Leaphorn nodded. He knew Navajo law enforcement was understaffed and focused on crimes that hurt people first, not the possibility of a missing museum donation. If he had been in her position, he would have hired a PI, too.
Mrs. Pinto continued. “Secondly, I know you worked with that museum in Santa Fe, so you have some experience with this. And you live right here in Window Rock and I like working with people I can meet face-to-face.
“Finally, after Louisa told me about you doing investigations, I remembered that when you were with the police department, you found a poor woman who had been locked in one of those bunkers out by Fort Wingate. You didn’t give up and I admired you for that. This case is totally different, but it might take some persistence. I hope you can resolve it in a day or two, but if not, you’ll need to figure it out in the next two weeks.”
Mrs. Pinto folded her hands. “And there’s one more thing. When you drove away yesterday, I heard a grinding sound. That led me to assume that, besides appealing to your curiosity and your sense of honor as a Navajo when it came to an important piece of our heritage, you might need a part for that truck of yours. Could be expensive.”
Leaphorn smiled. “That’s a good explanation.” The woman might be demanding, but she was smart. He appreciated the way her brain worked.
He stood and walked slowly to the end of the table and back again, doing a brief survey of the material. “This is a nice collection. Some lovely and interesting things here.”
“I agree, of course. But the star of the show is the piece that we can’t find.” She stood. “Before you ask, we searched for the return address on the box in our donor file. Nothing. Then I had my assistant do a reverse address check on the computer—you know, those programs that fill in the name of who lives where. That address is bogus. I put Tiffany’s work in the folder for you.”
“How was the box shipped?”
“The old standby. US mail.”
Leaphorn signed two copies of the letter of agreement. Mrs. Pinto put one in his folder and showed him a smaller brown envelope. “Tiffany took some photos of what you see here as well as the baskets and saddle blanket.” She closed the folder and handed it to him. “How long before you will know something?”
He recognized the urgency. “I will check in with you midweek.”
“Or sooner. My retirement clock is ticking.”
The sun had heated his truck’s door handle almost to the point of pain. Leaphorn climbed in. The steering wheel was hot to the touch. He turned the key, noticing the grinding again.
Louisa, as he had come to expect, greeted him with a question.
“So, what do you think of Daisy’s proposal? Will you try to help her?”
He nodded yes.
“I’m glad.”
He put the folder and the brown envelope on the kitchen table and motioned her to join him. He removed the photos and thumbed through them; then he examined the list. Whoever sent the box had assembled the items with care and, as the letter implied, seemed to have personally collected them over a number of years.
He handed the list to Louisa.
She made little humming sounds as she reviewed it. “Look at this.” She tapped her index finger on a line in the inventory and read: “‘Earrings, necklace, and sterling silver storyteller bracelet set with bears, trees, et cetera.’ Is there more information on these?”
He pushed the pictures to her and watched as she quickly sorted out the bracelet photos. She rose and returned with the magnifier they kept in the kitchen drawer and used it to examine two pictures more closely.
“It’s not here. The storyteller bracelet is not in the photos.”
Leaphorn looked at the number again, 30, and nodded. “Rye. Missin.” He meant “right,” but he could tell that she understood.
“I think this could be the same jeweler who made a bracelet I bought years ago when I first came to the Southwest. A gentleman named Peshlakai. I’ll get mine; maybe it has that mark the inventory describes, and that could help track it.”
“Go head.”
“You’re humoring me, Joe, but you never know.”
She left him to search for her bracelet, planting the seed of an idea. If Louisa clearly remembered where and when she’d purchased her jewelry, artists might remember, too, or might have kept records of their customers. He filed the thought away.
Louisa returned before Giddi had an opportunity to jump onto her chair. She had a silver bracelet and a grin on her face. She showed him the artist’s stamp. “It looks like a P. Peshlakai. And this one is a storyteller, the same as the donor describes. What do you think? It must be the same artist.”
He looked at the description again and then at Louisa’s bracelet and its images of a hogan, a woman weaving, and sheep grazing. He studied the small P inside the band. She could be right.
She slipped the bracelet onto her wrist. “You know, I spent a lot for this way back then. I remember I almost missed my car payment because of it. I imagine this person’s work is worth even more now. Maybe that’s why it’s missing.”
He thought about that. A stolen bracelet would be easy to sell. An old textile would have a smaller market—and anyone who knew its story would also understand that it should never have been for sale. An odd combination.
He refocused on his idea of contacting the artists, first the jeweler whose work was missing and then, perhaps, the others. The people who had made the major pieces, he speculated, would be more likely to remember who bought them. The photos would help. He wondered how many of the artists still lived.
Leaphorn picked out a photograph of a basket, a complicated design that looked modern. He handed the picture to Louisa.
“It’s an interesting piece.” She looked at the typed list. “If this is number 12, the basket maker is listed as Holiday.”
He handed her a pencil. “Mark?”
She nodded and put a check mark on the list.
He thumbed through the pictures and selected a few more for a pile he mentally labeled as “unique and valuable.” The task didn’t take long.
Leaphorn stood, noticing that his back objected. Louisa rose, too. “This is fascinating, Joe. I’d like to help. Maybe I could call some of those Pueblo artists whose work you pulled and ask them who owns it now. I figure they’ll speak English. I’ll leave the Navajos to you.”
He nodded. She kept encouraging him to resume his work with his speech therapist, but he found it frustrating. In circumstances where he really needed to speak English, he asked someone like Louisa to help. If he had to communicate complicated information, he used his laptop and typed in English. Slow and not spontaneous, but it did the job.
“Oh, while you were at the museum, the phone rang. It was Jim Bean. He asked me to tell you that he’s coming through Window Rock tomorrow and would like to see you. He gave me his cell number.” Louisa paused. “He invited me, too, but I’d feel like a third wheel. You guys will want to talk about the old times.”
“Wade a mint.” Leaphorn took his phone out of his pocket and found the right screen. Then he nodded.
She gave him Bean’s number and he added it to his contacts, then sent Bean a text.
His old associate’s response was almost instant.