The Shape Shifter (8 page)

Garcia paused, waiting a Leaphorn reaction. Got none, and went on.

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“Or maybe Totter killed him for some reason or other, and needed to dispose of the body, and then added in a little insurance fraud as a by-product.” Leaphorn didn’t comment.

“I’ll bet you’d already thought about that,” Garcia said.

“Well, yes,” Leaphorn said. “And I admit I’d like to know more about the fire. But nobody’s likely to help us reopen that case. Just think about it. The FBI was just delighted to get Shewnack’s name off its list after all those years. They won’t be eager to prove they missed the fact somebody murdered him.”

“And who’s around these days who cares?” Garcia asked.

“There’s me,” Leaphorn said. “And then there’s the man who made that call to Mel Bork. That caller seemed to care. He didn’t want Mel messing with Shewnack’s old ashes.”

Garcia nodded.

“You have any idea who made that call?” Leaphorn said.

“I wish I did. And I’ve got a puzzle you could solve for me. How did you get involved in this business? What’s your interest?”

“I showed you Bork’s letter.”

“I meant what got you into it in the first place.”

“I wasn’t really into it,” Leaphorn said. “I was out here looking into a sort of funny burglary of an old woman’s hogan. She and her daughter weave baskets out of willow, or reeds, then waterproof them with sap from pinyon trees and sell them to tourists. Anyway, somebody drove up while the old lady was away, broke into THE SHAPE SHIFTER

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the shed where they do their work, and stole about ten gallons of that sap. Captain Skeet—you remember him? I was a rookie then, and he sent me out to investigate and then had me drop that and go over to see what the federals were so excited about at Totter’s place.”

“Day or so after the fire then?”

“Yeah, when they went through all the victim’s stuff and found out he was Shewnack.”

Garcia was looking thoughtful. “Who stole that pinyon sap?”

Leaphorn laughed. “I guess you’d have to add that to your list of cold cases. The granddaughter said she saw a blue sedan roaring away. It looked to her like it might be almost new. Didn’t get a look at the driver and didn’t get a license number. She said there wasn’t a license plate on the bumper, but maybe one of those paper dealer’s permits was on the back window. Said it looked shiny new.”

“What else was stolen?”

“That was it, so they said. Just two big old lard buckets filled with pinyon sap.”

Garcia shook his head, shrugged. “Maybe they needed the buckets.”

“Or, let’s try this idea. Maybe Shewnack had taken that job with Totter intending to rob him. Sort of a repeat of the Handy affair. Let’s say Totter resisted, killed Shewnack, decided to dispose of the body, and he knew that pinyon sap would get things hot enough to turn Shewnack into ashes. How about that idea?”

“Yes, indeed,” Garcia said. “And since everybody around here burns pinyon as firewood, it wouldn’t look suspicious to arson inspectors. Totter could get a profit out of it.”

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They drove in silence then until Garcia pointed to the slope ahead, to what was left of the old Totter’s Trading Post. The soot-blackened adobe walls still stood. The old grocery store was mostly intact, as was an adjoining stone structure that had been Totter’s residence. But its doors were missing and its window frames were also empty.

“Scene of the crime,” Garcia said. “Except officially it wasn’t a crime. Just another fire caused by lighting up that last cigarette when you’re too drunk to know what you’re doing.”

“Look’s like someone has done a little pilfering anyway,” Leaphorn said.

Garcia laughed. “You could probably find those doors and window frames built into some sheep herder’s place,” he said. “But Totter sold the place after he collected his insurance loot. And the buyer never did anything with it. Don’t think you could get the D.A. to file any charges.”

As they neared the junction of the eroded trail that had been the access road to Totter’s parking lot, Leaphorn noticed Garcia was slowing, and he saw why. That road seemed to have had some fairly recent traffic.

“See that?” Garcia said, pointing to the tire tracks through the weeds. “I’ll bet I can tell you who did that.

Ever since Delonie got his parole, I’ve had this old case on my mind. And when I heard that telephone threat to Mel Bork, and you told me about that rug, I’ve had a yen to come up here and look around.”

Leaphorn nodded. “So you wanted to see if Delonie would return to the scene of his crime?”

“Not exactly that, because it couldn’t be his crime.

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If it was a crime. I just thought he’d be, ah, well, let’s say, curious.”

“Seems logical, since Delonie just got out,” Leaphorn said. “But here’s the way my mind works. Delonie knows Shewnack got away from that Handy robbery with a bagful of cash. Delonie probably knows no large sums were found with the body. Shewnack wouldn’t have kept a big bundle in his pockets while he was working here.

He probably intended to rob Totter’s too, when he could set it up properly. So there’s a good chance that Shewnack found himself a place right here, or near enough to be handy, to stash away his funds.”

“Exactly,” Garcia said. “And Delonie would come looking for it.” He was grinning. “I guess us cops all get into the habit of thinking the same way,” he said. “I’ll bet we find some places where somebody’s been digging.” They were bumping up the access road now toward what fire, weather, and inattention had left of Totter’s Trading Post.

“Or maybe still digging,” Leaphorn said. He pointed past the wall of the main structure to a vehicle protruding from behind it. “Dark green. Looks like a Cherokee.” As he spoke, a man stepped through the empty doorway of the building. He stood staring at them. A tall man in a plaid shirt, much-faded blue jeans, long billed cap, and sunglasses. His hair needed trimming, and so did a short but scraggly beard.

“I do believe I recognize Mr. Tomas Delonie,” Kelly Garcia said. “Which means this is going to save me the trouble of driving all over looking for him.”

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Tomas Delonie’s reaction to the arrival of a police car and a deputy sheriff was just what Leaphorn had learned to expect from ex-cons out on parole. He was a big man, a little stooped, looking tense, slightly defensive, and generally unfriendly. Not moving, hands by his sides. Just waiting for whatever fate had in store for him.

Leaphorn sat watching. Garcia got out, shut the door behind him, said: “Mr. Delonie? You remember me?” The man nodded. “Yes.”

“Deputy Sheriff Kelly Garcia,” Garcia said. “Glad to see you again. I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you.”

“Talk?” Delonie said. “About what?”

“About this place here,” Garcia said with a sweeping gesture. “About what happened here?”

“I don’t know a damn thing about that,” Delonie said. “I was up there in the New Mexico State Prison.

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Near Santa Fe. Long way from here when that was happening.”

Leaphorn got out of the car, nodded to Delonie.

“This is Mr. Joe Leaphorn,” Garcia said. “He’s interested in what happened here too.”

“Oh?” Delonie said, looking slightly surprised. “I wonder why that would be? Is he an insurance man? Or a cop? Or what?”

“Just curious, I guess, about what could be found.

And so are you,” Garcia said. “Or you wouldn’t be here.

So we have something in common to talk about.” Delonie nodded. Looking at Leaphorn.

Leaphorn smiled. “Have you found anything yet?” Delonie’s expression abruptly changed from his stolid neutral pose. His mouth twisted, his eyes pinched shut, his head bowed. “What do you mean by that?” Delonie said, his voice strangled.

“I meant, maybe you might have been looking for something Ray Shewnack might have left behind for you.”

“That dirty son of a bitch,” Delonie said, the words pronounced with heavy, well-spaced emphasis. “He wouldn’t leave anything for me.”

“You mean Raymond Shewnack?” Leaphorn said.

“That bastard.” Delonie wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, looked up at Leaphorn. “No, I didn’t find a damned thing.”

Garcia cleared his throat. “What are you looking for?”

“This is the place where the federals claim he got burned up, isn’t it? I was looking for just a tiny little bit of what that bastard owed me,” Delonie said.

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“You mean like part of the money out of old man Handy’s safe?” Garcia asked.

“That’d be just fine,” Delonie said, wiping his eyes again. “If I found all of it, it wouldn’t cover what he owes me.”

“I don’t think there’d be enough money in the whole world to cover what he did to you,” Leaphorn said. “Not for the way he treated all of you at Handy’s.”

“Well . . .” Delonie said, staring at Leaphorn. He nodded.

“You know, if you do find a bunch of money,” Garcia said, “or anything valuable, you’d have to—”

“Sure, sure,” Delonie said. “I know the law. I’d turn it all in. I know that. I was just curious.”

“Any place in the store there where we can sit down and talk?” Garcia asked.

Totter’s store had been pretty thoroughly stripped of furniture, but a table with bench seating had been shoved against a wall amid a jumble of fallen shelving. Delonie sat on the table bench. Garcia stood looking at him.

Leaphorn wandered to the back door, noticing how lines of dust blown in through the vacant windows had formed across the floor, observing the piles of leaves in the corners, thinking how quickly nature moved to restore the damage done by man. He looked out at the burned remains of the gallery section, remembering how a typical torrential rain of the monsoon season had arrived in time to save this part of the Handy’s establishment. But not much left of the adjoining Indian artifacts gallery or its storage room where Shewnack had his sleeping space.

Where Shewnack’s cigarette had ignited the fire. Where Shewnack was too drunk to awaken. Where Shewnack
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had burned to bones and ashes. Behind him Garcia was asking Delonie what he had been doing lately, where he was working.

Leaphorn walked out into the yard, around the building, toward Delonie’s vehicle. It was a dirty Jeep Cherokee, middle-aged, with the dents and crunches of hard use. A brown woolen blanket was folded on the front seat. Through the driver’s-side window he could see nothing interesting. Scanning through the rear side windows revealed only Delonie’s habit of tossing old hamburger wrappers and beer cans there instead of into garbage cans. He lifted the rear door, checked around, found nothing. On the passenger’s side, he opened the front door, felt under the seat, extracted an old New Mexico road map, put it back. Checked the glove box and found it locked. Checked the door pockets. Another New Mexico road map, newer version. Stared at the folded blanket, detecting the shape of something under it. He reached in and lifted the end of it. It was covering a rifle.

Leaphorn folded the blanket back. The rifle was an old model Savage 30-30, a fairly typical type of deer rifle that had been popular when he was young. What was less typical was the telescopic sight mounted on it. That looked new. Leaphorn pulled the blanket back over the rifle, restored its folds, and walked back into the building.

Delonie was shaking his head, looking grim.

“So you didn’t just get out here today?” Garcia asked.

“Yesterday,” Delonie said. “I’m about ready to give up.”

“You just came looking for anything useful Shewnack might have had that didn’t get burned up with him?”

“Like I said, I figured if he had any money with him, THE SHAPE SHIFTER

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if he was planning to stay with Totter as a hired hand, he might have tucked it away someplace safe. Maybe buried it. Hid it under something.”

“But you didn’t find anything?”

“Not yet.”

“You think you will?”

Delonie thought a while. “I guess not. I think I’m ready to quit looking.” He sighed, took a deep breath, looked down. “Don’t know,” he said. “I guess maybe I found what I really wanted. I wanted to just see for myself that the bastard was really dead.” He looked up at Garcia, then at Leaphorn. Forced a smile. “Get closure. Isn’t that what the shrinks are calling it now? Put it behind you.

“Mr. Leaphorn here, if he’s a Navajo like he looks, then he’d know about that. They have that curing ceremony to help them forgive and forget when they get screwed. Bennie Begay, he had one of those. An enemy way ceremony, he said it was.”

“You look like you might be Indian,” Leaphorn said.

“Not Navajo?”

“Part Pottawatomie, part Seminole,” Delonie said.

“Probably part French, too. We never had such a ceremony. Neither tribe. But maybe just seeing where the bastard burned up will work for me. Anyway, it gave me a little satisfaction. Maybe it wasn’t as hot as the hell he’s enjoying now but it must have been next to it. People who knew this place said Totter stored his firewood in that gallery back room where Shewnack was sleeping. That wood burns hot.”