Ghost Medicine

by Aimée

  Jo poked her head around the corner into the kitchen. Nobody was there, and the place was immaculate, as usual. No coffee was brewing either. Strange.

  “Where are you?” Her mouth was dry and her heart pounded in her ears as she crossed the living room and went down the hall.

  A sudden heart attack wouldn’t explain the heavy scent of blood. She took another whiff, trying to pinpoint its location. Maybe he’d slipped in the shower, or cut himself shaving … badly.

  Seeing the light was on in Tom’s study, Jo hurried toward it and looked inside. Her body turned to ice and for a moment horror kept her frozen to the spot. Tom was slumped across his desk, his forehead resting in a pool of dark blood. All that was left of his temple was a mass of red, gray, and black tissue. His face was turned toward the door, toward her, and his open eyes, opaque and totally lifeless, stared into eternity. With a strangled cry, she looked away. On the floor on Tom’s right side was a revolver. His lifeless hand dangled a foot above the weapon.

  Grief and shock raged a battle inside her. This wasn’t happening—it couldn’t be. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

  Finally something inside her snapped. Panic surged through her and she ran outside as fast as she could. By now her entire body was shaking so hard, she could barely function, but she managed to fumble through her purse and find her cell phone. It took her three tries, but at last she was able to call 911.

  As she tried to describe the scene to the emergency operator, she kept having to stop in midsentence and suck in air. Tears were streaming down her face. Finally, inevitably, she tasted the bile rising in her throat. Mumbling she was going to be sick, Jo dropped her purse and phone on the floor of the porch and ran out onto the gravel just in time. Her stomach turned inside out, emptying its meager contents, followed by the dry heaves.

  After several moments, Jo stumbled back to where she’d dropped the phone. Wiping her mouth with a tissue, she managed a weak “I’m back.”

  Remembering something her hataalii teacher had taught her, Jo forced herself to slow her breathing. Little by little she regained a measure of control and was able to finish speaking to the emergency operator.

  Jo was just putting the phone away when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Startled, she spun around.

  “What’s wrong, Jo? You sick?”

  Jo stared at Regina Yazzie. Like her, the young Navajo woman worked nearly full-time at the trading post. Mother to a two-year-old, Regina was about her age, but they were nearly opposites in every conceivable way.

  Regina’s close-cropped black hair was highlighted in shades of brown and gold. Jo’s hair was long, thick, and ebony, and at work she usually wore it in a single braid that fell almost to her waist. Regina was also tall for a Navajo woman, standing around five foot seven. Jo was five foot two—if she stood up really straight.

  Yet the biggest difference between them went beyond looks and family. Regina was a Modernist Christian, and Jo, an apprentice medicine woman, treasured the traditional beliefs of the Diné.

  “What’s going on? Is it Tom?” Regina pressed, turning her head toward the front door of the house. “Did he have a heart attack or something?”

  “Don’t use his name,” Jo said, her hand on the medicine bag tied to her belt. Navajos believed that the good in a man merged with universal harmony, but the evil found in every person remained earthbound. That force was an ever-present danger to the living unless the proper cautionary steps were taken. The small drawstring bag contained flint, said to be powerful medicine against the chindi because of the way light reflected off its surface.

  “Oh, my God … he’s dead?” Regina whispered, crossing herself.

  Jo nodded and tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry and her throat tasted foul.

  “What—?”

  “I don’t know,” Jo said, her voice trembling. “He was shot—in the head.”

  Regina stared at her. “Shot … an accident? How? That shotgun he keeps behind the counter?”

  Jo shook her head, not wanting to answer any more questions. “Here comes the county deputy,” she said, taking another unsteady breath.

  The sheriff’s car that pulled up was unmarked, but the flashing light on the center dashboard told them what they needed to know. A tall, middle-aged Anglo woman in civilian clothes wearing a dark blue SJSD jacket approached. “I’m Detective Wells,” she said, motioning toward her belt, where a gold badge and handgun were attached. “I’m responding to a call. Which one of you is Josephine Buck?” she said, looking from face to face.

  Regina crossed herself again, took a step back, and pointed to Jo. “I just got here.”

  Were Navajo Christians afraid of the chindi, too, Jo wondered, watching Regina’s reaction. Or maybe some Navajo traditions were too deeply ingrained for any Diné to ignore.

  “I’m the one who called the sheriff’s department,” Jo said, still gripping the medicine pouch tightly.

  As she told the detective what she’d seen inside the house, Jo saw Regina’s face turn pale and her eyes grow large.

  “Did you see any sign of an intruder—maybe a door kicked in or an open window?” Detective Katie Wells asked.

  Jo told her about the open front door and the missing chain and padlock on the gate. Then she remembered the delivery van. “I saw a white van coming out of the drive and onto the highway as I slowed for the turn, but I think it was probably an early delivery. The van drove off toward Farmington—east.”

  Katie’s eyes narrowed. “Did you see a company name or get a look at the tags?”

  “It was a plain white van. I didn’t see any name or logo on it. It had yellow New Mexico plates, I remember that. I can check the delivery schedule, or call our vendors, if you’d like.”

  “Later. Right now I’m going inside to take a look. You two stay put,” Detective Wells said.

  As Jo watched, the detective stepped up on the porch, placed her hand on the butt of her handgun, and opened the screen door.

  While Regina moved to speak into her cell phone, Jo tried to recall all the conversations she’d had with Tom yesterday. Nothing had been out of the ordinary—except his request to meet with her this morning. She was sure he hadn’t mentioned any delivery.

  Five minutes later, Detective Wells came out of the house and, removing latex gloves, walked over to Jo. “Ma’am, are you familiar enough with the interior of the house to know if anything is missing?”

  Jo remembered the rearranged shelf and missing parrot saltshakers and mentioned those to her. “But they weren’t particularly valuable, I don’t think. They were mementos that belonged to the man’s late wife.”

  “You and your coworker need to stay back. A crime scene team will arrive soon along with the medical examiner, but the wound appears to be self-inflicted.”

  “No … that can’t be,” Jo said in an agonized whisper.

  Detective Wells reached into her pocket, brought out a packet of antacids, then popped a couple into her mouth. “What was your relationship to the victim?”

  “He was my boss, and my friend. Regina and I both work for him at the trading post. I came in early today because he wanted to talk to me. He’d said it was important. I…”

  “You’re thinking that something was troubling him and you weren’t fast enough to pick up on it. People associated with the victim often do that, but you’re not to blame. He made his own choices.”

  Jo looked up at her, startled. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “I’m not psychic, I’ve just seen this before. When people are upset, they tend to blame themselves for things they had no control over. Do you know what he wanted to talk to you about—what was so important?”

  “No, but something had been bothering him.”

  Hearing the sound of a siren, Detective Wells turned to look. A white county sheriff’s van with the words crime lab on the side turned onto the lane leading to the trading post.

  “Stick around,” th
e slender detective said. “I’ll have more questions for you in a while.”

  A three-person crime scene team climbed out of the big van and came up to the porch. As they and Detective Wells went inside, Regina joined Jo. “Esther and Leigh Ann will be arriving before long. Do you want me to head them off and leave the store closed for today?”

  Jo looked at her blankly for a second, still trying to process everything that had happened. “Yes, closed,” she said at last. “Can you make the calls?”

  Regina nodded. “Do you know where Mr. Stuart went to church? He always wore a cross around his neck. His pastor will want to know.…”

  “Church…” Jo felt as if she were stuck in slow motion while the world around her revolved at a normal rate. “I … don’t know.” She took a breath. “Yes, wait, I remember he used to go to the Good Shepherd Church in Kirtland until his wife passed on. After that, I think he and his son stopped attending.”

  Jo thought about Ben, Tom’s son, and a crazy mixture of feelings, everything from tenderness to anger, swept over her. Ben was her boyfriend back in high school, and their relationship had been an exciting, stormy one that ended badly. Ever since Tom gave her the news that Ben would be coming home on leave from the army in a few weeks, she’d been counting the days, looking forward to seeing him, but a little worried, too. It was Ben’s first visit home in years, and a lot had changed.

  Now tragedy had struck, and all Tom’s carefully laid-out plans were at an end. Although Ben would have to be told about Tom’s death immediately, Jo had no idea how to get hold of him. Before she could organize her thoughts, Detective Wells came back out of the house. As she approached, the detective popped another white tablet into her mouth.

  “The salt and pepper shakers you mentioned are in the kitchen trash, broken. There are no signs of forced entry, nor anything that indicates a fight, so the victim may have been responsible for the breakage,” Detective Wells said. “Killers rarely pick up after themselves.”

  “Did you happen to find the two-foot chain and the padlock to the gate?” Jo asked.

  “I didn’t, but I’ll keep looking.”

  “What about the delivery I saw? Did you notice any mailers or shipping containers inside?” she asked, still troubled about the van.

  “Not a one. I checked every room.”

  “Is it possible his killer didn’t break in but, instead, snuck up on my boss and forced him to open the gate?” Jo said, searching for the answer.

  “Maybe, but at this point, the evidence suggests it was suicide, so don’t jump to conclusions. Why don’t you and I go to the store and look around? If there was a delivery, maybe the merchandise or paperwork is in there. We can also check the front and rear entrances in case something was left outside.”

  Jo led the way, noticing that Regina had caught up to Esther and Leigh Ann in the parking lot. All of them had been scheduled for the morning shift today. Focusing back on Detective Wells, Jo walked around to the trading post’s front entrance. Not finding any sign of a delivery, she punched in the entry code on the keypad on the top lock. Using her copy of the store key, she opened the sturdy original lock just below the electronic one.

  “No one tampered with this door, from the looks of it,” Detective Wells said, studying it. “There are no marks that suggest someone tried to force their way in.”

  “It would take a lot more than a kick to break this down,” Jo said. “This is an industrial-grade door set in a steel frame. The rear door at the top of the loading dock is exactly the same. There are bars on the windows, too, and they can only be opened using locks on the inside. To get into the trading post, you need both the key and keypad code. You can’t ram the doors with a vehicle either, not with those concrete parking barriers.”

  Jo waited by the entrance while Wells turned on the lights and searched the storeroom, office, break room, and the main business area.

  “Look around,” Wells told Jo, waving her forward. “Besides looking for parcels or shipping containers, see if any merchandise is missing. Check for your most expensive items, like jewelry or cameras. I assume that no cash is left in the registers at night?” Seeing Jo nod, she continued. “Try not to handle anything, at least not until after you’ve done a general survey.”

  Jo pointed to an interior door in a short hallway. “I’ll check the safe and see if someone tampered with it.”

  The safe appeared untouched, so Jo continued to search, even looking in the freezer and produce locker. Sorrow was eating away at her and demanded she find a reason for Tom’s death.

  At long last, she came back to the front register, where the detective was waiting. “I don’t understand it,” Jo said. “There’s no sign of a delivery, and nothing seems to be missing or even out of place. Our high-ticket items, art sculptures, paintings, and Navajo jewelry, are behind locked glass cabinets, but no one’s touched them or tried to force the locks. Same with the cameras and electronics.”

  Detective Wells nodded. “As I said—suicide. I know it’s hard to accept, particularly when it’s someone you know, but it happens,” she said.

  “No, my boss was a fighter who faced trouble head-on. The Navajos called him Tséłgaii, ‘the white rock.’”

  “Earlier, you suggested that something was bothering him. What kind of problems did he have, business and/or personal?” the detective asked, bringing out a small notebook and pen.

  “Business has taken a hit because of the recession, but no one’s been laid off. I know he’s been worried about something, but I have no idea what the problem was.”

  “Maybe whatever was worrying him became too much for him to handle. These things happen even to the strongest among us,” Wells said, reaching for a small tube of white tablets and taking two more.

  “How many of those do you take?” Jo asked.

  “Too many. Acid stomach—comes with the territory.”

  “How about herbal tea?”

  “Puts me to sleep. Coffee is my lifeline.”

  “Detective Wells, do you think the driver of the white van saw something?”

  “Probably not. My guess is that when nobody answered the door, he took off.”

  “Without leaving a note or a package?”

  “Maybe it was fresh food. You can’t leave something like that on the loading dock or front porch.”

  “All right. I’ll check our records and also ask the others if they knew about a delivery scheduled for this morning,” Jo said.

  “Do that and let me know what they say.” The detective gave Jo a sympathetic smile, then headed back to Tom’s house.

  Jo saw the trading post’s three morning employees standing together, waiting for her on the porch. As she tried to figure out what she’d say to them, she remembered the horrific scene in Tom’s study.

  She’d missed something, and the realization rocked her to the core. “Detective Wells,” Jo called out, jogging down the steps and into the parking lot. “Wait! The gun was by his right hand, but my boss is left-handed. It couldn’t have been suicide.”

  TWO

  Jo saw the surprised look on Detective Wells’s face as she stood in front of the officer. “I’m right. Ask around,” Jo insisted.

  “Maybe he was ambidextrous?”

  “No. I’ve known the man for over a decade, and I’ve worked for him almost daily for the past seven years. He was left-handed. There’s something else you should know,” she said, her thoughts clearer now. “He wouldn’t have killed himself now. He was really looking forward to seeing his son. That’s practically all he talked about lately.”

  “Okay, then. We’ll take a closer look at the evidence—and follow up on that white van.” Wells saw one of the crime scene techs coming out of the house and hurried over to meet him. “Did you find a note anywhere?” she asked him.

  “No, but that’s not conclusive, you know that. The OMI will have the final say, but even without a note, it sure looks like suicide to me.”

  “According to Ms. Buck, the
vic was left-handed, and unless his right hand was injured, it’s doubtful he would have used his weak hand to pull the trigger. That means there’s a possibility the scene was staged and we’re looking at a possible 187. Go back inside and recheck everything with that possibility in mind. And see if you can find any sign of a chain and padlock on the property or nearby. There was supposed to be one on the gate. If the chain or lock were cut…”

  Though she continued to listen, Jo tore her gaze from Tom’s house and focused on the sacred mountains off in the distance. They were said to be the forked hogans of the gods, and in them resided the strength and power of the Diné.

  With renewed energy, she pushed back the darkness that had weighed down her spirit. Suicide was no longer a possibility she needed to either fear or dread. Yet if Tom was murdered, the killer had been here last night. What if he came back? Should she be worried? And what about that white van?

  When Jo turned back to the woman detective, the officer was looking directly at her. No … looking through her was a more accurate description.

  Uncomfortable, Jo turned her head and saw Leigh Ann Vance standing off to the side. The tall, leggy, blond ex-cheerleader was wearing a white blouse and turquoise skirt. She was a West Texas native from Amarillo and had worked their front register for almost a year now. Leigh Ann, in her mid-thirties, was always flawlessly made up, with her hair sprayed into immobility.

  Directly to her right stood Esther Allison in her flowery, long burgundy dress. The short, bony seventy-something Navajo woman was a Modernist and a Christian, like Regina. She was clutching her ever-present Bible to her chest. Actually, she appeared to be holding on to it for dear life.

  “If you need to question all of us, please start with Esther, the lady in the burgundy dress, then let her go home. A shock like this could be hard on someone her age,” Jo said.

  Wells nodded, and glanced around for someplace suitable to conduct the interviews. “Open up the trading post for me again. I’ll use one of the back rooms to interview each of them in private.” She glanced at the group. “Is that everyone who works here?”