“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.
Cecilia opened the massive exterior door and waved me past a foyer into a living room. I’m not an authority on antiques, but I knew enough to place several of the heavy walnut tables and chairs in the eighteenth century. Other pieces had a rough-hewn look with damaged tops. They looked to have been cobbled together by an inexperienced workman who simply wanted to provide places to sit. There were other chairs with rigid leather backs that surely were Spanish Colonial. Fabrics were sunny combinations of yellow and marigold.
Pushed against a wall was a leather sectional that might have come straight from a discount furniture store. It had reclining levers on the side nearest me and faced a fifty-inch flat screen TV.
The interior of the house matched the curious period grouping of houses outside. Only the grounds showed unified order. Yet, the huge room was scrupulously tidy and the furniture grouped in such a way that there was a pleasing symmetry with each area a microcosm of different eras. Someone in this family had a surprising flair for design and was adept at integrating seemingly impossible elements. I suspected it was Cecilia.
Doña Francesca Diaz was perched on a high-backed chair. In front of her was a low table and an exquisite tea set—obviously top quality sterling—and plates of sandwiches and cookies.
“Mrs. Diaz, I’m in awe of your lovely grounds, your flowers. It’s beautiful.”
Francesca nodded. “It is one of my gifts.” She waved toward the chair opposite. “Please join me.”
I sat down.
“It has been a long time since someone has come to tea.”
Chapter Thirteen
Weighty silver spoons matched the tea set. Cecilia poured. We nibbled on cookies and fell back on Kansans’ favorite topic of conversation—the weather. Then Cecelia collected our cups and saucers and quickly whisked away the tray. She disappeared through swinging doors, but returned immediately.
“I am so sorry you are not here under happier circumstances than to discuss my great-grandson’s murder. When I read excerpts of stories in your column, I wished I had written about my family. Not for your books, but so my descendants would know.” Francesca glanced at Cecilia. “If I am ever blessed with descendants.”
The young woman’s lips trembled.
Francesca glanced at her hands. “When I still could write.”
“But you could record your thoughts.”
“I’m not good with technology,” Cecilia said. “And my cousin would be very uncomfortable asking great-grandmother questions.”
“But there’s someone here, surely. All these houses. Surely they are not empty.”
“Yes, empty,” Cecilia said.
“There used to be a lot of family here,” Francesca said heavily. “Now there is only myself and Cecilia and George’s family. He and Teresa have four children.”
I was dumbfounded.
“There is nothing for anyone to do here.” Cecilia said. “No way to make a living. George became a welder so he could stay.”
Francesca glanced at her sharply.
All this acreage and none of it being broken for crops? This land would be incredibly fertile. Of course there wouldn’t be a way to support a family on a farm that wasn’t raising crops. Of course everyone would have to leave. So that’s why the Diaz family had scattered across Kansas.
“Well, on to the reason for our visit here today.” I moved quickly from this loaded topic. “You said you have information that might have some bearing on Victor’s murder. I would be grateful to know anything you have to tell us.”
“His death has everything to do with my family’s history. My life. My work. It is not a simple thing.”
“Would you like me to record some of this? Even though you are not from Carlton County, I would love to hear what you have to say.”
In fact, if what she said had a direct bearing on Victor’s death, I really should get it on tape.
The smart thing to do would be to send this statement, however long, back to Frank Dimon. But he had ordered me not to do the smart thing. In fact, he had ordered me not to ask this woman any questions at all about her great-grandson. Leave that to the “experts.” The big boys. I was to proceed with collecting my “little stories.”
So I would collect her little story.
I held up my hand to stop either of them from speaking and retrieved my cassette tape recorder from my briefcase. I use this older technology for formal interviews to accommodate visitors to our historical society who don’t have access to digital methods. Needing formal permission, I showed it to Cecilia, then Doña Francesca. Following a rapid exchange of Spanish with her great-granddaughter, Francesca told me to proceed.
I pressed the record button and quickly stated my name and date, and that I was taping at the Diaz home with the consent of both Francesca and Cecilia Diaz. “Would you state your name please, Mrs. Diaz?”
She nodded and proudly said her name: “Doña Francesca Bianco Loisel Montoya.”
“And Diaz,” Cecilia prompted.
Francesca shrugged. “Diaz.”
Cecilia smiled. “It is not Spanish custom to tack on the husband’s surname. The proper way is still the lady’s first two given names, then the father’s surname, then the mother’s surname.”
“My great-granddaughter insists that I add Diaz.”
“It’s not important.” I smiled as the Little House on the Prairie came to mind again. I doubt Laura Ingalls Wilder had a Spanish adobe in mind.
“Would you like to start with topics of special interest to you, or would you prefer a chronological approach?”
The old woman sized me up as though evaluating my integrity. Perhaps she sensed I would much rather interrogate her as an officer of the law than interview her as a historian.
“I would like to start at the beginning,” she said slowly. “When my people first came here.” Then she turned expectantly to Cecilia and they quickly exchanged words in Castilian.
“Great-grandmother would also like to talk about her gifts.” Cecilia looked down at the hands, spread her fingers as though studying them, and directed her words toward her lap. “She believes you will understand how her gifts are commingled with the family’s history when she tells her story.”
It was eerie hearing Cecilia explaining this old woman’s words and thoughts in the annoying third-person style she had used at the historical society. And Francesca, in turn, continued to interpret her great-granddaughter to me in the same detached manner.
Francesca peered at me intently while Cecelia went on.
“I need you to understand that I cannot listen to this. I do not want to hear any of it. We have not always been treated well. Our family. People used to come to Great-grandmother because she is a healer. Very well-known, in fact.” She rose and kissed Francesca on the cheek. “I trust you will treat her well.” She left the room.
Francesca sighed. “Cecilia’s problem goes deeper than a refusal to master technology. She was truthful when she said she did not want to hear any of this. I have no one who will listen to me. Only Victor honored my memories.”
She shuddered. It was almost a sob. There was something painful—very painful—between these two women.
“Cecilia has always belonged to the church. But sh
e will never join a convent until I die, this dutiful, beautiful child. This lovely flower of God. Caring for me is her offering, her sacrifice. When I die, she will become the Bride of Christ.”
I said nothing, touched by this astute insight.
“By now, you’ve probably heard all the rumors.”
“That you know some…alternative medicine methods. Yes, I’ve heard.”
“What a delicate way of putting it. Yes, that’s true. And I’m sure you’ve heard what they call me. Names. Very cruel names.”
Ashamed of my fellow man, I could barely stand to look her in the eye. I nodded.
“Let us start at the beginning then,” She repeated her name. This time I felt a little prickling—a dim memory—like the lost words of a song. Something I had read about, heard about.
“My family owned vast acreage. It was a gift. Through marriage, our land was joined with other holdings. Then we bought more land. Our fine home still stands behind all the others. I suppose you noticed it when you came in. My workroom is there. It is where I am the happiest. It is where I do my compounding. It is my joy.”
“Your compounding. You have no family member who would like to learn these skills? No one you can teach?”
“No one.”
Sad that this special woman could not pass her knowledge along to a beloved apprentice, my mind raced. At least I could get her information down on paper. “We’ll talk about your work later. For now, just tell me a little bit about your family before your father’s time. When did they come to America?”
“We have always been here.”
Disappointed, I realized I would have to do a lot of research to fill in the blanks. No one has “always been here.” I had hoped she could supply accurate information about customs through talking about her family’s tradition. I had heard she was over one hundred, but she was obviously far younger. I guessed she was in her early eighties. But just to be on the safe side, I used one hundred as a starting point. That would put her birth date at 1913. Possibly her father would be around thirty when he came here. That would be about right for acquiring homestead land.
Hidden Heritage Page 11