blouse. I tried to wipe it off. She smacked me. I deserved it.

“Consider me hired,” I said. “But how are we ever going to find it? We have no idea who that bicyclemessenger-from-hell is. We have no idea who he works for, or who is behind this plot. I wouldn’t even recognize him if I saw him again.”

“I would,” said Esmeralda, staring out onto Howard Street with a sudden strange composure. “And I’m looking at him right now.”

“What?” I screeched, wrenching my head around quicker than my chiropractor.

“Right there,” she said, pointing. “That’s him. The guy in that Good Paper van.”

Watch for another installment of “Jack Manito, Spokane Detective” when you least expect it.