Theodora Adams laughed a shaky laugh. Of course not, she said. She took his hand. It was awful. But its all right now.
Tso glanced over her shoulder at Leaphorn. The policeman brought you, he said. You shouldn’t have come.
I had to come, she said. Of course Id come. You knew that.
Leaphorn was suddenly acutely embarrassed.
Father Tso, he said. I’m sorry. But I need to ask some questions. About your grandfather.
Sure, Tso said. Not that I know much. I hadn’t seen him for years.
I understand you got a letter from him. What did he say?
Not much, Tso said. He just said he was sick. And wanted me to come and arrange a sing and take care of things when he died. Tso frowned. Why would anyone want to kill an old man like that?
That’s the problem, Leaphorn said. We don’t know. Did he say anything that would help?
Do you have the letter?
Its with my stuff, Tso said. Ill get it. He disappeared into the hogan.
Leaphorn looked at Theodora Adams. She stared back.
Congratulations, Leaphorn said.
Screw you, she said. You She stopped. Tso was coming through the hogan doorway.
It really doesn’t say much, but you can read it, he said.
The letter was handwritten in black ink on inexpensive typing paper.
My Grandson, it began. I have the ghost sickness. There is no one here to talk to the singer and do all the things that have to be done so that I can go again in beauty. I want you to come and get the right singer and see about the sing. If you don’t come I will die very soon. Come. There are valuable things I must give you before I die.
I’m afraid it doesn’t help much, Tso said. Your grandfather couldn’t write, could he? Do you know who he would get to write it for him?
I don’t know, Tso said. Some friend, probably.
How did he get your address?
It was just addressed care of the Franciscan abbot at the American College. I guess they asked the Franciscans over at St. Anthony’s how to send it.
When was it mailed?
I got it about the middle of April. So I guess it was mailed just before he got killed. Tso glanced down at his hands. He had obviously thought a lot about this. I was busy with a lot of things then, he said. He glanced up at Leaphorn, looking for some sort of understanding of this failure. And it was already too late, anyway.
Bennie thought it could wait a little while, Theodora Adams said.
I suppose I operated on Navajo time, Tso said. But he didn’t smile at the old joke. I hadn’t seen the old man since I was eleven or twelve. I guess I thought it could wait.
Leaphorn said nothing. He was remembering Mrs. Cigarettes voice on the tape recording, recalling for Feeney what Hosteen Tso had told her. . . . And he said he’d get somebody to write to his grandson. That’s what Mrs. Cigarette had said. Get somebody to write.
Hosteen Tso hadn’t lived more than an hour after that. And yet the letter had been written.
Who the hell could have done it? Leaphorn decided he’d go back to Short Mountain and talk to McGinnis again.
You have any idea what those valuable things he wanted to give you could be? Leaphorn asked.
No, Tso said. I have no idea. Everything I found in the hogan wouldn’t be worth a hundred dollars. Tso looked thoughtful. But maybe he didn’t mean money value.
Maybe not, Leaphorn said. He was still thinking of the letter. If McGinnis hadn’t written it, who the hell had?
» 9 «
McGinnis poured the bourbon carefully, stopping exactly at the copyright symbol under the Coca-Cola trademark on the glass. That done, he glanced up at Leaphorn.
Had a doctor tell me I ought to quit this stuff because it was affecting my eardrums and I told him I liked what I was drinking bettern what I was hearing.
He held the glass to the light, enjoying the amber as a wine-lover enjoys the red.
Two things I cant even guess at, McGinnis said. The first is who he got to write that letter for him, and the other is how come he didn’t come back to me to write it for him after he found out the address. McGinnis considered this, his expression sour. You might think its because I’m a man whose known for knowing everybody’s business. A gossip. But then all those people out here know I don’t talk what I write in their letters for them. They’ve had many a year to learn that.
I’m going to tell you exactly what was in that letter, Leaphorn said. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes intent on McGinnis’s face. I want you to listen. It said, My Grandson. I have ghost sickness. Nobody is here to get me a singer and do the things necessary so I can go again in beauty. I need you to come here and hire the right singer and see about things. If you don’t come I will die soon. Come. There are valuable things I must give you before I die.
McGinnis stared into the bourbon, full of thought. Go on, he said. I’m listening.
That’s it, Leaphorn said. I memorized it.
