Spider Woman's Daughter

by Anne Hillerman

  Collingsworth stood. “I apologize again for acting like such an ill-tempered dolt.” He took a step toward the door.

  Bernie ignored his signal. She kept her seat, planning what to ask next. She heard the music of falling water coming in through the open window behind him. The garden must have a fountain, but she couldn’t see it. Her glance swept over the priceless handmade Acoma pots on the shelves as she framed her question.

  “I’m a little confused,” she said. “The lieutenant knows a lot about insurance and insurance fraud, but he never claimed to be a cultural expert. Explain that part to me.”

  Collingsworth managed a faint smile. “As Mr. Leaphorn and I discussed, the cultural review was a formality, and only necessary with the Chaco material. These are old pots, not ceremonial artifacts or Katsinas or prayer sticks. A cultural anthropologist had vetted them in the 1990s when he approached the McManus family about collaborating on a book. That expert found nothing so sensitive that it could not be featured in the book or photographed. I included his detailed report in the information I gave Mr. Leaphorn. The two of us agreed that if he discovered anything he thought might be in the least offensive or sensitive, the institution would hire an expert to vet the item.”

  He leaned toward Bernie. “Just so we’re clear on this, nothing I asked of Mr. Leaphorn was dangerous. I’d call it bureaucratic paperwork, dotting the i’s, crossing the t’s. I can’t imagine any of this is worth shooting someone over.”

  Bernie said, “When did you speak to him last?”

  “He called last week with some questions, promised to mail his report that afternoon. The envelope never arrived. When I saw you, I thought you had delivered it.”

  “You assumed a Navajo Police officer would be delivering mail to you?”

  She saw Collingsworth swallow. Let him think about it a minute. Then she said, “Knowing the lieutenant, I’m sure he sent the report as promised. He’s one of the most conscientious people I know. He never does anything halfway. My guess is that he wanted time to figure out his expenses, add up his mileage, and sent the bill and the research material you’d loaned him separately. He labeled it two of two. I found a new package of envelopes in his truck. Maybe that’s why this one was just not ready to mail. And we all realize the post office has its problems. Maybe the first envelope is still in the mail.”

  “I asked him to send it FedEx, safer that way, but he said he didn’t want us to have to pay the extra shipping charge,” Collingsworth said.

  Bernie stood and took a business card from the front pocket of her backpack. “Call me if you think of anything that might be relevant to our investigation into the shooting.”

  Collingsworth put the card on his desktop. “Officer, if by chance that report turns up in the process of your investigation, I’d be grateful if you or someone on your staff could call me.”

  She noticed his change in attitude. “Of course.”

  “If you can spare another few minutes, I’ll ask Marjorie to show you some pots similar to the ones we hope to receive. Mr. Leaphorn enjoyed the tour very much.”

  “Marjorie?”

  “Marjorie Rockwell, my secretary.”

  Marjorie, Bernie realized, relished an opportunity to get away from her desk. They strolled from her office along a shaded gravel path. Simple signs shaped like arrows pointed the way to the museum. At the front door, Marjorie slid her ID card into the slot. The light switched from red to green, and she motioned for Bernie to go in.

  A huge black pot with sensuously rounded sides stood beneath a spotlight just inside the entryway. The clay sparkled. The shape reminded Bernie of the hoodoos at the Bisti badlands. Man imitating nature, and making changes.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Marjorie said. “Mr. Leaphorn stood here for five minutes. Said he couldn’t believe a single person had created something so perfect. A potter from Nambe Pueblo made this.”

  “It’s amazing,” Bernie said. “I see why the lieutenant liked it. I can understand why Dr. Davis is so passionate about this collection.”

  Marjorie chuckled. “Passionate? She’s an absolute fanatic. The pots are her life. She’s here early, late. She’s always been obsessed, but now she’s working herself into a frenzy over the acquisition.”

  They walked past the reception desk into a big room with tables in the center and long rows of shelves stretching in three directions. A woman, a Pueblo Indian, Bernie surmised, sat at one of the tables, copying images from a pot shaped like a melon. Bernie noticed she was wearing gloves. At the far end an Anglo man, also wearing gloves, examined a tiny basket with a magnifying glass. He made notes on a yellow legal pad.

  Marjorie pointed out a hallway that threaded past the displays to the storage area in back of the building.

  “Is that where the new collection will go?”

  “Oh, no.” Marjorie headed toward one section of shelves. “The McManus ceramics will be displayed here in the front. We exhibit selections on a rotating basis until we can build the new wing to showcase it all. That’s driving all of us crazy. We’ll have state-of-the-art temperature and humidity controls, first-rate security, and well-lit space for scholars who come to study with us.”

  As they strolled, Marjorie pointed out some of the collection’s treasures. Painted hides. Beaded breastplates. Pueblo Indian dance kilts. Bernie stopped at what looked like a pile of gray chenille with bits of old twine interspersed.

  “Is this a turkey feather blanket?”

  “That’s right,” Marjorie said.

  “I’ve heard of these but never seen one. It’s fascinating. What a great way to stay warm.”

  “Since you like weaving, let me show you some of our rugs.”

  Past the shelves, they came to a hallway with a series of small rooms. Marjorie opened one of the doors. The lights came on automatically. Bernie saw a Two Grey Hills rug, one of the most elegantly designed she had ever encountered, spread on a table. Other rugs rolled like cigars lay stored on the shelves.

  “Wow,” she said. “That rug is gorgeous.” She longed to touch it, to feel the weaver’s energy. “Do you know who made it?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Are you a weaver?”

  “My mother and my grandmothers were weavers. And my aunts. A rug like this takes my breath away.”

  “Then let me show you something else.” Marjorie punched in a code to open the door to let them out, and they continued down the hall to another little room. The lights came on. Displayed against the wall was the most spectacular Navajo rug Bernie had ever seen.

  “Hosteen Klah,” Marjorie said. “Eighteen eighty.”

  Bernie recognized elements from the sacred story of the emergence of the Holy People into the Glittering World, the earth modern Diné share with the rest of humanity. She saw the four sacred mountains, the sun, moon, and major stars. The weaver had created the Hero Twins, Child Born of Water and Monster Slayer. Bernie sucked in a deep breath. This was the holy grail of the Navajo way of life from a time when many, including Klah, thought the Diné might disappear. Klah, a respected hataalii, or what the bilagaana call a medicine man, sought to preserve the Navajo way by re-creating his intricate healing sand paintings as tapestries. The rugs also created enormous controversy.

  “It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen,” she said.

  “One of our treasures,” Marjorie said. She punched in a code to open the door. “Come again, anytime. Stay as long as you wish.”

  As Bernie steered her Toyota along Santa Fe’s curving downtown streets and ultimately south toward the freeway and home, she realized that the genius of Hosteen Klah had moved her thoughts away from sadness and frustration to the more beautiful space of dreams and the spirit. For the first time since the shooting, she felt light, relaxed. It was good to be in that quiet place.

  She stayed in the right lane as she cruised down La Bajada, past the
exit for Cochiti Pueblo and the sculptural Tent Rocks, now known as Kasha-Katuwe National Monument. She didn’t see any of those black-and-white New Mexico State Police cars or other law enforcement from the numerous county and Pueblo Indian jurisdictions that I-25 crossed as it headed south. She pushed the Tercel to 80, eager to get home.

  Bernie turned west toward the Rio Grande at the Bernalillo exit, crossing the edge of what was once a tiny town, now fleshed out with a growing assembly of fast food restaurants and chain motels. She climbed toward San Isidro, Cuba, and Jemez Pueblo. The engine struggled a bit with the change in elevation as she entered the tall trees and open spaces of the Jicarilla Apache reservation.

  She thought about John Collingsworth. Was he the arrogant know-it-all she’d decided at first impression? Or a bright, conscientious, decent guy, the sort of client the lieutenant would have enjoyed working with because they both wanted the job done right? Surely the lieutenant had finished the report by the deadline and mailed it as promised.

  She used her cell phone to call Officer Bigman at the Window Rock office and ask a favor. “Swing by the lieutenant’s house on your way home and take a look in the truck for me, would you? I may have left an envelope in there that Leaphorn planned to mail.”

  “What kind of envelope?”

  “Addressed to John Collingsworth at the AIRC in Santa Fe.”

  “I’ll be glad to look,” he said. “Want me to mail it?”

  “No. Hold on to it for me.”

  Bernie phoned Chee and told him the two of them were now authorized Leaphorn relatives and a bit about the hospital. She mentioned the AIRC, the missing envelope, and then, in more detail, the Hosteen Klah rug. Thinking of it gave her goose bumps.

  “So how was your day?” she asked. “What’s happening with the Benally car and the prints? Have Jackson or Nez shown up?”

  “Nope. The grandma Nez lives with says he disappears for days at a time. She’s sweet, but not quite all there, if you know what I mean. The feds haven’t found Louisa. She wasn’t at the motel she gave us. And not on any flights to Houston. Not answering her phone. They didn’t find her Jeep in the airport garage or at any of those park-and-shuttle places.”

  She heard him sigh into the receiver.

  “Where are you now?” he asked.

  She told him she was about halfway to the turnoff for Chaco Canyon.

  “I hope you’re in the mood for ice cream,” he said.

  “Ice cream?”

  “I found one of those little freezers at the flea market on my way home from work. Still in the box. Never used as far as I can tell. Three dollars!”

  “Did it come with recipes?”

  “Recipes? My dear, I don’t need a recipe. I am the Sherlock Holmes of cooking.”

  Bernie laughed. “Did Sherlock cook?”

  “He cooked for Dr. Watson. Didn’t you learn that in college?”

  “I must have missed that class,” she said. “I didn’t realize the English were known for their cuisine. Is making ice cream cooking?”

  Chee probably said something in response, but all she heard were three quick beeps and silence. Welcome to the beautiful, empty Southwest.

  Bernie watched the sun set against Angel Peak, cruised through Farmington traffic without mishap, and finally saw Ship Rock, her favorite landmark, rise along the horizon.

  8

  She was tired and hungry when she pulled into the driveway. The thought of Chee experimenting with his new ice cream machine made her smile. But as she walked past her loom toward the front door, she heard an unsettling sound, the plaintive cry of a creature undergoing torture.

  Chee greeted her with a kiss. “Guess what, honey?” He didn’t give her time to ask, What? “Bigman went to Leaphorn’s to look for that envelope, and the cat was back! Waiting at the door. He had his wife bring it by. It looks fine, as far as cats go. No harm done from its escapade.”

  “Why is it making that awful noise?

  “Maybe it ate something bad out there.” Chee looked puzzled. “A bellyache.”

  “You had a cat,” she said. “You know more about them than I do.”

  “You remember that?”

  “You told me how you sent a cat back east to a girlfriend of yours because you didn’t think it was a survivor.”

  “This one is a Navajo cat,” Chee said. “That’s another reason it’s making so much noise. It wants to go out and hunt up its dinner. But if we put it outside, it will probably try to run back to Window Rock.”

  She laughed. “Well, at least let it out of the bathroom.”

  Chee opened the door.

  The cat looked at him from its seat on the bath mat. It gave a final yowl, then started licking its right front paw.

  Chee smiled. “I guess we have a cat now, until we get this sorted out.”

  “At least you got it to be quiet,” Bernie said.

  “Thanks,” he said. “It was your idea.”

  Chee went back to finishing dinner while Bernie changed out of her uniform into shorts and a T-shirt. She walked out on the deck, enjoying the evening’s symphony of crickets and the comforting sound of the nearby San Juan River. She thought about the lieutenant, listening to the buzz of machines that were keeping him alive.

  After dinner Chee said, “I’m surprised you haven’t asked about the envelope.”

  “I was waiting for you to bring out the ice cream,” she said. “I thought we’d talk business after pleasure.”

  “I didn’t have enough cream to make it. Because of the cat. Sorry.”

  “It must have been starved. I still have food for it in my car.”

  The cat was watching them from the sofa. “That one has been quiet ever since you got here. I think it likes you. Or it knew where you’d hidden its food,” Chee said.

  “It’s a she,” Bernie said. “And I think she just likes being out of the bathroom.”

  She smiled at him. “So, did Bigman find anything?”

  Chee gave the cat a pat on the head. “No luck. He looked in the truck and then in the house. All the logical places, then the illogical ones. But after what you told me about your interview in Santa Fe, I had an idea.”

  Leaphorn’s computer was at the Window Rock station in case they needed it for evidence. Chee had asked the technician to search the hard drive for files labeled “Indian art report,” “final report,” “McManus,” “AIRC,” or the equivalent, with a date within the last month. If he found anything, it would be e-mailed to Chee.

  Bernie said, “And people think I married you just for your good looks.”

  “My one stroke of brilliance today,” he said.

  She moved to the couch. “What did the background check on Jackson come up with?”

  Chee settled in beside her. “Nothing. No record, not even a traffic ticket. Same as with his mother. Mrs. Benally won a big award from the tribal government back when Joe Shirley Jr. was president.”

  “What else happened today?”

  “Mrs. Benally has assigned herself to our investigation. She’s looking for a ninja. And I found Jackson.”

  “You found Benally? That’s huge. And you’re just telling me now? You better start at the beginning.”

  When he got to the Shiprock substation that morning, Chee had a message to report immediately to Window Rock police headquarters and to radio Largo once he was on the way.

  “Mrs. Benally showed up here.” Largo sounded more out of sorts than usual. “She’s furious that she can’t get her car back. Said she had something important to tell us, but she won’t until we give her the car. She demanded to talk to Bernie, but finally agreed to talk to you. Only you. She’s as stubborn as, as . . . well, you know. Stubborn.”

  Chee agreed.

  “See if you can calm her down, explain the car situation to her again. I figure she k
nows something about Jackson’s whereabouts. Maybe she’ll tell you where he is or where he could be, where he goes when he doesn’t come home. You can talk to her about all that when you give her a ride home.”

  “Me? I have to go all the way to Window Rock to give a grouchy old lady a ride?”

  “You,” Largo said. “You’re in charge of the Navajo side of this case, remember? If Bernie wasn’t on leave, she could do it and probably get enough information from Mrs. Benally to record her family history.”

  Chee said, “Yes, sir. On my way.”

  He appreciated the air-conditioning in his patrol car as he sailed past the volcanic buttes that rose like ruins in the dusty landscape on both sides of the paved four-lane US 491. He recalled when this route had been US 666, nicknamed the Devil’s Highway, and the controversy that came with the decision to rename it to reduce talk of the highway’s curse and theft of the 666 signs. This had been one of the deadliest roads in New Mexico, marked with the carnage of traffic accidents. Widening the road and adding better shoulders and rumble strips to jar awake sleepy drivers made it safer. Chee bypassed the scenic turnoffs and stuck to the four-lane, turning west on NM 264 at Yah-Ta-Hey and cruising into the Navajo Police headquarters parking lot in a little under two hours.

  Mrs. Benally’s mood had not mellowed with time. Chee explained again the evidence review process, how the crime scene technicians had to search her car for hair, skin fragments, other clues to help them find the one who shot Leaphorn. He called the crime lab to learn when the car could be released, got a vague bureaucratic response. He praised her generosity and the importance of her help with such a crime. Then he offered to drive her home.

  “What about the Fudgsicles?”

  “I don’t know about any Fudgsicles,” he said.

  “The other officer. Not the lady. He promised to buy me some after he let mine get all melted.”

  “Hmmm,” Chee said. “He’s not here today. What about some coffee?”

  He brought her a cup of strong, stale coffee from the police break room with plenty of sugar.