From Here to Paternity

Joanna Smith were sitting at the other end of the same row as Jane’s group. Tenny was looking haggard and appeared a good ten years older than when Jane had arrived a few days ago. She was sitting with her hands folded in her lap, looking down at them as if deep in thought. The pose gave her an unfortunate suggestion of a double chin.
    Joanna, beside her niece, was talking and crocheting as if nothing were wrong. As if nothing had ever been wrong. But as she watched the older woman, Jane realized that her posture was stiff, and Joanna paused several times to put her crochet hook down and flex her fingers. So mere was tension there. She was trying to suppress and ignore it, but wasn’t succeeding completely.
    Pete Andrews had chosen not to sit with his family. Well, they weren’t really his family, after all. He was Bill’s nephew, not related to Joanna and Tenny except through Bill’s marriage. He was talking breezily with a guest, all smiles and rah-rah enthusiasm. He had a black eye and a cut lip from his fight with HawkHunter, but was making light of both, covering his eye with his hand and mugging comically. But as the guest turned away to find a place to sit, Pete’s face went blank and became sullen, as if someone had erased the chalk drawing of cheerfulness.
    Jane didn’t want to appear too nervous about whether everyone was there, so she gazed with apparent calm at the front of the room for a few minutes. HawkHunter was in place already, sitting beside and a little behind the podium with Little Feather next to him. He had a book in his lap with slips of paper protruding. She was dressed this evening in designer jeans and a turquoise silk blouse and wore a fortune in silver-and-turquoise jewelry. She had white feathers and beads woven into her hair. They were talking together in a sporadic, relaxed manner.
    Jane heard Lucky behind her as he and Stu Gortner came in. Thank God!
    “I don’t really know. I’ll have to consult with the board and probably have to take the matter to a vote of the membership,“ Lucky was saying in what was, for him, a very sharp, cranky tone. “I’ve told you, it’s far too important to be decided here and now. We’ll have to study the Society’s bylaws first to see if they even allow us to become involved in a commercial venture. And even if they do, I doubt the membership will approve of taking what could be construed as a political stand.“
    “Not even to financially benefit the group?“ Stu wheedled.
    If Lucky responded, Jane couldn’t hear it. When she glanced around, they had taken seats two rows back.
    Thomas Whitewing and Linda Moose foot were directly across the room from Jane. Their heads were together, their glossy blue-black hair appearing to mingle as they whispered to each other. Linda looked up, caught Jane’s eye, and grinned. Jane tried to smile back, but her face was frozen with nerves. She glanced away quickly.
    The woman who ran the bookstore came in, looking vaguely perplexed.
    There were three people missing. Three important people.
    “Where’s the sheriff?“ Jane whispered to Mel.
    “In the hall outside. I keep catching a glimpse of him. He’s out of uniform, that’s why you didn’t notice him.“
    That accounted for one of them.
    Shelley nudged Jane. “Here she is!“
    Jane breathed a sign of relief as the second, a tall, tanned woman, came into the room. She was thin, with severely short blond hair and a strong, graceful, mannish stride. She crossed the room at the front and sat down in the second row without any dithering or hesitation. She folded her arms across her chest and sat staring ahead at the front wall. No one spoke to her or seemed to recognize her.
    Including Mel. “Who’s that?“ he asked in a low voice.
    “Susan Maxwell. You know, the mysterious skier I kept seeing on the mountain,“ Jane replied. “I told you Shelley and I ‘ambushed’ her early this morning up there.“
    Practically on her heels, a huge middle-aged Indian in a red plaid shirt came in and took a seat in the first row. Linda Moose foot looked at Jane, pointed to the man, and nodded. He was the third necessary person.
    Thomas Whitewing rose and approached the podium, tapping the microphone. Apparently it wasn’t working and he looked at HawkHunter. HawkHunter made an eloquent motion indicating that it was all right, that he didn’t need it anyway.
    Thomas turned to the audience. “Tonight we are fortunate,“ he shouted, then, catching