The Tooth of Time

by Sue Henry

  “Do? What can I do? I can’t even think right this minute, but I haven’t been able to come up with anything to do.”

  “Well,” I said, “let’s leave it till tomorrow and see if together we can work something out, okay?”

  She nodded and the conversation ended. I wondered why she hadn’t gone to the police, but decided I would wait until tomorrow to ask her. What she had told me was enough for the night. We were both tired and disinclined to take it any further.

  From somewhere far away in the direction of the mountains the drawn-out wail of a coyote came floating in through an open window. Stretch sat up from where he had been dozing on the floor at my feet, suddenly all attention.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I told him. Then, with one of Daniel’s verbal Aussie twists: “You wouldn’t have an earthly in a dustup with that one.”

  Shirley stared at me, curious at the shape of my comment, so I explained about Daniel, my absorption of his Aussie slang, and why it was appropriate since Stretch had been his dog when I met him.

  She listened and smiled a little, then yawned a huge yawn, covered politely with her hand, and I suggested it was time to call it a night.

  She, like most non-RVers, was intrigued when I took our mugs from the table and began the process of converting the dinette into a bed. It’s easy enough. I store extra sheets, blankets, and pillows under the benches, so I raised the lids to remove them, swung the table down on its wall support to rest on the cleats attached to the front of each bench, and arranged the cushions we had been sitting and leaning back on to cover the bed area.

  “That’s ingenious. I think I could live in one of these motor homes,” Shirley said with a sigh that sounded a little envious, as she helped me put linens on the bed. “It’s just the right size, isn’t it? It must be fun and satisfying to be able to travel like you do from place to place and still be at home.”

  “It suits me well enough,” I agreed.

  We turned in for the night—Shirley in her dinette bed, Stretch and I in our usual ones in the back.

  In a few minutes I could hear the small sound of her snoring lightly and knew that waiting until the next day for any further discussion had been a good idea. What she had allowed to happen was irresponsible in the extreme. But, as my grandmother used to say to my mother about my mistakes, The girl needs building up, not tearing down.

  Going to sleep was not so easy for me as for Shirley. There was something bothersome in the back of my mind that I couldn’t seem to get hold of—something that I needed to recognize about her story. But I couldn’t dredge it up, and the harder you try with something like that, the further away it slips. It might be something that would answer itself in further conversation the next day anyway. Finally I gave up and let it go, hoping it would come clear in the morning, and went to sleep.

  I did not rest well, however. With someone I did not really know sharing my space, even someone I had purposely invited, I was subconsciously aware of every time she moved or rolled over in bed, and I woke more than once in the dark to think awhile before I went back to sleep.

  Stretch was restless as well, but his wakefulness had more to do with what he heard outside, as the coyote howled again later and another answered from farther away, toward the mountains. It was a long, lonely sound that reminded me of the wolves that we have in the wilds of Alaska and seldom see.

  There are predators of one kind or another almost everywhere, even the human kind. The man that Shirley had described was certainly a human wolf, I thought, and then changed my mind. He was more like a coyote, I suspected—without the confidence of a wolf but ready to slink in and snatch whatever appealed to him from whomever it belonged to, wherever it could be embezzled, with no sense of shame, just following the path of least resistance in assuring his survival at the expense of someone else.

  Hearing Stretch turn around in his basket next to my bed and settle down again, I turned over and soon drifted off myself.

  TEN

  IT WAS AFTER SEVEN WHEN I WOKE, FEELING TIRED, but able to sleep no more. For a few minutes I lay there, staring at the motor home ceiling with its vent open an inch or two to let in fresh air.

  When I rolled over to look down, Stretch was already out of his basket, sitting by my bed and looking soulfully up at me, so I knew he needed to go out. A quick peek told me Shirley was still asleep, so I put on a robe and slippers, and—taking my shower bag, towel, and fresh clothing—went quietly out the door and headed for the campground shower rather than using my own.

  Stretch, after pausing to piddle next to a handy shrub, scampered after me and caught up as I passed the large Fleetwood, where no one seemed awake yet.

  Clean and more alert after my shower, my next thought was to satisfy my immediate craving for coffee, as strong as possible, with milk and sugar. I can’t tolerate artificial sweeteners. For me, as for others I know, they leave an unpleasant aftertaste. I am active and stubborn enough not to worry about my weight, and though I guess every woman thinks she could stand to lose a few pounds, I stick with real sugar.

  A quick look assured me that Shirley was still asleep, so I took along breakfast for Stretch and drove out Estes Road to Paseo del Pueblo, where not far up the street I found a small but pleasant-looking restaurant open for business. While breakfast for a dachshund was served in the car, I walked in to find the place surprisingly roomy and filled with the appealing scent of fresh coffee and good things frying on the grill.

  Awaiting the eggs, bacon, and toast I had ordered to go with the coffee that had been brought along with the menu by a friendly waitress with a fresh flower in her hair, I watched a steady stream of customers come in, many for food to take away with them, and assumed that most were on their way to work. While they waited for their order, a couple of young men in paint-stained overalls and battered work boots flirted with the cashier in a cheerful way that told me they were probably regulars. She gave as good as she got in the verbal exchanges and waved them off with a “See you tomorrow.”

  I sat for most of an hour, enjoying my breakfast and a subsequent coffee refill, watching the human traffic, and I took two large Styrofoam cups of it with me when I finally decided it was time to be gone—one for Shirley, who I thought would probably be up by the time I returned.

  Stretch had cleaned his bowl and was watching for me through the back window. Ready for travel when he heard the click of the lock, he came scrambling forward into the passenger seat. I got in and secured the coffee cups in the double beverage holder.

  “Yes, I’m finally back.”

  I gave him a rub for his ears and a pat for his back before I started the car. He rolled over and presented his stomach for attention as well, so I scratched it for him and he licked my hand in thanks.

  “You’re a bonzer boy, you are,” I told him, amused.

  Pulling back into the campground I parked next to the Winnebago and noticed that the shades were raised, though I didn’t see Shirley through the window over the dinette. The door was unlocked and, not wanting to startle her, I called her name as I stepped in, waited for Stretch to make it up the steps before closing it again, and set the two cups of coffee on the counter by the galley sink.

  There was no answer. The dinette had been returned to its configuration as table and benches, and the linens put away under a bench along with the pillows. The galley was as clean as we had left it. She had not made coffee or breakfast for herself.

  The doors to the bath and bedroom stood open and both were empty. One of the towels I had put out for Shirley was damp and there was a hint of toothpaste on the sink drain, so she had used the bathroom. When I noticed that the green cosmetic bag she had left there the night before was nowhere in sight, I stepped back to the front of the coach and found her suitcase missing as well.

  I had been away for just over an hour. In that time and for some reason of her own, Shirley had gone, taking everything that belonged to her and leaving practically no trace in my living space that
she had spent the night.

  Making another search of the whole interior, I found that she had left no message to give me answers—or even to thank me for the hospitality. It seemed improbable and odd, considering her polite behavior of the previous afternoon.

  I automatically added my own sugar and milk to one of the cups of coffee and sank onto a bench at the table, feeling dumbfounded and confused. What could have made her just take off like that?

  As I sipped absentmindedly at the coffee, motion outside the window opposite the dinette caught my attention and I looked out to see that the man I had noticed the night before was disconnecting the hookups to his Fleetwood in preparation for the road. Maybe he had seen Shirley go, I thought, getting up, out, and across to his space, leaving Stretch inside.

  “Yes,” he told me, straightening at my question. Wearing rubber gloves, he had been releasing a sewer connection, so he didn’t offer to shake hands, for which I was grateful. “She came and asked if we would call a taxi for her. We did, it showed up, and she left in it about—oh, maybe a half hour ago. No, she didn’t say where she was going and didn’t leave any message with us. Sorry.”

  “And she was alone?”

  “Yes.”

  I thanked him, went back to my space, and climbed in to sit again at the table, thinking hard.

  What could have motivated her to take off so abruptly? I remembered my hesitation at inviting her the day before and told myself that perhaps I should have paid more attention to my instincts and responses to other people’s troubles. Looking back, I recalled that before going to sleep I had had a feeling that there was something bothersome about her story that I couldn’t identify. But it was no clearer for sleeping on it than it had been then.

  I reviewed what Shirley had told me the evening before about what had happened to her and suddenly remembered her saying that the man who had taken her money had also taken several pieces of her jewelry. As I also remembered the way I felt she had watched me to see if I believed what she was telling me, the thought raised my hackles. With sudden misgiving, I stood up, went back to my bedroom, and opened the drawer where I keep the few pieces of costume jewelry I travel with, photographs I have taken or been given, extra sunglasses, an address book—the odds and ends that don’t ever seem to have a specific place they should be kept, so you collect them all together.

  Everything was there. Nothing had been touched.

  Next I checked the daypack in which my cameras reside on the floor of the closet. They, too, were where I had left them, with the tripod and extra film. My laptop computer was where it belonged, on a high shelf of the same closet. It is insured, as are the cameras, but I would have hated to find them missing.

  I do not travel with anything of real value or that I would be devastated to lose. That is what safes and safe-deposit boxes are for. I carry around only what I need and will use. Anything else I either forgo, get rid of, or send home.

  When I bought the Winnebago and knew I would be a lone traveler, except for Stretch—who is not the same threat a German shepherd would be but is great company—I hired a trusted neighbor who was good at woodworking to build me a secret compartment that would be extremely hard to find if you didn’t know it was there. In it I keep a shotgun, extra shells, and any small amount of cash I don’t want to carry around. Anything else of importance, or that might be a temptation to a thief—identification, medical information, cell phone, credit cards, and keys—goes where I go, in the bag in which I carry my wallet.

  So Shirley, money problems or not, had taken nothing but what belonged to her. I felt a little embarrassed at my qualms, but you never know, do you? I might have been letting my imagination run away with me, but then again I might not. I still felt there was something unsettling about the story she had told.

  It was possible—even probable—that she had been embarrassed at telling even a stranger the details of what she viewed as a huge personal weakness of misjudgment—at revealing so much of herself. That made quite good sense. Everyone has felt that way at one time or another. If that was the case, Shirley, humiliated, discomfited, and reluctant to face me, might well have left instead. Recalling verbal lapses of my own, something Dorothy Parker wrote about wishing she had not talked so much at a party floated into my head. The night before hadn’t been a party, but the idea was close to the same in wishing one had kept one’s mouth shut.

  Shirley also had finding another place to live on her mental list of things to do.

  But it really didn’t matter why she had gone, did it? In any case, I wasn’t about to go chasing after her to find out where and why. She had probably gone back to the duplex, where she could live at least until the rent ran out. Yes, it would have been polite to tell me she was leaving, but did I really care? I decided I didn’t. In fact I was a little relieved to be rid of her problems, wasn’t I? I decided I was.

  I considered calling Pat to let her know that Shirley had disappeared, but decided it would be sufficient to mention it when I saw her again in person, since it was clear Shirley had chosen to leave on her own.

  The coffee had gone tepid, but I didn’t mind. I’ll happily drink it at whatever temperature it happens to be. If it gets too cold I sometimes add ice. Sipping at it, I looked out the window, saw that it promised to be a warm, sunny day, then switched gears and decided that maybe it would be a pleasant time to explore some of downtown Taos. On my way to lunch with Pat the day before I had noticed Moby Dickens, a bookstore where I could probably find some information on the history and people of the area.

  Leaving the restaurant that morning, I had seen copies of the weekly Taos News, which had evidently just come out, for the vending machine was close to full, so I bought one, planning to take a look at the ads before making another visit to the grocery. I pulled it across the table, where I had dropped it on the way in, and, folded inside, found a flyer for Raley’s, the supermarket I had previously visited. In a few minutes I had made a list from it of things I needed, knowing there would undoubtedly be a few other items in the basket when I made it to the checkout counter. After spending part of the day exploring, I would stop at the grocery on the way home.

  Laying the flyer aside, I glanced at the front page and was startled by a headline just above the fold: MURDER VICTIM FOUND IN DYER’S VAT. Remembering Bettye Sullivan, the woman I had met at Weaving Southwest, I unfolded the paper, scanned the article, and was relieved to find that the incident had not involved the vat in which she dyed yarn for the shop, but another that was used by a local weaver to dye yarn for her own projects. Going back, I read it through.

  Two days earlier, the weaver—a woman named Doris Matthews—had built a fire under an outdoor fifty-gallon vat in preparation for dyeing a large amount of wool for a rug she intended to start, but she noticed an unusual smell and an objectionable residue floating on the surface of the water as it began to simmer. Though the vat had been covered, she thought that perhaps some bird or animal had found its way in and drowned, so she put out the fire and checked to see. She discovered not an animal but a human body and called the police.

  In the process of retrieval it had become apparent that the victim was a man, but the condition of the body made him, for the time being, impossible to identify, to tell how long he had been there, or to determine if death had occurred before or after his immersion in the vat.

  The story concluded with an appeal by the police for any possible information concerning the identity of the victim, referring readers to Taos Crime Stoppers.

  I put down the paper and thoughtfully took another swallow of my coffee. What a horrific thing to happen. I could imagine the woman’s shock at finding a body in her vat and wondered how long it had been there before she’d decided to dye her wool and how long after she had built the fire that began the cooking process. My stomach turned over and I realized that I had pulled my lips away from my teeth in a grimace of revulsion. It was a chilling and repulsive thought, but one that would go through the mind of anyon
e reading the article. The police would be wondering the same things, but I imagined that it would be possible for forensics specialists to figure it out.

  It seemed like the past two days had somehow been tangled up one way or another with weavers. Could this Doris Matthews be someone Pat would know? I thought it probable that most weavers in the area would at least know of each other, and there seemed to be a lot of them, which made sense in a town famous for its arts and crafts.

  That weavers would collect in New Mexico also made sense, as the Southwest is well known for its weaving and many of them must do their own dyeing. I had read that the tradition and patterns had sprung mainly from the Pueblo and Navajo peoples, who had woven fabric even before the first Spanish colonists and their weavers arrived in the late 1500s with herds of churro sheep, the wool of which had a large and continuing impact on the craft because of its long, light fibers and tendency to take dye well. The Navajo, for instance, who had used only nonanimal fibers in their weaving, soon switched almost totally to wool.

  Thinking of Pat, I decided to make another stop at Weaving Southwest to see if Shirley might possibly have contacted her after leaving me. I also wondered what she would have to say about the incident in the news, which she undoubtedly would be aware of by now.

  “Come along, Stretch. Let’s go,” I told him, knowing the word go would start his wheels turning, which it did. By the time I collected myself, he was waiting for me by the door.

  ELEVEN

  THE SHOP, WHEN STRETCH AND I REACHED IT, WAS very quiet and for a moment or two I thought no one was there, though the front door had been open. Then Mary Ann stepped out from behind the wall that divided the front from the center section, where she had been reordering items on shelves.

  “Hello,” she called. “I bet you’re here to pick up the yarn you forgot yesterday. I’ll get it for you.”