Sacred Clowns by Tony Hillerman Page B

“Sounded to me like a drunk trying to convince himself that it was all a bad dream.”

    The acting assistant director of Saint Bonaventure Indian Mission was named Montoya, but she was clearly a Pueblo Indian and she looked to Leaphorn like a Zuni. She said she didn’t know for sure why all that silver hadn’t been reported missing from the craft shop inventory but she said she could make an educated guess.
    “I’ll bet it was because Eric didn’t put it down in the first place.”
    “Why not?” Streib asked.
    “Because he was always buying stuff out of his own money. Buying stuff we couldn’t afford. Tools. Turquoise. Special fancy woods.” She shrugged. “Everything. Eric wasn’t very practical.”
    “So he didn’t log it in when it was delivered. Is that what you mean?”
    The conversation was getting more specific than the acting assistant director wanted. She looked slightly flustered. “You should be asking Father Haines. He’ll be back next Tuesday.”
    “We’ll ask him,” Streib said. “We just wanted to hurry things along a little. How about the jewelry? The concha belt. The bracelet.”
    “I saw something about the belt here on the desk,” she said, and fished a piece of salmon-colored notepaper out of the in-basket and read from it. “’Tom Tso wants to pick up the concha belt he was finishing in Eric’s class. How does he get it? And some other students want to get their projects. Let me know what to tell them.’ That’s from Mr. Denny. He helps Eric with driving the school buses.” She made an odd face, and Leaphorn guessed it was to keep from crying. “Helped Eric, I meant. No more Eric now.”
    “Mrs. Montoya,” Streib said. “I want to ask you to get us a list of everything students had in that craft shop that’s missing now. We particularly want to know who was making one of the kachina dolls in there. The koshare. And then could you shed any light on a sort of funny-looking wood and cloth contraption we found on Dorsey’s shell? Looked like it might have been a hand puppet.” Streib demonstrated with his own hand. “It looked like a duck.”
    But Mrs. Montoya was focused on the koshare doll. “Oh, that koshare,” she said. “That’s my son doing that one.” The thought startled her. “Why do you want to know about that?”
    Streib glanced at Leaphorn. “See?” he said. Then, to Mrs. Montoya, “It’s a class project?”
    “Mr. Dorsey always wanted them to make something they thought they could sell. Allen thought he could sell one of those. Why?”
    “We thought it might be significant,” Leaphorn said. “But it probably isn’t if it’s a student project. Do you know about the hand-puppet duck?” He gave Streib a glance. Dilly hadn’t told him about this duck.
    Mrs. Montoya seemed relieved. She laughed. “Mr. Dorsey was our school comedian,” she said. “When the kids put on programs they’d get him to be the master of ceremonies. He was a ventriloquist. He wasn’t very good at it, but the children thought he was great.”
    “A funny man, then?” Streib said.
    “He was our school clown,” she said, looking sad at the thought. “He could always make other people laugh, but I don’t think he laughed much himself.”
    This aroused Streib’s interest. “Why not?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe Father Haines would know. Maybe he was lonely.” She made a wry face and changed the subject. “I’ll be glad to get that information for you,” and while she was writing a reminder on her notepad, she added, “Eric Dorsey was a good man.” She looked up, at Streib and then at Leaphorn, as if challenging them to deny it. “A kind man. And gentle. And talented, too.”
    “The students liked him?” Leaphorn asked.
    She nodded. “Everybody liked him. He wasn’t a Catholic, you know, but I think he was a saint. Everybody loved him.”
    “Not quite everybody,” Streib said. “Do you have any idea who didn’t?”
    “I really