Even though a person could acquire beautiful, healthy cacti with a money-back guarantee from nurseries, poaching had become a growing problem in the Southwest. Bernie had read about thieves in Arizona digging up heavy, centuries-old saguaros to sell for top dollar. Other poachers went after rarer varieties, sometimes on special assignment from plant collectors. The National Park Service tried to save cacti popular with poachers by inserting microchips in the plants to identify them if they arrived in the resale market, but plant thieves usually got away with it.
Since Bernie enjoyed botany, she understood that successful poaching involved more than simply heading into the desert with a shovel. Many cacti looked similar. Some needed time for exposed roots to harden before they could be replanted. Most, like Sclerocactus mesae-verde, didn’t transplant well. To make top money, the seller also needed a buyer who appreciated the rarity of the species as well as its beauty.
Miller had told her he made a living as a contractor. Wheeler had said the man also did landscaping, so the idea of his moonlighting as a cactus thief had some legs. Bernie found her list of numbers from his phone and printed it for Sandra to check. Perhaps some of the contacts were cactus customers. She remembered Miller saying that he loved the desert.
Then she argued against her theory. Miller struck her as a wheeler-dealer and a man in a hurry. Would those little plants have sold for more than $500? It seemed unlikely. She went back to “just a coincidence,” but that didn’t sit right either.
She sent Leaphorn a thank-you and asked if he could find out anything about the market value of the cacti. Then she had another thought. Maybe Aaron had been in on the deal, digging up the plants for Miller to sell. But it wasn’t Aaron’s number in Miller’s phone. It was his mother’s. She remembered Largo’s admonition: leave Miller to the feds. But Largo had instructed her to follow up on the burned car, and that brought her back to Miller.
She put the issue out of her mind and focused on polishing the Rotary talk until she couldn’t bear it, then went outside for some air.
Bigman had nabbed the spot in the shade where Largo usually parked, and was heading into the building. He greeted her, asking, “Did you ever come up with an idea of someone who could work with my wife on weaving?”
“I mentioned it to Mama. But don’t get your hopes up.”
“Did she say no?”
“She didn’t say anything. But she isn’t weaving anymore because of her arthritis and she gave away her loom.” Bernie watched the native grass at the edge of the parking lot move in the breeze, wishing she’d shared this news with Bigman earlier instead of leaving him disappointed. “But Mama still knows the weavers around her. She may come up with a name for you.”
“Could you tell your mother she wouldn’t have to weave much? Only enough so my wife could get the idea. I bet that loom they used to have out back at the Toadlena Trading Post is still there. Maybe they would let your mother use that. I could pick her up, drive them both over there, and then take her home.”
Bernie knew the bilagaana couple who ran the post, wonderful people who sometimes hosted tour groups in the century-old building and invited local weavers to offer demonstrations. Perhaps Mama could work with Mrs. Bigman there. But they’d run the risk of having an audience, not the best environment for a beginning weaver.
“I’ll talk to her about that.”
“Maybe it would be better if we stopped by to visit. Once she meets my wife, she might change her mind.”
“Mama likes company. But just remember that she hasn’t agreed to anything yet.”
Bigman cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s happening with your little sister and that incident in Farmington?”
“I don’t know.” That reminded her that Darleen had promised to call, and hadn’t. She sighed, and went back inside to finish the draft of her talk and print it before going home.
“Hey, Manuelito, you okay?” Sandra looked up from her desk as Bernie walked in. “You don’t look so good.”
“Really?”
“You seem kinda pale, girl. You know all the sugar and caffeine in Coke isn’t good for you. Rots your teeth, too.”
A Coke would be great, Bernie realized, but some cold water would suit her fine.
Sandra reached into her desk drawer. “Try this.”
“Thanks.” For a happy second Bernie thought it was candy, then realized Sandra had given her some kind of health snack, an energy bar. She’d tried them before, and they reminded her of sweetened cardboard.
“I have a message for you, too.”
“Cordova?”
“Oh, yeah, him, too. He’s on your voice mail. But this is the one I meant.” Sandra handed her a note from the Rotary organizer with home and cell phone numbers. Bernie smiled. Maybe the talk had been cancelled.
She called Cordova first. He sounded preoccupied. “Just checking to see if you’ve learned anything new about Miller that might be helpful.”
“You’re working late,” she said. “I’ve got some new info.”
“Go ahead.”
“You need to tell me why you’re interested.”
“No, I don’t, but nice try.”
“Why are you such a tough guy?”
“I was born this way. Just tell me what you’ve got, Manuelito.”
She told him about the truck driver who’d seen a man resembling Miller hitchhiking, and about the questionable cacti. He listened without interrupting, and then he said, “Thanks.”
“That’s all I get?”
“I’ll buy you a Coke next time I see you. Happier now?”
“No, of course not. If you guys were more cooperative—”
“Gotta go.” And he disconnected.
Bernie called the Rotary woman next.
“We’ve had a great response to your coming to talk. Lots of reservations. We’ve never had a representative from the Navajo Police. I’m so glad they are sending a woman. I know people will have a lot of interesting questions for you about your job and how you became a police officer.” She recommended that Bernie come a little early so she could meet the club’s officers and get a good parking spot.
So instead of leaving for home, Bernie looked over her speech again, made some changes, and printed out a new copy. The energy bar wasn’t half bad.
18
Chee turned the key in the door of Robinson’s trailer and heard the lock click. He saw Robinson lying on his back and instinctively stepped in front of Rhonda, blocking her entrance and her view with his body. Then he spoke calmly. “He’s hurt. Run to the office and ask BJ to call an ambulance. If there are any EMTs around, we could use them.”
“What? Why?”
“Do it. Then come back and keep everyone else out of here.” Chee had stepped into the room as he spoke, moving toward Robinson. From her gasp, he realized Rhonda had seen the blood.
“Oh, my God.” And then he heard her clatter down the steps and run.
Chee squatted down. Robinson’s chest rose and fell slightly with each breath. Chee scanned for something to use to stop the bleeding. There was a dish towel on the counter. He grabbed for it, knocking a sheet of paper to the floor, and pressed the towel against the chest wound.