Hidden Heritage

by Charlotte Hinger

  I would find someone familiar with Spanish and check what Cecilia had told me about the order of Spanish names, then verify the names of Francesca’s father and mother. Instead of going back to the family’s arrival in Kansas perhaps I would have better luck with asking about her marriage and children.

  “Your sons? Daughters? Where are Victor and Cecilia’s parents? Have you other grandchildren?”

  “They are all gone. Only Cecilia and George and his family are still on the land. Victor lived here. He grew up here. After he was married, that woman made him leave. That foolish, evil woman.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “My son died in Korea, and his wife died of a broken heart. My only daughter died accidentally. I doubt if most of my grandchildren and great-grandchildren have ever heard of me. So I have no one who wishes to learn. Cecilia won’t listen to me. George is not intelligent enough to care about what I could give him. He simply tolerates me because he thinks that is the right thing to do. So.”

  “I’ll listen.” And I decided, just like that. My half-formed plan jelled. I would talk her into it.

  “Mrs. Diaz.”

  “I would like you to call me Francesca.”

  I nodded my appreciation of this movement into a more personal relationship. “I would like you to think something over. Please tell me about your work. I want to get everything down on paper.”

  “You would not be the right person.”

  “I would respect your information. If you don’t let me do this, your knowledge will die with you.”

  “You don’t have time to be my apprentice.”

  “I know that. I would simply approach this from an objective standpoint. Much of what we know about Apache history is because a terrific historian, Eve Ball, talked the great war chief Victorio into telling her about his people. She argued that if he did not, his side of things would be written by military historians. It would be a lie. You will die surrounded by lies. Please don’t let that happen.”

  “We could not prevent the lies.”

  I tried a different approach. This woman dying without passing along her wealth of information about healing would be a tragic loss. “Perhaps not. But if someone like me, who cares, doesn’t get it down—no one will.”

  “No one,” she said thoughtfully.

  “I’m asking to record everything you know about plants and herbs and healing methods that are no longer used. It will be of incalculable value to botanists in addition to historians. From a medical standpoint alone, you might have information that is unique.”

  “I know far more about medicine than is known today.”

  She didn’t sound haughty. Simply matter of fact.

  “I will have to think about this.” She smoothed the folds of her skirt. “You could not stand back and be merely objective. You would have to participate in certain rituals and ingest some herbs in order to fully understand their benefits.”

  “I would be very willing.”

  “Perhaps,” her eyes softened, “but it would put your soul in danger.”

  I suppressed a smile. “I do not share Cecilia’s religiosity. I would not be hampered by her prohibitions.”

  “Ah, but that’s the point. Her beliefs would protect her. And your half-formed ones make you very vulnerable. Cecilia should be the one,” she whispered. “But her soul belongs to another.”

  “I’ll be just fine.”

  “Actually, you are quite religious, Lottie Albright. You are confusing religion and piety. As I said, I read the Gateway Gazette. Did you not spend a great deal of time and energy organizing Saint Helena? A church of your own denomination? Episcopal, I believe?

  “Yes, but…”

  “And did you not write a rather spirited and sophisticated defense of Father Talesbury’s right to house little boys from Africa?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “You act. Cecelia prays. I’m simply warning you that you are innocent about the forces we will be tapping.”

  I looked at the floor. Rituals, I could handle, but strange herbs sounded a little dicey.

  “Your problem is not religion. Your soul will be released. Your problem is you don’t want to lose control.”

  Unnerved, I looked away from her intense amused gaze. Josie said the same thing. Often.

  “We have not discussed Victor’s death, what did you want to tell me?”

  She blinked at my abrupt change of subject. “He was going to file a lawsuit. On behalf of the family. Against the United States government. We have been cheated out of a great deal of land. That’s the gist of all you really need to know.”

  “Are you talking about more land than is here in Roswell County?”

  “Much more.”

  Cecilia entered the room. “Please, excuse me. I don’t want Great-grandmother to get too tired.”

  Francesca Diaz looked fresh, unfazed. I was the one who needed a break.

  “Certainly. I’ll be going then.” I rose. “Do think about letting me get your wonderful medical knowledge down on paper.” I handed Francesca my card.

  “I will take my rest,” Francesca said. “Before Teresa brings the children over to see me.”

  “George’s wife teaches school. Their children are in after-care until she finishes grading her papers.” Cecilia explained.

  Francesca said goodbye, then walked down a long corridor.

  “I would love to show you the courtyard before you leave,” Cecelia said. “Besides, there are other things you should know.” She led me to a door, which opened onto a lovely rectangle of roses and day lilies. There were beautiful jewel-colored annuals: purple petunias, alyssum, and scarlet zinnias edged with white baby’s breath. Stone benches faced a beautiful fountain in the middle of a gazing pool. We sat on the benches.

  “About Victor. About my brother.”

  “We don’t have to talk about this right now, Cecilia. I know this has been very difficult for you. To be honest, the KBI would prefer that I leave most of the work to them.”

  “I would rather tell you some things right now than some stranger in Topeka later.”

  I waited.

  “He was the best of us all. A brilliant student. Great-grandmother had such hopes for him. He was going on to law school. Then he met that woman.”

  What was wrong with “that woman?” By all accounts, Maria Diaz was a wonderful person.

  “Francesca was furious. Just furious. She wanted Victor to marry his own kind of people.”

  She caught the look on my face. “Of pure Spanish lineage, not Mexican. That was one of the reasons.”

  I sat very still, not wanting to stop this curious flow of information. Spaniards didn’t like Mexicans?

  “Then Maria shattered Francesca’s dream of this family producing a fine lawyer. Her dream that she would achieve justice in her own lifetime. Finally.”

  What kind of justice was she waiting for? What was motivating this old woman? “Francesca did mention that Victor was going to file a lawsuit.”

  “Ah, the infamous family lawsuit,” she said bitterly. “Oh, to have the money this family has spent on that lawsuit. Our elusive hidden heritage.”

  She pinched a dead blossom off a rose bush. “The family has always lived here. Victor should have been right here with us. Not doing manual labor at a feedyard. He should have had the prestige that comes with being a lawyer. He should not have been working in heat and dust.” Her tears dried by some internal heat. She could not keep the bitterness from her voice.

  “We are all supposed to live here. We must—to be included in Great-grandmother’s inheritance. But, that is not why I stay. I love it here. I love her so. But previous generations could not make her understand that if we did not farm this land they could not sustain a decent lifestyle. This should be a place of joy teeming with life and children.

&
nbsp; A pretty yellow butterfly landed on one of the zinnias. It had been a long time since I had seen a butterfly in this part of Kansas which teemed with pesticides. They were safe here in this green Heaven.

  “When Great-grandmother dies, I will devote my life to God. There is a convent in Atchison.”

  Francesca was right. This gentle woman would choose to continue a solitary life.

  “Maria would only stay here for one year. She felt imprisoned. She and Great-grandmother didn’t get along.” She paused and looked ashamed. A look I knew all too well. The impulse to confide vying with guilt over talking about family matters. “Over the years, some of the family wanted to sell part of the land. We needed the money to keep from going into debt, and so we would be provided for.”

  “Did Victor want to sell some of the land?”

  “Yes, at first. Enough to make us comfortable. Only a section. But Great-grandmother wouldn’t budge. So Maria talked Victor into going back to school and getting a degree in mathematics with a minor in Ag Economics.”

  “So he had two degrees?”

  “Yes, English and math. But no law degree. And then Maria wanted to buy that pitiful little house just to get away from here. Have you seen it?”

  “Yes, I went there after Victor died.”

  “Can you imagine anyone wanting to live there instead of here? It broke Great-grandmother’s heart.”

  I said nothing.

  “So whenever Victor visited Great-grandmother, he was alone. Maria had the good sense to stay home.”

  I heard a car.

  “George is coming home from work. In a couple of hours Teresa and the children will be here.”

  I rose. “It’s time to call it a day anyway.”

  She hesitated. “Perhaps that is best. George is a welder and has a good job, so it’s not that he can’t stand to be around people. But he will regard you as an intruder. Thank God Great-grandmother has him. He would never ever part with a single acre of our property. But you need to know—he’s very protective of Francesca. He won’t appreciate your asking questions. In fact, he doesn’t like strangers coming here at all.”

  I said goodbye and went out to my car. George had already parked and was coming to look me over. He brushed the brim of his hat, keeping things courteous. He was tired. Dirty. He wore grimy gloves. He gave me a hard look. “No need for us to shake hands. I don’t think you would enjoy touching me anyway.”

  He looked like a man who just wanted to be left alone in his Eden after a hard day’s work. Alone to revel in his green, green grass and his flowers. I understood.

  “I’m Lottie Albright. I’m visiting Mrs. Diaz. Recording some of her memories.”

  “George Perez,” he said, “and I know who you are.”

  His eyes were blue. I was expecting black. His hair was brown and curly. I was expecting coal. He was slim and had sideburns and wore a western shirt.

  He stepped back, and I left.

  There was no doubt in my mind that I had just met the man who had delivered the warning to Josie at the fair.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dimon called the next morning and asked Sam and me to make “a quick trip to Topeka,” so he could outline some work he had in mind for us. We were on a conference call and I knew from the silence on Sam’s end that he expected me to come up with a civilized refusal.

  There is no such thing as “quick trip” across Kansas.

  “We can’t, Frank. Keith is home working, and either Sam or I have to be on duty here. Sorry.”

  “I’m not comfortable discussing the murder of Victor Diaz over the phone.”

  Yeah, well, murder never was very comfortable. I let him break the prolonged silence.

  “Can you meet me in Hays? I’ll come to our branch office there where we’ll have some privacy. I need to talk to both of you in person.”

  “Okay. I can do that. Margaret is off today, but I know a board member who won’t mind coming in.”

  ***

  The branch office room was bare-bones simple, with a single desk for Frank to sit behind. A barrier between us. Smart man.

  He put his legal pad on the table and closed the door. He didn’t waste time with any small talk. “We want you to inspect all the employee records of the Carlton County Feedyard for the past three years and give us the names, dates, and social security numbers of everyone hired. Please jot down their native country. We also want copies of their W-4s.”

  “That’s a bunch of bullshit,” Sam said. “That’s a clear violation of privacy laws.”

  “There’s no need to do this, Frank. I got you the duty roster and you shouldn’t need anything beyond that.”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, anyway,” Sam added.

  “I saw Francesca Diaz yesterday and she mentioned…”

  “I specifically asked you not to question that family.” Dimon’s ear’s reddened. “You know that.”

  “But…”

  “No buts about it. We are not going off on some wild goose chase. The fastest and most efficient way to solve this case is to look for patterns at that feedyard and then deviations from that pattern. We have trained mathematicians who can do this.”

  “Looking through employment records isn’t legal, Frank. Not without a subpoena for specific records.”

  “In these troubled times it’s necessary to wink at the means and stay focused on the end.”

  Pius as a frontier preacher, he spoke in sound bites that he might have memorized from a government memo.

  “Ah, the post-9/11 card. Homeland security and all that.” Sam couldn’t quash his hostile tone. Worse, I knew he didn’t want to.

  “Looking through those records isn’t illegal if Dwayne gives you permission to look through them.”

  “Not true,” Sam said. “He can only give permission to look through records that don’t involve his employees.”

  “Sam’s right. Plus, Weston’s ethics are top notch and he’s nobody’s fool. Do you honestly believe he would let us scrutinize every last detail about the people who work for him? People who trust him? What reason could we possibly give him?” Did this idiot think I was going to spy on a friend?

  “We think he would do it in a heartbeat if it would ward off an OSHA inspection.”

  Occupational and Safety Health Administration. An inspection by this agency of the Department of Labor was often triggered by complaints from employees. Even companies with pristine practices quavered at the thought. “Dwayne has nothing to hide.”

  “Exactly. But it will worry him anyway. Tell him you can go to OSHA on your own and persuade them there is no need to waste time and personnel looking into allegations from one disgruntled employee.”

  “He’ll want to know who it was.”

  “No he won’t. He won’t even ask. Trust me, he will come up with the name of a disgruntled employee at once. In fact, his own mind will supply a half dozen.”

  “He’ll insist on the name.”

  “Not if you tell him that going after whistle-blowers is against the law.”

  “And you honestly believe these records will lead you to Victor Diaz’s murderer?”

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps isn’t good enough.”

  “We need to approach this in a scientific manner. As to the inspection. I can make it happen, Lottie. I can see to it that OSHA descends on that feedyard like a swarm of locusts. And they will find something. I can make that happen, too.”

  I touched my fingers to the hollow of my throat to cover the quick leap of my furious heart.

  Then he looked down at his hands splayed on the desk as though he were ashamed and would not make eye contact. Where were his orders coming from? Who was pulling his strings?

  It didn’t matter why this man was being pressured. I wasn’t going t
o go there with him. “I’ll do this one thing, Frank, because I don’t want Dwayne dragged through an OSHA inspection.”

  He said nothing. Just cleared his throat.

  “I won’t do it,” Sam said “I’m going out to the car. I want no part of this.”

  I waited until I was sure he was outside before I let Dimon have it.

  “Let’s get something straight. Don’t think I’m going to sit still and let you diss Sam. And I’m a historian, remember? I don’t need this job. After we find this killer, I’m going to find that ivory tower everyone seems to think historians occupy. And then I’m going to quit law enforcement, including being an undersheriff. I hope to hell I never have to talk to you again.”

  I slammed out of the office. The man was making me into a liar, a half-liar, a sneak, a betrayer of friends, and the kind of person I despised. When I told Keith about this he would raise seven kinds of hell. And of course Josie would blow sky-high too. She guarded her patients’ records like they were Holy Writ.

  ***

  Keith drove in about an hour after I reached the house. He had spent the day at a farm committee meeting. His two border collies bounded out to meet him and I was close on their heels. He reached down and hugged me close. “No place like home,” he said and I knew he meant it.

  Arm in arm, we walked into the kitchen and I gave him one of his home brews, then flew around to panfry a steak and microwave a potato. I figured he wouldn’t stay awake long, and I needed to get some food down him. He looked exhausted, despite his insistence that he was doing just fine.

  He ate in silence, accepted a piece of cherry pie, then asked me to sit down. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Now? Can’t it wait until morning? You don’t look like you can stay awake another minute.”

  “No, tonight. Let’s talk tonight. I’ve thought about this for the last couple of days and we keep putting it off.”

  Alarmed by his serious tone, I pulled out a chair.

  “Dimon’s right, Lottie. We are both being run ragged. So is Sam.”

  Please don’t make me think about that problem right now. I stared at the dregs in my coffee cup, then at the deepening lines in my husband’s face. I shuddered. I’m a fixer. Josie says so. Finding Victor’s killer wouldn’t be the end of it. I wouldn’t be able to quit law enforcement until I fixed everything.