The Tale Teller

by Anne Hillerman

  “Shut up. You’ve already lost me.” Collette’s rage poured out like molten lava. “Don’t pretend you care about me. It’s too late, you old fool.”

  Mr. Benally stared at her, a look Leaphorn had seen before on parents who were brokenhearted. He moved back in his chair, away from Collette’s anger, and when he spoke, his voice shook with emotion. “Daughter, you make me ashamed.”

  She mimicked him. “I make you ashamed? You ruined my life, old man. You never loved me. You—”

  Her father raised his voice to drown out her vitriol. “All this goes back to that time of sorrows. My parents taught us not to talk about Hwéeldi. When Tiffany told me what worried her, I knew something bad would come. The old ones were wise when they said we should think of the days ahead, not the sad times.”

  Collette groaned. “You’re an idiot. Tiffany was weak. That’s why she died.”

  “No.” Leaphorn injected himself. “She died because of your greed and jealousy.”

  “So what if I killed her? She deserved it. Where’s the proof? I’m not afraid.”

  Leaphorn heard a siren in the distance. He noticed the boy standing in the doorway. “You have time to say good-bye to your son.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, you jackass. You think you’re brilliant, but you’re just a poor Navajo living in the middle of nowhere.”

  Leaphorn picked up Collette’s car keys and his phone from the table. The screen was dark, but a small light blinked until he touched a button to turn it off. “I recorded everything you said, and you’ve said more than enough.”

  Collette stood. “Give me my keys, or when the police get here, I’m telling them you tried to steal my car.”

  He shook his head and ignored her as she ranted. Leaphorn realized he was tired. Exhausted, in fact. Ready to go home, feed the cat, and catch up on his sleep. Ready to be done with this broken family and this sad case.

  She turned toward Andrews, addressing him for the first time. “What are you doing here?”

  The boy cowered at his mother’s stare. “The policeman asked me to show him how to use the recorder. I loved my Little Mother, and I wanted her to get well. I miss her and . . .” Andrews stumbled for words.

  “You stinking little piece of slime. I wish you’d—”

  Leaphorn raised his voice. “Stop. Don’t talk like that to this fine boy.”

  Mr. Benally put his arm around Andrews and pulled him into a tight embrace. The child buried his face in his grandfather’s shirt.

  The wail of the siren grew closer. Mr. Benally took Andrews into the house.

  Leaphorn was pleased to see Officer Manygoats step out of the police car, and happy that the station had sent backup, an unusual occurrence for the Navajo force, who were always spread thin. Collette acted genuinely surprised when they ignored her story. She slapped and kicked at the officers as they put her in handcuffs. When they did, Leaphorn noticed the silver bracelet on her wrist. He was too far away to tell for sure, but it reminded him of Louisa’s. He asked Manygoats to log it in as evidence.

  “We will. I confiscated the pills and the dead woman’s checkbook. It looks like someone had been forging checks on her account. But that’s all we found at the house.”

  “Did the warrant cover Collette’s car?”

  “No, sir.”

  Leaphorn made sure that the car was locked and handed the keys to Manygoats. “When you get a warrant, take a look inside. I think you’ll find the evidence you need to tie her to the murder of her sister.”

  When the police left, Leaphorn went inside to thank the boy for his help.

  Andrews stared at his shoes. “What will happen to my mother?”

  “I’m not sure, but I know she’ll be OK. She’s a tough one.” Leaphorn never speculated about how the wheels of mainstream justice and the Navajo code of what was fair and appropriate might mesh.

  “Just ask me if you forget how to play that recording.”

  “I will. I would be happy to do you a favor.”

  Then the boy spoke in Navajo. Not perfect, but understandable. “Could you tell my grandfather that we need a dog? I promise to take care of it every day.”

  “I will.”

  Mr. Benally’s face looked like a mirror of his own. “After you get some rest, you and your grandson could visit Mary. She will be in the hospital for a few days.”

  Mr. Benally nodded. “Come back and see us.”

  Leaphorn followed the route the police cars had taken away from Big Rocks to the capital city of the sprawling Navajo Nation, happy to turn toward home instead of toward the jail. He found Giddi pacing by the kitchen door, her food bowl full and plenty of water in the other dish. The cat followed him into the bedroom. He sat on the bed and took off his boots. He texted Cat OK! to Louisa and then, before he lay down for a nap, sent her another message: I miss you. I want to tell you about Mrs. Pinto’s case. Please come home soon.

  22

  It seemed as though he had just drifted off to sleep when something woke him. The phone in the kitchen, he realized. He scrambled up to answer.

  “Sir, it’s Manygoats. Thanks again for your help with this.”

  “Of course. Did that woman calm down?”

  “Not a bit. She denies everything. She claims the bracelet is hers.” He stopped and then started talking again, this time more serious. “Collette gave us permission to search the car, and we found the old Navajo dress you mentioned. We booked her on possession of stolen property as well as murder.”

  “Could you take a picture of the bracelet and the dress for me?”

  “Of course, sir. How shall I send them?”

  “Texting will be fine.”

  “Do you want the packaging for the dress, too?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It looks like she had already sold it to a museum in Europe. I’ll send you all that information. She was ready to ship it out.”

  “What about the bracelet?”

  Manygoats paused. “I think she planned to keep it. She told me she’d see to it I was fired if it disappeared in the evidence room.”

  Before she heard the news through the Navajo grapevine, Leaphorn called Mrs. Pinto. The woman listened without interrupting. To his surprise, she had only two questions.

  “When do we get the biil and the bracelet?”

  “I don’t know, but they are safely in police custody. I’ll send you a photo as soon as I get one.”

  “Do you know why Tiffany died?”

  “It had something to do with her medicine and suffocation, something to do with jealousy and serious evil.”

  “So it was murder. Collette.”

  He let his silence speak for him. Then he changed the subject.

  “I talked to a couple people at Northern Arizona University, and they have some good information on Juanita and her weavings. They can help whoever comes to take your place authenticate the dress and its history.”

  “Thank you. I’m retiring next week and I . . .” She laughed. “How many times have I told you that?”

  “I never asked, but why are you so eager to leave? You seem to really enjoy your job, and you do it well.” He pictured her running for Tribal Council, serving on committees, volunteering at the local schools. Or maybe taking a more financially lucrative position.

  “My daughter wants to finish college, and she has three little ones at home. School starts for them in a few weeks. I want to get there so we can have some fun this summer.” There was noise in the background. “I have to go. Bring me a bill for your time, and tell Louisa hello.”

  Energized by that conversation, he called the Raffertys. Mrs. Rafferty answered. He asked about Mary, learned that she was doing better and had agreed to work with a therapist. “She might be able to come home to us soon.”

  “I’m glad. I have some news about your husband’s missing items.”

  “Hold on. Let me get Lloyd. I’m putting us on speaker phone.”

  He heard muffled voices, and
then Mr. Rafferty was on, too. Leaphorn switched to English. “Mary took dem. Her sisser was behin it.”

  “Tiffany?”

  “Collette.” He summarized the story.

  “My husband and I tried to help Collie when she was a girl, but nothing we did was ever enough. We gave her another chance when we caught her stealing from us. Then she killed our cat, and we had to send her home.”

  Rafferty said, “We were dealing with your cancer then, remember. We hoped going back to her family might change things.”

  Leaphorn didn’t mention Collette’s implication in Tiffany’s death. They would find out soon enough.

  Rafferty cleared his throat. “I’m glad you and the professor found us.”

  “One mo kestin for you,” Leaphorn said. “Do you member buyin da Peshlakai bracelet?”

  Before Mr. Rafferty could answer, his wife responded. “I do. We were living in Gallup. I was a VISTA program worker at the high school. Neither of us had been to Santa Fe, and the weekend we decided to go turned out to be the Indian Market. We walked all over the place and found this young man selling carved animals and some jewelry. Lloyd bought it for me with a necklace and earrings to match. The seller said his friend made them. I remember the name, Peshlakai, because it sounded so musical. I loved it, but it’s too heavy for me to wear now.” Leaphorn remembered her slim wrists.

  After that, Leaphorn made himself some instant coffee and sat at the dining room table, creating a list of what he had to do:

  Call Mona Willeto

  Call Jessica and thank her for her help

  Collect fee from Mrs. Pinto

  Fix truck

  He paused and then added:

  Schedule more sessions with Jake

  He called Willeto first, assuming it would be one of the easier of the tasks. She got to the point quickly.

  “One of those documentary crews is making a movie about my brother. They want to talk to you about how you figured out he was the one to arrest. I told them I would try to find you.”

  Leaphorn’s skepticism kicked in. “Why me? Why your brother, for that matter?”

  The woman chuckled. “This is kinda funny. The only thing my brother has done right is being in prison. He learned to read, got his GED. He started a prayer group. The anniversary of his sentencing is coming up.”

  “I have to think about it. I’m not one who enjoys the spotlight.”

  “They’d like to know by the end of the month. For me? The whole idea makes me nervous. I was saying no, but my brother encouraged me. He said I could put in some Navajo words if my English failed me.”

  Ah, he thought. His trouble with English would offer him the perfect excuse.

  “Here’s the number you need to call.” She rattled it off. Then Mona’s tone of voice changed. “My brother says you saved his life, that he would have just drunk himself to death if he hadn’t gone to prison. He’s doing some good now, especially with young guys who think they’re tough. So, thank you. That’s what I needed to say.”

  After that, he called his friend Jessica Taylor and asked her another favor. She phoned back with good news. The dog Bernie had discovered, the dog with the clear eyes he had taken to the Fort Defiance shelter, could be adopted.

  When Leaphorn called Mr. Benally, the man asked for the animal shelter number and then had some news.

  “I called the woman my daughter worked for to say I was sorry about that rabbit. She said that she loved the one who died as if she were her own daughter.”

  He sipped his coffee, trying to decide if he should make bacon and eggs for a late lunch or head over to the Navajo Inn. His phone beeped with a text.

  Louisa had written: Coming to WR today.

  He responded: After meeting?

  Bowed out of meeting. Leaving soon. Coming home.

  “Coming home.” Not “Coming to Window Rock.” She had typed “coming home”!

  He texted back, Wonderful. He looked at the word and typed it in again and then one more time, adding an exclamation point.

  Her message reminded him of something he wanted to do. He finished his coffee and picked up his keys.

  As was their habit, the Lieutenant, Louisa, Chee, and Bernie had dinner once a month. The elders came to Shiprock this time, lured by Bernie’s promise of fresh peach pie.

  Chee shared some stories about his work with the rookie. “I took someone’s advice and called Agent Johnson. She spent an afternoon with him.”

  “And?” Leaphorn asked.

  Bernie shook her head. “I haven’t noticed much difference.”

  Louisa, who had told Chee she wasn’t much of a meat eater, had nearly finished her steak. He noticed a striking brooch with a greenish stone on her shirt. “That’s a nice pin. Is it new?”

  Louisa put her hand on the jewelry, which was over her heart. “Yes. I admired it at the Hubbell Trading Post. Joe bought it for me as a gift when I got back from NAU. He shouldn’t have, when he needed the money to fix his truck. But I’m glad he did. I love it.”

  As was usual, after-dinner talk turned to recent cases. Chee summarized the high points of the missing bolo case. “You know, if Ryana had told her grandfather about the movies in the first place, she never would have been blackmailed.”

  “But would she have broken the old man’s heart?” Bernie had been thinking about that.

  “No.” Leaphorn smiled at her and said something in Navajo.

  She translated for Louisa: “‘We old guys are tougher than you’d think.’”

  Bernie stood to clear the table. “I hope you’re all in the mood for pie for dessert. I found the summer’s last peaches yesterday at the market.”

  Louisa picked up her plate and Leaphorn’s and headed inside. “Sit down. I’ll clear the table and bring the pie. I know you guys wanna talk shop.”

  Bernie said, “Lieutenant, what happened with your case? Did the autopsy show what happened to that woman who died? She had some rare disease, right?”

  “That’s what killed her, but indirectly. Her sister Collette stocked Tiffany’s pill box and picked up her medicine. I suspected she’d poisoned Tiffany, but the first toxicology screen came back negative. When we asked for a special tox screening, it showed extremely low levels of a drug, Hinditunayzine chloride, that had been prescribed to keep her lungs functioning. She did die of the disease, but only because her sister had been withholding the correct dose of the medicine intended to keep her alive. She should have taken one little blue tablet three times a day. Instead, the report showed levels consistent with one pill every three days. That’s why there was so much medicine in the prescription bottles in Collette’s car. The autopsy also found evidence that she was suffocated toward the end. Mrs. Pinto said Tiffany was alive when Collette asked her to go outside to wait for the ambulance. She would have died anyway with that low dose of medicine, but not quick enough for Collette.”

  Louisa came back with the pie. The crust, the color of golden sandstone, made Bernie remember the night Bigman had politely declined to take the burned version home to his expectant wife. Their baby boy was thriving.

  Bernie served everyone. “I thought of one more question. Lieutenant, what happened to the dog I found on the trail, the one who alerted us to the dead man?”

  “Da dog has a new home. Wid a boy who needed him.”

  Louisa smiled. “You said that well. I’m glad you went back to working with Jake. I think those sessions have helped you.”

  The therapist had urged him to practice his English as much as he could, especially with friends who would offer encouragement. Leaphorn smiled to himself. Peach pie therapy made a sweet ending to a fine evening.

  Acknowledgments

  The Tale Teller drew its inspiration in part from a real-life tragedy. The Long Walk took the Navajo under armed guard from their sacred homeland to Fort Sumner, New Mexico, to a concentration camp known as Bosque Redondo. Hwéeldi, as the Navajos call it, left its impact on every Navajo family, including those who escap
ed the soldiers seeking to capture them.

  The year 2018 marked the 150th anniversary of the signing of the treaty that established what is now the Navajo Nation and enabled the ragged, starving Navajo families to return to their land between the four sacred mountains. The Southwest’s version of the Trail of Tears lives in infamy, and the story deserves to be recognized as a true and shameful part of United States history. I extend special thanks to Thelma Domenici, Mary Ann Cortese, and the hardworking Friends of Bosque Redondo—the site of the imprisonment—for inviting me to revisit the monument which respectfully commemorates this sad event. I was humbled and honored to speak to your group.

  Jennifer Nez Denetdale’s remarkable book, Reclaiming Navajo History (University of Arizona Press, 2007), offered another source of inspiration as I considered the Long Walk. Thanks to Joyce Begay Foss for her efforts to bring Ms. Denetdale, the author and historian, to the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture. I am also grateful to her and to museum director Della Warrior for arranging the public display of an amazing rug that dates to the time immediately after the treaty signing and was influenced by the weaver’s memory of the years at Bosque Redondo.

  The cover of Denetdale’s book has an iconic photo of Navajo leaders Manuelito and Juanita, his wife. Manuelito, one of the signers of the 1868 treaty, wore a black top hat along with traditional Navajo clothing. The photo shows Juanita in a traditional woven Navajo dress, a biil. That very dress, which dates to the time of the Long Walk, was displayed at the Navajo Nation Museum on loan from its home in the collection of the Autry Museum of the American West. The Navajo museum also displayed an original copy of the treaty that allowed the Navajo to return to their homeland. Heartfelt thanks to Clarenda Begay, curator at the Navajo Nation Museum, for helping me understand the museum’s process for accessioning gifts and for her work to bring Juanita’s dress and the treaty to the Navajo Nation.

  Although I could find no records to support my idea that another dress woven by Juanita still exists, part of the joy of writing novels is the freedom an author has to elaborate on the known universe. And as we know, the world is rich in the unexpected.