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uniformed officers, and an angry woman began to draw a crowd. Chee had succeeded in keeping anyone from entering the market, so the would-be shoppers with time on their hands walked over to investigate the commotion. Several bystanders knew Shopping Cart Woman, nodded to her.
    “He wants to arrest me for buying Fudgsicles,” the woman said. “That man has handcuffs. I can see his gun. He’s going to take me to jail for shopping at Bashas’.”
    Bernie heard a low rumble of disapproval from the crowd about the same time as the name on the car registration came back. She hurried to the woman, greeting her in Navajo, introducing herself the traditional way, using maternal and paternal clans. The woman, Gloria Benally, did the same. Gloria Benally, the same name the DOT record search had given her as the car’s registered owner.
    Bernie turned to the dozen people who had gathered to watch. “A good man was shot this morning, and we are searching for a person involved in a shooting. We will open the store when we can. If you can buy your groceries later, I’d recommend that. ”
    She heard the siren of another police car. An Apache County sheriff’s vehicle pulled into the lot, drove past them and up to the front door of the grocery store. Two deputies raced from the car to the back of the building.
    She turned to Wheeler, feeling the wind beat against her face. “You can help Chee like he asked. Tell him the car is registered to Mrs. Gloria Benally and we have her here. Nothing on her record.”
    “You both get away from my car.” Mrs. Benally raised her voice. “What in the world is wrong with you?”
    Bernie said, “Officer Wheeler and I are so sorry to inconvenience you, but we need your help on this case. The experts will have to look at your car for evidence that could tell us who shot the policeman. That’s why the tow truck is coming.”
    “Tow truck?”
    “The one who was shot was a retired officer, a brave man who worked for the Navajo people. The bullet went into his head. The person who shot him drove away in a blue sedan that looked like yours.” Bernie paused. “Exactly like this car. Exactly. Right down to the little dent on the fender and the red bumper sticker. I know this is true because I was there when that terrible thing happened. We need your help to find the person who did this before someone else gets hurt.”
    Mrs. Benally waited to make sure Bernie was done.
    “I’m sorry about that man who got shot,” she said. “But my car is innocent. I need my car to take home my groceries. What about my Fudgsicles?”
    Bernie stared at Wheeler. “This officer will buy you some more when we’re all done.”
    Wheeler looked puzzled. “I’m going to help Chee.” He trotted off.
    Mrs. Benally smiled for the first time.
    Bernie spoke to her in Navajo. “I can tell you are a smart woman and a good observer. We have a mystery here. Is it all right if I ask you a few questions?”
    Mrs. Benally, as the story revealed itself, hadn’t parked the car at Bashas’. She explained that a friend had dropped her off. She told Bernie the story of how she met the friend at Window Rock Elementary when their sons were both in first grade there. Bernie listened, knowing that Mrs. Benally would eventually talk about the car.
    “My son was sad when that boy went off to live with his uncle in Flagstaff,” Mrs. Benally said. “My son, he’s the one who drives the car here for me.”
    The wind gusted again, blowing dust in Bernie’s eyes and grit in her teeth. It made the day seem hotter. Mrs. Benally had drifted into talking about her friend’s son, who was working at the Museum of Northern Arizona and going to school at Northern Arizona University.
    Bernie interrupted her. “Forgive me for not being a better listener, but I have to find out about the car so we can begin to learn who shot the policeman.”
    Mrs. Benally nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Ask questions.”
    Some Navajos thought it rude to