Spider Woman's Daughter

by Anne Hillerman

  Emma, much cherished, who’d died from an infection following surgery for a brain tumor before Bernie ever met her.

  “It’s enough having one woman you love die,” Louisa said. “I didn’t want to talk to him about it, at least not until I knew what we were dealing with.”

  “What are you dealing with?” Bernie asked. “Cancer?”

  “No. It’s one of those autoimmune problems no one hears about until they get it. The doctors say I’ll probably die of something else before it can kill me. That’s the good thing about being old. Less to worry about.”

  “That’s still a lot to handle on your own.”

  Louisa said, “I left a message that I had something important to tell you, but I know it was hard for you to reach me at Anderson.” She glanced at Leaphorn. “I’m sure he thought I was mad at him because of the way I left. I was ill-tempered, tense, argumentative. I hope I’ll have a chance to explain. I left without telling him I loved him. I never expected to find him like this.”

  Bernie said, “Every couple gets crossways once in a while. He knows you love him.”

  “That reminds me. Jim left early to get back to Window Rock. I told him we could drive back together, or you could take my car if I wanted to stay. He said to tell you he loves you.”

  Bernie said, “I don’t envy him his morning. That Mrs. Benally he has to deal with is a tiger.”

  Leaphorn stirred, moaned. Louisa went to the bedside.

  “I’m going for a little run to shake out the cobwebs,” Bernie said.

  She wandered past the cafeteria, noticing the tables of aides and volunteers chatting over breakfast, and a few people who could have been visitors waiting for news, taking a break from bedside vigils. The tantalizing smell of fresh coffee wafted into the lobby. She’d get a cup on her way back.

  She walked through the big doors, past the landscaped patio with its curving benches. She strolled into the sun, enjoying the warmth on her skin, the breeze, the enticing aroma of green from the hospital’s landscaping.

  She turned on her phone and saw messages. Darleen. Slim Jacobs. Some photos from Chee. She’d deal with all that later.

  She jogged across busy St. Michael’s Drive and ran past United Church of Santa Fe and down a dirt road. It felt wonderful to be outside, to be alive. She savored the sight of Santa Fe’s piñon-dotted foothills rising to the east.

  Why would the lieutenant spend precious energy to draw them a picture as a clue? She thought about it, reached no conclusion except that she’d look at the picture again when she got back to the hospital. Maybe she’d see something else in it this morning.

  She timed herself, then circled back after twenty minutes. She stopped outside the entrance to catch her breath, noticing a statue of a smiling Saint Francis, the patron of Santa Fe and, she knew, of animals. She was heading toward the big glass entrance doors when her phone rang. She figured it was her husband, but heard another male voice.

  “Hi, there,” Cordova said. “Do you know where Chee is? I’ve been trying to reach him, just got his message.”

  “He’s on the road back to Window Rock to meet with you and Largo and the Arizona guys,” Bernie said. “He probably has his phone on mute from the hospital last night.”

  “You’re not with him?”

  “No, I’m still in Santa Fe. We came to be with Leaphorn.”

  “How is he, anyway?”

  “He’s peaceful,” Bernie said.

  “Is that Indian for dead?”

  Bernie sighed. “No. I wouldn’t joke about that.”

  “Could you ask Chee to call me ASAP? I have to cancel the meeting. That dead woman at Chaco was your missing appraiser, Eleanor Friedman.”

  “Wow,” Bernie said. “What happened?”

  “Shot in the chest, same caliber bullet as Leaphorn. We found that Karen gal you talked to. She didn’t have much to add, but you can tell Chee he did a good job finding her swirly sole prints.”

  “What else did you find out?”

  “That Davis woman Chee asked for the background on?” he continued. “Turns out your associate director had a husband who filed for divorce and then filed domestic violence charges against her.”

  “Wait, I thought that archaeologist was her fiancé?”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Cordova said. “This all happened when she was in her twenties, living in the midwest.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t the other way around, her filing against him?”

  “Oh, she had a restraining order against him, too,” Cordova said. “What’s interesting is that the ex, a former cop, disappeared. Three years later someone discovered his bones off a backcountry trail. At that point, no one could tell what happened, but they found a bullet hole in the skull.”

  “This is the same associate director, Dr. Davis?”

  Cordova said. “Maxie Davis. Same gal. She spent some time in the National Guard. Got good grades for marksmanship.”

  “Did anyone find the bullet that did in her ex?”

  “I like the way you think,” Cordova said. “We’re checking on that now.”

  When Cordova hung up, Bernie called Chee and got no answer. She called Largo. No, he hadn’t heard from Chee that morning, or from Cordova. Bernie filled him in.

  “Have Chee call Cordova as soon as you hear from him,” Bernie said.

  “I thought you were off the case, not in charge of it,” Largo said.

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to sound so bossy.”

  “It’s okay, Manuelito. It’s just the way you are. How’s Leaphorn? How did it go last night?”

  Bernie told him a little about the ceremony. “Louisa is here now, too.”

  “I’m glad about that,” Largo said. “Tell the old guy I’m on his team.”

  “I will, Captain. But I think he knows that already.”

  20

  Bernie thought about Chee and the photos as she walked to the lieutenant’s room. Louisa sat resting her head in her hands. Bernie touched her gently, and she startled awake.

  “I’m happy to sit here awhile if you’d like to get some coffee or something to eat,” Bernie said. “Or if you want to stay here, I can bring you something and you can eat in the CCU lounge or out on the deck.”

  “I’m fine for now,” Louisa said. She handed Bernie the drawing the lieutenant had made last night. “What’s this?”

  “Earlier, we asked the lieutenant if he knew who shot him. Yesterday he made these marks. As a clue I guess.”

  Louisa frowned. “W for white man? Or maybe it’s an M for mystery. Or a mountain with a deep valley? Did it help?”

  “I’m trying to decipher it,” she said. “I promised the lieutenant I’d figure out who shot him.”

  Bernie remembered Chee’s photo message and saw “Guess where I am.” She opened it to find a beautiful red peony in full bloom. Lovely, she thought. Why had he sent it? Then she remembered seeing the plant when it was in bud. How nice of him.

  She turned to Louisa. “Do you have a car I could borrow? Chee turned his phone off. I just got some important information he needs.”

  Louisa extracted a set of keys from her purse. “My Jeep is in the front row. There’s a handicapped placard hanging from the mirror. And a loaded pistol in the glove box.”

  Bernie gave her a questioning look.

  “Is that for the placard or the gun?”

  “Both,” Bernie said. “The FBI searched the airport for your Jeep. Did you hide it somewhere?”

  Louisa smiled. “A friend let me leave it at her house. Took me to the airport and picked me up yesterday. I didn’t know how long I’d have to stay at Anderson, and parking at the airport gets expensive.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” Bernie said.

  “You better be,” Louisa said. “We’ve got a lot to
talk about.”

  The Jeep started right up and drove smoothly. Bernie turned on the air-conditioning, even though it wasn’t hot yet, just because she could.

  Bernie saw Chee’s truck near the visitor center. He’d probably gone to the museum, she thought. Got absorbed in the collections, forgot that he’d silenced his phone during the ceremony for Leaphorn.

  But the museum was closed, lights off, not even a cleaning person. Bernie walked around to the back door. Locked. No cars. She saw a large dolly at the loading dock, deep tracks in the gravel, some cigarette butts.

  She walked the grounds, searching for Chee, trying to keep worry at bay. She found Mark Yazzie near the administration building, rolling up the hoses. “My lucky morning,” he said. “Two officers of the law, and I’m still a free man.”

  “So you saw Chee?”

  “Fine-looking man,” Mark Yazzie said. “Even out of uniform.”

  “I’m trying to find him.”

  “Last I heard, he was headed to the museum.”

  “I was just up there,” Bernie said. “It’s closed.”

  “I told him to use the back door.”

  “I tried that, too, but it was locked.”

  “Guess she must have left already,” Yazzie said.

  “She?”

  “Dr. Davis. If I see Officer Chee, I’ll tell him you’re after him.”

  Bernie walked to Davis’s office, noticing that her SUV wasn’t there. Knocked and got no response. She called Chee’s phone again. No answer.

  She went to the administration building, where she found Marjorie watering the plants in the big office. Collingsworth had joined potential donors for breakfast, the secretary told her, and ought to be in around ten. Bernie was welcome to wait, have some coffee. And, no, she hadn’t seen Chee.

  “What about Dr. Davis?” Bernie asked.

  “Oh, she works off-site today. I can give her a message. She’s got a research project out on some ranch in southern Colorado.”

  “The Double X Ranch?”

  “Usually that’s where she is. Sometimes she goes to Chaco Canyon.”

  Bernie said, “I need you to call campus security. I found my husband’s truck in the lot, but he’s missing. Doesn’t answer his phone. I’m afraid something has happened to him. The gardener said he went to the museum, but it’s dark and locked over there.”

  “Why would he be here so early? It doesn’t seem likely—”

  The expression on Bernie’s face stopped the monologue. Marjorie dialed, said a few words, hung up. “The guard will be here in a minute.”

  Bernie sat still on a bench outside the administrative offices as she waited, repositioning pieces of the puzzle, remembering the lieutenant’s mantra: Nothing is a coincidence. A W for woman? Did a woman shoot him? Was it Ellie? If so, who killed her? Or an M, she thought, an M for Maxie? When she found Chee, she’d bounce that theory off him, after she teased him for getting locked up with the artifacts.

  It was fifteen minutes before Security Man arrived, well-built, steel-haired, with the presence of a retired marine and a gun in his holster. From the tightness in his shoulders and the dour expression on his face, Bernie expected conflict.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I think my husband is locked in the museum. I need your help to—”

  He cut her off. “No, ma’am. That can’t be. The alarm is on, and the motion detectors show there’s no sign of anybody there. I checked just before I walked over here.”

  “What if he’s unconscious?”

  Security Man made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Well, unless he’s on staff, he shouldn’t be there in the first place. The museum personnel will be here in another hour or so. I’m sure they’ll—”

  She felt her anger rising. She took her wallet out of her backpack, showed him her official Navajo Police ID.

  “My husband is a Navajo Police officer, too,” she said. “I’m here working on a case for Dr. Collingsworth, and he’s helping me. I don’t want to involve outsiders in this, but if I need to call the Santa Fe Police Department or the State Police, I’m sure they’ll respond.”

  “Point made,” he said.

  “Tell me about the alarm system,” Bernie said as they walked.

  He explained that complicated electronics kept track of every building on campus, monitoring exterior doors and windows, with motion detectors in crucial areas. Key staff who had reason to work late or come in early knew the code to disable the system and reinstate it when they left.

  “It works great,” Security Man said. “Hardly any false alarms. The only problem is human error, when people forget to activate it when they leave.”

  He wanted to amble, but when she broke into a jog, Security Man kept pace. They reached the swipe box near the front door, and he slid a card in to open it.

  “Wait here while I take a look.”

  “I’m going with you,” Bernie said. “You know, two sets of eyes . . .”

  She saw his face harden.

  “Come on,” she said. “What’s the big deal? If he’s isn’t in there, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “It’s not . . . but what the hell?” he said. “I like pushy broads. Be my guest.”

  They entered the empty reception area, with its deserted research tables.

  “Chee,” she called. “Chee? You locked in here?”

  They walked through the lobby to the research rooms, storage and office areas, places Bernie hadn’t visited on her first tour. In the pottery vault, she noticed the empty boxes, tape, the bubble wrap.

  Security Man said, “Usually this room is perfect. Dr. Davis loves these old things like a family, more than some families I know. I’ve never seen her leave it disorganized, but she’s been working hard, packing up all this old stuff for storage so that fancy new collection can come in.”

  “Was she here this morning?”

  “Yeah. She disabled the alarm and then reset it when she left, half an hour ago. Maybe she let your hubby in and then they went out for breakfast or something. Seen enough? Do I get my coffee?”

  “One more stop,” Bernie said.

  The overhead lights came on automatically in the rug room, but in the split second before they did, Bernie noticed a little green flash blinking beneath the table.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  Security Man retrieved it. “Looks like someone dropped a phone.” It came alive at his touch, showing a photo of Bernie and Chee in traditional Navajo dress. Their wedding picture.

  Bernie squatted down, examining the carpet. She noticed a few spots of blood. The blood was damp.

  “Can you check the surveillance cameras?”

  He looked up at the video camera aimed at the rug room and shook his head. “This one isn’t taping. On my to-do list for today.”

  “Call the police right now,” Bernie said. “Don’t let anyone in here, or in Dr. Davis’s office.” She raced out the front door, running back to Louisa’s car. She called Cordova as she drove, explained what she’d found.

  “The security guard here is calling the local cops,” she said. “But I think we’re too late for that.”

  “You’re sure she kidnapped him? From what I hear, she’s an attractive—”

  Bernie cut him off. “I found blood close to where he dropped his phone.”

  Cordova would alert the rangers at Chaco Canyon in case Davis was headed there, and put the New Mexico and Colorado State Police on alert for her car. The Colorado cops would also check the Double X, Davis’s other probable location. He would also call Largo with an update.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m headed toward Chaco, and if they aren’t there, then to Double X,” she said. “I can’t just—”

  He interrupted. “Don’t be a hero. Don’t
do anything stupid.”

  Louisa’s Jeep surprised her with its responsiveness. It also, unfortunately, had less than a quarter tank of gas. That ought to get her to Cuba, Bernie thought, and that service station would be a fast in-and-gone. She turned off the air-con to save fuel.

  Bernie drove south in traffic that grew lighter once she got past the La Cienega exit. Most vehicles were pointed toward Santa Fe, traveling the opposite direction. She concentrated on the road, kept the speedometer at 85, scanned her memory for every detail she could muster about Davis. Focused on staying calm. They’d found Chee’s phone in the rug room. Davis must have let him in, and before that, they probably chatted about the pots she was boxing up. Chee must have said something that made her feel threatened. But what? Davis was a smart woman. She wouldn’t risk abducting a cop unless there was a lot at stake, and unless she thought she could get away with it.

  Bernie reviewed her impression of the woman. She loved her job. She’d loved her boyfriend, who had died mysteriously, kept his ashes on her desk in that cookie jar urn. She probably loved the pot he was in as much as she’d loved him.

  Pots. Pot. Bernie flashed on Ellie and Slim smoking pot in their hippie hideaway, surrounded by Ellie’s boxes of potshards and junk.

  She remembered the photo Slim had shown her. Remembered Slim saying Davis had taken the pictures for Ellie during her early appraisal work. Davis must have known about Ellie falsifying the values. In fact, Ellie probably used Davis’s photos to make the fakes. Leaphorn’s calling attention to the phony appraisals would have raised questions about a scam, implicated Davis. Chee must have figured this out, and Davis somehow knew that he knew.

  Bernie thought about the scene at Ellie’s office and at her apartment. She’d assumed that Ellie was messy, was leaving town in a hurry, or had been looking for something. But what if Davis had been there, tearing the place apart, looking for the incriminating pictures?

  The Jeep’s orange gasoline warning light began to glow beyond San Ysidro, catching her attention briefly. She drove on, trying to ignore it and the E on the gauge, because there was no place to stop for fuel. She rolled on fumes for the last ten miles, hoping, hoping, hoping the Jeep would make it into the gas station. She exhaled a percentage of the built-up tension when she saw buildings along the highway, the storage complex, and, finally, the Conoco station in the next block. She’d fill up and be on her way.