by Aimée
They’d just stepped up onto the shaded, weathered, wood-plank porch when the front door opened a crack, letting out a stream of cool air and the scent of something cooking.
“Ah, air-conditioning,” Justine said happily. “And fry bread!”
A well dressed, clean-cut Navajo man in his mid-twenties waved them inside. “I was wondering how long it would take the tribal police to pay me a visit.”
“I’m Investigator Clah, and this is my partner, Officer Goodluck. Are you the homeowner?” Ella asked, checking to see if anyone else was in the front room. Seeing no one, she focused back on the man.
“Renter, actually, Officers. I’m Truman John. I heard on the news that the police found a body inside a truck parked just north of here on the old road. He’d been shot, right?”
Ella nodded. “That’s why we’re here. We were hoping you might have spotted something that seemed out of place or noticed someone you didn’t recognize hanging around,” she said, studying the man. He was reasonably good looking and neatly dressed in a short-sleeved oxford shirt and sharply creased tan cargo pants. His leather sandals were a smart concession to the weather.
“I don’t know how much help we can be, Officers, because we always take the east road through Rattlesnake and missed seeing that truck. But please come in and sit down.” He led them into a small but well-furnished living room. At the back of the room was the entrance to the kitchen, where the pleasant scent of fresh fry bread originated.
Ella took a seat on the comfortable-looking sofa while Truman chose the matching love seat across from a large flat-screen TV.
“Nice place—entertainment and education at your fingertips,” Ella said, glancing at the bookcase below the window. It held at least a hundred reference books and novels, based on their titles, and a plastic rack of DVD and CDs.
“You probably already know I’m a social studies teacher,” he said. “I’m not employed right now, but I’m trying to keep up in my field. I hope to return to the classroom once the district starts rehiring.”
An attractive barefooted Navajo woman in her mid-twenties wearing a flowery, shapeless sundress appeared at the kitchen door. She wore only a trace of lipstick, and her long black hair was fastened at the nape of her neck with a silver barrette.
“Hi,” she said with a hesitant smile. “I’m Eileen. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I’ve just made some fry bread. I’m going to bring it in so we can all eat while you ask your questions, okay?”
As Ella nodded, the woman stepped back out of view.
Justine smiled. “The nose knows.”
Ella looked back at Truman.
“Eileen Tahoe is my girlfriend,” he said. “She works at the Little Bear Café up in Beclabito. Unfortunately, her boss is my idiot neighbor, Norman Yazzie, who also owns the café. As soon as she can, Eileen’s going to find another job, but at the moment she’s stuck. Work’s hard to find.”
Ella made a mental note to find out some more about the neighbor he’d mentioned. “Did you see or hear anything unusual last Tuesday? I know it’s several miles, but maybe a gunshot?”
“No, and I was here all day, working on future lesson plans and tweaking my résumé,” Truman said. “I never went outside, but I heard Mrs. Yazzie’s old pickup go by once or twice. Norman Yazzie’s grandmother lives down the road about a mile west from here.”
“You’re not currently employed so you’re usually here at home?” Ella recalled reading in one of the reports that no vehicles had been parked by the house yesterday when Benny and Joe had come by.
“Right now I’m actively looking for a job so, no, I’m not usually home. I spent most of the earlier part of the week in Shiprock and Kirtland, talking to some of my former coworkers. Networking, you might say. I may have to apply for an out-of-state job, so I’ve been picking up some handwritten recommendations.”
Just then, Eileen came into the room holding a big plate of golden, puffy fry bread. “Anyone hungry?” She set the tray down on a glass-topped coffee table. I don’t have napkins, but will paper towels do?”
Truman looked at Justine and Ella, who nodded.
After Eileen returned, they began eating. Although she wasn’t particularly hungry, Ella had learned over the years that sharing food was a great way to set people at ease. Once they relaxed, it became much easier for them to remember important details.
“Eileen, you work in Beclabito, right?” Justine asked offhandedly. “What are your hours?”
The woman took a bite of fry bread, then held up her hand, not answering until she’d chewed and swallowed. “I work the seven-to-three shift, Monday through Wednesday, then I have Thursdays and Fridays off. Saturdays and Sundays are our busiest days.”
“What route do you take from here to Rattlesnake and the main highway?” Justine asked.
“The east road, always. The old way is too rough on my poor VW,” Eileen said.
“During your drives to and from work,” Ella said, “have you ever noticed anything strange or unusual going on around here? We’ve heard some talk.” Ella purposely didn’t elaborate.
Truman spoke first. “Ah, I get it. You’ve heard about all that skinwalker nonsense. It’s just mumbo jumbo, someone out to scare others,” he said, and shrugged.
“Wait—are you saying that a witch killed that guy?” Eileen asked, staring wide-eyed at Ella.
“We don’t know who the killer was yet,” Ella said, “but since we’re on the subject, have either of you seen any evidence of skinwalkers in this area?”
“When people get spooked, they talk themselves into believing a lot of crazy things,” Truman said, his tone somber. “Norman Yazzie once accused me of being a skinwalker, but I don’t think he really believes it. He was just angry because I refuse to let him take a shortcut through my property to get to his grandmother’s house. He’s already destroyed some plants in Eileen’s vegetable garden with that truck of his, and he’s created deep ruts that’ll become flood channels next time we get a hard rain. I’ve told him all that, but he doesn’t listen.”
“Norman’s a real jerk,” Eileen added.
“I put up some rabbit-proof fencing around Eileen’s garden to protect it, and the very next morning, I found what looked like a coyote skin on the fence. I’m thinking Norman got angry because I blocked him off, so he decided to make me look like a skinwalker.”
“Are you sure it was him?” Ella asked.
“Well, I didn’t actually catch him leaving it there, but who else would have done something like that?” Truman said.
“Do you still have the animal skin?” Ella asked.
“No, I put it in a trash bag and took it to the landfill. That way it couldn’t turn up again,” Truman said.
Silence stretched out, but Ella didn’t interrupt. Long pauses were common among the Diné. To try to speed up a conversation was seen as rude at best, and in her case, it was counterproductive.
Eventually, Eileen spoke, her voice low. “This area has changed a lot. It’s not peaceful like it used to be. Evil’s close by and likes to leave bad things for others to find.”
“Like what?” Ella pressed.
“Charcoal sandpaintings,” she said in a near whisper. “Real medicine men make those with colored sand and use them to heal. Sandpaintings, well, some call them drypaintings, are sacred. To make them with charcoal defiles everything they stand for, which is why witches do that.”
“Of course, I’ve destroyed the three we’ve seen beside the road between here and the highway,” Truman said. “I’ve also come across dead animals strung up on fences. When I find crap like that, I get rid of it. Someone’s out to scare people, and there’s no sense in creating a panic.”
“How long ago has it been since you saw either of those things?” Ella asked.
“Let me think,” Truman said, then stared at the floor for several seconds. “Two weeks ago, maybe less.”
“One of those charcoal drypaintings was left right in front of our drive,
” Eileen said, and shuddered.
After everyone had eaten another piece of fry bread in silence, Ella wiped her lips with one of the paper towels and stood. “All right. Thank you both,” she said. “We’ve got to get going. Maybe Mrs. Yazzie will be able to add to what you’ve already told us.”
“If we hear or see anything that might help, we’ll give you a call, Investigator Clah. Do you have a card?” Truman asked.
Ella gave him hers, then walked with Justine to the door.
“One last thing,” Truman said, “that is, if you don’t mind a little advice.”
Ella stopped. “Go ahead.”
“Mrs. Yazzie is a hard-core Traditionalist, and if you start talking about skinwalkers, she’ll probably throw you out.”
“Good to know, thanks,” Ella said.
“Not too long ago, I noticed that she’d brought in a hataalii and had a Sing done,” Eileen said. “I don’t know for sure, but I have a feeling she found something on her property that scared her.”
“Thanks,” Ella said, stepping outside.
“And for the fry bread, too,” Justine added.
They walked back to the car in silence. Soon they were on their way up the road, which now ran west toward the Chuskas.
“Those two are in serious danger if there’s one or more Navajo witches working this area. You don’t disrespect crazies and get away with it, not for long, anyway,” Ella said.
“Do you suppose that’s the real reason our friend was killed—he came across a ritual he wasn’t supposed to see?”
“Maybe.” Ella remembered her own father, who, like Harry, had fallen prey to skinwalkers. But with her dad, it had been a lot worse. They’d carved him up like some horrific art exhibit. It had been over fifteen years, but the memories were still as sharp and clear in her mind as if it were yesterday. She’d carry those images to her own grave.
She brushed the memory aside and focused on the present. “Let’s keep pushing for answers and see what we get.”
“Maybe Mrs. Yazzie saw something we can use, particularly if Truman’s right, and she was driving around that day,” Justine said.
“I hope so, but the odds are against it. A Traditionalist worried about skinwalkers would probably keep to herself and avoid looking at strangers.”
Ella accessed the MDT to check out the tags on the vehicles at Truman John’s place. “No police record for either. Let’s see what else I can get.” A moment later, she continued. “John has a BA in secondary education from NAU in Flagstaff. Eileen Tahoe graduated from Chinle High. Both are Arizona Navajos. Truman was riffed last year from Kirtland Central. Eileen has been working full-time at the Little Bear Café for the past two years.”
Justine smiled. “Bet she’s a cook. That fry bread was yummy.”
“Yeah.” Ella smiled. “If you weren’t such a bundle of energy, cuz, you’d be rolling instead of walking. I have to run my butt off, literally, just to stay even.” Ella almost sighed as she thought of how it had been for her when she was in her twenties and thirties. She’d eaten like a horse back then and never put on any weight.
Time … it wasn’t always a friend.
* * *
The Yazzie residence was about a half mile farther down a rutted dirt road, and consisted of a rectangular wood frame structure with unpainted, weathered wooden trim and a roof that was missing a few shingles. A small medicine hogan stood in the back, about a hundred feet away.
Ella pointed to a double stack of plastic water barrels in the meager shade of the roof overhang. “She doesn’t have a well, so she has to haul water in. That means she can’t afford a garden.”
Justine parked within view of the front of the house, about twenty feet from a red Ford pickup. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?”
Ella shrugged. “Give it some time. If Mrs. Yazzie is home and worried about skinwalkers, she’ll have to decide whether or not to trust us.”
Minutes passed slowly. At long last, they saw a gray-haired woman and a dog herding about twenty sheep down the long slope of a hill west of the residence. After the livestock was gathered into a sturdy pen cut from cottonwood branches, she waved them toward the house.
Ella opened her car door. “Let’s go, partner.”
Three minutes later, they were standing in the center of a small living room. Mrs. Yazzie was in her late sixties, wearing a long-sleeved blouse and floor-length pleated skirt. Her home was simply furnished, with woven rugs on the floor and simple wooden chairs around what was clearly an old picnic table. Instead of a sofa, a wooden bench had been placed beneath the window. Despite two open windows, it was warm inside.
“Did you see any strangers or unfamiliar vehicles around here this past Tuesday, aunt?” Ella asked, using the term to show respect for a woman of the tribe who was her senior.
Mrs. Yazzie gripped a deerskin medicine bag in the palm of her hand so tightly that her knuckles turned a pearly white. “I heard about the shooting on my radio, but I didn’t hear or see anyone Tuesday. My grandson and I went shopping in Farmington, then stopped on the way back at the new grocery store in Shiprock. They had a sale on bread and Spam,” she said. “My grandson enjoys these day trips as much as I do now. He’s been lonely since his wife left to help her mother over by Window Rock. The woman had a stroke and needs extra help right now.”
“Your grandson, you mean the one who lives close by?” Ella asked, trying to avoid saying his name aloud.
She nodded. “He runs a café in Beclabito, so he usually isn’t home until late except on Tuesday, his day off. He’s a good boy, always watching out for his shimasání,” she said, using the Navajo word for “grandmother.”
“I’ve been told that he’s had some problems with your neighbor to the north,” Ella said. “The teacher.”
“If you ask me, that young man’s just looking for trouble to give himself something to do. I told my grandson to stay away from him,” she said, neither confirming nor denying.
“Have you or your grandson had any problems with your other neighbors?” Justine asked.
“No, but everyone’s scared. It’s very dangerous here now,” she said in a whisper.
Ella could see the .30-.30 Winchester standing in the corner of the room behind the door. It was probably loaded. “Dangerous how? Tell me,” Ella said, and reached into her jacket pocket, bringing out her beaded medicine pouch. The sight of it seemed to allay the woman’s fears somewhat. “It’s okay to talk about it, aunt. We’ve got the right medicine.” Ella gave Justine a nod, and her partner brought out her own bag.
“Deerskin, with beaded trim, just like mine,” Mrs. Yazzie observed. “You must know the hataalii who lives just west of the Gallup highway.”
“He’s my brother,” Ella said, and smiled.
“And my second cousin,” Justine added.
“Tell us about the troublemakers in this area,” Ella insisted gently. “Do you think they might be responsible for what happened to the man in the pickup?”
She expelled her breath in a soft hiss. “The evil ones cause problems for everyone. That’s why I tried to contact the hataalii again today. I want him to give my home some extra protection.”
“My brother took his family to their sheep camp up by Red Rock, so his son can learn how to care for their livestock. He should be back in a day or two.”
“I don’t want to wait that long. I’ll try to get the Singer from Cudei to come over,” Mrs. Yazzie said, then looked toward the kitchen. “I have to tend to my stew. Do you need something else?”
Ella sensed that finding out Clifford wouldn’t be readily available had frightened her. Pressing Mrs. Yazzie now wouldn’t get them anywhere. She was too on edge already. “I’ll leave my phone number here on the table,” Ella said, placing a business card by the base of the lamp. “Call if you have any problems we can help you with, or if you remember anything that might help us solve the crime.”
The woman nodded, but didn’t speak.
E
lla glanced at Justine, who recognized the signal and walked toward the door. Ella followed.
Mrs. Yazzie remained silent, but accompanied them to the porch, then closed and locked the door as soon as they were outside.
“She’s really frightened,” Justine said as they reached the SUV. “Do you think she knows more than she’s telling us?”
“Maybe.” As Justine drove back toward the road, Ella looked in the rearview mirror. Mrs. Yazzie was still watching them from the window. “My gut tells me that she’s convinced skinwalkers are responsible, but she’s afraid to point fingers and have them chopped off—or worse.”
“She’s an old school Navajo,” Justine said. “If someone tries to give her a hard time, or she thinks she’s being witched, she’ll take her rifle to them.”
“That’s what worries me,” Ella said. “We need to speak to her grandson, Norman Yazzie, but if the schedule we got is right, he won’t be home now. Let’s go visit another one of the neighbors instead,” she said, checking her notepad.
“Okay,” Justine said.
“While you drive, I’m going to try to reach Clifford on the phone. I may not get him right away, but I know he’ll be checking his messages as often as possible. If a skinwalker’s really in this area, he’ll have more details.”
SIX
They’d driven about a mile when Ella, looking up after leaving a message for her brother, noticed a dead crow dangling from the wire fence that paralleled the road.
“Stop,” she said, and pointed.
“Birds sometimes collide with windows, but they don’t get hung up on fences like that,” Justine said, pulling over to one side of the road.
“Let’s take a closer look.” Ella got out of the SUV and walked over to the fence. “Decapitated and left hanging upside down by a string.”
“The kind of thing a skinwalker would do,” Justine said.