“And much too complex to be a cost-effective proposition.” Laughter traced the intricate patterns with a finger. “Besides, it doesn’t come with a convenient, easy to understand explanation. Tourists need that sort of thing. They like plenty of yeis, rainbows, the four sacred plants. Not complex interconnected abstracts. We’re doing fine. No reason to make something too complicated to earn back the time and effort spent on it. Not when you can do com, beans, squash, and tobacco over and over again and come out way ahead.
“Oh, every once in a while Dad and I will do something different, but it’s usually of our own invention, and to fill a prepaid order. Remember, sand is just the medium, not the art. In any case, we’d never do anything this big on spec.”
Moody glanced around the kitchen. “Seems to me you could afford the time.”
“Sure we could. We just don’t want to. Dad’s got a forty-foot twin GE Craft catamaran docked down at Puerto Penasco. You have any idea what the upkeep is on a sucker like that? Come to think of it, you’re from Florida, so you probably do. Doesn’t leave him a lot of time to play at being an artist. We run a business here.
“Not that we don’t have respect for tradition; we do. You don’t see us turning out any of the pornographic sand-paintings that show up in downtown Ganado or Gallup. Then there are the computer games based on the stories of the Holy People. We wouldn’t have anything to do with stuff like that. So we feel pretty good about what we do.” His attitude had turned almost belligerent. Moody hastened to calm him.
“I understand, I was just asking. We’re trying to find a motive in all this and we’re not having a lot of luck so far. So sometimes you’ve got to ask some awkward questions. For example, if the Kettrick design was the only one of its kind, maybe one of your people felt the need to have it all to himself.”
Bill Laughter chuckled and waved the fax. “A Navaho collector would laugh at this because it makes no sense. A rich Brazilliana, now, or an Asian, they’d put a light on it and stick it up on their wall and be happy with it. But not a Navaho collector.”
“So he’d shy away from it because it isn’t traditional? How do you know it isn’t? Maybe your grandfather was wrong. Maybe the Way described in this painting is still known to someone.”
“So what? It’s of no use to anybody.”
“What if it’s an exact reproduction, laid down without any of the little changes necessary to render it harmless?” Ooljee should be asking these questions, he thought.
“Hey, my grandfather wouldn’t have done that.” Up to now Laughter had been brash and confident. Suddenly he looked uncomfortable.
“You just said you don’t believe in this stuff.”
“1 know that.” Laughter leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Look, if you asked me straight out do I believe in any of the old ways, I’d say no. But it never hurts to play it safe. There’s a whole history of funny things that have happened on the Rez.
“Maybe your guy is another artist. Maybe he’s working for someone else who wants something really unique. Except that it’s a lot simpler to create your own designs than to kill to acquire somebody else’s.
“There’s also the possibility that this guy is a hatathli, or a would-be hatathli, or some nut who thinks he can be a hatathli and that he really can work miracles by muttering ancient baloney over a pile of colored sand and dirt.”
“People who believe what they want to believe are capable of anything,” Moody informed him coldly. “I know that from experience.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Me, I believe in positive cash flow. My dad, he maybe believes in this stuff a little. My grandfather believed a lot, and he wasn’t an isolated case in his day. If this guy you’re after thinks using this painting will make a real hatathli out of him…
“Me, I wouldn’t kill for a sandpainting if it was made out of gemstones. We’ve actually done a couple like that. Ruby dust for red color, amethyst for purple, emerald for green and so on. Strictly for tourists, of course.
“The whole point being that while this is real interesting”—and he tapped the fax—“I don’t see anything here worth killing for.”
“How do you think I feel?” Moody finished his coffee. “Y’all have no way of telling if it’s a true medicine painting or if it’s been altered?”
Laughter shook his head. “We don’t know the design, so how could we tell if it’s been changed or not? Like I said, it makes no difference anyway.”
“People keep pointing that out to me a lot.”
Laughter eyed him uncertainly, unable to tell if his visitor was making a joke or not. It made Moody feel good to be able to turn the tables a little.
The younger man rose. “I’ve got to get back to work.” The detective watched him leave, then ambled over to rejoin his partner. The elder Laughter was speaking earnestly.
“Have you considered the possibility that your murder might have nothing to do with the sandpainting?”
Ooljee looked startled.
Moody sympathized. “How do you mean?” he asked. “Whoever destroyed the painting might have been fulfilling a promise made many years, perhaps even generations, ago. Among the Navaho there are many old feuds,
though few end in bloodshed. This might not have anything to do with your Mr. Kettrick. It might be between your murderer and whoever hired him and someone else entirely. An old argument, an ancient dispute. This Kettrick might simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“No,” said Ooljee with assurance. “The man who killed spoke too often of the painting. I still believe it is central to understanding our case. If only there was a way to interpret its meaning.”
“I wish you luck.” Red Laughter rose. The visit was over.
He tried to console his guests as he escorted them to the door. “I hope my son and I have been of some help.”
“At least now we know where the painting came from.” Ooljee paused at the entrance. “We may need to access your records again.”
Laughter fumbled in his pockets until he found a business card. “Call any time. I will open a modem for you.” He extended a hand. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Moody. I hope you have not come so far for nothing.”
“Thanks,” said Moody, adding with careful enunciation, “Doo ahashyaa da.”
The painter’s eyebrows narrowed and he glanced sharply at Ooljee, who smiled back. “I see you have been getting some lessons in Navaho. I admire you for making the effort. It is not an easy language to learn.”
“What now?” Moody asked his colleague as the truck bounced back along the dirt track that paralleled the main creek. Ancient cliffs towered above them, silent and unhelpful, the edges of the wound in the Earth that was Canyon de Chelley.
“Now that we know where the painting came from originally, maybe we can trace the original owners. I’m going to do some more cross-checking. The hands it has passed through over the years may lead us to the hands that slew. Something might turn up.”
“I hope so, ’cause I’m getting damn sick of talking about sand and painting and Ways when we’re supposed to be trying to catch a real person. You sure you got composites out all over this place?”
For the first time since they’d met, Ooljee tensed. “Do not try to tell me my job, detective.”
“Just thinkin’ out loud. Something else.”
“What?”
“I think you ought to run a background check on the Laughters. They were real friendly and real helpful, but I’m not sure I buy the old man’s story about not remembering that particular painting. He said himself how unique and different it was from anything else he’d ever seen. If that’s the case, why would he forget it? If this involves some old dispute, maybe it involves his family as well. That’d be a good reason for forgetting.”