“Bearest.” It was the first thing that came to his mind, but there was truth in it. Fear of embarrassment provided powerful motivation. Calling the donor to ask if the missing item had been included wouldn’t be easy, which, he figured, was the reason she was asking him to do the job.
Louisa stood, and he felt her cool hand as she rested it lightly on his shoulder. “If you decide you want to do this, I’d be glad to make some calls where you’d need English. I am still in your debt for all the time you spent traipsing through the Four Corners with me when I was doing my research.”
“Tanks.” But he felt his insides tighten. If the world spoke Diné Bizaad, his words could fly. And she didn’t owe him anything. If there was a debt here, it was his for her hours of arranging his medical appointments, putting up with his frustration, driving him to speech therapy, and all the rest of it, including running the household by herself as his health returned. He wouldn’t have healed as fast as he had without her.
Lately, she was getting more mail than usual from Northern Arizona University, the institution that had supported her research. Louisa had put her profession on hold for too long. He encouraged her to stop babying him and get back to work.
He heard her footsteps as she disappeared down the hall. The phone rang. Louisa ignored it. It rang again, so he answered, expecting a woman’s voice, one of her friends. Either that or a sales call.
But it wasn’t one of Louisa’s friends; it was Sergeant Jim Chee. They dispensed with the pleasantries quickly, and Leaphorn waited for Chee to ask him for a favor. The man surprised him.
“Sir, someone named Mona Willeto phoned here for you a couple of days ago and I forgot to mention it. I told her to try the Window Rock office. She said she wanted to talk to you about her brother in prison. I wouldn’t bother you with this, but she sounded different than most of these calls.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to say exactly. Calmer, I guess. Nicer. You know, like she wasn’t going to start yelling about how he never should have been arrested or imprisoned, what a good boy he was.”
Leaphorn considered asking for the number and decided against it. “If it’s important, she’ll call Window Rock like you asked and they’ll refer her to me. Sometimes if you look the other way, these things disappear. Remember that, Sergeant.”
“OK, sir.”
After Chee ended the call, the Lieutenant sighed. What was it about Chee that brought out the overbearing uncle in him? Why did the man still get on his nerves? He’d known him as a rookie, an enthusiastic and somewhat impulsive young man for whom doing the right thing sometimes meant bending the rules. Chee had a deep commitment to making life safer for the Diné. Although Leaphorn still considered the man a work in progress, he was pleased with the officer Chee had become.
When Leaphorn called the museum to speak with Mrs. Pinto to set up the meeting, he learned she was out of the office at a finance hearing for the rest of the day. And, since it was Friday, she wouldn’t be back until Monday.
“Do you want to leave a message for her?” The receptionist sounded young and bored.
“Ask her to call Joe Leaphorn. She has the number. Do you know what happened to the woman who collapsed outside?”
“You mean Tiffany? I haven’t heard anything about her. Mrs. Pinto gave her the rest of the day off.”
2
July at the Shiprock flea market meant hot, even when you came early. Bernie watched Mama stroll from vendor to vendor, examining the merchandise as carefully as if she were actually going to buy something. Two years ago here, Mama had bought the big pot she used for stew after the old one cracked. That was her most recent purchase, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t look. Mama loved this Saturday ritual.
Bernie had volunteered to make dessert that evening if Chee cooked dinner. She had found what she needed half an hour ago: sweet local peaches, the largest perhaps the size of a tennis ball. They were ripe, soft, and ready to put into a piecrust once she cut out the bird pecks. But Mama enjoyed chatting with the sellers, hearing about their families. Bernie noted with happiness that Mama felt so much stronger and also with a tinge of frustration. She held the fruit in a recycled plastic bag from Bashas’ and felt the sweat on her face as the Saturday morning grew warmer. She daydreamed about being someplace cool, like the shady bottom of Canyon de Chelly.
“Daughter. Daughter!” Mama stood next to a man with his gray hair in braids and a red bandana around his forehead. “This is Mr. Natachi. He used to help me find the right sheep for the colors when I was weaving. His sister is our neighbor.”
Bernie moved closer to the pair. The old man smiled at her. “I met you when you were a girl.”
“Oh, yes. I remember.” He had been Mama’s neighbor, too, until about ten years ago when he moved away to live with a daughter. “It makes me happy to see you again, sir. They say you live in Chinle now. I was just thinking about Canyon de Chelly.”
“My granddaughter works for senior services there. I help her when I can. She says an old man is a good thing to keep around until I start giving her too much advice.” He chuckled. “Now her boyfriend has left her, so she and I drove down here for a while.” He grew more serious. “Your mother tells me you are a police officer.”
“Yes.”
“Well then, you see this bolo?” He raised his hand to his throat and touched the turquoise stone set in silver on the braided black leather cord finished with sterling tips. “Someone came into my house last month and made off with it.” Mr. Natachi filled in the details, unfolding the story of how his bolo tie disappeared with the unhurried pace of a person watching the morning turn to afternoon. “This is a good day. I found my tie just now at a booth over there, the one with the man in the straw hat.”
Bernie knew that wasn’t the end of the story. She felt a line of sweat move down her neck and between her shoulder blades.
“I told the man it was mine, that my uncle made it for me forty years ago. I told him someone took it from my bedroom. He wanted to argue, but I explained it would have the jeweler’s mark, a Y with a line at the bottom. I showed him the mark on the back, and then I asked him why he stole it. He said he didn’t steal it. He said he bought it from a man outside the Walmart in Gallup and that he didn’t know it was stolen.” Mr. Natachi paused. “I asked him who was that man? What did he look like?” When Mr. Natachi shrugged his shoulders, his braids moved. “The guy in the hat didn’t want to talk to me anymore. He told me to take my bolo. I think he was ashamed.”
“Where is the booth that had it?”
“Down the next row in the middle, over by the lady selling sage and medicine.”
“What did the man look like?” Bernie knew “man in a straw hat” would not work as a defining description for a player in an operation fencing stolen property.
“Oh, he’s young, about your age. Not too fat. About as tall as me. The man had a round face.” Mr. Natachi rubbed his chin. “Like a guy from Zuni or Hopi or somewhere like that.”
She placed the seller’s height around six feet, age as early thirties. Possibly a Pueblo Indian. “What was he wearing besides the hat?”