The Shape Shifter by Tony Hillerman Page A

makes artifacts more precious to some.” He laughed again. “Like the pistol that killed President Lin-coln. Or the dagger that stabbed Julius Caesar.” THE SHAPE SHIFTER
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    “I know,” Leaphorn said. “We’ve had people contact us about trying to get genuine suicide notes. Or trying to get us to make copies for them.”
    “No accounting for taste, I guess,” Delos said, smiling at Leaphorn. “For example, just like your saying you don’t like fruitcake.”

    13
    Halfway down the slope from the Delos mansion a sharp
    “ting-a-ling” sound from the seat beside Leaphorn startled him and interrupted his troubled thoughts. It came, he realized, from the cell phone he’d forgotten in the pocket of his jacket. He pulled to the side of the road, parked, fished it out, pushed the Talk button, identified himself, heard Bernadette Manuelito’s voice.
    “Lieutenant Leaphorn,” Bernie was saying, “this is the former Officer Bernadette Manuelito, who is now Mrs. Bernadette Chee. We decided not to wait for your callback. Got that obituary information you needed. Or at least some of it.”
    “I’m not used to this Mrs. Chee title yet,” Leaphorn said. “I’ll just call you Bernie.”
    “I’m going to be Officer Manuelito again pretty soon,” she said, sounding happy about it. “Captain Largo said they kept that job open for me. Isn’t that great?” 106
    TONY HILLERMAN
    “Great for us,” Leaphorn said, realizing as he said it that he wasn’t part of that “us” anymore. “Great for the Navajo Tribal Police Department. How is your husband behaving?”
    “He’s wonderful,” Bernie said. “I should have captured him long ago. And you should come to visit us. I want you to see how we’re fixing up Jim’s trailer house.
    It’s going to be very nice.”
    “Well, I’m happy you got him, Bernie. And I will accept that invitation as soon as I can get there.” He found himself trying to imagine Chee’s rusty trailer with curtains in the windows, throw rugs here and there. Maybe even some colorful wallpaper pasted to those aluminum walls.
    “Here’s the stuff on the Totter obituary,” Bernie said, reverting to her role as a policewoman. “You want me to read it to you?”
    “Sure.”
    “Erwin James Totter, operator of Totter’s Trading Post and Art Gallery north of Gallup for many years, died last week in Saint Anthony’s Hospital in Oklahoma City. He was admitted there earlier this month with complications following a heart attack.
    “Mr. Totter was born in Ada, Oklahoma, April 3, 1939.
    A bachelor, he left no known dependents. A navy veteran who had served in the Vietnam War, he was interred in the Veterans Administration cemetery at Oklahoma City.
    He had asked that, in lieu of flowers, any memorial contributions be made to the Red Cross in an account at the Wells Fargo Bank of Oklahoma City.”
    Bernie paused. “It wasn’t very long,” she said, sounding regretful.

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    “That was it?” Leaphorn asked. “No mention of any family. Nothing about any survivors?”
    “Just what I read to you,” Bernie said. “The woman at the desk, the one who helped me find it, she said she thought it came in a letter, with some cash with it to pay the publication fee. She couldn’t remember who sent it.
    She said maybe Mr. Totter had written it himself when he knew he was dying and just got the hospital to mail it.
    Does that sound reasonable?”
    “Not very,” Leaphorn said. He chuckled. “But then nothing much about this whole business seems very reasonable. For example, I’m not sure what the devil I’m doing out here.”
    “You want me to check on it?” Bernie’s tone carried a sort of plaintive sound.
    “Golly, Bernie,” Leaphorn said. “I hope it didn’t sound like I was complaining. You did exactly what I asked you to do. Tell the truth, I think I’m just floundering around feeling frustrated.”
    “Maybe I could find out from the bank if any contributions