“Another fifteen minutes. If it were my call, we’d do this the traditional way, and I’d wait until Peshlakai got here. But since the store is part of a national system, we follow the rules.”
The time was nearly up when a vehicle that needed a muffler pulled onto the road. Leaphorn followed the noise to the front of the store and, through the screen door, saw the truck park. A short, round Navajo man climbed out on the passenger side. His thick gray hair swung against his shoulders as he walked to the door.
“Hey there. I made it.”
“Yá’át’ééh.” Willie introduced Louisa. Leaphorn switched to Navajo and did the traditional introduction with his clans. Peshlakai reciprocated. They were not related.
“I think I’ve heard of you. You used to work out of Window Rock and you were a cop or something?”
“That’s correct.” Leaphorn was accustomed to encounters like this. Usually the person then referred to a relative he had arrested.
But Peshlakai surprised him. “My son married into your late wife’s clan. I never had the privilege of meeting her, but I heard that she was a fine woman. And they speak well of you, too.”
Leaphorn nodded. Emma had been the love of his life. He thought of her less often now, but always with a pang of revisited grief and a longing for her sweet, calm presence.
Willie turned to Peshlakai and spoke in English. “This lady here wants to show you something.”
Louisa removed the bracelet. Without a word, she handed it to the artist.
He looked puzzled for a moment. Then he grinned. “I made this after I got out of the army. I gave it to my wife, but, well, we sold it here at this very store.” He ran his index finger inside the band. “You’ve worn this many times. I guess you like it.”
“It’s my favorite. Was it one of the first you created?”
“Sort of. I started making jewelry in high school, whenever I had a little money for silver and my uncle had the time to teach me. Silver didn’t cost as much back then, but back then I didn’t have any money. Same as now.” Peshlakai chuckled.
He returned the bracelet to her, and Louisa slid it on her wrist as she spoke. “I was admiring your pin in the display case. It’s lovely, modern. A bit simpler but more sophisticated than this and in the same spirit.”
“Thanks. Ahéhee’. I don’t see so good now, so I try to make it easier on myself.”
Willie focused on Louisa. “That bracelet of yours is a classic, museum quality, and I’m not just saying that because the artist is in the room. People hold on to them.”
Peshlakai grinned. “If you ever get tired of your old bracelet, I’ll take it off your hands.”
Leaphorn wondered what his lady friend would say, and she surprised him by saying nothing.
Peshlakai turned to Leaphorn. “So, now that you’re retired, are you thinking of becoming a silversmith and giving me some competition? Is that what you wanna talk about?”
“No.” Leaphorn looked at Louisa. “I hah trouble wid English.”
Louisa said, “I’m going to look at those lovely rugs again while you two talk.”
Peshlakai watched her walk away. “Nice lady. Good taste in jewelry. So what lies can I tell you?”
“I do some consulting for the department. They pay me to help with cold cases. When I have the time and interest, I take on some private clients.”
“I know about that from TV. You do missing-person stuff?”
“Well, a few years back a woman hired me to search for her daughter, a girl in her twenties who was working out here in Navajo and disappeared. I tracked her down.” It turned out the daughter was dead, but he didn’t tell Peshlakai that. “The person I’m working for now also asked me to find something that’s missing. She received a box that had gifts and a list of information on them. She asked me to see what I could learn about a bracelet that wasn’t included in the package. The description mentioned what sounds like your jeweler’s stamp. She’d like to track it down, and that’s why I came to talk to you.”
“Why not just ask the guy who sent it?” Peshlakai laughed. “I guess I could be an investigator.”
“She would have asked, but the box arrived anonymously.”
“He’s probably her old boyfriend. Maybe even the ex-husband.”
Leaphorn realized he hadn’t asked Mrs. Pinto about any personal relationships with collectors or friends that might have generated the gift. But the package was addressed to the museum, not to her. “It wasn’t that kind of a present. Nothing romantic about it.”
“Oh.” Peshlakai drew his lips together in a thin line. “Did the things come from someone who died?”
“Not as far as I know. The bracelet was part of a set that included earrings and a necklace. She gave me a photo of those. If you’d be willing to look, I’ll show you.”
Leaphorn shifted his weight. His back complained about too much standing, and both knees joined the chorus. He waited for the man to agree to or reject his request, or ask a question.
Peshlakai exhaled. “I want to make sure that nothing I made got involved with the dark side, you know? Murder, suicide, or something like that. Could you tell from the picture?”
Leaphorn considered the question. “The photos show the earrings and the necklace and the table they sat on. Nothing more.”
“Do you figure this lady’s friend who sent the box was involved in a heist or something?”
“I don’t think so.”
“OK. Let me see.”
Leaphorn put the envelope on the jewelry case and pulled out the stack of photos. He had arranged the pictures of jewelry together with the earrings identified as Peshlakai’s work on the top. Next came the necklace.
The jeweler held the first picture close to his eyes. “Do you have another photo of these?”
“No.”
“Well, they might be part of a group I did way back when. Or maybe not.” Peshlakai picked up the necklace picture and examined it. “I can’t tell because I can’t see details on it well enough. Sorry, man. I like these. Even if they aren’t mine, they’re good work.”
“Let’s assume they are yours.” Leaphorn took a step closer to the jeweler. “Would you have made a bracelet to go with them?”
“Sure, I could have. Back in those days, someone convinced me that ladies liked things that went together. I used to say, ‘If you buy the bracelet, I’ll give you a deal on the earrings.’ Or I’d put it the other way if someone wanted to buy just the earrings.”
“Did you keep track of who bought your jewelry?”
“Sort of. Just the expensive stuff, or things on consignment to galleries and such.” He handed the photos back to Leaphorn. “I used to tell the men who came with their wives, ‘You know you’ll probably do something to get her riled up. Better to have a nice gift on hand so you don’t end up at Walmart in the middle of the night.’”
Peshlakai motioned toward the photo. “I made earrings like that to go with the bracelets a long time ago. They sold pretty well.”
Leaphorn saw Louisa heading toward them. He hoped she wouldn’t interrupt the interview. She did. “So, are you two about done?”
Peshlakai switched to English. “Talking about this brings back memories from those days when I could see real good.”
Louisa pointed to the glasses that hung around her neck. “I have to wear these now for anything up close. Crossword puzzles, reading a book, instructions on a prescription bottle.”
“You’re lucky. My eyes have the kind of problem that can’t be fixed with glasses. They named it macular degeneration. My wife used to say I was a degenerate, back in the days when beer was my buddy, so I guess it fits.” He chuckled. “She tells me I shouldn’t be driving, so she does most of it. It makes me feel bad, but there’s not much I can do.”
Leaphorn understood the situation. In a remote, rural world where public transportation was hard to come by, separating a man from his wheels condemned him to begging for rides or a living in isolation.
<
br /> Louisa took a step toward the door. “Let’s talk outside. Mr. Willie has to close up. It’s already past six.” She glanced at the door and then back at them. Neither man moved. Louisa frowned. “When Joe was hurt, I did the driving. It made him nervous when I was behind the wheel. He’s a terrible passenger. Right?”
Leaphorn winced.
Peshlakai winked at him.
“Did Joe show you the pictures?”
“Yes. I looked at the earrings and the necklace. They’re real nice. I hope I made them.”
“My friend Daisy told Joe they should have been in a box with other items, some interesting things, actually, that came without a return address. Can you imagine that?”
Leaphorn scowled at her, but Louisa kept talking.
“If you’re heading back to Fort Defiance now, we’re on your way. I can call Daisy. You and your wife could stop at our house and then we could—”
Leaphorn put a hand on her arm, and she grew quiet. He felt her body tense. The woman gave him a dark look. He removed his hand and switched back to Navajo. Louisa went outside.
“Daisy is the woman who hired me. She’s a friend of Louisa.”
“If Daisy, that woman you’re working for, could let me see the real earrings and the necklace, instead of looking at the picture, I would know for sure if I made them. I’d love to hold these again.”
“That might be possible. How can I reach you?”
“No problem.” He slipped a slim black phone from his pants pocket. “My wife got this for me so she can keep tabs.” He gave Leaphorn his number. “I’ll put yours in here, too, so I can call you when I need to talk to a gray-haired investigator.”
Leaphorn hesitated, then watched the man input his cell number. Peshlakai’s screen had type several times larger than that on Leaphorn’s phone.
Willie came up to them with some papers in hand. “Did this guy tell you some of his best stuff is in museum collections, places like that? Once he got famous, I didn’t think we’d see him again. But here he is.” He handed Peshlakai a check and a form to sign.
The men moved to the porch. Peshlakai made his good-byes and climbed into the blue truck. He knew the trader was ready to go home, too, but he had a final request. “Can you quickly look at those photos I mentioned?”
Willie motioned to the wooden bench on the porch. “Sit.”
Leaphorn extracted the pictures. Willie perched next to him and motioned to Louisa, who was coming back from the now-closed bookstore, to join them.
“No thanks. I need to walk a little.” Leaphorn heard the edge to her voice.
He explained to Willie that his client wanted to thank whoever had sent the items in the pictures. “Some of these things look old and interesting. I wonder if any of these pieces might have come from here.” He hoped he’d said enough to capture the man’s interest.
Willie glanced at each picture and set a few aside. He handed the larger pile to Leaphorn. “These are nothing special, as far as I can tell. Some of them might be from known artists, or have some value because they are old, but if I were you, I wouldn’t waste time on them.” Willie picked up the smaller pile. “These are worth following up.”
From the smaller pile, he gave Leaphorn two photos of baskets, describing them as finely crafted and exceptionally well designed. “They look like the work of the Black and Holiday families or their relatives, fine Utah basket makers.”
Willie offered insights on a large brown pot with a handle that looked like braided clay and a stone carving of a bear, giving Leaphorn the names of the possible creators and their prize-winning legacies. He handed the pictures back. “Did these all come from the same collection?”
“I don’t know, but they arrived in the same box. Were any of them sold here?”
“Unfortunately, no—at least not while I’ve been in charge. I would remember them.”
The trader picked up the photo of the saddle blanket. “This is wonderful. You don’t see this style much. It’s worth following up.”
Leaphorn used the comment to move the conversation forward. “Speaking of weaving, have you heard that a dress Juanita made may still survive somewhere?”
Willie leaned back against the wall. “One of her biils is in the collection of a museum in California. She wore it in the photograph of the two of them, Juanita and Chief Manuelito, the famous portrait. Remember? The biil came to the Window Rock museum for a visit a few years ago. It ought to come home to Navajoland.”
“I agree.” Leaphorn recalled the photo of Manuelito in his tall black hat and Juanita at his side, one shoulder bare in a classic woven dress. It had become an iconic image of strength and perseverance in the face of oppression. “Do you know of any other Juanita dresses from that period or earlier?”
Willie sat a bit straighter. “Hwéeldi. It used to be that people didn’t talk about it, and some still don’t. Without the strength of those relatives, the Navajo Nation would not be here. We rose from starvation, we rose from the ashes. If there is another dress, I’d love to have one here to show people. Or better, I guess, to keep it at the museum. They get more Navajos there.”
Unless it was a heartless joke, whoever mailed the box thought so, too.
Willie stood. “I hope I helped you. Don’t forget to come back in August for our auction. It’s mostly rugs, but we’ve always got some good-looking jewelry your friend might like. The money benefits our scholarship fund.”
Leaphorn saw Louisa approaching, as though she’d been waiting for them to finish. “I’ll tell her about it. She’s our social director.”
Things had been different with Emma. Their social life had revolved around her extended and extensive family, with a secondary smaller orbit of obligation that came with his job. Emma’s jewelry had been gifts from her relatives—except for her wedding ring.
Louisa was quiet on the drive back to Window Rock. He enjoyed the peacefulness and used it to puzzle out the next step in his investigation. First, he’d follow up with Jim Bean. If Bean’s leads didn’t pan out, or if the inspector came up empty-handed, he’d talk to Mrs. Pinto about showing Peshlakai the earrings and necklace to see if he could identify them. Then he’d work to find the buyer. And he’d explore the suggestion that the box might be a gift from someone who knew Mrs. Pinto. He sensed that Peshlakai hadn’t told him everything.
He glanced over to Louisa to ask her about making some calls for him tomorrow and what ideas she had for dinner. That’s when he noticed that his passenger was crying.
6
Bernie awoke when the sky turned pale gold, a few minutes before sunrise. She greeted the gift of a new day with song and white cornmeal, made coffee, but didn’t go for a run. She reviewed her notes about the body and the people she’d encountered on the trail, adding details that had come to her overnight. Then she made a sandwich to take along for the shift she expected to work after the FBI interview. She ate half of the leftover pork chop for breakfast along with a slice of watermelon.
She knocked on the bathroom door and said good-bye to Chee. “I’ll call you when I’m done in Farmington and let you know how it went.”
She heard his voice over the water in the shower. “Great. We’ll talk later.”
“How’s your leg?”
“Good as new. I’m spending some time with Cowboy today.”
“Tell him hello for me.”
Cowboy Dashee, Chee’s longtime friend, worked with the Hopi Tribal Police.
When she checked in at the substation, Largo was already there. He motioned her into his office.
“I guess Chee told you about the rookie.”
“Yes, sir. The argument over the hay. And his bad eye.”
“I’ll need everybody to work some overtime until he’s here again.”
“Of course.” She’d expected the request.
Largo shifted gears. “Agent Johnson called me to confirm your interview at her office in Farmington.”
“That’s right.”
“I
think our FBI agent is mellowing. How did you do with her yesterday?”
“Fine, I guess.” Bernie leaned back in the chair. “She tried to chat for a second about the weather.”
Largo smiled. “I don’t know if you were in the right place at the right time or the wrong place at the wrong time to find that body.”
“Me neither. Both, I guess. Have they identified the victim?”
“Not that they’ve told us.”
“Sir, as long as I have the interview, I’ll work the rest of the day. I’d like to stay involved in the murder investigation. I want to talk to Johnson about letting me follow up with the Navajos who might have seen something important. I’d have a better rapport with them.”
“That makes sense to me, but with the rookie out, you’ve got a lot of other stuff on your plate. Don’t forget about that Chinle bolo that turned up at the flea market.”
“I won’t.”
The thirty-mile drive took her past rural northwestern New Mexico homesteads, the turnoffs for two Navajo casinos, convenience store parking lots, roadside vendors with baskets of tomatoes and green beans, and plenty of car lots. The hogback, the road’s most interesting geologic feature, sat a few miles west of Farmington’s sprawl. She took US 64 across the bridge over the La Plata River and it became Main Street. Traffic was light, typical for a Sunday morning.
She parked and walked to the front door. Agent Johnson had been waiting and let her in. “Thanks for coming, Bernie. How about some coffee?”
“Sure.”
She followed Johnson to an employee lounge, considerably larger and better equipped than theirs at Shiprock. The room had an upscale coffee machine and a full-sized refrigerator. Bernie selected Sumatra because it had the same letters as smart, plus some extras for good measure.
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