Spider Woman's Daughter Page 6

  Darleen looked pale, puffy in the face. She frowned at Bernie. “I see you finally made it.”

  “Sister,” Bernie said. “I thought you’d be here with Mama.”

  When Darleen walked closer, Bernie smelled alcohol.

  “I thought you’d be here,” Darleen countered. “You told me you’d drive up right after breakfast. I had things to do. I was counting on you.”

  “We almost had a fire on the stove.” Bernie glared at Darleen. “I think Mama was cooking and forgot to turn off the heat.”

  “You told me you’d be here sooner.”

  “Something happened at work,” Bernie said. “I had to—”

  Bernie noticed a stoop-shouldered young man standing in the doorway, watching them. She looked at him, back at Darleen.

  “He’s my friend.” Bernie waited for more. When nothing came, she turned to the man, probably in his midtwenties. “I’m Bernie, Darleen’s sister. Please come in.”

  “Charley Zah.” He stayed on the porch, staring at her uniform.

  “I drove from work,” Bernie said. She heard the toilet flush.

  “Darleen told me you were a cop,” he said. “Cool.”

  “Mama’s in the bathroom,” Bernie said. “I need to see if she can use some help.”

  “I just came back for my hat,” Darleen said. “And, uh, to make sure you got here okay.” She grabbed her cap from the walker.

  “Stay awhile,” Bernie said. “We need to talk.”

  “It’s my day off, remember?” Darleen glanced at Stoop Boy. “We made plans.”

  “We have to talk, Sister.” Bernie leaned on the have to.

  “You already cheated me out of some of my day,” Darleen said. “If you wanna talk, text me.”

  The toilet flushed again. “Quality time with Mama. See you later.” Darleen stomped out the door. Stoop Boy followed.

  Bernie wanted to run after her, shake some sense into her. Instead, she went to assist their mother.

  “I’ve been thinking about the old days.” Mama told wonderful stories, enriched by the complicated rhythms of her Navajo words. Bernie felt honored to have Mama all to herself. It was a rare gift, and she was grateful. “I’ve been thinking about this special rug. I don’t think I ever told you about it.” She described the weaving, the white background with the vivid figures. “It was made a long time ago. I never saw anything so beautiful. I wish you could have seen it, my daughter.”

  Outside, the wind rattled against the windows, trying to blow the last bits of moisture from the struggling landscape. If the weather followed normal patters, rain might come in July. Until then, hot dust.

  “I was a small girl then,” Mama said. “He came to the trading post at Newcomb, and my family was there. They say he made other rugs with other stories of the Holy People. But I haven’t seen those rugs.”

  Bernie said, “He? In the old days? I thought women did all the weaving back then.”

  “This man was a hataalii. He worked at a huge loom. And the dyes for his yarn? All from plants.”

  Mama grew quiet. She closed her eyes. Gradually, her head slumped against the back of the couch. Bernie got up slowly and went to the kitchen to get to work. When the wall phone rang, she caught it at first jingle.

  “Hey you. I left a message on your cell an hour ago. I guess you made it safely.” She heard the worry in Chee’s voice. Her cell, left in the car with her backpack and the cat carrier. What kind of an officer was she?

  “Anything more on the lieutenant?”

  “The hospital in Albuquerque couldn’t take him. Full or something. So they flew him into Santa Fe,” Chee said.

  “Gosh, what an ordeal. What about the shooter?”

  “Nothing yet. Everyone is looking for Jackson Benally. Mrs. Benally certainly did not enjoy being fingerprinted. She told me more about her angel of a son when I drove her home.”

  She heard Chee take a deep breath, exhale into the receiver. “How are you doing, honey? Don’t change the subject this time.”

  “Well, Darleen is off with some boyfriend. Stoop Boy. The house is a disaster. It makes me furious that she’s so irresponsible.”

  “Let it go for today,” Chee said. “Try to relax and enjoy being with your mom.”

  She heard noise in the background, then Chee said, “Gotta run. I’ll call you later.”

  While Mama napped, she focused on cleaning, taking out her frustration on the greasy stovetop. She reimagined the crime as she scrubbed, worrying over the details, wondering what she’d missed. When she heard the TV click on, she left the rest of the kitchen project for Darleen.

  Mama put a bony finger on Bernie’s khaki pants. “What happened here? Did you get hurt?”

  Bernie looked down at her legs. Noticed the bloodstains.

  “Someone I work with got shot this morning. They took him to the hospital in Santa Fe.”

  “Is this his blood?”

  Bernie nodded. The cold breath of sadness swept over her.

  “Something else happened, Mama,” she said. “I had his cat in my car, and it ran away. I left the window open, and next thing I knew, the cat . . .” She felt the tears welling.

  Mama looked at her. “So, you like those bird killers all of a sudden?”

  “Well, no, not especially.”

  “The one that got lost, was it your friend?”

  She had to laugh. “Not exactly. It scratched me when I tried to catch it. It made a terrible noise from the backseat. Yikes. What a racket!”

  “So, you’re crying about a cat, and you don’t like cats? And this cat hurt you, and it wasn’t even your cat?” Mama patted her hand. “I don’t think that cat made you cry.”

  “It’s been a hard day.”

  “Maybe you needed to cry.”

  Then Bernie felt Mama’s cool hand on her back, rubbing between the shoulder blades the way she used to when Bernie was a little girl. It was as if that gentle pressure pushed away the strength of her resistance and let the grief and weariness flow out.

  “In my room are some clean pants,” Mama said after a while. “When you put them on, roll up the waist a little so they won’t be too long.” Mama had been taller, but now Bernie and Mama stood almost eye to eye.

  Bernie took off her uniform and put on Mama’s pants and one of her blouses. She washed her face and combed her hair. She felt better.

  They took a little stroll, with Mama pushing the metal frame of her walker. Then she sorted Mama’s laundry for Darleen to take to the Laundromat. Helped Mama take a shower and shampooed her hair. After that, she fixed scrambled eggs, toast, and applesauce. The food smelled good, and she realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Thinking of breakfast brought back the shooting, and then she wasn’t hungry.

  “Elsie gave us the eggs,” Mama said. “I don’t know about the applesauce.”

  “Little Sister probably got it at the store.”

  “That one is a good girl,” Mama said. “She helps me.”

  Bernie started to say something. Remembered Chee’s advice. Didn’t.

  Time to head home, Bernie thought. She’d promised Chee she’d help review files of the lieutenant’s old cases tonight. Where was Sister? She sent Darleen a text.

  After the meal, Bernie called Darleen, but her phone went immediately to voice mail. She left a message. She mopped the kitchen floor. Vacuumed the living room carpet and Mama’s bedroom. Waited for Darleen to call or text back or, better yet, to come home.

  Mama protested, as she always did, when Bernie told her she had to leave.

  “Stay here. You sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “No, Mama. I have to go home to my husband.”

  “Cheeseburger? You still with that guy? You not tired of him yet?”

  Bernie smiled. Mama liked Chee, his tradit
ional, respectful ways, his courtesy toward her and his sense of humor.

  “I’m not tired of him yet,” Bernie said. “I’m crazy about him.”

  Finally, Bernie called Stella Darkwater next door to come and sit with Mama. Mrs. Darkwater and Mama had become friends from the first day Mama moved in. Stella was a little off but in a happy way, sane enough to call for help if she had to. Best of all, Mama liked her.

  “The house looks good today,” Mrs. Darkwater said. “When Darleen asks me for help, I bring your mother over to my house.”

  “Darleen’s young,” Mama said. “It’s hard for her.”

  “She’s not that young,” Mrs. Darkwater said. She put her purse on the table. “I heard somebody got shot where you work. Bad business. You be careful, girl. The one who did that is out there somewhere.”

  “I am careful. Where did you hear about it?”

  “On the radio. They say it will be on the TV tonight.”

  Mrs. Darkwater took Mama’s arm and helped her out of the kitchen chair. “Come on, dearie,” she said. “It’s almost time for Wheel of Fortune.”

  Bernie left what she’d written for Darleen in the middle of the kitchen table. She knew Mrs. Darkwater would read it, but so what? She gave Mama a kiss and headed for home.

  She took BIA 310, watching for animals, watching the summer’s fading light paint the rock hills red with a golden afterglow, reassuring herself that she had said what she needed to say in the note. Darleen would contact her, and they’d get this worked out. If Darleen wouldn’t live up to her agreement to keep the house clean and take care of Mama, she ought to find someplace else to waste her lazy life. But Mama would never tell her that.

  Bernie’s car bounced along the dirt road, past an occasional lean Hereford. White people identify this part of Navajoland as Two Grey Hills. She wondered, not for the first time, what hills they counted and how they defined gray. A coyote dashed in front of the car, and she tapped the brakes. The animal trotted away, unconcerned, waving its tail with a touch of arrogance. An omen of bad luck, and this was already the worst day of her life. Bring it on, she thought, and then she forced herself to focus on the rough road.

  Her car found the pavement of NM 491 at the convenience store, and she headed north into the stream of traffic moving toward Shiprock. She wondered if the missing cat had enough savvy to avoid becoming a coyote’s dinner. She remembered the pan of water waiting in the shade at the lieutenant’s house. She pictured the lieutenant deathly pale on the gurney as it rolled toward the ambulance. She tried to recall the shooter’s face but remembered only the black hood. She thought of Cordova and the interview. He was smart, professional. Good-looking, too. About her age, maybe a touch older. She wondered if he was married to another officer or a civilian. What was his wife like?

  As she pushed the car to accelerate, Tsé Bit’a’í rose in the dusk. She feasted on the sight of the rock with wings—maps call it Shiprock—rising out of the desert. Its stone bulk reassured her. Her anger with Darleen seemed trivial now, a minor irritation in a world filled with more important things. Shiprock belonged to the long history of the Diné, to the deep roots that tied her to a sacred and beautiful landscape and to generations of strong people. She marveled at the bilagaana imagination, foreigners seeing the rock as a big boat. Did they envision the countryside around it as an ocean of sand?

  She parked the Toyota next to Chee’s truck, next to the loom he had built for her. Built it himself in the traditional way outside their trailer as a wedding present two years ago. A loom she hadn’t used yet.

  Bernie smelled something delicious wafting out of the trailer into the warm evening air. She walked up to Chee standing on the new deck he had constructed that spring, watched him load charcoal into the grill.

  “Hi. Heard anything more about the lieutenant?”

  “Hey, beautiful. Glad you’re home. First things first.” And he kissed her.

  5

  After dinner, Chee put his arms around her. His warmth felt good; the night air cooled quickly at 6,000 feet. Bernie looked up. The stars shone brilliantly. As a child, she’d always wondered where the colors went when dusk faded—red and yellow to gray and black. Did they sink into the earth to reemerge with first light?

  Chee said, “Bigman told me he put you in charge of Leaphorn’s cat. I can’t imagine him having a cat. He doesn’t seem like a cat kind of guy.”

  She really didn’t want to talk about the cat, but she told him the story.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Chee said. “The Gallup Police couldn’t track down Benally on the UNM Gallup campus. Or his friend, either, and they had more to go on than you did. They figure neither of those guys made it to school today.”

  Bernie asked, “Did you find out anything about Leonard Nez? I don’t like Jackson Benally for it, but maybe Nez was involved.”

  “Nez has never been in trouble as far as we could find from a records search.” Chee shrugged. “Tomorrow I’ll work on tracking him down. We’ve got plenty of options for people with motives to hurt the lieutenant. But so far only three suspects.”

  “Three?”

  “The boys and the mysterious missing Louisa.”

  “Louisa wouldn’t have shot him,” Bernie said.

  Chee said, “Think objectively. They argued. She’s missing.”

  “You’re starting to sound like an FBI,” Bernie said. “She couldn’t have done it. We know the woman. She gave us a wedding present.”

  “Well, if you don’t like any of them, we have the gallery of convicts on the disc Largo made. You busy tonight?”

  “Yikes. Let’s get started.” She walked into the house, and he followed. “I need some brain work. All I did today was clean Mama’s house and argue with Darleen.”

  “That, and almost getting killed and dealing with grumpy old Mrs. Benally.” Chee looked sheepish. “I forgot to tell you. Darleen called. She asked me to let you know that she sent Mrs. Darkwater home, and your mom was watching TV.”

  “When?”

  “Just before you drove in. She sounded like she’d been crying or something, but she said everything was fine. Didn’t want to talk about it. You think she’s okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Bernie said. “She smelled like beer today. She’s picked up a new boyfriend, a skinny guy a lot older. I’m calling him Stoop Boy because of his bad posture.”

  “Maybe she’s in love with the guy,” Chee said. “Love makes people do strange things. Look at me, for example, transformed from a bachelor eating Spam from the can to a budding gourmet chef, a Navajo Julia Child.”

  Bernie laughed. “You’re not at Julia’s level yet, but you do grill a good burger.”

  He hugged her. “Some girls will say anything for a meal.”

  She loved the way his skin smelled like summer. She turned her face toward his, and he leaned in . . .

  The phone rang. Chee reached for it, picked it up automatically.

  “Hi. It’s Louisa.”

  “Hold on a second,” Chee said. “I’m putting you on speaker so Bernie can hear, too.”

  The voice on the other end sounded tired and anxious. “I just saw the news. How is he? Where is he? This is unthinkable. Poor, poor Joe.” Louisa was the only person they knew who called Lieutenant Leaphorn by his first name. “It’s bad, isn’t it? Tell me what happened. Joe was always so careful.”

  “Bernie was there,” Chee said. “She’s been looking for you.”

  Bernie stuck to the facts. She could almost see Louisa listening, stopping herself from interrupting to ask questions. As she retold the story, Bernie noticed that she had grown more detached from the scene, as if she had been an observer rather than a first responder, as if she’d watched it on television.

  Louisa said, “After all those years, for this to happen when he’s retired. How awful. Is he conscious? Is he in pain
?”

  “I don’t know,” Bernie said. “Where are you?”

  They heard her sigh over the phone. “I’m in Albuquerque, leaving for Houston, flying out for . . . for a conference.” If you lived in northwestern New Mexico, your best option for commercial air travel included a drive to Albuquerque and, if you could afford it, a night in a hotel.

  “The FBI wants to talk to you about the lieutenant,” Bernie said. “Where are you staying down there?”

  “It’s near the airport. A Holiday Inn Express.”

  Bernie said, “I’m sorry you had to learn about this from TV. I went to the house looking for you so I could tell you. Officer Bigman took the computer and files from the lieutenant’s office as evidence, as well as the tape of your message on the answering machine. I listened to it.”

  The phone fell silent for a few beats, and then Louisa said, “I was angry with Joe, but I didn’t shoot him.”

  “I thought the lieutenant usually drove you to Albuquerque so you didn’t have to leave your car there.”

  “That right, usually he does. But, as you know, we had an argument.” Louisa spoke faster now. “That man could be so rigid, so sure he was right. And he was preoccupied with a big project. I didn’t think he’d even miss me. And now this.”

  “Did he mention any death threats?” Chee asked. “Anything out of the ordinary? Anything bothering him?”

  “He wasn’t one to talk about his problems. You know that. But he said something last week about a ghost from the past. I’d never heard him talk about ghosts. You know how he felt about that superstition business.” Leaphorn was a skeptic when it came to Navajo witchcraft and the supernatural in all its forms and often lectured fellow officers about how superstition harmed the Navajo people.

  “A ghost from the past?” Bernie asked. “Did he say anything else about it?”

  “Not that I remember, and I didn’t ask him. I was distracted by the, um, conference.”

  “When did you leave for Albuquerque?” Chee asked.

  “Early. Before Joe headed off for that police breakfast.”

  “What kind of a conference is it?” Bernie asked.