He was surprised to see so many in the food tent. People dressed in tatters, decorated with makeup that made them look pale and ugly, sat chatting with others wearing shorts and T-shirts, eating together as if dinner with zombie guests was perfectly normal.
“We do a lot of filming at night.” Robinson looked around at the crowd. “We love this moonlight.”
Chee selected a thickly handsome roast beef on rye, served with a pickle. The apple pie in the dessert case made him think of Lieutenant Leaphorn and how the man loved almost anything sweet. He examined the machine that made coffee—a fancy glass-and-stainless-steel contraption. The device offered half a dozen choices and could have even given him a double café macchiato—whatever that was. He pushed a button that read “Dark Roast Hawaiian.”
He sat across from Robinson, watching as the man carved off a forkful of tomato with a green leaf—some herb—on top and a soft white platform beneath it. “What’s that you’re eating?”
Robinson put his fork down. “It’s called a Caprese salad—sliced tomato, fresh basil, and fresh mozzarella cheese. It’s good. Movie companies eat well. We buy some stuff out here, but we have food suppliers who cater to our whims and charge accordingly. It costs an arm and a leg to bring union food trucks out here, but it’s a requirement for any big production.” He picked up the fork and cut a bite of cheese and tomato. “Are you a movie fan?”
“I work a lot at night, but my wife and I go when we can. Or watch them on video.”
“Maybe you know some of the ones I’ve been involved in.” Robinson mentioned names that sounded vaguely familiar to Chee. “This is the biggest job we’ve done. Delahart, he’s the producer, finds investors, and Missy and I try to make the money last as long as possible.”
Chee finished the sandwich and mentioned the grave.
“No kidding? Here we are making a movie about zombies, and you find a grave? How strange is that? Maybe one of those missing miners, those guys who got the buttes named for them, maybe he’s buried there. You and Missy might go down in history.”
“No. It’s new, still mounded up. Did the company get special permission for it?”
“Not that I know of. This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Robinson took another bite of his salad. “So, are there Navajo zombies? Do you guys worry about that?”
Chee considered the fact that Robinson didn’t want to talk about the grave, and what that meant. “No, not zombies. Some people believe in skinwalkers, shape-shifters who come out, usually at night, to cause trouble. And there are evil spirits that linger after a person dies, making problems. Our ghosts are more complicated.” The old ones believed that talking about chindis called them forth. Chee was ready to change the subject.
Robinson nodded. “When things go haywire it’s nice to have something to blame that’s beyond our control. I think that’s one reason people like horror movies. That, and they like to be scared.”
“Do you enjoy watching them?”
“Well, horror movies tend to do well at the box office. At least, that’s what we’re hoping.”
Chee tried bringing the conversation back to the reason for his visit once again. “What can you tell me about the grave?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” Robinson looked at the clock over the food line. “I’ve got to run. Have some dessert if you’d like. They do a good job with the pie. Thanks for finding Missy.”
As he savored the last of his coffee, Chee noticed three Navajo men in the food line. When they settled in at a table, he selected a piece of apple pie—a juicy one, in the Lieutenant’s honor—and introduced himself to the men, mentioning his cousin Paul.
The one who called himself Randy wore a black Stetson with a band of small silver conchos. He motioned to Chee to join them. “I know that guy. Good man. I remember him from high school. I heard that he got one of those big old Jeeps they used at Canyon de Chelly.”
Chee told them the story about the People Mover and Paul’s tour business, and then they sat in silence for a while.
“So did they hire you to be an actor?” Randy asked.
“No. I’m a real cop. I got called to find a missing lady who wasn’t really missing. Then I got invited to have a sandwich.”
All the men nodded. “You are having a good evening,” Randy said.
When Chee finally asked, none of them had anything to say about the grave. But they didn’t seem surprised at the question.
Chee had just opened the door of his unit, ready to drive back, when Robinson jogged up.
“Glad I caught you. We’ve got some trespassers. Our security guy was going to give them a warning, but they turned belligerent. Can you help us?”
“Where are they?”
Robinson pointed to a trailer. “Over there in the production office. The guard is waiting for you with them.”
“OK, I’ll be there in a minute.”
He radioed the station with the news about the trespassers and Robinson’s professed ignorance of the grave. Bahe had gone home, but Monica filled him in. “We handle those trespass calls every once in a while. Usually bored local kids.”
But instead of Navajos, Chee found two young white women and a well-muscled rent-a-cop. His name badge read “Samuel.” Chee wondered if that was his first name or his last.
“Yá’át’ééh.” Chee introduced himself to the guard.
Samuel didn’t return the greeting. “What happened to Tsinnie?” Leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, he turned his gaze from the girls to Chee.
“I don’t know. I’m the new guy. Temporary help.”
Samuel uncrossed his arms, moving his hands to his hips. “Well, you need to arrest these two for trespassing and having an illegal firearm. And for being smart-asses.”
The suspects, squeezed together knee-to-knee on a love seat against the office wall, looked to Chee to be in their late teens. They stared at the floor.
“So, trespassing and a firearm. What happened?”
Samuel studied one girl, then the other—focusing long enough to make them uneasy, Chee noticed. “I was driving patrol when I heard something up by one of the cast trailers. I drove over to check it out, and I saw these idiots outside Rhonda’s place, trying to break in.”
The girl in the black T-shirt with a silver ring in her eyebrow looked up. “We weren’t—”
“Just a minute. Let him talk. You’ll get your turn.” Chee spoke to the security guard. “Who’s Rhonda?”
Samuel looked at Chee as though he thought the officer was an idiot.
“Rhonda Delay. Even you people out in the sticks here must have heard of her. She’s our star, man. She’s queen of the zombies. She’s the one who causes the headaches when numbskulls like these two try to sneak in for an autograph or a picture of her.” Samuel made a sound, a humorless laugh. “Nobody should be back there where she’s at. Strictly off limits. I rolled down the window, told them to move away from the trailer. Instead, they took off.”
“We didn’t—”