"The students liked him?" Leaphorn asked.
She nodded. "Everybody liked him. He wasn't a Catholic, you know, but I think he was a saint. Everybody loved him."
"Not quite everybody," Streib said. "Do you have any idea who didn't?"
"I really don't," she said. "And I've thought about it, and thought about it, but I just don't."
She tapped the list Lieutenant Toddy had given them with a plump finger. "I thought you thought somebody killed him to steal this stuff."
"Maybe that was it," Leaphorn said. "But we used to think maybe he was killed over a woman."
"Well," Mrs. Montoya said. "It wouldn't be that."
"You sound sure of that," Leaphorn said.
Mrs. Montoya looked flustered.
"Could you tell us something that might bear on who killed Eric Dorsey?" Streib asked. "If you can, it's your duty to tell us."
"I talk too much," Mrs. Montoya said. "I gossip. I shouldn't gossip about the dead."
"My mother used to say the only thing gossip can't hurt is live sheep or dead people,"
Leaphorn said. "Maybe it would help us find who killed the man."
"You sounded awful sure no woman was involved. Is there some reason for that?" Streib asked.
"Well," Mrs. Montoya said. She moved a letter from the out-basket back into the in-basket, and then reversed the process. She looked around the tiny, cluttered office, searching for something to guide her. "Well," she repeated, "I think maybe Mr. Dorsey was gay."
Dilly Streib, who had been looking only moderately interested, now looked extremely interested.
"Homosexual?"
She shrugged. "That's what people thought."
"Was Eugene Ahkeah his boyfriend?"
Mrs. Montoya looked shocked. "Of course not," she said.
"You sound like you know," Streib said.
"Well, Gene had a wife." She laughed.
"Once, anyway. And maybe a couple of girlfriends, too. I know Eugene isn't gay."
Leaphorn became aware that he was tired. Streib had occupied the only visitor chair.
Leaphorn leaned a hip against Mrs. Montoya's filing cabinet. It had been a long day. He cleared his throat.
"Do you know if Mr. Dorsey had a boyfriend?"
"No. I don't think so. Not here, anyway. Maybe back where he came from."
Back where he came from, if the report Streib had showed him was correct, was Fort Worth, Texas. Eric Dorsey, laboratory equipment maintenance technician, Texas Christian University, single, next of kin: Mr. and Mrs. Robert Dorsey, Springfield, Illinois. Cause of death: Blow to base of the skull.
"Maybe you could help with something that puzzled me," Leaphorn said. "The investigating officer's report showed he had an envelope full of gasoline credit card receipts in his room. Several hundred gallons. All bought at the station here at Thoreau, so he wasn't going very far. You have any ideas where he was going?"
Mrs. Montoya looked surprised. "No," she said. "He was usually around here. He had an old Chevy but…" A sudden thought interrupted the sentence. "Oh," she said. "You know what I'll bet? I'll bet he paid for the gas for the water truck. He drove that on weekends.
That's when we did the deliveries. That would be just like him. Father Haines would know."
"Water truck?" Streib asked.
"He taught during the weekdays, and drove the bus. But on weekends and some evenings he drove the water truck. Took water and food out to the Hogan’s. Hard to get water a lot of places out here so people haul it in. But people get old, or they get sick, or their pickup breaks down and they don't have any way."
"That sure made for a long work week," Streib said.
Mrs. Montoya thought she detected skepticism. Her smile went away.
"Yes," she said. "You don't leave your job and come out here and live in an old mobile home for that three hundred dollars a month Father pays you if you don't want to work."
"Is that what Dorsey was making?" Leaphorn asked. "Three hundred a month?"
"And he brought his own truck. And you have to pay for your own food out of it, of course."
She stared at Streib. "And he paid for the gas, too, I guess. Out of his own pocket."
"Sounds like a rich guy," Streib said. "You know anything about his family?"
"I don't think he was rich. He told me once that his dad had retired from the fire department."
"Couple more questions," Streib said. "The first one is, Why do you think he was homosexual if he didn't have any boyfriends?"
"I think he told Father Haines he was," she said. "Ask Father."
Streib frowned. "I want to come back to that, but the second question is, Why don't you think he had a boyfriend?"
Mrs. Montoya shrugged her plump shoulders. "How big is Thoreau?" she asked. "If anybody has a boyfriend on Tuesday, or a girlfriend, or anything else, then everybody knows it by Wednesday."
Streib nodded. "If Father Haines knew, wouldn't he have a problem having a homosexual teaching these kids?"
Mrs. Montoya's expression, which had shifted from friendly to bleak a few moments earlier, now turned wintry.
"I can't speak for the Father," she said. "But I know him pretty well. I'd say he'd have exactly the same problem with a gay fooling around with the students as he'd have with a heterosexual fooling with the students. He keeps an eye on that sort of thing."
"It wasn't happening?" Streib asked.
"It was not," she said.
Back in the car, Streib summed up their progress for the day. "Nothing," he said. "Nada.
Except maybe we can rule out an indignant husband. We seem to be dealing here with a man beloved by all—the wrongful death of a chaste and saintly homosexual clown."
Leaphorn didn't comment on that. He was thinking that Francis Sayesva, in his role as koshare for his people, was also a sacred clown.
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6
JANET WAS WEARING a blue skirt, a white shirt that looked to Jim Chee's unpracticed eye like some sort of silk, and a little jacket that matched the skirt. The total effect was to make Miss Pete look chic, sophisticated, and beautiful. All of this caused in Chee strong but ambiguous feelings—on the one hand a soaring joy at the beauty of this young woman, and on the other a leaden sense of doubt that she would ever, ever, ever settle for him. She slid into the booth with the autumn sunlight reflecting through her glossy black hair.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, dazzling him with a rueful smile. She looked at her watch. So did Chee. It looked expensive. A gift, he guessed, from the lawyer she had worked with in Washington. And lived with and, presumably, loved. Being the token redskin, as she had told him herself, in the Washington, D.C., firm of Dalman, MacArthur, White, and Hertzog.
"Eight minutes late," she said. "In Washington, I could blame it on the traffic. In Window Rock, no traffic to blame it on, so that won't work."
"Eight minutes you don't mention," Chee said. "You have to be a lot later than that to claim you're working on Navajo time." He noticed that his voice sounded perfectly natural.
"I have an excuse, though. The phone rang just as I was leaving. It was Roger Applebee.
He's staying at the inn here. You remember me telling you about him."
"Sure," Chee said. "The Nature First guy. I'd like to talk to him. We got a glimpse of him there at Tano. What's he doing in Window Rock?"
"What everybody's doing in Window Rock," she said. "He's lobbying." She gestured around the room. The tables in the coffee shop of the Navajo Nation Inn were crowded with Navajos in their best boots and silver and with white men in dark business suits.
"When the Tribal Council's in session it draws the lawyers like, like—" She searched for the proper simile.
"I'd say like a dead sheep draws crows."
Chee said. "But since you're a lawyer yourself, I guess I won't."
"How about like honey draws bears," she said. "That sounds nicer. By the way,
Roger told me he saw your letter in the Times. He liked it. He said he thought it was the best way to attack it."
Chee found himself reacting as he did too often to praise from Janet Pete.
Embarrassment. "Did you do some of that when you worked in Washington? Lobby, I mean."
"Not much," Janet said. "One branch of the firm sort of specialized in representing tribes, and fights over tribal water rights. That sort of thing. All sorts of disagreements involving Indian affairs." She laughed. "Need I say we were on whatever side of the affair had the money to spend. But mostly I just did research and paperwork. They only sent me over to lobby for something when they needed a real Indian to look good for a liberal congressman."
"You would have looked good to me," Chee said. "I like real Indian ladies."
She smiled at him. "I try to look good," she said. "How do you like this new shirt?"
Chee inspected it, trying not to stare at the curve of her breasts too obviously and to think of exactly the right thing to say. He rejected two ideas as inappropriate, and decided on
"wonderful." But before he could say it, a big voice just behind him said: Hey, Janet. I wondered if I'd run into you. Someone said you'd come back out here."
"Hello, Ed," Janet said, in a carefully neutral voice. "How are you?"
Ed was standing beside their table now, looking down at them. "Just fine," he said.
"Maybe getting a little old for all this traveling. How about you, though? You're looking good."
"Jim," Janet said. "This is Ed Zeck. Ed Zeck, Jim Chee. Ed's one of the associates in Dalman and so forth. He runs the Santa Fe operation. He's sort of an expert on Pueblo water rights, and lands claims, and things like that. That made him one of my multitude of bosses. And Mr. Chee is an officer of the Navajo Tribal Police."
"Don't get up," Zeck said to Chee. He offered his hand and Chee shook it. He was a big man, over six feet tall, Chee guessed, and broad, with a round, friendly face and a receding hairline. His eyes were blue, made to look even lighter than they were by his dark, suntanned complexion. Those eyes were now studying Chee, full of thought. Chee's instant impression was of power, self-confidence, and the easygoing nature with which power and self-confidence seemed to endow some white men.
"I hope I'm not intruding here," Zeck said to Chee. "But if you're arresting Janet, reading her rights before you take her in, maybe I can get a job representing her."
"We're just talking," Chee said, wishing he had said something witty and hoping that Janet wouldn't invite this man to join them. Nothing against Zeck, just that he didn't want Janet distracted.
"Jim Chee," Zeck said. "I seem to connect that name to a letter in the Navajo Times. Am I right? Same Jim Chee?"
"Same Chee."
Zeck's expression was less friendly. "I didn't realize the writer was a tribal policeman,"
Zeck said. "Wasn't that pretty political for a policeman?"
"We don't sign away our First Amendment rights," Chee said. He wasn't quite sure how to handle this so he laughed and said, "It was just another way to defend the people from the bad guys."
And then he sat there feeling foolish, conscious of how pompous that must have sounded.
"The bad guys in this case being Ed's client," Janet said. "Is that correct, Ed? Is the firm handling Continental Collectors these days?"
"That's us," Zeck said. "Working as always to bring a little economic development where it's needed."
"Are you staying at the Navajo Nation Inn?" Janet asked, obviously eager to change the subject. "I'd like to call you and catch up on old times. What's the conventional wisdom on the Hill? Who is double-crossing whom with the new bunch in the White House? All the gossip."
"Wonderful," Zeck said. "Even though all the gossip doesn't leak down to Santa Fe." He fished his room key from his pocket, inspected it. "Two-seventeen," he said. "I'm having dinner with a couple of council members tonight, but I'll be in after that."
"What else are you pushing with the tribe?" Janet said. "Does the firm still represent Peabody Coal?"
"We lost 'em," Zeck said. "I'm here this time solely as counsel for Continental Collectors Corporation. They're lining up the paperwork to use an old strip mine over in New Mexico as a waste disposal site. Hire a hundred or so local folks at about eighteen dollars an hour to handle the machinery. Cause a big reduction in the unemployment rate. Put a big influx of property tax money into the school funds. And, after it fills up in about a hundred years, get that old hole in the ground reclaimed under a thick layer of top-soil so grass will grow on it. Mr. Chee here can tell you all about it."
"Yes," Janet said. "It sounds great if you like a garbage landfill in your backyard."
"You know anything that could be helpful?" Zeck asked. He glanced down at Chee and then back at Janet. "I think we might need a legal consultant here."
"I'm working for the Navajo Nation," Janet said. "I'm not for—" She paused, picking the word. "—for hire," she concluded.
"It would be a great way to represent the tribe," Zeck said. "I know it's mostly on Tano land, not on the reservation, but the rail spurs cross some Checkerboard land so it'd be worth something to have the Council for it."
"I've heard it would be a toxic waste dump," Chee said. "Chemicals. Maybe radioactive stuff. Why don't you store it there at Santa Fe? Or in Connecticut. Or Maryland.
Someplace near your own backyard."
Zeck smiled down at him. "I bet you know the answer to that. It would cost too much money. They don't have a big, empty open pit mine back there in Connecticut with the roads and railroad tracks already built."
"And nonunion labor," Janet said.
Zeck transferred his smile to her. "That, too," he said. "Labor is cheaper out here. I'll bet you've noticed that yourself."
"I took a pay cut," she said. "But it costs a person less to live out here. Costs less than Washington I mean. And I'm not talking about money."
Zeck's smile widened. "Janet," he said, "you haven't lost your sting, have you? But have you become a tree hugger? Or, as we call them in dilettante Santa Fe, a fern fondler?"
She didn't answer because another voice from behind Chee was saying, "Aha, Miss Pete.
I have caught you consorting with the enemy."
"Here comes the man from Nature First," Zeck said. "Hello, Roger. How are you?"
"Fine," the man said. "How about you?"
"I think Janet and I are both losing it. We're arguing, and we're both lawyers, and lawyers don't argue without getting paid for it. With that I have to leave you."
So did the man from Nature First. "I'll be right back," he said to Janet. "I want to tell the waitress not to hold that table for me."
Zeck looked after him, then down at Janet. "Well," he said, "I think you already have a luncheon conference. Or is it a consultancy?" He chuckled. "I'll see you later."
"He's not joining us, is he?" Chee asked. "That second guy?"
"That's Applebee. I guess he's out here working the other side—trying to stop the waste dump. You said you'd like to talk to him," Janet said. "Here's your chance. He wanted to see me, so I asked him to join us."
"Oh." He'd intended it to sound neutral, but it came out disappointed.
Janet looked up at him. "I guess I could have gotten out of it. I could still meet him later.
But he'll want to talk about the waste dump and you're interested in that. Or I thought you were."
"That's okay," Chee said. "Sure I am."
"Did you want to talk to me privately? You know. Not just for a chat?"
Chee managed a grin. "Always," he said. "I want your undivided attention. Just you and me. We just shut out the world."
She grinned back at him. "Getting romantic? You must be running out of girlfriends. Or is it just the season? That time of year?"
"You're thinking of spring," Chee said. "This is autumn. That's the time to be serious."
Janet's small grin developed into a laugh. Clearly she didn't think Chee was se
rious. "So, go ahead," she said. "Be serious. And with this buildup, it better be good."
Chee, who had sipped two-thirds of his coffee while waiting, finished the rest of it. What did he want to say? Come live with me and be my love, he'd say. I think of you when I'm trying to go to sleep. I think of you when I'm awake. I dream of you. I— And, thinking of nothing appropriate to say, he just looked at her.
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