The Collector

by R. Allen Chappell

  No one spoke for a moment, causing Fred Smith to take the opportunity to interject, “One of our agents out of the Albuquerque office is a forensic accountant. He’s on his way out to the trading post this morning for a preliminary look at their records. If he finds anything out of the ordinary, now or later on, you will be one of the first to hear of it. I expect to learn more later this afternoon. In the meantime I can only suggest we not jump to conclusions; at least not until the facts are in.” He waved a hand in Carla’s direction. “Ms. Meyor intends to be around for several days yet and will keep you updated on any developments on her end of the investigation.”

  Charlie ran his tongue along his upper lip and raised a finger. “Just one other thing Fred. Do you or Carla have any reason to think Lucy’s safety should be a concern—in respect to Clifford Johnson’s note, that is? The trader obviously meant to make it clear he had some sort of concern in regard to Lucy, and possibly even meant his words as some kind of warning.”

  Fred Smith pursed his lips in thought then scratching the back of his head, spoke saying, “As I mentioned, Charlie, we are bending every effort to sort this thing out, and do have some of our best people on it…as you already have seen. There is, obviously, the question of why Lucy’s name was in Johnson’s mind at the time of his death. Was that meant to be a warning of some sort? Unfortunately, we’re unable to say at this time. I would, of course, advise ordinary caution going forward, but I’m not currently aware of anything to be overly concerned about in that regard. Again, we will keep you both posted.”

  Charlie nodded his understanding.

  Fred then turned his attention from the Investigator and directed a final remark to Lucy Tallwoman herself. “Should you recall anything…anything at all you feel might prove helpful…do not hesitate to call me personally regardless of the hour.” He passed her a card with his home number scrawled on the back. “Any time of the day…or night.” Then sitting back and smiling at them both, the agent wound up the meeting. “I hope this little get-together this morning has not overly inconvenienced either of you and would ask you both to keep anything you’ve heard or said here in the highest confidence.” As Fred rose from his seat, he reached across the table to shake hands with them both. “I thank you for coming and will most definitely be in touch.”

  Carla began gathering her papers but looked up for a moment. “Lucy, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I wonder if I might drop by your place in the next day or so. I’ve become fascinated by what I’ve learned of your work and would love to see it in progress…but only if you can find time of course…and just for a few minutes, I promise.” And then Carla too, after writing her number on the back of a card, passed it over to the weaver. “Nothing official you understand, just an honest interest in your work from a purely personal view, nothing more, I can assure you.”

  Lucy took the additional card, looked at it briefly, then nodded and said, “I’ll call you.” Later, in the truck, she showed Thomas the card and told him the woman seemed genuinely interested in her weaving.

  “Humph…” Thomas was instantly suspicious. “What did Charlie have to say about that?”

  “He said it was fine. He mentioned he has more confidence in Agent Smith than any of the past Agents in Charge here on the reservation. And then, too, Carla Meyor seems to have his respect. She does know an awful lot about my work. I think that’s interesting—who would have thought a woman in New York City would know so much about an ordinary person like me out here on the reservation.”

  Thomas gave his wife a sidelong glance and said in a firm voice, “You have never been ordinary,” then watched as she turned away with a dubious smile. “I noticed Charlie was still in the office when we left. I imagine he might let us know more later.” Thomas didn’t sound confidant that they would be made privy to much of that information.

  ~~~~~~

  Harley Ponyboy didn’t say much on their way to pick up the materials for the Yazzie’s new back porch. Charlie, too, was quiet, apparently deep in thought over the morning’s meeting.

  Harley frowned over at the investigator; it had already occurred to him there wouldn’t be time to see the horse this day. The disappointment caused the little man to look away finally, to concentrate on the dark line of clouds building to the Northwest—tall black thunderheads, towering thousands of feet above the western edge of the Colorado Plateau. At least there was the promise of rain. Later, coming out of the store, Harley felt a few drops. “Rain,” he murmured. “Rain, by God…rain.” It was a magical word for most in that country.

  Charlie, still lost in thought, appeared not to hear as they loaded up and pointed the truck back toward Waterflow and home. He still had not said more than a dozen words since they left the lumber company.

  Finally, Harley turned from the window and casually mentioned they would be lucky to get the tarpaper on the newly built roof of the back porch before the rain would be on them, assuming those thunderbirds held course in their flight south.

  Only then did Charlie seem to take notice of the fast approaching weather system, and with a backward glance at the clouds increased their speed. “What…? I guess I wasn’t paying attention.” Charlie again glanced in his rearview mirror and watched as the gathering storm sent a powerful gust of wind to scout its way south across the canyons. “I guess I’ve been so caught up in this thing with Lucy and the Johnson murder that I’m not paying attention to much of anything else.” He knew, of course, what Harley’s main concern was and turned to him with a smile. “I expect that horse will still be there in the morning, Harley. We’ll try to get by there a little earlier tomorrow.”

  Harley nodded back, obviously still unconvinced. Lucy Tallwoman’s problem might well delay their horse-trading beyond what his friend thought. Charlie was the only one with enough money to make any credible attempt at negotiating a trade. Harley did, however, know it would do no good to press the investigator. Charlie Yazzie was a stickler when it came to his job and generally gave full priority to whatever that might entail.

  As the others left Fred Smith’s office that morning, Billy Red Clay was called in after them, and still was in there as they left the building. Harley thought this curious but Billy, of course, was not prone to divulging secrets either. They stopped at the Co-op for the small roofing nails they’d forgotten in Farmington.

  Harley was still pondering what might have gone on in the meeting when they started up the Yazzie’s driveway and saw Billy’s cruiser in front of the house.

  Charlie came to a stop as the policeman, not making any other sign, got out and walked to the back of the truck to begin untying the building materials. Without a word, the three men began ferrying the items to the back of the house. Sue Yazzie came from the back door to check that the colored metal for the new porch matched that of the roof. She immediately noticed something was up with the three men.

  “I expected you back long before now,” she declared as she watched her husband from the corner of an eye hoping to catch some clue to the reason Billy Red Clay might be there. She thought it odd the young officer had been wrangled into helping with a building project when he was obviously still on duty…and he was wearing his good boots, too.

  Charlie turned to her. “There’s been a murder in town, and Lucy Tallwoman needed a little help at the FBI office.” Charlie didn’t say anything further and Sue could see he didn’t intend to either, at least not in front of the others. She put down the box of roofing nails and went directly into the house to call her closest friend.

  Billy Red Clay eased up next to Charlie and whispered, “Agent Smith let me in on what’s going on.” Thinking this half-truth might bring the investigator to expand on what else, if anything, he had been told by the FBI agent.

  “That’s good,” Charlie murmured, doubting Fred had said very much beyond what he himself had been told. He figured Billy would eventually be filled in…he was the Liaison Officer after all…something Billy often pointed out.

  Harley
watched from the other side of the truck and took some satisfaction in hearing Charlie as close-mouthed with the Navajo cop as he was with him.

  Sue returned to the porch just as the men were covering everything with a worn plastic tarp, in anticipation of the coming rain, she supposed. She stood a moment on the back steps arms folded, giving Charlie a final look; a look that let him know she wasn’t happy.

  “The kids are watching cartoons…I’ll be back,” and then as an afterthought, “There’s a stew in the refrigerator. Heat it up.” Her husband took this to mean she might not be back for a while.

  Harley Ponyboy nodded as she left and then turned to Charlie while pointing at the door. “I’ll just step inside with the kids and see what they’re watching…not all of those cartoons are fit for kids to watch these days, you know.” Harley loved cartoons.

  Billy Red Clay waited until they were alone, hoping the Legal Services Investigator would take advantage of this last chance to add something to what little he’d been told in Fred’s office.

  Charlie, clearly not intending to be forthcoming in that regard, thanked the policeman for the help and said he would get up with him first thing in the morning.

  Billy looked down for a moment and seeing his boots had once again gathered dust, wiped them clean on the back of his pant legs for the third time that day, and blurted out, “I’m telling you, Charlie, I’m the damn Liaison Officer down there now, and I deserve better than being shut out of everything.”

  Charlie silently nodded his agreement, then watched pensively as the policeman drove off in a huff. Billy really did deserve better, and as much as he liked Fred Smith, he thought he would have a word with him concerning the young officer when next they met. Men like Billy Red Clay don’t come along everyday…not out here on the reservation they don’t.

  As he sat the stew on the stove Charlie glanced through the open door to the living room. Harley Ponyboy and the two children sat wide-eyed at the antics of Wile E. Coyote and his nemesis, the wary and devilishly clever Roadrunner.

  Joseph Wiley Yazzie had somehow come to identify with the coyote and often cheered him on—much to the consternation of his adopted uncle who was well aware of coyote’s true nature.

  Joseph agonized over each new escapade and nourished the hope the outwitted and befuddled creature would eventually find a way to get even with the bird. He was unaware, that in his own culture, it was Coyote who would have the edge.

  Harley Ponyboy, for his part, couldn’t imagine the people who made these cartoons not understanding about Coyote. But then, Harley often was puzzled by the disparity between cartoon life and the real thing.

  Sue Yazzie, as the children’s mother, felt Harley’s influence—adopted uncle or no—was occasionally a little out of sync with the modern mores she and Charlie were trying to instill in their children. That aside, she knew Harley to be good-hearted and trustworthy, and knew he could always be counted on in time of need. The children could do worse for an uncle.

  When the phone rang the three watching television didn’t even look up.

  “Yazzie here.” Charlie took calls at home just as he would in the office, and when the caller identified himself, he relaxed. “Yes, Fred…?”

  Agent Smith didn’t bother with the usual niceties. “I just had a call from our people in New York. It looks like the Bureau may have another related case on its hands up there. Here again, there seems to be some pretty obvious ties to Lucy Tallwoman.” The agent didn’t wait for Charlie to catch up. “One of Lucy’s most ardent collectors was found beaten senseless last evening in his New York penthouse. He’s hospitalized and still unconscious at last report. The housekeeper who happened to be out at the time, said one of Lucy’s wall hangings was pulled away from the wall only the label on the back was missing. That’s one of the few clues they have going for them right now. It’s not your average home invasion, that’s for sure.”

  Charlie finally interrupted the agent, “Is the man expected to recover?”

  “They think so, but he’s quite elderly and that could have a bearing.” The Federal Agent paused for emphasis “There’s no indication who might be involved at this point. I’ve already contacted the Begays and advised a bit more caution might be warranted, at least until the killer of Clifford Johnson is found. There may well be more than one person involved and, while it’s possible our killer could still be in the area, I somehow doubt it. This doesn’t have the earmarks of a random act or one perpetrated by a local. Johnson’s wife said nothing was missing as far as she could tell and there was no evidence of any serious kind of search being made.” The agent paused, but not long enough for Charlie to interject a comment. “I’m still waiting to hear from our Santa Fe office, they’ve been talking to various galleries up there to see if any of Lucy’s work is scattered around the tonier establishments.” Fred finally paused to catch his breath waiting in silence, thinking he might have been cut off… “Charlie?”

  The Investigator, bombarded with more information than he could process, was suddenly at a loss for words, rare indeed for Charlie Yazzie. “I can’t imagine Lucy Tallwoman being the cause of all this. It just doesn’t seem possible. I wouldn’t have thought her known outside the reservation.”

  “Well, apparently, she is. And there are several high-dollar players scrambling to lay hands on her work.” Fred Smith seemed to have something else in the back of his mind and that, too, worried the investigator.

  Charlie let his gaze wander through the door to the living room—to Harley and the kids watching television. Wile E. Coyote was once again in trouble, hanging at the edge of a cliff with a lop-eared, hopeless look in his bloodshot eyes. Joseph Wiley had a hand to his mouth wide-eyed and certain this time the jig was finally up for the conniving canine.

  “Charlie, there is one other thing… Charlie?”

  “Yeah Fred, I’m here. I figured there might be something else…”

  “A number of years ago, when I was first posted to the Albuquerque office, there was a fairly well-known southwestern artist out of Taos whose work suddenly began to attract an inordinate amount of interest—and out of the blue began racking up impressive sales—far beyond what his work usually brought. When the artist later died a rather mysterious death local law enforcement was baffled. The Bureau was called in to do the forensics and though it could not be proven back then, there was a very strong suspicion he was poisoned. In less than six months all his work skyrocketed in value. Like a stock bolstered by insider trading.”

  “You’re saying he was deliberately killed to increase the value of his paintings.”

  “Art is like oil, Charlie, or any other commodity for that matter; when the supply is limited or the source no longer exists, the price goes up.” Smith paused. “A young and inexperienced investigator posed that theory to his superiors at the time, but as I said, nothing could be proven. Nearly ten years later, the artist’s wife, on her deathbed, admitted she’d gradually poisoned the man. She died a very rich woman”

  “What brought this to mind, Fred?”

  There was a slight pause as the Federal Agent cleared his throat. “I was the inexperienced agent who posed the theory, Charlie. But no one ever saw fit to mention my report outlining those suspicions…so I’m mentioning it now.”

  “You don’t mean to suggest this could be the reason behind the Johnson murder do you? Surely you aren’t serious.”

  “The operative word there would be suggested. It’s just something to keep in mind going forward. It might well be as far-fetched as some thought the first time I offered it. But I’ve covered a lot of ground since then and have, for damn sure, seen stranger things in this business.”

  Charlie thought about it, but was forced to conclude the operative word might better be far-fetched. Still, out of a sense of propriety and personal friendship for the agent, Charlie didn’t say so. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, Fred…but I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Me, too, Charlie…me too.”


  As the investigator put supper on the table he looked and saw the cartoon was ending. He called that it was time to eat. Amid loud protests the television shut down. If there was one thing Harley Ponyboy liked better than cartoons, it was eating.

  The Factor

  Percival Vermeer was old money and in New York old money has its privileges. With that as a given, there were certain standards even Percy was compelled to adhere to. The scion of an old and well-embedded financial family, his people dated back to the days when “Wall Street” referred to an actual wooden wall, built by the Dutch to repel Indian attacks…and others. In Percy’s strata of society, it didn’t hurt that his lineage was rumored to include the famous Dutch painter, Johannes Vermeer, whose self-portrait was said to bear an uncanny likeness to Percy himself. Though the painting’s authenticity was never verified that did not prevent it being hung in the great hall of the Vermeer’s Hampton estate.

  As a family, the Vermeer clan had long been blessed with an intuitive understanding of human nature, including its nearly universal propensity toward greed. Percy, in particular, seemed willing to take advantage of that particular failing in all its many forms. People who could afford to avoid the man (and there weren’t many) preferred doing so, on both a business, and social level.

  One of Percy’s peculiarities, strange as it seemed even to those close to him, was the pursuit and acquisition of American Indian antiquities. This unlikely interest eventually evolved into a near passion for traditional Navajo weavings and it was not long until he was the acknowledged motivating factor in that particular segment of the market. Percy was not in it for the money; he already had plenty of that. His obsessive-compulsive nature demanded he have the best. He was not only dedicated but was also ruthless in adding to his growing collection. His agents were everywhere—from the far reaches of isolated Southwestern trading posts, to exclusive New York galleries and auction houses.