When she spoke again, Leaphorn noticed the change in her tone. “I can’t tell you anything about that, and I have to go.”
Leaphorn spoke quickly, before she hung up. “I really need to talk to you about the box. Only one question, just a minute of your time. Your privacy is safe with me.”
“I don’t—”
“Help me lift the heart of a worried woman and a father who is missing his daughter very much.”
The male voice sounded more insistent. “Mary. Now, please.”
“I’m off tomorrow morning. Call me on my cell.” She rattled off the number and ended the call.
Louisa sighed. “What do you think?”
“Les go see her tomorrow.”
“Where does she live?”
“Winslow. Come wid me.”
He could see Louisa thinking about it. He reached for a pad on the desk and wrote: “The box was mailed from the Winslow post office and we can talk to the employee there. Mary’s Navajo is marginal, so I’ll need your help with English. I would enjoy your company.”
“OK. I’m sure Marsha won’t mind if you’d like to sleep at the house tonight. She says her couch is comfortable.” Marsha was the talkative colleague with whom Louisa stayed when she came to Flagstaff on college business. Leaphorn had met her once, and that was plenty.
He shook his head.
“I nee some quiet to tink.”
They made plans to meet on campus in the morning.
Leaphorn found a motel, plugged in his laptop, checked his email, considered tomorrow’s interview, had a hot roast beef sandwich at a nearby diner, and called it a day. He awoke refreshed. Louisa was ready when he pulled up in his truck.
She smiled. “Shall we take my car?”
He shook his head. “I drive.”
Interstate 40, the quickest way to Winslow, drew an abundance of truck traffic and, in the summer, a bevy of tourists in sticker-covered RVs. Unlike the orange barrels and shoulder repair work he had encountered on his way west, the two eastbound lanes lay clear of construction. They left ponderosa pine country for red rocks, piñon and juniper trees, and then flatter, emptier landscape. As many times as he had driven this route, Leaphorn never tired of it. The vast sky where he’d seen double rainbows and clouds bigger than skyscrapers made whatever problem he puzzled over seem insignificant.
He asked Louisa if she’d ever been to Winslow.
“Maybe pulled off the freeway for gas there. I’ve heard lovely things about the old hotel La Posada. When I was working full-time and lived in Flag, I should have checked it out. Thanks for asking me to come with you.”
Louisa sat quietly. He appreciated not having to work to speak English and used the time to consider the best way to approach Mary. He anticipated Mary wondering how he had found her, and decided he would say he was a detective and leave it at that. He would stress that he and Louisa would keep her identity private. He’d say that the woman who had received her great gift had a question. He’d ask if the special dress had been in the box and move on from there.
He would call Mary when they reached the outskirts of Winslow and persuade her to let them treat her to a soda, a cup of coffee, or lunch in exchange for a brief conversation. Simple and effective, if she would take his call.
He studied the scenery as he planned for the encounter, noticing the ribbon of a long train to the south, a few cumulus clouds beginning to build, joining the high, icy cirrus clouds in the brilliant blue of the summer sky.
Louisa broke the silence.
“Joe, I enjoy helping you, you know that. I find your work as an investigator interesting, and you do it well. I’ll assist you with this case—I mean, if you want me to. After that, you’ll need to figure out something else.”
“Waz wrong?”
She angled toward him. “I don’t want helping with your work to get in the way of our friendship. I offered some suggestions when we were at the Hubbell Trading Post, and you found my ideas intrusive. I’m not one to go where I’m not wanted. I need to get back to my own interests. That’s better for both of us.”
He recalled his irritation when she interrupted his interview and even invited Peshlakai to their home. His reaction came automatically from years of police work, shutting down hysterical parents and girlfriends, talkative drunks, pesky bystanders who butted in to an investigation. It wasn’t personal. Now he wanted to say the right thing, and until he knew what that might be, he didn’t say anything at all.
“Joe, do you understand?”
He shrugged. “Les talk when I can type.”
“We’ll do that.”
“You help me wid dis one?”
“That’s what I said.” He heard the edge to her voice.
He saw the exit for a rest area and pulled off the interstate. He found a parking place behind the row of trucks lined up like a neighborhood of small buildings, all facing the highway. He took out his notebook and jotted down some thoughts. He preferred typing because the speed more closely matched the workings of his mind. But this would do. He handed the book to Louisa. She read his note twice and then gave the book back to him.
“That plan looks good, but, as you wrote, we’ll have to see how things develop. Sometimes a little chitchat can loosen people up. I noticed that with my oral histories. Breaking the ice, you know, establishing rapport with a stranger, that’s the hardest part.”
“Rye.”
“And Mary will already be suspicious. We can veer from this plan if she isn’t forthcoming.”
He nodded. He’d step in if he had to.
He called Mary, but she didn’t answer. He left a message, then sent her a text with the information that he and his friend Louisa were in Winslow and wanted to meet her. He offered to treat her to lunch, stressed that the meeting wouldn’t take long, and underlined their respect for her privacy.
They waited, watching the traffic pass. In less than a minute, his phone chimed. Mary suggested a place to meet, El Falcon on the east end of town, in half an hour.
16
Winslow had seen its share of ups and downs. A thriving railroad town, a trade center where Navajo and Hopi met, and a village that wore its Route 66 heritage like a badge of honor now welcomed tourists on their way to or from the Grand Canyon or Albuquerque. Leaphorn gave Louisa a five-cent tour, starting at another Hubbell Trading Post, the traders’ center for shipping fleece, rugs, and more to East Coast markets. Then they walked to the Standin’ on the Corner Park.
“I haven’t thought of that Eagles song for a long time. When was it a hit, sometime in the 1970s?” She sang a few bars. “Those were the days.”
They strolled over to look at the mural that showed the girl in a flatbed Ford from the song. A couple of gray-haired tourists were taking a photo next to the life-sized bronze of a young man with a guitar.
At El Falcon, they sat at a table with a view of local traffic and waited for Mary. Leaphorn took a chair facing the door and another mural, a large painting of a town on a beach. When the waitress returned with ice water and plastic-coated menus, he asked about it.
“Oh, the original owners here were Greek and had that commissioned as a reminder of their old home. We’re all so used to it we forget it’s there.”