Hidden Heritage (24 page)

Loisel's heirs and Clamorgan's heirs slugged it out.

This took a half a century. Lawyers came and went. Heirs came and went, but the lawsuit went on forever. Finally in 1858, the land went to Loisel legal heirs, but the claim was to be relocated to “any vacant lands.”

Just wherever. And whoever claimed to be an heir. They popped up like jackrabbits. Then the fight became over the location of those “any vacant lands.”

As for the Montoya land grants, that would require more research.

Francesca wanted me to know the proof of the location of the “any vacant lands” lay at the bottom of the stream under the well.

I flushed with excitement. I looked at the time and date on the clock. I was the only one who knew the secret the well was hiding. I had the hand span required to rotate thumb to pinky to thumb to locate the buried zinc washer.

County was a clear winner over state.

I picked up the phone to tell Dimon what I had learned and then thought better of it. He would claim the credit. I sat down and quickly composed a story and emailed it to Ken McElroy, editor of the
Gateway Gazette
. I had promised Ken he could publish details about Victor Diaz's murder first. He would be tickled plumb to death to be ahead of the pack with this bombshell of a story. I knew he would honor the “please hold for verification” in the subject line. The story:

“Sheriff Sam Abbott and Undersheriff Lottie Albright discovered the motive behind the Victor Diaz murder case today. Albright, working closely with the late Francesca Diaz, learned of a mysterious map which Doña Francesca claimed entitled the family to a substantial tract of land.

“The KBI was making no progress whatsoever,” Undersheriff Albright said. “Sheriff Abbott had to step in and take over the investigation. He tapped into an information network that agents from Eastern Kansas would not have access to. This paper will provide further details in tomorrow's edition.”

Then I called Dimon and asked him to meet with Keith and Sam and me at the compound.

“I can't get away today,” he said.

“Oh, for this you can. I'm going to show you why Victor was killed. Bring a search warrant for the entire premises. And bring a cinematographer.”

“I'll start right away.”

Chapter Thirty

Several KBI agents turned up for the event. A couple of the men stared up at the towering cottonwoods like they had fallen into Disneyland. It was after five and softening into evening. Dimon must have driven like a demon to arrive so quickly. Keith put a protective hand on my shoulder. I gave it a squeeze.

“All here?”

Dimon nodded.

My heart thumped. It was important to be professional, but this was no longer a pleasant place for me. “There's room for us all in the well house. Keith, you and Sam and Dimon need to watch.”

“And a translator,” Dimon said. “I've brought a translator with me. Someone who can read Old Castilian. Even though no one will be speaking it.”

Dimon and Keith had to duck to get through the opening. The translator fit just fine.

My biggest worry now was that the case containing the map might have leaked and the documents would be soggy and unreadable. I looked at the solemn group of men who circled the well. They gazed with wonder at the interior of the magnificent round structure. A pigeon flew and the man on my right started at the sound. The soft peace emanating from the ancient walls dared us to violate its innermost secrets.

My hands shook. I had better be able to produce. “Gentlemen. It's time to start.”

“Hold it just a minute,” Dimon said. “Let me make sure everything is working first. I want every bit of this on record.”

We waited while he conferred with the man operating the video camera. Dimon had him play back a few frames to check the quality, then nodded.

I felt as though we were documenting an archeological dig. On a par with a tomb of the Pharaohs.

I walked to the foremost beam and stretched my fingers out from its side. Then I rotated off my pinky to the thumb, then the pinky again until I had repeated the process five times.

There was no washer. I felt the blood drain from my face. Then I leaned over the top of the well and looked at the sides. The washer was a couple of inches away. I immediately put my index finger on it so I wouldn't have to search again.

I nodded at Dimon. “It's here.”

With the camcorder whirring away, I made an formal announcement that I was in the presence of Keith Fiene, Sam Abbott, Frank Dimon, and two of his agents. I paused and Dimon supplied their names. I gave the time and date. “The purpose of this gathering is to validate the late Francesca Diaz's claim that there is a map at the bottom of the stream beneath the well. We believe it will explain why Victor Diaz was murdered.”

That said, I gave the washer a slight tug. There was a strong light cord attached and with a gentle pull it stripped away from the layer of soil concealing it. Down, down, down until it was no longer buried.

Then the cord went limp. There was no tension. I couldn't tell if it was slack because it was free from the side of the well, or slack because there was nothing there.

I turned to Dimon. What if I had dragged all these men out here for nothing? Then I remembered what Francesca had said about putting the cord over the rotating beam. “I'll need some help at this point. I'm not tall enough. We need to get this cord wound around that beam. We might need a ladder.”

But one of the men came forward and didn't mind balancing on the edge of the bricks. He secured the rope with a kind of knot I didn't know existed.

“Okay. Now. Turn the beam, but be careful not to get this tangled up in the pulley system.”

“We're not going to risk it,” Dimon said. “Jim, go back up again and take the other ropes down and put them to one side.”

“Sure you don't want to do it?”

Dimon gave him a sour look.

What if the beam would not rotate? What if there was nothing there?

Keith moved closer and I backed up against him. He wrapped his arms around me as though to hold me upright if things went wrong.

The beam slowly turned. The rope tightened. “Thank God,” I murmured. “I was afraid it wasn't attached to anything.” The rope suddenly thrummed with tension.

“Stop.” Dimon waved away the man rotating the beam. “We've gone to too much trouble to screw things up now. Jim, there's a wet suit and a rope ladder in the truck. You're going into that hole. We're not about to take a chance on that rope breaking. Chances are that whatever is at the bottom is buried in mud and silt. Don't wait too long to put on that oxygen mask. Do it before you really need it. I'm going to tie a little spade on your back. Do
not
risk breaking that rope.”

Jim was back in short order and hooked the rope ladder over the brick edge then disappeared into the depths. We followed his progress with a flashlight, but couldn't see much after he reached a certain point. After what seemed like an endless wait, Jim gave the rope a little flick, and the men started to pull up the load.

When it reached the top, Dimon swung it to one side and gently eased it to the ground. It didn't look like much, but it was there. Covered with mud and silt. Dimon pulled up a bucket of water and washed it off. He turned the bucket over and set the box on top, and washed it some more. The guy with the camcorder walked all around it.

Even if it didn't hold a thing of any importance, the box itself had to be worth a great deal of money. It was obviously gold with fine engraving done by an artist. I was happy for George and Cecilia. I was even happier that Francesca was finally vindicated.

No wonder she kept insisting “we have always lived here.” As a descendant of one of the original land grant families who had subsequently married a Loisel, her family had indeed “always been here.”

Before there
was
an America.

“The seal seems to have held,” Dimon said. “There doesn't appear to be any leaks. I don't know what they used, but this seal is sound.” He stood. “Good work, Lottie.” He stuck out his hand. “We'll get this back to the boys in Topeka right away.”

“No, by God.” Sam stepped forward. Keith was right beside him. “We are going to open this box right here in the presence of all these witnesses. Right here. Right now.” He took a pocketknife out of his pocket. “Make sure you are getting all of this,” he said to the cinematographer.

I held my breath as he edged the knife around the seal. “Lottie, I think you should have the honor of taking the last step.”

I knelt and slowly opened the lid. Inside was a leather pouch, also sealed and marked with a Spanish coat of arms. We opened the pouch and inside was the precious map and an accompanying deed. The translator stepped forward and began to decipher the ancient Castilian. She read with little emotion, understanding the words but not their implications.

But I did. My temperature must have dropped two degrees.

In addition to the land, the Loisel family was granted everything below the earth too.

“Don't tell me it's another promise of gold,” Dimon groaned. “Do
not
tell me I've wasted our time and resources on a high-class scavenger hunt. Do
not
tell me we've gone through all this to find a worthless map whose value is based on some sleazy promise. I suppose it's the location of Coronado's Seven Cities of Gold. Or Quivira. Or some other missing treasure.”

I could only take it in one slow second after another. I stood, straightened, inhaled slowly, and turned toward the agents. “Dimon, one family, one single family was given the rights to all the Ogallala Aquifer by France, then Spain, then France again, then the United States Government. One family controls all the Ogallala Aquifer. All the water rights in Western Kansas.”

Dimon lost all the color from his face. “Water rights. Water rights.” He stared at the cinematographer. “Turn that goddamned thing off.”

“No. Keep it on,” Keith said. “I want every bit of this recorded.”

“Sorry,” Dimon said. He swiped back his hair. “Sorry. Wasn't thinking. But my God.” He waved at the cinematographer. “I want a close of up this map and deed.”

He stared at the collection of agents as if he were assessing them. “Lottie, take care of the chain of custody. Do
not
screw this up. I want every step recorded perfectly and these documents transferred to a vault. I want the deputies from the sheriff's department in three counties to escort and witness the placement of the records in the KBI center in Topeka.”

“No,” I said. “That's just not going to happen. Francesca Diaz died to protect this map and deed and keep them out of the hands of the government.” The cinematographer was still recording.

“This is in my jurisdiction,” Sam said sharply. “Unless I invite the KBI in. You were supposed to solve Victor's murder. You didn't. Lottie did. Now I want sheriffs from three different counties to escort and witness the placement of that box in storage under armed guard at the Salt Mine Museum in Hutchinson. Where the sun don't shine and bastards like you can't make it disappear.”

Keith looked at Sam and couldn't hide his grin. It was the only storage place of its kind in the Western Hemisphere. Some of the most precious artifacts in the world were stored there because the humidity never varied. Hollywood's most precious film footage was deposited there. Salt mines were where the Nazis stored a lot of art confiscated during World War Two. Sixty-seven miles long and six hundred-fifty feet under the prairie, its high security was maintained through shaft access only. Perfect. Just perfect.

Dimon looked at Sam with something akin to respect. But he was as rattled as I've ever seen him. “With this single piece of paper, someone could tie up all the irrigation in Western Kansas.”

“How can a well and one single stream be that important?” asked one of the agents.

“It's not,” I said. “The well house itself, the well, and stream don't have much to do with anything. It's the control of water rights granted in that piece of paper that is important.”

“Goddamn it all to hell,” Dimon said. “Whoever gets this place could charge towns a fortune for access to water. They could hold all the farms hostage. Hard telling how much land is involved, too.” His mouth was a straight line. He turned to me. “Do not discuss this with anyone. Until the government has had time to develop a policy statement.”

I looked at Keith, suddenly understanding Francesca's antipathy toward the government. It's “policy statement” would be that the United States legally owned the land through the Louisiana Purchase. Not some rogue Spanish family that didn't know when to quit.

I smiled. Tell that to the Sioux Nation trying to win back the Black Hills. That lawsuit had been going on since 1877.

“Too late, Frank, I've already filed the story. The
Gateway Gazette
has been waiting for a note from me to run it.” I held up my iPhone and pressed send.

“My God!” The color drained from Dimon's face.

“No wonder Francesca said this was the most precious commodity in the world.” Saddened, I thought of the wily old woman that no one took seriously. “I don't understand how those two men knew about this map. Elizabeth and I both did our best to check out Francesca's claims and couldn't find anything that pointed to it.”

“I told you in the beginning there was big bucks behind this somehow. Somewhere,” Dimon said.

“But Victor would never, never betray his family and give up their inheritance. He would die first.”

“Exactly.”

“Those two thugs didn't find out through advanced research techniques,” Sam said. “Stripped to the bones, who has the most to gain now by locating this map?”

“Victor's wife,” Keith said.

Sam nodded. “The usual suspect.”

“Maria! Of course. She's Victor's heir now.” I was slow to believe what Sam knew to be true immediately. “Maria despised Francesca's witchcraft. She hated Victor's obsession with the family's lawsuit. Which she believed amounted to nothing. But Francesca's quarrel had not been with the family. It was with the government. Through all her work with immigrants, Maria probably knew it was crazy to go up against the government.”

“That woman was not involved in Victor's death. No way,” Keith said flatly. “Maria was devastated when Dwayne told her Victor was murdered.”

“There's always unintended consequences. She's involved somehow. Let's go.”

***

Maria looked at us in bewilderment when she opened the door. “What? Why have you come?”

Dimon pushed on inside and we followed. “I think you have a great deal to tell us. Lottie, read the Miranda warning.”

“I'm here legally. I have rights.”

“Yes, you do. That's why we are going to read them to you.” I did.

Her face was white. “Why would you read me my rights? What are you accusing me of?”

“We believe you had a hand in Victor's death.”

Shocked, she lapsed into hysterical sobs. “My Victor is dead. My wonderful husband is dead. And you think I was behind his murder?”

“We believe his killers wanted to know where a map was located.”

She sank down on the couch. “Estelle's husband got us into this. This was Estelle's doing. She is so careless. I should know better than to ever trust her with secrets.”

“What did Hugh do that got Victor killed?”

“He talked to the wrong people.”

“So Hugh knew about the land? The water rights?”

“What water rights?”

We were all watching Maria's face. Clearly, she was unaware of the value of the land. Victor was the only who really understood. “What do you know about the land Francesca said the family owned? Did Victor ever talk about it? Did Hugh know about it?”

“Who doesn't know? Everyone out here has always known about Francesca's obsession with some land claim. I thought it was a passing fancy of a crazy old woman. I've never thought the land existed. Then something changed. One Sunday afternoon Victor came home very excited. He said Francesca had shown him a copy of a map and he believed the family had a valid claim to more land.”