From the smaller pile, he gave Leaphorn two photos of baskets, describing them as finely crafted and exceptionally well designed. “They look like the work of the Black and Holiday families or their relatives, fine Utah basket makers.”
Willie offered insights on a large brown pot with a handle that looked like braided clay and a stone carving of a bear, giving Leaphorn the names of the possible creators and their prize-winning legacies. He handed the pictures back. “Did these all come from the same collection?”
“I don’t know, but they arrived in the same box. Were any of them sold here?”
“Unfortunately, no—at least not while I’ve been in charge. I would remember them.”
The trader picked up the photo of the saddle blanket. “This is wonderful. You don’t see this style much. It’s worth following up.”
Leaphorn used the comment to move the conversation forward. “Speaking of weaving, have you heard that a dress Juanita made may still survive somewhere?”
Willie leaned back against the wall. “One of her biils is in the collection of a museum in California. She wore it in the photograph of the two of them, Juanita and Chief Manuelito, the famous portrait. Remember? The biil came to the Window Rock museum for a visit a few years ago. It ought to come home to Navajoland.”
“I agree.” Leaphorn recalled the photo of Manuelito in his tall black hat and Juanita at his side, one shoulder bare in a classic woven dress. It had become an iconic image of strength and perseverance in the face of oppression. “Do you know of any other Juanita dresses from that period or earlier?”
Willie sat a bit straighter. “Hwéeldi. It used to be that people didn’t talk about it, and some still don’t. Without the strength of those relatives, the Navajo Nation would not be here. We rose from starvation, we rose from the ashes. If there is another dress, I’d love to have one here to show people. Or better, I guess, to keep it at the museum. They get more Navajos there.”
Unless it was a heartless joke, whoever mailed the box thought so, too.
Willie stood. “I hope I helped you. Don’t forget to come back in August for our auction. It’s mostly rugs, but we’ve always got some good-looking jewelry your friend might like. The money benefits our scholarship fund.”
Leaphorn saw Louisa approaching, as though she’d been waiting for them to finish. “I’ll tell her about it. She’s our social director.”
Things had been different with Emma. Their social life had revolved around her extended and extensive family, with a secondary smaller orbit of obligation that came with his job. Emma’s jewelry had been gifts from her relatives—except for her wedding ring.
Louisa was quiet on the drive back to Window Rock. He enjoyed the peacefulness and used it to puzzle out the next step in his investigation. First, he’d follow up with Jim Bean. If Bean’s leads didn’t pan out, or if the inspector came up empty-handed, he’d talk to Mrs. Pinto about showing Peshlakai the earrings and necklace to see if he could identify them. Then he’d work to find the buyer. And he’d explore the suggestion that the box might be a gift from someone who knew Mrs. Pinto. He sensed that Peshlakai hadn’t told him everything.
He glanced over to Louisa to ask her about making some calls for him tomorrow and what ideas she had for dinner. That’s when he noticed that his passenger was crying.
6
Bernie awoke when the sky turned pale gold, a few minutes before sunrise. She greeted the gift of a new day with song and white cornmeal, made coffee, but didn’t go for a run. She reviewed her notes about the body and the people she’d encountered on the trail, adding details that had come to her overnight. Then she made a sandwich to take along for the shift she expected to work after the FBI interview. She ate half of the leftover pork chop for breakfast along with a slice of watermelon.
She knocked on the bathroom door and said good-bye to Chee. “I’ll call you when I’m done in Farmington and let you know how it went.”
She heard his voice over the water in the shower. “Great. We’ll talk later.”
“How’s your leg?”
“Good as new. I’m spending some time with Cowboy today.”
“Tell him hello for me.”
Cowboy Dashee, Chee’s longtime friend, worked with the Hopi Tribal Police.
When she checked in at the substation, Largo was already there. He motioned her into his office.
“I guess Chee told you about the rookie.”
“Yes, sir. The argument over the hay. And his bad eye.”
“I’ll need everybody to work some overtime until he’s here again.”
“Of course.” She’d expected the request.
Largo shifted gears. “Agent Johnson called me to confirm your interview at her office in Farmington.”
“That’s right.”
“I think our FBI agent is mellowing. How did you do with her yesterday?”
“Fine, I guess.” Bernie leaned back in the chair. “She tried to chat for a second about the weather.”
Largo smiled. “I don’t know if you were in the right place at the right time or the wrong place at the wrong time to find that body.”
“Me neither. Both, I guess. Have they identified the victim?”
“Not that they’ve told us.”
“Sir, as long as I have the interview, I’ll work the rest of the day. I’d like to stay involved in the murder investigation. I want to talk to Johnson about letting me follow up with the Navajos who might have seen something important. I’d have a better rapport with them.”
“That makes sense to me, but with the rookie out, you’ve got a lot of other stuff on your plate. Don’t forget about that Chinle bolo that turned up at the flea market.”
“I won’t.”
The thirty-mile drive took her past rural northwestern New Mexico homesteads, the turnoffs for two Navajo casinos, convenience store parking lots, roadside vendors with baskets of tomatoes and green beans, and plenty of car lots. The hogback, the road’s most interesting geologic feature, sat a few miles west of Farmington’s sprawl. She took US 64 across the bridge over the La Plata River and it became Main Street. Traffic was light, typical for a Sunday morning.
She parked and walked to the front door. Agent Johnson had been waiting and let her in. “Thanks for coming, Bernie. How about some coffee?”
“Sure.”
She followed Johnson to an employee lounge, considerably larger and better equipped than theirs at Shiprock. The room had an upscale coffee machine and a full-sized refrigerator. Bernie selected Sumatra because it had the same letters as smart, plus some extras for good measure.
Johnson refilled a plastic water bottle.
“I was surprised to see you at the scene yesterday, Bernie. How have you been?”
“Busy and hot. I’ll be glad when the rains come and cool things off.” It was always hot in the Four Corners in July. She should have said something else, but being with Johnson made her nervous and awkward. “How about you? Have you had a good summer so far?” Bernie thought about calling the agent by her first name but couldn’t do it.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Busy and busier with the new body.”