The Tale Teller Read online

  “Can he come to the phone?”

  “Oh no. He’s . . . he’s sleeping. I have to go.”

  Ryana ended the call. Bernie made a mental note to mention the situation to Chee. He had been consulting with the substation in Chinle about recent unsolved burglaries in which none of the merchandise had been recovered. Officer Bigman was going to Chinle to follow up on that.

  She rolled out the crust, placed it in a pie pan, chopped, sweetened, and added the fruit, gently topping it with the second crust. While her hands worked, her brain went back to the bolo and Ryana’s unexpected call. She had no reason to suspect that Mr. Natachi was lying; why would Ryana?

  Bernie put the pie in the oven to bake and was sipping her first Coke of the day when Chee drove up and climbed out of the police car.

  “Hey there. You’re back early. How was—”

  She stopped talking as soon as she saw him more closely. His face was scraped and his uniform dirty. He limped up the steps to the deck and spoke before she could ask. “I’m fine. It’s a long story. I’m going to clean up and then I need to get back to work.”

  “And I should see the other guy?”

  When he didn’t respond to her quip, she put her book down and followed him inside, worry shadowing her like a bad dream.

  He was in the bathroom and she heard the shower running.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “A combination of terrible luck and worse judgment. I should have known better.”

  “So . . .”

  “Wait till I’m done here and I’ll give you the long version.”

  He looked better after he had washed the sand out of his hair and the blood from his face and hands. He smelled good, too, when he joined her on the deck.

  “Well, it wasn’t the finest moment of my career. But I take back what I told you before. There was some good luck involved. I’m lucky I’m not dead. We’d had complaints about a guy selling rotten hay and then not giving people their money back. So I sent the rookie out there. He grew up working on a ranch and knows more about hay than I do. He talked to the guy and at the time the man admitted it and offered to give the customer who complained a good bale. Problem solved, right?”

  Bernie waited for the punch line.

  “Not exactly. When the rookie had the seller call the jilted buyer, the buyer said he would come right over. He showed up, but he didn’t just want the hay, he wanted the seller to pay the vet bill for his horse who got sick from it.” Chee stopped. “Don’t give me that look, sweetheart. I’m getting there.

  “The man who sold the bad hay said no deal, and the buyer swung at him. The rookie stepped in between them and took one in the face. He called for backup and that was me.”

  “So you got in the middle of a fist fight? How did you—”

  Chee interrupted. “I smell something burning.”

  She rushed into the kitchen, grabbed a dish towel, and removed the pie. The edges of the crust were the color of dark chocolate, and the juice that had bubbled out was smoking at the bottom of the oven. She turned off the heat.

  “I’m glad your nose is so sharp.”

  “Too bad we can’t say the same for the rookie now. His nose got flattened. The guy swung hard. By the time I got there, Sam was sitting up with a paper towel to stop the bleeding. The men were both apologetic. Then the guy who got the bad hay asked us to climb up on the truck to make sure that the replacement bale wasn’t moldy, and the other guy agreed. The rookie was out of it, so I jumped up there. The hay was OK as far as I could tell, but the baler had picked up a snake and sliced it in two, and the back half with the rattles was moving in the truck bed. It startled me, and I lost my balance and fell out the back of the truck, you know, the open gate. Nothing seriously damaged but my pride.”

  “How’s the rookie?”

  “He’s hurting. And our plan for a lazy weekend took a hit. I told Largo I’d finish the shift so Sam could take his busted nose home. I’ve got to get back to work.” Chee paused. “The rookie is having trouble breathing, and it looks like someone will have to fill in for him tomorrow, too.”

  “If Largo asks, I’ll work. That’s only fair since you’re taking the rest of his shift today.”

  “Let Bigman handle it.”

  “He and his wife have to go to birthing class.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, the baby’s due any time now.”

  Chee ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “I didn’t even know they were expecting.”

  “You haven’t seen Mrs. Bigman for a while, have you? I might need to work tomorrow anyway.” She mentioned the incident of the bolo tie and the call from the granddaughter. “I need to file a report. Since Mr. Natachi is from Chinle, I wonder if this could be tied to the burglary ring you’ve been checking into.”

  “You’ve got a knack for being where the action is, even on your day off.”

  “Well, yeah. That’s how I met you, remember?”

  “You were the best new recruit I ever worked with.”

  Bernie smiled. “That’s not what you told me when you arrived in that big truck after my unit got stuck in the mud.”

  He grinned at her. “I was playing hard to get. I’m glad it worked.”

  After Chee left, she typed her conversation with Mr. Natachi about the bolo and her follow-up effort, with special attention to his identification of the man who was trying to sell the tie. She would be happy to find the vendor and figure out why he had stolen property for sale.

  She enjoyed her job, the variety that came with each day on patrol. She liked driving, being in the field instead of the office, dealing with people one-on-one. She appreciated the fact that most days, she could look back at her shift and see somewhere that she’d made a difference in someone’s life.

  She glanced at the loom Chee had built for her. She’d taken pleasure in weaving as a beginner, years ago. She treasured the family legacy, the memory of her grandmother at the loom, and the skill and joy Mama brought to the art.

  Someday, she thought. But not today.

  Bernie was glad that Mama and she had gone to the flea market early. She had time for a run on her favorite trail along the river, her regular weekend afternoon routine. Running earlier would have been cooler, but she liked the midday break, the opportunity to shake off whatever she’d dealt with earlier and get reinvigorated for the evening. She changed into her shorts and tank top and put on her running shoes and the nylon pouch that held her phone and ID. She grabbed a water bottle and a hat and jogged off, finding her stride within a few minutes.

  She wouldn’t have noticed the body if it hadn’t been for the dog.

  3

  The name of the postal inspector that had eluded Leaphorn popped into his head when he awoke, early as usual, on Saturday. Jim Bean, that was it, and recalling it made him smile. His memory was a little slower than at his prime, but still working. It was a good way to start the day.

  He rose, greeted by that familiar, wonderful scent that told him Louisa had started the coffee. He dressed quickly and headed into his office to get the address book, where he knew he had Bean’s information. He found an office number in San Diego and realized that his dealings with Bean dated back to the day when not everyone and his grandchild had a cell phone. He jotted it down along with some other notes and headed to the kitchen.

  After the first sip of coffee, he asked Louisa for the favor.

  “Sure, Joe. But we may just get an answering machine. It is Saturday, you know.”

  “Try.”

  She called, and he watched her punch in another number, probably Bean’s extension. He heard her explain that she was calling on behalf of Joe Leaphorn. She left a message with their home number and his cell. He could tell by the unbroken cadence of her voice that she spoke to a machine. As he listened to her speak, he thought of something else.

  “One mo?”

  “Of course. But let’s eat first. The oatmeal is ready.”

  Oatmeal
was Louisa’s go-to breakfast. He made the best of it, sometimes imagining he was chomping on bacon or fried Spam. He’d complained once, and she had explained the value of whole grains as an antidote to the evils of a modern lifestyle, and then suggested that if he didn’t want oatmeal he could visit the restaurant of his choice and enjoy the heart attack special. He thought he might come to enjoy oatmeal, and he had evolved enough to find it tolerable. And he’d learned not to whine about a housemate who fixed a hot breakfast for him.

  As they were finishing, he heard the chime of the doorbell, probably someone wanting to convert them politically or spiritually, he thought. Louisa, both gracious and curious, rose to check on it. He recognized the second woman’s voice, finished the last bite in his bowl, and headed into the living room.

  If her very presence in his house wasn’t enough of a clue, he knew as soon as he saw Mrs. Pinto’s face as she stood there, shoulders slumped, that something was wrong.

  “Lieutenant, I’m sorry to intrude on your morning, but I didn’t want to talk about this over the phone.”

  Louisa said, “If this is business, perhaps I should—”

  “No, no. Please stay here. You need to know what happened, too.” She swallowed. “Tiffany died last night.”

  “Tiffany?” Louisa’s voice asked the question.

  Mrs. Pinto pressed her hands together. “My assistant. She’s the woman who collapsed outside when the Lieutenant came to see me yesterday. The one who fell near the skate park.”

  He was glad Mrs. Pinto stayed with English for Louisa’s benefit. He had no trouble understanding.

  “Please sit down.” Louisa motioned toward the couch. “I’ll bring you some water. Or would you rather have coffee?”

  Mrs. Pinto moved to the sofa and waved off the offerings. “Louisa, stay here and listen.”

  Leaphorn sat across from Mrs. Pinto with Louisa next to him. Louisa said what he was thinking: “Did she die from the fall?”

  “I’m not sure what happened. I’ll tell you all I know.” Mrs. Pinto exhaled. “I went to see Tiffany at her house last night.”

  Leaphorn wanted Mrs. Pinto to tell the story at her own pace so she could better focus on the details, but Louisa rushed in with her questions.

  “She was home? They didn’t admit her to the hospital after that fall?”

  “She told the ambulance people she felt better . . . that the heat made her weak, and that she’d been sick. I heard the ambulance man advise her to rest, keep cool, drink plenty of water, and to get someone to drive her to the hospital if she had a bad headache, felt nauseous, confused, dizzy, a whole list of things. They wanted to take her to get checked out, but she refused to go. I stayed with her until the medics left, and I made her go home for the rest of the day.”

  Mrs. Pinto paced three steps toward the kitchen, then came back and sat on the sofa across from them. “I should have persuaded her to go in the ambulance. She’d been getting sicker for about two weeks. She had grown so weak she asked me to reduce her hours to half-time until she felt better, and I did. That’s why the project I talked to you about is so far behind. Her older sister hit a rough spot and moved in, so I knew that if something happened, Collette could help. I could kick myself for not making her go to the hospital.”

  “I know you did all you could.” Louisa leaned toward her friend.

  “Tiffany called me about eleven last night. I could tell she’d been crying. She said she got sick because she had been disrespectful of the past.” Mrs. Pinto looked down at the table. “I asked her what that meant, disrespectful of the past, and she said she couldn’t talk about it, but that she was having trouble catching her breath. She said she was going to ask her father to arrange a healing ceremony. She thanked me for helping her yesterday and hung up.” Tears filled Mrs. Pinto’s eyes.

  “I didn’t like any of it, so I dressed and drove over there. When I got to the house, I thought Tiffany was dead, but she was still breathing. She looked terrible, pale, really sick. Her little pills were there, lined up in a box close to her bed. I called the ambulance, and then her sister Collette showed up, but it was too late to help her.” Mrs. Pinto shook her head once. “Tiffany was my friend as well as my assistant. I let her down.”

  Louisa reached for a box of tissues on the lamp table, took one, and passed them to Mrs. Pinto. The woman took one and wiped her eyes. Louisa said, “Were you with her when she died?”

  “No, no. Not exactly. Collette told me to go out with a flashlight so the ambulance could find the place more easily. I was anxious and I thought the fresh air would calm me down and I could tell that Collette wanted time alone with her sister to say good-bye. She passed while I was outside.”

  Louisa shook her head. “I’m going to bring us all some tea.”

  The cat, which had been lurking in the doorway, paraded past them as though it had been anticipating a pause in the conversation to make an entrance. It followed Louisa into the kitchen.

  Leaphorn waited for Mrs. Pinto’s emotions to settle, then spoke to her in Navajo. “What did Tiffany mean when she said she had been disrespectful of the past?”

  “I asked her. She didn’t answer.” Mrs. Pinto clasped her hands. “If she had trouble with the job, she should have told me. When the museum receives anything that could be sacred, dangerous, connected with the dead, or contaminated, it goes to a separate place to be prayed over. The medicine men handle it because we don’t want to take any of those risks. That’s how we dealt with the box I told you about.”

  “Did Tiffany say anything else that seemed unusual?”

  Mrs. Pinto seemed to have been waiting for the question. “She told me she needed to talk to a hand trembler to get a diagnosis of what was really wrong with her, that the medicine her white doctor had given her that used to help wasn’t helping. She told me she knew her illness was linked to all the sadness that came in that box, even though the doctor said it was stress that had compounded her breathing problem.”

  Leaphorn was a skeptic when it came to hand tremblers, those who sit with a troubled person and arrive at a diagnosis of what taboo they broke so the proper traditional healing ceremony can be requested. “Sadness? Why would she say that?”

  “I didn’t ask her.” The teakettle whistled, and she waited until the sound stopped. “You probably think I’m superstitious for even mentioning this. I don’t believe in chindiis, in ghosts, in supernatural evil. I’m not on the Jesus road or the peyote trail either. But something is not right here. I counted on her to help us get that donation issue resolved.”

  “What medical issues did Tiffany have?”

  Mrs. Pinto pressed her lips together, then exhaled. “After I hired her, she told me that she had a rare genetic respiratory disease, but not to worry, she had talked to a specialist and it was under control. She was well when the box arrived last month, but after that she seemed to get sicker and sicker, leaving early or skipping work altogether. If I wasn’t so close to retiring, I would have found an intern or a volunteer to help, but I didn’t have time to train someone new. The department will be reorganized when I leave. If I can leave as planned now, with this complication.”

  They listened to Louisa puttering in the kitchen for a moment.

  “Joe, we didn’t get off on the right foot yesterday. I regret that. I sincerely hope you will agree to work with me.”

  Leaphorn nodded. “I’d like to see the items and the list that came with them. I need to know what is missing besides the bracelet and why it has to be a secret.”

  “And then you’ll sign the contract?” Mrs. Pinto gave him the hint of a smile. “Come to my office this afternoon. I’ll be there from two until six or even later.”

  Louisa entered with a tray loaded with iced tea, honey, napkins, and some cookies.

  Mrs. Pinto switched to English. “It will be nice to be inside with the coolness. It’s already hot, and too early. I’ve been blaming the heat for making us irritable. I’ll be glad when the rains come. They
are later than usual this year.”

  Louisa put the tray on the table. “I always liked teaching summer sessions because of the air-conditioning. The heat gets to everyone, makes us impatient.”

  She handed the visitor a glass of tea.

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Pinto took the glass, but she looked at Leaphorn when she said it.

  Around three p.m. Leaphorn arrived at the museum. Unlike his earlier visit, this time the place was quiet. As they had arranged, he followed the signs to her office. The door stood open. Mrs. Pinto motioned him in when he rapped on the frame and then turned back to her computer. “I will be done here in a minute, and then I will show you the donations. Have a seat, Lieutenant.”

  She had arranged her paperwork on her desk in several stacks in plastic trays, the pages lined up with the edges straight. A manila folder with “Joe Leaphorn” printed in block letters sat in the center. On the wall Leaphorn saw a painting by Ernest Franklin, a picture of a hogan in the snow with Church Rock in the background.

  She shut down her computer and rose. “Thank you for coming.” She took the folder with his name on it with her as she headed to the hallway. He followed toward the back of the building, past a silent parade of closed doors. Although she was decades younger than he, she was shorter and many pounds heavier. She waddled down the hall, and he matched her pace easily, even without his cane.

  Finally, Mrs. Pinto unlocked the last door on the left. “Here it is.” She flicked on the light and crossed her arms over her ample belly.

  Leaphorn walked toward the long table in the center of the windowless room. Someone had arranged the items all by category. The jewelry caught his eye—rings, bracelets, old ketohs (or bow guards), necklaces, earrings, and brooches. Most of it looked to be Navajo or Navajo imitation, and many of the pieces included blue stones in various hues. Turquoise, he thought, the gift that tradition said came from the sky itself, and the talisman that helped ensure the fertility of a shepherd’s flock. The three small pots looked as though they had been made by Pueblo Indians. Next to them sat two simple, classic brown Navajo ceramics. The piñon-sap coating made their smooth surfaces shine. He saw a small folk art wagon, a little male and a female character on the driver’s bench, pulled by a draft horse. A nice assortment, he thought.