Cave of Bones

by Anne Hillerman

  “The flowers remind me a little of datura,” Franklin said.

  “I guess you could call them clan sisters.” Bernie readjusted herself on the seat. “But datura is hardier.”

  Merilee smiled. “Most people aren’t that interested in plants.”

  “I think botany is fascinating. The variety, the adaptability, the beauty, the toughness of some plants and the fragility of others. From those great redwoods in California to the little mountain orchids we have in the Lukachukais. They are amazing.”

  Franklin held his mug of hot chocolate in both hands. “Ladies, I’m like most people. I’ll eat my veggies and smell the roses, but I don’t care much about how they grow. As of now, I hardly care about anything except sleep. I’d like to go to bed.”

  Merilee switched her attention to Franklin as if suddenly remembering he sat there. “You look cold, Michael. What happened to your coat and your shirt?”

  “The snow soaked my shirt, and it’s out in Bernie’s police car, stuck in a snowdrift. I left my coat back in the truck.”

  “That’s inconvenient. You’re lucky you didn’t get frostbite. Are your fingers and toes alive?”

  “My fingers are stiff and cold and tingling a little. My toes ache.”

  “Take off your shoes, and I’ll loan you some warm socks. You can sleep down the hall in the guest room.” Merilee smiled at Bernie. “You’re welcome to the bed in the office.”

  “No, I can’t stay. I’ll just wait for the tow truck.”

  Merilee shrugged. “Well then, make yourself at home. I’m going to tuck Michael in, close the blinds, and turn on some music for you in the living room. I’ll be back, and then I’ll show you the pot in the box and answer your questions. If you decide you want something hot, I keep the chocolate packets in that center drawer. There are tea bags and coffee pods in there, too, for the coffeemaker.” She indicated the fancy machine near the stove.

  Then she padded down the hall, Franklin following, the blanket dragging behind him like an oversize cape. “Tuck him in” sounded like what you say to a child, and poor Franklin looked the part.

  Bernie realized that, like Franklin, she was exhausted. She could hear music now, jazz with a lot of drums and timpani. The drums made her remember how her phone had been vibrating when she rushed out to find Franklin. But first she reconsidered Merilee’s offer of coffee and found the pods in a drawer, selecting one called Goodnight Mocha Blend—coffee and chocolate. The bag of small dark seeds that had been in there, too, on top of some neatly folded blue dish towels, was gone.

  A sound like a bird call came from the back of the house. A few minutes later, the music out of the speakers in the living room grew louder.

  The coffee pod slid into the machine without effort. Bernie pressed the button, and the machine went to work with a soft whirring noise. After the coffee, she would go out to the frozen car to retrieve the box, the binder from Cooper at Wings and Roots, and the files Walker had left for review. She would bring in the damp shirt so Franklin would have it, and she could take back her emergency blanket. She would radio for a highway update, although judging from the flakes falling outside Merilee’s window, the interstate must still closed. Until the tow truck came, she was stuck in Grants anyway.

  That bothered her. Spending the night in a Merilee’s house—especially when Merilee might be a suspect in whatever shady business Hoffman had been dishing out—wasn’t proper law enforcement procedure. Too bad her top preference, sleeping in her own bed with Chee next to her, wasn’t available.

  She went to the entryway and brought her phone and backpack into the kitchen. She fished the phone out of her backpack and called Chee.

  He sounded groggy. “Hi there. I thought you’d forgotten about me. Where are you? I hope you aren’t stuck in the storm somewhere?”

  “I’m safe in Grants. Do you want to go back to sleep?”

  “Not when I can talk to you. What’s going on?”

  She filled him in on the road closure, her unit’s misadventure, and other crucial details. “I feel uncomfortable staying here when I haven’t figured out how Merilee is involved in all this.”

  “What choice do you have? Relax until the tow truck comes. Just be glad that you found a warm place to wait, and you’re not freezing in the blizzard. Your only other option is sleeping in your unit. Promise me you won’t do that. Just sit on the couch in that house and wait for the tow, and relax a little. If the truck gets there before morning, you can see if they have a spare bed at the women’s prison.”

  “I don’t like this situation.”

  Chee chuckled. “Do you remember back when we first met, and you were so embarrassed because you slid off the road in the mud and I had to rescue you? You didn’t like that much either.”

  “Don’t remind me. Let’s talk about something else. What’s new with you?”

  “Well, did I tell you about George Curley? The poor guy took a landscaping job, and no one has seen him since.”

  20

  As she listened to Chee tell how George Curley’s mother-in-law assumed the man had become a Navajo policeman, Bernie heard a noise, the crunch of tires in snow. A tow truck? Could she be that lucky? Lights from outside reflected steadily on the tile floor, indicating that the vehicle had stopped. She built a scenario: the driver wisely assessing the situation from the warmth of his cab, figuring the best angle to park his truck for the tow. She’d go out and talk to him as soon as Chee finished telling her about grumpy old Mrs. Vigil.

  But no, the roar of the engine, even with the muffling factor of the snow, wasn’t deep enough for a tow truck. It was probably a neighbor inching home, wanting to see if Merilee was in trouble after noticing the police unit stuck near her driveway. Should she leave her cozy car to walk through the deep snow up to the door and check? Or would it be acceptable to mind her own business? The headlights flickered through the stained-glass window in the front door, throwing colored confetti into the room as the driver decided.

  Then the lights faded. Mind-your-own business won the evening.

  She refocused on the conversation. “Is it snowing in Santa Fe?”

  “No. But it’s cold. I wish you were here to warm me up.”

  “Did you learn anything interesting at the training?”

  “I did, and I’m looking forward to the Amber and Silver Alert session tomorrow. Largo wants me to fill everyone in at the next staff meeting. But you, my dear, might get a private sneak preview of some specialized maneuvers.”

  She missed him. There was nothing sexier than a handsome cop with a sense of humor. “I’d like that. Maybe we can work something out, Sergeant.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping. See you soon, sweetheart.”

  The machine had filled the kitchen with the steamy aroma of coffee and chocolate. She took a tiny sip. Delicious, hot, creamy, not too sweet. Yum. She liked the way the machine made each beverage fresh and that people could choose what they wanted. She wondered if Largo would consider one of these for the office. Having grown up on Mama’s stovetop version of campfire coffee, she wasn’t a coffee snob, but this drink got a gold star.

  She savored each sweet mouthful, grateful that her day was nearly done, that she wasn’t driving, wasn’t talking anyone out of suicide by exposure, wasn’t listening to the rookie’s inane comments, wasn’t giving her sister advice she never listened to or listening to Mama’s advice for her. For a few minutes, she could just be Bernie.

  She finished the mocha, walked to the entryway, grabbed her keys, zipped up her coat, and opened the door, checking to make sure she hadn’t locked herself out. On Navajo, most families didn’t lock their homes, but in the city it was a different situation.

  No tow truck in sight, but the snowfall had lessened. Larger flakes, as light as the air itself, danced silently on their descent to join their tribe on the ground. The sky was gray from the reflected light of the moon, the air crisp with a hint of moisture.

  If the snow stopped, maybe the hig
hway department would reopen the road, the tow truck would come, and she could head on home tonight after getting some answers from Merilee. She would ask about road conditions when she radioed again for a tow truck. She felt better about the situation. Perhaps the mocha, and certainly the thought of Chee’s special maneuvers, had revived her.

  She stopped fantasizing as she drew closer to her unit. The trunk lid was up, and snow had drifted inside. She jogged up to it, careful of her footing.

  The box Hoffman had entrusted to her was gone. She instinctively moved her hand to the gun in her holster, but the only sign of other humans was the soft light seeping through Merilee’s window shades into the December evening. The thief must have been in the vehicle she’d heard earlier.

  Looking more closely at the trunk, she saw that the latch had been jimmied. She walked to the driver’s-side door and tried it. Locked, just as she’d left it. The other door was locked, too, with no signs that someone had tried to get in.

  She unlocked the door, climbed inside, and radioed the incident to the local authorities. Then she called the Shiprock substation. The rookie answered the phone, sounding half asleep, but she gave him her location, told him about the theft and the damage to the unit, and said she’d send photos. The perpetrator had broken the latch. She shone her flashlight carefully around the interior of the trunk. Nothing except the pot had been taken.

  Then she asked about the roads.

  “It’s bad out there. No fatals, but three multi-vehicle accidents, one involving a truck hauling cattle. Messy. The state police and the highway department are looking at a long, cold night.”

  Bernie took pictures of the tire tracks of the vehicle that had parked next to where her patrol unit had slipped off the road, and of the footprints that led from the road to her unit’s back bumper and up to the street again. She removed the binder, found wire in the trunk, and fastened the lid well enough to get her back to Shiprock.

  Doing something took the edge off her anger and the feeling of violation.

  The burglary puzzled her; she knew it wasn’t random. Why break into the locked trunk of a police car during a blizzard? Someone knew about the box Hoffman had given her. That person also knew her location, and wanted the pot badly enough to brave the storm.

  She could think of only three people who fit that description: Merilee, the intended recipient, who’d been in the house with Franklin at the time of the theft; Hoffman himself, who was probably still hospitalized; and Officer Manzanares, who had asked about the box and told her it was filled with drugs.

  Bernie remembered where she’d heard the bird call before: on Merilee’s phone, during her first visit, when the ringtone interrupted their interview. Merilee had disappeared into the back of the house a short while later, allegedly for an aspirin, and then Bernie had overheard one side of a heated conversation. And this time, after she heard the bird call, someone had shown up to break into her unit.

  It was past time for a talk. She grabbed Franklin’s shirt, charged back to the porch, stomped the snow off her boots, and opened the door to Merilee’s house.

  21

  A wave of warm air with a hint of chocolate greeted Bernie. Her hostess and suspect, seated at the kitchen counter with a mug in her hands, looked up. “What were you doing outside? It’s really cold out there.”

  “Someone broke into my unit.” Bernie watched for Merilee’s reaction, noted her lack of surprise, and continued. “I went out to get the pot and Franklin’s shirt, and the trunk was wide open.”

  “Wow. Are you sure you didn’t leave it that way? You looked really tired when you came in.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “That’s awful.” Merilee put her mug on the counter. “Is anything missing?”

  “Yes. The box Hoffman asked me to bring to you.”

  “Oh dear. Did the break-in do much damage to the car?”

  “Some. I took photos.”

  “I imagine this weather has all the police out dealing with accidents tonight anyway. An auto burglary probably wouldn’t have priority.” Merilee picked up the mug and moved it toward her lips.

  Bernie spread the damp shirt over the seat of a kitchen stool. “This might get more attention than you think. One of the state police officers, a man you know, might be involved.”

  “Manzanares, right?”

  Bernie sat down at the counter next to her. “Right. I was puzzled when you asked if he was at the accident site when Hoffman had me call you. When I said no, you hung up on me. Shortly after that, he arrived.”

  “Oh, did I? Sorry. I was so worried about Larry. I didn’t mean—”

  Bernie gave her the shut-up-now look she had cultivated for drunks who tried to flirt their way out of getting arrested. Merilee stopped talking and sat up a bit straighter. “Manzanares hates me. He thinks I killed his cousin—my ex, you know. He thinks I killed Roger myself, or had him killed, and got away with it. He hounds me. Torments me. He’s awful.”

  “Have you reported him?”

  She shook her head. “He’s careful about all this. And law enforcement is a closed circle, a boys’ club. You know that. And I’m a triple outsider—a woman, a Navajo, and I didn’t grow up here.”

  “Well, he messed up this time. I have pictures of his footprints and the tire tracks. And you’ll vouch that the box was in my trunk.”

  Merilee shook her head. “I’m sure you had it if you say you did. But I never saw it. I can’t swear to that.”

  “You’re afraid of him. So scared you can’t tell the truth.”

  Merilee stared at the countertop for several long minutes. When she looked up, Bernie saw her tears. “How about some more coffee? I’ve got decaf.” She opened the drawer and pulled out a couple of pods.

  Merilee slipped a pod into the machine, but didn’t turn it on.

  “Why would Manzanares think you’d kill his cousin?”

  “You’ll have to ask him. Ask him why I’d go to all the trouble of hiring a lawyer and starting divorce proceedings against Roger if I were going to kill the scumbag.”

  “I heard he wanted to divorce you.”

  “Toward the end, our animosity was mutual and far-reaching. But Roger wasn’t murdered. He drowned in a boating accident at Navajo Lake. Manzanares knew our marriage was rocky. He even asked me out, but I told him no. After that, he had it in for me. He was part of the investigation, and the drowning gave him a reason to get back at me, especially when I didn’t want an autopsy.”

  “You know that decision made you look suspicious.”

  “I knew. I didn’t care.” Merilee’s voice flared with anger. “Even though we were ending our marriage, I didn’t want his body violated. Would you? But they did it anyway. They told me they found alcohol and also something they called ‘unknown substances’ in his body. I’m sure those were herbs we were taking for allergies. I used dried leaves from the brugs to make a little weak tea for both of us. No, I didn’t kill my husband, but I wasn’t sorry when he died.”

  Merilee stood, and walked with her cup to the sink. “I have to work in the morning, assuming the roads are open so my clients can get here to talk about their problems. I need to get to bed. Let me show you where you can sleep.”

  “I don’t plan on spending the night. I’ll just stay until the tow truck comes.”

  Merilee shrugged. “Suit yourself, then.”

  “I’ve got a couple more questions. Manzanares thought the box might be full of drugs. Was it?”

  “How would I know?” Merilee put both hands on the counter and leaned toward Bernie. “I think you’re right about Manzanares being behind this. I can picture him driving over here to steal my pot out of sheer meanness.”

  “How did he know I’d be here?”

  “Maybe he’s stalking me, saw your car, and went crazy.”

  “Maybe he called you when you had the music up loud and I was on the phone with my husband.”

  Merilee stared at her hands. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
>
  “Why did Larry Hoffman have your pot?”

  Merilee looked up. “Things have been tight financially for me ever since Roger died. I left it on consignment, hoping some tourist might come into the monument shop and be interested.”

  “How did you get that pot?”

  “Roger gave it to me as a wedding present.”

  “Did he say where it came from?”

  “Not exactly. He said he bought it from a collector.”

  “Did he tell you who?” Bernie thought she knew the answer.

  “No. I didn’t ask.”

  “But you think he got it from Manzanares, and that Manzanares acquired it illegally. And now he’s stolen it to cover his tracks.”

  Merilee nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Roger was handsome as a fat coyote, and as deceitful, too. After he died, Manzanares asked me to give the pot to him as a reminder of Roger. Enough for tonight.”

  “Not quite. One more question. Why did you help him steal it?”

  Merilee shook her head. “I think the long day has affected your thinking. I can’t stand that man.”

  “But you called him to tell him I was here.”

  “I, I . . .” Merilee open both hand, extended her fingers as if she were giving up.

  “What kind of a pot is it?”

  “It was an old seed pot from Acoma Pueblo, with crosshatching and a parrot design.”

  Bernie knew the type. They had a tiny opening in the top to keep the start of next year’s crops stored safe from mice and other critters. Not a practical choice for hiding drugs.

  “I forgot to ask, how was Larry?”

  “Larry?”

  Bernie made a mental note of the stumble.

  “Oh, you mean in the hospital.” Merilee ran her index finger across her jaw line. “I, ah, didn’t get to talk to him. He was sleeping. I’m going to bed now, too. I’ll answer your questions in the morning. Based on the weather, none of us are leaving anytime soon.”