“Well, do you think we should deputize more men? Or women? Women, too. We need more women.”
“That’s a Band-Aid. Dimon was right. We need a district law enforcement organization and every county needs to cooperate with the funding. Vote a mill levy to build a central jail and bring in new equipment and technology. Hell, right now we have to call in the KBI for practically everything.”
Obviously it wasn’t the right time to tell him I intended to resign. Stricken, I knew I would never do it and leave him and Sam in a mess. I would soldier on until I’d fixed everything. Until we found competent people. Then I would turn in my badge.
But a regional center wasn’t the answer. “Keith, it won’t fly. I can’t think of any county that will give up having its own law enforcement.”
“They have to. What we have now isn’t working out here.”
My mind raced. I didn’t want to argue with him when we were both on edge.
He gave me a quick look, then smiled. “You’re going to be the ideal sounding board, honey. You can probably think of every single objection people will raise, and we can work out answers in advance.”
“Well, I can think of one great big huge one right now. Someone is bound to point out that it’s our county that is having all the trouble. Their own county isn’t going to need some fancy fix and a bunch of foreigners poking around in their business.”
“I’ve asked Tom to hang around here for a while. Designing systems is his specialty and I want a complete plan all drawn up with every detail worked out in advance before I approach other counties. Which I plan to do one by one.”
“Sam will never go along with this.”
“Yes, he will. He’s being worn down, too. How’s this job affecting your work at the historical society?”
“It’s been disastrous. No point in kidding myself. I can’t follow up on everything like I used to. I keep running from one job to the next, and I’m way behind on collecting oral histories. I haven’t found the time to call a Bohemian woman who came in with some great artifacts. She’s trying to work up nerve to talk to me about something, but I won’t have time to listen when she does. No time for in-depth research. Unless it has something to do with my duties as an undersheriff.”
“Did you learn anything useful on your visit to the compound?”
“Nothing about Victor, except that Maria Diaz was right about Francesca Diaz hating her guts because Victor just worked at the feedyard instead of becoming a lawyer. That was very obvious. She’s a descendant of a proud old Spanish family and looks down on Mexicans.”
“That won’t do our investigation any good. Dimon is looking for information about Mexicans in this region.”
“I know. Victor was born here, just as Maria said. And lived in Roswell County all his life until he went to college, and then got married. That little house here in Carlton County is the first he’s ever owned.”
Keith pushed back from the table and stood. “I need to get to bed while I can still manage to climb the stairs.”
“Sit back down. I have something else to tell you.”
I dealt it down and dirty: I would be going through private records.
“And you agreed to this?” Wide-awake now he just stared at me. “Goddamn that man for putting you in this situation.”
“There’s not many good choices here. Sam won’t. And God knows you won’t either. So I have to. I’m choosing the lesser of two evils to prevent a lot of damage to a good friend.” I bit my lip and turned away. “Go to bed. Now. While you still have the energy to crawl under a sheet.”
I quickly scraped the plates and carried them to the dishwasher. When everything was tidy, I turned out the lights and slowly headed upstairs.
Keith had left the bathroom light on. I changed into an airy cotton sleep shirt and started brushing my teeth. He stirred.
“Did I wake you up?”
“I’m not asleep. Lottie, Dimon is right about one thing. I hate to give the son-of-a-bitch credit. But he is. If we don’t come up with a system on our own, some crazy politician is going to do it for us. Won’t that be a deal now?”
I finished in the bathroom, then climbed into the bed beside him. “Why can’t we just get by with part-time deputies and reserve deputies?”
“That’s what we’re doing now. If things keep happening in this county we’ll soon be a permanent feature on CNN.”
I moved closer and snuggled against his broad back.
“You’re trying to change the subject,” he growled, turning toward me.
“Yes.”
Chapter Fifteen
When I drove to the historical society the next morning, the cornfields on either side of the road didn’t look like they would provide enough grain for a Third World-family of three. Everyone believes the Earth can’t blow again out here, but Keith says it can and will if we keep on depleting the Ogallala aquifer. Our farm has only one irrigation well and it was drilled when the Fiene family thought the water supply was endless. Corn was a poor choice for dry land, and irrigated crops weren’t doing much better. Wheat was much heartier and made more sense. But not this year.
Usually I can take a more objective approach to the land, the crops, the ungodly heat, but this morning I dreaded the day like an old Depression-era wife forced to cope with stifling heat and seven kids in a three-room shack.
Taking my scattered brain firmly in hand, I bludgeoned it into submission and willed myself to straighten up.
Margaret was there when I arrived. Annoyed, I check my watch. Damn, damn, damn. I liked to be there first and get settled in. All coffeed up.
Faking good cheer, I complimented her on the quality of her newly rinsed red hair. I wasn’t in the mood to rack my brain for something else more accurate to say.
She beat me to it. “Thank God you’re here.”
“What?” My heart sank. What could possibly be going wrong this early in the morning?
“I got two phone calls from a George Perez asking for you. He says you plumb wore out Francesca Diaz with your visit. Talking about Victor’s death upset her. It was after midnight before they could get her settled down. I don’t understand Spanish, but I know when I’ve been cussed out. Crazy Mexicans. They’re all alike.”
“Margaret,” I snapped. “That’s enough. I don’t ever want to hear you refer to Mexicans as ‘crazy’ ever again.”
Besides, the Diaz family was extremely proud of their pure Spanish lineage and they didn’t like Mexicans much either. They had made that clear. I groped for the correct way to relay nuances of intra-ethnic prejudices, but it was too late.
Her lips quivered. She drew her skinny body as tall as she possibly could. “You won’t have to worry about hearing anything from me again. Not that you ever listen anyway. I know when I’m not wanted or appreciated. You can just do without my help, Lottie.”
She left, slamming the door behind her.
I gasped. She always had to be handled with kid gloves, but this morning I hadn’t taken the time. I fumed. Now what? The news would soon spread like wildfire that I was on some sort of rampage. That I was too uppity to work with anyone normal. That I was a power-hungry bitch.
A formal letter of apology to Margaret, the kind that took hours to compose would probably do the most good, but I simply could not, would not.
First things first. I reached for the phone and switched on the speaker, then decided to record the call. Just in case.
The woman who answered the phone was not Cecilia.
“This is Lottie Albright. Margaret said George called here at the historical society this morning. He was asking for me.”
“Yes, I’m his wife. Teresa. He wanted you to know he did not appreciate your upsetting Francesca.”
“That was not my intention. Believe me, I am so terribly, terribly sorry. I’ll write her a formal apology and if t
here’s any other thing that might help, I’ll be glad to do it.”
“If you have any brains at all, and I don’t think you do, although I understand you have a doctorate in history, I suggest you leave our family alone.”
My eyes stung with tears, then didn’t, because the tears trickled down my cheeks. “She’ll get the apology anyway,” I whispered. “Really, I would like to convey to your family how…”
She slammed down the phone. I stared blankly at the dead receiver I held in my hand. Way to go. Not even ten o’clock and I’d managed to tick off everyone I’d come in contact with. I went downstairs to use the bathroom and rinsed off my face, then went to the main floor and pushed through the heavy glass doors.
The buffalo grass courtyard was bone dry. I stepped off the sidewalk a little ways and pushed at a tuft with my toe. Little poofs of dust turned my loafer a dull gray. Gateway City had moved to a water-rationing plan, but it wasn’t enough to keep lawns and gardens alive. Farmers were shipping cattle they didn’t want to sell because they had to haul water. The drought was doing everyone in.
I went back inside, trudged back upstairs and wistfully eyed a set of stencils. When I was beset with troubles, routine donkey work settled me down, but I was so behind with my real work, that I didn’t dare.
I picked up a stack of stories and settled down to editing. At noon, the thought of food was a blessed relief, even if I wasn’t ready to face the questions of the lunch crowd at Maybelline’s. I wished we had a drive-in where I could read while I ate and enjoy a little privacy in my air-conditioned car.
But peace was out of the question. Just as I was turning the lock, Jane Jordan trudged up the steps. Groaning inwardly, but determined not to blow an encounter with another human like I had the other two today, I smiled and stepped forward to greet her.
“Hi,” she said. “I hope I’m not here at a bad time.”
I swallowed. “I’m just unlocking. I took an early lunch.” Surely if I didn’t go to hell for my whoppers, this teensy little lie wouldn’t send me plunging. “Come right on in.”
“I can’t stay. I have a really short lunch hour. Since they cut my days back to four, we work more hours while we’re there. But I wanted to give you our family’s story. Since I’m now an official volunteer here, I thought we should make a special effort to contribute. We sort of all wrote it together. And I wanted to give you this, too.”
“An official volunteer! That’s wonderful.” It also sounded just like Margaret’s sense of puff-uppery.
“Oh, yes. Some of us have special status with designated assignments instead of bouncing from task to task.”
“And yours is?”
“I return artifacts to members of the community who hoped their…their things might find a place here. Margaret says it’s very important to get this done quickly and tactfully before the donor thinks their contribution has been accepted.”
The lowest job on the totem pole and I’ll bet Margaret didn’t even blush when she gave it to Jane.
I turned away to hide my smile.
She followed me inside and handed me the papers, along with a rolled-up poster. I unrolled it and stared at the printing. It was an early recruiting poster for the Ku Klux Klan.
“Thank you so very much,” I said carefully. Then added, “This has a great deal of historical significance.”
“We were never, never members. No one in our family ever was. But my grandfather, I remember, did not like Catholics.”
“You don’t have to explain.” In fact, this poster was perfectly preserved and came from a time when a lot of the country was violently anti-Catholic. A time when Protestant Americans were convinced that Catholics were slaves to the Pope with arms hidden in their basements and at a signal would rise up and take over the country.
“According to Grandpa, we were accused of things we didn’t do.” She lowered her eyes and nervously twisted her hands on the handle of her purse. “My grandfather said that poster had been rolled up and stuck in our mailbox. It wasn’t his. He may have despised Catholics, but he was not a member of the Klan. He wanted me to throw it away, but I didn’t.”
There was more to Jane Jordan’s story. I could sense it. Much more would come out on another day. She was working up to it.
“We would never ever stop someone from following their own religious beliefs. Freedom to believe—or not—was why the family came to America in the first place.”
“Thank you. It’s generous of you to bring this in. I’ll start on your stories right away.”
“I want it out of our house. I don’t want my grandfather to know I kept it. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw a historical document away.”
She checked her watch, then gave me a paper sack. “These are samples of our favorite foods. I see you have a microwave, but kolaches can be hot or cold.”
Leave, leave, leave. Salvation. Food. Now I didn’t have to risk meeting people I knew at the café.
“I’ll run on.” She turned at the doorway. “Are you all right? You look a little peaked.”
“I’m fine. Just fine. It’s been a long week, that’s all.”
She waved goodbye and I gratefully headed to the microwave. The aroma was heavenly.
Just fine! I was sleep-deprived, starving, and guilt-ridden over having to coerce a friend into showing me his employee records.
I carried the plate to my desk and ate while I read her story. As I had suspected, this family was part of the Czech Free Thinkers movement. They had left Europe to escape the tyranny of the Catholic Church and fled to America where they were free to believe or not to believe. My own great-great-grandfather had been a Skocal, part of a fraternity of elite athletes dedicated to building a sound mind in a sound body.
Jane wrote about the family’s great pride in the men’s ability to master complicated gymnastics. Proud of becoming Americans, there was no attempt to resist assimilation. The family obeyed the laws and became exemplary citizens. With this came fierce vigilant opposition to any group that tried to control their minds. Their God was reason.
When I’m overly tired, I’m overwhelmed by a sentimental attachment to America’s past. And today was one of those times. Tearfully appreciative of the richness of our country’s heritage, I envisioned a vast tapestry woven with the many threads of our various ethnic groups.
Hurrying to my notepad, I started jotting down concrete ideas for this sudden vision that had come out of nowhere. Could it be done on a countywide basis? Was it a good idea? Could various groups design a needlework project that would encompass the whole? Probably not. They wouldn’t agree on a master designer. Yet it was a fresh idea and lately I’d been worried that I would never again have an original idea. But there would be problems, organizing such a large needlework project.
Not now. I turned off my cell phone then reached for the romance novel one of the volunteers had left behind.
It took my mind off murder and mayhem for perhaps seven minutes.
Chapter Sixteen
Early the next morning, I started on the trip to the feedyard determined to concentrate on the work ahead. I would go through the employee records as quickly as possible, dump the data on Frank Dimon, and then concentrate on finding my replacement as undersheriff.
As I drove, my mind strayed from the pending search to the lethal temperatures across the country. Every TV station reported heat-related deaths on their nightly news broadcast. Norton, a town near us, shattered records with a temperature of one hundred eighteen.
We had gone two winters now without snow. Spring was like July and now there were Death Valley conditions. The patchwork of limp cornstalks would topple in the first high wind. The shatter-prone leaves rolled inward like ruined parchment scrolls.
The whole country would soon understand why the price of this commodity mattered. Corn fueled the entire fast-food industry. Everything fr
om hamburgers to soda pop to doughnuts contained corn or corn syrup. Buns, bread, even French fries, tires, and crayons contained corn. Food prices would soon soar. Buyers of Ethanol-powered vehicles were screwed because their fuel prices depended on the production of corn. This year’s crop was supposed to be the largest in the nation’s history.
God had other plans.
Keith was irritable and morose. He was considering selling his herd of cattle, but everyone else was doing it too, so the prices were down. Even if there had been pasture grass, livestock lacked the energy to eat it.
I was jittery over my husband’s uncertainty. He didn’t know what to do. Always superbly confident, he didn’t know what to do with the land. All the other farmers in Carlton County felt the same way. They were afraid plowing under the failed wheat crop would risk creating dust bowl conditions. Not doing so would cause erosion if it rained. On the other hand, if they did plow, and the rains didn’t come, topsoil might end up on the East Coast.
“It can blow here again,” Keith had said this morning. “People think it can’t, but it can.”
***
Dwayne knew I was coming and that I wanted to talk to him, but he didn’t know why. I breezed in as if it were an ordinary visit and waited until he got off the phone.
“Please tell me you’re bringing me good news. Closing your investigation, for instance, because you’ve found Victor’s murderer.”
“No, starting another investigation, actually. Keeping one from happening might be a better explanation.”
He ran his hand through his bright silver hair. A lock fell across his forehead. He waited.
“I’m here to keep OSHA away from this feedyard.” My stomach soured. I tried to play like it was a good deed. Dimon would make good on this threat.
He did not speak and shot me a hard cold look and examined his clenched hands.
Hidden Heritage Page 13