Hidden Heritage (9 page)

“There are…issues.” A sob caught in Cecilia's throat. Her breast heaved with a sudden intake of breath and her voice trembled. “She believes you are the ideal one to avenge Victor because you…”

“Because you are not afraid of evil people,” Francesca said slowly, fixing me with her dark glittering eyes.

Jarred, I stared as they rose. Francesca's age showed in the slow steadying of her feet as she pushed upright, before she once again assumed her rigid posture. But I saw how well she moved, how easily she came up with words. There was no way she was as old as people thought.
Or was she?

We made an appointment for the following week, murmured our goodbyes and I walked them to the elevator, all the while wondering if there were enough scattered family members still alive to pose for a five-generation picture. Would it even be possible? My heart leapt, momentarily shoving aside speculation that this woman might have information about a murder investigation.

Years ago, when people's life spans were shorter, three-generation pictures were highly prized. Then the gold standard became four generations. Even today, five generations of the same bloodline—great-great-grandparents—were extremely rare.

Cecilia held the door, then helped Francesca step inside without letting go of the ruined hand too warped to grasp the safety rails mounted on the side.

“Again, thank you,” she said before they descended. “And after you find the killers, perhaps someone should know about my family's bloodline before I die. Before it's too late. Perhaps you should do that for me, too. Just that. A genealogy and nothing more.”

Cecilia gave a slight warning shake of her head and touched Francesca's elbow.

Could she be coaxed? It would require all my negotiating skills.

“It's happening again.” She looked at me sadly. The elevator descended.

Suddenly chilled, I did not understand. Not at all.

What was happening again?

Chapter Twelve

Keith and Zola were coming in from the barn. Still unnerved by the visit from Cecilia and Francesca Diaz, I looked forward to their argumentative banter and began rubbing seasoning salt into steaks. Perhaps they could dispel my bitchy mood, which began after I called Dimon to tell him about Francesca's visit to the historical society.

He had immediately bawled me out for not demanding information right then and there “if she really, actually had some. Chance are she is overwhelmed with grief,” he said, “and has started to attach some kind of ominous portent to every word her grandson said.”

“Great-grandson.”

“Whatever. But I've had a lot of experience with this kind of situation. You say she hasn't left the farm for years, so she wouldn't be in a position to know much.”

I seethed. “It was my duty to inform you.”

“And I appreciate that. But I think you understand why I think you and Sam should leave the analysis to experts.”

“I'm in an ideal position to investigate. She sought me out. I'll be going out there anyway to ask her some questions about her family from a historical standpoint.”

“Do
not
discuss this murder with her! Leave interrogation to us. I don't want you accidentally muddying the waters or tipping someone off. I won't send agents out there as in my professional judgment that would be a waste of time. However, I can't tell you what to do in your other job, of course, and if you do go there and if anything of interest comes up during your conversations about, what? Family history? Whatever it is you are working on, do let us know. Go right ahead and collect your little stories.”

We chatted about the weather, and then hung up.

Dumb bastard. He didn't want our little dog-patch of a county involved in solving this crime. He would have a hard time promoting a regional center if Sam and I figured out who killed Victor on our own. There would be no point in switching to a new expensive system.

Perhaps someone from the KBI would have plunged right into the hard questions when Francesca came into the office, instead of trusting a slower approach. But I knew it would all come in good time. I had informed Dimon like a good subordinate and it wasn't my fault if he didn't know a clue from a club.

Keith and Zola were spatting as they came through the back door.

“Weatherman says it will rain tomorrow. Give us a little more
time.”

“Better be safe than sorry,” Keith said. “And make arrangements now before there isn't a bale left in five counties.”

“You two at it again?”

“No,” they both said together.

I studied their faces. “What?”

“Pasture is drying up,” Keith said. “We need to throw in the towel and start buying alfalfa hay. Before it dawns on everyone else that we're shit out of luck. ‘It ain't gonna rain no, more, no more.'” He whistled the next line.

Zola rolled her eyes.

“And my helper here, my right-hand man,” he smiled at Zola, “thinks we should give it more time. Hay is at a premium right now unless we get the cheap stuff.”

“That's my point, Keith. It's at a premium. One good rain and the price will drop overnight.” Zola caught her heel in the boot jack by the front door, pulled off the boot, switched feet and neatly lined the shoes up side by side, then slipped into house moccasins. “Or other farmers will give up and ship their cattle out and there will be plenty of hay for sale.”

They went to wash up. I had asked Zola to stay for supper after extracting a promise that she wouldn't do a thing to help. Just let me take over for once.

The phone rang.

“Hi, Sis.”

I heard a man's voice in the background. Josie laughed. “Tom says it's ‘Hi, Mom,' not ‘Hi, Sis.'”

After the family weekend, Tom had gone to Kansas City on a brief contract job to verify the geographical feasibility of a commercial development site.

“Why is he in Manhattan?”

“He's not. We're both in Denver staying with Jimmy and Bettina. He wanted to spend some time with them, and I had to give a lecture at Colorado University, so we decided to drive out together.”

My throat went dry.

“It was cheaper for us to drive than to fly separately.” Josie's bright voice was just right.

I knew. I just knew.

So when had Josie ever been concerned about cheap?

Dealing with our family dynamics was sheer hell most of the time. This would send all the relationships into an abyss. I closed my eyes, nevertheless knowing that in some odd way they would be a natural together. He was only one year younger than Josie, they both loved music. But he was my stepson and she was my twin, and she had practically sworn off men after her divorce from her first husband. And Elizabeth. My God, Elizabeth with her adoration of her brother and her flagrant dislike of my twin. There would be no reconciling Elizabeth to this.

“Anyway, the reason I called is to see if you want me to stop by for any reason on our way back to Manhattan. Or have my days as a consultant come to an end?”

“All of our days as a law enforcement anything have come to an end if Frank Dimon has anything to do with it. No, we don't need anything. Except rain. Can we expect Tom back here or will he be staying with Jim and Bettina?”

“Actually, he will be driving me home. He has a chance to consult with a construction firm in Kansas City. They want an independent analysis of the soil composition at the location for a proposed building. He wants to talk with them some more.”

Josie had always thought the drive across Kansas was hell. Now she was including the long road through Eastern Colorado like it was nothing. Just a lark.

“Okay. Goodbye, then.”

Did Tosca like Tom? I couldn't remember.

***

Two days later, I had made my first trip to the collection of houses and land that was better known as the Diaz Compound than Roswell County. Dust rolled from my wheels. Dry land corn had long given up, curled its leaves inward and formed brittle lines down the betraying fields. The sky should have been bright blue, not a tannish haze.

Never having seen it, I had been amused at the term “compound” that made the Diazes sound like an orphaned Mafia family. Then after I looked up the vast acreage owned by one entity—with very little of it under cultivation—I understood some of the hostility.

All that land, lying fallow. It didn't seem right. A number of young men would kill to get a toehold into farming.

On the other hand, a lot of people hope no one new ever starts farming unbroken land. They think the farmers here now should leave and turn the land back over to the buffalo. A proposal by a Princeton public planning professor to turn the Great Plains into a nature preserve—a Buffalo Commons—had earned the scorn of everyone I knew. Keith went ballistic when anyone brought this up. He didn't care that some areas had fewer than two people per square mile or that Kansas had lost one-third of its population since 1920. He didn't care that Kansas had over six thousand ghost towns. No crazy bureaucrat was going to shove him off land his ancestors had homesteaded.

At some point, the Diazes had become a family corporation. Using Victor's death as an excuse, I had checked the family's finances and learned they scrupulously paid their taxes and avoided credit card debt. There was very little money coming in. They lived scrimpy lives. No one ever bought anything or went anywhere.

The holdings were not easily accessible from the main road, and I had never driven out here. I turned off the main highway and started down the five-mile dirt road bordered by their property on either side. As I drew closer, I could see that most of the houses, barns, and outbuildings were a crazy mixture of stucco and limestone brick. Construction appeared to have been done sporadically as the need arose and was a curious blend of southwest architecture, dumpy sod-house shapes, and old wooden two-stories. There was even a modular home plopped down on an area apart from the rest.

Massive cottonwoods took my breath away. I had never seen trees of that size in Kansas. Their silver-backed leaves rippled in the wind, like an undulating piece of cloth. Gusty sheets of greenery fluttered high overhead. Heaven plopped down in the middle of nowhere. One of the trees looked to be nearly one hundred feet tall with an enormous spread at the top.

To the back, I could see the old wreck of the house that had achieved the status of myth in our county. Representing classic 1700s New Orleans architecture with iron balconies, the ruined exterior, the weathered boards, the bare windows, did not look capable of having endured the extremes of our Kansas weather. The whole insane conglomeration of dwellings was shaded by the graceful cottonwood trees, defiantly shielding them from the brassy sun.

Against all odds, lush green grass grew in sections of carefully sectioned primly-edged lawns and a riot of colorful flowerbeds looked like they had been transplanted from a greenhouse. Any gardener would have said this display was impossible any year in Kansas, let alone this summer, when even buffalo grass was fighting for its life. There wasn't a water hose in sight, which I could not understand. Did they carry water in buckets?

Why would this family spend staggering work-hours maintaining lawns and gardens while ignoring thousands of acres ripe for growing wheat? And living so frugally! Keith would argue that land was meant to be worked. He loved the image of Kansas as Breadbasket of the World. Food, not foolishness.

But it was all so incredibly lovely! A sudden gust sent the cottonwood leaves silver side up. Rippled mica sparkled across patches of blue. My soul quieted. Would all of this be sold and dismantled when Francesca died?

I swung around the circular drive that seemed to connect a number of the dwellings spoking out from its center. To the south was a lovely stucco-sided house with a tile roof. It had a roof-high tower with grilled windows that surrounded a front porch entrance. A swinging gate was built into an arched side entry that accessed a gracefully curved extension. Batten shutters decorated French windows. The house was not large, but perfectly proportioned.

In the middle of the ring of houses was a circular silo-like structure about twenty feet in diameter. I judged it to be about thirty-five to forty foot high. It resembled a modern grain bin, but was made of brick. It was covered by a conical shingled roof. There were very narrow rectangular windows spaced regularly around the top. Windows like those used in old castles to defend against attack.

I parked and stared at towering cottonwoods that seemed to be constantly in motion. Cecilia came out of the house to greet me. “You're prompt. Great-grandmother will like that. She knows you are here, so if you like, I can to show you around before we go inside.”

I gazed hopefully at the old New Orleans style house at the back, then caught the flicker of dismay on her face, and switched my focus to another structure. “I was admiring that little house.” I waved toward the little Spanish bungalow. “It's interesting.”

“Isn't it?” She laughed gently, as though in agreement with my tactful choice of words. “In its time, it was one of the best Sears had to offer.”

“That's a Sears house? I didn't know they made any with Spanish architecture.”

“It cost two thousand dollars. My great-great-grandfather built it.”

“Amazing!” From 1908 to 1940, well-to-do settlers could order these kit houses from Sears and complete the construction. The kits included everything from the meticulously pre-cut lumber down to the last coat of varnish. Over one hundred thousand of these ready-to-assemble houses were built. They were a godsend on the plains where lumber was scarce.

“A distant cousin, George Perez, lives there now with his family. They have four children.”

I wanted to see the interior and hoped that as time went on and I became better acquainted, I would be invited in. “Your lawns, lands, are unbelievable. I can't even imagine the work it must take to keep this up.”

“We all help. Even so, it's a full-time job.”

“The water. Where do you get that much water?”

“Our well.” She smiled at my blank look. “The silo. I'm sure you noticed it when you drove in.”

“Of course.”

“The family calls it the well house. Let me show it to you before we go on inside.” She led me to the opposite side of the structure and pushed through a narrow door. “Our ancestors were small people.”

“I guess.” I'm slim, but I had to duck. A tall man couldn't walk through standing upright. Once I had pushed through, I gasped at the heavenly odor of water. Life-giving water.

Inside the exterior circle was another circle, another brick-walled structure over which rose two upright notched wooden beams supporting a large log laced with pulley systems. One of them supported a large wooden bucket.

“You carry water to all these lawns, these plants?”

“Heavens, no. I'm not even sure we could do that if we formed a full-time bucket brigade.”

“How then? I didn't see a single garden hose. Surely there isn't a sprinkling system.”

“No. It's all done by underground pipes. A network of pipes.” She cut off more questions. “Perhaps we should join Great-grandmother.”

We left the well house and walked to an iron gate in a high stucco wall and lifted the latch. Inside was a sprawling stucco ranch house that appeared to have so many wings that I suspected they surrounded a courtyard. More flowers again and lush lawns. She saw my look and laughed. “George, is an excellent gardener and my great-grandmother is a stern taskmaster. In fact, he could be a professional landscaper. Not that his talents aren't fully used out here. In the evening, his wife and children and I help him. He and I love this place so very much.”

The swaying rustling cottonwoods, the lush yard, the splotches of bright flowers cast a spell. I wanted to lie beneath the largest tree and sleep.