Peshlakai hesitated. “I never called him anything but Fat Boy.”
“Do you remember what year it was when this happened?”
Peshlakai told him, then added, “It was mid-August. I remember going outside the night he left for the market and seeing a spectacular meteor shower.”
“Do you know if your friend was taking any weavings to the market?”
“I don’t know. He always had enough stuff to make the trip worthwhile.” Peshlakai paused. “The way he could do it was that he had a friend who gave him space in front of his store.”
Peshlakai picked up the earrings again, studying them, holding them gently in the palm of his hand. “I made these and the bracelet for Lisa—she was my girlfriend then. I told her I would give them to her if she would marry me. She told me I should sell the set because we would need the money with a baby coming. She said I could make something for her later, when we could afford it.” He put the jewelry back on the desktop. “She married me anyway, you know. And I never made another bracelet quite like that one.”
With that, Peshlakai picked up his blue case and said his good-byes.
After he left, Mrs. Pinto motioned to Leaphorn to sit down again. “I can’t see any connection between the bracelet and the textile, except that they are on the list together. I hope you haven’t wasted a lot of time running down a dead end.”
He swallowed his annoyance. “If you want me to stop, just let me know.”
“No. Louisa told me you’re the best, and I believe her. I like things I can understand, and this has grown more complicated and confused, not less.” She leaned toward him slightly. “I’m overwhelmed here without Tiffany. I counted on her to help me wrap up the loose ends before my retirement. Have you heard what caused her death?”
Leaphorn realized it was time to put in a call to his buddies at Navajo Police. “Those reports take a while.”
“What are you doing next to find the dress?”
“I’ll follow up on the accident and see what happened to the vehicle. Maybe Fat Boy dealt with textiles, too. Maybe someone in his family claimed the car and then sold the items to a collector.”
Mrs. Pinto cleared her throat. “Too many maybes for me. Good luck, Joe. Remember the deadline. I don’t want to leave this mess for whoever comes to replace me.”
“I’d like to have the box the donations came in. The postal inspector asked me to save it in case he needs it. He wants a photo of the postmark, and he said he might need to check it for fingerprints.”
“It’s in Tiffany’s office.”
Unlike Mrs. Pinto’s office, Tiffany’s was nearly empty. Some new pens and a pad of paper sat near her computer. He looked for the box, even bending over to check under her desk. What rule of nature was it, he wondered, that said some problems grew more convoluted as time went on?
He went back to Mrs. Pinto.
“What do you mean it’s not there anymore?” She took her glasses off, examined them, and put them back on. “Oh, I’m sorry. I know what happened. Tiffany’s father needed something to put her things in, and I told him to take it. I wanted him out of here. It’s just a box.”
“What’s his name?”
“Something Benally. Tiffany never mentioned his first name.”
“Do you know how I can get in touch with him?”
He noticed a touch of impatience in her voice. “Call Erin in HR. No, talk to Daryl, his Navajo is better. Say I’m authorizing him to release Tiffany’s emergency contact information to you. She listed her father for that.” Silence, and then, “Will you have something for me on the dress by the end of the week?”
“I’ll wrap this up as soon as possible. That’s all I can promise.” If he hadn’t known better, her insistence on quick resolution of a complicated case would have made him suspect Mrs. Pinto herself. But if she had taken the items, she certainly would have destroyed the inventory list. Instead, she had shown it to him and begun the investigation.
She gave him the hint of a smile. “Tell Louisa hello for me.”
He stopped at the HR office to talk to Daryl, who was out.
Leaphorn thought about calling Louisa from the truck on his way home to tell her about the forgotten charger and to update her on the case, but reconsidered. She’d probably still be driving, and while he appreciated cell phones, he didn’t like the idea of her chatting while she was on the road, even hands free. To make matters worse, she kept her cell phone in her purse and had to rummage around to find it. He’d call later.
Back home, he put a cup of water in the microwave for instant coffee and decided to ask Jessica Taylor, his new friend in the Window Rock office, if she could do him a quick favor. He needed to read the report on the accident that killed Peshlakai’s salesman Fat Boy twenty years ago. He could have contacted the New Mexico Department of Transportation himself by email, but a phone call would be quicker and the young woman had seemed eager to help. Her contacts at NMDOT would be current, too.
“The accident was on US 666 near Tohatchi, and both drivers died.” He gave her the year of the crash. “It was in August, around the time of the big Santa Fe Indian Market, and that’s always on the same weekend, near the end of the month. And there was a meteor shower around that time.”
“Sir, I’m sure I can find the date of the market that year. The reports are available digitally, so I don’t think this will take too long.”
“Great. I’d appreciate seeing what you find as soon as possible.”
“I’ll work on it right now.” He heard the enthusiasm in her voice. “If I can’t find what you want, I have a buddy there. I’ll tell him one of our consultants is looking into a case that might be connected to the accident.”
“That’s perfect. Let me know as soon as you’ve got something.” He said it again to reinforce the urgency.
“I sure will, sir. Happy to help.”
When the phone rang, he hoped it was Jessica, but the caller ID said “NAU.” He picked it up expecting to hear Louisa.
“Hello. May I please speak to Mr. Joe Leaphorn?”
“Leaphorn.”
“I’m calling from the reference desk at the NAU library.” The woman gave him her name. “This concerns your inquiry about Juanita . . . Umm, I don’t know how to pronounce the Navajo words.”
“Asdzáá Tlogi.”
“Oh, I see. I’m researching our archives and will email you the sources and information. But I thought you might also want to talk to a curator of textiles who specializes in early Navajo weaving. Would you like her contact information?”
“Peas.”
She gave him the woman’s name and phone number, and he jotted them down.
“Email?”
“Oh, of course.” The librarian told him the address, which consisted of the curator’s first initial, last name, a number, and the university suffix.
“Tanks.”
“I should let you know that I haven’t found anything much so far. Only reference to one dress, the one in the portrait. I’m sure you know about this.”
“Ya. Nudder one out there?”
“I’ll let you know what I find.”