Bigman winced. He gazed at the watermelon. “I want you guys to keep that, but could I take a piece home for the missus?”
“Sure.” Chee cut a big slice.
“Bring it in the kitchen, and we’ll put it in a bag.” Bernie walked inside, and Bigman followed. “You want some pie, too?”
When she removed the tea towel covering it, the fragrance of fresh peaches, cinnamon, and sugar competed with the char of burned crust. The smell reminded her of how the mystery of the bolo had absorbed her. Now the murder had added to the problems to solve. She could hardly wait to talk to Johnson tomorrow.
“You keep the pie. I forgot that Melody is supposed to watch her sugar.”
“Let us know about the baby.”
After she walked him to the door, she cut a piece of pie for Chee and one for herself, using a fork to break off the burned parts. She took dessert back to the deck. They watched the stars begin to show themselves in the dark distance.
“I’m looking forward to working the local connection in the burglaries. I want to find the man who tried to sell that bolo.”
“Mr. Natachi was fortunate that you came along when you did.” Chee put his arm around her. “I’ve never seen Bigman like that. He’s so uptight, you’d think this was the world’s first kid. Do you picture me that way when I’m about to become a dad? All nervous and worried?”
“No, you’d just call on another of your superpowers. I know I’m not ready for parenthood yet. Are you?”
He kissed her in answer. Then he reached for the pie.
5
The Navajo Inn was about half filled, the customers a mix of area families, bilagáana and Diné, along with summer tourists, all enjoying the bounty of the breakfast buffet. Leaphorn spotted Jim Bean at a table by the windows.
“Yá’át’ééh.” Bean stood to greet him and flashed his ready smile. Leaphorn noticed that his friend had thickened around the middle and had a glint of gray at his temples.
Leaphorn sat across from him, and the waitress brought coffee. He put the brown envelope from the museum director on the table between them.
“I read about what happened to you a few years ago, Lieutenant. You look pretty darn healthy for a guy who almost died.”
Driving to the restaurant that Sunday morning had stirred Joe Leaphorn’s memory of the attack that put him in the hospital. He never again parked in the spot where the shooter had ambushed him. He gave Bean a look intended to say he did not want to talk about the incident.
“I got your note that speaking English gives you a bit of trouble. Don’t worry about it. Just say it and I’ll figure it out.”
“Ya still workin?”
“I’m planning to retire next year. I want to write a book about postal inspectors.” He held up his large hand, palm toward the Lieutenant. “Now, I know you’re thinking that nobody much cares, but you’d be wrong.”
Leaphorn raised his eyebrows.
“Don’t give me that look. The Postal Inspection Service is the oldest federal law enforcement agency, even older than the Declaration of Independence. We go back to 1772, when Ben Franklin became the first person appointed as what they called a postal surveyor. His job was to make sure the mail stayed safe and got to where it was going. The Continental Congress named him postmaster, and when George Washington became president, he kept Franklin on the job. We were the first federal law enforcement agency to use the title of Special Agent for our officers, and we kept it until 1880, when Congress decided we had to call ourselves inspectors.”
Leaphorn sipped his coffee, and Bean changed the subject. “So, from what Louisa said, you have a case you think an old postal inspector might help with.”
“Rye. Read dis.” He’d typed up a note explaining the anonymous gift that he needed to trace, the phony return address, and the fact that a potentially valuable item was missing. He gave it to his friend.
Bean read and nodded. “You need to find out if the piece was actually in the box before you can claim it was stolen. That means tracking down the shipper, who obviously doesn’t want to be found.”
“Thas wha I tink.” Leaphorn cringed at his broken English. His professors at Arizona State University would be horrified.
Although he had dutifully eaten his oatmeal that morning, the aroma of sausage and bacon from the buffet table gnawed away his resistance. He looked toward the line of people, and back at Bean.
“Joe, I just saw the waiter put down a full tray of potatoes.” Bean pushed his chair away from the table. “Let’s go.”
Leaphorn took a bit of everything except the oatmeal in the big cauldron. He noticed that Bean loaded his plate with fruit but added a sampling of the other choices. He enjoyed his friend’s passion for life—he went for the gusto. As Leaphorn served himself some bacon, he heard a voice.
“Save me a little of that.”
Across from the bowl with the melon and strawberries, he saw a woman he privately referred to as Dahsáni, or Porcupine. The Diné honored the animal as one of the People’s protectors. Tribal Councilor Elsbeth Walker deserved the name, not only because of her prickly attitude but also for her strong commitment to whatever cause she took up on behalf of her constituents. An unsmiling teenage girl and a young man in a wheelchair followed her in line.
“Councilor Walker, good morning. This is Jim Bean, a friend from my days as a lieutenant.”
The councilor nodded to Bean across the buffet table. “Elsbeth Walker. Nice to meet you.” She spoke to him in English. “These are my children, Annie and Dylan.”
Mrs. Walker said, “Mr. Bean, what brings you to Window Rock?”
“Catching up with a friend, this old man here.”
“Are you in law enforcement?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m a postal inspector.”
“I happened to be in Washington at a meeting a few years ago when those letters with anthrax caused such a panic. Was that one of your cases?”
Bean stabbed a pair of plump link sausages and moved them to his plate. “Well, yes, ma’am. The FBI did quite a bit of the work with us on that.”
Annie looked bored and embarrassed. Her brother seemed interested in him and Bean. Because of Dylan’s age and the wheelchair, Leaphorn wondered if his disability came from military service in one of the recent conflicts. The Navajo Nation had a high percentage of veterans, disabled and otherwise.
Walker looked at Leaphorn and switched to Navajo. “You were going to call me for coffee.”
“No, you said you’d call me.”
Walker smiled. “I did say that. I’ll do it.” She acknowledged Bean with a nod of her head. “Nice to meet you.”
Back at the table, Bean finished his eggs and started on the pancakes. “How are you doing as a retiree, Joe? Finding things to keep you busy?”
“Ya.” Leaphorn wanted to say he enjoyed the variety of private investigation work and the opportunity to look into cases he would not have handled on the police force, but the idea was too complicated for his spoken English.
“How’s that guy who worked with you doing? I forget his name, but the fellow who wanted to be a medicine man on his days off.”