Cave of Bones

by Anne Hillerman

  “Are you waiting for somebody?”

  “Well, CS said he would come by.” She shook her head. “He’s probably mad at me or something.”

  Chee changed the subject. “Are most of the people here students?”

  “Everyone in our class had to come. Before you got here, we each had to stand by our work and introduce ourselves and talk about why we did what we did.”

  “I wish I had been here for that.”

  “No, you don’t. That’s why I didn’t tell you about the talking part. One girl started to cry, and that made everybody screw up. I was terrible.”

  He searched for something reassuring to say and came up short.

  Darleen looked toward the group of girls again. “Did you notice the person with the turquoise bag over there?”

  “Hard to miss that suitcase. I think she has a liquor bottle in there. Was she the one who cried?”

  “No. She makes those bags. Nice, huh? She’s my roommate.”

  “Your mother and your sister both asked about you. Let me take a picture of you with your drawings.”

  Darleen stood by her exhibit, and Chee snapped photos with his phone. She handed him her phone. “Take another picture of me. They say we need to document our exhibits for our portfolio. This will be the first photo. Don’t get your thumb in it.”

  As she posed, he noticed a blank space on the wall behind her, as if one of her pieces was missing. “Did you have another drawing here?”

  Darleen grinned. “Yeah, but somebody really liked it, so I gave it to him.”

  Chee gave her a look that he hoped said Go on.

  Darleen laughed. “It was my picture, OK? And I gave it to somebody, OK? Don’t worry so much.”

  He wasn’t worried. He was proud of her generosity.

  Three of the people Darleen had been with earlier walked to where she and Chee stood. Two looked like they might have relatives at one of the pueblos that stretch in several directions from Santa Fe along the Rio Grande. The other one, the girl with the big handbag, could have been Navajo, or from a Northwest tribe, or maybe had Cherokee blood. Or even a non-native, Chee thought. The school accepted a range of students.

  Darleen introduced her friends, first names only. Purse Girl was called London. “This is Jim Chee,” she told them. “He’s married to my sister.” She left out the part about him being a cop, maybe because he was in uniform. Then she handed her phone to London. “Would you take a picture of both of us?”

  London snapped several shots and handed the phone back. “Hey, did you actually give your drawing of the Grand Canyon to that guy?”

  “He really liked it. He said he would have bought it if he had money and if this was a real gallery.”

  London shook her head. “That guy is a player.”

  “He’s a friend of CS.”

  Chee gave Darleen a hard look. “Was it Clyde Herbert?”

  She shrugged away her response.

  “I hope you at least took a picture of it for your portfolio,” London said. “Did CS even get to see it?”

  “He saw it when I was working on it. I didn’t finish it until right before I had to turn it in for the show.”

  London handed Darleen’s phone back. “If CS wants to see the show, he better hurry. The gallery closes in fifteen. He told me he wanted to look at my purses. I’m annoyed with that man.”

  But before she’d finished speaking, Chee saw CS at the gallery entrance table, picking up the brochure from Lomasi. He looked sheepish. Maybe it was his late arrival, or perhaps the question about his death certificate, but whatever happened, it had shaken the man’s confidence. His mojo clearly was on the wane. Chee waited to see what would happen next.

  CS gave Darleen a brotherly hug. “So these are the drawings?” He walked closer to them and studied each of the four. “Nice, D. I love the way that coyote seems to be waiting to pounce on something.”

  “My stuff is over there,” London said. “Come see it before they close up the place.” She turned to Chee. “You, too.”

  London’s exhibit was a collection of handbags similar in size and shape to the one she carried but finished with different fabrics and hardware for the handles. They were beautiful and sophisticated, he thought. He knew even less about purses than he did about drawings, but he liked them.

  The crowd at the gallery had thinned to small clusters of students. The lights flickered, and Lomasi said “We’re closing in five minutes. Thanks to the artists and to the people who showed up to support them. All of you who had work in the show, remember that we’re meeting in the classroom for a debriefing in fifteen minutes.”

  “Debriefing? Like we’re spies or something?” Darleen said. “I don’t get it.”

  “Mrs. Lomasi has to analyze everything,” London said. “Don’t tell her you gave away that drawing, or we’ll be here another half an hour.”

  CS caught Chee’s eye. “I need to talk to you about a couple things. Sorry I blew you off before, man. Let’s walk back to the studio building.”

  Darleen said, “I’ll meet you in the studio after I’m done here, OK?”

  Before CS could answer, Chee said, “Take your time.”

  As Darleen and London walked away together, Chee took a step toward CS. “My part of the conversation won’t take long. Only one comment to start with.”

  “Tell me now.”

  Chee lowered his voice. “That death certificate is serious trouble, man.”

  It was quieter in the studio building now, a lull, Chee imagined, between the school day and evening classes, assignments, and practice sessions. Dinner would be a good thing, he thought. Depending on what he learned, he might invite CS to join him and Darleen and her roommate London. Or he might not. He might use the meal to try to talk some sense into his headstrong sister-in-law.

  CS sat on one of the couches and motioned to Chee to do the same. “Give me a minute to check these texts, and then we’ll—”

  “No.”

  CS scowled and put his phone aside. Chee stood over him.

  “Sit down, man. You don’t have to play that bad cop game with me.”

  “Tell me why the state of New Mexico has a death certificate on file for you.”

  “The short version is . . . my parents made a mistake, OK?”

  “They thought you were dead?”

  “Why is my name any of your business, and why did you have someone check up on me? That’s creepy.”

  Chee frowned. “Do you have a sister? A sister-in-law?”

  “No.”

  “That’s why you don’t get it. My wife asked me to keep an eye on her sister while I was here. I asked a friend to do a background check on you—don’t get bent out of shape. He found your death certificate. After you explain that, tell me again why you’re hanging with an ex-con jerk.”

  CS’s voice was tinged with anger. “The people I associate with are none of your business or D’s, for that matter. It’s a professional relationship, and that’s all you need to know. Back off.”

  “Darleen is my responsibility—”

  CS interrupted. “No, Darleen is a grown-up. She has a right to make her own choices. And lighten up on Herbert, man. You’re too full of judgments on something you don’t know a thing about.”

  “What are the two of you—I mean you and Herbert—doing together?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with you, OK? Drop it.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of bad guys, and the ones who beat up on women usually are involved with booze or drugs or both. Is that it? Are the two of you in business together?”

  CS stared at him in response.

  “All right, then. How did Darleen get that bruise on her arm?”

  “Ask her.”

  “I did.” Chee felt his irritation rising. “Now I’m asking you.”

  “What did D tell you?”

  “What Darleen may have told me is not the question. Stop avoiding the answer.”

  CS rose to his feet. “Don’t you ha
ve something else to do besides badgering me? I’ve got to get to work.”

  Chee kept his temper in check. If this were a case he was handling, he’d get tough with CS, but none of this was official, and his sister-in-law liked the guy. At least for now, he’d give CS a pass.

  While he waited for Darleen at the studio door, Chee called Caitlyn Vigil’s office number again and wasn’t surprised to get a recorded message that the office was closed. He punched the right numbers to leave a message.

  The Pantry, the family-owned diner close to downtown Santa Fe where he and Darleen were supposed to eat the night before, was Jim Chee’s kind of place. Darleen had the stuffed sopaipilla, and London ordered chicken-fried steak. Chee asked for the steak and enchilada plate. While they waited for the food to arrive, Darleen, usually talkative, drank her water and looked out the window. London carried the conversation.

  “What’s it like to be a cop?”

  The question caught Chee off guard. “I really enjoy it, at least most shifts, most days. It’s a chance to help make the world a little better. And it’s how I met Bernie, the sister of your roommate here, the gal I married.”

  “My dad was in the Marines. He said he was glad he served, but I think being in the military, or being a cop, would be kinda scary. One of those guys who hangs with CS, Herbert something, he told me he was in the Marines, too, like my dad. He seems mean.”

  Darleen said, “You’re saying that because they wouldn’t buy you any wine.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  The waitress came with the food. The girls ate with gusto, and Chee savored the first delicious bites. Then his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but he hoped it was Caitlyn.

  “Excuse me a minute. I have to take this.” He walked away from the table.

  “Sergeant Chee? I’m sorry if I sounded rude at the office, but I have to keep my personal life, well, personal. Have you heard from George?”

  “No.” He explained again why he was calling.

  “Oh, I thought you had some news for me.” Her voice lost its cheerfulness. “George left the pueblo about three weeks ago for a ranch job someplace out in the boonies with no phone service. The boss told him he had enough work for a couple weeks solid, and we can use the money. After that, George told me he was going to his mother’s house—he hadn’t seen her for a while—and that he’d call when he got a chance. He hasn’t called, and I’m worried.”

  She took a breath. Chee could practically hear her thinking.

  “I assumed he was still working or . . . or that he decided to stay with his mother and didn’t have the guts to tell me.”

  She didn’t offer anything else. Chee said, “His mother told my coworker she hadn’t seen him. She thought he was with you. She told him you two had separated.”

  “Separated? You mean like getting a divorce? That’s a joke. I’m not the easiest person to get along with, and then there’s my mother. But Curley is sweet, patient, funny. He’s not the most ambitious guy on the planet, but he has a big heart.”

  “Do you know where he’s working?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “He left early the day after our feast day dances.” She gave him the date. “You know about that?”

  “A little. I’m Navajo, too.”

  “I figured you were. Anyway, Curley helped with the feast day meal. He made the grocery run, set up all the extra tables, and even cleaned up afterward.”

  “Was that the last you saw him?”

  “Yes. My mother told me she scolded him about not working hard enough that night, and they had a big argument. Curley had planned to leave in the morning, but he jumped in the truck and drove off. I know he’s busy, but I’m worried. And now the police are involved.” She stopped talking, and he heard a muffled sob.

  “If you can give me the name of the place he went to work, I’ll get someone to find out if George Curley is still out there.” The rookie, Chee thought, can do the research.

  “All I remember is that he said it was west of here. Maybe out by El Morro.”

  “Did he mention the name of the man who hired him?”

  “I don’t remember. I don’t think so.”

  Why, Chee wondered, did a job that should have been easy turn out to be full of complications?

  He waited for Caitlyn to end the call, but instead she said something that surprised him. “George’s mother resents me because I’m not Navajo,” she said. “I think she’s using you Navajo cops to get my goat. I think George might be with her, and she’s talked him into leaving me. Not only that, he’s got our new truck. I made last month’s payment on it, and now it’s his turn.

  “Why don’t you ask his mother if he’s there?”

  “I don’t have her number. And even if I did, she won’t talk to me.”

  “So you don’t know where George is working, is that right?”

  “All I know is that he was hired to do a ranch job out in Cibola County or somewhere like that.”

  “Has he left without staying in touch before?”

  “No. Never. Not even when my mother told him to get out. He still telephoned.”

  “I think it’s time to do a missing person report. I’m going to ask you some questions. Let’s start with what he looks like.”

  “He’s thirty-six. About five foot five with his boots on, one-thirty. Black hair cut short and a scar on his right forearm from getting burned. Kind of ordinary except for his great smile. I’ve got some photos.”

  “We might want that. Was he on any medication?

  “No. An aspirin once in a while.”

  “Any jewelry he might have on?”

  “He wears a gold wedding band with our initials on the inside.”

  “What is he driving?”

  “Our new Ford pickup. White.”

  Chee asked her to call friends who might have seen him and start spreading the news that George was missing. “Ma’am, when I learn anything about him, I’ll get back to you. Will you do the same?”

  She answered before he even finished speaking. “Call my cell or text me. If I’m at work, I’ll slip away and call you back.” She gave him the number. “George and I had our differences, but I know he loved me. Even if his mother coerced him into going back to Shiprock, he’d call and tell me he was all right. He’s not that much of a coward.”

  Chee returned to the table and picked up his fork. He felt the girls watching him.”Don’t worry about it. I’m doing a favor for a friend.”

  He hadn’t thought of the rookie as a friend, but he must be because, in a pinch, he knew the guy would have his back.

  They enjoyed dinner, and the girls ordered dessert and chattered about school. Chee was glad Darleen had made a friend, but he couldn’t get CS and Herbert out of his mind. He pushed the last of his food away and looked at London. “Do you know why Herbert is at the studio with CS?”

  “No.” London reached for a sopaipilla.

  Chee turned to Darleen. “Did CS talk to you about any of this?”

  “He said he only has use of the studio until the end of the week and that Herbert is helping him. It’s the video about the lady and sheep, remember? I’m doing some extra shots too, some transitions.”

  “Your arm looks better. How did you get that bruise?”

  “It was an accident. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “She told me the same thing,” London said. “I noticed it after she went to that party.”

  “Shut up about that.”

  “What party?”

  “Just a party.” Chee hoped the pressure of two people wanting an answer would stir Darleen to say more, but she focused on the last of her flan.

  Before they left for the drive back to campus, Chee called the substation in Shiprock and told Wilson Sam about his conversation with George Curley’s wife.

  “Caitlyn says George Curley isn’t with her. She hasn’t seen him for about three weeks, but they are
n’t legally separated. She thinks George’s mother knows more than she told you and that she’s just using the police to get her goat. Ask Mrs. Curley if she knows the name of the place where he went to work so Caitlyn can talk to him.”

  The rookie chuckled. “I’ll ask her. She’s a feisty one. She reminds me of an older version of Bernie. She swears George is at the pueblo and Caitlyn won’t let the guy call back to Navajoland out of pure meanness.”

  “He’s a grown man, isn’t he?” But even as he said it, Chee felt a little sympathy for George Curley.

  10

  Bernie pushed Merilee Cruz’s doorbell and waited.

  When she wasn’t able to reach Merilee on the phone, she’d hoped that Largo would decide that someone on the search team or other law enforcement in the area could tell Ms. Cruz that her brother was missing. But mostly because Merilee served on the Wings and Roots board of directors and therefore was part of the Walker problem, Largo ordered Bernie to go to Grants to do the job. Cooper supplied the address and the information that the woman worked at home.

  Bernie hated delivering bad news; while this wasn’t the worst news, it was far from the best.

  An attractive fortyish woman came to the door. She was wearing a dress that hugged her curves without being overtly sexy and a necklace of green turquoise, old and expensive.

  “Are you Ms. Cruz?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Officer Bernadette Manuelito. I’m with the Navajo Police. I need to talk to you about Domingo Cruz.”

  “Oh my god! Did something happen?” The woman stepped back from the open door. “Come in, please.”

  The door opened onto an elegant entry hall, furnished with a small marble table and a large framed black-and-white photograph of petroglyphs. In the living room beyond, Bernie saw contemporary leather couches, graceful lamps and end tables, several more petroglyph photos, and a Storm Pattern Navajo rug on top of white carpet. The house looked neat, comfortable, and expensive, more so than Bernie would have expected from the modest exterior. She felt as if she was inside one of those home living magazines.

  “Sit down.” The woman waved Bernie to an upholstered chair and sat across from her. “What happened? Is he dead?”