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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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    TONY HILLERMAN
    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