“You’re lucky you had your Diné Bizaad to fall back on. How is your . . .” Her forehead wrinkled. “The lady who you live with.”
“She’s well. She’s in Flag doing something at the university. She enjoys the chance to reconnect with those friends and the academic life. They’ve asked her to teach in the fall.” He sipped his coffee. It was good, hot and just strong enough.
He had said enough about Louisa. “How are your children, Councilor?”
“Fine. Well, not exactly, but they’re OK. As well as can be expected.”
She straightened in her chair. “I understand the director at the museum hired you to do some work for her. Tell me about it. How’s that going?”
“If that were true, I couldn’t talk about it without her permission.”
To his surprise, Walker laughed. “I knew you would say that. I know it’s true. I’m glad she was smart enough to find you. Everyone in the building has been upset since the young woman who was her assistant died. I hope she has you checking into that. What caused her death?”
He sipped his coffee. “They say she was sick.”
“I’ve heard she was witched.” Walker let the words hang over the breakfast table for a moment. “But I don’t believe in that. Tiffany always treated me respectfully, answered my questions as best she could when I called about council business and her boss wasn’t handy. I liked her. But recently, I sensed that something bothered her, some weight on her shoulders. I asked her what was the matter, but she wouldn’t talk about it. Or couldn’t. Did she confide in you?”
He shook his head. “I never had the opportunity to know her. The only time I spent with her was in the parking lot after she collapsed and we called an ambulance.”
“When was that?”
“The afternoon before she died.”
Walker pressed her lips into a straight line for a moment. “Her father is taking her death very hard. He feels bad that she died alone.”
“I heard that her sister lived there at the time.” Leaphorn searched his memory. Collette. “And Mrs. Pinto was outside, watching for the ambulance.”
“Well, they say that Collette told her father she had gone out to get some groceries. She came back to find Mrs. Pinto there and Tiffany dead. I’ve been acquainted with their father for years. He thinks Mrs. Pinto caused his daughter’s death by, well . . . you know how some people think. Have you met him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And what?”
When she smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes added texture to her face. “And, Joe Leaphorn, tell me why that young woman died and why the museum director hired you and what is going on over there that she wants to cover up. You make a difficult conversation even more difficult. And I am not even forcing you to speak English.”
He smiled back and lowered his voice. “I’ve heard the talk of witchcraft. Rumors like that have always bothered me, as they bother you. As I said earlier, I can’t talk about why my client hired me except that it concerns a gift to the museum. I would never involve myself with any kind of cover-up.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that. I admire your integrity, and that’s why I wanted to talk to you.” Walker spread her fingers on the table in front of her. “Tiffany wasn’t in the best of health, but she felt well enough to go to work the day she died. I don’t believe in witchcraft, but my intuition tells me something strange and bad happened to her, and it could be related to her job.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“I know some of Tiffany’s friends. I’ll see what I can learn about this—if she had any enemies, if she was doing anything dangerous, anything that would have hinted that someone wanted her dead.” She finished her coffee. “I’m due at a meeting. I’ll see you here Friday at nine. You’ll know more by then, and that gives me time to find out what I can.”
She started to lay some dollar bills on the table, but Leaphorn shook his head. “I’ll get this.”
“Next time, it’s on me.”
He nodded. “I know better than to argue with you.”
“When is your housemate coming back?”
“I’m not sure.”
He noticed a sparkle in her dark eyes. “I’ll see you Friday.”
14
Before Bernie contacted the man in charge of booking vendor space at the Shiprock flea market, she did some checking. Her sources confirmed that the operator worked hard to keep out the bad element and was quick to remove anyone selling anything illegal or suspicious. Then she phoned him to ask about the vendor who had Mr. Natachi’s bolo.
“Oh, that must have been Eric Stevens. He’s a longtime seller with us. He comes once, maybe twice a month.”
“Have you heard any complaints about him selling stolen merchandise?”
“Nope. He wouldn’t be there if I had. If I get a hint that anyone is using their booth to fence stuff, I shut them down. Tell me why you’re asking about him.”
Bernie explained.
“I’d believe him if he said that he didn’t know it was stolen. Stevens is a stand-up guy.”
“How can I reach Mr. Stevens?”
Bernie called the number, caught up with her paperwork, and called again. On the third try, someone answered.
“Hello. May I speak to Eric Stevens?”
“What are you selling?”
She identified herself and explained the reason for her call.
“I should have known better than to buy that bolo. You ever heard them say if a deal seems too good to be true, it probably is?”
“I have.”
“That string tie had some beautiful workmanship, top quality. Hey, you know I gave it back to the old gentleman, right? No questions asked.”
“He told me that’s what you did.” Bernie remembered the happy tears in Mr. Natachi’s eyes. “When I walked over to talk to you about it, your space was empty. You’d packed and left. Why did you take off? The market still had plenty of customers. Did you have something to hide?”
“No, nothing like that. I just didn’t want to get balled up with having to tell my story to a cop and then explain to the manager why a cop was talking to me. That scares away buyers.”
“Where did you get Mr. Natachi’s bolo tie?”
“I bought it from a man in Gallup who told me it was his uncle’s. He said his uncle asked him to sell it because he needed the money for groceries.”
“Where was this?”
“In front of the Walmart. When the dude came up to me and said I could have it for three hundred bucks, well . . . I looked at the bolo, and sure enough, it had that great classic look. I thought the story could be true and that I was helping the family. I guess I shoulda known better.”
“Can you describe the man selling it?”
“Navajo, in his twenties or early thirties. A little plump but strong-looking, like a bulldogger or something. He was kinda dressed up, jeans and a new button shirt, boots.” Stevens paused. “He acted normal, you know, not high or anything. His story made sense except for something that happened later.”
“What’s that?”
“After I gave him the money, I went inside the store, and I saw him in the grocery department. I thought he’d be buying flour, potatoes, eggs, meat, you know. But he was in the bakery department picking up a big ol’ cake. Anyway, I puzzled about that.”
“When did you realize the bolo was stolen?”
“Not until the old gentleman came by my booth. Trust me, I wouldn’t have bought it if I’d known. It was more expensive than the items I handle out there, but the tourists are around so I thought it was worth a chance. I figured if it didn’t move at the market, I could sell it online. It was worth at least double what I paid. At least five hundred dollars.”
“You said he wanted three hundred for it.”
“He did, that’s right. I talked him down.” Stevens stopped. “It was worth what he asked, especially because of his story, but I’m used to negotiating with people.”
Bernie tossed out a few more questions about the person who sold the bolo. Stevens estimated the man’s height at around five-foot-seven and his weight at 190. He hadn’t noticed any scars or a wedding ring, but he mentioned that the man had just had a haircut. He hadn’t seen what vehicle the man was driving.
“When are you back at the flea again?”
“This weekend. I just got a bunch of cool sunglasses. Five bucks. Come and see me.”
“I might.”
“For you, four fifty.”
She typed up her notes, disappointed that, except for the bolo seller’s description, the interview seemed to lead nowhere. She was heading off when Sandra buzzed her.
“Remember that woman who was trying to reach Leaphorn?”
“Mona something?”
“She wants to talk to Chee, but . . .”
“I’ll take it.”
Arthur Green Yazzie’s sister got right to the point. “What’s with you people? I don’t know why this is so complicated. All I need is to talk to Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn. What’s so hard about that?”
“The Lieutenant asked my husband and me to see if we could help you because he’s involved with a big case. May I give him a message or do anything for you?”
“He’s on a case? He was old when I seen him in court with my brother.” The voice on the phone was tinged with frustration. “He’s been old since before I was even born. Someone should tell that dude he is old enough to retire already. I bet he’s been working longer than I’ve been alive.”
Bernie smiled. “He did retire from the police department, but he still assists with complicated cases, and he does some freelance work as an investigator and consultant. That’s why he’s hard to reach.”
“I bet he’s like my aunt and he doesn’t enjoy talking on the phone much either.”
“I’d be glad to help you if I can.”
“No, that won’t work. It’s personal.” Mona Willeto gave Bernie her number. “Just ask him to call me as soon as he can.”
“How is your brother? I heard—”
But Willeto had already hung up.
Bernie was on the way to a call about a stolen vehicle when Largo contacted her on the radio. “After you’re done with that, Agent Johnson wants to talk to you. She said it wasn’t urgent.”
As it turned out, the stolen truck wasn’t urgent either. It hadn’t actually been stolen, just “borrowed” by a clan brother who forgot to tell the owner, drove it until it ran out of gas, and then abandoned it along the road and hitchhiked home. By the time Bernie arrived, the alleged thief had already confessed, arranged a ride to pick it up, and scrounged up money for gas to drive the vehicle back to the owner. Problem solved. She suspected that the family following through on a threat to call the police had motivated the confession and resolution.
When she had cell service, she called Agent Johnson. Cordova, Johnson’s predecessor, always had a quip, a joke, or at least a how-ya-doin’ for her. She knew Johnson would get right to the point. “Hi. It’s Bernie. I heard you wanted to talk.”
“I have some follow-up questions for you about the body you found.”
“I’m driving but go ahead.”
“I’d like to talk face-to-face. Where are you now?”
Bernie told her. “I don’t have my notes on what I saw out there. I can be back at the substation in about half an hour, pick up my notes, and meet you somewhere. I know Largo sees this as a priority.”
Johnson surprised her. “It sounds like you’ve already done a lot of driving today and I haven’t been out of the office. Let’s talk about this on your turf. I’ll let Largo know.”
“That will work. Do you know who the victim was?”
“Yes. See you in a bit.”
Bernie steered over the familiar roads and into the outskirts of Shiprock, noticing that the clouds had started building up earlier in the day and towered to look more like those that could bring rain. Their shade kept the heat in check. She thought about stumbling upon the dead person and the rest of the scene, sifting through her memories to see what she might have missed. She pictured the sweaty man she’d encountered before she found the body. Perhaps Johnson’s team had found him.
Chee used the computer at the Chinle station to try to learn more about Ryana. He discovered that the senior center had honored her as employee of the month back in January. The announcement in the newsletter, along with her smiling photo, noted that she had been on staff for a year. He remembered Ryana’s comment that Elsie would give her a ride to work and noticed that Elsie Bitsóí, food services assistant director for the senior meal program, had presented the award.
Then Chee called the hospital and talked to nurse Lucinda. “You won’t believe it, but Mr. Natachi is down in X-ray. The portable machine wasn’t working right the first time. They fiddled with it for an hour.”
“How is he?”
“No worse.”
“Has Ryana been by?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
He drove to the senior center and made his way to the multipurpose room. A few women were clearing the tables and directed him to Elsie. The room smelled of pinto beans and corn bread, and reverberated with the sounds of organized old age: the lucky letter-number combinations of bingo and a television on too loud in counterpoint to the clatter of dishes in the industrial kitchen.
Elsie Bitsóí greeted him like a friend. She looked to be forty-something, give or take five years. Chee noticed her strong hands and the blunt unvarnished nails of a woman who worked hard at the kind of job that sent a person home tired. Her white blouse had darker semicircles at the armpits.
“I’ve been worried about the girl and her grandfather. I knew something was wrong when she called me to tell me not to pick her up today. She said she needed some time off. She just called again and she said her grandfather had been shot. What’s going on?”
Chee leveled with her.
“No! That poor old man. He would never harm anyone.” She shook her head before Chee could cobble together a response. “What a shame.”
“Do you know where Ryana is now?”
“No. I told her to go ahead, take today off, do what she had to. That girl is a good worker. She never complains about overtime—she even requests it. When her boyfriend left, she asked me for a ride until she figured out what to do. I didn’t mind. Like I said, Ryana works hard.”
“Did she ever talk to you about being in the movies?”
Elsie gave him a wink. “I’m too old and fat to be a movie star.”
“I mean, did Ryana ever talk about her work in the movies, you know, the films she made while she was living in Phoenix?”
“That girl was in the movies?”
“That’s what I heard.”
Elsie laughed. “She never talked about that, but she’s so pretty, she could be a movie star. I’ll have to ask her.”
“I heard that Ryana had a BMW. What happened to it?”
“She sold that car. They drove her boyfriend’s car, a little sedan. She told me he had one of those computer jobs you can do from home, from anywhere, you know what I mean? He came here out of California. She told me Nicky knew a lot about security, you know, about how to keep someone from stealing your identity, stuff like that.”
Chee nodded. It was easy to get information from a woman who liked to talk.
“Ryana said he wanted to offer a safety program here, you know, talk to the elderlies. Most of these old ones don’t have computers, but after she said he would talk about other things, too—good lighting, grab bars, rugs that don’t slip, stuff like that. I said OK. Nicky did a good job.”
“What other tips did he have?”
“Oh, he said, ‘I bet I can tell you where you keep your jewelry.’ And he asked people to raise their hands if he got it right. His first guess was in a box on your dresser. Most people raised their hands. Then on a shelf in the closet. Then in the top drawer in the bathroom. Then under the bed. Only three people had
n’t raised their hands, and two of them said they didn’t have any expensive jewelry. The other lady said it was none of his business.”
“That’s interesting.” Smart woman, Chee thought. “What was that lady’s name?”
“Mrs. Youngman.”
Her name was not on any of the reports he had just read.
Elsie talked on. “His program was interesting. I’d show it to you if I could. We always ask to video those presentations, but Nicky said no, no video. I don’t know why. He’s handsome for a white man. Shiny black hair, tall, kinda slim. He wore two gold earrings.”
“What did Mr. Natachi think about Nicky?”
Elsie frowned. “You should ask him that.”
“So, he didn’t like him?”
“I think one trouble was that Nicky’s older than her. He might be forty-five.”
As she spoke, Chee began to construct a scenario that made sense of the burglaries and Mr. Natachi’s shooting. “Do you know Nicky’s last name?”
“No. You could ask Ryana, but he’s old news. He left her.”
“What happened?”
“Well, sometime last week he just went away, no argument or nothin’. At least, that’s her story. He took his computers out of the house but left his car. That was strange, but I told her it was his going-away present because he felt guilty. I think he has another girlfriend who came by for him, and that’s why he’s avoiding Ryana. He’s too chicken to even say good-bye.” Elsie sighed. “I gotta get back to work. When you see Ryana, let her know I’m thinking of her. Want a cold drink to take with you?”
“No, thank you. I appreciate your time.”
“Tell Mr. Natachi to get better. Tell him I’ll give him an extra cookie when he comes in for lunch.”
Chee answered Bernie’s call from the comfort of the senior center lobby, enjoying the air-conditioning.
“Hey, where are you?” She sounded good. “At the movies?”
“You’re right, sweetheart. It’s Blazing Saddles.”
“So the heat’s gotten to you.”
“I’m at the senior center at Chinle learning more about Ryana.” He explained, “The film is down the hall.”
The Tale Teller Page 18