The Shape Shifter by Tony Hillerman Page B

had come in. And who made them. Would that help?”
    Leaphorn laughed. “Bernie, the trouble is, I don’t really know what I’m looking for. I guess the bank would cooperate on that. We don’t seem to have any reason for asking. If we did, I guess someone could check for people named Totter in Ada. Find out something about him. It sounds like a small town.”
    “No crime involved though? Is that right? Wasn’t there a fire involved?”
    “A fire, yes. But no evidence of arson. A man who worked for Totter was burned up, but the arson folks 108
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    blamed a drunk smoking in bed and no sign of crime beyond carelessness,” he said. “Anyway, thanks. And now can I ask you another favor?”
    This produced a pause.
    After all, Leaphorn thought, she’s a new bride, busy with all sorts of things. “Never mind. I don’t want to impose on—”
    “Sure,” Bernie said. “Doing what?”
    Leaphorn struggled briefly with his conscience and won. “If you are still formally, officially a policewoman—
    you are, aren’t you? Just on a leave?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Then maybe you could ask that hospital in Oklahoma City to give you the date and details of Totter’s death, mortuary arrangements, all that.”
    “I’ll do it,” Bernie said, “and if Captain Largo sus-pends me because I can’t explain what I am doing that for, I will refer him to Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn.”
    “Fair enough,” Leaphorn said, “and I’ll have to tell him I don’t know myself.”
    Leaphorn spent a few moments digesting the information, or lack of it, that Bernie Manuelito’s call had provided. Its effect was to add one more oddity to the pile of oddities that seemed to cluster around this damned tale-teller’s rug. For him, at least, it had started with an oddity.
    Why would anyone, especially anyone driving a fairly new, fairly expensive vehicle, get into the work shed behind Grandma Peshlakai’s hogan and steal two lard buckets full of the pinyon sap she had collected? Maybe he shouldn’t link that with the rug. It was a separate case. A wee little larceny memorable to him only because Grandma’s resentment of the way he had abandoned her prob-THE SHAPE SHIFTER
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    lem to deal with the case of a deceased white man still seemed morally justified. But now it seemed vaguely possible there was a link. Grandma had found the purloined lard buckets at Totter’s gallery, which would make him the most likely suspect in that theft. And he had owned the rug. And now he was buried in a Veterans Administration cemetery at Oklahoma City. Or seemed to be.
    Leaphorn groaned. To hell with this. He was going home. He would make a fire in the fireplace. He was going to spread his old Triple A Indian Country map out on the kitchen table, put a calendar down beside it, and try to make some sense out of all of this. Then he would call Mrs. Bork and tell her to let him know if anything turned up, if there was anything he could help her with. Better to make such unpleasant calls when one was at home and comfortable.
    He opened the glove box, pushed the cell phone back into its place there, and encountered the neatly folded sack lunch Tommy Vang had handed him as he escorted him back to his truck.
    “For your drive home,” Tommy had said, smiling at him. “Mr. Delos says people get hungry when they are driving. It be good to eat.”
    True enough, Leaphorn thought, but this lunch would be better to eat if he took the time and trouble to put in the cooler box he kept behind the seat for such hunger and thirst moments. He leaned over the seat, opened the lid, and slid the sack in between his thermos jug and a shoe box that usually held a candy bar or two, and on which Louisa had lettered “Emergency Rations.” That reminded him of home, and he suddenly wanted to be there.
    And he was, finally. But only after about five hours of 110
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    driving eastward on Interstate 40 through Winslow, then northward on Arizona 87 past