Chee picked up the envelope and put it in his jacket pocket. “I will make sure this goes where it should.”
She studied his name tag. “Sergeant Jim Chee. Your Little Father was the singer, the one who married Blue Woman?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His uncle Frank Sam Nakai, his mother’s brother, was known as his Little Father in the Navajo system of relationships. He had died a few years ago. With his passing, Chee had put his own training as a hataali, what some people called a medicine man, on hold.
The woman nodded. “He did the ceremony for my grandson. After that, the boy promised he was done with drugs, with glue, spray, all that. He returned to the Navajo Way.”
Chee listened. He’d seen too many young lives destroyed by sniffing glue and hair spray. Cheap highs lethal to brain cells.
“Help me up. I have to go.”
They walked to her vehicle, a classic red-and-white Ford pickup. The woman now moved more steadily.
“You promise you will deliver that envelope?”
“I will.”
“I need two more things before I go. Do you have the card from the lady policeman?”
“Here it is.”
She slipped it into her skirt pocket and smiled at him for the first time. “Remember those peanuts?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He reached into his pocket and gave her the bag. Then he opened the truck door and she hoisted herself up into the driver’s seat. He closed the door and waited until the truck started before he returned to the meeting, past the protesters outside and the crowd in the hallway waiting for a vacant seat in the room.
The door to the room screeched again, and people turned to look as Chee entered. Dashee leaned against the wall by the foot of the stairs that led the stage. His friend looked sleepy, Chee thought, and that meant nothing had happened worth getting excited about.
10
Bernadette Manuelito could be patient when she had to be, with her mother for instance, or with a stressed-out crime victim. But she preferred action, movement, doing something, not wasting time waiting. Her tolerance for boredom was as thin as the paper-like piki bread the Hopi made.
She had called Leaphorn, left a message, sent an e-mail. Since she couldn’t reach him, she decided she’d stick with her plan to drive to Window Rock to see the Lieutenant and Louisa. Even before she got Largo’s message that Leaphorn wanted to talk to her, she’d wanted to talk to him.
On her drive, she called to check in with Mama and Darleen. Her sister answered the phone.
“So what did you find out?” She could hear the smile in Darleen’s voice. “Is CS a criminal or what?”
Bernie said, “Gosh, I haven’t had time to check.”
“The Cheeseburger’s there because of that Grand Canyon development, a big meeting, right?” Darleen didn’t wait for her response. “CS wants to go up and check it out. He heard that resort could harm some sacred sites, threaten endangered species, and do other bad stuff. He wants to make a video about saving the Grand Canyon or something. Cool, huh?”
Darleen talked about her classes. She didn’t mention the friends she liked to go drinking with, Bernie realized. Was that because sister wasn’t hanging with them now? Or because Darleen knew how Bernie felt about her partying? After they hung up, Bernie realized that she hadn’t asked about Mama.
Louisa came to the door and invited her in. The Lieutenant’s housemate looked better, more rested than when Bernie had seen her last, and they chatted a bit at the kitchen table.
“Nice of you to stop by. Jim’s not with you today?”
“He has an assignment in Tuba City because of that big meeting about the Grand Canyon.”
“I love the Grand Canyon, don’t you?” She didn’t wait for Bernie to answer. “Joe’s in his office, looking forward to helping you with whatever you’re working on. Would you care for some tea?”
Louisa’s tea, brewed from an allegedly health-promoting herb Bernie had never heard of, had an aroma that reminded Bernie of sweat socks begging for a trip to the laundry. Lemon and honey couldn’t do much to make it better. Bernie had grown up drinking what her family called Navajo Tea. Mama gave it to her when she had an upset stomach. Louisa’s tea was enough to give her a tummy ache.
“No, thank you.” Bernie extended her water bottle. “I’m all set.”
“I know you need to talk about police business. I’ll make some tea for us. I’ll bring you both a mug with lemon and honey when it’s ready. You go on now.”
“Oh, please don’t worry about that. I can’t stay long at all.”
“No trouble.” Louisa turned on the burner. “You get your business done.”
The Lieutenant was sitting straighter than when she’d last visited. Returning to work had helped his recovery from the head wound more effectively than any prescription or therapy.
He glanced up from the laptop when she entered his office and motioned her to a chair, patting the seat with the palm of his hand. She watched him at the keyboard, specially modified to type in Navajo, obviously absorbed in something. He finished what he was typing and turned to her.
“Yá’át’ééh.”
His speech had improved slightly, but communication both through the computer and face-to-face was easiest for him in Navajo. That was fine with Bernie. Although he’d spoken English for decades, now it posed a challenge that created a roadblock in resuming his work as a consultant with non-Navajos who had used Leaphorn’s crime-solving services in the past. Louisa could speak a few words of Navajo, and understood more. Bernie had noticed that they seemed to communicate effectively on a nonverbal level.
She talked about her family and Chee’s Tuba City assignment for a few minutes; then Leaphorn changed the subject. “Tell me about the explosion.”
She looked down at her hands, assembling her thoughts. “I was the first cop on the scene. The feds think the man killed in the explosion—” She stopped. “Did you know about that?”
Leaphorn nodded.
“They think he was collateral damage—a would-be car thief in the wrong place. They’ve moved on to radical environmental types who made threats against the mediator. But the more I think about what I saw, about the dead man, the more questions I have.”
Bernie glanced out the window at the porch. She remembered the red hummingbird feeders Louisa hung there that drew the dahetihhe, small bits of flashing feathers with voracious appetites. The constant activity buzzed on from late spring until the end of summer. Now the porch looked empty, quiet.
She said, “What if I tell you everything I observed out there, step by step as it unfolded, and about the interview with the dead man’s grandmother?”