The Tale Teller Read online

  When Leaphorn called the museum to speak with Mrs. Pinto to set up the meeting, he learned she was out of the office at a finance hearing for the rest of the day. And, since it was Friday, she wouldn’t be back until Monday.

  “Do you want to leave a message for her?” The receptionist sounded young and bored.

  “Ask her to call Joe Leaphorn. She has the number. Do you know what happened to the woman who collapsed outside?”

  “You mean Tiffany? I haven’t heard anything about her. Mrs. Pinto gave her the rest of the day off.”

  2

  July at the Shiprock flea market meant hot, even when you came early. Bernie watched Mama stroll from vendor to vendor, examining the merchandise as carefully as if she were actually going to buy something. Two years ago here, Mama had bought the big pot she used for stew after the old one cracked. That was her most recent purchase, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t look. Mama loved this Saturday ritual.

  Bernie had volunteered to make dessert that evening if Chee cooked dinner. She had found what she needed half an hour ago: sweet local peaches, the largest perhaps the size of a tennis ball. They were ripe, soft, and ready to put into a piecrust once she cut out the bird pecks. But Mama enjoyed chatting with the sellers, hearing about their families. Bernie noted with happiness that Mama felt so much stronger and also with a tinge of frustration. She held the fruit in a recycled plastic bag from Bashas’ and felt the sweat on her face as the Saturday morning grew warmer. She daydreamed about being someplace cool, like the shady bottom of Canyon de Chelly.

  “Daughter. Daughter!” Mama stood next to a man with his gray hair in braids and a red bandana around his forehead. “This is Mr. Natachi. He used to help me find the right sheep for the colors when I was weaving. His sister is our neighbor.”

  Bernie moved closer to the pair. The old man smiled at her. “I met you when you were a girl.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember.” He had been Mama’s neighbor, too, until about ten years ago when he moved away to live with a daughter. “It makes me happy to see you again, sir. They say you live in Chinle now. I was just thinking about Canyon de Chelly.”

  “My granddaughter works for senior services there. I help her when I can. She says an old man is a good thing to keep around until I start giving her too much advice.” He chuckled. “Now her boyfriend has left her, so she and I drove down here for a while.” He grew more serious. “Your mother tells me you are a police officer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, you see this bolo?” He raised his hand to his throat and touched the turquoise stone set in silver on the braided black leather cord finished with sterling tips. “Someone came into my house last month and made off with it.” Mr. Natachi filled in the details, unfolding the story of how his bolo tie disappeared with the unhurried pace of a person watching the morning turn to afternoon. “This is a good day. I found my tie just now at a booth over there, the one with the man in the straw hat.”

  Bernie knew that wasn’t the end of the story. She felt a line of sweat move down her neck and between her shoulder blades.

  “I told the man it was mine, that my uncle made it for me forty years ago. I told him someone took it from my bedroom. He wanted to argue, but I explained it would have the jeweler’s mark, a Y with a line at the bottom. I showed him the mark on the back, and then I asked him why he stole it. He said he didn’t steal it. He said he bought it from a man outside the Walmart in Gallup and that he didn’t know it was stolen.” Mr. Natachi paused. “I asked him who was that man? What did he look like?” When Mr. Natachi shrugged his shoulders, his braids moved. “The guy in the hat didn’t want to talk to me anymore. He told me to take my bolo. I think he was ashamed.”

  “Where is the booth that had it?”

  “Down the next row in the middle, over by the lady selling sage and medicine.”

  “What did the man look like?” Bernie knew “man in a straw hat” would not work as a defining description for a player in an operation fencing stolen property.

  “Oh, he’s young, about your age. Not too fat. About as tall as me. The man had a round face.” Mr. Natachi rubbed his chin. “Like a guy from Zuni or Hopi or somewhere like that.”

  She placed the seller’s height around six feet, age as early thirties. Possibly a Pueblo Indian. “What was he wearing besides the hat?”

  “Jeans, a red T-shirt with cigarettes in the front pocket, sneakers.” Mr. Natachi tapped the middle finger on his left hand. “A big ring here. It looked like Sleeping Beauty turquoise.”

  Bernie knew that flea markets could be places where people came to sell stolen property. She’d seen reports of a rash of break-ins in the Chinle area. If a thief wanted to dispose of hot items, moving away from the neighborhood where they had been stolen made sense. “I want to talk to this man.”

  “He was over that way,” Mr. Natachi pointed with his lips. “Next to the woman with the sage smudge sticks.”

  “I’ll take you,” Mama said. “I know right where that is.”

  Mr. Natachi shook his head. “That man is gone. I scared him away. He’s probably in Farmington by now. Or just set up along the road somewhere.” He put his hand up to his neck. “I am happy to have it.”

  “Please wait here, Mama. I’ll be right back.” Bernie trotted off in the direction Mr. Natachi indicated and found the herb lady and, next to her, an empty vending space. She talked to the woman and to the vendors on either side, and they confirmed that their flea market neighbor had packed up quickly. One said she thought his name was Eric; the other vendor referred to him as Steven.

  Bernie did a quick cruise of the market and saw no one who matched Straw Hat Man’s description. When she returned, Mr. Natachi was talking about his daughter and her husband, who were driving around the US in a truck with a camper shell. When his story was done, Mama turned to her. “You want to make a pie from those peaches. We should go before it gets too hot to turn on the oven.”

  Mr. Natachi said good-bye. “I hope you police find the man who had my bolo and the man who sold it to him. I think he told the truth about that.”

  Mama and Bernie stopped at a lemonade booth and took cups of it to the car. Mama seemed immune to the heat; Bernie wished, not for the first time, that the air-conditioning worked in her old Toyota. Usually when she opened the windows in New Mexico’s Four Corners country, the flow of air provided relief from the heat, especially in the morning. But not today. The summer rains were slow in coming this year, and the clouds that made afternoon shade had not yet arrived.

  Bernie drove Mama home to Toadlena. Her sister had turned on both fans and placed them strategically so that it was noticeably cooler in the house than outside. Darleen was barefoot, in shorts and a tank top, and had piled her long black hair in a makeshift bun on the top of her head. Bernie took the fruit to the kitchen while Mama told Darleen of their adventure. She gently emptied the peaches into a dishpan in the sink. Juice from the squashed fruit on the bottom filled the room with the sweet smell of summer. She washed them, then found a well-used cookie sheet in the cabinet and moved them there to dry and sort.

  Her sister came in to watch. “How was the flea market?”

  “Hot. Mama knew half the people she saw shopping.”

  “And you knew the rest. Did anything interesting happen?”

  “Yeah.” She told Darleen about Mr. Natachi and the bolo.

  “I thought he must be here. I saw the auntie drive by yesterday with an older gentleman next to her and someone who looked a lot like Ryana in the back seat. I’ll have to go down and say hello. I haven’t seen that girl for years.” Darleen smiled. “You think she’s still pretty, or did she get fat?”

  “I think she’d be gorgeous fat or thin. Just like you, Sister.”

  Darleen laughed. “Right. And especially in this outfit.”

  Bernie began to select the peaches she’d use for the pie, putting them back in the bag. She talked as she worked.

  “I wish you had
come with us. There was a man selling photographs. It made me think that you could sell your drawings there. And you could do portraits, too.”

  “Did you actually see anyone buy a photo?” She didn’t wait for Bernie’s response. “Who wants photos when everyone who has a phone can take their own?”

  “I just mentioned it because I know you need to make some money. Don’t be negative.”

  “I could sit there in the heat all day watching people walk by looking for cheap socks and T-shirts. I’d rather sit here.” Darleen filled a glass with cold water. “You want some?”

  Bernie shook her head. “Do we have a Coke?”

  “You drank the last one a couple days ago. Those things aren’t good for you. Too sweet.” Her little sister looked at the peaches and grabbed one. “But that doesn’t apply to peaches, of course. All natural.”

  “I’ve left some here for you and Mama. I’m making a pie. Speaking of sweet, my husband is cooking dinner. I volunteered for dessert.”

  “How is the Cheeseburger?”

  “Fine. He’s off work today.”

  Now that Mama didn’t require her walker, she moved so quietly her daughters didn’t realize she was there. She went to the refrigerator, took out a jug of sun tea, filled two glasses, added several spoonfuls of sugar to one, and handed it to Bernie. “No Cokes, but you try this. You still look hot.” She took the other one. “I’m going to rest a minute before I go next door. Mrs. Darkwater wants me to help her sort through some clothes for her son.”

  Bernie took the cool glass and joined Darleen on the couch. “Mama seems good today.”

  Darleen agreed. “Ever since the doctor took her off that medicine, she feels fine. Even her memory has improved. She still moves slowly, but she’s so much stronger. If I had a job, I could go to work and not even worry about her. Now that she’s better, she doesn’t need me much except to drive and lift the heavy stuff. And to have someone to boss around.”

  “What’s new with your job hunt?” Darleen had been looking for paid work all summer, or so she said.

  “Nothing. It stinks.”

  “I can let you know if I hear of anything.”

  Darleen hesitated. “Sure, but nothing to do with cops.”

  “Why not?”

  “You and the Cheeseburger have that covered. It’s probably too late to get a job anyway if I’m going to quit to go back to school. But how can I go to school if I don’t have any money?”

  Bernie had already talked to her sister about scholarships, grants, special programs to help students like Darleen. None of her suggestions or advice resonated enough to get her sister moving. Darleen excelled in procrastination. “You could offer to give people rides, pick up groceries for them, things like that. Try my idea about selling some of your drawings at the flea market. Or doing quick portraits, you know, caricatures.”

  “I don’t know how to get a booth and I couldn’t afford it anyway.”

  “I’m sure Mama has ties to someone who would let you share a space. Or you could explore that ride idea.”

  “Right. The rez Uber. I can see it now.” Darleen lowered the pitch of her voice. “‘Good afternoon, customer. I’m your driver, but you have to roll down the window to open the passenger door. And leave it down because there’s no air-conditioning. Or I’ll get out and you can scoot in under the steering wheel. If you want to put something in the trunk, just let me know so I can take off the wire that’s holding it shut.’”

  Bernie laughed. “OK. My bad.”

  The phone rang, and Darleen rose to answer. “Hello.” Then, “No, this is her daughter.” Then, “No, the other one.” And, “Yes, sir. Thank you. I’ll get her. Just a minute.”

  Darleen put the phone on the counter and strode down the hall to Mama’s room. “It’s for you.”

  The phone hung on the kitchen wall. Bernie made a note to ask Mama, again, about getting the kind of phones that worked on batteries, where she could have several, including an extension in the bedroom instead of this museum piece with a long cord.

  “Hello.” Mama listened; then she said, “Oh, she’s here now. Come over.” Then, after some silence, Bernie heard Mama give the person on the phone her and Chee’s home number and end the call.

  “Nice peaches, daughter. Are they sweet?”

  Bernie nodded. “I heard you saying my phone number. Anything I should know?”

  “Oh, that was Mr. Natachi. He said his granddaughter, Ryana, needs to talk to you. Remember her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told them to come on over now, but he said she’ll call you later. I remembered something after I gave that man your phone number. This is your day off from being a policewoman. I will call back and tell him not to let her bother you today.”

  “It’s OK.”

  “No. You work too hard. Unlike your sister.”

  Bernie hated it when Mama compared them. “I barely remember Ryana. She hung out with Darleen. Why does she want to talk to me?”

  “About the bolo. That’s all I know.”

  Mama saw Darleen relaxing on the couch. “Daughter, you should do something, not sit like a lazy woman. You can get rid of those sticker bushes by the front door.”

  Darleen turned off the TV. “It’s too hot now, Mama. I’d die out there, not that anyone would miss me.”

  Bernie waited for Mama to say something, but her mother turned her attention back to the fruit. Mama picked out a soft peach and took a bite. Bernie saw her smile. “I’ll take some to Mrs. Darkwater.”

  After Mama left for the Darkwater house, Bernie spoke to Darleen. “I’m heading out.”

  “Catch you later. After I do the gardening.” Darleen did not sound happy.

  “Good luck finding a job.”

  Silence.

  “Keep your chin up, Sister. You know Mama and I would miss you every day if you weren’t here.”

  “Whatever.”

  “No. I mean it. Mama says what she thinks and then she moves on. You realize—”

  Darleen interrupted. “I know. Don’t lecture me. I have a plan for making some money. I’ll buy you a Coke if it works out.”

  Bernie had parked in the shade with the windows open, and the car was cooler than she had expected. She thought about Darleen as she drove away. She should have asked if she had any new drawings and if she’d heard from CS, her sometimes boyfriend, or from any of her friends. She worried about her sister’s blue mood and knew that depression could be a trigger for someone to resume drinking, and drinking made depression worse, which led to more drinking.

  She focused on the drive. She and her husband had promised each other they would relax today, just the two of them. He’d offered to make his famous pork chops on the grill. It would be nice to be together without an agenda.

  She expected to find him home when she got there, but she didn’t see his truck. When she opened the door to their trailer, she noticed the note he’d left for her on the kitchen table.

  Hi. Largo called me in. Home by 5, I hope.

  The news darkened her mood momentarily, like a cloud drifting past the sun. She put the peaches on the counter and called the station with a description of the man attempting to sell stolen property. Then she reconsidered the plan for the afternoon. It was rare that she had time to herself, and her brain flooded with undone tasks and then, unavoidably, circled back to Chee. Wilson Sam, the rookie, usually got the Saturday assignments. Whatever had called her husband to work on his day off, she hoped it was interesting. Maybe even connected to Mr. Natachi and his bolo. The thought inspired her to call Chee, and she heard his cell phone ringing in the charger in the bedroom.

  She washed her hands and got out the butter, flour, salt, and a mixing bowl and combined the ingredients to form the ball of dough that would ultimately become a piecrust. She covered the bowl and put the dough in the refrigerator to chill for an hour. She took the book she was reading outside to the deck. Nearby cottonwoods shaded a corner, and she moved her chair there. It
was warm, but cooler than inside.

  She noticed the bag of charcoal and envisioned the meaty pork chops to go with the pie. And, of course, Chee would make a salad and she would eat some rather than hurt his feelings. She leaned back in her chair, listening to the liquid music of the San Juan as it flowed between the cottonwood trees. Life was good.

  She had just finished a chapter when the phone jarred her. Reluctantly, she went inside. The Lieutenant, Captain Largo, and Mama were the most frequent users of that line.

  “Hello?”

  “Ah, hello. Is this Bernie, uhm, I mean Officer Manuelito?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Mr. Natachi’s granddaughter, Ryana. We’ve met at my auntie’s place, but you probably don’t remember me. Anyway, my shicheii said that he mentioned something about his bolo being stolen, and, well, I wanted to say that it’s nothing for the police to worry about. He’s an old man and he just forgets where he puts things. He was wearing that bolo when he left the house this morning. I’m sorry if he caused you any trouble.”

  The young woman sounded nervous, Bernie thought. Was it because she was uncomfortable talking to a police officer? Or just not a good liar? “I enjoyed chatting with your grandfather. I’ve dealt with elders who have had some memory problems. Except for his gray hair, your grandfather doesn’t remind me of those folks in the slightest.”

  Ryana sounded more assertive now. “You don’t need to get involved. He just forgets where he puts things. I’m telling you not to worry about what he said. OK?”

  “No. The fact that your grandfather’s burglary was in Chinle and he identified a man with his stolen item here in Shiprock raises a bunch of questions.”

  The woman’s voice grew softer. “We don’t want the police involved. My shicheii doesn’t remember some things so well now. Please don’t embarrass him.”