“Anyone can make a mistake. It sounds like you’ve taken some pretty creative steps to fix things. Maybe Delahart will hire someone to come in and help you straighten things out.”
“Yeah.” She made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Without Samuel on the payroll, he’ll have some extra money for contract labor. But he’ll probably use it for nose candy.”
Chee opened the car door. “I’m going to talk to Robinson. You want to come?”
She shook her head. “Do you mind if I sit here a minute? I’m still figuring out what to do about this mess.”
Chee had the keys, his weapon, and his handcuffs with him. It was against regulations, but he didn’t see a problem. “That’s fine. Just be sure to lock the doors when you leave.”
It was, Chee knew, none of his business how the movie company handled its finances. Not his concern that Delahart stayed at an expensive hotel and ordered room service while a local guy who probably had a bunch of relatives he was helping out lost his job as a parking attendant because of budget cutbacks. His job, he reminded himself, was to serve the citation for the grave and to ask Robinson a few questions about his visit to the floor of the hotel where Delahart’s room was, and how he left without using the elevator.
As he walked toward the trailer, he replayed his conversation with Robinson about Samuel. Robinson hadn’t exactly said he was going to fire the man—he said he planned to “get rid of him.” Chee had interpreted that as the same thing. But maybe not.
He knocked on Robinson’s trailer door and noticed a young woman coming toward the place. Not exactly pretty, but handsome in an athletic-looking way. She looked familiar. Maybe he’d seen her in the food tent.
She stopped at the base of the steps. “Is Greg still here?”
“Robinson? I hope so. I’m waiting for him to answer the door.”
“He was upset after the meeting, dealing with so many angry people. They’re clueless. They don’t realize Delahart makes the money decisions. That dude is a coked-up rat bastard, but Robinson takes the blame.” She looked at Chee again. “He might be on the phone or something. We were going to fly out to Durango for a break from the heat. He was supposed to meet me at the car so we could head to the airstrip. Probably got a call.”
Chee knocked harder this time. “Mr. Robinson, it’s Officer Chee. I need to talk to you.”
“You’re a real cop?”
Only on a movie set would he be asked that question. Chee introduced himself.
“Sorry, I thought you were with the production. I’m Rhonda.”
“I hear you’re famous.”
“That’s me. Queen of the Zombies.” She flashed him a beautiful smile. “Are you here about Samuel?”
“Not exactly.” He didn’t want to elaborate.
She walked up the steps, knocked, and yelled. “Greg, open the door. It’s hot out here, honey. You need to talk to the policeman, and then we need to go.”
Nothing.
Rhonda pulled a key from her pocket, put it in the lock, and looked up at Chee. “You do it. I’m getting bad vibes here.”
17
Morning light nudged Bernie to wakefulness. It was already almost dawn. She ran, showered, had a bite of breakfast, put on her uniform for work later, and headed to Mama’s house. She wanted to talk to Mama about helping Bigman’s wife. If Mama had the energy, it might be a good solution to several problems.
As she drove, she thought about weaving. Making beautiful rugs took supple hands and multilevel thinking. Traditional Navajo weavers like her mother held several ideas in their mind simultaneously, moving one to the forefront and then another, focusing on details while simultaneously remembering the big picture and making the process seamless. She remembered how Mama could get lost in her weaving, sitting until it finally grew too dark to work and then stirring as if from a dream to consider what they’d have for supper or to ask about schoolwork. That was before arthritis took its terrible toll.
Darleen had the same ability to concentrate. When she was working on her drawings, it was as though she was in a trance. Weaving seemed to Bernie to be a more practical art, but at least her sister had something in her life that gave her pleasure and might be useful.
Bernie considered herself a practical, down-to-earth person. She liked facts, nailing down loose ends, corralling rowdy details one at a time and closing the case. She wanted to make the world a better place, not with art but in a concrete way. Her contribution as a police officer was to help make sure people like her mother and Darleen could live in peace.
If she hadn’t become a cop, she thought, she never would have met Chee, the man who made her life more beautiful. She’d come to a realization last night. Her husband would always love his work. She could be jealous of that passion, or accept it as something she’d known about him from the first day they met. It was who he was. And, she thought, loving his job didn’t mean that he didn’t love her, too.
She pulled up to Mama’s house and heard the blare of the TV through the open windows of her Toyota. Mrs. Darkwater’s big black-and-brown dog barked and charged at her car. It quieted down when she stopped. Bernie climbed out of the car and stiffened as the animal rushed to her. She thought it meant no harm, but she didn’t like dogs so close, sniffing at her. She hurried to the house and closed the door behind her.
The two elders sat side by side, watching a game show, one of those where the contestant gets the prize behind the door. They were giving the woman on the screen advice.
“No.” Mama leaned closer to the TV. “Pick number two.”
“You’re all right with number three,” Mrs. Darkwater said.
Bernie stood behind them. “Hello there, ladies.”
Mama patted the couch next to her, motioning Bernie to sit down. “Welcome, my daughter. You will like this show.”
Mrs. Darkwater moved over so Bernie could squeeze in next to Mama.
The woman on TV didn’t listen to Mama. She stayed with number three. The prize was a year’s supply of frozen pizzas. The shiny new RV was behind door number one.
The scene switched to commercials. Mrs. Darkwater said, “I heard that someone’s car got burned over there by Ship Rock.”
“It’s a bad place,” Mama said. “When people go out that way, things happen.”
“Did you hear why it happened?” Bernie asked.
Mrs. Darkwater spoke first “They don’t need a reason.” Bernie didn’t need to ask who “they” were. She could tell from Mrs. Darkwater’s tone that the reference was to skinwalkers.
Bernie wondered if her little sister was still asleep. Then she remembered that Darleen’s car was gone. “Where’s Sister?”
“Oh, she had to go to Farmington. She got a letter from the court.”
“Really? What did it say?”
“I don’t know. She said she didn’t understand it, so she drove over there.”
“Why didn’t she call them?”