August 2022

Blog

Still a Detective

I was a cop for decades, but how did I use my detective skills so many years after retirement? And in Santa Fe, New Mexico, 323 miles from home? There is an old saying, “Once you have ridden a bike, you never forget how.”

 

Indeed, I used to ride my Trek 2,000 to 3,000 miles a year, but that was more than a few years ago—including twice in the Wichita Falls Hotter Than Hell 100. The point is that a person never loses something they have practiced at least 10,000 times. This brings us to last week’s detective work with Gwen, my wife of 59 years. This was us “back in the day.”

 

Last week at the 100^th Anniversary of the Indian Market in Santa Fe, NM., our mystery that began thirty years ago in Santa Fe came to a head. The year was 1992. We were shopping for jewelry from the Native Americans who were selling their items at the best place in the world—on the sidewalk at the Palace of the Governors. We found a perfect turquoise necklace and paid $50.00 for it—which was a fair price then. The vendor, a woman, was Native American. What we did not buy was matching earrings. Can you see the problem we were going to face? We returned thirty years later with one goal in mind—matching earrings.

Being the 100^th anniversary, there were hundreds of Native American vendors.

 

 

Still, they were scattered randomly on the Plaza, at the Governor’s Palace, and all of the adjoining streets. Where to begin? Slowly we decided. Don’t be in a hurry. Take the time and do it right, because there won’t be a second chance.

After many inquiries at various booths and stalls, one vendor examined our necklace and identified it as being made in the Santo Domingo Pueblo. That narrowed our search from hundreds of booths to dozens scattered everywhere.

I was wearing my Apple watch and checked it later the second day, tired but determined. We had walked over 11,000 steps finding jewelers from many pueblos, including Santo Domingo, but never finding the same person/booth for whom we were searching.

Finally, late on the 2^nd day, and what we decided was about the last Santo Domingo booth, we found a young man in his 30s. We showed him the necklace. He examined it as we told him the history. He looked at us and smiled. “That was my mother,” he said.

“Is she still around?” I asked. He chuckled. “She’s sitting down right behind you.”

We found her. Dorothy Chavez. She took the necklace from around Gwen’s neck, examined it with a broad smile, and told us she had been selling her silver and turquoise jewelry on the sidewalk at the Palace for 50 years. This was one of her necklaces.

 

Of course, what about the earrings? Her son, Franklin, offered a sincere smile, and held up a perfectly matched pair to Gwen’s necklace. “Sold,” I said. “Mission complete.”

What were the odds of that outcome? Nearly incalculable. They were identical stones, mined from a diminishing lode in Kingman, Arizona.

Mystery solved. Case Closed. Like in real detective work, it all came down to determination and shoe leather.