The Bible Seller: A Navajo Nation Mystery (Navajo Nation Mysteries Book 7) Read online

  The woman raised an eyebrow––touching the tip of her tongue to her teeth while thinking this over. She shrugged finally, admitting, “I’m not very religious myself.” She almost smiled as she went on, “A person doesn’t have to be religious to sell Bibles, or to buy one…thank God.” She held up a forefinger and took a sterner tack. “The thing is…” and here she paused to recall exactly what the thing should be. “Everyone should have a Bible,” she said, recapturing her train of thought, “…in case the need arises to become religious.” She looked directly at him, “Many a damned heathen changes their mind in a bad situation and feels the want of a Bible.” Her tone softened and a light seemed to play across her features. “I was religious once, when I was young. I thought I wanted to be a Mormon…I tried but it never quite took.” She lowered a conspiratorial eyelid. “My father was white and a Mormon convert. Maybe still is…but I somehow doubt it. I don’t think he was cut out for it either. He damned sure wasn’t cut out to be a father.” She blew a strand of tousled red hair from one eye and moved closer, right up in Harley’s face. “The point is––a person never knows when something terrible might befall him and cause him to find comfort in the Word.” She nodded knowingly. “I’ll bet you could have used a Bible when you lost your wife.”

  Harley, though somewhat taken aback at this plain talk, gathered himself. “No, I was drunk at the time…stayed drunk for a long while after… I never really felt the need of a Bible.” He poked his head beyond the safety of the door to look around, then changed the subject. “No car? How did you get here?”

  “I had an old car…but the bastard broke down over by Tonalea…ran out of oil I guess…blew a rod right through the pan.” She smiled, “I got fifty bucks for it.” She seemed to consider this. “I guess you have to check the oil a little more often than I thought.” The woman then frowned––mentally lamenting the fact the buyer would probably have given more if she’d had the title. It was unfair, she thought, the car cost eight hundred dollars only the month before. She’d had to sell a lot of Bibles just to make the down payment

  Harley, too, frowned, still not sure how the woman got there. After thinking a moment, Harley, ever the master of the obvious, remarked, “Tonalea is a long way.”

  “Tell me about it,” the woman grimaced. “I caught a ride to Kayenta. After that I was damned lucky to find another. I had to hang out at the Chevron station for quite a while before an old woman stopped for gas. She took me a little farther…almost to Dinnehotso. One of her daughters had been thinking of going to her cousin’s place at Mexican Water for a party. The daughter said, if I could chip in a couple of bucks for gas, she thought we could make it.” The woman stopped and twirled a strand of red hair around a forefinger, watching carefully to see how this man was taking her story. Satisfied, she went on, “When we got there, her cousin offered to let me spend the night with them, but I didn’t like the looks of those people, so I hit the road again; it was almost daylight before I caught another ride.” She smiled as she looked toward the distant highway. “Not much traffic out there today, is there?” Then, “The man who brought me this far said he was your neighbor…something Nakii… said you might be going into town today. He told me he would take me on in himself but he didn’t have enough gas in his truck to make it as far as that.”

  Harley smiled, “That would be Alfred Nakii; he doesn’t have much money.” Harley assured her of this in a way he hoped would excuse his friend. “He only got out of jail about a month ago.” Harley shook his head in mild disbelief. “Six months just for stealing a little burro and two goats! That’s crazy. The judge said he wouldn’t have gone so hard on him if he hadn’t already eaten one of them.”

  “I can understand that. A lot of people like goat.”

  “No. It was the burro, or at least a good bit of it, before they finally came for him. It was a small burro, not really good for anything, according to Alfred. He told me it was a mean little so-and-so, too, said he couldn’t do a thing with it. It tried to kick him every chance and honked and beeped so loud it was getting on his nerves. He told me he had only taken it along in the first place because it refused to leave the goats––wouldn’t stop braying when he tried to lead them off. One of the goats was milking pretty well, and he thought the other one might be pregnant. Those two were worth keeping, he said. He told the judge he was just trying to get a little herd started and planned to replace those animals when he’d raised a few. He also mentioned their owner had more animals than he could feed; he said the man’s pasture was worn out. The way he looked at it, he was doing him a favor. He’d winked at the judge as he said all this, thinking it might help.”

  Harley, relaxing now against the door jam, took his time. “Alfred, never being arrested before, and not really knowing how things worked, decided the judge might appreciate knowing some of these things he was telling him. I guess later he figured out that wasn’t the case.” Harley stopped to consider his friend. “Alfred’s not a bad guy, he’s not. He probably just got off on the wrong foot with that burro.”

  Harley scratched his head. “When I was a kid people around here used to eat wild burro all the time. There were plenty of them in those days and the deer were nearly all shot out. Burro’s good eating when you know how to fix it. I like it better than deer myself.”

  Harley was on a roll and couldn’t quit talking. There was something about this woman… “The sad thing was…Alfred’s mother died while he was still in jail. He was a good son and had always lived right there at home with his mom. He was a big help to the old lady as she got older, everyone could see that.” The little man gave a sad shake of his head. “Not long ago Alfred told me he sometimes feels responsible for her death––said he’d maybe been the cause of it––being in jail and all. He thought maybe him being gone made her so sad she just gave up and died.” Harley made that little tsk, tsk, tsk, sound people sometimes do when they think something’s a shame. “Alfred lives over there all by himself now…he had a dog… but it died too.” He brightened momentarily. “He’s been looking for a wife but hasn’t had much luck so far. He owns that trailer up there outright you know…did he mention that? He’s an okay guy…really.” Harley Ponyboy was one of those people who are prone to see the best in everyone; he just couldn’t help it.

  “Well, I guess all that’s good to know.” The woman murmured, looking furtively about, her gaze finally settling on Harley’s truck. “Maybe it’s not as quiet out here as I thought.” She eyed the meandering dirt track back to the highway with a tired sigh.

  “Oh, no…it’s usually pretty quiet out this way.” Harley insisted. “We don’t get much traffic even during the day…none at night.” He raised an eyebrow causing the white paint to, again, offer the impression of a person in a state of surprise. “Are you from around here?” He knew she wasn’t. He would have remembered her if she was. He’d never seen anyone quite like her. She was striking. There was a bit of an edge to her perhaps, but in that interesting way some men find attractive.

  While mulling these things over it finally occurred to Harley the woman must be tired and probably thirsty. He had forgotten his manners and quickly thought to make amends. “Would you like to come in out of the sun and rest a minute…have a drink of water, maybe?” He again wiped his hands on his shirttail, explaining, “I’m painting the baseboards right now but I’ll be going into Shiprock later on today.” Harley gestured nervously toward the unfinished trim. “It’s oil-base…so I need ta keep after it.” He hesitated, half-turning in the doorway to contemplate the work in progress then explained, “I’m goin’ ta need more paint later on.” Then looked away as he mumbled, “I could maybe give you a lift that far if you wanted?”

  “That your truck over there?” The woman’s glance was calculating but turned doubtful as she continued her study of the pickup.

  This caused Harley to look at the vehicle in a new light himself, as though seeing it for the first time. “Well, I’ve only had it a year or so. I
’m trying ta fix it up as I get the money. It runs okay but the passenger door pops open sometimes when it hits a bump…a person has ta be careful about that…and it needs tires, too. I have a little list Thomas Begay made for me of all the things it needs. He’s a mechanic.” Harley turned back into the trailer and motioned for her to follow.

  The woman, shaking her head behind his back, followed him into the house. Despite the work in progress she was surprised at how orderly everything seemed; a woman must have spent some time training this man. She did not, for the most part, consider herself a good housekeeper, but admired the trait in others.

  Harley hesitated. “So…what is your name, if you don’t mind me asking?” He was pretty good at remembering names and kept them filed away for years sometimes––a few of them forever. That was one of the things that made it hard to forget Anita.

  “No…I…don’t mind at all,” She said, adjusting her shoulder bag. “It’s Eileen…Eileen…Smith.”

  Harley accepted this in the spirit it was offered. “You’re part Indian. Right?” He hoped this wasn’t out of line. Some people didn’t want to be seen as part Indian…but that was mostly just the ones who actually were.

  “Yep, Dinè, just like you Mr…?”

  “Ah, sorry about that. I’m Harley…Harley Ponyboy. Do you speak any Navajo?”

  “Not much. My father didn’t allow it. But after he left home I picked up a little from my mother and her sister. They didn’t think I had much of a knack for it, probably figured it was the white blood. My mother didn’t know that much of it herself, at least from what I saw when her father came to see us; it was almost like she could hardly understand him sometimes…or he, her. My Aunt Mary is older and a little better at it.” Eileen was peeking into the trailer’s front bedroom. “A two bedroom, huh? That’s nice…” She knew a lot about old trailer houses––had, in fact, lived in several herself and had always been partial to the front bedroom models.

  “There’s another bedroom in the back. My wife always kept it made up in case any of her relatives came to visit, but she was on the outs with her family most of the time, so none of them ever came.” Harley cleared his throat and said, “I used to drink a little and when I did, she made me sleep back there so as not to disturb her too much.” Harley then went on to reassure the woman. “I don’t drink hardly at all, anymore.” A sad little look passed over him. “I should have quit when she was still alive…maybe she’d still be here if I had.”

  Eileen smiled into the mirror over the couch and touched her hair. “Well, I’ve heard that story more than a few times, Harley. Hindsight’s great, isn’t it?” She turned and tilted her head, “What was her name?”

  “I don’t like to say her name…I don’t want ta take the chance.”

  “Ummm,” …an old-school Navajo, funny how so many still thought like this. Even those who moved away to white towns and no longer spoke the language; they still held on to the old beliefs. Her mother once told her it was like Diné Alzheimer’s––they forget everything but the superstitions.

  Harley changed the subject, “There’s plenty of water in the tank if you might like ta wash up or anything. It should be warm about now. You can take a shower if you like…that door locks.” Harley was more than a little proud of the water system. He and his friend Thomas Begay had put it in years back––even before he had electricity––and it worked fine as long he remembered to fill the tank every week or so. It was an old farm tank on a tall stand at the back of the trailer. They had picked it up for cheap at the salvage yard in Farmington, painted it black, and then angled it to catch the sun for the better part of the day. After they got the fuel smell out (and that hadn’t been easy) Thomas Begay began calling it a Navajo water-heater. Both men thought it quite an improvement, what with being off the grid and all. Later when Harley did get electricity he had to drop in a floating horse-tank heater in order to keep using it through the winter. For a while there he and Thomas thought of going into business, selling and installing such tanks, but they were drinking at the time, so nothing ever came of it.

  Eileen looked down at her clothes and shook her head to the offer. “Oh…well, about that…one of my rides drove off with my suitcase,” she lied, “so I really don’t have anything else to wear right now.”

  Harley nodded, as though this was a common enough thing to have happen, then after thinking said, “There’s some of Ani…some of my wife’s clothes still in the back closet; if any of them fit, you are welcome to them. I have been meaning to take them ta the Goodwill store anyway. She was some bigger than you but you can take a look and see what you think.”

  The woman eyed the little man, and thought this over, finally concluding he was what he appeared to be: an honest human being trying to help. She hadn’t known many but thought this might be one.

  ~~~~~~

  Harley finished out the last of his paint, and washed up before he started fixing a light lunch of fried Spam and eggs. There were some tortillas too. He figured they’d be okay once they were warmed up. He augmented the morning’s coffee grounds with the last of the Folgers then added water and set the pot on a back burner. He hadn’t expected a guest for lunch but couldn’t have done much better even if he had. He and Thomas Begay had both been idle the last week and money was short. It might be yet another week before Professor Custer returned to put them back to work.

  He was just about to put the eggs in the skillet when he heard the shower running. He smiled to himself, set the Spam on the back of the stove, and decided to hold off on the eggs. He moved the radio from the floor to the kitchen cabinet, plugged it in beside the refrigerator and clicked it on.

  When he turned it to KTNN––Voice of The Navajo Nation––he heard the intro signaling the noon news segment: fifteen minutes of news in Navajo. The announcer rattled through a few national headlines then launched into a local, “Bulletin just in…” concerning the discovery of a body––that of an elderly man––just west of the New Mexico state line––on Highway 64. Identification of the victim had not been released pending notification of next of kin. Authorities said foul play couldn’t be ruled out. The announcer’s voice turned upbeat as he assured listeners further information would follow on the regional news at five.

  Harley filed this information away in the back of his mind and determined not to miss the evening report. He knew people up in that area, clan members mostly, and hoped this old man didn’t turn out to be one of them. He was still mulling the report over when he heard the bathroom door open and Eileen, wearing his late wife’s too-large house slippers, shuffled down the hall from the back bedroom.

  Harley turned to the stove and set the eggs to frying then opened the still warm oven to remove a stack of corn tortillas wrapped in a tea towel. The coffee pot was perking away.

  “That smells good.”

  “Well, it’s not much. I haven’t been ta the store in a while.”

  Eileen, when he glanced back at her, had piled her long hair on top of her head and wrapped it in a towel. She looked taller this way even with just the slippers. She hung her book bag on the back of a chair then turned a pirouette while holding out her arms. She had discovered a sweatshirt and running pants in the closet, all too big, but they looked all right on her somehow.

  “It’s about ready…pull up a chair.” Harley wanted to say she looked nice, but wasn’t sure he could put the words together in such a way it didn’t sound like he was hitting on her. The table was set and he brought the coffee pot over to fill their cups.

  Eileen knit her brows in a show of concern. “I maybe used more water than I should have. It just felt so good I couldn’t bring myself to turn it off.” She put a hand on his and smiled. “I appreciate this Harley…I know how hard water is to come by out here.” She smiled again––what Harley took to be a genuine reflection of her thanks.

  “Don’t you worry about that, Eileen. I’ll get another load of water this afternoon in Shiprock. It’s free from the community p
ump; we just have ta go get it.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes: Eileen complimenting his cooking, which embarrassed him a little, but made him feel good at the same time. “So, Eileen, were you in Phoenix long?”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “How did you know I was in Phoenix?”

  “Uh…it’s on the back of your bag,” he said pointing. “Phoenix Bible Outreach Center.” Harley didn’t mention the small, almost indiscernible print near the bottom: Halfway House for A Better Future.

  “I was in Phoenix for a while…couple of years I guess.”

  Harley didn’t change expression, just went on eating and nodding his head as he thought this over, finally looking up to say, “Your business is your business, Eileen. You don’t need to tell me any of it if it bothers you.”

  Eileen put down her fork and smoothed her hair. “There’s very little that bothers me anymore Harley Ponyboy, I’ve grown used to who I am and where I’ve been.”

  Harley was now even more intrigued by this woman who didn’t pretend to be other than what she was––regardless of what that might turn out to be. “Right after we eat we can load up the water barrels and head into town.”

  “You know, Harley, I’d rather just stay here if you don’t mind. It will give me a chance to wash my clothes and get myself in order…maybe even take a little nap.” She reached into her bag and took out some bills and handed them to him. “Pick up some food in town…I like to pay my way,” she said, “and I won’t take no for an answer.” Her words had an air of finality that gave the little man pause. “Oh,” she continued, “if you don’t mind, could you pick me up a bottle of black hair dye? I’m tired of this red mop.”

  Harley accepted the money without a word and put it in his pocket without counting. He had secretly admired her long red hair but guessed all along it wasn’t natural…or was it? In any case he didn’t feel it was his place to offer an opinion on something she had obviously already decided.