“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.”