Spider Woman's Daughter (14 page)

She took out her own notebook and jotted down some information, things to think about. The bold black-and-white designs looked almost identical to those the lieutenant had drawn. Why had these designs captured his attention?

Having found what she thought she needed for the AIRC pottery research, she investigated what the book had to say about the art closest to her heart, Navajo weaving. She showed Mama some of the pictures and told her about the rug at the AIRC museum. Bernie described its craftsmanship and the tale from the Navajo creation story that it told.

Mama said, “That sounds like the rug I saw as a little girl. The rug I talked to you about, except the story is different.”

“I’m sure of the story, Mama. I looked at that rug a long time. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, it was so striking, so well done.”

Mama patted her hand. “The one who made that rug, some people thought that he shouldn’t do it. Some people thought he was wrong. They said prayers used for healing should not be captured in a rug. But those were hard times. Some people wondered if the Diné would be able to continue. Many, many died from disease, from nothing to eat after the government made us kill our sheep. People died of broken hearts. Valuable old ones who knew the stories and the songs and prayers for blessings.”

Bernie knew about the years of forced livestock reduction, starvation, acculturation. Sad days for the Navajo people.

“The one who made that rug, a white woman encouraged him to do the weaving. The
bilagaana
remembered everything she saw and made drawings of the sacred sand paintings the
hataalii
used for healing. They took those drawings and the rugs of the sacred stories away to a special place.”

In college, Bernie had learned about the collaboration between Hosteen Klah and Franc Newcomb and Mrs. Newcomb’s friend Mary Cabot Wheelwright. Their work included audio recordings of sacred chants. It all had grown from the assumption in the 1930s that the Navajo were a dying tribe.

“I think they had good hearts,” Mama said. “But old things leave, new things come, that’s the way it is. This world changes. Some say it can’t hold everything.”

Mama asked about the rug Bernie had seen at the AIRC, specific questions about the colors used and the arrangement of the designs. “I would like to see that rug,” she said.

“I would love to show it to you. It’s a long drive to Santa Fe.”

“And a long time home again. Not today. Another time.”

Bernie nodded. “We’ll do it.”

Mama smiled. “Darleen should come, too. Is Darleen here?”

“She had a headache. She was on the couch, but she went to her room. She’s probably sleeping.”

“Darleen has lots of headaches. She says drawing makes her eyes tired, but I think it’s from the drinking.”

“Where does she get the alcohol?” Bernie asked.

Mama shook her head. “Bootleggers don’t care how old you are.”

“Where does she get the money?”

Mama shook her head again. “I don’t know. Don’t worry so much about her.”

Darleen said she felt better when she came out of the bedroom an hour later. She and Bernie drew up a grocery list. “I’ve been thinking,” Bernie said. “If you’d like to take a GED class in the evenings, I can come and stay with Mama a couple nights a week. It would get you out of the house.”

“I’ll think about it,” Darleen said.

Mama patted Bernie’s hand. “You better get going. Cheeseburger will be wondering what happened to you. Bothering us about it.”

“Yeah,” Darleen said. “I’ll see how the classes work. Let you know.”

On the way home, Bernie called Chee’s cell to tell him she was on her way. No answer. She called the home phone, no answer. Left messages at the Window Rock and Shiprock offices. Came home to a dark house. Fed the cat. Fixed dinner. Ate alone. Went to bed with apprehension and let the cat sleep with her.

It was nearly midnight when she heard Chee’s footsteps on the trailer floor.

“Hey you,” she said.

He bent over to kiss her. She sensed his exhaustion. “You coming to bed?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “I’ve got some thinking to do.”

By the time he was out of the shower, she’d made coffee.

He kissed her. “You didn’t have to do that, but I’m glad you did. I’ve got something to go with it. Hungry?”

“Always.”

Walking back outside to retrieve the cake from his trunk somehow reminded him of the thumb drive with Leaphorn’s AIRC report on it, the one he’d told Bernie he would get her. He found it in his pocket, along with the earrings.

The cake seemed to have gotten better after eight hours in a warm car.

“So we’re going to Santa Fe tomorrow?” he asked.

“Today, actually. Then we can go to the hospital. Can you get off?”

“Yeah, as long as I’m reachable. I wrapped up things today as well as I could.”

“Did anyone track down the Lizard boy?” Bernie asked.

“Lenny the Lizard? Still looking for him. He’s our next viable suspect,” Chee said. “Him and Louisa and Mrs. Benally’s ninja.

“Hey,” he said. “I have another surprise for you.”

“A nice one?”

He extended two closed fists. She picked the one on the right. He opened it to reveal the thumb drive.

“Leaphorn’s report?”

“Yes,” he said. He smiled at her. “But that wasn’t really the surprise.”

She tapped his left fist, and he opened it to show her the earrings.

“They’re beautiful. What’s the occasion?”

“Just a little thank-you for putting up with me.”

The cat jumped to the sofa and settled into Chee’s lap.

“She missed you,” Bernie said.

“She’s probably homesick for the lieutenant and Louisa,” Chee said. “After I interviewed Tsosie and ran out of leads, I thought, well, time to call Leaphorn. Then I remembered.”

“He would have taken you back to the scene of the crime, had you review the clues, the way he always did.” She wondered, for the fortieth time, about the accuracy of her description of the shooter and the car. She’d worked with enough eyewitnesses to know that their recollections often left much to be desired.

“Tomorrow I want to ask the lieutenant about a sing,” Chee said. Leaphorn wasn’t a traditional Navajo, but Chee had done a healing ceremony for him years ago after a particularly disturbing case. Back in the years when Chee had been studying with his uncle who had passed away. “I think I can find someone who will do it when he gets back home again.”

Before Bernie went back to bed, she plugged in the laptop and inserted the thumb drive to check for Leaphorn’s AIRC reports. She found more than she bargained for.

12

T
he row of files, all titled “AIRC” with numbers to follow, stretched to the bottom of the laptop screen. She opened the first one, the lieutenant’s bill for consulting services, including photocopies and mileage. It matched the contents of the small envelope she’d delivered to the AIRC, along with the photocopied pages.

She clicked on the next heading, a larger file dated a week earlier. Research material, some sort of online auction catalog from a place in New York. She glanced it at. Indian artifacts were among the listings.

She closed both of the open files and clicked on the next one. Sure enough, it looked like the missing report. How simple was that?

She glanced at the first page, Leaphorn’s cover letter addressed to Dr. Collingsworth, admiring the lieutenant’s economy of language. She scrolled to the report itself.

The introductory section concerned the question of insurance valuations, the lieutenant’s area of expertise.

The narrative opened with a concise explanation of how insurance appraisals worked, and how they differed from the valuations collectors might place on their holdings for an auction or a tax deduction in the case of charitable donations. Bernie skimmed Leaphorn’s discussion of changes in the overall market for Native American art and artifacts. He noted that most of the values mentioned in the appraisals Collingsworth and the AIRC board had received from the McManus Foundation seemed accurate for the date they were created. He recommended that the AIRC increase the existing coverage of the McManus collection by 20 percent because of the added risk of displaying the artifacts to AIRC visitors, staff, and researchers. The report mentioned that the few exceptions to the accuracy of existing valuations would be dealt with in the appendix.

The exceptions made her curious, but she continued reading.

Part 2 focused on the appropriateness of the collection for exhibit. Leaphorn outlined reasons many American Indian tribes did not want certain items they attributed to their ancestors publicly displayed, or even viewed by scholars or museum professionals. Their rationale included, he wrote, “explanations that may not be disclosed to non-tribal members or to tribal members who are not initiated.” He had read the descriptions of uncommon, nonutilitarian items provided by the appraisers. He also had paid considerable attention to the lengthy report of a cultural anthropologist who had vetted the most potentially sensitive material.

Bernie recalled Collingsworth’s mention of that.

Leaphorn wrote that he had also conducted his own follow-up research on potential sacred items, using interviews and written sources that he documented at the end of the report. In conclusion, the lieutenant assured Collingsworth that the collection in its entirety “could be displayed to an audience that might include American Indians without fear of offense.”

She looked up from the screen. The lieutenant was good at this. He used the same logical thinking and methodical research he had been known for as a police detective. What she’d read proved that Collingsworth’s suspicions were off track. Too bad it was too late at night to call him and tell him so.

Bernie skimmed through the list of sources and footnotes. She reached the exceptions Leaphorn had noted to the pottery valuations.

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.

B
ernie 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?”