21
man had been burned, and Leaphorn had talked to him about it when they were both at the FBI Academy.
“He seemed excited about that,” she said. “I’m worried. I’m really worried. He has a cell phone. Why doesn’t he call me?”
Leaphorn found himself remembering Louisa’s plea that he always keep a cell phone in his truck.
“Mrs. Bork,” he said, “first, take that tape out of the answering machine and put it somewhere safe. Take care of it. Does Mel always carry that cell phone with him?”
“He keeps one in his car. I’ve been calling it and calling it, but he doesn’t answer.”
“I presume your company has some contact with the Flagstaff police, or the sheriff’s people. Does Mel have anyone working with him in his investigative service who could help you?”
“Just a woman who keeps his books. She comes in to answer the phone when he’s away.”
“If you have a friend in law enforcement, I think you should call him and discuss this situation.”
“I called Sergeant Garcia last night. He said he didn’t think I should worry.”
Leaphorn checked his mental inventory of cops in the high, dry, mostly empty Four Corners Country.
“Is that the Garcia with the sheriff’s department there? Kelly Garcia, I think it is. Is he a friend?”
“Of Mel’s? I think so. Sort of anyway. Sometimes they more or less work together on cases, I think.”
“I’d call him back, then. Tell him Mel is still away and doesn’t answer his cell phone. Tell him you talked to me.
Tell him I thought he should listen to that tape you played for me.”
22
TONY HILLERMAN
“Yes,” Mrs. Bork said.
“And please let me know if you learn anything. Or if I can do anything.” He recited his home phone number.
Thought a moment, shrugged. “And here’s my number, in case I’m not home.”
She read back the numbers to him.
“One more thing,” Leaphorn said. “Did he mention any names? I mean names of anyone he might be seeing.
Or which museum he was going to?”
“Oh, my,” she said. “Well, he might have said Tarkington. He’s at one of the Indian arts and craft places in Flagstaff. Gerald Tarkington, I think it is.”
“I think I know his place,” Leaphorn said. “Anyone else?”
“Probably the Heard Museum in Phoenix,” she said, hesitantly. “But that’s just a guess. He worked for them once, a long time ago. And, Mr. Leaphorn, please let me know.”
“I will,” Leaphorn said, with a vague feeling that it would be a promise that would find him bringing her bad news. It was a message he’d had to deliver far too often in his career.
4
Leaphorn, being elderly, knew the wisdom of learning all you can about the one you intend to interview before you ask the first question. Thus, before calling Tarkington’s gallery in Flagstaff, he dialed a number a few blocks away in Shiprock and talked to Ellen Klah at the Navajo Museum.
“Tarkington? Tarkington,” Mrs. Klah said. “Oh, yeah.
Well, now. What in the world would you be doing with that man?”
“I need to get some information from him,” Leaphorn said. “See if he knows anything about an old rug.”
“Something sneaky? Something criminal?”
“I don’t know,” Leaphorn said, sounding glum. “It’s just this rug has turned up. And it looks a lot like one that was supposed to be burned up in a fire at a gallery years ago.”
“I bet this involves insurance fraud,” Mrs. Klah said.
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TONY HILLERMAN
“I hope not,” Leaphorn said. “It was the fire that burned that little gallery at Totter’s Trading Post. You remember that?”
“Of course I remember it,” Mrs. Klah said. “Wasn’t the rug that burned there an old, old tale-teller weaving? The one people called Woven Sorrow. Or maybe it was Sorrow Woven In? Something like that, anyway.” She laughed. “That would fit the story people tell about it, you know. The weaving came out of that Long Walk sorrow, and everywhere it goes it takes troubles with it. I’ll bet it’s insurance fraud now. Is Tarkington a suspect, or co-conspirator, or what?”
“You’re way ahead of me, Ellen,” Leaphorn said.
“No crime alleged, or anything. I just want to talk to Tarkington about what might have happened to that rug if it didn’t actually burn.”
“I’ve been reading in the Albuquerque Journal about that grand jury investigation involving Navajo rugs.
Three of ’em. Very old. Supposed to be worth about two hundred thousand dollars if you add them all together. Is that what you’re into?”
“No, no,” Leaphorn said. “Nothing that exciting. I just want to ask you if Tarkington would be the guy to talk to about . . . well, let’s say if a famous old rug had been destroyed and you had pictures of it, and wanted to hire a weaver to make you a copy. What would you do? Who could do it? Things like that.”
“Well, Tarkington’s an old-timer. I’d say he’d be as good as anyone to ask. If ethics are involved, from what I’ve heard I doubt he’d be worried about them. But are we talking about that Woven Sorrow rug? The one that woman wove after she got back from Bosque Redondo, THE SHAPE SHIFTER
25
full of things to remind you of all the death and misery that came out of that business. Was that the rug you’re talking about?”
“I think that must be the one. That sounds like it.”
“The rugs mentioned in that lawsuit all had names,” Ellen said, sounding slightly disgruntled.
“I don’t know its name. Don’t know if it even had one,” Leaphorn said. “I just remember a great big, complicated, old rug. I saw it framed behind glass and hanging in Totter’s gallery near Tohatchi years ago. And I remember there was a story that went with it. It was supposed to have been cursed by a hand trembler, or some other medicine person.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Klah said. “Behind glass in a frame, wasn’t it? I remember that. That was it. That was Woven Sorrow.
Wow!”
“Anyway, you think Tarkington could tell me something. Right?”
She laughed. “If you promise him it won’t get him in any trouble. Or cost him any money.”
So Leaphorn dialed the Tarkington number, got an answering machine that advised him to either leave a message or, if business was involved, call the number at the “downtown gallery.”
He called that one. He did the “wait just a moment” duty required by the secretary who took his name, and then: “Joe Leaphorn?” a deep, rusty male voice said.
“There used to be a Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn with the Navajo Tribal Police. Is that you?”
“Yes sir,” Leaphorn said. “Are you Mr. Tarkington?”
“Right.”
“I am trying to get into contact with a Mr. Mel Bork.
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TONY HILLERMAN
His wife said he’d gone to see you on some business we’re trying to check into. I thought you might know where I could reach him.”
This produced a silence. Then a sigh. “Mel Bork.
What was this business of yours about?”
“It concerned a Navajo rug.”
“Ah, yes. The magical, mystical rug woven to com-memorate the return of the Dineh from captivity at Bosque Redondo. Full of bits and pieces supposed to reflect memories of the miseries, starvation, of the tribe’s captivity and that long walk home. It was supposed to be started in the 1860s, finished a lot later. That it?”
“Yes,” Leaphorn said, and paused. Noticing that Tarkington’s tone had been sarcastic. Waiting for anything Tarkington might add. Deciding how to handle this.