Spider Woman's Daughter (6 page)

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 traditional, 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

A
fter 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.

“Oh, never mind that.” Louisa’s words came in a rush. “A boring one. Bernie, it must have been awful for you, watching Joe get shot like that.”

Bernie said, “I’m off work for a few days, but Largo says that’s just routine. He asked me to track down the lieutenant’s closest relatives, just in case. Can you give me any names, contact info?”

“Joe didn’t have any brothers or sisters left. His parents, that whole generation of his family, had either died or he was out of touch with them. He has the addresses of a few cousins—I guess they are cousins—in his little notebook. He’d send checks now and then.”

“The brown book he kept in his pocket?” Chee asked.

“Always. Are you going to see him?” Louisa said.

“Tomorrow, if he’s allowed to have visitors,” Bernie said.

Chee raised his eyebrows. Bernie hated hospitals.

“What conference is it you’re going to in Houston, in case we need to reach you?” he asked.

“Just call my cell. You’ve got the number now. Give Joe my love and stay safe out there, both of you. Gotta go.”

Louisa hung up.

“What do you think?” Chee asked.

“She’s lying about something. But not about caring for the lieutenant.”

“Did you notice that she denied shooting him before we even had a chance to ask her?”

“That must have been some argument,” Bernie said. “Louisa is in Albuquerque, just an hour from Santa Fe and the hospital. Why would she head on to a boring conference rather than be with Leaphorn? They’ve shared a house for years. ”

“He went with her to some of those conferences. He’d be reading in the hotel while she was at the sessions. I remembered him saying that those academic types live in their own world and how Navajos ought to plant an observer there, write a book about their unusual cultural practices.”

Bernie started a pot of coffee while Chee called Cordova. Then he hooked up the laptop, powered on, and inserted the disc. Shiprock, unlike some places on the reservation, had fairly reliable Internet service, in part because of its government offices and the pressure they put on the powers that be to acknowledge that the twenty-first century had arrived, even in rural New Mexico.

She pulled a chair around so she could see the computer screen. “Louisa is hiding something. Why wouldn’t she tell us what kind of a conference it was? Or where in Houston she’d be staying? If she’s even going to Houston.”

“I bet you the FBI goes down that trail. Looks into it as a possible murder for hire,” Chee said.

Bernie laughed. “You’ve watched too many DVDs from that bargain bin. Louisa hires Jackson Benally or Leonard Nez?”

“Well, it’s hard to find a professional assassin in Window Rock. You might have to take what you can get, settle for college kids.”

Bernie said, “Even the FBIs aren’t that lame.”

“I’ll bet you a dinner.”

“Steak?”

“Shake.”

He got up, poured two cups of coffee, stirred the requisite two teaspoons of sugar into Bernie’s, left his as it came from the pot.

She took a sip. “What about the lieutenant’s mysterious cousins?”

“Ah, now you’re the one thinking like an FBI. If Leaphorn is giving them money, they want him to live as long as possible.”

“I meant, I need to find some relatives to let them know what happened, like Largo asked. I’ll get that notebook when I go to the hospital tomorrow.”

Bernie saw him frown. Start to speak, probably to try to discourage her from making the four-hour one-way drive, then yield to studying the computer screen. She’d taught him that he couldn’t talk her out of anything once she’d made up her mind. No more than she could convince him that the lieutenant would have trusted Jim Chee, the same man who wasn’t always the best cop on the force, to run the Navajo end of this investigation.

“You were going to say something?”

“Tell the lieutenant hello for me.”

Leaphorn, they quickly learned, had been busy until the end of his official police career and as a consultant to the force. Cases ranged from sheep and cattle rustling to domestic violence, burglary, bootlegging, and drug sales. Most of his arrests had resulted in convictions. Bernie made a second shorter list of those who had been released without charges, in case they held a grudge.

They reviewed the cases for an hour, finding nothing interesting enough to be the motive for attempted murder. Bernie got up, poured them more coffee, switched off the pot. When she sat back down, she noticed something.

“Here’s a case where the bad guy seems to have vanished.” She tapped the keyboard. “Looks like insurance fraud involving a rug from the Long Walk.”

“I think you and I did some background work for the lieutenant on that one,” Chee said.

“I recall talking to him about it. He came to the house with a basket of gifts from him and Louisa right after we got back from our honeymoon. He mentioned this guy named Delos and how people thought he might be a shape shifter and how he had stolen a bunch of money and was exploiting this man from Laos who worked for him.”

“That was some story,” Chee said. “We never did get a straight answer from the lieutenant on what happened to Delos.”

“I don’t see anything in the file about that either,” Bernie said.

“I’ll add it to my list of things to look into tomorrow when I start on the PI files. But we have the problem of tying him in to the Benally car.”

They worked quietly awhile longer.

“This is interesting,” Bernie said. “Nothing to do with the Benally family, but you were involved. This man, Randall Elliot, killed a Utah rancher, and almost killed a woman he worked with. Then he disappeared. If he’s still out there . . .”

“I’ll never forget that case.” Chee stood, stretched. “Leaphorn rafted down the San Juan, hiked into a rugged rocky canyon, and found the missing woman barely alive after Elliot almost killed her. That Elliot guy, an archaeologist, came back in a helicopter to finish her off. I got there in time to help the lieutenant carry her out—she would have died in the next day or two if he hadn’t found her. Elliot disappeared before I arrived, and Leaphorn never talked about what happened before I got there.”

“And?”

“Someone found human bones in the area the next spring. DNA matched them to Elliott.”

“Too bad. He would have been the perfect suspect.”

They went back to work. The notion of Jackson Benally or Leonard Nez shooting a cop as part of a gang initiation didn’t seem as far-fetched as it had an hour ago.

After another hour, Chee walked over to where Bernie sat, put his hands on her shoulders. She felt her tense muscle relax with his firm massage. “You know, you could have been killed today. Instead of celebrating our good fortune, here we are, still working at midnight.”

“I’ll feel like celebrating when we find the guy who shot the lieutenant,” she said. “You ready for bed?”

He smiled. “Was that a question or an invitation?”

I
n the quiet afterward, she noticed the subtle change in Chee’s breathing as he fell more deeply asleep. She stretched her legs against the cool sheets, wide awake. A coyote began to sing somewhere along the San Juan. She thought about Leaphorn’s empty house, about the lieutenant alone in a hospital bed—if he were still alive. She rewound the day: the breakfast, the phone call, the shot, the bleeding on the sunbaked pavement, the ambulance. She tried to focus on the getaway car: Had there been a second person inside? Was it really the Benally car?