Spider Woman's Daughter (9 page)

Davis interrupted. “Good. Never touch those pots. I never touch them without gloves.” She walked over to it. “The design on the back is a mirror image. Two spiders with their legs meeting to create a web of perfect black lines. A masterpiece.”

“Interesting,” Bernie said.

Davis said, “Navajo Nation Police Department? You’re a long way from home. Have you been to the AIRC before?”

“First time.”

“You should stop in at our museum. We’re famous for our Pueblo pottery collection, which has some very rare ancient pieces.”

“If I come up to Santa Fe again, I’ll take a look.”

The big door to the interior office opened and a tall man, soft in the middle, stepped out. His gray hair had thinned, showing the pink of his scalp. He wore gold-framed glasses, a navy suit, and an eagle bolo of silver and turquoise in place of a necktie.

The receptionist said, “Dr. Collingsworth, this is Officer Manuelito. She’s here with a special delivery for you. Dr. Davis and I were just encouraging her to tour the museum before she heads off.”

The receptionist handed him the envelope Bernie brought. Collingsworth glanced at the precise, handwritten address, felt the weight. “Did Mr. Leaphorn ask you to drop it off?”

“No.” Bernie thought for a moment. “The lieutenant is in the hospital. I found this in his truck, and as long as I was coming to see him, I decided to bring it.”

“Hospital? I hope it’s nothing serious.”

Bernie considered how much to say. “He was shot.”

“Shot?” Collingsworth’s eyes widened. “How terrible.”

Davis said, “I saw something on TV last night about a retired Navajo cop who was ambushed in a parking lot. Was that him?”

“Yes.”

“Any suspects?” Davis asked.

“It’s under investigation,” Bernie said. “I can’t talk about what happened to Lieutenant Leaphorn.”

“Leaphorn. Unusual name. But I shouldn’t talk. When they see my first name, people assume I’m a guy.” She looked at Bernie. “Probably the same with you. It keeps people off guard, doesn’t it?”

Collingsworth stared at the envelope. “Was this all Leaphorn had for me?” He pointed a manicured nail to the right bottom corner, where Leaphorn had noted “2 of 2,” with tight little circles around the 2s.

“That’s all I found,” Bernie said. “I opened it, and the one you’ll find inside, because his shooting is under investigation.”

Collingsworth opened the envelope and carefully pulled out the smaller business-size envelope and the photocopies. He opened the smaller envelope, extracted the single sheet of paper. He read it quickly.

“Officer Manuelito, are you sure you don’t have anything else for me from Mr. Leaphorn?”

“What you see is all I have.”

“Can you give me his number at the hospital? I need to talk to him about this right away.”

“No, sir. He’s in a coma and on a breathing machine.”

Collingsworth crushed the sheet of paper into a ball and hurled it toward the wastebasket. Bernie watched it bounce off the rim onto the floor. “When I hired him—and he came highly recommended—I explained exactly what the job entailed. A simple little job. We joked about how he’d find it tedious. I never expected this. I never expected him to act less than honorably.”

“I don’t know what the issue is here.” Bernie spoke slowly, weighing each word. “But I can say that in all the years I’ve known the lieutenant, he has always been a man of honor. Always. Always. What was in that missing package?”

Davis looked as if she was going to say something just as the office phone rang. The secretary picked it up, then signaled Davis that the call was for her. “Nice to meet you, Bernie,” she said as she walked away.

Bernie said, “Dr. Collingsworth, let’s step into your office. I need to talk to you in private.”

“Why?”

“I need to find out what the lieutenant was doing for you, how he betrayed your trust. We can do this here if you prefer.” Bernie was used to conversations with folks who had broken the law. Drunks. Wife beaters. Embarrassed tourists she pulled over for ignoring the reservation speed limit. She trusted her ability to defuse difficult situations, but she didn’t like this angry white man.

Collingsworth hesitated. “Of course.” He motioned her to walk ahead of him. “You know the man better than I. Perhaps I’m wrong about him, and you can correct my misimpression.” The tone of his voice said he doubted it.

Collingsworth settled his bulk behind the large desk, an old piece that looked hand-carved. Bernie sat in a padded leather chair. She pulled a notebook and a pen from her backpack.

“What kind of work was the lieutenant doing for the AIRC?”

Collingsworth said, “Our institute has been approached by the Grove McManus Foundation. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it, but it’s one of the largest private foundations in the world.”

Bernie forced herself to ignore his arrogance. Collingsworth continued.

“The foundation, headquartered in Japan, wishes to give us their entire holdings of pottery from the American Southwest, wonderful modern examples from every Rio Grande Pueblo, including some that are extinct, and Hopi and Zuni. The gift also includes ancient pieces from Chaco Canyon and its outliers. Not only are the pots themselves significant, but the gift also includes a substantial financial endowment to assist in research and cataloging. This will make the items and information about them accessible to scholars and qualified researchers around the world. The AIRC will become an international repository for select examples of priceless pottery, some created long before European contact, including art that has never been accessible or exhibited before. And on top of that—”

Bernie’s police training trumped her ingrained Navajo politeness. She interrupted. “Talk to me about the lieutenant.”

Collingsworth folded his hands in front of him. “With a major donation of this kind, every institution will do some vetting. That’s where Mr. Leaphorn came in. The McManus Foundation assembled its holdings from numerous private collectors over the decades. We need an accurate appraisal value for insurance purposes and tax reasons. Making sure the figures the foundation provided meshed with current values was one of Leaphorn’s tasks.”

She knew Leaphorn did insurance work; double-checking appraisals for accuracy probably came easy to him. “I understand.”

He continued. “The AIRC’s statement of governance requires that a Native American expert do the vetting whenever any additions are proposed to the collection,” he said. “A board member who had previously worked with Mr. Leaphorn recommended him as our insurance consultant. When I interviewed Mr. Leaphorn, I was impressed with his knowledge and his interest in cultural issues. I thought we had found one consultant qualified for both jobs. It pleased me that Leaphorn agreed to take the assignment.”

He removed his glasses, studied the lenses, put them back on. “I apologize for my outburst back there. I appreciate your bringing the envelope. I didn’t mean to shoot the messenger, so to speak.”

“What’s missing?”

“The report I hired him to write, and a summary of findings. The deadline was yesterday. But this is my problem, not yours. ”

Collingsworth stood. “I apologize again for acting like such an ill-tempered dolt.” He took a step toward the door.

Bernie ignored his signal. She kept her seat, planning what to ask next. She heard the music of falling water coming in through the open window behind him. The garden must have a fountain, but she couldn’t see it. Her glance swept over the priceless handmade Acoma pots on the shelves as she framed her question.

“I’m a little confused,” she said. “The lieutenant knows a lot about insurance and insurance fraud, but he never claimed to be a cultural expert. Explain that part to me.”

Collingsworth managed a faint smile. “As Mr. Leaphorn and I discussed, the cultural review was a formality, and only necessary with the Chaco material. These are old pots, not ceremonial artifacts or
Katsinas
or prayer sticks. A cultural anthropologist had vetted them in the 1990s when he approached the McManus family about collaborating on a book. That expert found nothing so sensitive that it could not be featured in the book or photographed. I included his detailed report in the information I gave Mr. Leaphorn. The two of us agreed that if he discovered anything he thought might be in the least offensive or sensitive, the institution would hire an expert to vet the item.”

He leaned toward Bernie. “Just so we’re clear on this, nothing I asked of Mr. Leaphorn was dangerous. I’d call it bureaucratic paperwork, dotting the i’s, crossing the t’s. I can’t imagine any of this is worth shooting someone over.”

Bernie said, “When did you speak to him last?”

“He called last week with some questions, promised to mail his report that afternoon. The envelope never arrived. When I saw you, I thought you had delivered it.”

“You assumed a Navajo Police officer would be delivering mail to you?”

She saw Collingsworth swallow. Let him think about it a minute. Then she said, “Knowing the lieutenant, I’m sure he sent the report as promised. He’s one of the most conscientious people I know. He never does anything halfway. My guess is that he wanted time to figure out his expenses, add up his mileage, and sent the bill and the research material you’d loaned him separately. He labeled it two of two. I found a new package of envelopes in his truck. Maybe that’s why this one was just not ready to mail. And we all realize the post office has its problems. Maybe the first envelope is still in the mail.”

“I asked him to send it FedEx, safer that way, but he said he didn’t want us to have to pay the extra shipping charge,” Collingsworth said.

Bernie stood and took a business card from the front pocket of her backpack. “Call me if you think of anything that might be relevant to our investigation into the shooting.”

Collingsworth put the card on his desktop. “Officer, if by chance that report turns up in the process of your investigation, I’d be grateful if you or someone on your staff could call me.”

She noticed his change in attitude. “Of course.”

“If you can spare another few minutes, I’ll ask Marjorie to show you some pots similar to the ones we hope to receive. Mr. Leaphorn enjoyed the tour very much.”

“Marjorie?”

“Marjorie Rockwell, my secretary.”

Marjorie, Bernie realized, relished an opportunity to get away from her desk. They strolled from her office along a shaded gravel path. Simple signs shaped like arrows pointed the way to the museum. At the front door, Marjorie slid her ID card into the slot. The light switched from red to green, and she motioned for Bernie to go in.

A huge black pot with sensuously rounded sides stood beneath a spotlight just inside the entryway. The clay sparkled. The shape reminded Bernie of the hoodoos at the Bisti badlands. Man imitating nature, and making changes.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Marjorie said. “Mr. Leaphorn stood here for five minutes. Said he couldn’t believe a single person had created something so perfect. A potter from Nambe Pueblo made this.”

“It’s amazing,” Bernie said. “I see why the lieutenant liked it. I can understand why Dr. Davis is so passionate about this collection.”

Marjorie chuckled. “Passionate? She’s an absolute fanatic. The pots are her life. She’s here early, late. She’s always been obsessed, but now she’s working herself into a frenzy over the acquisition.”

They walked past the reception desk into a big room with tables in the center and long rows of shelves stretching in three directions. A woman, a Pueblo Indian, Bernie surmised, sat at one of the tables, copying images from a pot shaped like a melon. Bernie noticed she was wearing gloves. At the far end an Anglo man, also wearing gloves, examined a tiny basket with a magnifying glass. He made notes on a yellow legal pad.

Marjorie pointed out a hallway that threaded past the displays to the storage area in back of the building.

“Is that where the new collection will go?”

“Oh, no.” Marjorie headed toward one section of shelves. “The McManus ceramics will be displayed here in the front. We exhibit selections on a rotating basis until we can build the new wing to showcase it all. That’s driving all of us crazy. We’ll have state-of-the-art temperature and humidity controls, first-rate security, and well-lit space for scholars who come to study with us.”

As they strolled, Marjorie pointed out some of the collection’s treasures. Painted hides. Beaded breastplates. Pueblo Indian dance kilts. Bernie stopped at what looked like a pile of gray chenille with bits of old twine interspersed.

“Is this a turkey feather blanket?”

“That’s right,” Marjorie said.

“I’ve heard of these but never seen one. It’s fascinating. What a great way to stay warm.”

“Since you like weaving, let me show you some of our rugs.”

Past the shelves, they came to a hallway with a series of small rooms. Marjorie opened one of the doors. The lights came on automatically. Bernie saw a Two Grey Hills rug, one of the most elegantly designed she had ever encountered, spread on a table. Other rugs rolled like cigars lay stored on the shelves.

“Wow,” she said. “That rug is gorgeous.” She longed to touch it, to feel the weaver’s energy. “Do you know who made it?”

“Unfortunately, no. Are you a weaver?”

“My mother and my grandmothers were weavers. And my aunts. A rug like this takes my breath away.”

“Then let me show you something else.” Marjorie punched in a code to open the door to let them out, and they continued down the hall to another little room. The lights came on. Displayed against the wall was the most spectacular Navajo rug Bernie had ever seen.

“Hosteen Klah,” Marjorie said. “Eighteen eighty.”

Bernie recognized elements from the sacred story of the emergence of the Holy People into the Glittering World, the earth modern Diné share with the rest of humanity. She saw the four sacred mountains, the sun, moon, and major stars. The weaver had created the Hero Twins, Child Born of Water and Monster Slayer. Bernie sucked in a deep breath. This was the holy grail of the Navajo way of life from a time when many, including Klah, thought the Diné might disappear. Klah, a respected
hataalii
, or what the
bilagaana
call a medicine man, sought to preserve the Navajo way by re-creating his intricate healing sand paintings as tapestries. The rugs also created enormous controversy.