Hidden Heritage

by Charlotte Hinger

  “I want you to find out who murdered my great-grandson. My Victor. Her brother. Just a year older than Cecilia, he was. They played together like twins.” Tears streamed down her weathered cheeks. Cecilia reached into her pocketbook and took out a lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed at her great-grandmother’s eyes. The faint scent of lavender mingled with the room’s usual aroma of glues and old books.

  “Certainly we will all try, Mrs. Diaz. In fact the whole KBI is now…”

  “I would like you to be the one.”

  “The KBI has resources,” I stammered. “They are much more skilled than I and they have equipment that our county…”

  She cut me off again. “You please. Just you.”

  “That will not be possible, Mrs. Diaz. They are already involved.”

  “No,” Francesca said slowly. “Only you will I help.” The rapid Spanish exchange between her and Cecilia began again.

  Embarrassed by her great-grandmother’s switch to a language that obviously excluded me, Cecilia stopped her. “Please, Grandmother. If you must, tell Miss Albright what you have to say and then we will leave.”

  “No more discussion.” The old woman looked at me sharply. “I want you to find Victor’s murderer. I have information that I will only give to you. My great-granddaughter here does not want outsiders probing around in our family’s business. We do not want hordes of newspeople inventing facts. But we cannot simply go on living apart as we always have done. Not when there has been another murder.”

  Another murder. She had said “another murder.”

  She teared up again. Cecilia reached over to dab at Francesca’s eyes.

  “I trust you. That is why I will only talk with you.”

  “But we’ve never met!”

  “We get the Carlton County newspaper. We discuss your column every week. A year ago, I checked your educational credentials, your publications. You are patient. You are respectful. You would be not be tempted to pass on everything I tell you just to show off. In fact, I have considered getting in touch with you for a long time for another reason. To see if you might be interested in some information about my family. The bare facts. Nothing more than a simple genealogy. Now there has been another killing. Now, because you are an undersheriff, I will simply give you enough family information to help bring my great-grandson’s murderers to justice. Then I wish to be left alone to grieve the loss of my precious Victor.”

  Cecilia flushed. “Nothing you say or tell about our past will help Miss Albright figure out who killed my brother. We’re better off living apart as we have always done. I can’t understand why you would reverse a lifetime of silence and suddenly expect help from this lady, who is, after all, connected to the government.” She turned to me. “Please do not take what I have said personally.”

  I nodded. Graciously, I hoped. But in fact I found it quite unnerving to be discussed in third-person as though I were off in another room. I didn’t know if their doing so was a family or cultural trait. For that matter, they did not hesitate to make explanatory comments about each directly to me. Right now, they carried on their private conversation in English.

  “Cecilia, I have ways of deciding that you are not privy to, ways of knowing about people. It breaks my heart that I can never pass them on to you. The chain will be broken.”

  “And if in order to help, you have to risk having your ways misunderstood by an outsider? Even if explaining some of your ‘ways’ leads to avenging Victor, after these evil men are dealt with and people tire of the latest hunt, the blood sport, what then? Will they turn on you? Will there be another witch hunt?”

  “I do not care. Victor’s killers must be brought to justice.”

  My breath stopped. Killers, not killer. Why?

  The sorrow wedged between the two women was heartbreaking.

  Cecilia bit her lip and raised her eyes to me as though pleading for understanding. “I do not wish to be disrespectful by not exposing myself to great-grandmother’s ways. She knows this.” She patted the old woman’s hand. “I am Catholic. I keep the morning office and attend Mass weekly and I…”

  She was obviously distressed, as she grappled for a gentle explanation that would not imply undue criticism of her abuela.

  Francesca glanced at her with loving humor and shrugged. “She does not approve of me, you see. My devout Catholic great-granddaughter.”

  Mrs. Diaz had just confirmed the rumor that she knew ways forbidden to Christians. Through Keith, I knew enough about the church to know Cecilia meant it would be sacrilegious to acquire this old woman’s special knowledge. She did not want to be initiated into rituals that would encroach on her own religion and violate the first commandment. She would risk putting other gods before her God. This innocent gentle girl/woman was terrified of what her great-grandmother would have her learn. I understood immediately.

  Unbidden, Old Man Snyder, the well-witcher, crossed my mind.

  “How I acquired some of my knowledge has no bearing on any of this. I came to you because I know you are a just woman and I trust you not to mishandle information. I simply want you to find out who killed my…” Francesca Diaz teared up again and used a word I did not understand.

  “She means ‘beloved great-grandson.’” Cecilia put her arm around Francesca’s shoulder, then knelt before her and gently dabbed at the old woman’s eyes with the handkerchief. She tended to her own eyes before she sat back down.

  “I know things,” the old woman said. “Things that will help you do the job God has chosen you to do.”

  I strained to hear.

  “Language will not be a barrier,” said Cecilia. “When you hear our little exchanges, we are not trying to say things we don’t want you to hear. She converses in Spanish only with me because she feels she can express herself more precisely. We do not use the Tex-Mex blend that passes for Spanish here. She adheres to Old Spanish.”

  “Classical Castilian?”

  “Cecilia was the only one who bothered to learn my language.”

  “Great-grandmother is being too harsh, really. She is giving me undue praise.”

  Cecilia lowered her black eyelashes. With a sweet blush, she delicately apologized for Francesca’s favoritism toward her. “We all have certain places within our family and I cannot remember when I did not know that I was to care for great-grandmother.”

  Francesca nodded. “It was expected.”

  “We all loved her and cared for her, of course, but I was to be the main one. It is not the others’ fault. In time, most of the family moved away. Please do not interpret her comment as criticism of those who did not learn Castilian. It is not a useful language. Others simply chose to enrich their lives at universities or have contributed to our financial well-being.”

  Intrigued by this beautiful woman’s curiously formal language, the careful arrangement of words—the use of complete sentences—I felt as though I had stepped back into the 1800s. I blessed my mother’s insistence that Josie and I attend a finishing school, although we had behaved like little hellions bent on sabotaging every lesson. Rather than joining group sports as our parents had wished, Josie took fencing lessons and I became a crack shot.

  I straightened in my chair, and my legs eased into a ladylike arrangement. I nodded and beamed at them both. Cecilia was obviously the favored one. She occupied the place of honor. In our American tradition, she would be regarded as little more than an indentured servant. We had no comparable role. I knew just enough about historic Spanish culture to know that Cecilia was held in high esteem, indeed. Her days would be spent in service and scholarship. I did not detect an iota of resentment toward a life that another might have found stifling.

  Nevertheless, the Catholic Church would prohibit her from becoming the recipient of her great-grandmother’s ancient wisdom which probably had overtones of paganism. This had to be a grievous situation for them b
oth.

  “Would you care for tea?” I was falling into ways that had cost my parents a pretty penny, and I normally had little use for. We have a lovely formal tea set here at the historical society and drag it out for fundraising events.

  With any other women, this would have sounded ridiculous. Tea, indeed. As for visiting royalty. Then I glanced at Francesca’s hands again. I blushed to the roots of my hair. There was no way in hell those hands could manage to hold a cup and saucer.

  Cecilia quickly turned to her great-grandmother, whose eyes brightened and she nodded.

  Flustered, I rose and walked back and took the set from the cupboard. I went to the small sink in the revamped closet off the main room. I filled a pitcher with water, nuked it in the microwave, measured tea into the antique diffuser, poured hot water into the lovely old pot, and reentered the room. Cecilia received the first cup, dropped in a lump of sugar, and handed the saucer to Francesca, who received it with some arrangement of talons and bones I would not have thought possible. She even managed to grasp the handle, although it was achieved with a sideways twist of her index finger and thumb.

  This morning, this visit, was easily stacking up to be one of the strangest during my years at the historical society. My office had been visited by murderers, out-and-out lunatics, and men and women who bore such tragedy it broke my heart. But Francesca Diaz and Cecilia Diaz just might top them all.

  I wished they were from Carlton County instead of Roswell, so I could include their story in our county history books. But a separate booklet or permission to do an academic article about the Spanish on the plains would have been ideal. Now Francesca Diaz had clearly changed her mind about drawing attention to her family. This remarkable old woman said she could provide insight into a possible motivation behind her great-grandson’s murder. I would have to settle for that.

  No, “possible” motivation was my weasely word. She said she knew why, period.

  “I will need some basic information about your family, of course, for background.”

  She hesitated, and then nodded.

  I considered the number of gawkers in the courthouse, the people who would appear in my office the moment they left, eager to hear details about their visit. “Perhaps under the circumstances, it would be easier if I came to your house, Mrs. Diaz. And people will ask fewer questions if they believe I am there to work on a history project.”

  “Yes, I would prefer to have you come to my home. There are also things you might like to see on our property. You are very kind. Thank you so very much.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I want you to be the one,” Francesca said suddenly.

  “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, pull
ed 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?”