The Bible Seller: A Navajo Nation Mystery (Navajo Nation Mysteries Book 7)

by R. Allen Chappell

  The other man, the barmaid said, seemed especially intrigued when he noticed Alfred became nervous at the mention of the woman with the red hair (the same woman, she thought, that Rosie Johnson was spreading the word about only days before). After Alfred left the bar, the man mentioned to her Alfred seemed to know something about the red-haired woman. The man said he intended talking to Rosie––thinking it might be nice to have that reward.

  When Charlie brought this up to Billy Red Clay, the young officer immediately showed an interest, and after thinking a minute said, “Maybe Fred Smith would consider going along with us on this one.” He then smiled. “The FBI carries a little more authority in town than we do.”

  Charlie thought about this, nodded, and allowed Billy was probably right. He didn’t ask to take Thomas Begay along this time, though the thought had previously crossed his mind. He knew that would be pressing his luck.

  Agent Smith agreed to meet them at the Social Club in an hour and Charlie checked his watch thinking they could just make it.

  ~~~~~~

  When Charlie and Billy pulled up in front of the bar, the FBI man’s plain grey sedan with government plates was glaringly obvious to those inside. As the denizens of the seedy bar considered the impending incursion, there came a hurried exit of shifty-eyed patrons, most of whom avoided eye contact as they quickly disappeared up the street.

  Billy Red Clay smiled at Fred as the agent got out of his car and gave him a quick salute.

  Charlie Yazzie lifted a hand as well and figured the FBI man must have intended making just such an impression.

  The pair joined Fred on the sidewalk––watching intently as several more drinkers left the bar in search of less intimidating watering holes.

  Fred immediately made mention of the fact that his junior agent hadn’t been able to get much out of the bar owner…or her patrons…when he was last there investigating Benny Klees’s abandoned pickup. Several days had passed and still no witnesses had come forward to say who might have left the truck.

  “No,” Billy said, “I don’t imagine your man had any luck down here, and I doubt I’d have done much better myself. These people don’t trust any law.” Billy frowned at the placard in the window of the lounge. “We may not find it any easier today.”

  “We’ll see.” Fred had a little smile on his face, but there was no smile in his eyes. He had the look of someone who meant business and knew exactly how that business should be handled.

  “I hear Rosie doesn’t like her customers being harassed,” Charlie Yazzie offered. “I’d say we should have her full attention by now. Thomas says she’s an in-your-face sort who won’t hesitate to confront the law,” adding cautiously, “regardless of what badge they carry.”

  Now it was Billy’s turn to smile. “From what I hear, Sheriff Dudd Schott won’t even bother coming down here anymore.”

  Charlie grinned. “And with good reason too. The Sheriff wore out his welcome here when he was still a deputy.” Both men waited, expecting to see the FBI man look more concerned.

  Fred Smith, however, gave no notice he’d heard any of this and if intimidated in any way, he didn’t show it.

  The lounge was dark inside, smelling of old cigarette smoke and stale beer. The afternoon crowd of regulars had just been gathering when the entourage of officials from three different agencies unceremoniously descended on the establishment.

  Though it was broad daylight outside, there was hardly enough light in the bar to recognize faces, which was the way the clientele preferred it. Rosie’s customers favored anonymity…even toward each other.

  Charlie had never been in the place, but even he had to smile at the big Indian chief’s picture over the bar. He nudged Billy Red Clay, indicating the picture with a push of his lips, an uncharacteristic gesture for the Legal Services investigator. Billy Red Clay chuckled as he read the inscription: “We have reservations!”

  Fred Smith followed their gaze…but seemed not to get what the picture was about…or if he did, he didn’t let on.

  Rosie wasn’t behind the bar, but Charlie’s informant was, and she cautiously looked them over before making her way down to wipe a clean spot for them.

  “Is Rosie Johnson here?” The FBI man sounded quite businesslike, as he flashed his I.D, causing the woman to raise an eyebrow at Charlie Yazzie; she hadn’t counted on the Feds being involved and was now obviously rethinking her previous offer to help; she thought she would be dealing only with the tribal investigator.

  The barmaid was clearly apprehensive and side-eyed Charlie, as she inspected the agent’s credentials “She just went to the back. I can get her if you want?”

  Charlie, seeing his former client becoming more than a little nervous, motioned her over. “We aren’t going to involve you in this…won’t mention you at all in fact.” This seemed to lessen the woman’s concern and she appeared slightly more at ease as she hurried to fetch her boss––for what she now hoped would be a routine questioning––one leaving her out of it, as Charlie had promised.

  It was less than a minute before the lounge owner blustered through the office door and stomped her way down the bar to glare at the three men. “I’ve already told you people everything I know about that pickup truck…which is nothing!” Her eyes darted from one to the other and there was no worry or nervousness about her as she slammed the flat of her great paw on the bar in front of them.”

  Fred Smith, despite his innocuous appearance, calmly flashed his badge, set his jaw, and leaned forward––almost nose to nose with the big woman. He growled, “We’re not here about the truck,” causing the big woman to rock back momentarily and reconsider her attitude. The Feds were the Feds after all, and this one had his game face on.

  Billy Red Clay stood back and watched, hoping to learn something he might someday use to his own advantage; still he remained ready to jump in should the situation warrant it.

  Charlie, for his part, only crossed his arms and tried to look as stern as possible, hoping the other officers would at least take that as a show of solidarity.

  The FBI Agent let his eyes wander about the lounge, giving the impression he was taking in the most minute of details. He focused a critical glance at the back bar where the establishment’s licenses were displayed, studied them a moment, then turned his attention to the lighting and electrical fixtures. Finally, the lawman glared. “I see at least three violations of local and federal statutes that put you in noncompliance, Ms. Johnson.” Fred’s gaze did not waver in the least and he now spoke in a threatening tone of his own. “I can shut you down and keep you shut down for a long while…and I will… make no mistake about that, Rosie.”

  Charlie Yazzie glanced about––wondering what the agent could possibly have seen to warrant such accusations. He was, nonetheless, left with the distinct impression Agent Smith could, and would, stand behind those allegations––regardless of what Rosie Johnson might think to the contrary. This is what made the FBI…the FBI. Their training was known the world over to be without peer when it came to the procedurals of modern law enforcement.

  Establishing some sort of psychological high ground was an obvious priority for Agent Smith and he was not yet through. “Then, Rosie…there’s the more urgent matter of withholding information in a homicide investigation…possibly two homicides, in fact. This could get nasty…and fast.”

  This talk of two homicides surprised both Billy Red Clay and Charlie Yazzie––leaving both men wondering what Agent Smith meant by two homicides.

  Rosie, for her part, was fast coming to the conclusion she may have misjudged the severity of the situation. She was now thinking any perceived involvement might exact a price she was unwilling to pay. She had no doubt Federal Agent Smith was a bulldog. He had taken hold and wasn’t going to let go until he got what he wanted. Rosie became even more doubtful she could justify the consequences this federal agent had so clearly laid out. Her demeanor, bold though it first had been, paled considerably, and her icy resolve, f
or the first time in years, showed signs of melting.

  “Well, look here now.” The big woman’s protest turned wheedling and she looked from one to the other for some sign of consideration—then caught herself as she glanced down the length of the bar to make sure no one had overheard or taken notice. It would not do to show any sort of weakness or cooperation with the law––not in this business, it wouldn’t. “Come on back to the office,” she finally muttered, leading the way.

  After nearly forty-five minutes of intensive interrogation, the three lawmen were convinced Rosie Johnson had at last told them what she knew about this stranger making inquiries into the woman with red hair. The man had taken the room she sometimes rented, she said, and paid up for three days before moving out the next night without even asking for a refund. When she showed them upstairs to the room, Fred Smith cautioned her to keep it locked after they left and to not allow anyone inside until his forensic team got there.

  Billy Red Clay and Charlie Yazzie stayed outside the door, only peering inside, as Fred took the few steps to the middle of the room. The agent did a slow turn of the shabby accommodations, leaving the two Navajo with the impression he had missed nothing. He nodded again to himself, turned to leave, and then smiled at the two, yet said nothing.

  Billy, nonetheless, felt the agent had learned something of value, and remained in awe of his perceived investigative prowess. Billy thought his own agency should fall into better compliance with FBI protocol, and meant to bring it up in the next Interagency Meeting––not that he hadn’t mentioned it before––but his resolve was now strengthened in that direction.

  Later, Fred would tell the pair he was almost certain his people would find prints. “It’s easier to wipe down a pickup than it is an entire room, especially a dirty room…not many are able to do it without missing the odd print or two. If this is the same man we think he is, he may well have been in more of a hurry this time and not taken such care as before.” There was something else the agent had noticed but kept this information to himself for the time being; on the little table beside the bed was a Gideon Bible and peeking out from inside it––a blue, silk bookmark.

  Charlie was somewhat mollified that the FBI now considered this stranger a prime suspect in the murder of the old silversmith from Teec Nos Pos. Fred Smith probably thought so from the start, and this served to increase Charlie’s respect for the agent…and for his agency. He and Thomas Begay felt, from the beginning, the man should be a prime suspect, and he was pleased to see they had been vindicated in that assumption. Still, he wished the Bureau had seen fit to confer that information a little earlier on.

  That a murderer would make so bold as to take a room, right there at Rosie’s, after abandoning the victim’s truck nearby was a ruse that nearly worked—yet another indicator of the fugitive’s sly but twisted mental state. Charlie had to admit the brazen act served its purpose.

  No one could know how closely all their fates were now entwined, nor could they know how their lives would be even more violently impacted.

  12

  The Quest

  It was an anxious Harley Ponyboy that slowed his truck and pulled to the side of the road to gaze up the hill at Lucy Tallwoman’s camp. On his way back to town it occurred to him he might save time by borrowing Lucy’s new telephone, maybe even catch Charlie Yazzie at his office. He was certain Charlie was now his best chance for help. The Legal Services investigator was, in fact, the only official he trusted to understand Eileen’s dilemma.

  Harley was obsessed with the thought that Eileen, left in such unfamiliar surroundings as his Aunt Willie’s, might become stressed to the point of doing something as foolish as leave the security of his family’s camp. As desperate as she might believe her situation to be, he knew she was at least as safe there, for the time being, as she would be anywhere else. His Aunt Willie had family and clan scattered all over that area, and should push come to shove, those people would provide an extra barrier of protection. Family still looked out for each other in that part of the country.

  As he made his way up the one-lane track to Lucy Tallwoman’s newly built house, he didn’t see Thomas’s truck in front, but still hoped to find it parked out back next to Paul T’Sosi’s old hogan. Thomas often left it there to take advantage of the little patch of shade the new house provided. The truck’s blue paint was newer than the vehicle itself and Thomas intended to keep it that way as long as possible.

  Harley drove around the corner of the building––there still was no vehicle in sight. He stopped to consider but before he could think what to do next, the door of the hogan swung open and Paul T’Sosi appeared looking either surprised…or possibly… agitated at the sight of him. The old man hesitated only a moment then motioned for him to follow as he headed for the back door of the house.

  Harley frowned, but got down from the truck and hurried toward the open door where he saw Paul already taking a pot of coffee from the stove. The old man didn’t ask; just brought two cups and the pot over to the table. He pushed his chin toward a chair then pulled out one for himself. There was a can of evaporated milk along with a sugar bowl next to a glass of spoons. Paul poured the cups three-quarters full, leaving room for the required dollop of canned milk and several spoons of sugar.

  The old singer didn’t waste time with niceties. “Where you been, Harley? Everybody in the country has been looking for you.” The old man waited, eyes flat, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

  Harley stirred his coffee before looking up. “Now, why would anyone be lookin’ for me, Paul?”

  “Well, I guess, because they wondered if you might be dead, too, like Alfred Nakii…he died about an hour ago. Thomas and Lucy were up at the hospital. Charlie Yazzie was there, too.”

  Harley appeared unmoved by this news as though he hadn’t heard Paul, or if he had, didn’t understand what he was saying; he only shook his head at the old man. “No, Paul. I just talked to Alfred this morning and he was fine. Alfred’s not dead.”

  “Well, Harley, he may have been fine this morning, but he is sure dead now. Lucy told me she and Thomas were with him when he died. And from what they could figure, they thought you might be dead too.” Paul blew on his coffee before taking a long slow sip. “My daughter said someone might be out to get you because of some woman.” The old man stared directly at Harley Ponyboy knowing full well it was bad manners, but not caring. The old singer wasn’t often so rude. “For a while they thought Alfred might make it…be able tell them what happened.” The old man looked at his cup, made a sour face, and stirred in another spoon of sugar. “I guess he did come around a time or two all right, but only for a minute each time…so badly beaten he couldn’t say much. The doctor told them something was torn loose inside. No one understood the word he used but he made it plain it was something he couldn’t fix. He told them, then, Alfred probably wouldn’t make it.”

  Paul paused a moment and thought back to the call from his daughter. “The doc even sent the cop away…telling him Alfred was about done and wouldn’t wake up again.” The old man forced a half-smile. “But he didn’t know Alfred.” He gazed off into the distance, “Our family always liked that boy…we been knowing his mother a long time. Even with Alfred being in jail, she still thought he would make some woman a good husband…she never stopped looking. ‘It would have to be someone special, who could keep a tight rein on him,’ she would say. ‘Help him stay out of trouble,’ she told everyone. His momma was certain that person would come along one day…thought so right up to the time she died…hoping for those grandbabies she was always talking about, I guess.”

  Harley worried through this talk, but was not quite willing to believe Alfred was gone. It was only after listening to Paul a while longer that he slowly came to the realization Alfred must be dead. Harley, too, then went to the sugar bowl and dumped another spoonful in his coffee, stirring it absentmindedly for nearly a minute before asking, “Who killed him?” His shoulders had taken a slump, as
though he already knew. He sat back in his chair with a growing premonition he was the cause of his friend’s horrific end.

  “That’s what they still don’t know, Harley, but Lucy let on it might have something to do with that woman you been hiding out. That’s what they think––you been hiding someone’s woman up at your place. Whoever’s looking for her probably beat Alfred to death trying to find out where you two were.” Paul didn’t say this in an accusatory manner but that was, nonetheless, the way it came across to Harley Ponyboy, and in his mind, it reinforced his growing sense of guilt.

  Harley had a way of thinking bad things were just naturally his fault…even when they weren’t. Professor Custer had once supposed the little man might have developed a guilt complex after Anita’s death. Then, too, there was the drinking that came after––that hadn’t helped. He suggested to Harley he seek professional help. Harley took this to mean Old Man Paul T’Sosi who he had long considered his go-to medical consultant for mental or physical ills.

  The old singer, though thinking himself retired, had risen to the occasion and studied long and hard to find the proper rite or ceremony that could help; but nothing, so far, had worked. He was certain now; the problem had something to do with Harley’s hozo being out of whack. He had performed several ceremonies he thought might fix the problem, but still nothing came of it. Finally, Paul had to admit his friend might have to look elsewhere for relief.