The Collector

by R. Allen Chappell

  Her husband was wondering along those same lines and was quick to point out to his nephew, “Lucy’s been right here for days now, Billy. She couldn’t have killed no one this morning.”

  The two watched silently as Billy Red Clay shined his boots on the back of first one and then the other pant leg. After a final critical glance at his footwear, the Tribal cop straightened and raised his eyes with a frown.

  “Well, hell, Uncle, we know she didn’t kill no one. Fred Smith never thought she done it.” He held up a hand and waved a finger. “But, Cliff Johnson was her agent. And with Lucy’s name being the sum total of his last words, it’s only natural the Bureau should think she might have some clue as to who did do it.” Billy’s swarthy face turned a shade darker as he shook a forefinger at the pair and raised his voice for the first time. “It took some determination on Clifford’s part to scratch out that note! Agent Smith just wants to know why Lucy’s name?” and then added, “He made it clear he wants to talk to her before anyone else does. I’m not really sure why being first to question her is so important, but he seems to think so.” Billy softened his tone. “That’s why they sent me out here to bring her in this morning.” He touched the brim of his hat in Lucy’s direction, and then gave his uncle a pointed look. “They thought otherwise someone might put up a fuss.” He turned again and signaled his apologies to Lucy. “Fred Smith would have come but he’s stuck with the forensic people and couldn’t get away. He said to tell you he was sorry he couldn’t make it out here in person this morning.”

  Lucy Tallwoman, still not fully recovered from the news, had only one thing to say, and she said it in a most determined way. “I think we’d best be calling Charlie Yazzie.”

  Thomas nodded his agreement. “Time to lawyer-up I expect—Fred Smith, or no Fred Smith.”

  Billy Red Clay grinned for the first time and bobbed his head at his uncle. “I already called Charlie on the radio. He was on his way into Farmington anyhow, him and Harley. They’ll be waiting for us at the Federal Building.”

  “What’s Fred Smith going to think about you calling Charlie in on this? Having Lucy show up with a lawyer before he even has a chance to speak to her might make him a little unhappy…wouldn’t you think?”

  Billy smiled. “I doubt Fred will say a damn thing. No one talks to the law these days without a lawyer…and Fred likes Charlie. He’d rather him be involved than some shyster. Just be glad Charlie keeps up his bona fides with the bar association.” He doubted Thomas knew what bona fides were—waited for him to ask—and was disappointed when he didn’t. Billy just heard those words himself the day before and was laboring under the impression they projected some semblance of credibility.

  Thomas was obviously pleased his nephew had taken it upon himself to call in legal aid. Whatever bona fides meant, he took it as a good sign Charlie Yazzie had some. He was now inclined to see this clan nephew in a kinder light. Thomas liked Agent Smith well enough, but one couldn’t be too careful when dealing with any kind of law…especially not government law.

  “Nephew, you did good.” Thomas, grinning himself now, was encouraged to think there was at least this assurance they would get a fair shake. “I guess I’ll just follow along behind you into town, that way you won’t have to bring Lucy all the way back out here. We need to do some grocery shopping in town anyway.” He glanced over at his wife. “We better get the kids out of bed to keep an eye on Paul and take the sheep out. This might take a while.” He scowled in the direction of the bedrooms and the sleeping children. “Those two are getting bad about laying in of a morning.” He clucked softly to himself. “We were going to dock lambs before it got so hot the flies were out. I suppose that will have to wait now.”

  The family’s utility flock had increased significantly these last few seasons and so had the problems that entailed. There was no end to the work involved in raising market lambs and docking tails wasn’t on Thomas’s list of favorite pastimes. Lucy Tallwoman’s bunch of wool-producing Churros, on the other hand, pretty much took care of themselves.

  ~~~~~~

  Legal Services Investigator Charlie Yazzie, along with his friend Harley Ponyboy, were on their way into Farmington with the intention of picking up a few odds and ends for a project they’d been coerced into. Charlie’s wife Sue was of the opinion some sort of roof over the back porch was long overdue. She figured the time had come to make that happen. “We could use a little shade out there in the heat of the day,” she’d said, “and they are calling for rain later on, too,” but then grudgingly admitted, “Rain don’t look likely to me. That radio has been saying rain for a week now…I’m tired of hearing it.” Sue had not been in the best of moods the last few days and Charlie had no interest in making matters worse.

  Harley, gazing happily out the window as Charlie’s truck breezed through the smaller communities along the way, couldn’t help smiling at the day’s prospects. Ever the optimist, Harley Ponyboy figured they should be able to finish the job by noon, and hoped they might then be able to go look at a horse a friend had for sale. There is little the Diné enjoy more than horse-trading. Its long been a favorite form of entertainment on the reservation—in a similar vein to horse racing, another favorite pastime—but without the specter of financial ruin. Even Charlie occasionally found himself caught up in a horse deal. His own grandfather had made his living dealing in horses and had expected at the time that his grandson would someday follow along in the occupation. The old man hadn’t counted on the boy’s grandmother who, as it turns out, had other and very different plans for him. It was at her insistence and encouragement that Charlie eventually worked his way through UNM to become a lawyer. Which is not so different from being a horse trader as one might think.

  The Heat

  Senior Agent Fred Smith’s office was on the second floor of the Federal Building in Farmington, not far from the reservation, relatively speaking. Charlie Yazzie’s official truck was already in the parking lot when Billy Red Clay pulled in with Thomas Begay not far behind, a black plume of diesel smoke trailing in the wind. “That’s why these trucks are called coal burners,” he often said.

  Lucy Tallwoman took her time getting out of the cruiser…waiting for Thomas…and eyeing the Federal Building. A shadow of uneasiness had fallen over her on the way into town despite Billy’s best efforts to set her mind at ease.

  The three Navajo entered the big double doors together and then made their way up the stairs to the second floor. Charlie Yazzie and Harley Ponyboy sat at the far end of the foyer, which served as a waiting area for several associated offices. Smiling reassurance, Charlie motioned them on back. Harley Ponyboy, peeking around the investigator, didn’t smile but gave a quick lift of his eyebrows in greeting.

  The receptionist had already informed Charlie that Agent Smith was in a meeting but should be out shortly. That information was passed along to the late arrivals. In the short interim that followed, the five Diné chatted back and forth. Charlie, too, did his best to calm Lucy’s lingering case of nerves.

  It was only a few minutes later that the big mahogany door swung open to reveal a well-dressed trio, two of whom might have passed for local businessmen, if not for Thomas Begay’s whispered determination they were Federal Marshals. No one could offer up anything to dispute this and their attention turned to the equally impressive third person, an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, impeccably and tastefully attired. She spoke to the receptionist and was duly pointed toward the restrooms. As she passed, the woman nodded pleasantly to the group seated along the wall, but seemed to hesitate for just an instant at the sight of Charlie Yazzie. Harley Ponyboy caught the look and elbowing Thomas leaned closer to whisper, “Did you see that? Looks like Charlie’s still got it all right.” He nodded to himself. “Yep…he’s still got it...”

  Agent Smith followed the others out and stood in the doorway smiling at everyone but indicated only Lucy Tallwoman and Charlie Yazzie were to come with him as he turned back into his office.r />
  Billy Red Clay frowned and looked over at his Uncle Thomas in a way there could be no doubt he was disappointed.

  In the office, Fred Smith ushered Lucy and her newly acquired legal council to seats at the moderately sized conference table, and then took a place just opposite the two. Fred being from that part of the country, and knowing the protocol, first asked about everyone’s family then offered some small talk before approaching the real business at hand. It was what Navajos would expect from one of their own, and hearing it from a white person pleased them, especially coming from one of Fred’s caliber. The Federal Agent soon had Lucy Tallwoman smiling and chatting about the children, giving her his undivided attention until interrupted by a soft knock at the door. The receptionist stuck her head in to announce the same woman they’d seen earlier in the foyer.

  Fred looked up and smiled as she entered. “This is Agent Carla Meyor, a Bureau Specialist in our Art Recovery Division out of the New York office.” The woman immediately came forward to take Lucy Tallwoman’s hand, commenting on her traditional dress, which she obviously admired. When she turned to Charlie and offered her hand it was with a quick tilt of her head. “I understand you are a lawyer now, Mr. Yazzie…Legal Services I believe?”

  Charlie said that was so and couldn’t help feeling there was something he was missing about the woman. Carla quickly picked up on this and laughed. “I thought I recognized your name in an earlier conversation with Fred. He said you might be here today. I was in one of the groups you tutored at UNM…but that was a long time ago. I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”

  Try as he might, Charlie could not place the woman yet made the appropriate affirmation that he did.

  Carla doubted this, but accepted this attempt to acknowledge he did with a smile and a nod.

  Lucy Tallwoman, who at first avoided looking directly at the female agent, now studied her more closely, drawn to something in her appearance or manner, or a combination of the two…something so elusive she couldn’t think what it might be. She hadn’t known many white people on a one-to-one basis and had little to compare this person with. Still, there was something…

  Carla noticed but said nothing.

  Fred Smith appeared thoughtful and listened to them chat for a moment before adding, “Carla by the way, does have a law degree from UNM but later changed career paths. She earned her Master’s in Art History at Brown, where she concentrated on Native American collectibles. Her dual degrees attracted the attention of the Bureau, which fortunately was able to recruit her to our Art Recovery team. She’s only recently come onboard officially. She had previously been involved as a consultant in several high-profile federal cases.” The agent paused and gave a wave of his hand toward the door. “The two gentlemen you saw earlier are investigators currently assigned to the same unit.”

  Charlie, tongue in cheek, remarked, “Ah, well, Thomas Begay will be disappointed, he figured them for Federal Marshals.”

  An odd look flitted across the FBI Agent’s face. “Actually, Charlie…they were both Federal Marshals before coming on with us.” And then looking across at Lucy Tallwoman, smiled quizzically. “How could your husband possibly know that?”

  Now it was Lucy Tallwoman’s turn to smile. “It’s a gift, I guess—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be wrong when it comes to identifying lawmen.”

  Fred Smith exchanged glances with Charlie, who shrugged but didn’t pursue the remark. The agent pulled himself back to the matter at hand. “Charlie, you’re probably surprised at the attention the New York Bureau is affording a local case like this, but it may be bigger than you think. The two agents you saw earlier were wrapping up an investigation in Santa Fe, but flew down when the circumstances of Mr. Johnson’s death became known. Ms. Meyor, here, drove up from Albuquerque this morning—only arrived an hour or so ago, in fact. We have reason to believe this case may be related to similar ones the Bureau’s investigating in both New York State and Santa Fe.” Fred directed his gaze in Lucy’s direction. “Is there anything you can tell us that might explain why Clifford Johnson made so desperate an effort to leave your name on that notepad?”

  Lucy looked at Charlie who, smiling, nodded she should answer, causing Fred Smith to smile as well.

  Her voice hardly above a whisper, Lucy leaned forward across the table. “I have been thinking about this since I first heard this morning… I have no idea why he would write my name. I’m working on something for him right now…supposedly already spoken for…but Clifford didn’t say who the buyer was. He did say, though, that the gentleman was from New York. New York the city, I mean.” She paused to collect her thoughts and went on. “A few years back Clifford’s wife, Louise, sent me a clipping from one of those interior decorating magazines featuring one of my earlier Rainbow Yei—Yei Bi Chei pieces.” Lucy used the old Navajo phrase, Yei Bi Chei, for spirit helpers instead of the more common singular “Yei” denoting the actual God. She went on to mention the figures were depicted as Corn Dancers, a style that later became so popular she began to portray nearly all her Yei Bi Chei pieces as such. “I guess you could say I have become identified with them. That and my Chi’ihónit’t or spirit release, they are now my signature on a piece.”

  Carla didn’t bat an eye at any of this, which led Charlie to believe she might have been more familiar with his friend’s work than they had imagined.

  “Lucy, would you have any idea what your work is selling for in some of the New York galleries…or even those in Santa Fe?” Fred was doodling on a pad as he spoke and pushed this over to Carla.

  Carla glanced at the paper and then, not looking at the agent, addressed Lucy Tallwoman directly. “Lucy, are you aware some of your early work has recently changed hands at some rather large figures?”

  Lucy’s mouth tightened. “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘large figures’ Clifford Johnson has always handled the business end for me. I know my work brings more than most of the other weavers; that’s been a sore point locally for a while now.” Lucy frowned. “None of it’s my doing, that’s for sure, I never let out what I’m paid for any of my stuff.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have any idea what something brings once it leaves the reservation. I only know what I have been told by my agent.” She quickly corrected the statement, “Was my agent, that is…” and her voice faded to an awkward silence.

  Carla stood ready to pursue the subject. “Would it surprise you to learn, Lucy, that some of your pieces have brought as much as fifteen thousand dollars—just in the past year or so? There are avid collectors bidding up the prices of anything of yours that appears on the market.” She paused a moment as though looking for the right words… “Everything in the Native American market has gained value of late but it is your work that stands out at the auction houses, and by a considerable margin I might add.

  Charlie Yazzie’s eyebrows shot up; and for a moment he appeared speechless. He’d had no idea Lucy Tallwoman was so well known, or her work so valuable. He was aware she and Thomas had been doing well of late, building the new house and all, but this latest information was totally beyond the realm of anything he might have imagined. He and Thomas Begay had been close friends since school days and kept relatively few secrets from one another. He was nearly certain Thomas didn’t know what sort of money his wife’s work was bringing, at least not beyond what Clifford Johnson paid her. He probably had no clue as to what those pieces ultimately brought on the open market. Everything went through the trader. It was no secret he handled all of Lucy’s business affairs.

  Carla Meyor went on. “Word has it you are now considered the definitive weaver of traditional Navajo textiles. Collectors all over the world are becoming interested.” The agent slowly nodded her head, as though mentally qualifying the statement. “No one else is producing their own wool from old-line Churros; very few of those sheep are even left now…not to mention the hand carding and spinning. And fewer still are dying their yarn with locally found plant and mineral dyes—that knowledge
alone is nearly a lost art.” Carla paused to let this sink in before adding, “My sources consider your work to be quite remarkable and confirm prices at auction are approaching record highs and will probably go even higher in the future.” The agent was nearly breathless when she finished and sat silent, staring at Lucy as she would an enigma of the most unusual sort.

  There was something else in that look that no one but Charlie caught, but even he couldn’t figure out the significance of it. He turned to the bewildered weaver to ask, “Lucy, I’m assuming Cliff Johnson has been sending you a running account of your earnings…along with some sort of periodic written summation, for tax purposes if nothing else?”

  Lucy turned to the investigator with so blank a look on her face he was momentarily taken aback and could only cock his head in surprise.

  “No, he has never done any of that. He seldom told me who the buyer was for any particular piece, unless I happened to ask…which I almost never did…most weavers prefer to leave all that to someone who knows that end of the business and just concentrate on their next piece. It’s important to leave the finished piece behind to ready their mind for a new work. That’s why we make the Chi’ihónit’t, so our spirit can find its way out of the old and allow us to move on to the new. Clifford said there was really no need for me to know who his buyers were. He considered his client list private and for obvious reasons, I suppose. I’ve never begrudged him that; when my work is finished and in the trader’s possession I’m paid immediately. His bookkeeper takes care of that. I’m paid what Thomas and I think is more than fair, judging from what others make.

  Agent Smith looked up. “His bookkeeper? And who might that be?”

  “Cliff’s wife Louise, at least that’s who signs my checks and takes care of my taxes.” Lucy cleared her throat and made certain she was understood when she said, “My mother had complete trust in both Clifford and Louise Johnson.” The weaver glanced around the table and observed what she perceived to be doubt on the faces of these admittedly more sophisticated people. Even Charlie Yazzie raised an eyebrow. Lucy visibly drew back. “Are you people saying the Johnsons haven’t been honest with me?” Color rose to her face making her embarrassment even more evident. She gazed into the faces of those around her, is it possible they are right and my family has been taken advantage of all these years?