“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
29
“Lieutenant Leaphorn,” he said. “You look just like the pictures I’ve seen of you. You drove all the way from Window Rock this morning?”
“I did,” Leaphorn said, as Tarkington ushered him into the gallery.
“Then freshen up if you wish,” Tarkington said, pointing toward the restroom, “and then let’s have some lunch and talk.”
When Leaphorn emerged refreshed, he found lunch was being served in an alcove just off the gallery. A girl, who Leaphorn identified as probably a Hopi, was pouring ice water into glasses on a neatly set table. Tarkington was already seated with a copy of Luxury Living in front of him, opened to the photograph.
“Unless you want something special, we could get lunch here,” he said. “Just sandwiches and fruit. Would that satisfy you?”
“Sure,” Leaphorn said, and seated himself, weighing what this development might mean. Obviously it meant Tarkington must consider this talk important. Why else would he be taking the trouble to put Leaphorn in the role of guest, with the psychological disadvantage that went with that. But it did save time. Not that Leaphorn didn’t have plenty of that.
The girl passed Leaphorn an attractive plate of neatly trimmed sandwiches in a variety of types. He took one offering ham, cheese, and lettuce. She asked if he’d like coffee. He would. She poured it for him from a silver urn.
Tarkington watched all this in silence. Now he served himself a sandwich and toasted Leaphorn with his water glass.
“Down to business now?” he said, making it a question. “Or just make chat while we eat?” 30
TONY HILLERMAN
“Well, I am here trying to find an old friend, but I am also hungry.”
“You are looking for Melvin Bork, right? The private investigator?”
Leaphorn nodded. He sipped his coffee. Excellent. He looked at his sandwich, took a small bite. Also fine.
“Why look here?”
“Because his wife thought he would be coming here to ask you about a rug. Is that correct?”
“Oh, yes. He was here.” Tarkington was smiling, looking amused. “Three days ago. He had a copy of one of those expensive upscale real estate magazines with a picture of it. This magazine.” He tapped the picture, smiling at Leaphorn.
Leaphorn nodded.
“He asked if I had seen a rug that looked like that, and I said yes, I had. One much like that got burned up in a fire way back. A real shame. It was a famous tale-teller rug. Famous among the bunch who love the really old weavings, and especially among the odd ones who dote on the artifacts that have scary stories attached. And this one does. Dandy stories. Full of death, starvation, all that.” He smiled at Leaphorn again, picked up his glass, rattled the ice in it.
“And it was also a wonderful example of the weavers’
art. A real beauty. Bork asked me to take a close look at the magazine photo and tell him what I could about it.” Tarkington paused to take a sip of his water. And, Leaphorn presumed, to decide just how much he wanted to say about this.
“I told him the picture resembled a very old, very valuable antique. Rug people called such weavings tale THE SHAPE SHIFTER
31
tellers because they usually represent someone, or something, memorable. And the tale in this one was of all the dying, humiliation, and misery you Navajos went through when the army put you in that concentration camp over on the Pecos back about a hundred and fifty years ago.” Tarkington extracted a reading-sized magnifying glass from his jacket pocket and held it close to the photograph, studying places here and there. “Yes, it does look something like that old rug Totter had at his trading post years ago.”
“Something like?” Leaphorn asked. “Can you be a little more specific than that?”
Tarkington put down the glass, studied Leaphorn.
“That brings up an interesting question, doesn’t it? That one was burned—let’s see—back in the very late 1960s or early 1970s I think. So the question I want to ask you is, when was this photograph taken?”
“I don’t know,” Leaphorn said.
Tarkington considered that, shrugged.
“Well, Bork asked me if I thought it could be a photograph of a copy of the rug Totter had, and I said I guessed anything is possible, but it didn’t make much sense. Even if you had real good detailed photos of the original to work from, the weavers would still be dealing with trying to match yarns, and vegetable dyes, and using different people with different weaving techniques. And with this particular rug, they would even be trying to work in the same kind of bird feathers, petals from cactus blossoms, stems and such. For example . . .” Tarkington paused, tapped a place on the photo with a finger. “For example, this deep color of red right here—presuming this is a good color reproduction—is pretty rare. The old weavers 32