Winslow had seen its share of ups and downs. A thriving railroad town, a trade center where Navajo and Hopi met, and a village that wore its Route 66 heritage like a badge of honor now welcomed tourists on their way to or from the Grand Canyon or Albuquerque. Leaphorn gave Louisa a five-cent tour, starting at another Hubbell Trading Post, the traders’ center for shipping fleece, rugs, and more to East Coast markets. Then they walked to the Standin’ on the Corner Park.
“I haven’t thought of that Eagles song for a long time. When was it a hit, sometime in the 1970s?” She sang a few bars. “Those were the days.”
They strolled over to look at the mural that showed the girl in a flatbed Ford from the song. A couple of gray-haired tourists were taking a photo next to the life-sized bronze of a young man with a guitar.
At El Falcon, they sat at a table with a view of local traffic and waited for Mary. Leaphorn took a chair facing the door and another mural, a large painting of a town on a beach. When the waitress returned with ice water and plastic-coated menus, he asked about it.
“Oh, the original owners here were Greek and had that commissioned as a reminder of their old home. We’re all so used to it we forget it’s there.”
Like a lot of things, he thought, including the interesting woman who sat across from him. He realized that he had grown so accustomed to Louisa’s presence that he’d forgotten to tell her how much he admired her and enjoyed her friendship.
He was preparing to say just that when he saw a Navajo woman arrive alone. Sunlight from the window shimmered on her black hair. He motioned to her, and she walked toward their table. She took a seat at the end of the table, between him and Louisa. They got the introductions and pleased-to-meet-yous out of the way.
“This place gets busy later.” Mary picked up her menu. “Let’s order, and then we can talk.”
“Speaking of that, Joe is more comfortable speaking in Navajo, and I’m fine with it. If it’s something I need to hear, he’ll speak English.”
“Louisa, you don’t speak Navajo?”
“I don’t. I’m afraid I don’t have the ear for it.”
Leaphorn said, “From your name, I wasn’t expecting you to understand Diné Bizaad very well. I’m glad you do.”
“I understand better than I can speak.” She said it in English. “It’s wonderful to hear Navajo again. And my last name, Nestor? That came from my late husband. He was killed in Afghanistan.”
She was younger than most widows, only forty at most.
The waitress told them about the chicken taco and steak salad specials and took their orders. Then Mary leaned across the table toward them. “I’m exploiting your offer to buy me lunch. You two made the trip for nothing. I can’t tell you anything about a box of gifts.”
“Please don’t say that.” Louisa’s voice had the tone she probably used with her students when they disappointed her. “The lady who received the donations is my friend. She got so excited when she realized what you had sent. Especially because, from what you wrote, one of the pieces has an important link to Fort Sumner.”
“Fort Sumner?”
“The Long Walk?”
Mary shrugged.
“Joe should explain.”
Leaphorn studied Mary’s face for clues that she was faking ignorance. Didn’t see any.
“Hwéeldi.” He hoped that hearing it in Navajo might jar her memory.
She raised her shoulders to her ears again.
Leaphorn spoke, in some detail, about the forced eviction of the People from their sacred homelands by the US government, their grueling march across much of New Mexico to an internment camp they shared with the Mescalero Apaches. He mentioned the children and elderly who died on the way, the years of illness, hunger, and sadness, and the survivors’ joy when they returned to the heart of Dinetah instead of being shipped off to Oklahoma.
The waitress brought their meals. Mary listened, her hands in her lap, her food untouched.
“Every Navajo alive today is an heir to this time of sorrow and to the resurgence that followed. Our grandparents’ fortitude when they returned to start over is why we Navajo not only survived but grew strong again.”
As he spoke, he realized that if Mary didn’t know about Hwéeldi, she could not have described the missing dress. He needed to learn more about her. When he stopped talking, he saw the tears in her eyes.
“I remember learning something about this in school, but I was too young to understand how terrible it was. What an outrage! My shimásani never talked about that, but she, or at least my great-grandparents, must have experienced that terrible time. When I visit my father, I’ll ask him if he can share the stories he has heard.”
She looked at her untouched sandwich. “You know, my grandmother was always careful about food. She never wasted anything. If my sisters or I dared to complain about what she gave us to eat, she frowned that terrible frown of hers and we ate. Do you think that was because of Hwéeldi?”
Leaphorn took a sip of his coffee. “All our families were touched by Hwéeldi, one way or another. Even those who fled the soldiers and hid suffered. That’s why my client, Mrs. Pinto, was happy when she noticed a dress on the inventory list related to the Long Walk. The weaving could be a way to open discussion between the generations, to educate young people who don’t understand the way the survivors rebuilt our culture. According to your note, the biil was created by a very powerful and famous woman, one of the leaders who helped us grow into what we are today.”
He paused, but she didn’t protest or ask a question, so he continued.
“To have an item created by Juanita’s own hands, her brain, her heart, in a place where many of our people could appreciate it, would be very important to our Diné history. But the biil never arrived.”
Mary pursed her lips and exhaled. She spoke in English now, and rapidly. “You’ve got this all wrong. All I did was take that box to the post office. I am the one who mailed the box but not the one who gave those things away.”
Louisa looked surprised, but Leaphorn recalled his first phone conversation with Mary and the voices in the background. “I appreciate you coming to talk with us. I need to contact the person who made the donation and gave you the box to mail.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“I can give you my information, and you can ask the person to call me or, if you prefer, to call my client, Mrs. Pinto, now that you understand why this is important.”
She shook her head again and squeezed her lips together.
Louisa could help with this, he decided, so he moved to English. “You packed da box?”
“No. I offered to help, but he’s very particular about that old stuff. He should have gotten rid of some of it when he closed his gallery, but those things had memories of when he was a young man. Some go back even before he and Barbara moved to Winslow.” She paused. “I can’t say anything else. I’d lose my job and, worse, he would know I had betrayed him. He might hate me.”
Leaphorn took a bite of his meatloaf, waiting for what Mary would add.
Louisa put down her iced tea glass. “I understand. We don’t want to get you into trouble. I haven’t been to Winslow before. It seems like an interesting town. Have you lived here long?”
“Since I was seventeen.”
“So you didn’t grow up here?”
“No, my family is from a little place between Window Rock and Gallup.”
“That’s beautiful country.”
“It is. I miss it, but this is home to me now.”
Leaphorn ate a bite of mashed potato, watching as Mary uncrossed her arms and nibbled at her sandwich.
“Winslow must have seemed like a big city to you at first.” Louisa smiled that smile he’d seen when she was doing her oral history interviews. “Did your family have relatives or friends here?”
“I didn’t move here with my family. They stayed near Window Rock. My sister and I came out together, but she left and it was just me.”
“Wow. At seventeen. Was that an adventure for you?”
“It was. I came to help a lady who had volunteered as a VISTA worker at our high school. At the end of my senior year, she and her husband decided to move because he had an opportunity to open a gallery here in Winslow. I had just graduated, so she asked me and my older sister if we could help drive and get her new house in order. I had already been driving for a year and my dad was OK with it.”
Louisa said, “I know some fathers who would have objected, even grown angry.”
“Angry? He lost his temper once in a while, but only when we had it coming. Dad always told us how much we girls meant to him. He said he would miss me and that I was always welcome to come home, but that he knew I would be fine. The confidence he had in me gave me the courage to say yes. It was hard work, but it was fun, too.”
Mary smiled at the memory. “It was hot and exhausting, but I liked it. My sister went home. Then the lady got sick and it turned out to be cancer. I stayed and helped her and filled in at the gallery. By the time Barbara was done with her radiation and the chemo, well, it was like I was part of the family, or at least part of the business. They invited me to remain here and I did.”
“Was the gallery nearby?”
“Everything’s close here. It was a great location, right downtown. We were always busy during the tourist season, and we shipped a lot of art to buyers who came on those bus tours. I miss it.”
“When did the gallery close?”
“He shut down his art business about two years ago. Since then he’s been selling things online. I usually take a box or two to the post office each week.”
Louisa nodded. “It sounds like they really appreciate what you do for them.”
“They’re good people. They don’t have any kids, so they treat me like family.”
Leaphorn cleared his throat. “Can you tell me where the items in the box came from?”
She answered too quickly. “I don’t exactly know.” She repeated in English.
Leaphorn took another bite of meatloaf. Even though the meal was cold, it was still tasty, and like Mary, he had been trained never to waste food.
“I understand that you’re not sure. But what would you guess?”
She answered in English, and he interpreted that as a sign of stress. “Well, since the box went to the Navajo Museum, I’d guess that what he packed could have come from his private collection. It was either that or from the inventory he moved from the gallery to the house after the shop closed.”
Louisa shoved her plate to the side. “Mrs. Pinto noticed that also missing from the box was a bracelet. I have one that resembles it. This one.” She stretched her arm with Peshlakai’s storyteller artistry toward Mary. “Did you see anything like it when you worked in the shop?”
Mary cleared her throat and spoke faster. “We sold a lot of jewelry. The owner and his wife would buy direct from the jewelers or shop at fairs and markets.” She looked at the bracelet again. “That’s lovely. Wish I could help.”
Leaphorn knew she was lying.
The waitress asked about dessert. Leaphorn shook his head. Mary, who hadn’t eaten much of her sandwich, requested a piece of chocolate cake and a to-go container. Louisa ordered a dish of ice cream.
“I understand that your employer doesn’t want any credit. But what if some present arrived at his door?” Louisa flashed another smile at Mary. “You know, a tin of cookies, a bouquet, something like that? Anonymously, just like what he sent. What do you think?”
Mary shrugged.
Leaphorn could see her relax a bit more.
“You mentioned the lady’s cancer. I know some great herbal tinctures and infusions that make a good tea. Maybe something like that? Or a plant, or . . .”
Leaphorn finished his meal as the ladies chatted. He knew Louisa was fishing for details, but they’d moved out of his comfort zone with talk of tea and cookies. He’d rather discuss how to spot a gang member by studying his tattoos.
Louisa opened her purse, took out a piece of paper and a pen, and handed them to Mary. “Mrs. Pinto will need to know where to ship the gift. Could you write the name and number for her?”
Leaphorn cringed, and Mary ignored the ploy. “I have been thinking about what Mr. Leaphorn told me about Hwéeldi and the weaving. It touched my heart. The man who had the gallery mentioned that there were things he owned that he would like to give away when the gallery closed. Maybe he forgot to put the old dress in the box.”
Leaphorn said, “So you understand why we would like to talk to him to find out for sure.”
“And you understand why I can’t tell you any more than I have. A clever person like either of you can figure out how to find him from the information I’ve given you.”
Mary reached into her pocket and extracted a red wallet. “I have to get to work. The lady gets a massage to help with her pain. She will be ready to leave in twenty minutes, and it takes me fifteen to drive there. Then we stop at the grocery.”
Louisa put a hand on Mary’s arm. “Put your money away. This is on me. My friend Mrs. Pinto would want that.”
Leaphorn watched Mary pick up her box of food, leave the restaurant, and climb into a white Mercedes sedan. When he squinted, he could make out three characters on the car’s license plate, enough for Jessica to follow up if necessary. He turned back to Louisa to see her fiddling with her phone, typing. “I can figure this out. An Indian art gallery on Main Street that closed two years ago after twenty years in operation.”
“Rye. Rafferty.”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“Rafferty bought da bracelet.”
“That’s good. I’ll tease this out.”
Leaphorn grabbed the check, took it to the cashier, and came back.
Louisa grinned. “Lloyd and Barbara Rafferty. They own a place off Highway 87. I put the address in my GPS.”
“Les go.” He stood, keys in hand.
“Hold on. Mary left her sunglasses on the table. Let me grab them.” Louisa put the glasses in her purse.
He would have given the glasses to the woman at the front counter for Mary to pick up. But Louisa had a mind of her own, and he was learning when to roll along with it.
He lowered the windows before he turned on the air-conditioning. Louisa climbed in. “I imagine Mr. Rafferty’s instinct will be to slam the door on us, assuming he opens it to a couple of strangers in the first place. Talking to an aging lady college professor might make the situation smoother than dealing with a guy who, despite being retired, still looks and acts like a cop.”
Leaphorn focused on driving. After the second stop sign, he realized she had a point.
“You take da lead.”
“I’ll say this harmless-looking college professor needs a favor for a friend, who has a question about Indian art, his area of expertise. We would have gone to the gallery, but we realized it had closed. What do you think?”
He nodded.
“Once we’re in, I’ll tell him more of the truth, that the questions concern an item Daisy thought she was receiving as a gift, but the gift never arrived. I will say that Mrs. Pinto doesn’t know his identity and that we won’t tell her but that I’m wondering if he forgot to send it. And I’ll introduce you as my friend. How does this sound?”
“Kay.” If Louisa could build a bit of rapport with Rafferty, the plan could evolve. If he put the dress in the box, Rafferty would assume it had been stolen. Bad for the museum staff’s reputation, unless Rafferty blamed it on the post office or on Mary.
As he expected, they found the home in an older, well-kept part of Winslow where houses sat far apart overlooking the city, with views of the Little Painted Desert and the San Francisco Peaks. The home was perched at the end of a paved driveway. Beauty surrounded those who lived here. Louisa intertwined her fingers. “I’m nervous about this.” Then she pushed the round white button to the right of the carved wooden door. They heard a chime and then a voice. “Who is it?”
Louisa gave her name. “I’m a professor from Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, Mr. Rafferty. I would have contacted you through the gallery, but I see that it’s closed. I have a question about a piece in your collection. Or at least something you used to have.”
She’s already improvising, Leaphorn thought. In his years as a cop, he’d seen too many operations fail when a team member went off on a tangent.
They heard the latch release and felt the wave of air-conditioning as it moved from the cool home toward the warm porch.
A slim man with a head of thick white hair and brilliant blue eyes studied them. Louisa had the lanyard with her NAU ID card around her neck and showed it to him. “NAU? What do you teach?”
“Nothing at the moment, but cultural anthropology is my field. I’m doing research now. I just finished consulting with a summer program. This shouldn’t take long. I appreciate your help.”
“Who’s that gentleman with you?”
“My friend Joe Leaphorn. He offered to drive since I’ve never been to Winslow.”
He turned to Leaphorn. “Yá’át’ééh.”
“Yá’át’ééh.” Leaphorn asked, in Navajo, if the man spoke Navajo.
“No. I understand a few phrases, like that one we said, but no, sorry. Wish I did.”
Louisa took charge again. “I’m here to thank you. My friend Daisy Pinto is the director of the Navajo Museum.”
“Never heard of her.” Leaphorn noticed Rafferty stiffen.
“She told me she wished she could find who had sent that wonderful box so she could extend her gratitude and find out more about the items.”
“That’s interesting, but it doesn’t concern me, Professor. You both need to leave.”
Leaphorn had expected the man to deny his involvement. “We hab questions abow a missin biil.”
Rafferty sucked in his breath. “Missing? What do you mean?”
Leaphorn spoke slowly, in Navajo, hoping that Rafferty could understand. “This is about Juanita’s dress. The Hwéeldi dress, the great treasure you want the Navajo people to have. It was not in the box.”
The old man took a step away from them. “How did you find me?”
Leaphorn switched to English. “Navajo detective.”
Rafferty looked at him. “That’s you, right?”
“Rye.”
When Rafferty smiled, his teeth had a glint of gold. “I thought you had more business here than a friend and a driver. Let’s get this over with before my wife returns.”
Rafferty turned from them and headed down the hall, the heels of his polished dress shoes clicking against the tile floor marking each purposeful step. They followed to a large living room decorated with paintings of the desert and stone sculptures. A coat-like garment with ornate, Plains Indian–style beadwork hung under glass on the wall between two large windows. Rafferty motioned them to the couch. “What do you mean the dress is missing?”
Louisa answered. “When Mrs. Pinto looked at the inventory list you sent with the gift, she noticed a reference to a weaving from around the time of the Long Walk. But when she examined the contents of the box, that piece was not there.”
Leaphorn noted that Louisa didn’t speculate or cast any blame.
“The lady must have overlooked it. I packed it first. There’s some mistake.”
Leaphorn shook his head. Louisa spoke. “No, sir. We wish that were the case.”
Rafferty paced to the window and studied the view, then turned toward them. “That old dress didn’t look like much, but it reflects an important part of Navajo history. I was amazingly fortunate to acquire it—that’s a story in itself—and I treasured it. But I always felt that it didn’t belong to me, that it belonged to history and especially to the Navajo Nation. I could have sold it ten times over to other collectors or museums. It was in the box.” He underlined the verb with his tone of voice.
“You know, I used to greet all my students by name after two classes. Now it takes me half a semester. We all get more forgetful as we age.” Louisa’s tone kept the remark conversational.
“You’ve noticed I’m what I call seasoned, but I’m not so far gone that I’d neglect to add the very heart of the donation to the shipment.” Rafferty stepped toward them. “Come this way. I’ll show you something.”
They followed through another hallway, this one decorated with paintings of deer and rabbits and Pueblo Indian dancers, art that Leaphorn recognized from reading he had done about Dorothy Dunn. In the early twentieth century, the woman led a fine arts program at the Santa Fe Indian School that taught many Native artists a salable, distinctive style that collectors came to love. Walt Disney invited some of the artists to Hollywood to work in his production studio. They declined.
Rafferty opened a door and flicked on the lights, motioning them in ahead of him.
Leaphorn felt the dry, chilled air of the storage room and recognized the museum-quality sliding drawers and movable shelves. What treasures did they contain? On the top of a repair table, an alabaster carving of an eagle lay on its side. The lower third of one wing had broken, and the piece sat nearby awaiting reattachment.
Rafferty stopped in front of a storage cabinet. “When I was in the business, I spent every summer going to Indian shows and art fairs in New Mexico and Arizona. Barbara and I don’t have children to argue over these things, so I’m finding homes for them while I can. I’m donating them anonymously.”
He tapped the label on the drawer as he read aloud: “‘1860s Navajo textile. Juanita Manuelito.’” The drawer slid out smoothly with his touch. Except for a large brown envelope, it was empty.
“If, as the professor so tactfully suggested, I’ve grown senile, the piece would be here. Clearly it is not.”
Leaphorn looked at the drawer. “You sure iz Juanita’s?”
“Well, Detective, I’m sure Juanita wore it because I have a photograph of her wearing it. And because of the times, I’m almost positive she wove it herself.” He picked up the envelope, opened the flap, and slipped out a piece of paper, a photocopy of a portrait, a second color photo, and a typed sheet.
“Here she is.” The black-and-white reproduction showed a young Juanita, fiercely beautiful, dressed in a biil. Unlike the dress she wore in the famous portrait with her husband, this garment was simpler.
The second photo was a color shot of the dress itself in what looked like a plastic bag.
Leaphorn pulled out his phone and moved his index finger up and down, as though it were on a camera’s shutter. “A pitcher?”
Rafferty shrugged. “Go ahead as long as you promise not to tell anyone where you took it.”
Leaphorn snapped a few shots.
Louisa said, “Why is the biil in that bag?”
“Textiles are prone to insect infestation. The same is true with artifacts that have leather, feathers, anything that a moth or a silverfish might consider edible. It was stored with pesticides to keep it safe.”
Leaphorn frowned.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Detective. I made sure the toxins were removed before I shipped it.” Rafferty replaced the papers, closed the drawer, and led them back through the house.
“One mo question. Insurance?”
“Everything in the house is insured. But the box?” Rafferty sighed. “No. Because I sent it anonymously, I couldn’t insure it. Everything I have ever mailed through the post office from the gallery always has arrived safely. Every time, for more than ten years.” His voice vibrated, and Leaphorn felt the anger. “Everything, I guess, except this precious dress. Was the box damaged when it arrived?”
“No.”
“Then, Mr. Detective and Madame Professor, shipping insurance would not have made a difference. You are dealing with a case of theft.”
As they followed him toward the front door, Leaphorn thought of how to pose a complicated question with the fewest words. “I nee to axe another kestin bout da gifs.”
“Excuse me?” Rafferty frowned. “Was anything else missing?”
“Yes.”
Louisa answered before he could find the words. “A bracelet by a Navajo artist named Peshlakai.”
“I think your friend has a robber on her staff.” Rafferty opened the big front door.
“May we be in touch if the museum has a question about something you’ve sent?”
He hesitated, then extracted a slim black wallet and handed each of them a white business card. “I trust you to protect my anonymity. Understand?”
“Of course.”
Leaphorn nodded slightly and put the card in his pocket.
Rafferty closed the door behind them.
As they drove away, Mary passed them driving the white Mercedes, headed toward the house.
Louisa said, “We’ve got a lot to talk about on the way to Flagstaff.”