The Tale Teller

by Anne Hillerman

  She pulled into the substation to drop off the unit and pick up her Toyota. Before she killed the engine, the radio came on. She turned around and called Chee again. “I just got a call about a man at the hospital, threatening staff with a pocket knife. He’s someone I’ve dealt with before, and he’s probably off his medications. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  “Be safe. I’ll save you some dinner.”

  She added to her list of gratitude the love of a good man.

  7

  When Joe Leaphorn woke up Monday morning, even before he climbed out of bed, his brain began to organize the problem at hand. Actually, two problems. His major focus went to the Navajo Nation’s gift and the complications that had developed with Peshlakai’s hesitation to confirm that he had created the bracelet now missing.

  But first, he had to consider the more immediate issue awaiting him as soon as he walked down the hall for his first cup of coffee. What had offended Louisa?

  He accepted that he’d never been good at dealing with women when it came to the danger-fraught world of emotions. When he had women as clients, as coworkers, as crime victims or suspects, the guidelines for expected behavior from both parties were relatively clear. But with his housemate and good friend, the rules shifted or made themselves up as they went along. He admired Louisa—a logical, practical woman. Her devotion after his brain injury had surprised him. He’d encouraged her to return to her research, and now that she had finally followed his advice and done so, he saw more sparkle in her eyes. He thought about what to say over breakfast and came up only with the standard male response to a disgruntled female.

  He dressed and went to the kitchen, where everything seemed normal. He poured himself a cup of coffee and noticed the predictable oatmeal on the stove. He sat across from Louisa at the table, and she said the words he both expected and dreaded.

  “We need to talk, Joe.”

  “Sorry bout yesaday.” He took a sip of his coffee.

  “I thought you wanted my help with this museum problem, and when I tried to help, well, you clearly didn’t want it.”

  He remembered, now, what had set her off. “Wade a mint.” He rose and went to the office for his laptop. He came back, sat down, typed out the few sentences he’d conjured up, and handed her the computer.

  I realize I never talked to you about the rules I have for separating my private life from my profession. I understand why you were confused. With Mrs. Pinto dropping in to tell us about her assistant’s death, it stands to reason that you’d assume it was acceptable to invite Peshlakai here. Mrs. Pinto is your friend, and she’d been in our home before. Peshlakai is an unknown and so is his family. I try to never do anything to increase the risk of exposure. If I’m meeting an informant, it’s always in a public place.

  Louisa handed the computer back to him, then rose and went to the stove and began to serve the oatmeal. “I get it. That doesn’t give you the right to be rude to me.”

  Rude? Had he been rude? He remembered putting his hand on her arm to get her attention, but he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t actually tell her to be quiet, to stop interrupting his interview, to quit acting like she was the investigator.

  “I am sorry.” He said it again, pleased that it sounded like good English. He hoped the issue was settled.

  She brought the oatmeal back to the table and set the bowls down. “It’s not just that. You resented my presence yesterday, despite the fact that my bracelet had offered a possible clue and I was the one who suggested we find Mr. Peshlakai.” Her voice grew louder. “I saw you bristle when I mentioned showing the photos to Mr. Willie and again when I reminded you that it was getting late. You were happy when I walked away, weren’t you?”

  He knew by her tone of voice that she had more to say. He ate a spoonful of oatmeal.

  “I’m confused. You ask me to help you, and then you get angry at me when I try. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  He nodded. He didn’t recall feeling angry. He’d call it irritated.

  “If you don’t require my help with this case, with any of your work . . . well, that’s fine. You’re the detective. I’m the professor and I need to get on with my own life. I don’t want another day like yesterday, OK?” Unshed tears welled in her eyes.

  “Kay.” He didn’t like seeing her cry. He saw no harm in agreeing with her. In his experience, problems like this either went away or boomeranged back, and if they came back, sometimes he better understood the reason for the conflict.

  They ate without talking, long enough that he thought the situation had resolved itself. But Louisa had more to say.

  “I’m going to Flagstaff for a department meeting as a consultant.”

  He remembered. The session was tomorrow, and she’d asked if he wanted to go along for the three-hour drive, maybe stop in Holbrook on the way to see some friends. They could visit the Lowell Observatory before coming back. He’d told her he’d think about it.

  She ate the rest of her oatmeal and then spoke again. “I’ve decided that I’m driving over this morning so I can catch up with some of my colleagues, get a sense of what’s going on, do a little shopping. And I think we could use a break from each other after yesterday.”

  She took her bowl to the sink. “I’m packed, and I’m leaving now. I’ll be back when I’ve done what I can at the university and when I’ve figured out how I feel about staying here.”

  She gave him a half smile. “I like you, Joe, but I won’t stand for being put down.”

  “Dent mean to.” He’d already said sorry.

  After she drove away, he poured himself the last of the coffee and turned off the pot. He should have asked her to make sure that right front tire on her car had enough air. It looked low when she came home with the groceries. He rinsed his bowl and her cup and put them in the drain rack. He noticed that Louisa had forgotten to feed Giddi, and he gave the cat some kibble. He wondered if she had taken her phone charger. She tended to leave it in a socket by the toaster. He checked and, sure enough, there it was.

  He grabbed the computer and went to his office to work on Mrs. Pinto’s case. He opened his little brown notebook and reviewed the facts and questions that had caught his attention during his meetings at the museum, the conversation in his living room, and yesterday’s session with Bean at the Navajo Inn. He added what he’d learned at the trading post with Willie and Peshlakai. He made himself a fresh “to follow up” list. The process clarified his thinking, and he began to develop a plan to settle the case.

  His cell phone rang around nine. He thought it might be Louisa, but the number came up as Robert Peshlakai. He answered.

  After some pleasantries, Peshlakai said, “I’ve been thinking about that photo of the earrings. It was like seeing a relative you had forgotten about, but then you think, maybe it’s just someone who looks like him. If I could see those things up close, I’d know for sure. I have to drive into Gallup today, and I could stop by and see them. If they are mine, I could tell you and the lady a story, too.”

  Leaphorn considered it. “Do you recall who bought them?”

  “I don’t know about that, but I remember who I asked to sell them for me. I mean, if they really are the ones I made.”

  That was enough for Leaphorn. “Let’s meet in the parking lot of the museum complex at ten. Does that work?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call back if there is a problem. Otherwise, I’ll see you at the museum. You know where that is?”

  “Sure, it’s the biggest thing around for miles.”

  It probably was too early to find Mrs. Pinto at work, so he went back to his computer to check his email and saw a message from Bean.

  Joe, great to see you looking so healthy. Keep it up. Did I tell you to hold on to that box? Make sure your client doesn’t recycle it or something. Keep it safe in case we need to check for fingerprints. If you can, take a look at the postmark and let me know where the donation was mailed. I’m dead in the water until
I know about that postmark. JB

  Leaphorn called Mrs. Pinto, and his luck held. She would be in the office at ten. He would introduce her to the jeweler, and she would show Peshlakai the earrings and necklace in hopes that he could identify them.

  He was considering another cup of coffee when the phone rang.

  Captain Largo’s voice boomed over the line. After some chitchat, Largo said, “Hey, Lieutenant, remember that rookie I mentioned to you?”

  “I do. Chee gave me some background on him.”

  “Well, he’s off work for a few days until the swelling around his eye goes down and he can breathe. If you can make it up here while he’s on leave, this would be a good opportunity for you two to get together.”

  “How about late this afternoon?” Leaphorn suggested a time.

  “I’ll tell Sam to meet you at the station. I’ll call you back if there’s any problem.”

  “Have you mentioned this mentoring idea to him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Tell him that I heard about his work at the Shiprock car bombing.”

  “You want me to say his work, huh? Not his screwups.” Largo chuckled. “Good idea.”

  “How’s the guy’s Navajo?”

  “Marginal. Improving since he’s worked here. He understands more than he lets on. He’s reticent about speaking, but he has to when he talks to the old-timers.”

  “I can relate to that with my troubles with English.” And, Leaphorn realized, Sam certainly would view a gray-haired retired lieutenant as an old-timer.

  “If you don’t want to drive home after your meeting, stay with me. We can swap a few lies. At least let me buy you dinner.”

  “Thanks. Let’s see how it goes.” The trip was only ninety minutes, and he’d driven many times that distance in his days on the force without anyone offering him a meal and a bed. Age made a difference, he thought again, and Largo’s offer reflected both friendship and the long, kind Diné tradition of respect for elders.

  Leaphorn arrived at the museum a few minutes early and Mrs. Pinto met him in the lobby. They passed a tall, gray-haired gentleman in polished boots and dark jeans pacing in the hall outside her office.

  Mrs. Pinto spoke gruffly to him. “You’ll have to wait until someone comes to unlock the door. Go on back there.” The man frowned and moved away from her down the hall like a person in a hurry.

  She entered her office and invited Leaphorn to sit.

  “Who was that?”

  “The father of my Tiffany. He came to collect the personal items from her desk.”

  “You sounded angry with him.”

  She turned off her computer monitor and swiveled to face him. “I am. He’s been spreading terrible rumors about me. But that’s not why you’re here. Tell me about this Peshlakai and how you think he can help.”

  “He made the bracelet I suspect is missing. I know you’re more interested in the dress, but I think this could lead us to it.” Leaphorn told her about the trip to the Hubbell Trading Post yesterday. “I don’t think this will take long. Either he will recognize the earrings and the necklace or he won’t.”

  “I hope he can explain how his bracelet, if it is his bracelet, is connected to the disappearance of Juanita’s dress.”

  On the way out, Leaphorn spoke to the man in the hall. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”

  The man studied the floor. “She was my beloved, my blessing. My beautiful, perfect girl. Be careful. You know what I mean?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  The man hesitated and glanced toward the open door of Mrs. Pinto’s office. His voice fell to a whisper. “What happened is that woman’s fault. Adilgashii.”

  Suddenly, the air-conditioned hallway seemed too cool. Adilgashii. Leaphorn knew the word. Witchcraft. A dark explanation for unexplainable evil.

  Leaphorn waited for Peshlakai in the July warmth outside the building. As he stood there, he recalled Tiffany’s emergency and noticed that a promise of summer rain hung in the dusty air. He watched the clouds begin to build.

  Robert Peshlakai was dressed in new jeans, pressed with a crease in front, a short-sleeved shirt with pearl buttons, and a dove-gray hat with a silver band. He had a blue plastic case in his hand. “Yá’át’ééh, Columbo.”

  “Yá’át’ééh. You look like you’re going to a wedding or a Round Dance.”

  “I am hoping to see some old friends again.”

  Leaphorn glanced at the truck and the short woman behind the steering wheel. “Your wife is welcome to come in.”

  “I said that, too. She’s going to call her mother while I’m inside, and she likes the privacy.”

  Mrs. Pinto had wrangled up a third chair for her office and invited them both to sit.

  As he made the introductions, Leaphorn realized he didn’t know Mrs. Pinto’s clans, so he used her name and her title at the museum and told Peshlakai that she was a friend of his housemate, Louisa.

  “Oh, yes, the woman with such good taste in jewelry.”

  Mrs. Pinto said, “I appreciate you helping Joe with this. It’s quite a mystery.”

  “This investigator told me you got a gift, and you want to know who sent it. If the earrings and the necklace are mine, I might recognize them. I brought some notes and records.” He set his blue case on the desk. “The old man showed me the picture of them, but I had trouble making out the jeweler’s mark.”

  Mrs. Pinto opened her desk drawer, took out the earrings and the necklace, and put them on the desktop across from him. “Take a look.”

  The jeweler had it right, Leaphorn thought; the photograph did not do them justice. The earrings were beautiful, gracefully crafted bear-paw designs, well balanced to dangle from the ear delicately, calling attention to the face and the curve of the neck. The necklace was simple—a silver bear with an intriguing turquoise eye on a sturdy-looking silver chain.

  Peshlakai reached for the necklace and held it in his right hand. He ran his finger over the shape of the bear and its blue eye. He moved it closer to his face, examined the silverwork and the stone, and then looked at the back. He gave the earrings the same close attention.

  After some long minutes, he sat them down again on the desktop. Leaphorn waited for Peshlakai to collect his thoughts.

  His client was less patient. “Is this your work?”

  Peshlakai rubbed his thumb along the bear paw. “I made these a long time ago to go with a storyteller bracelet that had a family of bears walking in the woods. I always put my jeweler’s mark here.” Peshlakai leaned toward her and extended an earring. “Right here where the post is.”

  He opened his blue case and pulled out a magnifying glass and used it to examine the back of the earring.

  Leaphorn watched. Mrs. Pinto somehow managed to remain silent.

  Peshlakai put down the magnifier. He smiled. “It is my mark.”

  Leaphorn felt a wave of relief as part of the puzzle fell in place. “Yesterday, you indicated that you had given these and the bracelet that went with them to someone. Did you keep a record of who it was?”

  Peshlakai tapped his forehead. “All stored in here, but some of the boxes are a little dusty. For the last few years, my wife has helped me. She keeps sales on the computer. She thinks I might be forgetting things.”

  He reached in the bag and this time pulled out an old-fashioned three-ring binder. “This is my old inventory list. I ought to have the information in here. Well, we’ll see.”

  Leaphorn noticed that the book had brief sections of script and small photos.

  Peshlakai turned the pages, moving toward the back of the notebook. “Here.” He tapped a sheet with several small color photos. “I can’t see my photos too good now, but I know that’s right.” He moved the book toward Leaphorn. “Tell me what this says.”

  “‘Four sets of earrings, necklaces, and bracelets, storyteller designs. Fat Boy. Indian Market.’” Leaphorn read the date and studied the picture. “Yes, this is the three-piece set.”

/>   Peshlakai closed the book. His demeanor changed as quick as summer lightning.

  Mrs. Pinto leaned toward him. “Something wrong?”

  Peshlakai sat up a bit straighter. “These all disappeared a long time ago. I can’t help you after all.”

  Leaphorn took a breath. “What do you mean disappeared?”

  “I mean, I don’t know what happened to them.” Peshlakai brushed an imaginary speck of something from the front of his shirt. “This guy I knew from high school, Fat Boy, was traveling around to arts and crafts fairs. Selling stuff he made, wood carvings of animals and things like that, and some things for me and some of his other friends. He took what I had on the list I showed you. He drove to Santa Fe the weekend of that big Indian Market. That was the last I saw of it and of him.”

  Leaphorn patted his shirt pocket and felt his little notebook and a pen. “I’d like to talk to Fat Boy on the chance he might remember something. Any idea how I can reach him?”

  Peshlakai sighed. “It’s too late, man. After he picked up my stuff, Fat Boy was on the Devil’s Highway and he got in a bad wreck. A drunk wrong-way driver near Tohatchi rammed him head-on. They say my friend and the dude driving the truck that hit him died at the scene. That was a long time ago.”

  The Devil’s Highway got that name for two reasons. The feds designated it as US 666 and many people lost their lives in accidents there, just like Peshlakai’s friend. After years of badgering, the powers that be changed the numbers to US 491.

  Mrs. Pinto said, “Your jewelry was valuable. I’m surprised you’d just let it go.” The judgment in her voice filled the room.

  “It wasn’t like that. I hadn’t heard what had happened, so I kept calling Fat Boy when the market was over. I knew the guy, and I trusted him. I figured that he’d give me my jewelry, or the money for it, next time I saw him.” Peshlakai shrugged. “Time went by, and I was getting irritated with him. In September, I ran into his brother at the fair here, the big one.”