“Don’t know him. Did he say why he wants to sell it?” Leaphorn considered how to answer that. Shook his head. “It’s sort of complicated,” he said. “A picture of his living room was printed in a fancy magazine. Somebody who knew it was supposed to have been burned came to see it and ask about it. And on his way back to Flagstaff his car skidded off that mountain road.” Burlander waited, gave Leaphorn a moment to finish the paragraph. When Leaphorn did not continue, he said,
“Fatal accident? Killed the man?”
“They found his body in the car two days later,” Leaphorn said.
Burlander grunted. “Well, that would sure fit into the stories I’ve heard about that rug. You know. About it being cursed by your shaman, and causing misfortune and di-saster to whoever gets involved with it. Well, maybe that’s why this Delos wants to dump it.”
He produced a wry laugh. “And maybe it’s the reason I doubt if I’ll bid on it if it really is up for sale. I’ve got enough problems already.”
The bell signaling resumption of the auction put a stop to their conversation. Leaphorn was handed a bidding paddle (number 87), found himself a seat, and began scanning the row of weavers along the walls, hoping to spot a woman who looked old enough to add something to his collection of information about the Totter rug. Many of them were elderly, several were ancient, and relatively few were young—a glum sign, Leaphorn thought, for the 156
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prospects of maintaining Dineh culture when his generation was gone. But that conclusion caused Leaphorn, being Leaphorn, to consider the other side of the issue.
Maybe that just meant the younger generation was smart enough to notice that the pay scale for working half the winter to weave a rug—such as the one the auctioneer was now offering—that would sell for maybe $200 was not only unwise by belagaana standards but way below the legal minimum wage.
It was a pretty rug, in Leaphorn’s judgment, about six feet by four feet, with a pattern of diamond shapes in muted reds and browns. The auctioneer had noted its good features and, as rules of the association required, noted that some of its yarn was not quite up to collector standards and that some of the color might be “chemical.” But the weave was wonderfully skillful, tight and firm, and it was worth far more than the minimum bid of $125 the weaver had applied to it. Far more, too, he said, than the current bid of $140.
“You look at this in a shop in Santa Fe or Phoenix or even in Gallup, and they’ll charge you at least five hundred dollars for it, and then put seven percent sales tax on top of it,” he said. “Who’s going to offer one-fifty.” Someone did, and then a woman in the row ahead of Leaphorn waved her paddle and jumped it to $155.
The auctioneer finally closed it off at $160. The assistants brought out the next rug, held it up for the audience to admire, and the auctioneer began his description.
Leaphorn reached a sensible conclusion. He was wasting his time in here. Even if some of the waiting weavers were ancient enough to know something useful about the Totter rug, they would almost certainly be traditionalists.
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Therefore, they would not want to talk to a stranger about anything so enveloped in evil. Anyway, what possible good was knowing more about that damned rug going to do. Besides, it made more sense to move around through the crowd, in the auditorium and out of it, to see if Tommy Vang had come here looking for him. Why would Vang do that? Because Mr. Delos had told him to. And why would that be? A question worth getting an answer for.
Leaphorn walked out into the parking lot, stretched, enjoyed the warm sun and the cold, clear air, looked around. He heard someone shouting, “Hey, Joe.” That would not be Tommy Vang; he would never shout and would never call him anything less dignified than Mr.
Leaphorn.
It was Nelson Badonie, who about half a lifetime ago had been a sergeant in the Tuba City Tribal Police office.
He was trotting toward Leaphorn, grinning broadly. “I saw you in there,” Badonie said. “How come you didn’t bid on that rug my wife wove? I was counting on you to run it up to about four hundred dollars.”
“Good to see you, Nelson,” Leaphorn said. “Looks like you’ve been eating well since your Tuba City days.” Badonie patted an expansive belly, still grinning.
“Just got back to my natural weight,” he said. “How about you, though? You slimmed down to mostly bones and gris-tle. And I heard you’ve been thinking about retiring.”
“I have,” Leaphorn said.
“Have thought about it? Or have quit?”
“Both,” Leaphorn said. “I am now unemployed.” Badonie was looking back toward the entrance at a woman standing there. “I’m not,” Badonie said. “That’s 158
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my boss calling me right now.” He waved to her. “By the way, Joe, you remember that Arizona deputy who used to work around Lukachukai, and Teec Nos Pos, and around the west side of the Chuska range? Back when we were younger? Deputy Sheriff Bork, it was then.”
“Yes,” Leaphorn said. “I remember him.”
“Did you hear he got killed the other day over near Flagstaff. They thought it was just a car accident, but I just heard on the noon news it wasn’t. It turns out he was poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” Leaphorn said. “Poisoned how?” He had a sick feeling that he already knew the answer.
“The radio said the fellow at the sheriff’s office reported they had an autopsy done. Didn’t say the reason for doing that in a car wreck. But it seemed to show some poison had killed our Mr. Mel Bork before his car went off the road.” Badonie shrugged. “Thought it might be some sort of violent food poisoning.” Badonie chuckled.
“Too much of that good, hot Hatch green chile, maybe,” he said. “But it does seem funny, doesn’t it? I mean, how something like that could happen.”
“Did they say anything else about it? Have any suspects? Anything like that? Like any other reason why they didn’t think he just skidded, or passed out and ran off the road?”
“All the newscaster said was they were investigating the case as a homicide,” Badonie said. “Poison in the blood, I guess.” Now Badonie was looking over his shoulder again, at his wife summoning him.
“See you later,” he said, grinning, and trotted off wifeward.
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phone from his jacket, stared at it, remembered he had loaded a long list of Four Corners area police telephone numbers into it, then worked his way down to Sergeant Garcia’s and punched it in.
A woman’s voice responded to the ring. Yes, she said, he’s here. Just a minute.
In about three minutes Garcia’s voice was saying
“Sergeant Garcia” in his ear, and he was asking Leaphorn what he needed.
“I need to know more about that autopsy report on Mel Bork,” Leaphorn said.
“All I know is what I heard on the radio,” Garcia said.
“They think Bork was poisoned. Probably had that wreck because of that.”
“Do you have the number for the coroner who did the autopsy? I think you said the pathologist was still old Dr.
Saunders. That right?”
“Yeah. It’s Roger Saunders,” Garcia said. “Just a minute and I’ll dig out his number for you.” Leaphorn dialed it, identified himself to a secretary, was put on hold, was told by another older-sounding woman that Dr. Saunders wanted to talk to him and could he hold another minute or two? He held. He switched the phone from right ear to left to allow his aching arm to dangle for a while. He looked around for a shady place to stand out of the warm autumn sun, found one that also allowed him the comfort of leaning on a car fender. He heard a voice saying hello and shifted the phone back to his better ear.