Spider Woman's Daughter

by Anne Hillerman

  The lieutenant began with a statement:

  I have concerns about the McManus collection item numbers 2343–2355 as specified in the EFB appraisal. The previous appraiser may have dramatically undervalued these items. In my research to date, I have been unable to find the reason for these lower valuations. These pieces are rare. Comparables may be difficult to locate.

  The next page had twelve small black-and-white photographs of ceramics with identification numbers and descriptions. Interesting, Bernie thought. The pieces that had raised questions in the lieutenant’s mind were tall cylinders. Some of the photos looked a bit fuzzy.

  Dr. Maxie Davis and I discussed this discrepancy. She suggested that, with her extensive knowledge of the pottery found in or created at Chaco Canyon, she could update the valuations. She also noted that the AIRC’s collections contain at least one other example of this ancestral Pueblo pottery style and noted that insurance on that piece had been purchased as part of the larger collection without objection.

  This anomaly in an otherwise sound earlier appraisal also raised questions for me about the origin of these pots. Until the provenance of these pieces can be verified, I recommend that the AIRC accept them on a contingency basis only.

  Bernie turned on the printer and printed the report. She made a second copy of the page with the pictures and item numbers that the lieutenant was curious about.

  All she knew about art and artifact valuation was what she’d learned from that show on PBS where people bring in their treasures for appraisals and information. Some learn Uncle Bob had a good eye for art; some learn the carving they bought at the flea market was worth half what they paid. Watching the experts talk about antiques had taught her the word provenance.

  Why would the values on those pieces Leaphorn had questioned be too low? A collector might undervalue something to reduce the insurance bill, she figured, but what if he had to file a claim? Maybe the market had changed, making them more precious and expensive.

  She put the report in an envelope and wrote Collingsworth’s name on the outside. She left it and the single page on the kitchen table, where she’d be sure to find them in the morning.

  When she fell asleep, she dreamed that she stood in line along with a group of tall, slender black-and-white pots, all waiting to be admitted to the antique show on TV.

  Bernie and Chee left for Santa Fe before daylight, and the sun comes up early in June in northwestern New Mexico. Earlier, Chee had fed the cat and, even better, made coffee for them both. She put on jeans, a summer blouse, and her comfortable green athletic shoes. They took his truck because its air conditioner worked.

  They drove through the beige-and-yellow landscape. Traffic stayed mercifully light even when they reached Farmington.

  “Isn’t this where that guy you’re looking for lives?”

  “Austin Lee? I’m not sure where he lives,” Bernie said. “This is where he owns a house.”

  “I asked about him. If it’s the same guy, he works with the husband of the woman who comes by the office with breakfast burritos,” Chee said.

  By the time they left Bloomfield, heading southeast toward Cuba, Bernalillo, and ultimately on to the New Mexico State Police headquarters in Santa Fe, the sun was up. It added a warm glow to the rocky protuberance of Angel Peak and lit the maroon, gray, and yellow sandstone and mudstone badlands that surrounded it. Chee pulled the truck off on the shoulder so Bernie could drive. She moved the driver’s seat closer to the steering wheel and adjusted the mirrors.

  “I’ll be glad to get this hypnotism thing over with,” she said.

  “So that’s why you’ve been so quiet,” Chee said. “Don’t worry. Even if that hypnotist has you barking like a Chihuahua, you won’t have a big audience.”

  Bernie gave him The Look. “The idea of having a stranger poking around in my head makes me nervous. I don’t think I got it wrong, but what if I did? What if we’ve been spinning our wheels, focusing on the Benallys and their connections?”

  “Cordova said you were a great witness, remember?” Chee said. “But if you forgot a little something or made a tiny mistake, this guy can help. That’s all. This isn’t about your deep, dark secrets. It’s about the lieutenant.”

  “You’re sure Tsosie isn’t involved?” Bernie asked. “He admits access to the car. He had a motive because of his brother. And from what you said, he fits the description.”

  “He has an ironclad alibi,” Chee said. “And he swears his brother isn’t poisoned by revenge. He said they follow the Navajo way.”

  “Yeah, they do,” she said. “Especially after getting busted. Especially when he’s chatting to a policeman looking for a suspect.”

  “I didn’t get that feeling. Not because he’s my cousin, but because he was telling the truth. It sounds like his brother’s doing pretty well in prison.”

  “His friends at Earl’s or the manager there could be lying to protect him,” Bernie said.

  “You’re suspicious this morning.”

  “Did you tell Largo he’s your cousin?”

  “Well, sure. Of course.”

  “If I thought a cousin of mine might be involved in something, I’d be tempted to tread lightly.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Chee said. “You would never do that. Do you think I would?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m just talking. I’d love for you to solve this case.” She glanced over at him again, took his hand. The truck swerved slightly to the right.

  He said, “Watch your driving. You know what the speed limit is here?”

  “Sixty-five. I’m barely doing seventy.”

  Chee said, “What happened to the lieutenant is every cop’s nightmare. It sits on your shoulder, makes you nervous.”

  “Do you think about that?” Bernie said. “About some ghost from the past coming back to get you?”

  “Don’t worry about me, beautiful.” Chee reached over and massaged her neck, felt the tension.

  “Only if you promise not to worry about me,” she said.

  “I can’t do that,” he said.

  “Well then . . .” She changed the subject. “I wonder what Louisa and Leaphorn argued about. It must have been something major, for her to leave him. And I wonder why the feds haven’t been able to find her. Makes her look guilty.”

  “Or it makes them look incompetent,” Chee said. “And it makes the murder-for-hire theory less outlandish. Speaking of which, you owe me a steak. I’ll collect at lunch, thank you very much. I’m getting hungry already thinking about it. I’ll have a baked potato, too. Or would fries be better?”

  Bernie groaned.

  “And what about Leonard Nez?” Chee said. “Another missing person. I don’t like that we haven’t been able to talk to him, even though he doesn’t seem to have any connection to the lieutenant, or any reason to have shot him.”

  Bernie said, “So what about this? Louisa hires Nez to shoot the lieutenant. Nez subcontracts the job to Mrs. Benally’s ninja. Jackson is in the backseat, doing his homework. They drop Jackson off at the Zuni site for his geology project, shoot, bring the car back to Bashas’, and vanish together, ninja style.”

  “Good scenario,” Chee said. “But make the ninja and Nez time travelers to get from Window Rock to Zuni and back to Bashas’ in an hour.”

  “We’ll have to ask them about that when Mrs. Benally brings him in.”

  They cruised along on the four-lane highway through oil and gas country and up into Ponderosa Pines and past the Jicarilla’s Apache Nugget casino, a lonely outpost of slot machines, gas pumps, and convenience store. When they entered the Rio Puerco Valley, they called Louisa. No answer again. This time Chee left the message, saying they were on the way to visit the lieutenant. They headed into Cuba, where Bernie stopped for gas. They both got another cup of coffee, and Chee took over the driving.

  They
had heard some officers grumbling that the state of New Mexico put too much money into prisons and too little into improving training and facilities for law enforcement. But compared to the Navajo Police headquarters, the New Mexico State Police building on the south side of Santa Fe was a palace. Bernie checked in at the desk, and then they sat in the lobby. Chee had brought a book.

  Bernie walked down the hall to the restroom, came back with fresh lipstick. She checked her phone for messages. Got up and read the bulletin board. Came back and sat next to Chee again.

  “Don’t worry about this,” he said. “What’s the worst that can happen? You’ll crow like a lovesick rooster or cluck like a chicken. Some joker will put the video on YouTube. You’ll be famous, and then you can support me as a full-time animal impersonator.”

  She stared at him with that special gaze she reserved for those rare occasions when she wondered for a split second why she’d married him.

  They waited, watched a few officers come and go. It was strange to see no one they knew.

  Chee said, “I’ve been thinking more about lunch. We should go somewhere that has both steak and sopaipillas. Somewhere nice.”

  “Sopaipillas? I love sopaipillas.”

  “I know you do. Miniature fry breads. Puffy. Served with honey or stuffed with ground meat, onions, chile.”

  “Stop. You’re making me hungry. I can’t think about food and worry at the same time.”

  “It’s settled, then,” he said. “Although you might want to go to KFC when you’re done. You know, visit your sisters. Original and extra crispy.”

  Chee opened his book and had progressed from page 45 to page 48 when Agent Cordova walked up to them. He shook hands with them both, told them the FBI had no new leads in the Leaphorn case. They had tracked down a few parolees with distant ties to the lieutenant, finding all of them had solid alibis. Then he escorted Bernie back to the interview room.

  Was Chee imagining it, or did she stand a little taller and suck in her tummy when she saw him?

  Cordova guided her not to a regular interview room as she’d expected, but to an office with a desk, a couch, and a couple of large chairs, photographs of flowers on the wall. Instead of windows, it had a one-way observation mirror. He motioned her to a charcoal gray recliner. “The hypnotist will be here in a minute,” Cordova said. “She’s good. You’ll like her.” He sat down on the couch. “How’s everything?”

  “I’m going to the hospital to see the lieutenant after this. I’ll know more then.”

  “I meant, how are you doing with the aftershock?”

  “Aftershock? I keep thinking that there must have been something I could have done.”

  “Those if-onlys will kill you,” he said. “Are you on leave?”

  She nodded.

  “You look good in civilian clothes,” he said.

  “Thanks. My sister thinks my fashion sense is hopeless.”

  “You’d look great in anything. I love those green sneakers.”

  The door opened, and a fit black woman entered. Cordova introduced her, Michelle Abernathy. He put his hand lightly on Bernie’s arm. “I’ll be observing the session in the next room. It’s a pleasure to work with you.”

  Abernathy sat behind the desk.

  “Officer Manuelito, thank you for coming to Santa Fe today. You made my life so much easier.”

  “Please call me Bernie.”

  “Bernie, have you been hypnotized before?”

  “No.”

  Abernathy explained the procedure, stressing that the session would focus only on the shooting and the events immediately preceding it. She had reviewed the transcript of Bernie’s interview with Cordova, which she had on her laptop, and also listened to his recording of their session. The theory behind this kind of hypnotism, she explained, was that in a state of profound relaxation the brain could sometimes retrieve suppressed or forgotten memories with the help of a trained therapist to guide the process.

  “Will you tell me if I say something different than what’s on the report?

  “Yes,” Abernathy said. “I can give you a copy of my tape of the session if you’d like it. Any other questions?”

  “I guess not,” Bernie said. “Let’s do this.”

  Abernathy dimmed the lights. They started with simple relaxation cues. Abernethy was good—thorough, professional, unintimidating, likable. Bernie let herself unwind. After a while, Abernathy asked her to imagine that she was watching a movie of Leaphorn’s shooting running in slow motion, and that she could stop the action whenever she wanted, frame by frame. Abernathy moved the process forward with a series of questions.

  Bernie described the person dressed in black leaving the blue sedan, walking straight toward the lieutenant. Walking quickly. She watched the hand with the pistol extended toward him.

  “What does the lieutenant do?”

  “He glances up. Looks at the person.”

  “Does the lieutenant recognize the person?”

  “I’m not sure.” Bernie exhaled. “He looks surprised, like he’s just about to say something.”

  “What do you see next?”

  Bernie described the black barrel of the pistol, the sound of the gunshot, a flash of sunlight against metal on the shooter’s wrist, the lieutenant sinking down onto the asphalt. Abernathy asked about the gun, but Bernie could see no more details.

  “I’d like you to rewind. Please take a closer look now at the wrist. Can you see what caught your eye more clearly?”

  “I see a wide metal band.”

  “Do you notice anything else?

  “I’m looking at the front, and I don’t see a watch face. I guess it’s a bracelet.”

  “What color is it?

  “Silver,” Bernie said.

  “Can you see anything else about it?”

  Bernie let the image wash over her brain. “It has hearts, linked hearts, as a design. Looks like a sand-cast bracelet.”

  Chee drove them both to the Flying Tortilla for lunch—her treat to settle their bet about the FBI. She ordered the stuffed sopaipilla with ground beef and green chile. He had the steak and chile relleno combination because the menu described the chilies as “Big Jim.” She told him about the session.

  “The only thing that surprised me was the bracelet.”

  “Too bad it wasn’t an ID bracelet with his name on it.”

  “Still, it’s a new clue. Better than nothing,” she said.

  “We just have to find somebody who drove the Benally car and also has a silver bracelet. That’s probably every Navajo who was in it. Men and women.”

  Bernie said, “Maybe you need to talk to Mrs. Benally again. Ask to see her jewelry.” She took another forkful of her lunch.

  “I guess hypnotism makes you hungry? It made me hungry, and I wasn’t even the subject,” Chee said.

  “I was starved,” she said. “I was too nervous to eat breakfast.”

  He used a tortilla to mop up the last of his green chile sauce. “How far is the hospital from here?”

  “It’s halfway across town,” she said. “Maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “Too many people die in those places.” Chee pushed his plate to the side. “And you never know if the person you’re visiting just wants to be left alone.”

  Although he wouldn’t have said it, she knew Chee’s acquiescence to the hospital visit showed how much the lieutenant meant to him. She’d seen Leaphorn’s brisk way of dealing with Chee, pointing out overlooked clues, unquestioned assumptions, and gaps in logic. She knew the criticism left her smart, competent husband feeling like an unworthy apprentice. Still, Chee honored the man.

  The nurse in CCU remembered Bernie from her earlier visit, recognizing her even without her police uniform. “Your uncle seems more alert today,” the nurse said.

  “Can he talk?”


  “No, he can’t speak because of the breathing tube. Dr. Moxsley will be here this afternoon, and he’ll do another assessment of the injury.”

  Bernie led the way to the lieutenant’s bedside. The room was dark and cool. Leaphorn lay unmoving and looked smaller than before. His head was still swathed in bandages and the tubes and monitors still in place.

  “Yá’át’ééh.” Chee spoke softly and walked toward the bed.

  The lieutenant’s eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, seemed to search in the direction of the voice. Then closed again.

  Chee spoke in Navajo. “My wife and I are here, making sure you are behaving yourself,” he said. “We wanted you to know we are thinking of you.”

  Bernie said, “I hope you’re feeling better today. We miss you.”

  Leaphorn had a little more color in his face, and the swelling seemed to have gone down. It gave her hope to see him like this.

  She switched to English. “We talked to Louisa on the phone, and she said to tell you she wishes she could be here. That she loves you.”

  Leaphorn inched his hand in her direction. She reached for it.

  “I’m finishing up the AIRC job for you,” Bernie said. “I met Dr. Collingsworth and Dr. Davis, and I saw some of the collection. Beautiful pots. And they showed me the Hosteen Klah rug. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.”

  Chee said, “Now I’ll fill you in about the progress of the investigation into your shooting. In a word, nothing. Only dead ends.”

  Chee told the story of his encounters with Mrs. Benally and her enterprising son, of the cake and Garrison Tsosie. Just when Bernie had begun to worry that Chee was talking too long, he said, “We need you to get better so you can help us work this case. Then we won’t have to try so hard.”

  Leaphorn’s eyes fluttered open again. He looked toward Chee and moved his lips. The ventilator kept him from speaking.

  “Do you know who shot you?” Chee asked. Leaphorn moved his head up and down ever so slightly.

  Bernie found a notebook and a pen in her backpack. She offered him the pen, and his hand moved weakly toward it, then sank back onto the bed.