Zia Summer, Rio Grande Fall, Shaman Winter, and Jemez Spring

by Rudolfo Anaya

“Frank fired you? You told the police that Mrs. Dominic fired you.”

  “No, I never did. He fired me. Five years taking care of his place, and he fired me just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “Why?” Sonny asked. The man was frightened and cautious, but he clearly had something he wanted to unburden.

  “You really want to help Mrs. Dominic?” Leroy Brown asked solemnly.

  “Yes.”

  “She was a fine woman. Treated me like a regular man. Black and brown didn’t mean nothing to her. She helped people all her life. Then her brother start coming ’round—”

  “Turco?”

  “Yeah, Turco. You want to know about drugs, you ask for Turco. He should’ve stayed away.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Money. That’s all them boys ever want, money. Devil made money for them to play. I’ve been a hard worker all my life, Mr. Baca. Worked with these two hands.” He held up a pair of rough, calloused hands. “But those boys want easy money. Easy money come from drugs.”

  “Who else came to see her?”

  “A lot of people came, they had a lot of parties.” Leroy Brown rubbed his chin. “But I know what you’re askin’. I read the paper. It was devil’s work. It was the women.”

  “Women?”

  “Yes. When the women come, Mrs. Dominic gave me the afternoon off. Next day I come to work, she’d be a different woman. Sad. Like she’s in another world. You ask Veronica.”

  “The housekeeper?”

  “Housekeeper? That woman never picked up a broom in her life.”

  “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. Want to know the truth? I’m glad Mr. Frank fired me. That house was full of evil.”

  “Who else came? During these past few months? Did a Japanese man come?”

  “You mean the big shot, Mr. Morino?”

  “Are you sure it was Morino?”

  “I told you, I read the papers,” Leroy Brown replied. “The man is in the papers. Gonna build a computer plant, he says. He and Mr. Dominic talked. Right there on the patio, and I was minding my business, but I could hear. Didn’t like each other. No love lost, I say. Then the Japanese man starts comin’ back to visit Mrs. Dominic. It ain’t for me to say what went on, but Mrs. Dominic was a lonely woman. You know, when Mr. Morino came around, she smiled, she was happy—”

  He was interrupted by the squeals of a police squad car careening around the corner, followed by a second and a third. They came screeching to a stop around Sonny’s truck, lights flashing. Leroy Brown took one look and bolted. Sonny cursed under his breath as two cops ran past him, crashing through the screen door as they chased Leroy Brown. The chase didn’t last long. The cops had also come through the alley and were waiting at the back door when Leroy Brown went flying out. He was in handcuffs in seconds.

  “Sonny!” Chief Garcia shouted, lumbering up to the door. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “What’s going on?” Sonny asked.

  “I got me a prime suspect. What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Two cops dragged Leroy Brown out the front door.

  “Read him his rights,” the chief said. Leroy Brown stood panting, sweating, his eyes on Sonny.

  “You turned me in!” he gasped. “You said you wanted to help!”

  “I didn’t turn you in.” Sonny shook his head. He turned to the chief. “What’s the charge?”

  “Taking him in for the murder of Gloria Dominic,” the chief answered as two television vans came racing around the corner. “Here comes the fucking press. Take his ass in.”

  The cops hauled a shaken Leroy Brown away. The neighbors who had gathered watched stoically, whispering to each other.

  “He didn’t kill Gloria!” Sonny protested.

  The chief stuck his face in Sonny’s and glared at him. “Who in the hell are you? An expert? The man was fired by Gloria. She told him to stay off the premises. The tire tracks we found in the ditch road in back of Dominic’s place belong to his truck! And there’s jewelry missing, a diamond necklace, Frank says.”

  Sonny groaned. How stupid did Garcia think he was? This was no disgruntled employee revenge or a petty theft gone awry. Anyway, one man couldn’t pull off the draining of the blood ceremony alone. But Garcia was under pressure to make an arrest, like Howard said, because if a suspect is caught, it gets the story off the front page of the local papers.

  “And you believe Frank?”

  “Yeah.” The chief smiled with satisfaction, then bowed slightly at Rita as she came up. “Nice to see you, Rita. I’ll bring my wife by for that carne adovada you serve. Best in the city.” He turned to Sonny. “I don’t know what you were doing here, but if you had blown this arrest, I would’ve hauled your ass in jail and thrown the key away! Quit playing detective,” he growled and motioned to the lieutenant who stood nearby. Together they walked to the chief’s car and sped away, the siren blasting a warning wail for the barrio.

  “Damn!” Sonny exclaimed. Rita took his arm. A policewoman motioned for them to move on. The cops were cordoning off Leroy Brown’s truck and home.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Sonny said angrily, but he was stopped by a television reporter.

  “Mr. Baca? Francine Hunter, TV Four. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Sonny looked into the microphone the young, disheveled reporter had stuck in front of his face and shook his head. “I don’t know anything.”

  “How did you know Mr. Brown was involved?”

  “I was looking for someone to mow my lawn,” Sonny answered with irritation.

  He opened the door for Rita; Francine Hunter, followed by a stumbling cameraman, wasn’t dissuaded. “We understand that Mr. Brown was fired by Mrs. Dominic because she feared for her safety. Is that true?”

  “Ask the chief,” Sonny replied, jumping into his truck and slamming the door shut, and even though the inside was hot as an oven, he rolled up the window. He looked at Rita. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. But is he? What’s going to happen?”

  “They’ll book him, but goddamnit! Garcia knows he doesn’t have a case! They made the arrest to get the press off their tails.”

  “He doesn’t look like a murderer.”

  “A murderer never does,” Sonny said.

  “So what do you think?”

  “Akira Morino,” he whispered. “Akira Morino could buy the state of New Mexico and fly to Vegas to play high-stakes baccarat all in one day.”

  “Mr. Baca.” The reporter tapped on the window. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”

  “They don’t know when to quit.” Sonny grimaced and started his truck.

  “Garcia must know about the insurance policy?”

  “Yeah, but he’s not really looking for evidence to connect his future boss to murder. I need to talk to Morino.… But first Veronica.”

  “The housekeeper?”

  “I got to Leroy Brown too late. Don’t want to make the same mistake twice. I’ll drop you off.”

  “Yes, I’ve got to make tomorrow’s carne adovada. You are chasing danger. Ten cuidado,” she said.

  He dropped Rita off and headed for Veronica’s, which was only a few miles from Dominic’s, but in a poorer section of the valley. Here the houses were old, frame stucco or simple adobes. Old rosebushes, rosas de Castilla, hollyhocks, clumps of iris, small gardens with tomato and chile plants dotted front yards. The backyards contained an apple tree or two, room for the family’s late-model car, perhaps a pen where a horse or sheep were kept.

  Veronica’s house was especially run-down. It was one of the few two-stories in the neighborhood, and it stood by itself at the end of a dead-end street. Beyond the house lay the thick bosque of the irrigation canal, a young cottonwood forest full of river willows and Russian olives.

  Sonny got off the truck and sniffed the air. An animal smell he couldn’t identify touched his nostrils. A lot of people here kept chicke
ns or horses in their backyards, but this wasn’t the farm smell of cows or horses. It was something else.

  He walked to the door and knocked. No dogs barked. He knocked again and waited a long time until the window curtains parted and a shadow appeared.

  “Hello!” Sonny called. “Anyone home?”

  After a while the door opened and a fat woman appeared. She was dressed in black. A large crystal dangled from a gold chain around her neck. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyebrows were clearly outlined, her lips red.

  “What do you want?” she asked coldly.

  “I’m looking for Veronica Worthy.”

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “I’m Sonny Baca.” He held out his hand, but Veronica didn’t acknowledge it. “I’m here because of Gloria Dominic. She was my cousin.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” Veronica asked, the irritation showing.

  “You worked for them, didn’t you? I need information—”

  “What kind?”

  “May I come in?” Sonny asked. He heard women’s voices drifting from some other room in the house.

  “We’re busy, Mr. Baca. What is it you want?”

  “I need to know who visited Gloria before she was murdered. Who she called?”

  Veronica shook her head. “I was not her secretary. It wasn’t my business to know who she saw and called.” She paused and her voice softened. “I don’t mean to be rude.… It was a tragedy. I still can’t believe it. We are mourning her today.” She gestured behind her. “Mr. Dominic would not have allowed us at the funeral mass—”

  “Why?”

  “He is a very jealous man. You ask who came to see Mrs. Dominic? No one. She was cut off from her friends. Not even her mother visited her. She had to go to her mother’s home to see her. You never came, not since I’ve been there.”

  It was true, Sonny thought. Frank Dominic’s attitude had also kept him away. Perhaps the love he still had for Gloria also kept him at a distance.

  “How about Mr. Morino?”

  “He was the exception.”

  “Why?”

  Veronica hesitated. “Let’s say he was special.”

  “How special?”

  “That’s not for me to say.”

  “How long did you work for Gloria?”

  “Only these past few months. She came to me with a problem. She thought she had cancer—”

  “Cancer?”

  “Of course it wasn’t cancer. She was haunted by nightmares from the past. I cured her.” She gestured again behind her. “We cured her.”

  “And you went to work for her every day?”

  “She couldn’t be alone at night. I would stay with her.”

  “And Mr. Dominic?”

  “He was always gone. Campaign parties, he said. But everyone knows there were other women.…”

  “When did you last see Gloria?”

  “A week ago. Mr. Dominic fired me and the gardener. Just like that. He didn’t want anyone around his wife—then she’s dead. You figure that out.”

  “But Mr. Morino could see her.”

  “Mrs. Dominic insisted. Oh, she was strong when she needed to be. I heard their arguments. She would continue seeing Mr. Morino, she insisted. And there wasn’t a damn thing Mr. Dominic could do about it. Maybe that’s why he—”

  She stopped and Sonny waited, but she didn’t pursue the thought.

  “I minded my business. I only tried to help her. When she saw Mr. Morino, she was happy. That’s all I know. Now if you’ll excuse me. We are mourning her. She was good to us.”

  She closed the door.

  Sonny walked back to the truck and sat. The strong odor he had smelled when he arrived filled the air. He shivered. Spooky place, he thought. Spooky woman.

  13

  In the morning Sonny called Morino’s office and tried to set up a meeting, but Morino’s secretary put him off. Mr. Morino was a busy man, and just who was Sonny Baca? What was his business with Mr. Morino?

  No appointment. He tried Tamara, in hopes she could make a connection for him, but she wasn’t answering her phone.

  Ruth called from the library. She had been gathering information from the Japanese news media and the Tokyo stock exchange, detailing Morino’s rise to the top of one of the biggest computer companies in Japan. The information gathered from the Tokyo Stock Exchange and faxed to Ruth’s desk at the Albuquerque library shaped the profile of an adventurous Japanese entrepreneur. She read parts of them to Sonny over the phone.

  In the eighties the young Morino had made a fortune in banking, then diversified into computers and liquid-crystal display panels. With Morino at the helm, the company sent its tentacles around the world and knocked many American companies out of the competition. He was married, two children. Faxed newspaper clippings from Japan showed only one family picture, but in his worldwide travels as point man of his company, the other photos always showed Morino with an attractive woman at his side.

  A frustrated Sonny decided it was time to head up into the Sandia Mountains and check out the cattle mutilations and Raven’s place. He had let it go too long. The whole thing was growing as stale as three-day-old tortillas.

  So he cruised east on I-40 through Tijeras Canyon with Juan Arriaga’s Symphony in D blasting on his cassette player. He wished Rita was with him, but she had lost a cook at the restaurant and needed to fill in.

  I-40 cut through the Sandias. Beyond lay the wide Estancia Valley, the llano of the eagle and the nopal, a wide expanse of land and sky. Mexican symbols repeat themselves here, Sonny thought, but the Estancia Valley was no Valley of Mexico. Perhaps just as well. New Mexico didn’t need Mexico City’s overpopulation and smog pollution.

  As he drove, he poured hot coffee from a thermos and munched on a cold tortilla. He hadn’t slept. He had spent the night tossing in and out of nightmares in which the sun rose like a gigantic Zia sign, then there was a rain of dark feathers. Crows darkened the sky, swooping in to attack Sonny. In the middle of the turbulence, he reached out and touched Gloria’s stomach, and she turned to smile at him. He awakened with a cry, drenched in sweat.

  The village of La Cueva lay nestled in the juniper- and piñon-dotted hills on the eastern slope of the mountains. It was one of the last old Hispano villages left intact. Many of the other villages had become ghost towns, or like Cerrillos, they had been converted into artists’ colonies, or suburban subdivisions, as Anglos who worked in Alburquerque discovered they could live in the rugged privacy of the east side of the mountain and still commute easily to the city.

  An old Nuevo Mexicano village, La Cueva clung to its roots, but as land prices soared around the old land grant, the weight of real estate taxes threatened to drive the villagers out. There was little work. A few of the old rancheros still ran cattle, but the ranches were so small and the land so poor that it was an effort just to survive. To remain on the land of their birth, many of the old people had to turn to welfare.

  Happens all over the state, Sonny thought. When the traditional village culture is displaced, the people suffer. Chambers of commerce keep inviting development, and the speculators crush everything in their way to build homes for those who can afford them. Never mind that those who are already there can’t.

  “Water,” don Eliseo always said, “they’re going to run out of water. Just like the ranchers of West Texas. The aquifer will dry up … so will their dreams.… That’s why they want what’s left of our land here in the North Valley. We have the acequias.”

  And so the New Mexican diaspora from the villages continued.

  Sonny turned off Highway 14 onto the dirt road that led toward La Cueva.

  “If you move a blade of grass, you change the land. If you poison the water, someday you will have to drink it,” don Eliseo said. “But the government don’t listen when the poor complain. The government don’t listen to los pobres.”

  Takes money to fight money, Sonny thought as he approached the village
.

  La Cueva was a dozen homes clustered around the church. Beaten-down barbed-wire corrals and old, weathered-wood outhouses were set at the back of each house. The small church shone with a fresh coat of white paint, blue trim on the door and windows, and today it was surrounded by trucks and cars. It was San Antonio’s feast day; the small village would be celebrating with a mass.

  Sonny parked and stepped out of his truck. A gust of wind rolled down the dirt road. The dry hills baked under the June sun. There had been no rain since May, so the land was scorched. The wind swept across the dry grasses. Behind him rose the peaks of the Sandias, and to the east the hills of pine and juniper sloped down into the flat land of the Estancia Valley.

  He looked at the cemetery next to the church. A few of the graves were decorated with faded crepe-paper flowers, reminders of Memorial Day. From the church Sonny heard the strain of a guitar and fiddle, then the doors of the small church opened and a couple stepped out, followed by the priest carrying a cross and the altar boy who assisted him. Behind them came the fiddler and the guitarist, followed by the dancers in bright costumes.

  Ah, Sonny thought as he watched the colorful procession exit from the church, I haven’t seen the dance of the matachines in a long time. The lively tune of the fiddle and the guitar cut through the air and dispelled the lonely moaning of the dry wind. Sonny watched the dancers. Each male dancer wore dark pants, a white shirt, and a tall mitre hat that resembled a bishop’s. A fringe fell over the forehead and shielded the eyes. Pictures of saints or of the Virgen de Guadalupe were sewn to the front of each hat. Bright ribbon streamers and scarves fell from the back of the hat and over the shoulders. In one hand each dancer held a gourd rattle, which he rattled to the beat of the lively tune the musicians provided, in the other hand each held a palma, a trident made of wood and decorated with bright ribbons and paper flowers.

  Behind the dancers came the parishioners who had attended mass, forming a line behind the dancers as they slowly made their way down the path, out of the gate of the churchyard, and down the dusty street. Two women carried the statue of the patron saint of the church, San Antonio. The statue would rest in the home of the mayordomos, the family that would take care of the church that year.