The Tale Teller

by Anne Hillerman

  “And?” Mrs. Pinto’s voice was level, but Leaphorn noticed her foot tapping under the table.

  “I asked about Fat Boy, and the man told me about the accident. I found out he was dead, killed in a car wreck.” Peshlakai exhaled. “I felt bad about that. Then our baby was born and I got some jewelry commissions, and, well, I guess I just moved on. I had not thought about that friend for a long time. I’m sorry he died so young.”

  The room fell silent. Peshlakai stood. “I can’t tell you anything else. I need to get on to Gallup.”

  Leaphorn stood, too. “Thanks for helping with this. If you can give me Fat Boy’s legal name, you know, the name that he would have had on his driver’s license, I can check on what happened to the jewelry that might have been in the car.”

  Peshlakai hesitated. “I never called him anything but Fat Boy.”

  “Do you remember what year it was when this happened?”

  Peshlakai told him, then added, “It was mid-August. I remember going outside the night he left for the market and seeing a spectacular meteor shower.”

  “Do you know if your friend was taking any weavings to the market?”

  “I don’t know. He always had enough stuff to make the trip worthwhile.” Peshlakai paused. “The way he could do it was that he had a friend who gave him space in front of his store.”

  Peshlakai picked up the earrings again, studying them, holding them gently in the palm of his hand. “I made these and the bracelet for Lisa—she was my girlfriend then. I told her I would give them to her if she would marry me. She told me I should sell the set because we would need the money with a baby coming. She said I could make something for her later, when we could afford it.” He put the jewelry back on the desktop. “She married me anyway, you know. And I never made another bracelet quite like that one.”

  With that, Peshlakai picked up his blue case and said his good-byes.

  After he left, Mrs. Pinto motioned to Leaphorn to sit down again. “I can’t see any connection between the bracelet and the textile, except that they are on the list together. I hope you haven’t wasted a lot of time running down a dead end.”

  He swallowed his annoyance. “If you want me to stop, just let me know.”

  “No. Louisa told me you’re the best, and I believe her. I like things I can understand, and this has grown more complicated and confused, not less.” She leaned toward him slightly. “I’m overwhelmed here without Tiffany. I counted on her to help me wrap up the loose ends before my retirement. Have you heard what caused her death?”

  Leaphorn realized it was time to put in a call to his buddies at Navajo Police. “Those reports take a while.”

  “What are you doing next to find the dress?”

  “I’ll follow up on the accident and see what happened to the vehicle. Maybe Fat Boy dealt with textiles, too. Maybe someone in his family claimed the car and then sold the items to a collector.”

  Mrs. Pinto cleared her throat. “Too many maybes for me. Good luck, Joe. Remember the deadline. I don’t want to leave this mess for whoever comes to replace me.”

  “I’d like to have the box the donations came in. The postal inspector asked me to save it in case he needs it. He wants a photo of the postmark, and he said he might need to check it for fingerprints.”

  “It’s in Tiffany’s office.”

  Unlike Mrs. Pinto’s office, Tiffany’s was nearly empty. Some new pens and a pad of paper sat near her computer. He looked for the box, even bending over to check under her desk. What rule of nature was it, he wondered, that said some problems grew more convoluted as time went on?

  He went back to Mrs. Pinto.

  “What do you mean it’s not there anymore?” She took her glasses off, examined them, and put them back on. “Oh, I’m sorry. I know what happened. Tiffany’s father needed something to put her things in, and I told him to take it. I wanted him out of here. It’s just a box.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Something Benally. Tiffany never mentioned his first name.”

  “Do you know how I can get in touch with him?”

  He noticed a touch of impatience in her voice. “Call Erin in HR. No, talk to Daryl, his Navajo is better. Say I’m authorizing him to release Tiffany’s emergency contact information to you. She listed her father for that.” Silence, and then, “Will you have something for me on the dress by the end of the week?”

  “I’ll wrap this up as soon as possible. That’s all I can promise.” If he hadn’t known better, her insistence on quick resolution of a complicated case would have made him suspect Mrs. Pinto herself. But if she had taken the items, she certainly would have destroyed the inventory list. Instead, she had shown it to him and begun the investigation.

  She gave him the hint of a smile. “Tell Louisa hello for me.”

  He stopped at the HR office to talk to Daryl, who was out.

  Leaphorn thought about calling Louisa from the truck on his way home to tell her about the forgotten charger and to update her on the case, but reconsidered. She’d probably still be driving, and while he appreciated cell phones, he didn’t like the idea of her chatting while she was on the road, even hands free. To make matters worse, she kept her cell phone in her purse and had to rummage around to find it. He’d call later.

  Back home, he put a cup of water in the microwave for instant coffee and decided to ask Jessica Taylor, his new friend in the Window Rock office, if she could do him a quick favor. He needed to read the report on the accident that killed Peshlakai’s salesman Fat Boy twenty years ago. He could have contacted the New Mexico Department of Transportation himself by email, but a phone call would be quicker and the young woman had seemed eager to help. Her contacts at NMDOT would be current, too.

  “The accident was on US 666 near Tohatchi, and both drivers died.” He gave her the year of the crash. “It was in August, around the time of the big Santa Fe Indian Market, and that’s always on the same weekend, near the end of the month. And there was a meteor shower around that time.”

  “Sir, I’m sure I can find the date of the market that year. The reports are available digitally, so I don’t think this will take too long.”

  “Great. I’d appreciate seeing what you find as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll work on it right now.” He heard the enthusiasm in her voice. “If I can’t find what you want, I have a buddy there. I’ll tell him one of our consultants is looking into a case that might be connected to the accident.”

  “That’s perfect. Let me know as soon as you’ve got something.” He said it again to reinforce the urgency.

  “I sure will, sir. Happy to help.”

  When the phone rang, he hoped it was Jessica, but the caller ID said “NAU.” He picked it up expecting to hear Louisa.

  “Hello. May I please speak to Mr. Joe Leaphorn?”

  “Leaphorn.”

  “I’m calling from the reference desk at the NAU library.” The woman gave him her name. “This concerns your inquiry about Juanita . . . Umm, I don’t know how to pronounce the Navajo words.”

  “Asdzáá Tlogi.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m researching our archives and will email you the sources and information. But I thought you might also want to talk to a curator of textiles who specializes in early Navajo weaving. Would you like her contact information?”

  “Peas.”

  She gave him the woman’s name and phone number, and he jotted them down.

  “Email?”

  “Oh, of course.” The librarian told him the address, which consisted of the curator’s first initial, last name, a number, and the university suffix.

  “Tanks.”

  “I should let you know that I haven’t found anything much so far. Only reference to one dress, the one in the portrait. I’m sure you know about this.”

  “Ya. Nudder one out there?”

  “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  He typed up a quick note to the textile expert explaining he was a priv
ate investigator attempting to track down a possible museum donation. Did she know of any existing weavings by Juanita, also known as Asdzáá Tlogi? If so, where were they now? He requested photographs if she had any. He cc’d it to Mrs. Pinto.

  When Louisa came back, he would ask her to help with the university research. That ought to make her feel better.

  He called the HR department at the museum, asked for Daryl, got put on hold and then disconnected. He thought again about Tiffany’s father. In the old days, families buried their own dead. The arrival of mortuaries changed that. Leaphorn used his laptop to research Navajo tribal funeral packages and, after just two calls, found the funeral home that had been contacted about Tiffany Benally’s remains. He was in luck; a Navajo speaker was on staff and came to the phone.

  “I’d like to send her family my condolences. Can you give me an address for her father, please?”

  “Just send it here and we’ll forward it. That’s our policy, I mean, not to share personal information.”

  Leaphorn thanked the woman and asked if her day was busy. It wasn’t. He learned that she had come to be on the office staff of a mortuary because of both her Christian faith and a non-Navajo boyfriend whom she had met at church whose family was in the business. She liked her job because it gave her a chance to help people.

  “How did you know Tiffany, sir?”

  “I met her through her job at the museum.”

  “She really loved that work. She liked putting together the education programs, you know, the ones that encouraged people to stay in touch with the culture. Things like the importance of animals and their stories. And the shoe games during the winter.”

  “How did you know her, Miss . . . ?”

  “Oh, call me Sue. We went to high school together. Her father really kept an eye on her and her older sisters. He drove them to school from Big Rocks to Gallup because he wasn’t sure what might happen to them on the bus. We can’t help him with any funeral plans yet because there might be an autopsy, but he’s fighting that. He’s more traditional, you know?”

  “An autopsy. That’s interesting.” He knew that the Office of the Medical Investigator investigates any death occurring in the State of New Mexico that is sudden, violent, untimely, or unexpected, or cases where a person is found dead and the cause of death is unknown.

  “I only met Mr. Benally once. A tall man with gray hair. I can’t recall his first name.”

  “It’s Lee. You were probably thinking LeRoy, right?”

  “Lee Benally. That’s it. I’d really like to drive out there and talk to him. If you could remind me how to get to his place, that would be great.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t because of our policies, but I’m here until five. If you mail your note to me, I’ll give it to Mr. Benally and ask him to call you. You don’t want to drive all the way out to Big Rocks and find that he’s not there.”

  He thanked the woman and hung up, then did a search for a phone number for Lee Benally of Big Rocks and came up empty. He had a bit of time before he needed to go to Shiprock to meet with Largo’s problem child. He would drive there, find the house, and, assuming someone was home, retrieve the box and find out why the man disliked Mrs. Pinto.

  Before he left home, he filled Giddi’s dish with cat food and topped off the water bowl. He went into the bedroom and put a change of clothes and toiletries into an overnight bag. He didn’t plan on sleeping away from home, but he knew the unexpected always waited around the corner.

  8

  Chee made good on his promise to Officer Bigman.

  The captain was at his computer, as expected, with the usual stacks of paper on his desk. Chee summarized his thoughts on the Chinle crime spree and the possible Shiprock connection.

  “I think the recovery of that bolo was a breakthrough. I want to interview the old gentleman about the burglary, and the granddaughter is worth talking to, too. I know the team leader there, Lieutenant Black. It will be easier for me to handle that side of the investigation than it would be for Bigman.”

  Captain Largo spread his hands on the desktop. “Talk to Black before you do anything. He’s been looking into the link between gangs, burglaries, and drug traffic out there.”

  “I called him this morning. He said he welcomes all the help he can get. Bernie wants to follow up on the flea market angle because she talked to Mr. Natachi.”

  “Fine. We’ll keep Bigman busy closer to home.” Largo shifted in his chair. “Did you and the Lieutenant discuss the rookie?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That kid was lucky he didn’t get beat up any worse.” Largo frowned. “Between us, I’m surprised Bernie hasn’t taken a swing at him. But that’s not her style, is it?” He didn’t wait for Chee’s answer. “Has she talked to the Lieutenant about her issues with him?”

  “You’ll have to ask her, sir, but I don’t imagine so. She tends to handle things herself.”

  Largo looked at the pile of folders on his desk. “You doing anything else I should know about, Chee?”

  “No, sir.”

  “OK then, get to work.”

  Chee considered his approach before he called the number he had for Mr. Natachi’s granddaughter. He dialed from his cell phone instead of the office. When the mechanical voice came on, he left a message. “Hi, I’m Jim, Bernie Manuelito’s husband. I’ve got a question for you. Can you please give me a call?”

  He followed up with a text, did some paperwork, and called her again an hour later, this time not leaving a message. Then he phoned Bernie out on patrol.

  “Hi. Where are you?”

  “On the way to deal with a possible case of child abuse.” Largo had asked her to come in early to cover for the rookie again. Chee heard the undertone of dread beneath her usual cheerfulness. He couldn’t blame her. He hated those calls, too.

  “I’m going to Chinle to follow up on the burglaries. Do you know where Mr. Natachi lives? And do you have a phone number for him? All I have is the granddaughter’s.”

  “I can’t help you, but I know Mama can.”

  So he called Bernie’s mother. Mr. Natachi, she told him, did not have a phone. She didn’t know the address, but he lived outside of Chinle toward Canyon de Chelly, past the last turnoff and beyond the Spider Rock overlook. His house sat off a dirt road, across from a couple of cattle guards. She described the view of the mountains. “He says it’s not close to anything, and that’s why he likes it. He lives in a small home his daughter brought in behind the main house where Ryana and the boyfriend are, or maybe it’s just her now. I’m not too sure about that boyfriend.”

  “Ahéhee’.” Chee figured he could find it from her description.

  “How was that pie my daughter made?”

  “Good.”

  “Did she burn the crust?”

  Chee thought about how to answer. “The peaches were perfect.”

  Mama laughed. “That one tries to do too many things at once. You tell her to come and see me, and I will show her how to take it out of the oven in time.”

  After he hung up, he remembered that he should have asked about Darleen. Next time.

  Chee enjoyed driving, especially when it involved interesting places on the Navajo Nation, and even more when Bernie sat next to him. The trip to Chinle took about two hours. He got there in time to catch Black before he left on a call. They went to the break room to talk.

  “Have some coffee if you want.” Black handed him an empty mug inscribed with the word “Wildcats.” “I made it, so it’s at least half decent.”

  Chee poured a cup and took a seat.

  Black joined him. “So some of our stolen jewelry is finally turning up?”

  “It was just one piece, but it makes me wonder if other stuff stolen from here is winding up in our backyard. I want to get your off-the-record take on the situation.”

  Black explained that the burglaries had his team baffled. “The stolen merchandise hasn’t been recovered. The problem started with a few report
s in April and has been steadily on the increase. Whoever is doing this seems to know their targets. Until you called, I hadn’t heard of any merchandise showing up in Shiprock. I appreciate whatever help you can offer with this.”

  Chee sipped the coffee. “The link to the flea market was a lucky break. If my wife, Bernie, hadn’t been there—she’s an officer, too—and picked up on it, we wouldn’t have had the lead. The old man showed her where the booth was, but by then, the guy was gone. Bernie got a decent description of the flea market seller and she’s following up on that.”

  “He got spooked and folded his tent. They sell from tents?” Black laughed. “Who’s the guy who got his bolo back?”

  “A Mr. Natachi. You know him?”

  “Herman Natachi?” Black pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “He’s the old gentleman who came by the station a couple of weeks ago to report some missing jewelry. I remember how polite he was. He couldn’t say for sure when his bolo had disappeared. He had an invitation to a relative’s graduation from college in Tsaile last month, and that’s when he realized the bolo he wanted to wear was gone.”

  Chee considered what Black had said. “Sometimes elderlies forget things.”

  “You’re right, but from the rest of the conversation and the way he described the missing bolo, his memory seemed fine.”

  “Did he lose more than the bolo?”

  “No. He had a ring in the dresser next to his bed, and he mentioned a ketoh. They were still there. You don’t see those old pieces so much anymore.” Chee knew a ketoh was a wrist guard, like an oversized bracelet, from the days when hunters used a bow. “And he had a fancy rodeo buckle on display and no one took it.”

  Black stood. “Let me find the paperwork to be sure I’m remembering this right.”

  The lieutenant returned a few minutes later with a folder. “This is all in the computer somewhere, but I wanted to show you exactly what he wrote. The handwriting says something, too.”

  Chee leaned toward the open folder. He had dealt with enough challenged elders to recognize the way problems showed themselves in shaky or illegible handwriting. Mr. Natachi’s penmanship was graceful and solid.