Yellow Lies

by Susan Slater

  Sal shook his head.

  “Kid’s supposed to show me something he found last night.”

  “Check the house.”

  “Did that. Miz Rawlings thought he might be with you. Oh well, I’ll keep looking. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” Tommy was almost out the door before he turned back. “What kind of bugs are those?”

  “Beetles. Jumping Sumac beetles.”

  + + +

  When Ben drove up to the boardinghouse a little after noon, he was surprised to find Tommy Spottedhorse leaning against the reservation patrol car, a bathtub shaped Caprice in white. But the only way Ben knew the car’s color for certain was to check the roof—the rest hid beneath a generous dusting of reservation caliche, the hard packed clay that made the backroads passable, unless it rained.

  “Thought you promised .22 would take me on tour?”

  Tommy sounded good natured about it, but Ben was vaguely upset that Harold had promised, then didn’t deliver. He started to say how sorry he was, but Tommy waved aside any apologies.

  “I was smart enough to come about lunch time, anyway. My mama didn’t raise no dummies.” Tommy added, “but I think I see another reason that coming out here was a good idea. Look at that.”

  Ben followed Tommy’s nod. A young woman was taking suitcases out of the trunk of a car about thirty feet from them. The sun seemed to meld with her strawberry-blond hair piled on top of her head. The white, bare-backed sundress showcased a tan and ended above the knees—considerably above the knees—as she leaned into the trunk.

  “That’s heaven,” Tommy murmured.

  No, Ben thought, that’s Julie and he took a full minute to let it sink in that here she was after four years. It was hard to believe—harder yet to keep from running over, taking her in his arms ... and then what? He wasn’t sure what the reception would be. And wasn’t it always better to go slow?

  “Maybe we should help her.” Tommy was obviously eager to meet her. “You coming or not?” Ben waved him forward and watched as Tommy straightened his badge and tucked in his shirt before sauntering across the parking lot. Ben followed a few paces back.

  “Hiding behind the law isn’t going to work, Ben Pecos.”

  Julie had closed the trunk and now leaned back against the car and watched the two of them approach. Tommy quizzically looked over his shoulder at Ben then stepped to one side.

  “I called Santa Fe and found out you’d tried to reach me this morning. The clerk even said you sounded concerned.” She stepped forward and took one of Ben’s hands in hers, squeezed it and let it drop. But the gesture wasn’t lost on Tommy, Ben noticed.

  “You know if you hadn’t called, I would have turned around at Grants.”

  “Hey, I didn’t know you two knew each other.” Tommy looked at Ben then back at Julie.

  “Tommy Spottedhorse. Julie Conlin.” Ben made the introductions then added, “most recently of Good Morning America, right?”

  “Wow. I knew it. I knew I recognized you.” Tommy’s enthusiasm seemed boundless. “My mom would love to meet you.”

  “I’m impressed. I’m only a fill-in on the show, but that will change in the fall. I’ll have a regular spot highlighting Americana starting in September.”

  “How long can you stay?” Ben asked.

  “Two weeks, a month, it depends. But I’m here with the show’s blessing. This seems the logical place to gather background on Native American symbols. I’ll start with fetishes.”

  Ben relaxed. Tommy’s being there saved him from any awkwardness, any decision of whether to kiss her or just keep it neutral. Ben felt relieved when neutral won out. He wanted to give it some time. He needed to make certain that she was there because of him—not just for the show.

  “Who’s the Mia Farrow lookalike?”

  Hannah waved from the porch.

  “That’s your landlady. Tommy, grab a bag and let’s get some lunch.”

  It was just the three of them until .22 showed up for dessert. He seemed agitated and fidgeted with a bowl of ice cream, twirling the frozen lumps of vanilla and chocolate until he had produced a cool soup which he proceeded to slurp with a serving spoon. Hannah preferred to ignore. Or so it seemed, Ben thought. Maybe over the years his behavior had become so commonplace, she simply didn’t notice.

  “We talk.” Ben and Tommy had helped clear the table while Hannah showed Julie to her room and now .22 had cornered them in the kitchen.

  “What do we need to talk about, Harold?” Ben asked.

  “You call me .22.”

  “You didn’t keep your part of the bargain, .22. You didn’t show Officer Spottedhorse where we found the mask.”

  “It’s gone.”

  “What’s gone?” Tommy stood in front of .22 and seemed to be struggling to keep his voice even. “Can you show me?”

  “No good.”

  “Let me decide that. I need to see where the mask was hidden.” Tommy was clearly frustrated by the boy and turned to Ben. “Can you find the place again?”

  “I think so. It was just off a path of some sort that starts behind the deli-mart.”

  “Do you want to come?” Ben watched as .22 seemed to consider the invitation then vigorously shook his head.

  The woods were cool and inviting in the daylight. A canopy of pines shaded them part of the way before opening onto bare rocky spots covered hit and miss with yellow button-round flowers. Under the trees, the thick brush muffled the sound of their footsteps. They reached the log that marked the spot and Tommy uttered an expletive. There had been recent tampering— probably .22 trying to find the mask.

  “I’m kicking myself that I didn’t bring the stuff in last night. Guess I was thinking I’d be removing evidence—that you’d need to see it exactly like we found it.”

  Tommy didn’t comment. He was on his hands and knees, one arm buried to the shoulder in the hole under the log. But when he sat back, he didn’t have anything in his hand.

  “Tell me again what you saw.”

  This time Ben described in detail the multi-colored mask and piece of white material the size of a bedsheet—more than likely was a bedsheet if he remembered correctly, and had been used to transport the mask.

  “No one has reported any artifacts missing.” Tommy seemed to be talking to himself. “Every other year or so, someone tries to buy or steal ceremonial paraphernalia. But you said the mask seemed new?”

  “I had that distinct feeling. It was less than a year old, probably. The cuts in the wood were raw-like, fresh and rough, and the painting was only fair. I’m not a good judge, but it struck me as a fake.”

  “And .22 said a person wearing a mask—the mask you found, for sake of argument—did the scalping?” Tommy acknowledged Ben’s nod. “He didn’t happen to say he’d actually seen the scalping?”

  “No. Not exactly. He just said that he knew that a masked person did it. Or something like that. It was a combination of gestures,” Ben copied .22’s slicing motion at the hairline, “and words. We’re not talking a large vocabulary, so I could be mistaken.”

  “He wasn’t much help when we interviewed him last night.” Tommy kicked at a piece of rotten log with the toe of his boot. “You know my people believe the movement of a mask is an omen of death. It’s maybe the most common hallucination. They think supernaturals do it, then put the blame on humans.” Tommy looked over at Ben; the start of a grin played around his mouth. “Lucky you. You’ll be treating this sort of thing soon. I hope you have heap strong medicine.”

  Ben fought a sinking feeling. There was so much to learn; it was so easy to take a wrong step.

  “See this?” Tommy had stooped to pick up a few strands of some pliable vegetable matter at the base of the log. “Tobacco. It could have been left as an offering to supernaturals.”

  “Or someone, like .22, sat here and shredded a cigarette for no apparent reason.”

  “Guess it depends on how you see things.” Tommy didn’t look up. There was no clue as to how Tommy
“saw” things. It was always difficult to figure the younger generations. Not all of them followed the old ways. Ben hoped he hadn’t offended Tommy, but the young man appeared distracted, not angry.

  “This mask thing bothers me. If it was real, this could have been its true hiding place. Masks are handled with great reverence. Usually, people are afraid to touch sacred objects.”

  “Outsiders wouldn’t be.”

  “Like the trader, Ahmed. I was just thinking of that. Suppose he was dealing in stuff he shouldn’t have been? That’s a real good reason to get killed. If this was his cache, then it explains why we found his body nearby.”

  “But if the mask is a fake?”

  “Still doesn’t rule out Ahmed being involved somehow. He could have sold copies. If the elders found out—”

  “You’re not saying they’d kill because of that.”

  “No, today they’d handle a problem like that legally, go for restitution.” Tommy looked pensive. “This isn’t much to go on—testimony of a retarded kid and your description of a mask that’s since disappeared.”

  “What else do you have?” Ben asked.

  “That’s about it, more or less zero. Everyone on the bus has an alibi, but frankly, I don’t see a contingent from Ohio getting into scalping.” He grinned ruefully at Ben. “You and Hannah were in the kitchen. Sal was in his trailer which places him at the scene but not necessarily involved. .22 disappeared, but sometime during the break between dinner and dessert, he put clean silverware on the table, leaving him very little time to dump a body, slice it up and get back to the house—that’d even be pushing it for someone who wasn’t impaired. Seems to make a case for outsiders, doesn’t it? But why?”

  Ben knew it was a rhetorical question. He let Tommy think out loud.

  “I guess I don’t have to tell you I have a supervisor breathing down my neck. Anytime a person is killed near a reservation, it’s messy. But this trader ... I’m not saying he was unpopular in the village, maybe, just not trusted. But he was a member of the community. Outsider with standing, his kids go to reservation schools, his wife is liked.”

  Tommy squatted, again his eyes searched the area around the log. “There’s talk about his family back in New York causing a stink. Ahmed took off for there three days ago. His car hasn’t been found. Supposedly, he was on a selling trip so there might be a robbery angle. But I have nothing concrete to tell them.”

  “I don’t suppose the tourist who found the body was helpful.”

  “Naw. Old guy means well but drifts in and out.”

  “Still he must have seen something or he wouldn’t have been behind the trailer to start with.”

  “I agree with you. He was over that way for some reason.”

  “What about the run-in Sal had with the man’s wife? Something about a rabbit? Could he have tried to find Sal? Maybe confront him?”

  “That’s interesting, but I don’t think the squabble was anything more than just a misunderstanding. Sal’s not going to take kindly to someone telling him what he should carve—especially an animal he’s forbidden to touch.”

  “Religious beliefs?”

  “His society.”

  “But I’ve seen rabbit fetishes.”

  “Whatever brings in the moola. Religious meaning is usually secondary, today. Most artists pay more attention to supply and demand economics than taboos.”

  “Then what do you make of the scalping? I would think that’s a taboo.”

  “A hundred years ago if an outsider was involved with stealing or copying artifacts? I’d expect that reaction. But not today. I can’t believe that if we had to have a murder, it couldn’t just be a plain old shooting without embellishment.”

  “Have you heard from the lab yet? Do you know how this Ahmed died?”

  “I got a call this morning. A little early for all the particulars but looks like a stabbing.”

  Tommy didn’t look happy as he stood and dusted off his uniform. The silence seemed to last overly long before Tommy said, “I suppose if someone came to you with information about the murder it would come under patient/therapist protection? You wouldn’t be able to talk about it?”

  “Probably. You think that might happen?”

  “Who knows? Some villagers would be bothered by knowledge of the dead. They might seek relief, want to talk about it.” Tommy looked at him with a grin, “Maybe you should just give me all the names of disgruntled women—a man who’s taken a scalp can’t have sex for a year.”

  Ben ignored the humor. “Let me decide what I can say when the time comes.” And found himself hoping he wouldn’t be faced with that decision.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It rained the fourth day. In itself, this wasn’t a big deal, Sal thought. If there hadn’t been substantial rains by the first of July, crops could be in trouble. So, some June rain was expected, needed. But rain the fourth day after a death indicated something else. That rain belonged to the deceased. He pushed the pedal under the workbench and started the whir of the grinder. A three-inch square of grayish marble was taking the shape of a horse, not a standard Hawikuh fetish, but a much sought-after figure among tourists. Even Sal, a master craftsman, carved what would sell.

  But he couldn’t keep his mind on his work. It kept straying to the rain. When he was little, his grandmother would point to white, fluffy cumulus clouds stacked high on top of one another on hot summer afternoons and say, “Look, the grandfathers are coming.” In the desert, rain was sacred. Those who died went to the place of water and returned wrapped in sheets of rain.

  But would this be true for someone like Ahmed? Someone from another country entirely? Sal didn’t know. Since he died on Indian land, would his ghost follow Indian rules? Probably not. So, Sal shouldn’t let it bother him. But that was easier said than done. He still feared death—any death. This was one of the most difficult beliefs for outsiders, for Hannah even, to understand. That death was both revered and feared.

  Water being an attribute of divinity, rain was a blessing bestowed by the divine. It could be brought to earth by the dead. And so long as the recent dead remembered life in this world, there was danger that they would long for those they had left behind, appear to them in dreams, trouble them during the day, make them sicken and die.

  Sal felt a sharp pain in his side when he breathed in. Had he pulled a muscle moving his equipment or ...? He shouldn’t take chances. He was vulnerable. Why had the body of the trader been on the hood of the truck? Or found behind Sal’s trailer. Death was stalking him. Sal knew he was marked in some way, and he needed to make atonement.

  There was a place called Wide River, a piece of the river’s bank cut away over time that was the special place of supernaturals. Sal would go there that evening and sprinkle black corn meal to erase the path of the dead. Sal would make certain, be extra careful to cut their spirits off from the living—from himself.

  “Is this a good time to talk?”

  Sal’s foot slipped off the pedal and the grinder abruptly stopped. He glanced at the doorway to the shed and blinked into the sunlight that outlined his visitor. He noticed the narrow waist and bare midriff between the cutoff jeans and halter top.

  “Come in.”

  “I appreciate your letting me interview you.”

  The woman was pretty, Sal thought, pretty but with too many spots on her face—the problem with Anglos who had red-gold hair. But the breasts were nice. Large, but not too large for her slight frame and wide shoulders. He had watched younger men, Tommy Spottedhorse and Ben Pecos, look at her—with their tongues on the floor. They weren’t looking at her spots. He almost smiled. There was a time he would’ve looked too. Maybe that’s what he was doing now, granting an interview so that he could look. But he knew better, he was talking to her because Hannah told him to—told him it would be good for business. He’d be on nationwide television maybe. His work would double, maybe triple in price. He rose to empty a wooden-backed chair and drag it closer to his workbench.


  “Do you do all your work in here?” She stepped into the room and stood looking around.

  Sal nodded, “Most.” He caught his breath. What did she mean by that? No one knew about the underground lab. “I like it here. It’s private.”

  “But there’s very little natural light. I mean, I wondered if you did any real work down at the trading post. I’d hate to be on display like that.”

  Sal smiled. “It’s not so bad.” He motioned to the chair. “Anything in particular you want to know about fetishes?”

  “I’d like to start by talking about their meaning. Do you mind if I use a tape recorder?”

  Sal shook his head and watched Julie place the tiny black box between them. She sat on the chair and leaned forward, elbows on his work bench. Her eyes were large, hazel, fringed with thick dark lashes. She wore a fresh scent like a breeze carrying rain. It was difficult to concentrate as its clean, crispness floated over him. He looked to the side but took in a deep lungful of its headiness.

  “Can you tell me about the origin of fetishes?”

  He smiled. He liked this story. “Some say that in the beginning, the world was made of ooze, and animals huge and deadly roamed freely before the coming of man. The first man was no match for his surroundings—not the muck, not the animals; so, the children of the sun decided to help. They dried up the land and with bolts of lightning sought to stun the animals and turn them into stone. The mountains in this valley are testaments of this help. Some animals were missed and live with us today.”

  “And today,” Julie asked, “how are the carved figures of animals used by your people?”

  Sal gathered his thoughts again, leaned back and, staring straight ahead, heard himself talk about fetishes as the talismans of hunters. A fetish was used to aid the hunter’s imagination—help him see the hunted, smell it, hear it. How the hunter could communicate with the spirit of the hunted through a replica. How he could ask its permission to kill it. Much like he did with the insects, Sal thought to himself. He prayed for the tiny lives first before he collected them and asked to be forgiven for his killing.