The Tale Teller

by Anne Hillerman

  Two folding chairs waited at the end of the table. Mrs. Pinto placed the folder with his name in front of one of them on the table. “When you are done looking, I thought you might like to examine the paperwork that came in the donation.”

  He stepped toward her. “Who opened the box?”

  “First the medicine people, and then it came to Tiffany to unpack. She handled many valuable shipments and there was never a problem before.”

  “Tell me what’s missing.”

  Mrs. Pinto sat down and rubbed her hands over her face.

  He waited.

  “It’s a dress, a biil, that the collector says Asdzáá Tlogi made sometime around 1864.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize—”

  “Asdzáá Tlogi.” She said it louder this time. “Juanita. The wife of Chief Manuelito.”

  Leaphorn sat down. “Hwéeldi. It came from there.”

  “Yes, from that period in history where not much survived.”

  No one who knew the Lieutenant would describe him as overly emotional, but Leaphorn felt his chest grow tighter. The warrior Manuelito, with Juanita at his side, was among those leaders who brought the People back to Dinetah, their homeland, after the Long Walk of 1864 and years of suffering at the Bosque Redondo prison camp. Along with others, he signed the treaty that officially gave the Navajo people the right, in the eyes of the US government, to live on a portion of the sacred land the Holy People had assigned them. Over the ensuing years, the size of the Navajo Nation had grown as tribal officials managed to gain titles to other land that had always been theirs. Without Manuelito and the others’ ability to make peace, the story might have ended differently. And Juanita stood by the leader’s side.

  Mrs. Pinto interrupted his contemplation. “If the gift is what the collector states, then it needs to be here. I don’t mean just the museum. It needs to be in Navajo land.”

  He opened the folder she’d offered. The yellow notebook paper, the kind that comes on legal pads, had cursive handwriting, all of it with a black pen. He glanced at the date—four weeks ago. The salutation read, “To Whom It May Concern.”

  After owning and enjoying these items for many years, I have decided they deserve a larger viewership and a new home, so I am donating them to the Navajo Nation. My gift comes with no restrictions, but I urge the museum to treasure my treasures.

  On the next page, on the same notebook paper, he saw a numbered list with handwritten descriptions of the items, 1 to 15. Some of the descriptions involved several sentences, others just a word or two. The small script drifted down the page at an ever-increasing slope. The list had a randomness to it, with a man’s ring listed between two wedding baskets.

  The list continued onto a second page. Leaphorn skimmed to the final notation:

  35. Traditional Navajo Biil, woven circa 1860, attributed to Asdzáá Tlogi, Canyon de Chelly area. May have been worn on the Long Walk.

  Leaphorn studied the items on the table again. “I don’t see the baskets or the saddle blanket.”

  “That’s right. We removed them because they might be contaminated by preservatives or infested with insects. We stored them elsewhere until we know what we are dealing with. Anything with feathers, leather, or other organic material gets that treatment. It’s common museum practice today. I’ll show them to you when we finish here if you wish.”

  “What did Tiffany say when you asked her about the missing dress and the bracelet?”

  “She swore she never saw the biil, and that no woven dress of any sort was included in this shipment. There were bracelets, and we didn’t know which was missing until we matched what we got with the descriptions on the donor’s inventory sheet. None of the items had numbers.”

  “The silver bracelet, anything else about that I should know?”

  “It was part of a set.” Mrs. Pinto tapped the list. “The earrings and necklace that went with it arrived.”

  “I am wondering how implicitly you trust your assistant. Had there been any prior issues with valuable items?”

  Leaphorn noticed the exhaustion on the woman’s face. “No. I know she was loyal to me. I have never had reason to question her.” Mrs. Pinto tapped the folder again. “Any more questions before you say yes and start helping me?”

  “Why did you come to me instead of alerting the police? If the dress was stolen, this should be their job.”

  Mrs. Pinto looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “I didn’t call the police because I don’t know for sure if a crime was committed. I don’t know if the dress came in the box. And if it did, I don’t know for sure that it was Juanita’s. I need more proof than a handwritten note to confirm that it was Juanita’s. We museum people like to have what we call provenance, a paper trail that explains how the person who owns an object acquired it, as well as when and from whom.”

  Leaphorn nodded. He knew Navajo law enforcement was understaffed and focused on crimes that hurt people first, not the possibility of a missing museum donation. If he had been in her position, he would have hired a PI, too.

  Mrs. Pinto continued. “Secondly, I know you worked with that museum in Santa Fe, so you have some experience with this. And you live right here in Window Rock and I like working with people I can meet face-to-face.

  “Finally, after Louisa told me about you doing investigations, I remembered that when you were with the police department, you found a poor woman who had been locked in one of those bunkers out by Fort Wingate. You didn’t give up and I admired you for that. This case is totally different, but it might take some persistence. I hope you can resolve it in a day or two, but if not, you’ll need to figure it out in the next two weeks.”

  Mrs. Pinto folded her hands. “And there’s one more thing. When you drove away yesterday, I heard a grinding sound. That led me to assume that, besides appealing to your curiosity and your sense of honor as a Navajo when it came to an important piece of our heritage, you might need a part for that truck of yours. Could be expensive.”

  Leaphorn smiled. “That’s a good explanation.” The woman might be demanding, but she was smart. He appreciated the way her brain worked.

  He stood and walked slowly to the end of the table and back again, doing a brief survey of the material. “This is a nice collection. Some lovely and interesting things here.”

  “I agree, of course. But the star of the show is the piece that we can’t find.” She stood. “Before you ask, we searched for the return address on the box in our donor file. Nothing. Then I had my assistant do a reverse address check on the computer—you know, those programs that fill in the name of who lives where. That address is bogus. I put Tiffany’s work in the folder for you.”

  “How was the box shipped?”

  “The old standby. US mail.”

  Leaphorn signed two copies of the letter of agreement. Mrs. Pinto put one in his folder and showed him a smaller brown envelope. “Tiffany took some photos of what you see here as well as the baskets and saddle blanket.” She closed the folder and handed it to him. “How long before you will know something?”

  He recognized the urgency. “I will check in with you midweek.”

  “Or sooner. My retirement clock is ticking.”

  The sun had heated his truck’s door handle almost to the point of pain. Leaphorn climbed in. The steering wheel was hot to the touch. He turned the key, noticing the grinding again.

  Louisa, as he had come to expect, greeted him with a question.

  “So, what do you think of Daisy’s proposal? Will you try to help her?”

  He nodded yes.

  “I’m glad.”

  He put the folder and the brown envelope on the kitchen table and motioned her to join him. He removed the photos and thumbed through them; then he examined the list. Whoever sent the box had assembled the items with care and, as the letter implied, seemed to have personally collected them over a number of years.

  He handed the list to Louisa.

  She made little humming sound
s as she reviewed it. “Look at this.” She tapped her index finger on a line in the inventory and read: “‘Earrings, necklace, and sterling silver storyteller bracelet set with bears, trees, et cetera.’ Is there more information on these?”

  He pushed the pictures to her and watched as she quickly sorted out the bracelet photos. She rose and returned with the magnifier they kept in the kitchen drawer and used it to examine two pictures more closely.

  “It’s not here. The storyteller bracelet is not in the photos.”

  Leaphorn looked at the number again, 30, and nodded. “Rye. Missin.” He meant “right,” but he could tell that she understood.

  “I think this could be the same jeweler who made a bracelet I bought years ago when I first came to the Southwest. A gentleman named Peshlakai. I’ll get mine; maybe it has that mark the inventory describes, and that could help track it.”

  “Go head.”

  “You’re humoring me, Joe, but you never know.”

  She left him to search for her bracelet, planting the seed of an idea. If Louisa clearly remembered where and when she’d purchased her jewelry, artists might remember, too, or might have kept records of their customers. He filed the thought away.

  Louisa returned before Giddi had an opportunity to jump onto her chair. She had a silver bracelet and a grin on her face. She showed him the artist’s stamp. “It looks like a P. Peshlakai. And this one is a storyteller, the same as the donor describes. What do you think? It must be the same artist.”

  He looked at the description again and then at Louisa’s bracelet and its images of a hogan, a woman weaving, and sheep grazing. He studied the small P inside the band. She could be right.

  She slipped the bracelet onto her wrist. “You know, I spent a lot for this way back then. I remember I almost missed my car payment because of it. I imagine this person’s work is worth even more now. Maybe that’s why it’s missing.”

  He thought about that. A stolen bracelet would be easy to sell. An old textile would have a smaller market—and anyone who knew its story would also understand that it should never have been for sale. An odd combination.

  He refocused on his idea of contacting the artists, first the jeweler whose work was missing and then, perhaps, the others. The people who had made the major pieces, he speculated, would be more likely to remember who bought them. The photos would help. He wondered how many of the artists still lived.

  Leaphorn picked out a photograph of a basket, a complicated design that looked modern. He handed the picture to Louisa.

  “It’s an interesting piece.” She looked at the typed list. “If this is number 12, the basket maker is listed as Holiday.”

  He handed her a pencil. “Mark?”

  She nodded and put a check mark on the list.

  He thumbed through the pictures and selected a few more for a pile he mentally labeled as “unique and valuable.” The task didn’t take long.

  Leaphorn stood, noticing that his back objected. Louisa rose, too. “This is fascinating, Joe. I’d like to help. Maybe I could call some of those Pueblo artists whose work you pulled and ask them who owns it now. I figure they’ll speak English. I’ll leave the Navajos to you.”

  He nodded. She kept encouraging him to resume his work with his speech therapist, but he found it frustrating. In circumstances where he really needed to speak English, he asked someone like Louisa to help. If he had to communicate complicated information, he used his laptop and typed in English. Slow and not spontaneous, but it did the job.

  “Oh, while you were at the museum, the phone rang. It was Jim Bean. He asked me to tell you that he’s coming through Window Rock tomorrow and would like to see you. He gave me his cell number.” Louisa paused. “He invited me, too, but I’d feel like a third wheel. You guys will want to talk about the old times.”

  “Wade a mint.” Leaphorn took his phone out of his pocket and found the right screen. Then he nodded.

  She gave him Bean’s number and he added it to his contacts, then sent Bean a text.

  His old associate’s response was almost instant.

  CU tomorrow 10 @ Navajo Inn.

  After years of resisting technology, Leaphorn now realized it was a useful research tool. He didn’t see the need to learn Twitter, Instagram, and the many other applications young people couldn’t live without. But for quick, simple communication and research, the internet served a fine purpose.

  He went to his office. Giddi padded in to check on him, and he gave the cat a few pats before it calmly strolled away.

  He typed in “Juanita and Manuelito Navajo” and got 73,000 results before he could take the next breath. He scanned the list and quickly found one that had Juanita’s name first. He clicked on it to find a picture of her in a biil, with a necklace and high moccasin boots, a belt of large silver concho discs at her waist. She looked peaceful and strong.

  He clicked on several other pages and at the end of half an hour had learned little except that doing research like this himself would take time. The library at Northern Arizona University had a fine collection of articles and photos relating to Navajo history and especially old weavings. He called up the library website and typed in his request. He knew it was Saturday, but someone could be working at the reference desk. If not, they’d see his question first thing Monday.

  4

  The first time Bernie ran past the spot on the trail that afternoon, she noticed the dog. It sniffed at the ground, totally uninterested in her. Good, she thought. She’d been chased by, growled at, and threatened with sharp dog teeth enough already to last a lifetime. She ran until she came to the place where the fallen cottonwood tree blocked the trail. She stopped, sipped some water, felt the good fatigue in her muscles. Time to turn back.

  The dog was still there, sitting now. She slowed from a jog to a walk, her basic distrust of canines struggling with her intuition as a police officer. She stopped in front of the animal, a brown-and-black mixed breed of some sort, about forty pounds. It wore a green collar. The dog trotted off toward the river, then came back. Slowly, as though it wanted to trust her.

  “Easy, fella. I’m not going to hurt you, and you aren’t going to hurt me.” She spoke calmly, as she had been trained, even though her heart was beating like a hummingbird’s. She followed it, curious as to what the animal found so intriguing. The grasses and snakeweed grew thick here along the river, but the red athletic shoe stood out. Her eyes followed the shoe to a black pant leg. The man who wore them lay facedown. The dog paced around the body and whined.

  Her first thought was a heart attack.

  “Hey, sir, are you OK?”

  If the awkward posture hadn’t already yelled crime scene, the man’s hands secured behind his back with white plastic ties confirmed her suspicions. She squatted close to feel for a pulse, pressing her fingers firmly against the gray skin of his neck. Nothing. He had holes in his ears for earrings but wore no jewelry. Bernie stood and pulled her phone from the nylon pouch, hoping to find cell service. Not here. If she could change one thing about being a police officer, it would be to end encounters with the dead and the evil chindiis they left behind, but she knew it came with the job.

  She retraced her steps, following the path she’d taken as she approached the body, this time focusing on anything else out of the ordinary that could be a clue to what had happened here. When she reached the trail, she looked at her phone again and walked until she finally saw a single bar. She dialed the substation. Sandra answered.

  “I found a male body off the river trail, about halfway in. I’ll wait for backup.”

  “Yikes.”

  “That’s what I thought.” A man on a mountain bike pedaled by, focused on the trail. She made a mental note of his appearance. “I need you to call the Feds, too. This guy is a homicide.”

  “You heard that the rookie had to go home?” Sandra didn’t wait for confirmation. “Backup could take a while. Hang in there.” Bernie typed the description of the bike person into her pho
ne. Unlikely that he had any connection with anything, but the trail was now a crime scene. She kept the phone handy and returned to the spot on the trail closest to the body. The dog waited there. She glanced at its collar for an ID tag, but it didn’t have one, just the simple strap fastened around its neck.

  She walked back toward the body, moving carefully and taking pictures of anything that seemed relevant. She looked for a dropped cigarette butt, a discarded water bottle, a footprint where the vegetation wasn’t so thick, a thread snagged on the weeds, any clue that could have been left by whoever was responsible for the dead man. She saw places where someone might have stepped close to the body but no sign that it had been dragged in from the trail. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—except for the corpse in the red shoes and torn black pants and the dog. She found no signs of struggle and no blood other than what looked like a cut on one of the victim’s hands. The dog paced and panted, walking to the body and then circling back toward her.

  Bernie returned to the trail, looking for more clues as she waited for backup to arrive. She concentrated now on keeping anyone else whom the dog made curious from disturbing the scene.

  A middle-aged man wearing sunglasses approached. He slowed from jogging to walking when she moved to the center of the trail. He was breathing hard.

  “Sir, I’m a Navajo police officer, and this trail is closed. You need to go back to the parking lot.”

  “You don’t look like a police person.” He took off his hat and glasses, wiped his face with the sleeve of his T-shirt. “You’re kidding. Are you serious?”

  Bernie pulled out her ID as the man spoke and held it for him to see.

  “Whoa. What happened?” He used the hat as a fan. “Why close the trail unless someone died out here of heatstroke or something?” The man glanced toward the river, but Bernie knew he could not see the body from where he stood.