The Tale Teller

by Anne Hillerman

  Walker looked at Leaphorn and switched to Navajo. “You were going to call me for coffee.”

  “No, you said you’d call me.”

  Walker smiled. “I did say that. I’ll do it.” She acknowledged Bean with a nod of her head. “Nice to meet you.”

  Back at the table, Bean finished his eggs and started on the pancakes. “How are you doing as a retiree, Joe? Finding things to keep you busy?”

  “Ya.” Leaphorn wanted to say he enjoyed the variety of private investigation work and the opportunity to look into cases he would not have handled on the police force, but the idea was too complicated for his spoken English.

  “How’s that guy who worked with you doing? I forget his name, but the fellow who wanted to be a medicine man on his days off.”

  Leaphorn knew he meant Jim Chee.

  “Kay. Merry.”

  “Married? Well, they say there’s someone for everyone. I tried some of that online dating stuff.” Bean picked up a piece of crisp bacon with his fingers. “I met some stinkers, and then I struck gold.”

  If Bean expected him to share details of his private life, he’d have to wait a long time. Leaphorn tried the fried potatoes mixed with onions and green peppers. He could see Louisa frowning at him as he added salt. Delicious.

  “Yes, sir. Finally, I met a keeper. Smart, beautiful, kind, and sweet. Her name is Wanda. I’ll introduce you next time you come to Phoenix.”

  Leaphorn nodded. “Ya workin some inerstin cases?” Working, he thought. Interesting.

  “Lately, it’s been employment fraud. You know, make money at home, pyramid schemes, mystery-shopper scams. These crooks are amazingly clever, and most of the people ripped off are too ashamed to complain, so the scams keep on rollin’.” Bean paused. “You remember the anthrax attack, the one that lady referred to, when some creep sent poison through the mail?”

  “Ya.”

  “We worked that case by tracking down who would have had access to the poison. You might try working backwards on the mystery-gift problem, you know, puzzling out the origin of the missing piece or some of the rarer items that actually arrived. Moving from that angle to track the shipper.”

  Leaphorn nodded.

  “You already thought of that, didn’t you?”

  Leaphorn smiled.

  The men ate in silence for a while; then Bean looked again at the paper Leaphorn had given him. “That gunshot didn’t hurt the part of your brain in charge of planning, did it?” He folded the sheet. “I ought to know something in a few days, if luck is with me. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Tanks.” Leaphorn reached for the bill, but Bean put his hand out to stop him.

  “This is on me, or rather, on the government. I have an expense account for this trip, and I need to keep my network strong.”

  They walked out of the restaurant together into the warm Arizona afternoon. Summer clouds were building, but Leaphorn knew from experience that they would not bring moisture, except perhaps a brief, light sprinkle. The monsoons that briefly drenched the Arizona desert had yet to arrive.

  “I’ll work on your problem tomorrow. If you think of some details that might help, here’s my email.” Bean handed him a card. “That’s the best way to contact me. I can be hard to reach on the phone.”

  Leaphorn recognized the lie. Bean’s consideration for his disability touched him.

  Back home, he found Louisa at the dining room table with a large picture book.

  “How was your meeting?”

  “Fye.” He thought of the easiest way to explain what Bean would do. “Wade a mint.” Leaphorn went to his office for his computer, then moved Giddi from the chair the cat had claimed and sat next to Louisa. He opened his laptop, typed out a summary, and turned the screen toward her. They had done this before.

  Louisa read the note. “Did he think he could help you?”

  Leaphorn shrugged. “Maybe.” Then he typed a rehash of Bean’s advice about tracking the outstanding pieces as clues to the collector donor.

  “That’s the same idea you had. That’s what I’ve been working on. Look at this.” She turned to a page in the book she had marked with a Post-it. “Do you see the similarities between the description Daisy Pinto gave you of the bracelet and this?”

  “Course.”

  “Indeed. They are from the same artist. This one received best of show at one of the first Heard Museum Indian Markets, so besides its workmanship, the artist’s acclaim adds to the value. I didn’t realize I had such good taste.” She tapped the photo. “And so did whoever wanted to give it to the museum. And so did the thief. If there was a thief.”

  Leaphorn looked at the photo and the caption, which included the name of Robert Peshlakai, a Navajo silversmith from Fort Defiance, Arizona. He hadn’t heard of the artist, but that wasn’t a bad thing. It meant that the man probably hadn’t caused serious trouble.

  Louisa closed the book. “I’m going to do a little internet search for Mr. Peshlakai.”

  “Guh.”

  Louisa pulled out her cell phone and typed in something, studied it, typed in something else, read whatever came up on the screen, and frowned. She put her phone down. “There are a lot of Peshlakais in the jewelry world, but Robert Peshlakai isn’t much of a marketer. No website. No Facebook. The only place I could find that carries his work is the Hubbell Trading Post.”

  Leaphorn remembered the phone number and called. When someone answered, he spoke in Navajo.

  “Hold on, sir. I’ll get someone to help you.”

  Leaphorn identified himself to the next speaker.

  “Yá’át’ééh. I’m Gene Willie, trading post manager. You’re that detective lieutenant from Tségháhoodzání, right?”

  “Retired lieutenant but still in Window Rock.” He thought about the best way to approach the topic. “I’m doing some work as an investigator now for a client who has a question about something she thinks the jeweler Robert Peshlakai may have made.”

  “Can you hold on?”

  “Sure.” Leaphorn heard a muted conversation and realized that Willie was dealing with a customer.

  Willie returned after a few moments.

  “Well, Lieutenant, things may be going your way. If you’d like, you can meet Mr. Peshlakai. He told us last month he would be coming in today to pick up a check.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  Willie chuckled. “Hard to say. He usually gets here just before closing time, or maybe just after.”

  “And when is that?”

  “We’re on summer hours, so six p.m., more or less.”

  “I’m interested in talking to him, so if he gets there before I do, could you ask him to wait?”

  “I’ll ask him. But he’s a feisty one. I can’t promise he’ll stay. Is he in trouble?”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned. My friend, who will be with me, has a beautiful bracelet she bought at your trading post a while back. She thinks Mr. Peshlakai made it, but I’m not sure. I’d like him to take a look.” He was glad Louisa didn’t speak enough Navajo to understand that he questioned the authenticity of her precious bracelet.

  “That’s interesting. Artists don’t like someone stealing their designs.”

  Right, Leaphorn thought, and the suspicion of plagiarism gave Peshlakai another reason to meet a couple of strangers. “I have some photos of baskets and pots I could use help identifying. Would you be willing to take a look?”

  “Why not, as long as I have time.”

  He told Louisa his idea and invited her to join him on the trip. Neither of them had been to the historic trading post for years. They planned to arrive about five p.m. to look around and to be there when the jeweler arrived. Unlike many places he’d visited on the Navajo Nation in his line of work, the Hubbell post was an easy drive on paved roads and only about half an hour away. Louisa wore the bracelet, and he took some of the photographs Mrs. Pinto had given him.

  Louisa had done the chauffeuring for months. Thankfully, those d
ays were gone. He made a much better driver than passenger.

  He noticed Louisa looking at her bracelet. “I wonder how old Mr. Peshlakai is. I must have purchased this twenty years ago, and it doesn’t look like something made by a beginner. When I bought it, I remember that there were matching earrings and a pendant for sale, too, but I couldn’t afford the whole set. I loved the bracelet the most. I looked at the set a long time and finally decided it was better to have groceries for the month than more jewelry.”

  “Smar.” Leaphorn noticed the sedan that pulled onto AZ 265 West, and slowed to give the driver space. “Food is guh.”

  She laughed. “That’s what I figured.”

  They passed the Window Rock flea market, busy as usual, and crossed Black Creek Wash and then the junction for St. Michael’s school and mission. Then came the clinic, a gas station, a family restaurant where Leaphorn met with potential suspects and witnesses in his days on the force, and an assortment of other businesses.

  The road started as four lanes with piñon and juniper trees on both sides. It narrowed to two lanes as it climbed to 7,000 feet. The route dropped into sage and sheep country. Crows soared against the vivid blue summer sky.

  When they came to the junction for Kinlichee, Louisa had a question: “What does that word mean?”

  Leaphorn pronounced the Navajo name for the settlement, Kin Dah Lichi’i. “Red hows in da distance. Pueblo ruins.” The truck scooted over Fish Wash with coal-rich Black Mesa framing the horizon to the west. Leaphorn turned left just before they crossed Ganado Wash, glad that the Hubbell Trading Post National Historic Site entrance marker stood large. The junction would otherwise be easy to miss.

  They bounced along the washboards and over handmade speed bumps for a quick half mile. He smelled the green alfalfa in the field across from the sandstone building that housed the visitor center and bookstore. The road ended directly in the dirt parking lot. He recalled that the historic Hubbell home and outbuildings lay beyond.

  Leaphorn assessed the other vehicles before he parked, a little game he played. Could he figure out which cars and trucks belonged to whoever was inside? He assumed the two white vans were part of a school or church field trip. Among the other vehicles, he saw a truck from the 1990s or maybe 2000 with Arizona plates. It looked well used and well loved. He tied it to the trader who worked here, and the other vehicles to visitors. He didn’t see anything that looked appropriate for an aged silversmith.

  Louisa took off her seat belt. “I love this place. So rich with history. Several of my students wrote papers about it. Do you know the story?”

  He nodded. The Hubbell Trading Post, the oldest trading post operating on the Navajo Nation, dated to just after the treaty the US government made with the Navajos after the Long Walk. The buildings were just a little younger, Leaphorn thought, than Juanita’s dress. Don Lorenzo Hubbell had the business sense and social skills to create an establishment that functioned for decades, beginning in 1878. He did business with the Navajos who returned home after four years of hellish captivity, encouraging them to create silver jewelry, baskets, and rugs to exchange for flour, coffee, canned goods, and other items not easily found on the remote reservation. Besides being a store, the post had served as a home to the Hubbell family and a haven for visitors, among them Theodore Roosevelt. After Don Lorenzo’s death, family members operated the establishment until 1967. Then the 160-acre homestead, buildings, and trading post were sold to the National Park Service.

  Louisa opened the passenger door. “I haven’t been here in ages. I hope Mr. Peshlakai has arrived. I’m eager to show him my bracelet.”

  Leaphorn wanted to spend a few minutes looking at the old post. He planned to talk to the trader about the other possibly valuable items in the photographs, check in with the jeweler when he arrived, and go home.

  The Arizona heat baked them as they headed to the entrance. Stepping into the front room was like walking into the past, although the goods on the shelves included disposable diapers and batteries. The Western National Parks Association maintained the trading post much as it had looked when the Hubbell family operated it.

  “It’s just like I remember.” Louisa smiled. “I bet the jewelry is still in the next room.”

  Leaphorn watched her head directly to the counter that held bracelets. He stayed in the main room, waiting to catch the eye of the trader who was dealing with a young Navajo woman buying a yellow container of engine oil. In the old days, this post and most of the others throughout the reservation had traders who were non-Navajo. Leaphorn was pleased to see Diné on both sides of the transaction now.

  The woman paid, and the man came from behind the counter and greeted Leaphorn. “Yá’át’ééh. You must be the one I talked to on the phone.”

  “Yá’át’ééh. Joe Leaphorn.”

  “Gene Willie.” He introduced himself formally with his clans, the Navajo way.

  Leaphorn, who usually didn’t follow this formality, reciprocated. “This old store looks better than ever.”

  “It’s a labor of love. The visitors like it, and the locals are happy to have a quick place to pick up some aspirin and another market for their weaving.”

  “My friend Louisa is in the other room. Let me introduce you. And then I brought the photos I mentioned. I could use your help to solve a mystery.”

  “Sure, but first I have to give an introductory talk to the students, high schoolers from Indiana. You’re welcome to listen in.”

  “Thank you.” Leaphorn would have preferred to get the business done, but he assumed Louisa would enjoy it.

  She looked up from the jewelry case when he and Willie entered the room. Leaphorn did the honors.

  “Is Mr. Peshlakai here?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m excited to have a chance to meet him. What an opportunity to make a personal connection with an artist who made something that I love.” She extended her left arm toward Willie. “This is one of my favorite things.” She slipped off the bracelet and passed it to him. “You’ll see the jeweler’s mark inside.”

  Willie set it on his right palm and moved his arm up and down, judging its heft. Then he moved it closer to his face, looked at the mark, and handed it back to her. “It’s beautiful, and I think you are correct. It could be one of his early pieces. His new work is lighter, maybe because silver is more expensive. You’ll have to ask him.”

  Leaphorn noticed the dozen or so young people in shorts and T-shirts gathered in the adjoining room, most of them fiddling with their phones. Willie excused himself. “Time to talk to the kids. Come on.”

  They followed him and took a seat on the folded rugs. Like the rest of the post, the room displayed relics from the old trading days, including antique guns, traps, saddles, and animal heads.

  Willie spoke with ease, using a rug with the classic storm pattern as a template for his talk. He explained that each rug told a complicated story and that only the weaver herself could provide the complete explanation. Leaphorn thought of the missing dress. What tales could it relate of struggle and survival, of the strong woman who wove it with her own hands and wore the dress with pride?

  Willie mentioned spirit lines, a technique weavers use to keep their creative gift from being trapped within the rug’s borders. He discussed how the term chief blanket confused history because the Navajo had no chiefs.

  He draped a blanket over his shoulders. “Worn this way, the blanket says that I am in the market for a wife.” The students chuckled appropriately.

  Leaphorn looked for Peshlakai. He’d assumed that the man would have arrived by now. As a cop, Leaphorn figured, he had wasted at least a full year of his life waiting for people who came late or not at all. As an investigator, he had tried to change that pattern. He didn’t like finding himself in the same situation again.

  When Willie finished, the students asked a few questions and filed out to tour the old Hubbell home. Willie and Louisa resumed their conversation about jewelry, and Leaphorn
listened with half an ear until impatience got the better of him. He rose from his comfortable seat on the pile of rugs, noticing the stiffness in his knees, and spoke to Willie in Navajo. “Can you take a quick look at the pictures I mentioned?”

  Willie moved his hand toward the other room. “Sure thing. Put the photos on top of the jewelry display case in there, spread them out. Peshlakai knows most of the silversmiths around here and all over Navajo. You can talk to him about any jewelry.”

  “You think he’s still coming?” Louisa glanced at her watch. “It’s almost closing time.”

  “I do.” Willie grinned. “But before we block your view with photos, is there something in the case I can show you, ma’am?”

  Leaphorn winced. Louisa had already looked at the jewelry. Wasn’t that enough?

  “Are any of these Robert Peshlakai’s pieces?”

  Willie tapped the case. “See that brooch in the center with the greenish stone? That’s the only one I have left. He brought it in earlier this summer.” The trader walked behind the counter, opened the case, and reached in for the box with the pin. “The man did amazing work, didn’t he?”

  Leaphorn heard a vehicle approach the building.

  Louisa took the brooch and placed it in the palm of her hand. “It’s gorgeous. Look at the detail. He’s quite an artist.”

  Leaphorn said, “You said did amazing work. Is he retired?”

  They heard the front door open. “Anyone workin’ here?” The male voice calling from the front of the store had an accent. West Texas maybe, Leaphorn thought. Not Peshlakai.

  “I’ll be right there, sir.”

  Louisa gave Willie the pin, and he returned it to the locked case. They followed the trader into the big room.

  A potbellied man in khaki shorts stood at the counter with two little girls, one on each side. They wore matching T-shirts that said “Regent Family Reunion, Sedona, Arizona.”

  While Willie sold the man cold drinks, Louisa examined the books and boxes of herbal tea. “Joe, did you hear what Willie said about the origin of Ganado red? That’s not quite the same as the story I know. Interesting, isn’t it, how these legends develop and change over time?” Leaphorn watched the tourist take forever to pay and leave. Louisa paused her lecture when Willie came over to them and switched topics. “How long before you close?”