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  Since Bernie enjoyed botany, she understood that successful poaching involved more than simply heading into the desert with a shovel. Many cacti looked similar. Some needed time for exposed roots to harden before they could be replanted. Most, like Sclerocactus mesae-verde, didn’t transplant well. To make top money, the seller also needed a buyer who appreciated the rarity of the species as well as its beauty.

  Miller had told her he made a living as a contractor. Wheeler had said the man also did landscaping, so the idea of his moonlighting as a cactus thief had some legs. Bernie found her list of numbers from his phone and printed it for Sandra to check. Perhaps some of the contacts were cactus customers. She remembered Miller saying that he loved the desert.

  Then she argued against her theory. Miller struck her as a wheeler-dealer and a man in a hurry. Would those little plants have sold for more than $500? It seemed unlikely. She went back to “just a coincidence,” but that didn’t sit right either.

  She sent Leaphorn a thank-you and asked if he could find out anything about the market value of the cacti. Then she had another thought. Maybe Aaron had been in on the deal, digging up the plants for Miller to sell. But it wasn’t Aaron’s number in Miller’s phone. It was his mother’s. She remembered Largo’s admonition: leave Miller to the feds. But Largo had instructed her to follow up on the burned car, and that brought her back to Miller.

  She put the issue out of her mind and focused on polishing the Rotary talk until she couldn’t bear it, then went outside for some air.

  Bigman had nabbed the spot in the shade where Largo usually parked, and was heading into the building. He greeted her, asking, “Did you ever come up with an idea of someone who could work with my wife on weaving?”

  “I mentioned it to Mama. But don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Did she say no?”

  “She didn’t say anything. But she isn’t weaving anymore because of her arthritis and she gave away her loom.” Bernie watched the native grass at the edge of the parking lot move in the breeze, wishing she’d shared this news with Bigman earlier instead of leaving him disappointed. “But Mama still knows the weavers around her. She may come up with a name for you.”

  “Could you tell your mother she wouldn’t have to weave much? Only enough so my wife could get the idea. I bet that loom they used to have out back at the Toadlena Trading Post is still there. Maybe they would let your mother use that. I could pick her up, drive them both over there, and then take her home.”

  Bernie knew the bilagaana couple who ran the post, wonderful people who sometimes hosted tour groups in the century-old building and invited local weavers to offer demonstrations. Perhaps Mama could work with Mrs. Bigman there. But they’d run the risk of having an audience, not the best environment for a beginning weaver.

  “I’ll talk to her about that.”

  “Maybe it would be better if we stopped by to visit. Once she meets my wife, she might change her mind.”

  “Mama likes company. But just remember that she hasn’t agreed to anything yet.”

  Bigman cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s happening with your little sister and that incident in Farmington?”

  “I don’t know.” That reminded her that Darleen had promised to call, and hadn’t. She sighed, and went back inside to finish the draft of her talk and print it before going home.

  “Hey, Manuelito, you okay?” Sandra looked up from her desk as Bernie walked in. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Really?”

  “You seem kinda pale, girl. You know all the sugar and caffeine in Coke isn’t good for you. Rots your teeth, too.”

  A Coke would be great, Bernie realized, but some cold water would suit her fine.

  Sandra reached into her desk drawer. “Try this.”

  “Thanks.” For a happy second Bernie thought it was candy, then realized Sandra had given her some kind of health snack, an energy bar. She’d tried them before, and they reminded her of sweetened cardboard.

  “I have a message for you, too.”

  “Cordova?”

  “Oh, yeah, him, too. He’s on your voice mail. But this is the one I meant.” Sandra handed her a note from the Rotary organizer with home and cell phone numbers. Bernie smiled. Maybe the talk had been cancelled.

  She called Cordova first. He sounded preoccupied. “Just checking to see if you’ve learned anything new about Miller that might be helpful.”

  “You’re working late,” she said. “I’ve got some new info.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You need to tell me why you’re interested.”

  “No, I don’t, but nice try.”

  “Why are you such a tough guy?”

  “I was born this way. Just tell me what you’ve got, Manuelito.”

  She told him about the truck driver who’d seen a man resembling Miller hitchhiking, and about the questionable cacti. He listened without interrupting, and then he said, “Thanks.”

  “That’s all I get?”

  “I’ll buy you a Coke next time I see you. Happier now?”

  “No, of course not. If you guys were more cooperative—”

  “Gotta go.” And he disconnected.

  Bernie called the Rotary woman next.

  “We’ve had a great response to your coming to talk. Lots of reservations. We’ve never had a representative from the Navajo Police. I’m so glad they are sending a woman. I know people will have a lot of interesting questions for you about your job and how you became a police officer.” She recommended that Bernie come a little early so she could meet the club’s officers and get a good parking spot.

  So instead of leaving for home, Bernie looked over her speech again, made some changes, and printed out a new copy. The energy bar wasn’t half bad.

  18

  Chee turned the key in the door of Robinson’s trailer and heard the lock click. He saw Robinson lying on his back and instinctively stepped in front of Rhonda, blocking her entrance and her view with his body. Then he spoke calmly. “He’s hurt. Run to the office and ask BJ to call an ambulance. If there are any EMTs around, we could use them.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Do it. Then come back and keep everyone else out of here.” Chee had stepped into the room as he spoke, moving toward Robinson. From her gasp, he realized Rhonda had seen the blood.

  “Oh, my God.” And then he heard her clatter down the steps and run.

  Chee squatted down. Robinson’s chest rose and fell slightly with each breath. Chee scanned for something to use to stop the bleeding. There was a dish towel on the counter. He grabbed for it, knocking a sheet of paper to the floor, and pressed the towel against the chest wound.

  Robinson looked at him, and Chee moved his mouth close to the man’s ear. “Hang on. I’m here to help you, and more help is on the way.”

  He held the pressure, feeling the warm blood on his hands. Glancing around the room, he didn’t see any disturbance or signs of conflict. The door had been locked from the inside, but whoever did this could have locked it on the way out.

  The towel was red and saturated now, and the bleeding seemed to have slowed. Robinson’s lips had a bluish tinge. Chee kept talking, encouraging him, but his eyelids fluttered and then closed.

  The trailer swayed, and Chee heard footsteps on the entrance stairs. He listened to the door opening behind him, and felt someone approach. He kept his gaze on Robinson’s face, willing him to keep breathing.

  A man with a first-aid box knelt beside them. He spoke loudly. “Mr. Robinson, it’s Kevin Green, the EMT.”

  Robinson opened his eyes again.

  Green had already slipped on gloves. “Gunshot?”

  “Looks like it,” Chee said.

  “Anyone else hurt?”

  Chee realized he hadn’t looked. “I don’t think so. As soon as you take over, I’ll check. I haven’t heard any noise.”

  “An ambulance is on the way from Kayenta. Can you find another towel?” The tone
of Green’s voice said he had taken charge of the medical emergency.

  Another EMT had entered with a blanket to wrap around Robinson’s lower body. Maybe they could keep him from going into shock, keep him alive.

  Chee stood and found three towels on the counter, clean and folded. When he bent down to hand them to Green, he spotted the piece of paper he’d knocked to the floor earlier. He picked it up and, after he checked the empty bedroom and the bathroom, read what was on the page. Then he folded it and put it in his own pocket before making his way past the medics to the trailer’s door.

  Rhonda was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. A few others had gathered there, too. She put her hand on his arm when he reached her. “What happened?”

  “A chest wound. The medics are working with him.”

  He saw the color drain from her face. She took an awkward step backward. Chee grabbed for her arm, catching her just before she collapsed and supporting her. “Sit down a minute. Put your head between your knees.”

  “I’m OK. What happened to him?”

  “I’m not sure. I need to call the police station.”

  Bahe was out, so Chee spoke to Tsinnie, explaining the situation and saying that he would stay on the scene until the ambulance arrived.

  “Hey, I have news for you.” Tsinnie seemed almost friendly.

  “Go ahead.” He hoped it wasn’t more bad news about Paul.

  “That guy with the nosebleed? The FBI wanted him on money-laundering, racketeering, and other heavy stuff.”

  “No kidding. Did they say if Delahart admitted to putting the bones out there?”

  “Nope. Not to me and Bahe, anyway. Bahe said he knew that man must be guilty of something, just from the way he acted. I don’t think they’ve charged him with murder yet, but I bet he did it.”

  Chee wasn’t a gambling man, but he would have bet against Tsinnie.

  Outside Robinson’s trailer a group of about a dozen people had gathered, standing in clusters and talking among themselves. They watched Chee approach.

  “The EMTs are helping Mr. Robinson, and an ambulance is on the way,” he said. “I don’t know what happened yet, except that he has a chest wound. There’s nothing to see here.”

  Rhonda stood, less shaky now. “We’ve got work to do, so let’s get to it. That’s what Robinson would want. Mike Turner will be the guy in charge.”

  Melissa stayed behind. “Did someone attack him?” she asked Chee.

  “I don’t know what happened for sure.”

  “Who would want to hurt him? He’s the nicest—” She noticed Rhonda and turned toward her, raising her voice. “You. You witch. Your publicity caused all the problems with Delahart. You never get enough attention, do you? I couldn’t blame you for shooting Samuel, but why—”

  Chee grabbed Melissa’s arm as she swung toward Rhonda. She was stronger than he expected. Rhonda stepped away and looked at Melissa, the sort of stare Chee remembered teachers giving him before he got the final warning. But her voice was surprisingly gentle.

  “Calm down, Missy. I was mad enough to kill Samuel, but I only do that in the movies. I’m crazy about Greg, and I respect the job you’ve done, too. We’ve got enough drama here. We have to focus on wrapping this up, finishing the movie as soon as we can. We owe Robinson that, no matter what.”

  They heard the wail of an approaching siren.

  Things moved quickly after the ambulance came. The EMTs brought out the stretcher, ordering bystanders to clear the way. Robinson’s eyes seemed to be looking for something. They found Rhonda, and he gave her the ghost of a smile, then focused on Chee.

  Chee walked up to the stretcher, had a word with one of the EMTs, put his head close to Robinson’s to hear what the man strained to say, and nodded once, twice. He slipped the piece of paper he’d picked up in the trailer into Robinson’s shirt pocket.

  After the ambulance drove off and the crowd had dispersed, Chee spotted Melissa standing in the shade on the side of the trailer.

  “Do me a favor and make sure nobody goes in there, OK? Wait for me. Robinson gave me a message for you.”

  She nodded.

  Chee got what he needed from his police car, then climbed Robinson’s steps. He took a few crime scene pictures, although he doubted that anyone would need them, found the gun that had done the damage, and sealed it in an evidence bag. Picking something up from Robinson’s desk, he locked the door behind him with Rhonda’s key.

  Melissa stood where he’d left her.

  “I need to give you a message from your boss, but before I do, are you ready to tell me the truth now?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “Start with the stuff you left out about the money.”

  “I never thought it would come to this.”

  Chee waited.

  She sighed. “Remember I told you that I was trying to fix the shortfall we had because of the sponsorships I’d anticipated that were late?”

  “I got that.”

  “Well, other money was missing, too. It took me a while to click to it, but when I looked at the bank statements, I realized someone was using a debit card and withdrawing a bunch of cash. Robinson has a card on the account. Not much use for it out here, but it’s different in Vegas, of course, and he flew there every week.

  “I could see that he was taken with Rhonda. I figured he was buying her gifts, maybe getting them a fancy room at a hotel there, using cash to avoid a stink. It wasn’t really wrong, since stars get pretty much whatever they want. But I need to be able to categorize where the money went. ATM withdrawals look suspicious, and I need to keep things on the up-and-up for the sponsors.

  “But when I mentioned the ATM withdrawals to Robinson, he acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about. That hurt, and it made me mad.”

  “Is he the only one with a debit card?”

  “I don’t have one on that account. Not Samuel. Not even the Zombie Queen herself.”

  “What about Delahart?”

  “Uh . . . I don’t know.”

  “You ought to find out. You might have made a faulty assumption.”

  She studied her shoes for a minute.

  “Whenever I talked to Delahart about money, he told me not to worry about it. He laughed at those ATM charges and said his investors would take care of everything.” She looked at Chee. “Do you think one of them shot Samuel? Or did Rhonda do it? She had as much reason as I did, and a shorter fuse.”

  “None of the above.”

  Melissa raised an eyebrow.

  “The feds are investigating it. They’ll look at Isenberg, the father of one of those girls I talked to, the ones Samuel manhandled and embarrassed. Isenberg is furious about that, but he didn’t do it. Samuel’s death was an accident.”

  “I saw you put a piece of paper in Greg’s pocket. Was it a confession? A suicide note?”

  Chee considered his answer. “Ask Robinson about it when he recovers.”

  “You don’t have to be cagey. I’m the gambler here, remember? I’m good at reading people and at keeping secrets. I’ll tell you what happened.”

  Chee waited.

  “Robinson went to talk to Delahart, man to man, to tell him Samuel was blackmailing me and that he’d taken those nasty pictures and that he planned to fire him before the production got sued, and probably turn him over to the police. He planned to tell Delahart he’d quit if Samuel stayed on.

  “But Samuel answered the door, laughed in his face. Robinson got angry and said he’d call the police. Samuel pulled his gun. They struggled. Bingo.” Melissa was crying now, but she kept talking. “He didn’t mean to kill him and then he panicked afterward. It was the last straw. Money troubles and the layoffs, that stupid stunt with the grave, the production behind schedule, all of that. Robinson would have died if Rhonda hadn’t had the key to his trailer and if you hadn’t been here. And it was all because of me. If I’d only let him fire Samuel when he wanted, none of this would have happen
ed.”

  “He asked me to make sure you got this.” Chee handed her a bag he’d seen in the trailer with her name on it.

  She took out a box and a small envelope, opened the envelope, read the note inside, and handed it to Chee. “Missy, none of this is your fault,” Robinson had written. “Enjoy your life and think of this beautiful place as often as you wear these.”

  Inside the box were the earrings with the robin’s-egg turquoise, the ones she had started wearing after the day she and Chee stumbled over the grave.

  In the tent, Rhonda and Turner were engrossed in conversation with BJ and half a dozen others. He’d wait. He pushed the button of the fancy coffee machine. This time he selected something called Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. It was great, almost as good as the coffee he remembered drinking as a boy when he helped his aunt and uncle at sheep camp each summer.

  When he took Turner’s two citations out of his pocket, he found the poker chip. The chip made him think of Leaphorn’s e-mail about the necklace and the silversmith. Maybe the excellent coffee had clicked his brain into gear. He had misread the Lieutenant’s message and underestimated his mentor.

  Melissa had come in and joined the meeting wearing the turquoise. Good. He finished the last of his delicious coffee and walked over to deliver the citation.

  It was warm in the SUV, but Chee didn’t mind. He powered down the windows to let in the desert air and searched in his wallet for the card that the trespassing camper, Gisela, had given him. Before he left the movie parking lot—and the end of cell phone coverage—he dialed her number.

  She and Heinrich were in Kayenta, staying at a motel, planning to leave in the morning.

  “I’ve got something important and interesting to show you,” Chee said. “Can you meet me at Goulding’s in an hour?”