Leaphorn let the memory sit. He handed the pad back to her, hiding his disappointment. “I don’t see any of the consignment items. Did he note those?”
She turned the page. “Here. ‘BF’ stands for Bullfrog.”
The same neat handwriting compiled Peshlakai’s consignments in a shorter list, just ten items. Leaphorn found a bracelet with necklace and earrings. The buyer was Lloyd Rafferty, with an address in Gallup, New Mexico. He jotted down the information, feeling the thread of a solution to the missing textile slip from his grasp. He handed the list back to Rita.
She sat it down. “I hope it helps.”
“Me, too. Thank you for going to the trouble.”
“You know, I’m glad I did it. It gave me some peace.”
Leaphorn considered how to ask his last question, or if he needed to ask it at all. Experience had taught him to forge ahead.
“I noticed that, when I mentioned Robert Peshlakai, you seemed to know him.”
Rita leaned toward him. “I do. He’s married to my sister, Lisa, but he and I dated before I met my husband. He’s a good man. I don’t want to stir up any jealousy.”
When he left her, Leaphorn drove south until he hit Interstate 40 near Lupton. He merged into traffic and headed west toward Flagstaff. His disappointment that a person named Rafferty, and not Nestor, had purchased the bracelet began to fade. He stopped to get gasoline and to stretch his legs in Holbrook and to send Louisa a text with his progress and ETA. He pumped the fuel and went inside for coffee to go. When he came back, his phone was buzzing in the charger.
It was Louisa. “I got the text and checked that name for you. No Rafferty at the Gallup address you gave me and none in that town at all. Shall I expand the search?”
“No tanks.”
“Let’s meet at my old office. You remember where that is?”
Of course he did. He made an affirmative grunt.
“I can call Mary Nestor from there. Then we can talk. If all goes well, we can treat each other to dinner. Be safe out there, and I will see you soon.”
“Dinner on me.” He had a clear idea of what the talk would be about: his shortcomings. He didn’t like the sound of “if all goes well.”
The last time he had driven to Flagstaff had been several years ago, on a trip that concerned another old weaving, what they called a Tale Teller rug, a textile that also dated back to around the time of Hwéeldi. That case, pursued as a favor for the wife of a friend, stirred uncomfortable memories. All Navajo weavings could be described as Tale Tellers. Each uniquely reflected its creator and the time of its creation.
With Nestor’s link to the bracelet in question, Leaphorn considered the other loose ends that could help him meet Mrs. Pinto’s deadline. He’d pass Rafferty’s name on to Peshlakai. Perhaps Rafferty had become a patron and the jeweler knew how to reach him. He thought about Councilor Walker and their plan for breakfast and her connections to people who knew people who knew Tiffany. He had the feeling that the pieces were almost in place, but he couldn’t decipher the puzzle.
He appreciated the part of the drive where the interstate entered the cool ponderosa forest outside of Flagstaff, the tall pines a factor of altitude and increased moisture—although this year, the mountain country of Arizona lacked the normal precipitation. He watched the San Francisco Peaks rise in the distance and recalled the stories his relatives had told of how the Holy People created the mountains and their intervention to make the world safer for the five-fingered ones. He smiled, remembering his uncle’s words: “I wish they had done a better job of it, then you wouldn’t need to be a policeman.”
Clouds shrouded the top of Mount Humphreys. If he didn’t know this country so well, Leaphorn would have assumed the possibility, finally, of rain on the parched land. A gift that the Hopi would tie to their prayers to the katsinas who dwelled there.
He took the exit for Northern Arizona University and made his way to the building where Louisa had worked. He saw her car in the lot and then found a welcome spot of shade for the truck. He noticed that the hallways had been repainted and the carpet replaced since he had last been in Louisa’s territory. The door to her office, or what had been her office when she taught here, stood open. He saw her organizing some books, moving them from a box to a shelf. He knocked.
“Come on in. I’m almost done.”
A wooden bench with cushions upholstered in shades of gray and orange sat against the wall. She motioned him there and sat next to him. “How was your trip?”
“Fye. You look guh.” Louisa seemed reenergized, he thought.
“Thank you. It’s been nice reconnecting with my colleagues. I’m looking forward to finishing my research and finally putting my book together.”
Leaphorn nodded. He’d encouraged her to return to the project, a compilation of comparative contemporary spiritual beliefs of Southwestern tribes. Part of his motivation was to divert her searing intensity away from him and into the larger world.
“I’m sorry the Pinto case has brought so much frustration. Maybe this phone call will make the difference. Shall we do it?”
“Sure. Peas.”
She walked to the desk. “I looked at the questions you wrote. I’d like to suggest some changes, but I don’t want to impinge on your territory.”
“Go aheh.”
“What if I started by saying that she must be surprised to get this call and then reassuring her that we will not reveal her identity?” Louisa went on. Her changes both simplified and softened the inquiries.
He nodded his approval, glad they could agree and do this in person so gestures could fill in for spoken English.
“There’s a phone in the next room, on that desk the interns use. Bring it in here to listen to what Mary Nestor has to say.”
He nodded, found the phone, and came back to her office.
She dialed the number. A man answered.
“May I speak to Mary Nestor?”
“Hold on. She just got home.”
A few minutes later, a woman came on the line. Her voice and intonation told Leaphorn she had probably grown up in Dinetah and was younger than he’d expected. He jotted down a note and handed the message to Louisa as she was introducing herself and the reason for the call.
When Louisa finished those remarks she said, “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you speak Navajo?”
“Aoo’. Yes, but I’m a little rusty. Why do you ask?”
“I am handing this call to my Navajo friend Joe Leaphorn. He and I are working together on this project, and he is curious about something.”
Rather than starting with the task at hand, Leaphorn introduced himself the traditional way, telling her the clans he came from.
Mary did the same in halting Navajo, then switched to English. “Sorry my Navajo is so rough. I mostly use it with my dad, and I haven’t been spending much time there.”
“Your Navajo sounds fine. Better than my English these days.”
“So, together, we’re bilingually challenged. What’s this call about?”
“A box arrived at the Navajo Museum filled with old things. I believe you sent that box.”
He heard only silence. Then, in the background, a man’s voice: “Mary, Barbara needs you.”