They went to the kitchen. Darleen removed a water pitcher from the refrigerator, poured a glass for herself, and gave one to her sister. Bernie set it down on the table.
“Mama told me that you bought a kit or something so you can make money at home. That could be legit, but you know there are a bunch of scams out there.”
Darleen stiffened. “Mama didn’t tell you the good parts. I’ll save money on gas because I don’t have to drive to work every day. And clothes and eating out like you do at an office.”
You could bring a lunch like I do, Bernie thought, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I only had to pay for the supply kit, and when it comes, I’m in business.”
“What will you be doing exactly?”
“Easy-peasy. Stuffing envelopes.”
“It sounds fishy. What else do you know about it?”
Darleen frowned. “Why are you and Mama always so negative? You never believe I can do anything.”
“I’m not negative. I just want to make sure you don’t get ripped off, and right now it sounds like you’re paying to work.”
“Back off. Give me a break, and treat me like an adult.”
Bernie took a sip of the cold water. “It’s nothing personal. Scams are everywhere.”
“Stop being a cop for a minute, won’t you?” Darleen picked up a pencil and went back to the drawing.
Bernie finished her water. “You know, that portrait of the boy as Spider-Man gave me an idea. You could do quick sketches of kids and sell them. You know, maybe instead of school portraits?”
Darleen focused on her sketch for a while and then put down her pencil. “How was that pie?”
“I let the crust get too brown, but the fruit part was great.”
“Mama and I ate the peaches you left. They were delicious. Did she go to bed already?”
“Yes. I need to go, too. Can you keep an eye on the dog for me?”
“Oh, he won’t . . .”
Bernie frowned.
“Sure. I’ll grab him so he doesn’t follow you to the car.”
“I’m serious about that scam. You be careful, OK?”
“You worry too much, Sister. You’re getting more like our mother every day.”
Bernie let the comment go. She walked to her unit and looked up at the golden afterglow of the high desert sunset. It reminded her of days when life was simpler, when she was a child and spent the summer mostly outside with the sheep, and the long, warm summer stretched into forever.
She took a few deep breaths and felt the calm course through her. Then she started the unit and headed toward home. She phoned Chee to tell him she was on her way.
Ship Rock, Tsé Bit’a’í, the Rock with Wings, rose majestically from the desert floor. The stars had just begun to sparkle over the craggy volcanic monolith that played a role in the People’s sacred history. She lived surrounded by beauty, one of those rare, fortunate people who had a job she loved in a part of the world she treasured. Sure, it was challenging, dangerous, sometimes discouraging work. But she wouldn’t trade places with anyone.
She pulled into the substation to drop off the unit and pick up her Toyota. Before she killed the engine, the radio came on. She turned around and called Chee again. “I just got a call about a man at the hospital, threatening staff with a pocket knife. He’s someone I’ve dealt with before, and he’s probably off his medications. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“Be safe. I’ll save you some dinner.”
She added to her list of gratitude the love of a good man.
7
When Joe Leaphorn woke up Monday morning, even before he climbed out of bed, his brain began to organize the problem at hand. Actually, two problems. His major focus went to the Navajo Nation’s gift and the complications that had developed with Peshlakai’s hesitation to confirm that he had created the bracelet now missing.
But first, he had to consider the more immediate issue awaiting him as soon as he walked down the hall for his first cup of coffee. What had offended Louisa?
He accepted that he’d never been good at dealing with women when it came to the danger-fraught world of emotions. When he had women as clients, as coworkers, as crime victims or suspects, the guidelines for expected behavior from both parties were relatively clear. But with his housemate and good friend, the rules shifted or made themselves up as they went along. He admired Louisa—a logical, practical woman. Her devotion after his brain injury had surprised him. He’d encouraged her to return to her research, and now that she had finally followed his advice and done so, he saw more sparkle in her eyes. He thought about what to say over breakfast and came up only with the standard male response to a disgruntled female.
He dressed and went to the kitchen, where everything seemed normal. He poured himself a cup of coffee and noticed the predictable oatmeal on the stove. He sat across from Louisa at the table, and she said the words he both expected and dreaded.
“We need to talk, Joe.”
“Sorry bout yesaday.” He took a sip of his coffee.
“I thought you wanted my help with this museum problem, and when I tried to help, well, you clearly didn’t want it.”
He remembered, now, what had set her off. “Wade a mint.” He rose and went to the office for his laptop. He came back, sat down, typed out the few sentences he’d conjured up, and handed her the computer.
I realize I never talked to you about the rules I have for separating my private life from my profession. I understand why you were confused. With Mrs. Pinto dropping in to tell us about her assistant’s death, it stands to reason that you’d assume it was acceptable to invite Peshlakai here. Mrs. Pinto is your friend, and she’d been in our home before. Peshlakai is an unknown and so is his family. I try to never do anything to increase the risk of exposure. If I’m meeting an informant, it’s always in a public place.
Louisa handed the computer back to him, then rose and went to the stove and began to serve the oatmeal. “I get it. That doesn’t give you the right to be rude to me.”
Rude? Had he been rude? He remembered putting his hand on her arm to get her attention, but he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t actually tell her to be quiet, to stop interrupting his interview, to quit acting like she was the investigator.
“I am sorry.” He said it again, pleased that it sounded like good English. He hoped the issue was settled.
She brought the oatmeal back to the table and set the bowls down. “It’s not just that. You resented my presence yesterday, despite the fact that my bracelet had offered a possible clue and I was the one who suggested we find Mr. Peshlakai.” Her voice grew louder. “I saw you bristle when I mentioned showing the photos to Mr. Willie and again when I reminded you that it was getting late. You were happy when I walked away, weren’t you?”
He knew by her tone of voice that she had more to say. He ate a spoonful of oatmeal.
“I’m confused. You ask me to help you, and then you get angry at me when I try. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He nodded. He didn’t recall feeling angry. He’d call it irritated.
“If you don’t require my help with this case, with any of your work . . . well, that’s fine. You’re the detective. I’m the professor and I need to get on with my own life. I don’t want another day like yesterday, OK?” Unshed tears welled in her eyes.