Raked Over

by Linda Seals

  * * *

  Betty and I soon checked into a bed and breakfast in the heart of Santa Fe, a treat for both of us. As we settled in our room off the courtyard, Betty Huckleston went in search of the famed happy hour margaritas the B&B served, and returned with a full glass for her and freshly made limeade for me. She sat down in an upholstered chair by the kiva fireplace, took a sip, and nodded her approval for the drink. However, for me she noted, “I think you’ll have to borrow some of my clothes, Toots. Don’t you have any accessories?”

  Looking at the plain jane shirts and pants I was pulling out of my duffel bag, she added, “Not that my clothes are fancy or anything, but you gotta look the part, at least. Those are, er, are …” She paused in her politeness.

  “Are looking like they’ve been wadded up in the bottom of a bag for days?” I asked. “Well, they were, and I agree with you! And no, I don’t have any accessories. What do you have? And I have to do something about my shoes!”

  Betty went in search of shoe polish, and another margarita, as I tried on a couple of pieces from her wardrobe. Betty Huckleston and I were both tall, but she is thin, and I am, well, thick, so that narrowed down the pants selection quite a bit. But I still could assemble a simple but appropriate outfit—everything in black, always worked for me—as I went over my insubstantial story. Yes, I was going as a donor, but I felt I had to go as Lily Raffenport, donor, in case Andrea Brubaker recognized me. Maybe I could gloss over the donor part. I’d just try to talk to her about Shannon; surely she’d want to talk about Shannon Parkhurst? Her protégé?

  Although Betty found the shoe polish for my sensible shoes, she decided that heels would be better for the ensemble, and drug out a strappy pair of hers for me to try on. She then pulled eyeliner, mascara, blush, and lip gloss from her make-up bag, and I set to work. It took a while, but we got the whole thing miraculously pulled together.

  At 6:30 I turned out of the B&B onto Paseo de Peralta, headed north on St. Francis, and out of town to Pojoaque to meet Gary Rogers, leaving Betty Huckleston to relax in the hot tub.

  After meeting up with and then following Gary around, up, and down nameless dirt roads, we arrived at Andrea Brubaker’s large and immaculate estate. Gary said a few words into the gate intercom, and we were allowed in. A long manicured pea gravel driveway, flanked by a man-made stream flowing over rounded rocks and planted with lush foliage, curved around to the imposing hacienda.

  We walked up the flagstone steps to a front courtyard filled with blooming plants, gushing fountains, and a large Gorman bronze sculpture. To quell my nervousness I suggested that we take a look around the gardens before going inside; Gary quickly agreed, and stepped away to light up an American Spirit cigarette. In contrast to my outfit, he was wearing a white short-sleeve shirt untidily tucked into rumpled brown corduroy pants, and cowboy boots; and looked more way comfortable than I felt. Gary glanced at his cell, and motioned that he wanted to return a call and would be back; and then in a puff of smoke, sauntered down two broad steps to a buff flagstone walkway.

  As I strolled around the courtyard and adjoining gardens, I admired the massive adobe walls and angles on the Pueblo Revival-style house. It was the traditional, and costly, mud work of skilled craftsmen with the corners and wall tops sinuously curved toward the house center, seemingly in tune with a natural energy. The final mud coat was dark sienna and appeared to arrive up from the earth and be of the earth. Thick Mexican Colonial double doors set into one side of the courtyard wall were open to the view beyond—the sky just beginning to deepen into a vibrant, almost violent, purple and red sunset fronted by the dark line of the Jemez Mountains.

  Flower beds snuggled next to a low adobe wall held orange California poppies, grey-green santolina dotted with vibrant deep yellow button flowers, and mounds of native grasses that sent up seed heads in airy abandon. I was envious of the abundant landscaping and the plantings—fringed sage, Mexican Hat, penstemon, asters, Russian sage, Apache Plume—interspersed with low winding adobe walls and outdoor rooms with pools and fountains, and special hidden lighting.

  One-hundred-year-old piñons were carefully incorporated into the design with brightly-colored Mexican hand cut out banners, papel picados, strung along their lower branches. It was idyllic, and I was mesmerized, as always, by the sense of being in another country. I daydreamed about having a landscaping project like this, and then I ruefully acknowledged how much water all of it needed to flourish where it did not naturally grow. It was so beautiful, yet oases like these took a heavy toll on the environment. A New Mexican trade-off. Beautiful New Mexican landscapes didn’t have to be water-thirsty, but this one ostentatiously was.

  Gary Rogers returned, and it was time to eat bait to cut the fish, as mon cher Denise Robicheaux would say. My nervous mouth tasted like I had done just that, but I gamely followed him under the deep portal to the massive front doors. Although we were immediately met by a doorman checking credentials, Gary did indeed get us in the door, and we stepped into the large sala. The adobe work throughout the spare room was beautifully crafted here, too, with smooth, diamond finishes on the walls. Flowing bancos tucked under windows were heaped with red, blue, black, and yellow Navajo blanket pillows, and a poured adobe floor was traditionally finished in natural browns, deep copper, and sienna. On the ceiling the heavy pine vigas were diagonally interconnected with cedar latillas, and supported by corbels carved in volute shapes. Nichos set into the thick walls held more colorful folk art, and a large Cochiti drum sat in one corner.

  I hungered after the original art on the walls—Dan Namingha, T. C. Cannon, Fritz Scholder, and more I couldn’t identify. Gary indicated that Andrea Brubaker was standing next to a large shepherd’s fireplace at the end of the room, talking to a tall man in a dark suit. “Ready or not … let’s go,” he said, barely containing a grin as if he was enjoying an adventure, and started across the room.

  Andrea Brubaker was a slim, tanned woman in her late sixties. Her shoulder length white hair was stylishly blunt cut, and she wore a finely-woven brown tunic over a mid-length black skirt topped by soft calf skin boots. Multiple silver rings were on each hand, and nests of silver bracelets glinted on her wrists. A single large turquoise on a silver chain hung around her neck. Everything was simple, and cost more than the Española trailers her employees could barely afford the monthly payments on. She oozed Anglo privilege and entitlement, Southwestern style. She was as I remembered her from Stedmans, only more so. I started to sweat.

  At the thought of our ploy, I grew even more nervous, but I was determined to see if I could find out anything about Shannon. As I walked across the room I wiped my moist hand on Betty’s very stylish black pants before I extended it to Andrea Brubaker. Gary started to introduce us.

  “Hello, I’m Lillian. Thank you so much for having me.” I interrupted. I didn’t think she’d remember me as Lillian, and I wanted to avoid using my last name. I stood tall in Betty Huckleston’s smart heels, looked her in the eye, and smiled.

  “Welcome to Ayudar a los Oprimidos.” Andrea Brubaker over enunciated the Spanish, turned to Gary with a bright, fake smile, and said, “Ah, and you know Lillian from …”

  “Uh, the Opera. Yes, this summer?” he said not too convincingly, but then nodded at me as if I should chime in. “Right, uh, Lillian? Was it La Bohème?” he pulled out of his hat since I was pretty sure that Gary Rogers didn’t seem to be the opera-going type.

  “Oh, yes! We had seats next to each other! It’s my favorite opera!” I lamely lied. I had never seen it so I couldn’t say much more. But something was working because Andrea Brubaker didn’t seem to recognize me. At least, not yet, the ye-of-little-faith voice said in my head.

  “We, uh, then got to know each other through that, uh, marvelous charity work Gary’s been doing, and uh …” I got distracted by a tray of appetizers that appeared at Andrea’s elbow, held by a small, dark woman in black pants and a white blouse uniform, who didn’t seem to speak English when queried a
bout what was on the tray. Andrea ignored her, and picked a glass of white wine—it smelled like an oaky Chardonnay—from another tray held by a tall young man in the same uniform, standing on her other side.

  Gary reached for a glass of wine, took over the conversation, and went on to tell the story we’d prepared beforehand: he was vague about when I’d moved, or moved back, to Santa Fe, but that I loved it, wanted to do good, and then he included large hints of newly inherited money. He did a good job; the guy was a born storyteller. Andrea bought it, though, since she invited me into her private study for a chat. As we walked away, Gary Rogers indicated to me that he was leaving, by way of the pozole buffet table. Most people serve one proud offering of pozole, the humble family stew to be shared with friends; Andrea Brubaker had laid out five varieties in shining silver service buckets, with enough accompanying condiments to choke a mule.

  Andrea ushered me into a large room with coved ceilings and over to a contemporary seating group by a wall of windows. More art, santos and retablos, Maria Martínez black pottery, Laura Gilpin photographs, Nicholai Fechin prints, and on prominent display over a large antique grain chest, a stunning Diego Rivera oil painting. Surely it could not be the real thing.

  As I gaped at the painting, Andrea Brubaker ignored it in a studied but off-handed way, to indicate that it was, of course, the real thing. “Please, have a seat.” She handed me several large, colorful folders. “Let me explain our mission.”

  As I settled into the soft leather chair, she gave me the donor talk, filled with facts and figures of those the foundation helped, going on for quite a while. I nodded at the appropriate places and smiled, trying to pay attention, and not be distracted by the art, and the view south to Black Mesa, silhouetted in the long last light of evening.

  She indicated, as she talked, various things in the brochures, pointing out pictures of the foundation’s recipients and staff, and when she got to the board of directors page she said, “This is Ernesto Mondragón, our director for international relations.” She pointed to a photo at the top of the page of a handsome man in his forties or fifties, tanned and muscular, black hair slicked back into the ubiquitous ponytail, dark eyes hooded by dark, expressive brows, full rosy lips over white teeth. It was hard to tell his nationality—from Argentina, Bolivia, Spain, Italy?

  “I’m sorry he’s out of the country this week; he’d like to meet you. You’ll meet him soon, I’m sure, at our next event,” she said, smiling.

  “He’s been a very important addition to our work,” she added. As I looked down the page of directors, I spotted the photo of Chloë Austin, my nemesis, her sallow complexion looking better in the photo than in person. Of course she’d be on the prestigious board, I thought, as Andrea Brubaker’s best friend and fellow important person, and one I desperately hoped wasn’t in attendance that night. Although in the photo she smiled the Cheshire Cat smile I knew so well, I only saw cruelty in her eyes.

  “So, tell me about yourself.” Andrea Brubaker interrupted my painful memories. “How did you hear of our work, our vision?”

  Well, here goes, I thought. “Uh, I heard about you all from Shannon Parkhurst.” Nothing like going right at it.

  “Shannon?” Andrea’s brows went up. “Oh, yes, uh, Shannon. How nice.” She looked at me for more explanation.

  “Uh, yeah. Shannon said you all did a lot of good things, and, uh, I thought I’d check it out and see, um, you know, about all the good things you all did.” How lame.

  Andrea’s face was unreadable. “And,” I clunkered on, “and, uh, since I was here, I thought I’d see where Shannon worked because I know, uh, that it meant so much to her, and in her memory I thought I’d donate to your organization.”

  Andrea Brubaker’s lip curled just a bit, and she said with disapproval, “Yes, I heard of her unfortunate death. Suicide, wasn’t it?” Then she caught herself, and as she tucked one leg under in her chair, she said with some emotion, “Most unfortunate. Shannon was a very bright young woman. She had a bright future.”

  “Shannon worked for you here at the foundation and …” I let the sentence trail, hoping Andrea would fill it in for me.

  “Yes, at Brubaker’s. Shannon and I met at Ghost Ranch, where I was doing foundation work. She impressed me as a capable young woman, eager, good people skills, attractive. She was a quick learner and I offered her a job. She had experience in the immigrant relief work I was funding, so she worked here at Ayudar a los Oprimidos; she was very dedicated. Then the real estate market picked up again, and I needed an assistant to help me handle the volume of properties. She worked for me about a year before she moved to Colorado, to be with her boyfriend.”

  “Was that Barry?” I asked, hoping finally to get a lead.

  “Yes—Barry. Nice young guy, came to us highly recommended, impressive resume. Shannon met him here first, or, no—not here, at Ghost Ranch, I think? I don’t know. They were a cute pair. I know she fell in love with him,” she said, “I could see it in her eyes.” Andrea looked sadly out the window into the twilight. She seemed almost human.

  “When was the last time you talked to Shannon?” I asked.

  Andrea turned back from the window with an unsettled look. “Mmm, last time? Probably here, when they dropped by, just before they left for Colorado. She hasn’t been back for a visit. And now …”

  “You and Shannon were close?”

  “Well! I was her employer, first of all! She was just an employee!” she said haughtily, the class-conscious Andrea Brubaker I knew coming back in full force.

  “But yes, I admit, I did have a soft spot for Shannon. I wanted her to succeed. She had the chops for it, you know. So, yes, I helped them a bit,” she smiled and went on to explain. “Shannon said Barry was all hot to move to Colorado, the skiing or something. Hell, he could ski right here at the Ski Basin. But he wanted to move, and I wanted to help Shannon get started up there in real estate. One can struggle a long time at the bottom if one doesn’t get started right on the fast track. So I wanted to help her make the right moves and position herself correctly.

  “Through my contacts, I got her a job up there and then, as a special gift to Shannon, I arranged a substantial donation to a non-profit there in her name so she could be invited to be on the board of directors,” she said, her tongue rolling around the word substantial like it was fine chocolate.

  “That kind of exposure in real estate? Well, it can’t be bought,” she continued, unaware of her own contradiction. “It’s a largely honorary post, you know. But it was a group close to Shannon’s heart, so she appreciated the opportunity, and took more interest in it than most would.”

  “Oh, yes,” I lied, “that was—”

  “Nueva Oportunidad.” More over enunciation. “Much like we have here at AO. Helping those less fortunate, helping immigrants get established and contribute to their communities. It was Ernesto’s idea, actually. He suggested it. And I think he researched and found this group that Shannon could work with. He’s so good like that,” she smiled into the distance. “He’s always thinking of others. He liked Shannon, too, you know. We all did.”

  A tall young woman came in and politely whispered to Andrea that another guest wished to speak to Mrs. Brubaker. Andrea whirled around at the interruption, and hissed a rebuke at the poor girl just doing her job. The assistant turned bright red and looked mortified, wanting to escape the room. A feeling from the past I knew too well.

  Taking this break to make my exit, I stood up as Andrea Brubaker was preoccupied with tongue lashing her subordinate, and as I left the room I remembered to make a vague motion of writing a donation check, and waved my thanks to her.

  Once outside, I took a few deep breaths to help my nerves, smelling dust, desert sage, and piñon smoke. My feet were pinched from the chic heels, and my hands were still a bit shaky. I needed to calm down to find my car in the deep, dark night since I hadn’t paid much attention where we parked; I had been just following Gary Rogers. In the darkness I cou
ld make out about forty or so dim shapes looming in rows beside the guest casitas—Range Rover, Lexus, Mercedes, BMW, Porsche were all there glinting in the moonlight—and I could only distinguish my own dusty and used car because it was by far the smallest of the bunch. The open shoes I was wearing were not meant for the desert, and every rock and sharp twig I stepped on in the dirt lot gouged my feet. As soon as I found the car, the shoes came off first, and I let out a sigh of relief. But finding my way back to Santa Fe in the dark was no easy matter. Again and again I got lost in the inky New Mexico night, and the snake-like, nameless dirt roads bested my GPS, too, so it took a long time to finally get back to the highway, and back to town.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN