Yellow Lies

by Susan Slater

  “The same night the body was found?”

  Sal nodded. “He was outside my window.”

  “What does Atoshle look like?”

  That was an odd thing for the doc to ask, Sal thought, but he was acting like he believed him so he took a pen and sketched the mask on the back of the magazine under his drink, inking in the black slits for eyes and the fringe that covered the throat. Then he tore the corner away and handed it to Ben. He’d destroy the drawing after Ben looked at it.

  Sal heard a quick intake of breath. Ben was studying the mask, but Sal could tell it was familiar to him.

  “What colors are on the mask?”

  “Greens, reds, browns ...”

  “Tell me what Atoshle did that night.”

  “When I left the dining room I went back to my trailer. I laid on the bed and must have fallen asleep. I saw Atoshle standing at my kitchen window, the one above the sink. He stood there like he always does and watched me. But then I heard noises. I’d taken my hearing aid out, but I still heard something. There’s never been any sound before. So, I was surprised.”

  “What kind of noise?”

  “Grunting, like a man weighted down. Atoshle disappeared, and I heard someone ask something.”

  “Did you hear what it was?”

  “It was in English, but I didn’t have my hearing aid in. Then I heard something hit the trailer.”

  “Someone could have dropped the body.” Ben quickly sobered. “What happened next?”

  “I went to the window, but Atoshle was gone. I couldn’t see anything. So, I waited. Then I heard cries for help. I stepped outside but ducked back when I saw you. You know the rest.”

  “Why did you give Ahmed’s widow the bag of amber?” Ben pulled his chair closer to Sal. “If you want me to believe you’re innocent, tell me why you did that?”

  Sal looked at the floor. Should he tell the doc about the body on the hood? Or the amber rabbit left in its place? Maybe now was a good time to tell the truth about Ahmed’s involvement in selling the yellow lies. But that would point a finger at Hannah. He couldn’t do that. He didn’t care so much what happened to himself, but .22 needed his mother.

  “You were right when you said the trader looked like me. What if Atoshle made a mistake? Or killed Ahmed instead of me and left the body at my trailer to warn me? I had to make restitution with the widow.”

  “Why haven’t you told Tommy this?”

  “He’d think I was making it up.”

  “Maybe not.” Ben told Sal about finding the mask only to have it disappear again. He added that .22 had said a masked person did the killing. “Is there any reason why someone might be wanting to scare you?”

  Sal stared at the corner of the desk, pretended to be thinking. He knew the answer to this question. It was simple. If he’d never made amber, none of this would have happened. But who was trying to scare him? The ancient ones or another human who wanted the notebook? He didn’t know. The only thing for certain was all this had something to do with the amber, the money it was bringing in, his copying nature; he was sure of it.

  “Can’t think of one.” He didn’t look at the doc. Polite. He hoped his voice sounded strong. When Ben didn’t say anything, he stole a glance at the man sitting opposite him. Ben seemed lost in thought. Sal waited, wondered what he could be thinking. A tap on the glass partition next to the desk broke the silence. Ben opened the door.

  “I didn’t think I’d have to bother you, but I need to make a couple calls and get rid of the drunks tonight if I can.” Tommy had stuck his head in the door.

  “No problem. We’re just finishing up,” Ben said. “I’ll walk Sal back to his cell.”

  + + +

  Ben sat in his pickup outside the jail, gathering his thoughts. He’d shared his suspicions with Tommy, told him how someone might be trying to scare Sal by impersonating a kachina, someone tied in with that mask he’d seen hidden in the woods. Tommy appeared thoughtful. He said he’d do some checking, too.

  Ben was still vaguely uneasy. He couldn’t really put a finger on what was bothering him. He didn’t think Sal was suicidal, but he had complimented Tommy again on taking precautions. A jailer could never be careful enough. A small space, the embarrassment to a person’s family, guilt ... Guilt. That was part of his feeling of unrest. He’d bet his life Sal was telling him the truth about the supernatural. Sal had seen Atoshle. The kachina was real to him.

  What he wasn’t telling him the truth about was why he was being haunted. There was a reason, and Sal knew what it was. Ben could feel it. He didn’t know how Sal’s tribe viewed him. There could be some grudge, a payback, someone angry enough to have Sal witched. Ben should probably make some inquiries. Maybe Rose could be helpful. She knew the village, the gossip. He’d start there. It could be that Tommy should be looking for some disgruntled Hawikuh carver who had a beef with Sal. Someone who hid the body to make it look like Sal was involved ...

  The evening smelled fresh. Ben rolled down the window before he started the pickup, then pushed the sliding glass partition behind his head open all the way. The breeze promised rain. That was a good smell. A few drops had already smeared his windshield. But the scent lacked the acrid sharpness of water hitting limestone, one of those city smells that he didn’t miss—wet cement.

  This was probably the basic difference between Julie and him. He didn’t want to live in a city. If he could help it, he never would again. And Julie? He couldn’t imagine her anywhere else. As lonely as it was out here, he was drawn to the beauty, the quiet. So, wasn’t he hoping for something that was highly unlikely to happen? That Julie would decide that no matter what, she couldn’t live without him. He sighed. Life could get complicated. Ben pulled out of the parking lot and turned left onto the highway. He wasn’t in a hurry and doubted he’d see a car in the next five miles. There was time to think.

  The headlights surprised him. He really hadn’t expected traffic on this stretch of road, a minor artery between Hawikuh and Gallup. Ben was even more surprised when he recognized Dr. Lee’s car. It must have taken a bunch of chocolate cake to keep a man out here until almost midnight when he’d have to be at the clinic by six. But maybe it was just the wiles of the landlady. Now there was a puzzle.

  He replayed the conversation about prettiness. Some people just weren’t meant to live so far from civilization. It made them strange. Hannah was strange. Could something like that happen to Julie? The thought jolted him. Was he just not facing reality? And why hadn’t he made time to see her, talk, get caught up on her life, and find out what this prince nonsense was all about? For starters, fear of rejection was pretty strong. The truth was, there didn’t seem to be anywhere for the romance to go, and that hurt.

  He was driving through an edge of forested land now. It had rained here earlier, and the coolness made him snap the window shut behind his head. He had reached the summit of the ridge and started down the winding highway that led to the boarding house. A plan was forming. Not that he wanted to give shape to it quite yet, but he’d almost decided that if everyone was in bed when he got back, he’d do a little snooping in Sal’s trailer. He had an excuse. He could be picking up some things Sal had asked for. It was the perfect cover. He’d do it.

  There were three vehicles parked in front of the boarding house—Hannah’s Buick, Julie’s rental and one other, some late model nondescript sedan parked along the rail, backed in to be more exact. He thought they must be vacationers who had pulled in for the night, judging from the Nevada license plate. His pickup made four. Not a busy night. Ben waited before he got out of the truck but didn’t see a light in the house, only the hall nightlight, which stayed on. It would be a good time to take a look at the trailer.

  The old Airstream looked like it was straight out of the documentary on the Marlboro men—herders who used one-room portable shacks to hole up for the summer and stay within riding distance of the herd. Ben could remember seeing the trailers, high above logging roads hugging the
timberline, tin smoke stacks from pot-bellied wood burners standing tall; the chimneys towering over the silver rounded roofs as they dotted the mountains of Colorado and New Mexico exclaiming a solitary life.

  This one looked fairly well cared for. A plate of siding had been tacked down where it had apparently peeled around the front window. The oblong white tank to the side suggested propane and not wood for heating. Someone had put skirting around the trailer and the steps leading to the only entrance or exit had a side rail.

  Hadn’t Sal said it would be unlocked? Ben paused on the top step and took one last look at the house—no change, no lights indicating someone was up. He pulled open the trailer door, stepped inside, and snapped on his flashlight. The smell was of old grease. He’d probably find a can of bacon drippings under the sink. And then there was the faint odor of moth balls—what a combination.

  Two tree-shaped, pine air fresheners, the kind you could buy in filling stations, hung suspended in the kitchen window. They hadn’t been changed in awhile or had wisely known when they were beaten and had given up, Ben thought, because there was absolutely no woodland scent in the stuffiness of the confined space.

  The floor was linoleum, white with flecks of brown and scrubbed clean. Even the tiny cracks had been filled with wax. The flooring extended in one piece under the table, a Formica fold-down that separated two red vinyl covered seats and matching backs that faced each other and flanked the wide front window.

  The sink was under a smaller window on the west. That must give it the distinction of being the “kitchen” window, Ben decided. There was an under-the-counter refrigerator on the left and a countertop stove, no oven, on the right. Six feet of knotty-pine cupboards hung overhead.

  A blue plastic drinking glass rested on the counter and a pair of jeans had been thrown across the top bunk opposite the table. That was it. Those were the only two things left “out”—the only clutter. Clutter was a luxury for people who lived in small spaces.

  Ben wished he knew what he was looking for. It wasn’t anything in particular, or he would be able to give it a name. He had just sensed that he would be able to get a better idea of Sal—his interests, needs, who he was, some substantiation that he wasn’t guilty. So far, nothing had caught his eye. He didn’t think he could make a case for neat people not being murderers.

  Where should he start? He hated opening cupboards and snooping, but that was what he was going to have to do. Ben took a step toward the back and almost dropped the flashlight. A soft moan came from the bottom bunk. He swept the bed with light. Whatever it was, it almost filled the space defined by plywood sides. Quickly, Ben stepped forward and pulled the quilt back.

  A startled .22 blinked into the flashlight, pulled a reddened much-sucked thumb from his mouth and started to shriek in fright.

  “.22, it’s Ben. I’m your friend, remember?”

  “My friend gone.” He managed to sputter between gulps for air and wiping his nose on his arm.

  “Your friend will come back.”

  “After forever?”

  “He won’t be gone forever, maybe day after tomorrow.”

  “Promise?”

  “Well ...” It certainly was easy to step into a trap with .22, and Ben didn’t want to lie. “I’m pretty sure.”

  .22 swung both feet over the side of the bed and sat looking at Ben. He lightly tapped the heel of a sneaker against the wood paneling below the box springs, then stuck his thumb back in his mouth. He had been curled up in Sal’s bed fully clothed. But for all Ben knew, maybe that’s the way he slept every night, just another peculiarity.

  “You sleep here?” .22’s watery eyes searched Ben’s face.

  “No. I need to take some clothes to Sal.” Ben took a guess and opened a cupboard above the top bunk and removed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. “See. Shirt and jeans.”

  .22 loudly sucked his thumb but watched Ben intently.

  “Me go see Sal?”

  “Maybe. If he doesn’t come home first. But you need to go to bed—your bed.”

  “Too loud.”

  “What’s too loud?”

  “My bed.” Then .22 squinted his eyes, forced his head between raised shoulders and gave three realistic frog croaks—“rrri-bit, rrri-bit, rrri-bit.”

  Frogs? In his bed? It probably wasn’t out of the question. Ben smiled. “Come on, let’s go back to the house. Chase that frog out. Tell him you need to get some sleep.”

  .22 giggled and slid down from the edge of the bunk tangling his feet in the quilt and pulling it with him.

  “Careful. Let’s put everything back like you found it.” Ben bent over the bed to pull the sheets tight then turned to pick up the quilt. A tissue-wrapped package fell out of its folds and hit the floor. Ben leaned down to pick it up. The package was the size of money and had the feel of money. Someone had torn away the corner and the flashlight picked up the number one thousand—in every corner of about twelve bills.

  “Money,” .22 said.

  “Yes.” Now what? Ben tucked the packet into his jacket pocket. But what did he do that for? And in front of .22? He must be losing it. He guessed he’d learned not to leave something valuable and come back later hoping it would still be there.

  “You have money.” .22 seemed overly interested.

  “I’ll keep it safe.”

  “You buy ice cream?”

  Ben laughed. “Yes, I’ll buy ice cream. Now, let’s go.”

  Ben followed .22 across the lawn and up the front steps. Had he done the right thing? The money was obviously Sal’s, and certainly made the bag of amber that Sal gave the widow look like chicken feed. Sal’s worldly goods just took a big jump in value. It didn’t make him guilty of murder, but it seemed to make him guilty of something. Twelve one-thousand dollar bills. Where did you have to go to get currency in that denomination? Who would pay for something in bills that size? And what would they be buying?

  CHAPTER SIX

  The night was creeping along on little cat feet—no, it was fog that was supposed to do that. But there wasn’t much of that in the desert. Maybe, the night was slinking—that was something a cat could do, slink along on little velvet paws. Big velvet paws. Ben straightened the sheet, turned onto his back and looked at the ceiling.

  He heard the grandfather clock in the hallway chime twice. He rolled over and checked his digital alarm clock on the night stand—two and a couple zeros. This was getting him nowhere. The packet of money under his pillow might as well be a rock, a boulder. He couldn’t sleep. Why had he taken it? To safeguard it—that’s what he was telling himself. But he knew that he’d have to turn it in, hand it over to Tommy and have him keep it for Sal. Or give it to Sal. Or just ask Sal what he wanted done with it.

  But where would Sal have gotten twelve, new one-thousand dollar bills? He was a master carver. Could he have sold some work? Maybe. But what were the odds that the buyer or buyers would pay in thousand dollar bills?

  Ben sat up. He never had been any good at solving problems in the middle of the night. The best thing would be to take the packet of money to his truck, lock it in the glove compartment, come back and get a good night’s sleep. He pulled on a pair of jeans and running shoes but didn’t bother with a shirt. This wouldn’t take long.

  The night air was cool and muggy. He wished he’d slipped on a shirt. Lightning danced across the horizon to the west. There would probably be more rain before morning. Ben had used the back door off the porch and now rounded the house on the sidewalk that ran along the kitchen. The light was on. Ben slowed to look in the window. No one was in view. Someone must have come down for a snack and forgot the light. He’d turn it off on his way back.

  He was feeling better about his decision to leave the money in the truck. He was going to stop by the jail on his way to work, and he’d ask Sal what he wanted him to do. There. That was the right thing; ask the owner. Finding the money was unusual, but he didn’t have any reason to suspect Sal of wrongdoing.

  Two
solar-cell yard lights illuminated the front of the boarding house and pushed the shadows to the back of the trading post. Ben glanced at Sal’s trailer. It was dark. He doubted .22 would have gone back. He hurried down the brick steps and felt a rush of relief when he reached his truck and opened the passenger-side door. Putting the money in the glove compartment had been a good idea—at least it brought some peace of mind.

  Ben placed the envelope under the owner’s manual, locked the compartment and the passenger-side door and turned back toward the house. He’d go in the front since the house was always open. Nothing was ever locked out here—in its own way, that was reassuring. But he wasn’t certain he’d get used to it.

  Hannah’s rooms were at the top of the stairs above the parlor, and as he turned to shut the front door he heard voices. Angry voices. First Hannah in a tirade of what could have been expletives, then a second deep bass voice rising as a threat followed by silence. Had they heard the door close? Ben paused before continuing down the hall to the kitchen.

  It had crossed his mind to knock on Hannah’s door. But he sensed that might not be welcome. Maybe she was entertaining. He suppressed a laugh. That sounded stilted. If he believed rumors, she didn’t have any problem hopping into bed with someone. So maybe the car he’d seen earlier belonged to a gentleman caller. He flipped off the kitchen light. One, it wasn’t his business and two, he was dead tired. He needed to get some sleep before morning.

  “Ben?” The knock on his door was insistent.

  “What?” Ben sat up. What time was it? Six o’clock. He’d set the alarm for seven.

  “Someone broke into your truck,” Hannah said through the door.

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” Ben bolted for his clothes. Broke in? He was trying to gather his thoughts. What did this mean? For one thing, the money wouldn’t be there. He’d bet on that. Now what would he do?