The Stolen Relic [Nancy Drew Girl Detective 007]

by Carolyn Keene

  I thought for a moment. So Sasha had been sad about Nick. He must have meant something to her despite her wish to break up with him. I wasn’t sure whether this information helped me in my search for her. Only time would tell.

  I was about to thank Mr. Haskins for his time, when his face suddenly brightened.

  “Nancy,” he said, clearing his throat, “there’s one more thing about Sasha that you ought to know.”

  I was all ears.

  Mr. Haskins pursed his lips, looking thoughtfully at a woven Indian basket he displayed on a side table. Finally he spoke. “In the last month or so, Sasha had grown very interested in the ancient Anasazi people. Do you know who they were?”

  “Yes, Sasha told me about them,” I replied. “When we met her, she was photographing their cliff drawings in Arches.”

  “She did that a lot,” Mr. Haskins mused. “She also bought books and surfed the Internet to learn whatever she could.”

  “Do you know what suddenly made her interested in them?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know if I can point to a particular thing,” he told me. “I think it was a general curiosity that developed over time. But she only started talking about the Anasazi in the last month or so.”

  “What would she say?” I asked.

  “That their mysterious history intrigued her, and how advanced their cliff dwellings were,” he said. “She also admired their petroglyphs and pottery. Sometimes, she’d visit Anasazi ruins, like Mesa Verde in Colorado and Chaco Canyon in New Mexico. She’d take long car drives just to view them. I think she enjoyed imagining what it was like to be there in thirteen hundred A.D. and trying to guess what had happened to them.” He shook his head. “The Anasazi vanished out of the blue. It’s as if aliens came down one day and swept them off the Earth.”

  “Did Sasha take these trips alone?”

  “Sometimes Nick went with her, but mostly she went alone,” he said. “Though she often spoke about Andy Littlewolf. He’s a Navajo dealer in antiquities. He might have gone with her sometimes. You might try talking to him.”

  Andy Littlewolf. The name rang a bell. Hadn’t Sasha mentioned him to us? “Where can I find him?” I asked.

  “He has an antique shop in Moab called Littlewolf’s,” Mr. Haskins told me. “It’s long drive from his reservation, so he only works there three days a week. In fact, just this morning I visited the shop, looking for knickknacks to spruce up this lobby. So I know Andy’s in. He was whispering in a corner with some gray-haired woman in patched jeans and a tie-dyed shirt, a weird-looking gal.” He snorted. “Believe me, you get the strangest types here in Moab, Nancy.”

  8. Dangerous Waters

  I didn’t wait around. After asking Earl where I could find Mr. Littlewolf’s store, I left the ranch in his Jeep.

  Ten minutes later I pulled in front of Littlewolf’s Antiques, two blocks away from the Ranger Rose on Main Street. I knew Margaret Powell wouldn’t be there anymore, since Earl Haskins had spotted her over two hours ago. In fact, the place was empty when I stepped inside, except for a man dusting some pots in a display case. Mr. Littlewolf, I presumed.

  He was the opposite of Earl Haskins. Lean and tall with dark hair pulled into a long ponytail, Mr. Littlewolf greeted me with a curt nod. I introduced myself and waited several seconds for him to respond. Earl Haskins would spill the beans on any subject, while Andy Littlewolf seemed hard pressed to say hello. I ignored his stony expression and forged ahead with my questions. The first thing I asked him was whether he knew Sasha.

  He nodded guardedly. “Sure, I know Sasha. She grew up near my home. Now, can I help you find something to buy in my store?”

  “To be honest, I came here to ask you about Sasha. You may have heard she disappeared two days ago in Canyonlands,” I said.

  “I heard that.” He turned his back on me to dust more pots.

  “I’m helping the rangers with the search,” I said to his back. “We’re trying to learn information from her friends. Any detail about her could be useful. Please tell me whatever you know.”

  “I know no more than you do,” Mr. Littlewolf replied. “Since I’m not responsible for her disappearance, I don’t see how information from me could help.”

  I stepped back in surprise. Why would he think I suspected him in her disappearance? I switched gears. There was no advantage in making him feel like he was on the defensive. Then he’d refuse to answer questions, and I might as well leave.

  I softened my voice. “No one ever blamed you for Sasha being missing. That thought didn’t occur to me. Let me ask you about your store.” Glancing around the medium-size room, I saw a number of tables displaying pottery, arrowheads, and jewelry. In a corner was another table with more pottery and some carved wooden tribal figurines in various sizes, wearing colorful painted clothing and feather head- dresses. “You’ve got some beautiful stuff,” I told him.

  My tactic worked. Mr. Littlewolf warmed up immediately. “I’m glad you think so,” he said with a glimmer of a smile. “Most Navajo sell their own crafts on the reservation, but I’m interested in branching out. I want to sell antiques that aren’t necessarily Navajo.”

  I picked up a pottery shard and studied it. There was a drawing of a flute player on it, wearing a headdress. “This piece looks quite old,” I commented.

  “That fragment is ancient—over seven hundred years old. It’s part of an Anasazi pot,” he said. “That’s a picture of Kokopelli, the wandering hunchbacked flute player and magician. The Anasazi believed he brought rain and fertility. See, my specialty is Native American antiques, particularly Anasazi artifacts. Of course, most of those are so old, it’s difficult to find anything in one piece.”

  “Where do you get these pottery fragments?” I asked.

  “Believe it or not, I’ve found some in my own backyard,” he said. “My Hogan—that’s a Navajo house—faces a canyon. I’ve found a number of these fragments there. Sometimes archaeologists buy them from me to study.”

  Speaking of studying, I took a good look at Mr. Littlewolf. Why was he so talkative about Anasazi artifacts, and so silent about Sasha?

  He went on. “The Anasazi were talented potters. Plenty of Anasazi relics are still hidden in caves in remote parts of the Southwest. Unfortunately that can be a problem.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed. “Because they belong to Native American tribes. For instance, if a hiker finds a pot inside a cave, the hiker has to leave it there. Taking ancient artifacts from federal or Indian land is illegal. But the lands are so huge and unpopulated, we can’t really guard them. There aren’t going to be many witnesses to a theft in the middle of the empty desert.”

  I thought for a moment about the Anasazi. Their mysteriousness was intriguing. “So what do you think made the Anasazi suddenly disappear?” I asked.

  Mr. Littlewolf sighed. “I wish I knew. Some people think an astroid hit the area. Almost any theory is possible. There were thirty years of drought in the late thirteenth century around here. That must have strained the people’s resources terribly.”

  “So you think they just went in search of more water?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “So you took these artifacts from your land to sell?” I asked.

  “I’m a Native American. I can sell them,” he said. “Of course, I would never do that if there was any hint they were from a sacred area. But the Anasazi aren’t the only tribe whose artifacts interest me. I also like antique Navajo crafts and jewelry, as well as Hopi kachinas and pots.”

  “What are kachinas?” I asked.

  “I see I have to give you a crash course on Southwestern Indian culture,” he said pompously. He strode to the table where the carved wooden figures lay and held one up. It was about a foot high, and was intricately carved. It wore a red skirt, and feathers were glued delicately to five points on the headdress.


  “This is a kachina, Nancy,” he said. “It’s a carved totemic figure that represents a particular spirit. There are many spirits in Hopi mythology who do both good and bad. I find Hopi legends fascinating. The Hopi are very private about their religion. They perform ceremonial dances and rituals. I would suggest that you go see a dance, but they close most of them off to outsiders.”

  I fingered a pot that lay beside one of the kachina dolls. An abstract drawing of a graceful butterfly decorated it. “This pot is gorgeous,” I exclaimed.

  “Don’t touch it! It’s my favorite one,” he said. “The Hopi are known for their beautiful pottery, as well as for their kachinas.”

  Mr. Littlewolf was an odd man. He seemed aloof, but when he was interested in lecturing you, there was no stopping him. But his tone wasn’t kind; it was bossy and arrogant. I pressed on, determined to get some information from him on Sasha.

  “You certainly know a lot about the Hopi tribe, and the Anasazi,” I said. Maybe flattery would loosen him up.

  He shot me a tight smile. “Yes, I do. And you might as well know that it’s unusual for a Navajo to take an interest in the Hopi. Our tribes are not always on the best of terms because of land claim disputes. Still, we Navajo have adopted some Hopi skills, like pottery.”

  “How come you’re so interested in them?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. How does anyone get interested in anything? I’ve always enjoyed Hopi myths, and I’ve been interested in how the Anasazi influenced Hopi culture. As you can see, even though I mainly sell antiques, I can’t resist the occasional Hopi craft. This is my Hopi table,” he added, patting the table we stood beside. “I’d like to buy from them more often, but as a Navajo, I don’t always feel welcome on their land.”

  “That must be frustrating,” I said. “You ought to consider hiring a third person who isn’t related to either tribe to buy for you.”

  “I have,” he said crisply, and left it at that. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Nancy?”

  Mr. Littlewolf was like an encyclopedia of the Southwest. I asked him a few more questions about the Anasazi and learned that Moab sat on the ruins of an eleventh and twelfth century pueblo farming community. The villages had been burned when the Anasazi left, and the ruins were scattered throughout the area. Mr. Littlewolf told me that corn was their big food staple, and that in addition to pots, the Anasazi made beautiful baskets.

  “But the most amazing thing about them was their stone houses,” he added. “They were built into cliffs and were really advanced. They even had sophisticated ventilation systems.”

  I tapped my foot. This information was interesting, but how would it help me find Sasha? Maybe telling me all this had relaxed Mr. Littlewolf enough to talk about her. No harm in pressing him again. “I hear Sasha was interested in the Anasazi,” I began.

  He immediately clammed up, his lips tightening into a scowl. I sighed. Obviously I wasn’t getting anywhere with questions about Sasha. Once more I shifted gears. “Did a gray-haired woman come into your store this morning? I think she was wearing patched blue jeans.”

  Mr. Littlewolf’s dark eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.” And he turned his back on me, flicking his ponytail over his shoulder in a dismissive gesture.

  “Well, thanks for telling me about the Southwestern Indian tribes,” I said.

  “We didn’t discuss nearly all of them,” he said before shuffling into a back room marked PRIVATE.

  Clearly there was nothing more for me to do here. I decided to walk to the Ranger Rose and make contact with George and Ned. Maybe they’d discovered some interesting info about Nick. At the very least, they might want to follow Missy’s map into Canyonlands with me.

  On the stoop of the Ranger Rose, I bumped into them coming out the door, dressed in shorts, T-shirts, and baseball hats. “Guess I just caught you,” I said. “Are you guys heading some place exciting?”

  “We set up this rafting trip on the Colorado River,” Ned said. “I tried calling you over at Red Horse, but Mr. Haskins told me you’d left already. I’m really glad we ran into you.” He flashed me a smile.

  “Me too,” I said, grinning. “So did you learn anything more about Nick?”

  George shrugged. “Last night Ned and I had a soda with him after getting back from dinner with the Starflowers. We hung out at that burger place where we ate our first night in Moab, remember? I didn’t notice anything suspicious about him. Did you, Ned?”

  “Nope,” Ned said. “He joked around with some customers he knew. He mainly spoke about biking. He never even mentioned Sasha or his behavior yesterday in front of her parents. It’s like he has two personalities or something.”

  “Did you see him today?” I asked.

  “No,” George said. “He’s working.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, remembering. “At the Cliff-Hanger with Bess.”

  “So do you want to go rafting, Nancy?” Ned asked me eagerly. “River Outfitters is just a few blocks down the street. They already have a guide and a raft reserved for us.”

  I hesitated. “I’d like to, except I’d been hoping you guys would help me find the place where the Powells last saw Sasha. Missy made a map for me and marked it with a red X.” I dug the map from my pocket and showed it to my friends.

  George pointed to the blue squiggle indicating the Colorado River. “Missy drew the river flowing close to that spot,” George said. “Maybe we could raft part of the way and hike inland.”

  “Awesome idea, George,” I said. “I hope our guide won’t mind leading us there. Before we go, I want to call the Starflowers to update them on the case. I’ll let them know we’re on our way to Canyonlands by way of Missy’s map.”

  Mr. Starflower was grateful for my call and wished me luck. On the way to River Outfitters, I filled in Ned and George on my meeting with Mr. Littlewolf, and the fact that Earl Haskins had spotted a woman who was probably Margaret in Mr. Littlewolf’s shop earlier.

  Once there, we were greeted by our guide, a young guy named Byron. After introducing ourselves, we spread Missy’s map on the shop counter and asked Byron if he could take us to the place marked X. After a moment studying the map, he pushed back his mop of blond hair and said, “Sure! If this map is right, I know a trail that leads between the river and the X. It’s only about a mile inland. For a small extra fee, I can guide you all there.”

  I chewed my lip. I didn’t have much confidence in Missy’s map-drawing abilities. I also realized she could have deliberately made errors on it to lead us astray. At the same time, I knew that the map could be right. If so, the Powells probably followed the trail back to the river, then hiked to safety along the bank. Otherwise, how could two amateur hikers have found their way out of Canyonlands in the dark?

  But if the Powells could find the trail that led to the river, then why couldn’t Sasha—unless she’d been prevented? My heart beat faster. Something must have trapped or injured her, so she couldn’t find the trail. Something human, or animal. Like Sasha’s father, I couldn’t believe she’d just gotten lost.

  About half an hour later Byron, George, Ned, and I climbed into a yellow inflatable raft that had sides about a foot high. We wore life jackets over our T-shirts.

  “Here, guys, each of you take a paddle,” Byron said, tossing them to us. “I may need your help to get us through the rapids. They can be fierce.”

  “I guess that big storm the other day made the river pretty high,” I said.

  Byron grinned. “Sure did. It’s a lot of fun, though. We won’t be going through really tough white water—I don’t take first timers out in that. Still, we’ll see some challenging stuff, so make sure your life vests are tight.”

  We helped Byron put a large waterproof box into the boat. It was filled with extra water, food, and first aid supplies. “Other than the water and chocolate chip cookies, we rarely use this s
tuff,” he assured us. “Still, better to be safe than sorry.”

  Soon we were spinning down the river toward Canyonlands, surrounded by tall red cliffs. The afternoon sun blasted us, and there was absolutely no shade. The deep blue sky radiated heat. I dipped my paddle into the water, which was a chalky rust color from desert runoff.

  We took turns paddling, but otherwise slathered on sunscreen, sat back, and relaxed.

  “So where are the big rapids?” George asked Byron as she sipped water from her canteen. “This river is so lazy we’re hardly moving.”

  “Honey, you haven’t seen what this river can do,” Byron said, cracking a smile. “Appearances are deceiving. Be glad for the calm before the storm.”

  But the current was so slow and the heat so intense that I felt sleepy. Ned, though, had a perfect cure for that. “I’m going swimming,” he announced. “Want to come?” Without waiting for an answer, he threw off his sandals, hat, and sunglasses and jumped into the water, clothes and all. “The water feels great. Jump in!”

  George and I needed no persuading. Making sure that my life jacket was secure, I slid off the side of the raft into the chalky water. It may not have looked inviting, but no swim had ever felt so cool and refreshing. Byron slowed the raft with his paddle so we could keep up. But after a few minutes, the raft swept ahead.

  Byron shot us a warning look. “Get back in the boat, ASAP. Rapids ahead. Swimmers beware.”

  Ned, George, and I swam next to the raft while Byron stalled it with his paddle. He reached down to help me over the side. But as I gripped it, the rubber felt strange to me—flimsy.

  “Hey!” Byron shouted, his face paling despite his tan. “There’s a huge rip in the side of the raft. It’s deflating!”

  The current grew stronger, pulling us along. Byron and the waterproof box were leaning toward the water. In seconds, they’d plunge in with us.