The Bible Seller: A Navajo Nation Mystery (Navajo Nation Mysteries Book 7)

by R. Allen Chappell

  Charlie pulled a face, and nodded along with him, knowing later he would have to agree with Thomas Begay as well, and on the same complaint, but the other side.

  Thomas himself soon interrupted the men’s talk, calling a greeting on his way up from the pens. “What took you so long…did you hear something from Billy?” Thomas was wiping the remnants of a greasy ointment on his jeans, almost smiling, until he was close enough to see the expression on Charlie’s face. He knew the look.

  “Bad news?”

  “Yes, it’s about Gilbert.”

  A cloud fell across Thomas’s features and he grew instantly serious; he hadn’t heard anyone call his father Gilbert in a long time.

  Paul T’Sosi, too, was now frowning and moved closer so as not to miss anything. He wasn’t sure yet who Charlie was talking about but could see Thomas did, and if the news affected his son-in-law it affected them all. A Navajo family keeps few secrets from one another, and considers everyone’s input equally important, even on the slightest issues.

  Thomas instantly thought it could only be one of two things: either his father was in jail…or he was dead. From Charlie’s face, he took it to be the latter. “Dead?” he asked calmly.

  Charlie nodded, “Last night from what they figure…probably just after we left him.”

  Thomas nodded. “What happened?”

  “Natural causes, they think, but the lab reports aren’t back yet so the coroner won’t sign off on an official certificate until he sees the reports.”

  Thomas’s face fell and he turned away for a moment, but when he turned back and looked at Charlie, there was no sign of regret or sadness. He had long ago given up any thought of reconciliation with his father, and after his mother died, he gradually relinquished any feelings for the man. Charlie knew this was Thomas Begay’s way of dealing with his father’s death––that is to say, not dealing with it all.

  Charlie had seen this many times in his work for Legal Services. He knew a Navajo family will stand by an ‘Adláanii, sometimes for many years and through unspeakable incidents of drunken violence or other even more regrettable behavior––trying again and again to bring them back to the true path. They willingly pay for ceremonies or detox treatment time after time––even holding private family interventions––until, finally, when the person does something so unconscionable it can no longer be put up with, he is let go. Then he is yóó’a’háás’Kaah or ‘one who is lost,’ not only to his relatives but to all the people…and that can mean forever. It generally takes one of only a select few offenses to become a lost one––a woman abandoning a child, or incest, or murder––all cardinal sins in the way of the Navajo.

  Paul T’Sosi rubbed his jaw, and looked away. News of a death is serious business for a hataalii, and he thought it time they held a ceremony for Thomas Begay to help him with this loss. He knew his son-in-law wouldn’t be up for it just yet, so backed away and didn’t say anything. He decided to wait, speak to his daughter about it…see what she thought. A variation of a Blessing Way might do it or maybe even a Ghost Way chant, should the type be carefully chosen. He could handle most of it himself so it wouldn’t cost the family much more than food for the guests, and possibly a dry painter, as the old people called sand painting. Paul, himself, knew how to make the paintings, but had grown tremulous of late, and now left it to younger men with steadier hands.

  Thomas, seeing the old man’s face and knowing the signs, quickly changed the subject and began talking about Harley Ponyboy, saying, “Lucy saw Alfred Nakii at the Co-op in Shiprock yesterday.” The hint of a smile came to his lips. “When she asked him if he’d seen Harley Ponyboy, he told her he thinks Harley might have a new girlfriend––he thinks that may be the reason we haven’t heard much from him. He wouldn’t say much more about it; you know Alfred, he don’t say a whole helluva lot.” He shook his head at the others. “I asked him once why he ate that burro he stole that time. He just said, ‘I was getting hungry,’ and walked off without another word.” All three men smiled at this…already knowing how Alfred was. Thomas nodded at the others, “This is Sunday. Harley told us last week he would drop by for supper tonight. If he doesn’t, I’m going out there in the morning and see what’s what.” Thomas looked annoyed. “I wish he had a phone. They’ve been saying they’ll have the lines out there in a few more months.” He smiled. “I’m not sure Harley will sign up for service anyway. I’m starting to think he likes being alone out there. He’s going to wind up being a damned little hermit.”

  Old man Paul T’Sosi judged the sun as it slid toward the hogback. “If Lucy doesn’t get back from town pretty quick there may not be any supper anyway.”

  7

  Diyin Dine’é

  Harley Ponyboy, on his drive back from Shiprock, with his barrels of water sloshing around in the back of the truck, eyed his meager supply of groceries in the cardboard box beside him. He couldn’t help but feel he was on the verge of a new chapter in his life. There were stirrings––not just in regard to Eileen Smith––but rather some otherworldly premonition that his life was about to change. The Diyin Dine’é, the Holy People, shrouded in their invisible aura, were near. He was sure of it now. It would bring a change for the better, he was certain. This was something Harley had never experienced before: the old people spoke of it…saying the Holy People came to everyone sooner or later. This must be his time.

  Harley realized his mental state suffered after Anita was gone, leaving him feeling guilty, responsible even, and unable to fathom why.

  No, this was a matter of hosoji––or rather the lack of it––a fundamental illness of spirit which dogged him since Anita’s death. Now there was this almost palpable awareness of impending hope––a second chance––maybe the Holy People think I have suffered enough. He was determined not to waste such a gift.

  As Harley pointed the truck up the rough track to the trailer––being careful not to upset the water barrels––he wondered if Eileen Smith (if that truly was her name) would still be there. He knew he was naïve in some ways, yet thought himself reasonably perceptive in others. “I may be ignorant,” he sometimes told himself, “but I am not stupid.” What intentions Eileen might have escaped him, but he was certain they included more than selling him a Bible. The woman had passed up the opportunity for a trip to town and it was obvious, even for one of his slight experience, that she might have reason not to leave; some reason beyond what she had first intimated. She might feel the need to keep a low profile for some reason. He had, from the start, suspected the woman needed help; what that help might require never entered his mind. Through all these doubts and suppositions, Harley Ponyboy remained determined to help the troubled woman regardless of consequence.

  Harley barely had time to shut off the engine before the trailer door opened a crack. He couldn’t help giving a sigh of relief at the sight of Eileen. Peeping out, and seeing it was him, she came to help with whatever he brought from town. He immediately noticed her hair, not styled in any particular fashion and with a natural wave falling clean and shimmering almost to her waist. It seemed even brighter in the afternoon sun and had a bounce to it just as his shampoo bottle promised.

  “Eileen, if you’ll take this box of food in,” he said, handing her the cardboard container, “I’ll take the truck around and pump these barrels into the tank. I don’t like to leave that kind of weight on the springs; it makes them sag. They’re old and might not come back one of these times.”

  Eileen only nodded and took the groceries, then watched from the window as he pulled the truck behind the trailer-house. Good, she thought, maybe he will leave it back there out of sight; it might help people think no one’s home. She was thinking of the woman who came by earlier to leave the container of stew on the front steps. Eileen was lucky to hear the pickup coming up the grade giving her time to lock the door and hide. She wondered if it was a sister of Harley’s or maybe a girlfriend or…well, she had not thought him the sort to attract the attention of
females. Granted, there was a certain down-to-earth charm, even a sense of honesty, about him. She learned long ago that looks weren’t everything when it came to men––or women, either, as far as that went. This Harley Ponyboy was certainly no great prize should he be judged by looks alone.

  Harley came into the house wet––water still dripping from his hair. “Hose got away from me!” he laughed. “It’s a big pump…puts out more pressure than you might think.”

  Eileen had no idea how much pressure such a pump might have but nodded agreeably as she put away the groceries. “A woman came by this afternoon and left a bowl of something on the steps. I put it in the icebox. It smelled pretty good. Do you want to have that for supper?”

  Harley stopped mopping the water from his face and turned to look at her before answering. It was an unnecessary consideration in so small a space, but he liked to look at her…and he liked that she called the refrigerator an icebox, just as he did, despite being corrected by nearly everyone.

  “You didn’t answer the door?”

  “No. I must have been using the hairdryer and didn’t hear her,” she lied. “I peeked out as she was going down the road and noticed she’d left something.” And, again, she asked, “It’s a stew, I think. You want to have that stew for supper?”

  “Uh…sure. That would be fine. Some people were making fresh fry bread outside the store so I picked some up. It would go good with stew, if that is what it is. We’d best eat it tonight anyway; fry bread is never as good the next day…but you probably know that.” Harley paused and put the towel down. “Did you see what sort of vehicle she was driving?”

  “I just caught a glimpse of it before it went over the hill…green…it was a green pickup, I think. It could have been a Ford.”

  Harley thought for only a second then nodded. “That would be Lucy Tallwoman’s truck. She’s a weaver; I expect you’d like her.”

  “Old friend?” Eileen smiled when she asked this, but Harley thought he detected a note of worry, which somehow pleased him.

  “She is my best friend’s wife, but sure, she’s an old friend, too. She and Thomas Begay now have Thomas’s two kids, and her father, living with them. They are all good people, but for some damn reason they think I don’t eat enough.” Harley laughed and rubbed his belly. “They are wrong as you can plainly see.” The little man turned thoughtful, “It’s funny how people always think a single man is not able to cook for himself.” He turned to the radio and clicked on KTNN. “It’ll be time for the news in a few minutes––there’s a story I’ve been following about an old man who got murdered up on 64. It happened yesterday morning. Whoever killed him stole his truck, too.” He clucked to himself and adjusted the frequency. “I swear I don’t know what the world’s coming to. Seems like you can’t trust anyone nowadays.” He was about to modify the statement in deference to Eileen, when the intro for the five o’clock news blared and he hurried to lower the volume. He helped set the table only half-listening to the few national stories the station felt their listeners might find interesting.

  Eileen was heating the stew but glanced at the radio a time or two before saying, “Would you mind just turning that thing off, Harley?”

  “Oh, I will in just a minute. It’s just that I might be related to that old man. I’m of the Reed People Clan if I didn’t mention it before.” He hesitated. “And for the Near-to-Water Clan on the other side.” Then smiled shyly. “You never said what clan you are, Eileen?”

  Eileen considered the question, sniffed, and said, “I’m from an Irish clan on my father’s side but my mother never told me what clan she was. My Aunt Mary said she wanted to get away from such things and wanted me to do the same. ‘Your mother says white people don’t enquire what ‘clan’ everyone is when they meet. So why should we?”

  Harley stood up straighter and raised his chin slightly. “Well, you know, Eileen, such as that can be important out here. There’s really not that many of us and getting paired up wrong can put everyone in danger.”

  “Is that so? What kind of danger are we talking about Harley? What? A boogeyman might get us if we are from the same clan?”

  “No, Eileen, I don’t think a boogeyman might get us. But it’s the Diné way that people of the same clan should not get together––if you know what I mean. My boss, Professor Custer, says it probably came about way back in our past to avoid inbreeding and such. There were a lot fewer of us back then and we had to be even more careful of that sort of thing.” Harley looked out the window a moment. “We Navajo think it’s just something the Holy People want us to be careful about, that’s all. It’s part of our religion.”

  “I thought you weren’t religious Harley.”

  “I am in some ways––the old ways.”

  Eileen stirred the stew so hard a little of it slopped over the edge of the pan. “The thing is, Harley, we’re not ‘getting together’ so I wouldn’t worry too much what clan we are.”

  Harley Ponyboy frowned as he put the butter on the table. “Why I never expected anything of the sort Eileen.” Which was not strictly true and they both knew it. He would have denied it further but realized the radio newsman was already into the local stories and talking about the murder up on 64.

  The announcer was young and had a good voice even if his Navajo was not perfect. “The man’s name, released only hours ago, is Benny Klee, a silversmith from the area just east of Teec Nos Pos. The elderly man was reportedly on his way into Farmington, New Mexico to purchase a truck, when he was apparently lured to the side of the road and murdered. Details are still sketchy but authorities say his vehicle has been located, undamaged, and is undergoing forensic examination by the local office of the FBI. A spokesman told KTNN news there are few leads in the killing but went on to assure us an intensive investigation is underway. The FBI urges anyone on the reservation with information regarding the crime to come forward.”

  When Harley turned back to the table, Eileen was staring at the radio, slightly pale, and with a set to her jaw.

  Harley immediately reassured her, “Don’t worry, Eileen, that’s a long way from here. But it does point up the fact that a person shouldn’t be out on the roads hitchhiking. It’s something you should really think about in the future.”

  Eileen did her best to regain her composure then looked sideways at Harley, a questioning glance that carried the implication he might have a screw loose. “So,” she muttered, moving to the stove to fill their bowls. “Was the old man on the news a relation or not?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, right now. But I do have a lot of clan up that way and most of them are older people.” He snorted, “The FBI urges people with information to come forward.” He laughed outright. “No one on the reservation ever comes forward. We have more murders––and less convictions—than most big cities. At least that’s what Charlie Yazzie says.”

  “And how would this Charlie Yazzie know that?” Eileen was curious.

  “Oh, Charlie is a lawyer and Legal Service’s Investigator. He knows a lot about crime, especially here on the reservation.”

  The woman pursed her lips and a shadow fell across her features. “He’s a cop?”

  Harley chuckled. “That’s what everyone thinks. No, he’s not a cop. He’s more like a social worker, I guess. He does carry a badge, though, and is licensed to carry a gun…when he remembers it.”

  He unwrapped the fry bread and put it on the table then took the bowl of stew she handed him. When he looked across he said, “This stew does smell good, Eileen, I think it’s that recipe Lucy has been working on; she got it from Marissa, a white woman living with Thomas’s Uncle Johnny Nez up at Navajo Mountain.”

  “She’s a white woman living with a Navajo?”

  Harley could see her working this over in her mind. “Marissa is an anthropologist––some people think that makes it all right.”

  “I never said it wasn’t right. I’ve just never heard of a white woman and a Navajo man living together––I doubt it w
ould happen where I come from.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Salt Lake…well, a little south of there.”

  “You said your father was white.” Harley was having a hard time seeing a distinction in the case of John Nez.

  Eileen thought about it and couldn’t come up with much of an answer. “I don’t know; it just seems different that’s all.”

  “Well, like I said, they’re married and those people up at Navajo Mountain seem to think it’s all right. They elected him to the Tribal Council a couple of years back.” Harley took another bite of the stew and smacked his lips. “Yes, I think Lucy may have finally got that recipe down.”

  ~~~~~~

  The next morning, when Harley Ponyboy finally pulled himself out of bed, he was surprised to hear someone in the kitchen and had to think a minute before it came to him who it was. He smiled when he smelled bacon frying. It had been a long time since he awoke to so pleasant a morning and he savored it as he dressed and washed up for breakfast––which proved to be both a leisurely and pleasant affair.

  Harley considered the conversation ‘stimulating’ as Professor Custer sometimes called such agreeable talks; he felt reasonably sure he had held up his end.

  Eileen said she hoped it didn’t get as hot there as it did down in Phoenix. “I’ve seen it 120 degrees down there and for days at a time, too. But it’s the humidity…people don’t realize how much moisture those truck farms and swimming pools put into the air.”