“Ah,” Mrs. Klah said. “Behind glass in a frame, wasn’t it? I remember that. That was it. That was
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.
“Well,” Tarkington said. “What can I do you for?”
“Can you tell me where Bork was headed when he left you?”
“He didn’t say.”
Leaphorn waited again. Again, no luck.
“You have no idea?”
“Look, Mr. Leaphorn, I think maybe we do need to talk about this, but not on the phone. Where are you?”
“In Window Rock.”
“How about coming to the gallery tomorrow? Could you make it? Maybe have a late lunch?” Leaphorn thought about what tomorrow held for him. Absolutely nothing.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
5
Leaphorn was on the road early, driving with a gaudy sunrise in his rearview mirror. He took Navajo Route 12, joined Interstate 40, set his speed at a modest (but legal) seventy-five miles per hour, and let the flood of westbound speeders race by him. He would reach Flagstaff with time to find Tarkington’s gallery, and the drive would give him a chance to consider what he was getting into.
The first step was reexamining his memory of the tape Mrs. Bork had played for him and what little else he’d learned from her in that short conversation. That didn’t take long.
She’d remembered that seeing the picture had excited Bork. She’d said Mel had told her about the old crime, and about having talked to Leaphorn about it in Washington years ago. Then Mel had made two, maybe three telephone calls. She hadn’t heard who he was calling. After the last one he had shouted something to her 28
TONY HILLERMAN
about the Tarkington gallery, and maybe coming home late, and to tell anyone who called he’d be back in his office tomorrow. Then he had driven away. Nothing in that helped much.
By the time he reached the Sanders, Arizona, exit, Leaphorn decided it was coffee time and pulled off the interstate at a diner to see what he could learn. The old Burnham trading post here had been known for its Navajo weavers. The Navajo Nation had bought territory along the Santa Fe Railway mainline here and used it as relocation places for the five hundred Navajo families forced out of the old Navajo-Hopi Joint Use reservation.
The weavers among the refugees had developed some new patterns that came to be called the New Lands rugs, and a Sanders trader had been sort of an authority on them, and on rugs in general. If he could find this fellow, Leaphorn planned to show him the photo of the old carpet to see what he knew about it.
The waitress who brought him his coffee was about eighteen and had never heard of any of this. The man behind the cash register had heard of him, and he recommended Leaphorn find Austin Sam, who had been a candidate for the Tribal Council and seemed to know just about everybody in the New Lands Chapter House territory. But the cashier didn’t know where Mr. Sam could be found. Neither did Leaphorn.
Thus Leaphorn reentered the roaring river of Interstate 40 traffic no wiser than before. He rolled into Flagstaff and found the Tarkington Museum Gallery parking lot about ten minutes before noon. A tall man, gray-bearded, wearing an off-white linen jacket, was standing at the door, smiling, waiting for him.
THE SHAPE SHIFTER
