Rock with Wings (11 page)

“How do you guys come up with sites anyway?” Chee asked. “Does somebody look around for places to film the scenes?” Tsinnie glanced in his direction, her expression neutral.

Robinson took a sip of the coffee. “That would be the location supervisor and the scouting team. They went all over the place.”

“Call the supervisor,” said Tsinnie. “I want to get this settled.”

“Once we start filming, she moves on to the next gig. She’s not here.”

Tsinnie said, “Then get her on the phone.”

Robinson put his cup down. “BJ has all that contact information.”

“Are you making this hard on purpose?”

“BJ, the administrative assistant, office manager, etcetera. Next door in the office. She can—”

Tsinnie turned her back to them, leaving the door open. Chee felt the trailer stir as she clomped down the metal steps.

“Tough gal,” Robinson said.

“She’s only doing her job.”

“Nah. She enjoys being a big shot. We’ve got some of those around here, too.”

“Are any of those folks who helped with the scouting still here?”

“Mike Turner stayed on. He works with us in case we need some fine-tuning. The best time to find him would be tonight at the meal tent before the filming starts.”

“Thanks.”

“By the way, what did you think of Samuel last night? I mean, the way he dealt with the trespassers?”

Chee considered the question. “They were high school girls. He frightened the younger one. She was too scared to talk about it, but I wonder if he hurt her arm.”

Robinson put his cup down. “He told me he found a gun on them.”

“They dropped it before they got to that actress’s trailer. They’re kids.”

“You think he was too heavy-handed?” Robinson didn’t wait for the answer. “I’m going to get rid of him. I’d decided that even before last night, but Melissa talked me out of it. He enjoys being a tough guy too much.”

Chee met up with Tsinnie outside the central office. BJ had found the location scout’s number, and Tsinnie had left a message on a voice-mail system. Chee filled her in about Turner, hinting that he might be a better source.

“I don’t like dealing with these people. I’m telling Bahe to have you do it. I’ll handle the Navajo end, if there is one. You can come back and talk to Turner. Let’s get out of here.”

Chee had been around enough strong-willed women to know better than to argue.

“Hey there, Jim Chee.” Melissa trotted up to them. “What happened with those trespassers last night?”

“They were teenagers. I gave them a lecture and turned them over to their dad. Robinson called me in because Samuel said they had a gun, and one of them mouthed off to him. No big deal.”

“Samuel? Trouble follows that man like a shadow.”

“I thought you liked him. Robinson said you saved his job.”

Melissa shrugged. “One of the worst mistakes I ever made.”

Tsinnie asked, “You the woman who was lost?”

“That’s what they say. Did Chee tell you about the grave we found in the middle of nowhere? Spooky, huh?”

Tsinnie stiffened. “We’re looking into it.”

“A grave turns up on the site of a movie about zombies. How much weirdness is that?” She turned to Chee. “So now I’ve got new earrings as good luck.”

Chee looked at them. Beautiful silverwork framed the turquoise stones of robin’s-egg blue. They reminded him of some his grandmother had worn, the stone given to the Diné as a sign of protection. “They are beautiful.”

“I got them at the gift shop at the visitor center. I couldn’t afford them, but I decided to splurge. After all—”

Tsinnie interrupted. “Chee may need to talk to you again as part of the investigation.”

“Of course. Did he tell you how that arm reached up from the depths and grabbed my ankle? He beat it off with my tripod and saved me from certain death. Or, I guess, undeath.”

Tsinnie didn’t crack a smile.

Chee enjoyed the way the detective negotiated the road hazards, handling the ruts and washouts, loose animals, herds of sightseeing buses, and tourists driving like idiots because of the enchantment of
the scenery. Nothing she encountered behind the wheel upset her. She kept her equilibrium, drove like a pro.

As they approached the John Ford Point turnout, she said, “Tell me about that blond girl.”

“She didn’t have anything to do with the grave. She was genuinely surprised when we found it.”

“You’ve said that already. What’s her job?”

“She’s a bookkeeper.”

“I’m like your Lieutenant Leaphorn. I don’t believe in coincidences. Why was she there by the grave? Why there instead of someplace else? That woman is in on this. That grave is nothing but a big headache for us. Too bad you had to find it.”

They drove past a black horse and a rider in a red shirt and white hat posed against Ford Point’s backdrop of mesas, buttes, and spires.

“What are you doing out here anyway, Chee?” Tsinnie slowed to avoid a cloud of dust from an open-air sightseeing van.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“Well, my wife and I were due some vacation. I’d spent summers here when I was younger, but I hadn’t been out for a while. I thought it would be great to show her this place. And my clan brother who lives out here asked me if I could help him with a project.”

“I know Paul. They say he’s going into the tour business.”

“We’ll see what happens.”

“My uncle does tours, too. He started a couple of years ago. He works hard at it. He and his wife have three kids.”

And that, Chee thought, explained a lot.

Bahe met with them at the station and listened to Tsinnie’s report and request. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Chee. “No one has complained about you yet, so I’d like you to see this through before you get deported to Shiprock. Since you already
have connections out there in Lala Land, follow up with the movie people.”

Chee nodded.

“Tell them if the Navajo Nation has to dig up that grave, the bill goes to them. That’s on top of a citation that comes with a fine for not having a permit to work in that part of the park.”

“Sure thing.”

“You don’t think there’s a body under there, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Me neither. I hope we don’t have to prove it.”

Since Tsinnie knew the families in the valley, Bahe assigned her to those interviews.

“It’s a big waste of time.” Tsinnie studied the desktop. “These movie people did it. They cause a lot of problems. Making noise all night, scaring livestock, a bad influence on our kids.”

Bahe took a breath. “The president and the Tribal Council want to bring more movies here. We need the jobs, the fees, the tax money they pay. When a company has a good experience, the word spreads.” He leaned in toward her. “Ask around out there, even though you’d rather not.”

Tsinnie stood. “You need me for anything else?”

“Go.” He turned to Chee. “The movie company scouted the sites and must have taken pictures to help them figure out where to film. If they built the grave, they must have planned it. They ought to have a picture of the place without it—or with it there, if they didn’t create it. Talk to this Turner guy and ask him to show the pictures that prove they are innocent.

“Talk to the publicity director, too. If this is a scam, she’s probably the one behind it. They hire these people to find ways to keep the movie in the media. And in case something happens that might generate news, like somebody being made an honorary Navajo or stumbling over a grave.”

“You know a lot about this,” Chee said.

“They don’t call Monument Valley the Hollywood of the Rez for nothing.”

“Does anybody call it that?”

Bahe grinned. “When you find the publicity person, impress on her—they tend to be women—that the Navajo Nation has laws against illegal burials and that her company will be charged for the exhumation and fined, too. Tell her a crew of folks digging up the grave would bring the production to a stop and add to their expense. Money gets their attention.”

“If I get lucky, maybe I can clear this up with a couple of phone calls.”

“Don’t some horror stories mention a zombie having to sleep on the dirt of his own grave? Something like that?”

“I’m not into that stuff.”

“Maybe that’s what Bernie found. Boxes of zombie dirt.”

“So you heard about her traffic stop?”

“Some news travels fast.” Bahe opened his desk drawer and removed some cards. “Here’s another little job for you. Check in with the heads of security at Goulding’s and Monument Valley Inn and Spa.” He handed the cards to Chee. “We just call it the Inn. Ask what’s new, anything cookin’ we should know about. Maybe they’ll remember somebody asking if there were any graveyards nearby.” He chuckled at his own joke. “It’s good to stay in touch with those guys, and I haven’t been able to do it.”

“Will do.”

Chee handled the interview with the Inn’s security chief with one phone call. The director, Brenda Erdman, had time to chat.

“I heard you found a grave out there,” she said. “Weird.”

“It’s true. Where did you learn about it?”

“One of the tour guides mentioned it this morning. A new operator, Paul something, with Hozhoni Photo Tours.”

The chief of security at Goulding’s Lodge was Norman Haskie. “Bahe asked you to check in with me?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“Did you know somebody found a grave out in the valley?”

“Yes. Actually, I’m the one.”

“Well, then, you might be interested in something that happened here. I’d rather not mention it on the phone. Can you stop by?”

Haskie was waiting when Chee got to his cubbyhole of an office. Chee learned that Haskie had been in the marines before he went to work at Goulding’s and that he loved his job. He had worked with Leone Goulding, better known as Mike, and told Chee the story of how Mike and her husband, Harry Goulding, had traveled from their ranch in Monument Valley to California. Harry threatened to camp out in John Ford’s office in his efforts to lure movies to the valley. Impressed with photographs Harry carried with him, the renowned director came with film crews. Over the decades, Goulding’s Lodge had grown from a base for movie companies into a destination for tourists from all over the world.

Chee liked the story, even though he’d heard it before. Haskie’s affection for the lodge, Monument Valley, and his job was palpable.

“Guess we better get down to business.” Haskie turned on his computer and clicked at a file, opening it to reveal photos of a hotel room.

“See that?”

“Blood?”

“That’s what the maid thought. That’s why she called me. But don’t get too excited. We didn’t find a body.” Haskie put his elbows
on the desktop. “Somebody phoned down to the office about eleven p.m. and said the folks next door were raising so much ruckus he couldn’t sleep. The night clerk called the noisy room. No answer, so he called security. I was working that night and went on over. I stood outside the door and listened. Didn’t hear anything. I figured the honeymooners had worn themselves out. Next morning, the manager on duty called me at home. He said one of the maids saw some bloody towels and a fresh red stain on the carpet through the doorway. She refused to enter the room in case there was a dead person.”

Chee wondered what would come next.

“So I went to check it out. I saw the carpet and some soiled towels piled in a corner by the door, all neat like. No one in the room. No knife, no gun, nothing that looked like a weapon. Just the stain and the towels. This was the same room I got the call on the night before.”

“Interesting.”

“People do strange things in hotel rooms, you know? Things they would never do at home. It looked bad, but it could have been some loony trying to give himself a body piercing. That would make me holler. I gave housekeeping the go-ahead to clean up. And then I got another call. The maid came across something else.”

Haskie walked to an old-fashioned filing cabinet, the kind Chee remembered Lieutenant Leaphorn using. Selecting a key from his key ring, he opened the top drawer. He thumbed through the folders, stopped, pulled out a Ziploc bag, and handed it to Chee. “She found this between the bed and the frame when she was changing the sheets.”

Inside the bag was a silver chain with a pendant and an index card. Chee recognized the necklace as a handmade Navajo piece, high-quality old silver with greenish-blue turquoise. Chee put the bag on the desk. “What’s the procedure when something valuable like this turns up?”

“The front office calls the guest. We say we found a piece of jewelry, a watch, a wallet, whatever. Have them ID it and then mail it off. That’s what we tried to do here, but the registration information turned out to be bogus or missing.”

“What do you mean?”

“We didn’t have a phone number. The letter we sent to the customers at the PO box they used for an address came back stamped ‘Unknown.’”

“When did this happen?”

“Early spring. I meant to talk to Bahe about it sooner, but when nothing came of it, I figured it was just people acting weird. Then I heard about what you found out there; I thought it wouldn’t hurt to mention it.”

Chee looked at the necklace again. “What’s on the card?”

“That’s the registration he filled out.”

“Could you give me a photo of this?”

“Give me a minute. Let’s do this right.” Haskie opened the bag and put the necklace on his desktop, adjusting it so the pendant, the clasp, and part of the chain were in the frame.

“Wait a second.” Chee reached into his pocket. “I think I’ve got a quarter or something we can use to show how big the stone is.” He pulled out the poker chip he’d found near the gravesite and put it by the pendant.

Haskie clicked off some shots. “I’ll send them to Bahe, too.”

Chee was impressed with how well the man had covered all the details. “So, why do you think this might be tied to the grave?”

“Whoever stayed at that room that night had something to hide. Otherwise, why not register with a real name? And there’s the blood.”

Haskie handed Chee a slip of paper. “Here’s the name of the maid, in case you want to talk to her. She’s off now, but will be back in the morning.”