Hidden Heritage (10 page)

Cecilia opened the massive exterior door and waved me past a foyer into a living room. I'm not an authority on antiques, but I knew enough to place several of the heavy walnut tables and chairs in the eighteenth century. Other pieces had a rough-hewn look with damaged tops. They looked to have been cobbled together by an inexperienced workman who simply wanted to provide places to sit. There were other chairs with rigid leather backs that surely were Spanish Colonial. Fabrics were sunny combinations of yellow and marigold.

Pushed against a wall was a leather sectional that might have come straight from a discount furniture store. It had reclining levers on the side nearest me and faced a fifty-inch flat screen TV.

The interior of the house matched the curious period grouping of houses outside. Only the grounds showed unified order. Yet, the huge room was scrupulously tidy and the furniture grouped in such a way that there was a pleasing symmetry with each area a microcosm of different eras. Someone in this family had a surprising flair for design and was adept at integrating seemingly impossible elements. I suspected it was Cecilia.

Doña Francesca Diaz was perched on a high-backed chair. In front of her was a low table and an exquisite tea set—obviously top quality sterling—and plates of sandwiches and cookies.

“Mrs. Diaz, I'm in awe of your lovely grounds, your flowers. It's beautiful.”

Francesca nodded. “It is one of my gifts.” She waved toward the chair opposite. “Please join me.”

I sat down.

“It has been a long time since someone has come to tea.”

Chapter Thirteen

Weighty silver spoons matched the tea set. Cecilia poured. We nibbled on cookies and fell back on Kansans' favorite topic of conversation—the weather. Then Cecelia collected our cups and saucers and quickly whisked away the tray. She disappeared through swinging doors, but returned immediately.

“I am so sorry you are not here under happier circumstances than to discuss my great-grandson's murder. When I read excerpts of stories in your column, I wished I had written about my family. Not for your books, but so my descendants would know.” Francesca glanced at Cecilia. “If I am ever blessed with descendants.”

The young woman's lips trembled.

Francesca glanced at her hands. “When I still
could
write.”

“But you could record your thoughts.”

“I'm not good with technology,” Cecilia said. “And my cousin would be very uncomfortable asking great-grandmother questions.”

“But there's someone here, surely. All these houses. Surely they are not empty.”

“Yes, empty,” Cecilia said.

“There used to be a lot of family here,” Francesca said heavily. “Now there is only myself and Cecilia and George's family. He and Teresa have four children.”

I was dumbfounded.

“There is nothing for anyone to do here.” Cecilia said. “No way to make a living. George became a welder so he could stay.”

Francesca glanced at her sharply.

All this acreage and none of it being broken for crops? This land would be incredibly fertile. Of course there wouldn't be a way to support a family on a farm that wasn't raising crops. Of course everyone would have to leave. So that's why the Diaz family had scattered across Kansas.

“Well, on to the reason for our visit here today.” I moved quickly from this loaded topic. “You said you have information that might have some bearing on Victor's murder. I would be grateful to know anything you have to tell us.”

“His death has everything to do with my family's history. My life. My work. It is not a simple thing.”

“Would you like me to record some of this? Even though you are not from Carlton County, I would love to hear what you have to say.”

In fact, if what she said had a direct bearing on Victor's death, I really should get it on tape.

The smart thing to do would be to send this statement, however long, back to Frank Dimon. But he had ordered me not to do the smart thing. In fact, he had ordered me not to ask this woman any questions at all about her great-grandson. Leave that to the “experts.” The big boys. I was to proceed with collecting my “little stories.”

So I would collect her little story.

I held up my hand to stop either of them from speaking and retrieved my cassette tape recorder from my briefcase. I use this older technology for formal interviews to accommodate visitors to our historical society who don't have access to digital methods. Needing formal permission, I showed it to Cecilia, then Doña Francesca. Following a rapid exchange of Spanish with her great-granddaughter, Francesca told me to proceed.

I pressed the record button and quickly stated my name and date, and that I was taping at the Diaz home with the consent of both Francesca and Cecilia Diaz. “Would you state your name please, Mrs. Diaz?”

She nodded and proudly said her name: “Doña Francesca Bianco Loisel Montoya.”

“And Diaz,” Cecilia prompted.

Francesca shrugged. “Diaz.”

Cecilia smiled. “It is not Spanish custom to tack on the husband's surname. The proper way is still the lady's first two given names, then the father's surname, then the mother's surname.”

“My great-granddaughter insists that I add Diaz.”

“It's not important.” I smiled as the
Little House on the Prairie
came to mind again. I doubt Laura Ingalls Wilder had a Spanish adobe in mind.

“Would you like to start with topics of special interest to you, or would you prefer a chronological approach?”

The old woman sized me up as though evaluating my integrity. Perhaps she sensed I would much rather interrogate her as an officer of the law than interview her as a historian.

“I would like to start at the beginning,” she said slowly. “When my people first came here.” Then she turned expectantly to Cecilia and they quickly exchanged words in Castilian.

“Great-grandmother would also like to talk about her gifts.” Cecilia looked down at the hands, spread her fingers as though studying them, and directed her words toward her lap. “She believes you will understand how her gifts are commingled with the family's history when she tells her story.”

It was eerie hearing Cecilia explaining this old woman's words and thoughts in the annoying third-person style she had used at the historical society. And Francesca, in turn, continued to interpret her great-granddaughter to me in the same detached manner.

Francesca peered at me intently while Cecelia went on.

“I need you to understand that I cannot listen to this. I do not want to hear any of it. We have not always been treated well. Our family. People used to come to Great-grandmother because she is a healer. Very well-known, in fact.” She rose and kissed Francesca on the cheek. “I trust you will treat her well.” She left the room.

Francesca sighed. “Cecilia's problem goes deeper than a refusal to master technology. She was truthful when she said she did not want to hear any of this. I have no one who will listen to me. Only Victor honored my memories.”

She shuddered. It was almost a sob. There was something painful—very painful—between these two women.

“Cecilia has always belonged to the church. But she will never join a convent until I die, this dutiful, beautiful child. This lovely flower of God. Caring for me is her offering, her sacrifice. When I die, she will become the Bride of Christ.”

I said nothing, touched by this astute insight.

“By now, you've probably heard all the rumors.”

“That you know some…alternative medicine methods. Yes, I've heard.”

“What a delicate way of putting it. Yes, that's true. And I'm sure you've heard what they call me. Names. Very cruel names.”

Ashamed of my fellow man, I could barely stand to look her in the eye. I nodded.

“Let us start at the beginning then,” She repeated her name. This time I felt a little prickling—a dim memory—like the lost words of a song. Something I had read about, heard about.

“My family owned vast acreage. It was a gift. Through marriage, our land was joined with other holdings. Then we bought more land. Our fine home still stands behind all the others. I suppose you noticed it when you came in. My workroom is there. It is where I am the happiest. It is where I do my compounding. It is my joy.”

“Your compounding. You have no family member who would like to learn these skills? No one you can teach?”

“No one.”

Sad that this special woman could not pass her knowledge along to a beloved apprentice, my mind raced. At least I could get her information down on paper. “We'll talk about your work later. For now, just tell me a little bit about your family before your father's time. When did they come to America?”

“We have always been here.”

Disappointed, I realized I would have to do a lot of research to fill in the blanks. No one has “always been here.” I had hoped she could supply accurate information about customs through talking about her family's tradition. I had heard she was over one hundred, but she was obviously far younger. I guessed she was in her early eighties. But just to be on the safe side, I used one hundred as a starting point. That would put her birth date at 1913. Possibly her father would be around thirty when he came here. That would be about right for acquiring homestead land.

I would find someone familiar with Spanish and check what Cecilia had told me about the order of Spanish names, then verify the names of Francesca's father and mother. Instead of going back to the family's arrival in Kansas perhaps I would have better luck with asking about her marriage and children.

“Your sons? Daughters? Where are Victor and Cecilia's parents? Have you other grandchildren?”

“They are all gone. Only Cecilia and George and his family are still on the land. Victor lived here. He grew up here. After he was married, that woman made him leave. That foolish, evil woman.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“My son died in Korea, and his wife died of a broken heart. My only daughter died accidentally. I doubt if most of my grandchildren and great-grandchildren have ever heard of me. So I have no one who wishes to learn. Cecilia won't listen to me. George is not intelligent enough to care about what I could give him. He simply tolerates me because he thinks that is the right thing to do. So.”

“I'll listen.” And I decided, just like that. My half-formed plan jelled. I would talk her into it.

“Mrs. Diaz.”

“I would like you to call me Francesca.”

I nodded my appreciation of this movement into a more personal relationship. “I would like you to think something over. Please tell me about your work. I want to get everything down on paper.”

“You would not be the right person.”

“I would respect your information. If you don't let me do this, your knowledge will die with you.”

“You don't have time to be my apprentice.”

“I know that. I would simply approach this from an objective standpoint. Much of what we know about Apache history is because a terrific historian, Eve Ball, talked the great war chief Victorio into telling her about his people. She argued that if he did not, his side of things would be written by military historians. It would be a lie. You will die surrounded by lies. Please don't let that happen.”

“We could not prevent the lies.”

I tried a different approach. This woman dying without passing along her wealth of information about healing would be a tragic loss. “Perhaps not. But if someone like me, who cares, doesn't get it down—no one will.”

“No one,” she said thoughtfully.

“I'm asking to record everything you know about plants and herbs and healing methods that are no longer used. It will be of incalculable value to botanists in addition to historians. From a medical standpoint alone, you might have information that is unique.”

“I know far more about medicine than is known today.”

She didn't sound haughty. Simply matter of fact.

“I will have to think about this.” She smoothed the folds of her skirt. “You could not stand back and be merely objective. You would have to participate in certain rituals and ingest some herbs in order to fully understand their benefits.”

“I would be very willing.”

“Perhaps,” her eyes softened, “but it would put your soul in danger.”

I suppressed a smile. “I do not share Cecilia's religiosity. I would not be hampered by her prohibitions.”

“Ah, but that's the point. Her beliefs would protect her. And your half-formed ones make you very vulnerable. Cecilia should be the one,” she whispered. “But her soul belongs to another.”

“I'll be just fine.”

“Actually, you are quite religious, Lottie Albright. You are confusing religion and piety. As I said, I read the
Gateway Gazette
. Did you not spend a great deal of time and energy organizing Saint Helena? A church of your own denomination? Episcopal, I believe?

“Yes, but…”

“And did you not write a rather spirited and sophisticated defense of Father Talesbury's right to house little boys from Africa?”

“Yes, but…”

“You act. Cecelia prays. I'm simply warning you that you are innocent about the forces we will be tapping.”

I looked at the floor. Rituals, I could handle, but strange herbs sounded a little dicey.

“Your problem is not religion. Your soul will be released. Your problem is you don't want to lose control.”

Unnerved, I looked away from her intense amused gaze. Josie said the same thing. Often.

“We have not discussed Victor's death, what did you want to tell me?”

She blinked at my abrupt change of subject. “He was going to file a lawsuit. On behalf of the family. Against the United States government. We have been cheated out of a great deal of land. That's the gist of all you really need to know.”

“Are you talking about more land than is here in Roswell County?”

“Much more.”

Cecilia entered the room. “Please, excuse me. I don't want Great-grandmother to get too tired.”

Francesca Diaz looked fresh, unfazed. I was the one who needed a break.

“Certainly. I'll be going then.” I rose. “Do think about letting me get your wonderful medical knowledge down on paper.” I handed Francesca my card.

“I will take my rest,” Francesca said. “Before Teresa brings the children over to see me.”

“George's wife teaches school. Their children are in after-care until she finishes grading her papers.” Cecilia explained.

Francesca said goodbye, then walked down a long corridor.

“I would love to show you the courtyard before you leave,” Cecelia said. “Besides, there are other things you should know.” She led me to a door, which opened onto a lovely rectangle of roses and day lilies. There were beautiful jewel-colored annuals: purple petunias, alyssum, and scarlet zinnias edged with white baby's breath. Stone benches faced a beautiful fountain in the middle of a gazing pool. We sat on the benches.

“About Victor. About my brother.”

“We don't have to talk about this right now, Cecilia. I know this has been very difficult for you. To be honest, the KBI would prefer that I leave most of the work to them.”

“I would rather tell you some things right now than some stranger in Topeka later.”

I waited.

“He was the best of us all. A brilliant student. Great-grandmother had such hopes for him. He was going on to law school. Then he met that woman.”