Hidden Heritage (12 page)

Chapter Fifteen

When I drove to the historical society the next morning, the cornfields on either side of the road didn't look like they would provide enough grain for a Third World-family of three. Everyone believes the Earth can't blow again out here, but Keith says it can and will if we keep on depleting the Ogallala aquifer. Our farm has only one irrigation well and it was drilled when the Fiene family thought the water supply was endless. Corn was a poor choice for dry land, and irrigated crops weren't doing much better. Wheat was much heartier and made more sense. But not this year.

Usually I can take a more objective approach to the land, the crops, the ungodly heat, but this morning I dreaded the day like an old Depression-era wife forced to cope with stifling heat and seven kids in a three-room shack.

Taking my scattered brain firmly in hand, I bludgeoned it into submission and willed myself to straighten up.

Margaret was there when I arrived. Annoyed, I check my watch. Damn, damn, damn. I liked to be there first and get settled in. All coffeed up.

Faking good cheer, I complimented her on the quality of her newly rinsed red hair. I wasn't in the mood to rack my brain for something else more accurate to say.

She beat me to it. “Thank God you're here.”

“What?” My heart sank. What could possibly be going wrong this early in the morning?

“I got two phone calls from a George Perez asking for you. He says you plumb wore out Francesca Diaz with your visit. Talking about Victor's death upset her. It was after midnight before they could get her settled down. I don't understand Spanish, but I know when I've been cussed out. Crazy Mexicans. They're all alike.”

“Margaret,” I snapped. “That's enough. I don't ever want to hear you refer to Mexicans as ‘crazy' ever again.”

Besides, the Diaz family was extremely proud of their pure Spanish lineage and they didn't like Mexicans much either. They had made that clear. I groped for the correct way to relay nuances of intra-ethnic prejudices, but it was too late.

Her lips quivered. She drew her skinny body as tall as she possibly could. “You won't have to worry about hearing anything from me again. Not that you ever listen anyway. I know when I'm not wanted or appreciated. You can just do without my help, Lottie.”

She left, slamming the door behind her.

I gasped. She always had to be handled with kid gloves, but this morning I hadn't taken the time. I fumed.
Now what?
The news would soon spread like wildfire that I was on some sort of rampage. That I was too uppity to work with anyone normal. That I was a power-hungry bitch.

A formal letter of apology to Margaret, the kind that took hours to compose would probably do the most good, but I simply could not, would not.

First things first. I reached for the phone and switched on the speaker, then decided to record the call. Just in case.

The woman who answered the phone was not Cecilia.

“This is Lottie Albright. Margaret said George called here at the historical society this morning. He was asking for me.”

“Yes, I'm his wife. Teresa. He wanted you to know he did not appreciate your upsetting Francesca.”

“That was not my intention. Believe me, I am so terribly, terribly sorry. I'll write her a formal apology and if there's any other thing that might help, I'll be glad to do it.”

“If you have any brains at all, and I don't think you do, although I understand you have a doctorate in history, I suggest you leave our family alone.”

My eyes stung with tears, then didn't, because the tears trickled down my cheeks. “She'll get the apology anyway,” I whispered. “Really, I would like to convey to your family how…”

She slammed down the phone. I stared blankly at the dead receiver I held in my hand. Way to go. Not even ten o'clock and I'd managed to tick off everyone I'd come in contact with. I went downstairs to use the bathroom and rinsed off my face, then went to the main floor and pushed through the heavy glass doors.

The buffalo grass courtyard was bone dry. I stepped off the sidewalk a little ways and pushed at a tuft with my toe. Little poofs of dust turned my loafer a dull gray. Gateway City had moved to a water-rationing plan, but it wasn't enough to keep lawns and gardens alive. Farmers were shipping cattle they didn't want to sell because they had to haul water. The drought was doing everyone in.

I went back inside, trudged back upstairs and wistfully eyed a set of stencils. When I was beset with troubles, routine donkey work settled me down, but I was so behind with my real work, that I didn't dare.

I picked up a stack of stories and settled down to editing. At noon, the thought of food was a blessed relief, even if I wasn't ready to face the questions of the lunch crowd at Maybelline's. I wished we had a drive-in where I could read while I ate and enjoy a little privacy in my air-conditioned car.

But peace was out of the question. Just as I was turning the lock, Jane Jordan trudged up the steps. Groaning inwardly, but determined not to blow an encounter with another human like I had the other two today, I smiled and stepped forward to greet her.

“Hi,” she said. “I hope I'm not here at a bad time.”

I swallowed. “I'm just unlocking. I took an early lunch.” Surely if I didn't go to hell for my whoppers, this teensy little lie wouldn't send me plunging. “Come right on in.”

“I can't stay. I have a really short lunch hour. Since they cut my days back to four, we work more hours while we're there. But I wanted to give you our family's story. Since I'm now an official volunteer here, I thought we should make a special effort to contribute. We sort of all wrote it together. And I wanted to give you this, too.”

“An official volunteer! That's wonderful.” It also sounded just like Margaret's sense of puff-uppery.

“Oh, yes. Some of us have special status with designated assignments instead of bouncing from task to task.”

“And yours is?”

“I return artifacts to members of the community who hoped their…their things might find a place here. Margaret says it's very important to get this done quickly and tactfully before the donor thinks their contribution has been accepted.”

The lowest job on the totem pole and I'll bet Margaret didn't even blush when she gave it to Jane.

I turned away to hide my smile.

She followed me inside and handed me the papers, along with a rolled-up poster. I unrolled it and stared at the printing. It was an early recruiting poster for the Ku Klux Klan.

“Thank you so very much,” I said carefully. Then added, “This has a great deal of historical significance.”

“We were never, never members. No one in our family ever was. But my grandfather, I remember, did not like Catholics.”

“You don't have to explain.” In fact, this poster was perfectly preserved and came from a time when a lot of the country was violently anti-Catholic. A time when Protestant Americans were convinced that Catholics were slaves to the Pope with arms hidden in their basements and at a signal would rise up and take over the country.

“According to Grandpa, we were accused of things we didn't do.” She lowered her eyes and nervously twisted her hands on the handle of her purse. “My grandfather said that poster had been rolled up and stuck in our mailbox. It wasn't his. He may have despised Catholics, but he was not a member of the Klan. He wanted me to throw it away, but I didn't.”

There was more to Jane Jordan's story. I could sense it. Much more would come out on another day. She was working up to it.

“We would never ever stop someone from following their own religious beliefs. Freedom to believe—or not—was why the family came to America in the first place.”

“Thank you. It's generous of you to bring this in. I'll start on your stories right away.”

“I want it out of our house. I don't want my grandfather to know I kept it. But I couldn't bring myself to throw a historical document away.”

She checked her watch, then gave me a paper sack. “These are samples of our favorite foods. I see you have a microwave, but kolaches can be hot or cold.”

Leave, leave, leave
. Salvation. Food. Now I didn't have to risk meeting people I knew at the café.

“I'll run on.” She turned at the doorway. “Are you all right? You look a little peaked.”

“I'm fine. Just fine. It's been a long week, that's all.”

She waved goodbye and I gratefully headed to the microwave. The aroma was heavenly.

Just fine!
I was sleep-deprived, starving, and guilt-ridden over having to coerce a friend into showing me his employee records.

I carried the plate to my desk and ate while I read her story. As I had suspected, this family was part of the Czech Free Thinkers movement. They had left Europe to escape the tyranny of the Catholic Church and fled to America where they were free to believe or not to believe. My own great-great-grandfather had been a Skocal, part of a fraternity of elite athletes dedicated to building a sound mind in a sound body.

Jane wrote about the family's great pride in the men's ability to master complicated gymnastics. Proud of becoming Americans, there was no attempt to resist assimilation. The family obeyed the laws and became exemplary citizens. With this came fierce vigilant opposition to any group that tried to control their minds. Their God was reason.

When I'm overly tired, I'm overwhelmed by a sentimental attachment to America's past. And today was one of those times. Tearfully appreciative of the richness of our country's heritage, I envisioned a vast tapestry woven with the many threads of our various ethnic groups.

Hurrying to my notepad, I started jotting down concrete ideas for this sudden vision that had come out of nowhere. Could it be done on a countywide basis? Was it a good idea? Could various groups design a needlework project that would encompass the whole? Probably not. They wouldn't agree on a master designer. Yet it was a fresh idea and lately I'd been worried that I would never again have an original idea. But there would be problems, organizing such a large needlework project.

Not now. I turned off my cell phone then reached for the romance novel one of the volunteers had left behind.

It took my mind off murder and mayhem for perhaps seven minutes.

Chapter Sixteen

Early the next morning, I started on the trip to the feedyard determined to concentrate on the work ahead. I would go through the employee records as quickly as possible, dump the data on Frank Dimon, and then concentrate on finding my replacement as undersheriff.

As I drove, my mind strayed from the pending search to the lethal temperatures across the country. Every TV station reported heat-related deaths on their nightly news broadcast. Norton, a town near us, shattered records with a temperature of one hundred eighteen.

We had gone two winters now without snow. Spring was like July and now there were Death Valley conditions. The patchwork of limp cornstalks would topple in the first high wind. The shatter-prone leaves rolled inward like ruined parchment scrolls.

The whole country would soon understand why the price of this commodity mattered. Corn fueled the entire fast-food industry. Everything from hamburgers to soda pop to doughnuts contained corn or corn syrup. Buns, bread, even French fries, tires, and crayons contained corn. Food prices would soon soar. Buyers of Ethanol-powered vehicles were screwed because their fuel prices depended on the production of corn. This year's crop was supposed to be the largest in the nation's history.

God had other plans.

Keith was irritable and morose. He was considering selling his herd of cattle, but everyone else was doing it too, so the prices were down. Even if there had been pasture grass, livestock lacked the energy to eat it.

I was jittery over my husband's uncertainty. He didn't know what to do. Always superbly confident, he didn't know what to do with the land. All the other farmers in Carlton County felt the same way. They were afraid plowing under the failed wheat crop would risk creating dust bowl conditions. Not doing so would cause erosion if it rained. On the other hand, if they did plow, and the rains didn't come, topsoil might end up on the East Coast.

“It can blow here again,” Keith had said this morning. “People think it can't, but it can.”

***

Dwayne knew I was coming and that I wanted to talk to him, but he didn't know why. I breezed in as if it were an ordinary visit and waited until he got off the phone.

“Please tell me you're bringing me good news. Closing your investigation, for instance, because you've found Victor's murderer.”

“No, starting another investigation, actually. Keeping one from happening might be a better explanation.”

He ran his hand through his bright silver hair. A lock fell across his forehead. He waited.

“I'm here to keep OSHA away from this feedyard.” My stomach soured. I tried to play like it was a good deed. Dimon
would
make good on this threat.

He did not speak and shot me a hard cold look and examined his clenched hands.

“I won't take long.”

“Who? Who would turn me in? And why? What have I done wrong?”

He rose and walked to the large window facing the pens. He turned back. “Nevermind. I've got a pretty good idea who the bastard is. And I'll see to it that he never works for anyone ever again.”

It was just as Dimon had predicted, Dwayne's mind had supplied a name.

“Don't do that. Please.” Sickened at the thought of causing someone to lose his job, I told him that his suspicions were probably all wrong and even if he were right, he would be in even more trouble by coming down on a whistle-blower.

“That's why I'm doing it on the quiet. We have to check it out, but the KBI doesn't want to draw any more attention to this feedyard right now. I'll give OSHA the information they need, and then get out of your hair.”

The lines deepened on his craggy face as if he were maxed out on misery.

“Trust me, Dwayne. I'll be out of here in a heartbeat.”

I hadn't planned on dealing with Bart. When he came in and Dwayne told him what I wanted, Bart exploded.

“You want to see all the employee records? Without a subpoena?” He looked at Dwayne. “That's illegal. How many years have I worked here and you have never asked to me to do anything that's against the law. Not once. That's how many.”

Then he turned on me. “Do you think we are all fools out here?” His voice shook. I had never known this man to lose his temper. “Do you know how many hours I spend checking people out, seeing to it that we're okay with state and national compliance requirements? I'm half nuts most of the time trying to make sense of rules that are in violation of some other agency's rules.” He gestured toward the rows of manuals on a bookshelf. “Want to know how many hours a day it takes to keep on top of this place?”

“Bart, I know you're under a lot of stress right now. We all are. But you're not giving me a chance to explain,” I said. “Tell him, Dwayne.”

“I don't want to hear any explanations.” Bart laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. To keep them from curling into fists, I suspected. “You want to know about the one law we do violate? And that one fairly frequently? The one governing the number of hours a driver can be behind the wheel on any given day. What do they expect us to do when we're out of hours due to construction? Pull over to a rest stop and let cattle boil alive in aluminum trailers because some ignorant bastard in Washington has decided we should stop our day right on the dot?”

“Bart…” Dwayne grappled for words. I couldn't think of anything to say either. We were locked in a motionless tableau like we had been playing the child's game of statues. I hardly trusted myself to breathe.

“I can't police this office and the feedyard too, goddamn it. I can't be here all day and all night. Someone should have been here the night Victor got killed.”

“You're too hard on yourself, Bart.”

“I'm through, Dwayne. Done here.” He headed toward the door.

“Come back, Bart. I can't make it through a single day without you. Get back in here and hear me out.”

Bart turned, and with arms crossed, stared at Dwayne.

“Lottie is trying to forestall an OSHA investigation. We figured the fewer who know about this, the better. Think about what you just said. Some of our drivers put in too many hours. You know that. I know that. Hell, we're no different than any other livestock carrier. If we didn't, we'd be in the dead animal transport business.”

For once, Bart Hummel's hands did shake. I knew I had misjudged the man. His cool façade could only be maintained if he had total control over systems he created. And he was straight as a string.

“Knew it, knew it, goddamn it. Knew letting those last couple of men hire on would get me in trouble. There was something about them. All their paperwork checked. Valid commercial driver's licenses. No criminal records. But Hugh Simpson recommended them and they had some distant connection with Maria. Second cousins or something. She was doing a favor for some aunt. But since Hugh is the head cowboy…when he wants someone signed on, I try to make it work.”

“Was either of them a Diaz?”

“No. American names, in fact.”

“Are they still here?”

“No, I ran them off. I didn't like their attitude.”

“Lazy?”

“No. But I put them on the maintenance crew and they were madder than hell. They wanted to be on the cowboy crew. A lot of men wanting to work here want to be cowboys. Even if they don't know one end of a horse from another.” He looked at Dwayne. “I would bet my hat those two bastards turned us in for discrimination or something.”

“An OSHA inspection would not be due to any neglect on your part.” It would come through malicious harassment by the KBI. I hoped my bitterness didn't show on my face.

“Go home, Bart.”

The two men looked stunned.

“I mean it. Dwayne, give Bart a day or two off. So he won't be involved. Not at all. In case he ever has to testify under oath.”

Neither of them spoke.

“I imagine you know where all your own records are.”

Dwayne gave a weak smile and nodded.

“Bart, you're right. What I'm doing isn't right, despite my good intentions. Just go home. Don't come back until the day after tomorrow.” I glanced at his work station. “Do you have remote access to this place at your house?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I don't want Dwayne to get too far behind.”

He picked up his Stetson and gathered some papers from his desk. Even though he hadn't said another word, I knew the crisis had passed.

“And Bart,” I called softly. He stopped, but wouldn't turn to face me. “You're a good man.”

He was. And if anyone hassled him for any reason, including Dimon, I would see to it that there was hell to pay.

Dwayne and I walked down the hall. He unlocked the file cabinet where they kept all the personnel records. I went to the break room and put my sack lunch in the refrigerator. Then I set to work. I opened my laptop and created a preliminary spreadsheet. The feedyard had all the data on a spreadsheet too, but Dimon had asked for copies of the original W-4s signed personally by each individual applicant.

About twelve-thirty, I took a break and stepped outside. Heat rose in visible waves. The wind was picking up, bringing the odor of ammonia from the massive herds. Feed trucks made their rounds, with contents calculated for each pen. They were equipped with GPS systems controlled by the mainframe computer inside the office which made sure special blends weren't distributed to the wrong pen.

Hugh Simpson rode up and dismounted, then tied his horse to a traditional hitching post that I had wrongly assumed was just for show. Not bothering to tip his hat, he pulled down the bandanna covering his mouth and rushed inside. Minutes later, he and Dwayne came out. Hugh unhitched his horse, mounted and set off. Dwayne headed for a four-wheeler.

“We've got an emergency,” he yelled at me over his shoulder. “You can come along if you're up to riding in this heat.”

“Okay.” I rushed over and jumped in beside him. “What's going on?”

“Cattle too hot in pen forty-eight. They get heatstroke just like people.”

“What can you do for them?

“Cool them off, just like you would with a human.”

We flew down the lanes between the pens, but Hugh and four other cowboys were already there placing garden sprinklers in the pen to cool off the stressed cattle.

We hung over the fence and watched.

“This is why I use cowboys and horses. Mounted, the men can see down into the pens. There's usually about eight working full time, riding the pens, checking for sick cattle or critters that are down.”

I gazed at the cattle in the pen across from pen forty-eight. Disturbed by the commotion, some of them came up to the fence. They looked fine, taking the heat in stride, but I doubted any of them would look this alert parked in a broiling aluminum trailer forced to stop moving by an overzealous highway patrolman.

Satisfied by the cowboys' progress, Dwayne drove back to the office. “The full western attire is kind of their own touch,” he said. “But there's a sound reason for each and every item.”

“I figured out that the bandannas are essential face masks.”

“Right, and the heavy jeans and chaps protect them when cattle force horses against a fence post.”

“As to the boots. Can't imagine sandals would be a sound choice.” I smiled at the image of someone trying to work around cow shit wearing flip-flops.

“Nope. They need boots with a decent heel to keep from slipping out of stirrups when they are bending sideways on a horse.”

Black sunspots and floaters swarmed before my eyes. Relieved when we drew up to the door, I headed to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face. The ride hadn't lasted more than twenty minutes, but I had lacked the guts to tell Dwayne I wasn't sure I could bear it much longer. My face and neck were turkey red. Swept by nausea, I braced my arms on the sink.

Moving carefully, I went to the kitchen and took a bottle of water and extra ice from the refrigerator and returned to the bathroom. I dug some Advil out of my purse and swallowed it to squelch my headache, knowing it certainly wouldn't help my nausea. I wrapped the ice in hand towels and placed a pack on my head. I draped another ice pack across my neck and shoulders, sat on the stool lid, and started sipping water.

If I called 911, I was the one who should be answering the phone.

When I had cooled down and could compose myself, I worked quickly, copying W-4 forms, and matched social security numbers with spreadsheets. My anger toward Dimon built throughout the afternoon. He was interfering with people he knew nothing about.

There were too many records to fax. I would need to deliver it in person. If I finished by noon tomorrow I could get to Topeka before he left the office.
No
, I decided. When he wanted to go home had nothing to do with it. We would have it out if I had to go to his house and break down his goddamned door.

About five-thirty, Dwayne stood in the doorway and watched me work. He glanced at his watch.

“About ready to call it a day?”

“If you'll trust me to lock up, I'll stay for a couple of more hours.”

“I don't want you here alone. You stay, I stay.”

Whether because he was concerned about my safety or worried about my rummaging around, I couldn't say.

“Okay.” I started gathering my things. He had put in a hell of a day and I wasn't going to delay his getting home.

Something in his face told me he really, really didn't want me in the office by myself.