In Gallup, Greed

by Tower Lowe

  When Dr. Stuart died suddenly of a heart attack, Alice headed back to Carlsbad to review her memories of life on the dig. Alice easily got a waitress job—serving summer tourists in a restaurant in Roswell – and then collected unemployment when she got laid off in the winter. After that, Alice simply waited for the spirit to find her. And the spirits that found her were Cinnamon and Burro with a mission to find Momma.

  Alice followed the two civil rights investigators to Santa Fe and rented a room there. She got back in touch with Mirage in Gallup and tried to resume a purposeful life. Cinnamon and Burro needed help in their new private investigator business, and Alice volunteered to be a part-time assistant of sorts. In truth, the job was like going on a dig with her father – Alice went along with it because she didn’t have the courage to discover what she really needed to do with her life.

  That’s where she was in August when Mirage called, in a panic about Lonnie getting stabbed to death. Alice called Cinnamon and Burro, and they went to Gallup to find out what happened to poor Lonnie.

  Cinnamon and Burro also had civil rights work at Yanaha Middle School in Gallup, so they checked into the Hampton Inn and billed the state. Alice stayed in Mirage’s small, one bedroom apartment on a pull out couch in the living room. It was the same couch where Momma slept during her months in Gallup.

  Now, standing in the room where Dad and the elder Cinnamon slept, Alice felt strange. The tattered blue print of the pullout sofa brought back memories of her father and Cinnamon engrossed in academic discussions, followed by memories of how Alice failed to be the daughter Dr. Stuart wanted. She shook the thought off, or tried to, and began to search for Mirage’s stash of tea. A cup of tea distracted Alice from thoughts of her dad.

  Alice opened the cabinet above the stove, and there were the tea bags. She pulled the chamomile, expecting the steeped flowers to calm her rising panic. All Alice needed was a pot to boil water, but of course every pot in the house appeared to be dirty, and Alice was in no mood to clean up after Mirage even if her brother had been murdered. She opened every cabinet in the little kitchen. No clean pots. Her heart hammered. She searched the house, possessed by the quest for some kind container for boiling water and obsessed by the need to distract her thoughts.

  With merciless anger, borne of fear that her life meant nothing, that she was doomed to follow the same empty path forever, Alice tore through the living area, then pushed open Mirage’s bedroom door and began to tear the clothes off the floor, pursuing a metal container or a coffee pot or a simple hot pot from the 1970’s. Tripping on a long cloth belt from Guatemala, Alice screamed loudly at the faded paint and tiny, clouded window that looked out from Mirage’s bedroom onto the parched streets of Gallup.

  “Help. God help me.” Alice shoved the mattress hard, as if it were a body sacked out on the bed of her own ambition, preventing her from moving or getting up and getting out into her life. The mattress moved a foot off the bed.

  A powder blue towel was rolled up into a cylinder shape. Brown stains spotted one end. Out of the other end stuck the bloody blade of a knife. Alice knew she was looking at the knife that killed Lonnie. She didn’t know what to do about that.

  Alice was not the kind to call authority or to follow the proper channels. It was her way of hiding. Alice wanted to handle life without authority. Thus, nothing at all happened between the time she saw the knife and the time she heard the apartment door creak open and Mirage call out.

  “Alice. Are you here?”

  ∆

  He Brought on the Stabbing

  A man and woman, sixty or so, native, were drinking tea on the front porch, sitting in wooden rocking chairs. They smiled at Burro and me.

  “He’s inside,” the woman directed.

  Nez sat at a round pine table, worn rough from years of use, with a pitcher of iced tea in the center.

  “Is that sweet tea?” I hoped.

  “No. We got sugar, though,” Nez offered.

  “That’ll work,” I agreed, pouring a glass and adding sugar while Nez explained why he called.

  “Look – Lolo wants to talk to you guys, but I wanted to tell my story without her around. Lolo has a way of editing life to her advantage.”

  I pulled up a chair underneath a rectangular window looking out into a floral and vegetable garden with dark green zucchini dancing on the August vines. The house and the grounds were serene and at peace, but Nez rubbed his eyes, blinked, and drew finger circles in the sweat of his tea glass.

  “What did you see at the party?” Burro joined Cinnamon at the table.

  “Lolo and I were both pretty drunk, but I didn’t black out like Mirage. Lolo threw a beer bottle at me. I laughed. I told her Lonnie and I agreed we needed to shut down the gallery or at least change how it operates. No more strange buyers that Jerry brings from out of town. Those guys are not legit, I told her. And I’m telling you two – those buyers are fishy.”

  “Why do you think that?” I asked.

  “Part common sense, part intuition. First, all three of us are basically unknown outside of a few friends and maybe our college professors. Why would buyers from L.A. be willing to pay six figures for our work? Doesn’t make sense. The intuition part is...those two men give me the creeps...not their wives, the men....like I want to call the cops when they come to the door.”

  “Maybe Jerry persuaded them to invest in your work...because he sees the value it.”

  “That’s what he says. But I don’t believe him. Have you met Jerry?”

  “Not yet,” I admitted.

  “He’s not sophisticated...and he doesn’t have any national or international art connections aside from a few people he knows in the film business. And they are retired, for the most part.”

  “Okay,” I accepted his statement.

  “Does he throw around a lot of money?” This came from Burro, still confirming the cash part of his vision.

  “He’s got money, and he spent plenty of it fixing up Redemption. But he’s getting that all back with commissions. We pay 70% commission on our sales.”

  “I heard that,” Burro sympathized. “What happened at the party after your argument with Lolo?”

  “Like I said, Lolo lost it and attacked me over the gallery closing. Lonnie was already shut up in his room since he went in there around 10 pm. The truth is, he never came out, even when Lolo threw the beer bottle and it smashed against the fireplace.

  “Mirage showed up about eleven, brought by Jerry, of course – I remember seeing his black Audi – and as soon as Lolo threw the beer bottle, Mirage marched into Lonnie’s bedroom, so this idea that she didn’t check on him is wrong. I went for a walk, trying to get away from Lolo. I must have been gone an hour or so, and when I got back to the house, I noticed all of the cars were gone, except Lolo’s and Jerry’s. I thought Jerry left when he dropped off Mirage, so I wondered why he came back. I saw Jerry’s kid standing in the door, a silhouette against the kitchen lights.”

  “You sure it was the boy?”

  “I couldn’t see his face, but he was the right height and bent over, looking at the ground. Jerry must have been sitting in his Jeep, because the door opened right then and he went running up, grabbed the kid and literally carried him back to the car. He kind of pushed him from the driver’s side to the passenger side, got in and took off. Then I saw Lolo lean out the door, too, and watch Jerry drive off.

  “’I went up to her. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘The kid is mad at Lonnie for taking Daddy away. Says he wants Lonnie dead. What’s up with Holly, letting him out of the house at midnight?’

  ‘Maybe he got out by himself.’

  “At that point I was sick and tired of all the drama, and I was drunk. I walked home.”

  “What about Lolo?”

  “She said she was walking Mirage home. Sounds like they never got there, from Mirage’s account. That’s where they were headed when I left, though.”

  Burro stood up and poured more ic
ed tea. He passed all of us fresh cut lemon slices resting in a small turquoise saucer. I pulled the sugar my way and spilled a couple teaspoons into the amber liquid. Outside the window, small pink blooms danced in a hot breeze. I watched for a moment and returned to the conversation.

  “Did you tell the police about the boy and Jerry being at the party late?”

  “No. The next day I called Lolo, and we agreed to keep quiet about the kid and Jerry. We wanted to keep it simple. I really don’t think the kid killed Lonnie, and even if he did, I guess, I didn’t want to say anything.”

  “Do you think Lolo killed Lonnie?”

  “I don’t think so, but who did? For sure, Lolo doesn’t want an investigation. Lolo knows the gallery will close if Jerry and his kid are implicated in all this. She feels like he brought on the stabbing with all that talk of closing the gallery. It upset Jerry and it upset his son. She thinks if the kid didn’t do it, maybe Johnnie got drunk and mad, and he stabbed Lonnie.”

  “What do you think?” Burro challenged.

  “For real? I think Jerry killed Lonnie. Lonnie wanted to take his dream away.”

  ∆

  Private Help

  I watched Burro shake his head when we looked into the Special Ed office at Yanaha. Forms, manila files, hand written notes, and thick, stapled packets spilled off the desk and onto the gritty tile floor. It was ten in the morning.

  “This looks like my vision. Confidential papers spilled, like cash, all over the desk and floor.”

  “They’re confidential?”

  He picked one up, passed it my way. The documents contained Individual Education Plans (IEPs) for students with disabilities – stamped Confidential.

  “Got to address this with the principal.”

  “For sure,” Burro agreed. We were here for a final check up visit with Joseph and the young man with the brain injury. We were waiting in the Office of Special Education, and found it piled with unfiled records.

  The principal assured me that the piles of confidential papers spread out in the office were due to a staff shortage.

  “We hired a new Special Ed teacher last week who will clean all this up.” Burro and I didn’t answer. “Staffing is a serious problem, but we will get it straight. And this extra teacher will make it possible for more inclusion here at the school for students like Joseph and the other young man...I have his file here somewhere....” She searched the stacks of paper.

  “Did you write his name down, Burro?” I tried to circumvent the hopeless paper search.

  “I’ve got it!” The counselor announced. “Clark Luster...parents are Holly and Jerry Luster.”

  “The Gallery Owner?” Burro and I exchanged a look.

  “Yes. They started Redemption Gallery to promote local native artists.”

  “We heard one of the artists was murdered this week.” Burro inclined forward.

  “A terrible business. A stabbing.”

  “Is Clark upset about it?”

  “He hasn’t mentioned it. What he’s upset about is being in a separate classroom away from the other kids.”

  “Right,” Burro returned to the business at hand. Has he been moved to regular education classes?”

  “We are ready to move him, but his parents object. We need the parents approval.”

  “No problem,” I answered, jumping at the opportunity to talk with Jerry and Holly for any reason. “Do you have their number?”

  “Of course. Just so you know, the family can afford private help. She doesn’t realize that’s not what Clark wants – Clark wants a chance to be a regular kid.”

  Not much chance of that, I thought.

  “We’ve heard of them,” I said out loud. “We have mutual friends.”

  “Oh, then maybe you can influence the parents. Clark claims that he has persuaded his mother – but not his father.”

  Burro and I hung around the Corolla with both doors open, waiting for the interior to cool.

  “Shall I call them?” Burro offered.

  “You bet. Do you think they know Mirage hired us to investigate Lonnie?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll call and set up the meeting about Clark without mentioning Lonnie or Mirage. Then we see what happens.”

  “Agreed.”

  ∆

  Haunted, or Possessed

  Johnnie put the key in the Redemption lock, and pushed the tall pine door inward. Jake stepped back, surprised. He never expected the expanse of the room or the hypnotizing effect of the art. The brown oil eyes of an aged native man followed the two visitors into the gallery. Jake stood for a moment, watching Johnnie re-lock the door with shaking hands. Those liquid brown eyes stared down, clear as the desert air, seeing Jake’s lack of integrity and fear, seeing Johnnie’s nervous hands, pleading softly for both men to be honest with themselves. Or so it seemed to Jake.

  “Tell the sacred truth,” Jake almost heard the words travel downward from the painting in a deep, intimate voice.

  Immediately he wanted to leave. Silence enveloped the two men in what Jake could only call moral uncertainty, a tight feeling brought on by the watching eyes of the painting and a presence that existed in the building.

  “Great gallery.” Jake broke the silence, in an effort to shut out the presence and the eyes. “Let’s go talk about the deal.”

  “You need to look around,” Johnnie protested. “And Mirage is dropping by. We told her you were planning to help out managing the gallery while she recovers from Lonnie’s death.”

  “There an office?” Jake wondered.

  “Sure, back this way.”

  Johnnie stuffed the keys in his jeans pocket, brushed his face like there were spider webs clinging to his cheeks, and led Jake out of sight of those piercing brown eyes into the leather filled conference room. Johnnie didn’t seem any more comfortable in the main gallery than Jake. This room was better, Jake realized, expensive furnishings, no spirit presence. Even in this space, though, Jake was pretty certain this job was not for him. Then he remembered the money and decided to shake off his intuitive leanings and be practical.

  “So what do I need to do?”

  “It’s a gallery. You need to get to know the artwork, and market it to potential buyers. We open everyday – sometimes we close on Wednesdays and Jerry takes over on Sunday and when buyers are in town. You have to hang shows, make sure the security is up and running, get the community in here. Jerry helps with the marketing effort – he’ s got dedicated collectors he brings he all the time, so no worries about profitability...but the other stuff, yeah.”

  “Okay. I can do that.” I’ll ignore that spirit crap, Jake thought. This is real money. Maybe I’ll stay 3 months, take $50k and get away from this creepy town. His feeling of freedom in the west was fading fast.

  Johnnie stood there, waiting, as if Jake were a kid not doing the assignment in math class. Jake sat on one of the leather couches and tried to show more interest.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Johnnie kept standing. “The building was put up in 1954 by Gallup Union Bank, but they went under sometime in the 90’s, and the building was abandoned. Jerry thought it had the right style for an important gallery, so he renovated it—hired XTEN architecture out of L.A. Fantastic remodel with the high, arched ceilings, natural light.”

  “Yeah,” Jake flat-lined.

  “Building’s a work of art....that’s what Jerry says.”

  “Right.”

  “Johnnie?” Mirage’s voice drifted into the conference room.

  Johnnie gave Jake a panicked look. “Hey. Don’t let on you’re taking over, okay? Listen to the details, and act like you’re an assistant.”

  Johnnie scuttled out, and Jake took a deep breath. The whole building actually felt haunted, or possessed. Sitting alone in the conference room, Jake noticed sighs exiting an upper portion of the building and a low-pitched hum, like the Taos hum, from somewhere underground. Maybe the air conditioning, he rationalized.

  “Hi,” Mirag
e extended a hand. Jake shook it. He wondered if he should mention he knew Cinnamon, but decided against it.

  “My brother Lonnie died a few days ago, so I can use a bit of help. I don’t want to come back right away. Lonnie opened the gallery with Jerry, but spent most of his days painting in a studio at his house.”

  “He did the oil at the entrance?” Jake thought that might explain the eerie quality – the spirit of a dead man.

  “No... 3-D landscapes. He used common objects on pastel – sometimes acrylic. Come look at them. It really worked. The landscapes almost speak.”

  Jake made no comment.

  “I’ll show you around.” Mirage led him into the gallery. “I can explain the art, the cash register, the routine.”

  He could no longer refuse, so Jake followed, and asked a question to distract himself from the eerie presence in the gallery rooms.

  “What happened to your brother?”

  “He was stabbed to death.” Her voice was smoky, her eyes bright and surreal.

  She led Jake into the one of the L-shaped showrooms behind Mirage, sweeping his eyes quickly over odd paintings with feathers and streamers.

  “Accident,” Johnnie insisted as he followed the two of them into the enclosure.

  Mirage looked at Johnnie and bit the underside of her lip.

  “Great space here, don’t you think?” Johnnie ignored her expression.

  “Who stabbed your brother?” Jake ignored Johnnie, mostly because he wanted to annoy the guy. Besides, Mirage had smooth, pecan skin and silky black hair that fell to her shoulders – not a bad shape, either. If he stayed here for three months, he might turn this tour into another romance adventure with Mirage. His mood improved, at least until he glanced up at the large, weathered face of the elder, who clearly disapproved of the idea.

  “We don’t know. There was a big party, a lot of alcohol. There was some fighting, but, then, there’s usually some kind of fight at these parties.”