Inside the display case was a stunning squash blossom necklace, something she’d had set her mind on buying since seeing her first one in New Mexico Magazine two years ago. And it matched the bracelet that had become so precious to her.
She crouched in front of the showcase and studied the necklace, marveling at the intricate design of the horseshoe-shaped silver backings with a mix of Arizona and Chinese turquoise. Above each cluster was a two-millimeter spot of red coral. Justine knew her gems, having grown up visiting her parents’ small jewelry shop every day after school to marvel at the new gems that had come in. Back then, she couldn’t linger. As the oldest girl, she had to rush home and mind the other siblings until one of her parents came home. On very special occasions, her mother would bring her small, leftover pieces of gems that were too awkward in size to fit into the cabochon. She had always wanted to put the pieces together and make her own jewelry. It never happened; her mind strayed to other interests because one day she got a camera for her birthday and she had been hooked on photography ever since.
“Ma’am, is there something I can show you?”
Justine rose and slowly turned to face a short, older man with a long beard. He wore a white shirt with bolo tie and a pair of sharply creased jeans. “I love your squash-blossom necklace. How much is it?”
“I have several, all varying in price.”
He walked over to the display, unlocked it and took out rows of necklaces. “My most expensive one is this one.” He held it up to the light. “You’ll not see anything like this one in any store in New Mexico—it’s from an estate sale.”
“Was the owner an old woman who made sculptures?”
“No, but I know who you’re talking about. That would be Lilly Brook, passed away several years ago. Her pieces are in museums here and in Taos.” He took out one necklace and said to Justine. “This one’s a beauty and would look wonderful on you.”
True enough, she hadn’t seen anything like that in Darrius’s store. Then again, after seeing Darrius, she hadn’t looked too closely at anything else in the store.
Her fingertips traced the inlay patterns, feeling the smooth turquoise grace her fingers. “It’s gorgeous. How much?”
“For a good price this week. I always lower my pieces during the ceremonial for visitors—$1,250. For you, I’ll take another twenty dollars off,” he said, offering her the necklace.
“Really?” She didn’t want to pay that much and asked to see the others. “What else do you have that’s similar? I can’t quite spend that much.”
“I have one that’s $900.” He took that one out, too, but still, it was too much.
“Do you have anything less than that?” Justine asked.
“This one is $480 but it’s not all pure silver; still, it’s very pretty.” He held it out to her.
“May I try it on?”
“Sure. It’ll match your bracelet. Red Sky Jewelers, is it?”
She looked up in surprise. “That’s right.”
“Yeah. Darrius is good. He has wonderful pieces.”
More wonderful pieces than you think! Yes, her mind had gone off on a tangent again, and always would when Darrius was concerned. She couldn’t wait to see him later, and thought she might stop by his Zuni location and surprise him.
She smiled down at it. “I love the weight—heavy enough, yet light.”
“Made right here in town by one of our best silversmiths, Harry Takai. How it got to Wilber Silver Arrow’s home in the hills, I’ll never know. The old man died about six months ago, and this necklace was brought in with some of his other possessions.”
Her eyes skeptically moved from side to side as if in deep thought. “Four eighty, huh?”
“That’s right.” After examining each piece, she decided she liked the cheaper one. “I’ll take it.”
“Excellent choice. May I wrap it for you?”
“No, I’ll wear it.” Then she remembered her mission. “Oh, would it be okay with you if I take some shots of your store? I work for The San Francisco Examiner. I’m doing a spread on the Intertribal Ceremonial.”
“Help yourself. I’ll just ring this up for you. Cash or credit?”
“Cash! I hate credit card bills. I do have travelers’ checks if you take those.”
“Anything you wish.”
* * *
Justine wandered around looking for good prospects to photograph. She saw all kinds of staffs, walking sticks and war masks carved of the best mahogany, cottonwood and oak. She stopped and lightly touched a Mississippian cedar mask with shell eyes and mouth. She had remembered seeing one similar to it in one of her reference books on native cultures. Then she entered a room that contained native pots from the Pawnee and Algonquin. She took a few good shots of the room and went on to one decorated with animal heads. It had a surreal quality, giving her a sense of being in a hunt, in the middle of a prairie, having to fend for herself with nothing but a 35mm camera as a weapon.
Standing in the middle of the floor, the eyes of bears, caribou, elk and buffalo all seemed to follow her, tracking her every move. She quickly snapped what she wanted and got out. It was an eerie room, but might be very interesting to the readers.
Taking one more shot of the showrooms, she noticed some items on the sale rack. Could they actually be what she hoped they were? Were they rare finds in the form of T-shirts—the T-shirt of all shirts? She removed two shirts from the rack and, indeed, they were rare finds. In her hands were two kachina shirts—one was of the Crow Mother Darrius had spoken of; the name was painted onto the bottom of the shirt in red-flecked puffy paint. She would wear that one today. The other shirt was simply amazing to her and she was barely able to take her eyes off it—a white Hanes T-shirt with an airbrushed version of the Koshari across the chest. He was outlined in black against the white, but the black coordinating pattern stuck out in what seemed to be the darkest of ink. His striped, tasseled hat drooped over a face painted in stripes and circles. Large eyes were rimmed in dark ink; his chiseled body seemed to be moving in a rhythmic dance, giving him a 3-D effect. Justine held the shirt up, stared at it and flatly said, “Darrius! This is you.”
The man came up from behind her. “You like?”
“Yes.”
“Another local artist painted this about eight years ago during a tragic incident that happened at one of our powwows.”
She knew about it, all right, but wasn’t in the mood to bring up what Darrius had told her. The story had scared her, especially coming from his own lips. On the other hand, the shirt was too good to pass up despite the fact it was painted during an accidental death! “I’ll take both shirts.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with, Ms…?”
“Roberts-Paretti.” She handed him a business card. “I’ll pay cash for these, too. Thanks for letting me take the shots. We’ll send you a copy of the paper.”
As the man began to bag the shirt, Justine stopped him. “I’ll wear the Crow Mother shirt. Can I change somewhere?”
