Hidden Heritage (5 page)

I felt like a creep. A peeping Tom.

Was there anything strange here? Absolutely. I thought about Zola's comments about the amount of division in this family. There was not going to be a church-supported community dinner with a chance for people to eat and visit. Usually, a funeral is like a mini family reunion. It's a sure-fire way of getting folks together. New spouses and kids are introduced to the rest of the clan.

Some of the mourners went to their cars and drove off. A few women fell on Maria's neck and added their tears to hers.

I moseyed among the different groups and listened in. A cluster of men I recognized from the feedyard were paying more attention to Dwayne than to Maria.

“It's going to leave a hell of a hole in the feedyard.”

“That's a fact.”

If there was anyone vying for his job, I couldn't detect it.

Several women went out of their way to express their sympathy to Maria. “You've helped my family so very much when we came to this country. I'm so sorry. Victor was a good man.”

In fact, the phrase I heard the most was that “Victor was a good man.”

Two men broke off from their group, walked over to Maria and introduced themselves. Maria obviously didn't know either of them. They both wore jeans and sports coats accented with loose bola ties. I moved closer.

“Ma'am, I'm sorry we have to meet this way.” The speaker had an alarmingly red face. The kind that makes doctors reach for their prescription pad. He removed his hat and nodded in respect. He drew a handkerchief out of his back pocket and mopped his sweaty forehead. Blood pressure, I decided. Not just the heat. His belt buckle glinted below his large belly. Huge hands and even larger thighs. The kind of man who looked like he spent most of his time swilling beer and watching NASCAR, but could knock the hell out of someone if he took a mind to.

The small man at his side stared intently at Maria. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and fidgeted constantly. He kept fingering his moustache as though needing reassurance that it hadn't melted in the noonday sun.

“I knew your Aunt Lucia back in Mexico. In fact she's a cousin by marriage to some nephew. So I suppose that sort of makes us related.”

“I don't have an Aunt Lucia.”

He laughed. “Typical. Doesn't take long to forget the home folks. Or leave the old life behind.”

It was a mean thing to say to a woman at her husband's funeral. I considered taking her arm and steering her toward Hugh's car.

“I have never turned my back on family,” Maria said. “I have never met this woman.” She rummaged in her purse for a packet of tissues. “

“Speaking of family, I'm surprised Victor's great-grandmother isn't here today. Or his sister.”

I wasn't the only one listening. Everyone within hearing distance froze in place and waited for Maria's reply. She looked like a guppy gasping for air in contaminated water.

Hugh intervened. “Francesca is not well.”

“Or being hateful.”

“Now is not the time to discuss it.”

Estelle immediately moved in protect Maria. “It's time for us to go, dear.” She turned to the cluster of mourners. “The family wants all of you to know how much we appreciate your sympathy. The flowers. The cards. We are going to leave now. As you can imagine, the death, the circumstances of Victor's tragic death, have been so hard on Maria. We are going back to the house.”

And that was that. No invitation for the family to join her there. No food. Just this abrupt farewell.

I faxed my report to Dimon. It consisted of an estimation of the number attending and a notation that there were no incidents at the funeral. Strained conversations did not rise to the level of reportable incidents. No people acting strange as far as I could tell.

Since the KBI wasn't interested in speculation about the importance of what was not right before their eyes, I did not mention that Victor's great-grandmother and sister did not attend. That the extended family was obviously barely speaking. That not having a funeral dinner following the burial was practically unheard of in a rural community.

There was no point. Dimon was only interested in the facts.

***

I had missed Tom's arrival.

“You're early!” He and Keith were already in the family room picking to an old bluegrass tune. “Don't stop.” I put my briefcase on the floor as Tom rose to give me a hug.

“Sorry I wasn't here when you came. I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow and had to go to a funeral this morning. Sam and I went to Topeka yesterday and the KBI gave me some follow-up work to do. Anyone want a cup of coffee?”

“No,” Tom said.

“Hell, no,” hollered Keith.

I laughed and retreated to the kitchen. I carried my cup back to the music room. “Now, please keep playing.”

“We're experimenting,” Tom said. “It's not exactly a bona fide jam.”

“Since Josie is coming, I wanted him to be prepared.” Keith strummed a few chords.

“Nothing will prepare you for my sister, Tom.”

“Haven't I already met her? Or was that you? I can't remember.” He grinned.

“Just don't challenge her to a duel.”

“I've already clued him in. Told him about her unfortunate contest with Old Man Snyder.”

“She was set up,” I said.

“Was not,” Keith protested. “Swear to God I had no hand in that. No one knows when or where that old man will show up. Or what moves him exactly.”

I sank into my favorite chair and watched as father and son forgot I was there.

“So how did the funeral go?” Keith asked when they took a break. “Learn anything new?”

“Not really.”

Tom looked puzzled.

“The funeral was a work duty,” I explained. “Agent Dimon sent me on kind of a surveillance mission.”

If Keith thought my answer was abrupt, a clear deviation from my usual detailed accounts, he didn't say so.

After an hour, I got up and started toward the stairs. “I'm going to turn in.” I smiled apologetically at Tom. “I'm on duty for Sam tomorrow morning, but thank goodness I'll be off in the afternoon when everyone is coming in. I'll duck into the historical society just long enough to write my column, then come home and fuss over the family.”

Tom stood. It gave me a strange feeling. Was I supposed to tell my own stepson that formality wasn't necessary in his own house? That I was sort of his mother? Should I airily wave my hand that it was perfectly fine for him to sit down now?

I walked on up saddened that in spite of eight years of marriage there was still this underlying tension when I was around Keith's children. Especially when they came as a group. I turned on the Jacuzzi and took a long bath but it didn't do much to ease the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew Dimon would love to get rid of Sam. Me too, for that matter.

In fact, all of Western Kansas and our whole patchwork of law enforcement.

Josie called just as I propped myself up on pillows and started on an academic book I was expected to review for
Kansas History
Magazine
.

“Hi, Lottie. I'm making a list and checking it twice.”

“No need. We're all good little boys and girls out here.”

“Seriously. Is there anything you want me to bring from the city?”

“We're fine. Bettina organized everything which means all the preparations are flawless.”

“Still have Zola?”

“Oh you bet. In fact, Keith has latched on to her, too, to help with the cattle.”

“Great. I assume she's as good around the barn as she is in the house.”

“Absolutely.” I couldn't think of anything else to say. Normally I would have told her instantly about Agent Dimon targeting Sam. She would have shared my outrage.

“What's wrong, Lottie?”

“Nothing. Everything is fine.”

“Your pants are on fire.”

“Are not.” I smiled. Nothing escaped my twin. We had nearly telepathic communication from time to time.

“Nothing,” I insisted. “Really. I'm just tired. Sam and I had to go to Topeka and back in the same day. Then I had to attend a funeral this morning that gave me the willies.”

She listened silently and wouldn't give me a break.

“Well, I need to get some sleep.”

She said nothing.

“Kiss the pooch for me until I can deliver it in person.”

“Good night, Lottie.” Her voice was gentle but I was in for a weekend of skilled inquisition.

I was still awake when Keith came to bed. I nearly told him about Dimon's animosity toward Sam, then decided it could wait. I didn't want to spoil his weekend. Keith adored the old man. If I wasn't aware of the sacredness of male bonding before, I was after Sam deputized Keith. They hoisted the flag together, fished together, and indulged in off-color jokes that I wasn't privy to, rightly suspicious that my latent streak of feminism could be riled up.

In the beginning, I thought their closeness was because Keith felt sorry for Sam because he had no family. Then I'd watched their relationship develop into something different that sometimes made me feel like an outsider with my nose pressed against the window. Sadly, I realized I wasn't and never could truly be one of the boys.

But I had Josie, and if there was ever a shut-out relationship! It went beyond twin-bonding.

Chapter Seven

There were hollows under Sam's sagging eyes when I breezed into the sheriff's office the next morning.

“You don't look like you got much sleep.”

“I let Dimon get under my skin. Had trouble dropping off.”

“Busy otherwise?”

“Nope. Deader than a doornail,” he said. “That passes for good news around here, I guess.”

“Anything I need to know?”

“Nope. It's all there in the log. Betty is dispatching.”

“Great.” But great was not the first word that came to mind when I dealt with Betty Central. She was a stocky, small woman whom I had secretly nicknamed Miss Piggy. Bossy, and a relentless gossip, she was nevertheless absolutely reliable and a tireless worker.

“The phones are switched to her house.”

“Okay. For once I don't have to do run back and forth between offices. I sent my report on the funeral to Dimon yesterday afternoon. Here's your copy.”

I handed him the paper. “We'll talk about this some more after this weekend.”

He glanced at the sparse information. “I hope to hell that wasn't all you noticed.”

After he left, I brooded about Dimon's hostility toward Sam and looked around the bare bones room. The equipment in the sheriff's office should have been junked five years before.

Everything in the historical society is state of the art. I had paid for every single electronic device: the computers, printers, phones, scanners, microfilm readers, flash drives—you name it. I could not bear working with substandard technology. It was my kingdom and I issued decrees at will. But the sheriff's office was Sam's domain and he preferred legal pads and number two pencils. He had grown used to me ducking out when I needed to use modern equipment.

I swiped back a strand of hair that had escaped from my French braid. I walked to the front window, and stared at the barren street, the sun-faded store front opposite. I could see the handwriting on the wall. Sam was going to be forced out if Dimon could implement regional organization.

But not if we solved this case all by ourselves. Without the help of the KBI. Then Dimon would not be able to claim our methods were ineffective. I would do everything the bureau asked. But I knew for a fact what he would ask me to do would add up to zilch when it came to finding out who murdered Victor Diaz.

The old man coming to relieve me was strictly a place-holder. Keith wanted to be with Tom, and I wanted to be home cooking for the Fourth of July horde. We couldn't ask Sam to be here again this afternoon.

Putting together a few reserve deputies had been Keith's idea. After he read all the rules and regulations for these unpaid volunteers who merely received a hearty thanks for their hard work, Keith thought of three old men he knew who were ex-military and would provide a willing presence at the office if Betty answered the phones out of her house.

Truth was, it looked better to have someone here instead of trying to explain to the community that either Sam or Keith or I was always on call and the phones were switched over when necessary. I waited impatiently for Marvin Cole to show up.

Marvin was eager to help out. Like the others, he had to pass an extensive background check and understood that he would only be filling in on rare occasions, but he had jumped at the chance to do something useful.

He arrived at one on the dot. I appreciated this homely low-keyed man who didn't swell up with self importance while acting as a reserve deputy. Marvin had a flat nose and a deeply pocked face with over sized lips. A friendly frog of a man glad for the chance to jump off the lily pad for a day.

“Nothing going on,” I said. “So, I guess you can just go on transcribing.”

Transcribing old handwritten sheriff's reports was not necessary. I'm used to deciphering old records through my historical work, but Marvin was affronted by the suggestion that it was just fine for him to sit idly while on duty. Doing something as frivolous as reading a novel was out of the question.

Betty Central would come in at five and work until two in the morning, then switch the phones to our house.

***

My kitchen smelled heavenly. The odor of chocolate chip cookies wafted through the door.

“Keith here?” I reached for a cookie.

“No, he and Tom are out looking over the cattle.” Zola continued rolling pie crusts and didn't look up. Soon cherry would join the French silk, pecan, and peach pies she had already lined up on the island. A German chocolate cake stood next to a tray of assorted cookies.

I dashed upstairs and changed, determined to put murder out of my mind long enough to enjoy the weekend.

Jimmy and Bettina were the first to arrive with their two little boys. Jimmy Silverthorne was half Cherokee and his coloring showed in their sons, Joshua and Kent. When the boys entered the room, they hurled themselves at me like two little linebackers. Although Kent, who had just started preschool, lacked the heft of his kindergartener brother, he made up for it in enthusiasm. The boys bore an uncanny resemblance to Josie and me although their maternal grandmother had been Keith's late wife, Regina. Josie and I are both dark with black hair and have the same dark brown eyes. Thankfully, I was simply “Grandma Lottie” to these two and had been here since their birth.

“Hi, Mom,” Bettina hugged me and then hollered “don't ruin your supper!” as they darted to the cookies.

“We won't,” they chorused in unison.

“Little liars,” Jimmy said cheerfully.

“Keith and Tom will be back in a little while.”

Jimmy nodded, walked back out to their Suburban, and started unloading coolers of beer and pop and cold cuts for sandwiches.

The first time Josie came to this event she had commented on the collection of Tahos, Suburbans, Explorers, and overpowered Ram pickups our family seemed to favor. “What a tribute to the staying power of the Arab nations,” she'd said with a raised eyebrow. But the second time she came, her powerful low-bottomed Mercedes had gotten mired in the mud and she never made cracks about our SUVs and our gas consumption again.

Tom and Keith came back from the pasture and the boys flew out the door like little rockets and launched themselves at their grandfather.

Bettina was right on their heels. She hugged her brother like she hadn't seen him more than twice in her lifetime.

By the time Elizabeth arrived, the place was in utter turmoil. A carload of Tom's friends drove up and began hauling food and coolers from the trunk of the car. Later in the year we would have similar doings and guns and dogs would be added to the mix, but this time it was just a musical menagerie.

Toward sundown, I looked out my kitchen window and began checking the clock. Josie was late. I had expected her about five o'clock. Last fall, her big Mercedes had earned Elizabeth's scorn as Keith's oldest daughter hated any kind of ostentatious spending.

A big black behemoth sailed up the lane and we all gasped. It was Josie in a brand new Mercedes SUV. Tosca perched in the passenger seat like Cleopatra sailing down the Nile in her barge.

Josie parked and we all flocked around the new SUV.

Keith pulled the cargo doors open and lifted out Tosca's portable kennel while I opened the passenger seat door and unstrapped her doggie safety seat. Tosca dutifully submitted to my ecstatic hugs, then as soon as she was released, she bounded toward Keith.

Josie smiled broadly and watched Tosca's reception by various family members. Once Tosca had acknowledged everyone present, she went to the fringe of our cedar windbreak and barked haughtily at all the rabbits to announce that the Mistress of the Universe was back and they had better be on their toes.

This time Tosca had red, white, and blue ribbons tied in a single top knot with a tiny American flag sticking up front. I glanced at Keith and my lips lifted in a helpless half-smile. He disapproved of the flag being used for decorative purposes under any circumstances. His attitude was a legacy from the Vietnam War when this revered symbol showed up on the butts of people's jeans and was denigrated in every conceivable manner.

I'd learned early in our marriage not to decorate cakes or buy T-shirts sporting the flag. Keith flew the Stars and Stripes every day of the world, holiday or not, and lowered it at sundown according to proper flag etiquette in the service manual. He donated time to the local Veterans organization and could be counted on to don his uniform and assist at military funerals. So I could hardly expect him to be thrilled when a frivolous Shih-Tzu showed up wearing the colors.

He looked at me across the yard with a wry smile. With no comment, he carefully set Tosca down. By now, this dog had earned the status of hero. At a ridiculous ceremony in Gateway City just this spring, she'd been awarded a little chest medal for bravery and was designated the one and only member of the Carlton County Canine Corp.

It had gone to Tosca's head and naturally was Betty Central's idea to begin with. One afternoon when Josie was out here, Betty had asked me, Sam, Keith, Josie, and Tosca to come to the sheriff's office. I'd bought a surprise present for Sam's birthday, the only occasion I could think of that we would keep such a huge secret. Instead, Betty had ordered a cake and the little medal struck for Tosca who took the whole ritual very, very seriously. True, she had been right in the middle of a life-threatening situation, but she was a tiny little dog. She had trotted forward like she was receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Truth was, Keith and I did not want to think about the circumstances surrounding this medal ever again. Not ever.

Today, she wore that medal in addition to the flag.

Keith's eyes had sparked at that ceremony and if Betty had even a lick of common sense she would have noticed his instant outrage over any hint of stolen valor. He did not want the service trivialized in any manner. But the medal was not a replica of any legitimate medal, so he had let it pass.

But now his jaw tightened and he stroked Tosca, then carefully extracted the flag from her topknot. The medal and the ribbons stayed. My smile quivered and I carefully handed the flag to Josie whose own smile faded.

“We do not use the flag as a decoration in this household.” Keith looked her in the eyes. “Not ever. Not on clothes or as an accessory.”

I would explain all this to Josie later. Keith's children and grandchildren stood there with solemn looks on their faces.

Tosca eyed Keith with her huge brown eyes and slunk over to Josie with her tail between her legs like she had been stripped of her medal, too.

“Christ.” Keith went to the little dog that whimpered and burrowed deeper into Josie's arms. She would not give him a break. But neither would Keith relent and give her back the little miniature flag for her topknot.

Josie is a highly regarded psychologist and college professor who has endured much—both physically and professionally—since she became a consultant for Carlton County. But I knew slights from Keith's family were about the last straw and she took any criticism of Tosca hard.

The whole flag issue was escalating into the third World War.

“Let's go look over your new car,” I said.

“SUV,” she corrected. We walked to her vehicle, arm in arm, with Josie cradling her dog.

Keith caught up with us.

“Some car,” he said with a tone of false heartiness.

The family flocked around. I was always on edge when Josie was around Keith's children. Elizabeth glared with disapproval at the car. Her arms were crossed.

Josie saw too much, knew too much about people. I could count on her behaving herself, having good manners, but I knew immediately when she retreated to a professional distance. My heart sank when I saw the switch after she glanced at Elizabeth. Josie would be cold. Removed. All weekend.

“Rides, later,” she said. “Briefly, this has a really big engine and a…”

“And a $110,000-plus price tag,” quipped one of Tom's friends.

Josie said nothing and her smile froze.

“That's four times what most of my clients earn in a year.” Elizabeth didn't bother to disguise her disgust.

Josie switched to resident bitch. I didn't know which stance would be worse: bitch or professional. “Possibly. But you haven't looked inside yet. There are lots of goodies that add to the total. He's way under.”

Oh God
, I thought.
She's doing it on purpose.
I could feel her baiting Elizabeth, flaunting this high-priced vehicle, picking up on this daughter's scorn.

“Nice to see you have brand loyalty. I hope you got a good trade-in price for your sedan.”

“Oh, but I kept it,” Josie said sweetly. “It's easier to park and drive around town. In fact, I might trade it in, too, for a new one this fall.”

“Ah, Jesus,” I thought. There was no hope for any of this. Then inexplicably, I relaxed. This whole weekend was spiraling out of control and it was not my fault and therefore not my responsibility to rescue it.

Tom's friends had no mixed emotions. They scrutinized the instrument panel, admired the leather seats, the high dollar speakers and audio systems, and enthusiastically commented on all the safety features. Tom shot Josie a sympathetic look and winked.

“Time to eat,” I said and we all trooped inside. After digging into the informal buffet, we went into the room where we normally gathered to play music. Tuning was more complicated by the time we worked Tom's friends into the process.

I passed on playing my guitar and settled into a comfortable chair to listen while I sipped a glass of good Scotch. For a minute, Josie's first visit to meet Keith's family crossed my mind.

One that had ended in murder.

Tom led things off. One by one, his friends joined in as surely as if they had practiced for months. They had to all have played together before.

“So what's the deal, gentlemen? Do you all Skype each other and practice the same songs every week?”