Hidden Heritage (17 page)

“Jane. Yes, move her to the top of the list.”

“Really Lottie, there's no reason to include people who aren't well-known in a county history book. We should stick with our own kind and not go trolling for all these outliers.”

I will not get into another fight with this woman. I swear I won't
.

I took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then twenty.

“Think of how unusual this will make our book, though,” I said cheerfully. Blatant manipulation, but she was falling for it hook, line, and sinker. “In the future people will admire our more cosmopolitan approach to diversity. In fact, you will probably have many, many opportunities for public speaking since you played a big part in this decision to become more inclusive.”

I used all the right buzzwords. Ah yes, public speaking! Her face brightened at the thought of giving speeches—the darling of every history organization.

“Yes.” She sat up straighter and stretched her neck. “Yes, I can see how we will be setting the standard for excellence.”

Worrying that she would change her mind and launch into another ethnic diatribe, I headed her off with a steady stream of chatter until I could head out the door. “Goodness, it looks like another day without a drop of rain. Are you sure you will be all right here? I'm nearly finished at the compound. Then I can move on to some other family.”

“I'll be just fine. I was in charge of this place long before you were here, remember?”

I ignored the barb and waved goodbye.

Chapter Twenty-two

When Francesca and I walked into the Old House, the first thing I noticed was a red crystal jar sitting in front of what I silently referred to as “harmful row.”

“What a beautiful…” My voice trailed off and I looked at the jar with bewilderment. It had never been there before. Francesca and I were the only ones who ever came into the room outside of Teresa when she came to clean. There was a sharp pain in my forehead. “Where did that come from?”

“You mixed those herbs. For me. The seeing herbs.”

“The ones that will allow you to see faces?” I asked, thinking her belief as harmless as a senior citizen grabbing a jar of gingko off the shelf at a vitamin store. “Do you need help taking them? Will they require a tea?”

“Do you not remember anything about your last visit?” She was as still as a statue.

“No, and it scared my poor husband half to death. And my sister.”

“I know. They called Cecilia. She told me.” There were tears in her eyes. “I never meant to harm you.”

I sniffed the earthy aroma of the hanks of plants suspended from the ceiling. Outside, a breeze rippled through the cottonwoods sending them silver side up. A low-hanging branch scraped across the roof. “In fact, they believe that I have stronger-than-normal reactions to medication. They both insist that I stop taking any of these drugs.” I shrugged like a teenager who was saying “Mommy won't let me.”

“You have become like a daughter to me.” Her voice trembled. “I do not want to hurt you. Yes. I can see that you must stop taking the herbs, and simply record my information.”

It was that easy to step back.

“But mixing can't hurt me. I'll wear a surgical mask so I won't breathe in any of the substances. The rituals and incantations are still a go. I'm not worried about them.”

I was that ignorant.

“Shall I begin by fixing you a cup of the seeing herbs, Francesca?”

“No.” Her voice was sad. “There are other things I must tend to first today. There are a number of things I would like to give you before I die.”

“You've never talked about dying before.”

“That is because I could not. It wasn't time.”

Giving things away. Time to go. This was suicide talk. She caught the concern on my face.

“Do not worry, Lottie Albright. I will not hasten my own death by the poor earthly methods used by people who do not wish to live. I shall simply die. I want to talk of happier things today. I own a number of things that Cecilia and George would not appreciate. I would like to give you my madstone. If I do not, it might be carelessly tossed out some day.”

“You have a madstone?” A madstone was priceless.

She beamed at my astonishment. “And mine comes from an albino deer.”

“A witch deer?”

Witch deer!
How had these words come to mind in a heartbeat? How easily I had slipped into her kind of thinking. How very, very easily. The stone from a brown deer was the lowest ranked. One from a spotted or a white deer was better—but one from an albino was the most powerful of all. Only in this house, this room did I seem to take leave of my senses. My rational mind disappeared. I even thought with her words.

A
“witch deer!”
I would never ever use those words outside of this room. I was thinking in another language, as easily as though I were learning French.

“Yes, a witch deer. A pure white deer with pink eyes. A madstone so powerful it not only cures rabies, it will cure rattlesnake and spider bites.”

“Oh, Francesca. I would be honored.” So many cultures believed in madstones—the prized hair ball from the stomach of a deer. It was even mentioned in
The Old Farmer's Almanac
and old editions of
Webster's Dictionary.
I knew a museum in Missouri had one.

A madstone could cure rabies.

After being boiled in milk, the stone would stick directly to the wound and draw out the poison. When it fell off, one boiled it in sweet milk again to remove the toxin, and the process was repeated until it wouldn't stick any more. That's when one knew all the poison was out. Charging for its use was forbidden. That negated the power.

There was another hitch. The victim had to come to the person with the stone. The owner could never go to the patient. If a Kansas museum didn't want it, where could I keep it?

I tried to imagine the expression on Margaret's face when someone came to the historical society asking if I would cure them of rabies. Would someone at the Kansas State Historical Society understand if I passed it on to them? Perhaps scientists would like to put it under a microscope.

How could I not accept this gift?

“Thank you. What a treasure.” Rabies cures aside, I knew the stone's historical value. Who knew how many other such items she had here?

“Go to the chest again.”

I headed for the south corner, then bewildered, I hesitated. How did I automatically know where the chest was located? Why did my hands know the keys would be kept in the third unlocked drawer?

My hands trembled and I waited for the next instruction.

“Second drawer down this time.”

Each drawer except the third was locked, but the same key served them all. I opened the second drawer.

“Take it out. It's yours now.”

“Oh, Francesca.” The smooth stone lying within was grayish-brown in color. The madstone! She was right. It didn't look remarkable. Just a stone to be tossed aside.

“Pick it up. Take it home with you.”

“Thank you so very much.” I didn't know where to put it. I didn't feel right about tucking it into my jeans pocket.

“There are several squares of leather in the next drawer down.”

Unnerved that she had read my mind, I murmured a quick thank you and wrapped the stone in the scrap of leather and put it in my briefcase. I decided to put it on a shelf in Keith's office. If he noticed it at all—and I doubted he would—I would simply tell him it was a gift from an old lady and would cure rabies. The truth, the whole truth, would be regarded as a charming fiction.

“Thank you. I will take good care of this.”

I could not look away from her eyes. They were fixed on mine. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The only thing I ask of you in exchange for the madstone and some of my other treasures is a little more help compounding mixtures. There are only a few more. Ones that will require the use of rituals. A few chants. Nothing more. You will not be required to say any of the words.”

I wanted to take a deep breath of pure clean air instead of inhaling the carbon dioxide-laden soup pervading this room. The hanks of plants seemed alive. There were beads of sweat on my forehead, yet I shivered.

Unnerved by her unwavering gaze, I looked away before my brain turned to mush. Looked away and forced myself to settle down and think. I was an academic, therefore theoretically capable of abstract thinking. Reason told me that if I refused to help this lonely tragic old woman I would be acknowledging fear of the powers of darkness. Powers I knew didn't exist.

“Help me,” she pleaded softly. “Help me.” She looked down helplessly. “These hands.”

“Sure,” I said cheerfully.
Why not?
“You know I will.”

“There are only a few. I've decided not to take the seeing herbs until we are done.”

“I'm glad this won't take too much longer. I need to compare your work with that of other ethnic groups.”

She smiled. “No other person has my skills.”

“I'm sure. But some of the drugs will overlap.”

“I have been thinking of many other things since your sister called and told Cecilia you were harmed by our last visit. How is the KBI doing with the investigation of my great-grandson's murder? They have not been here to talk with me.”

“As far as I know they have not learned a thing. Sam and I are out of the loop. They have no confidence in our abilities. We have no new information at our county level, either.”

“When you first came here, I told you Victor was going to file a lawsuit. I have decided to tell you why. I showed Victor a copy of a map that gave him the courage to take up the torch once again. He understood!”

I wished Sam were hearing all this.

“He was killed because someone wanted the map showing all the land my family owns.”

I had been through all the court records, all the databases of recorded deeds. There was simply no record of this family owning any more land than was encompassed by Roswell County.

It was though she could read my thoughts.

“Victor didn't believe at first, either. He was slow to understand. But when I told him our story and showed him a copy of our map, he understood. This map was passed down through my father's people. A treasure map.” Her voice was hushed. She was scrutinizing every expression that crossed my face. “A valuable treasure. The most priceless treasure in the world. A treasure without equal.”

I groaned inwardly, the thought crossing my mind that this old woman was teasing me. Making it all up.

“So you think someone would have killed Victor because he wouldn't tell them where to find this map?”

“I know so.”

I kept myself absolutely still. Simultaneously wanting her to continue and at the same time dreading for her to do so. I wanted to believe, and yet doubted her accuracy.

I was no longer under any obligation to report what she said to the KBI unless as an officer of the court I truly believed it was related to Victor's murder. Dimon would never take her seriously. For damn sure I couldn't tell him a very old woman had given me a madstone and with the gift came obligations. My tradeoff for assuming the gift's burden was obtaining information. Even if I were still working with the KBI, I would never be able to put this in terms he might understand.

I didn't want Dimon to think I was crazy.

“If you are so sure of that, Francesca, why haven't you gone to the people working to solve this case? Why haven't you told me before?”

“I have good reason not to trust the government. I wasn't sure about you either.”

“But now you are sure?”

“Now I am sure.”

Unbidden, the lost afternoon crossed my mind. “Would you show the map to me, Francesca?”

“Only a copy. The same one I showed to Victor.”

After all this time. Finally concrete information about Victor's death. “That would be wonderful.”

“Unlock the fifth drawer down.”

Eagerly I opened it. Inside was an ancient parchment. I spread it on the table. The ink had faded and the outlines were blurred. It made no sense to me. The names were all in Spanish. By now I had looked at Francesca's old books enough to recognize ancient Castilian. Puzzled, I looked at her.

There were tears in her eyes. She looked at the map with reverence. “This is just a copy. The real one is hidden.”

By my blank look, then the flicker of disappointment over not being shown the real thing, she withdrew in an instant. I looked at her again, dismayed by her retreat.

“Francesca, I'm sure you know that I will have to tell Sam Abbott about the map if I think it has any bearing on finding Victor's killer. And he might choose to pass the information on the KBI.”

“No. No. Don't do that. I beg you.”

“I didn't mean to upset you. Please calm yourself.”

Appalled by the fear on her face, I tried to make it right. “I won't say anything without talking to you first.”

“There's no one I can trust. No one. I thought I could trust you. Only Victor understood. He was going to take it to court again. He was smart enough to get it done right.”

“Francesca, the last thing I want to do is make you unhappy. Please forgive me.”

For a moment she didn't speak. “I trusted you because you are a historian, Lottie Albright. Because you know how to keep secrets. Now you must work very hard to earn my trust again.”

“Tell me what I need to do.”

“Find me someone who will listen to me. Someone I can trust to help me with the judges, the courts, and the despicable government of these so-called United States of America. A government that has tried to steal my land over and over again.”

“I simply don't understand,” I said. Her look said no explanations were forthcoming. She was done with me for today.

“It is time to take me back to the main house.”

I hoped she would compose herself before I handed her back over to the smiling Cecilia.

***

On the road home, I tried to make sense of the afternoon. Francesca repeatedly ignored the fact that I was an undersheriff. I was part of the government she despised. She
knew
that! In fact she had come to me in the beginning to beg me to help find her great-grandson's murderer. Surely she knew that at some point other agencies would be involved. I had told her that. It wasn't fair that she would turn on me.

It was twilight and the countryside was supposed to be cooling off. Instead, pastures were still like walking across a bed of cinders. No one went barefoot. Each time I left the Compound, I felt like I was returning to a war zone.

Heartsick over distressing Francesca when she had been kind enough to give me her precious madstone, I tried to think of a way to regain her trust. Where could I find a lawyer with impeccable integrity? Someone who would not get discouraged? Someone whose ethical standards were beyond reproach?

It struck me like a thunderbolt.

Elizabeth!

Keith's young Amazon of a daughter who went careening around Denver leaping tall buildings with a single bound. Championing abused women, slaying their husbands with the jawbone of an ass. Elizabeth was awesome and intelligent and rock-bottom honest.

Francesca didn't say the lawyer had to be pleasant.

Jubilant, I realized Elizabeth was the ideal person to help Angie, too. Elizabeth spent her life helping battered women. She would be the best person to get Angie back on her feet. I felt as if a boulder had bounded off my back.