LITMIR.BIZ

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you all members of the Nissequot tribe?”

      “Cecily and I are, and Brianna at the end.” He pointed to a blonde girl counting out cash at high speed. “Frank, Tessa and Marie are just hoping to marry into the tribe one day.” He grinned when Marie, a middle-aged woman in a conservative suit, turned to blow him a kiss. “But we’re one big happy family.”

      His phone beeped and he checked the screen. “Our fearless leader is heading this way,” he said to the cashiers. “Look like you’re working.” He winked at her.

      Constance pretended she hadn’t seen it. And now John was coming? She braced herself. The cashiers dispensed money with warm customer service and brisk efficiency. They joked and seemed to be enjoying themselves. It wasn’t like this at Creighton Waterman. Joviality was frowned upon. In fact, one junior accountant, Daniel Bono, had recently been let go for smiling too much in meetings, or at least that was the rumor.

      Customers were streaming into the casino, which struck Constance as a little odd since it was a Wednesday morning. “Why are so many people here at this time of day?”

      “We have tour buses pick them up in Boston, Worcester, Springfield. We’re adding more routes all the time. A lot of our customers are retirees. We run a brisk trade at the nursing homes.”

      “Should the elderly be gambling with their life savings?” She felt her brow rise.

      Darius’s wicked smile reappeared. “Maybe their heirs don’t think so, but it’s their money, right?”

      She shook her head. “I don’t get why people want to do this.”

      “It’s fun. Like buying a lottery ticket.”

      “Do you gamble?”

      He shook his head. “John discourages us from gambling. He thinks it’s better to put your money in the bank. As far as I know, Don Fairweather is the only gambler in the family. Have you met him?”

      “I have. He seems like quite a character.”

      “I heartily agree.”

      John burst into the room at that moment. His piercing gaze zeroed in on her. “I was looking for you.”

      “Now you’ve found me.” She tilted her chin up, proud that she managed to sound so calm. “I was just observing how the cashiers work.”

      “I see you’ve met my cousin Darius. He only graduated from college two years ago and he’s turning into my right-hand man.”

      Darius smiled. “I’ve learned everything from the best.”

      John put his arm around Darius. “He moved here all the way from L.A. to join the tribe. We’re working on the rest of his branch of the family.”

      “They’re not quite ready to move into the backwoods.” Darius shrugged. “But the way things are going, this won’t be the backwoods for long.”

      John looked at Constance for a moment. “I’d like to show you around some more.”

      “I think I’ve seen everything there is to see. I came through the gaming rooms and passed the slot machines on my way over here.”

      “Not just the casino and hotel. The whole reservation.”

      She felt herself frown. Was he trying to shunt her away from here for some reason? She’d barely had time to observe anything. Suspicion crept over her.

      On the other hand, she had a feeling Nicola Moore would want her to see as much of the place as possible. “Okay.”

      “Excellent. We’ll start with the museum. Darius can tell you what a passion of mine that has become.”

      Darius nodded. “It’s a labor of love, all right. And thousands of hours of expert research.”

      “It’s not easy to uncover history that’s been deliberately buried. Let’s go.” John gestured toward the door, and she went ahead of him, nodding and smiling to the other employees, and grateful that John hadn’t tried to take her hand or put his arm around her.

      They walked back through the gaming rooms to the lobby. Retirees were busy wasting their savings in the slot machines, and a surprisingly large number of other people were hunched over the tables as well.

      “I didn’t know you had a museum.”

      “There’s a lot you don’t know.” He smiled mysteriously. “All of it good, of course.”

      “If you’re covering up a fraud, you’re doing it very well.”

      “I take pride in everything I do.” He lifted a brow slightly, taunting her.

      “Are you trying to make me suspicious?” She was conscious of matching his stride as they strolled out of the gaming room and across the lobby.

      “Nothing could be further from my mind.” Then he touched her. Her stomach drew in and her pulse quickened as he rested his hand at the base of her spine and ushered her though a doorway she’d never noticed before, marked “Hall of Heritage.”

      It led into a large, gallery-like room with polished wood floors and high walls. Glass cases held artifacts and sleek, printed text and pictures decorated the walls. “It looks like a real museum.” She walked ahead of him, curious. One of the first exhibits was a glass case containing a sheaf of age-tinted pages and a quill pen. There was a blown-up photograph of the front page on the wall next to it.

      “That’s the original treaty between the Nissequot and the governor of Massachusetts in 1648. Two thousand acres of land was given to us then.”

      “Two thousand? I thought the reservation was less than two hundred.”

      “They chipped away at it bit by bit over the years.”

      “The state?”

      He shook his head. “Mostly private individuals, farmers, businessmen, greedy people.”

      “Your ancestors must have sold it to them.”

      “I could say that greedy people come in all creeds and colors, but research has taught me to give my ancestors the benefit of the doubt and respect that they were just trying to survive.”

      “You can’t really fault them for that. Apparently they managed.” She smiled at him. The museum didn’t have that many items, but they were carefully arranged and displayed with a good deal of written information accompanying them. A long green cloak in one case caught her eye. It didn’t have feathers or beading, but an embroidered trim in black brocade.

      “Not what you’d expect, is it?” He looked at her curiously.

      “I don’t know what I’d expect.”

      “People seem to want baskets and moccasins and old pots. Precontact stuff. They forget that the history of the Nissequot continues after the settlers arrived. That cloak was worn by Sachem John Fairweather, the man I was named after, when he opened the doors to the first free school in this part of Massachusetts. It remained open until 1933, when the last pupil dropped out to look for work during the Depression.”

      “Is the building still there?” She could see a grainy photograph of six people in Victorian-era clothing standing outside a neat white building.

      “It is indeed. I’m restoring it along with my grandparents’ old farmhouse.”

      “That’s very cool. I have no idea of my own family’s history before my grandparents’ generation.”

      “Why not?”

      She shrugged. “I don’t suppose any of us thought it was that interesting.”

      “Where is your family from, originally?”

      “I don’t know. All over, I suppose. Maybe that’s the problem. It’s easy to get excited about ancestry when it’s all from one place

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