Feliz Navidead

by Ann Myers

  I regularly drive, walk, and jog by Judith Crundall’s mansion. She’s never once invited me in for tea, let alone to inspect her private collection. Mom stood at a light table, a magnifying glass hovering over what looked like old negatives. Nearby, masks adorned in tiny colorful beads and dyed feathers rested on a massive oak table.

  Before Mom could speak again, Dalia entered in a swirl of natural fabrics and a cloud of incense perfume. My neighbor greeted me with “Namaste” and a hug before swooping in to give the kids kisses that made Emilie squirm and Eddie giggle.

  “I kidnapped your lovely mother, Rita,” Dalia said, releasing the kids in a wave of patchouli and sandalwood. “I spotted her out freshening the aura on your porch—”

  “Sweeping,” Mom specified.

  Dalia continued unabashed, “Brushing away all those old dusty spirits. I told her she must walk with me on this lovely bright day and tour my sister’s house and gardens. I love to show the place off. The old family home. Of course, it was never my home. Judith and I lived such different lives. Sometimes, I feel like a museum docent in here.”

  She reeled off historic features, including bullet holes from an early governor’s assassination, cocktail glasses once sipped from by D. H. Lawrence, and a wagon wheel that rolled across the Santa Fe Trail. All I could think was Mom got a house tour? I was happy for Mom, and pretty darned envious. Cass and I had recently bought benefit tickets for an architecture tour. I doubted our fifty dollars would get us beyond foyers and gardens. I was tempted to invite myself on a Crundall mansion tour right that minute. That, however, wasn’t why I was here.

  I introduced the kids to Mom and explained that I’d found them downtown. “We had quite an exciting morning ourselves. There was a donkey on the lam.”

  “We were fine!” Emilie said again.

  Dalia’s brow wrinkled. “All the way to Tres Amigas, dears? You really did free range. Let’s not tell your mother.” Dalia smiled at Mom and me. “My daughter and I have a few differences of opinions about raising children,” she said. “I’m sure you understand that.”

  I laughed politely. Mom muttered something about devils.

  Shasta, who’d been flipping through stacks of paper at the oak table, interrupted. “Dalia, you helped with that 1980s inventory. We need to rectify that and find those . . . oh, whatever Barton insists we call them. Those ‘friends.’” She snapped long nails coated in chipped red polish. “I need organization.”

  Mom’s head snapped up from the negatives. There’s nothing my librarian mother loved more than finger-snapping organization. I sidled closer to Mom, ready to drag her away if necessary. I hadn’t goaded her into a Santa Fe vacation so she could rectify spreadsheets and dusty files.

  Dalia brought her hands together in what could be the preamble to meditation or a yoga pose. She tilted her chin toward the high plaster ceiling and smiled serenely. “With calm and peace, we will locate our ‘friends.’ They can’t have gone far. They’re elderly and ready to return to their families.”

  Shasta grumbled that they wouldn’t be returning anywhere unless we found them. “And where is Barton?”

  Dalia lifted a knee in a balancing yogi pose. “Barton went to the collections storage room. Perhaps he’s already located them. I don’t sense their spirits here.”

  Shasta rubbed her forehead as if in pain. I sensed that this was not a good time to quiz her about Francisco and devil threats. I could understand her apparent frustration with Dalia. My neighbor is kind and well meaning, but all that calm can set the noncalm on edge. Plus, there are only so many sage smudgings and purifying saunas, séances, and sweat lodges one can—and wants to—accept. Dalia paced slowly around the room, palms outstretched.

  “Who are we looking for?” I asked. The room was large, with big paned windows, brick floors, and an array of tables and file cabinets. Boxes, files, and a few laptops cluttered the tables, but there couldn’t be that many places to hide, unless some of the doors led to closets. I supposed that someone had thought to check the closet.

  “Friends!” Eddie exclaimed happily. He launched into a story about how his best friend back home was allergic to peanuts and strawberries. As the allergy list continued, Mom piped in, again surprising me with her in-the-know information.

  “They’ve lost some of those what-do-you-call-them dolls,” Mom said. She stuttered a “ka” sound before throwing up her hands and saying, “Oh, those southwestern dancing dolls you see in all the gift shops around here.”

  “Katsina,” Shasta supplied, tapping a pencil on a spreadsheet. “More commonly written as kachina with a ‘ch.’ And, yes, they’re all over in tourist traps and art galleries, but the ones we’re looking for are valuable and sacred to the Hopi people.” She continued in a tone of rote memorization. “They are representations of spirit beings, so sacred we should not call them by name, so alive that if we must refer to them at all, we should call them ‘friends.’”

  “Must make them harder to find if you can’t describe them,” Mom pointed out, and I had to agree.

  Shasta sighed. “Yes, well, my boss Barton insists that we be sensitive. Since he’s not here, though, I’ll say. The ones I need are about ten inches tall. Hopi. Carved in the 1860s.” She opened a folder and produced a faded color photograph. “Here they are, listed with the exact archival location and storage container. I found the box, but nothing inside except this.” She frowned and picked up a figure that looked straight from the Five and Dime.

  “Kokopelli,” a deep male voice said.

  We all looked up and saw the tall, blond, sensitive expert himself.

  “Barton!” Eddie cried, and rushed like Sidekick, crashing into the consultant’s knees.

  “My favorite junior archeologist,” Barton said, swooping Eddie up onto his shoulders. “Kokopelli, the hump-backed flute player,” Barton continued in a voice suitable for melting chocolate. I found myself thinking that if my college professors had sounded like that, maybe I would have finished the liberal arts degree I started. However, then I never would have discovered my true love, culinary school and cooking. Or New Mexico. Or Jake.

  Barton drew rapt attention from everyone except Emilie, who spun in a swivel chair, eyes glued to a book. “Kokopelli has been sacred to southwestern peoples across cultures for thousands of years,” Barton intoned. “You’ll find him in petroglyph art and he’s prominent in Hopi and Zuni mythology, symbolizing fertility, replenishment, dance, and mischief.” Barton’s expression contained a dash of mischief, set off by two adorable dimples. He reached up and covered Edison’s ears, sending the kid into a fit of delighted giggles. “Kokopelli is a several-thousand-year-old sex symbol.”

  Mom murmured an “Oh my.”

  Barton flashed us a smile to rival Manny’s toothpaste-commercial whites and picked up the object. “Now, this particular piece, I’d estimate as Chinese manufacture, circa 2000.”

  Shasta groaned. “I thought so.” She tapped a spreadsheet and said, “Dalia, when you inventoried the collection, were so many things missing and misplaced?”

  I sensed Dalia harden under her floaty layers. “You should have seen the mess the collection was in when I started. I left it all in the original boxes and renumbered everything so it could be found. I purified it the best I could, with sage and blessings. I got a shaman to come in too, over Judith’s objections.”

  “You did a fine job, Dalia,” Barton said, smoothing the sparks between her and Shasta. “Your sister has interacted with the collections more. We can ask her some questions when she’s feeling better.” He turned his smile to me. “Now, I’m being rude. We have lovely guests.”

  I reintroduced myself to Barton. “We met at Tres Amigas,” I said. “You and Dalia had breakfast there the other day, and my daughter’s in Las Posadas.”

  I was about to ramble on, assuming he wouldn’t remember me. “Of course,” he said. “I never forget a pretty face.” He smiled at Mom. “And this must be your sister.”

  I swe
ar, Mom giggled. Giggled! I was so shocked my mouth hung open. I clamped it shut before Mom could chide me on my manners.

  “This is my mother,” I said primly. “Visiting for the holidays. It’s so nice of you all to show her around.”

  Barton strolled over to look at the materials Mom had been examining. “Ah, negatives of old man Crundall’s Acoma expedition. Fascinating. That’s Sky City, if I’m not mistaken. It’s been occupied for over two thousand years, the legends say. And, I adore having guests. I like to show off what Ms. Crundall’s doing to everyone I can. She’s a fine person, returning the collection to its rightful owners. I hope that more private collectors will follow her example.”

  Dalia took the knockoff Kokopelli, raised the object high, and turned in a circle. “Judith will feel better too. The spirits, returned to their people, will heal her.”

  Shasta pinched her temples and declared she needed more coffee. Her boss frowned at her departing backside, but quickly returned to smooth charm. “Let us hope you’re right, Dalia,” he said. “May the spirits cure dear Judith.”

  Mom and I shared a skeptical eye roll, which was cut short by Dalia addressing us. “I know Mr. Hunter is a scientist and probably thinks I’m silly,” she said. “So do all the doctors and specialists. Judith did too and is probably still merely humoring me. I kept telling her, though. There is darkness in keeping this collection, bad energy, the evil eyes of many cultures. Not the objects themselves, mind you. They’re victims of my grandfather. They’re sad. Weeping. Having them here, in this house, it’s what’s making Judith ill. She’ll feel better when it’s all gone.”

  Barton again excelled at diplomacy. “We mustn’t judge your grandfather, Dalia. He was a man of his era and he did compile an extraordinary and extensive collection, unlike any I’ve ever seen.”

  Dalia, however, was ready to judge. “I don’t know if Rita told you, Helen,” she said to my mother. “But we have boxes full of bones. Human bones. My grandfather was an archeological grave robber.”

  Mom gasped.

  Ick, I thought. No wonder architectural tours didn’t let visitors peek in the closets or under the beds. You never could tell what these seemingly fine old mansions contained.

  Barton smoothed over the horror. “Museums all over the world have similar items. Think of the mummies from Egypt or the Andes. Prehistoric hunters pulled fully preserved from peat bogs. Here in the U.S., the law compels federally funded museums to return sacred objects and human remains to their peoples. It’s called the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. NAGPRA for short. It’s a slow process and contentious too.”

  “Contentious,” I repeated, my mind working. “Is anyone really upset about Judith repatriating her . . . ah . . .” What should I call them? Her bones? The unmentionable friends?

  Barton set Eddie down and the boy ran over to jump on his grumpy sister’s lap. “I suppose you could say that,” Barton said slowly. “It’s not the same as a museum, say, giving up one of its best-known pieces. Then the public might get up in arms. The Crundall collection is privately held, meaning that the federal law doesn’t apply. Now, museums might secretly yearn for some pieces, but they’d know they couldn’t ethically or legally acquire or keep them.”

  I nodded. I knew a little about this topic from the news. Local tribes had reclaimed various objects—and relatives—from universities and museums around the country.

  Mom asked my next question for me. “Well then, who would care? It sounds like no one could object to Judith Crundall doing the right thing.”

  Barton agreed. “Private collectors could still legally buy her items. Believe me, many would kill for the chance. There’s a lucrative market for Native American items, particularly sacred objects. Not only are they one of a kind, they’re divine.”

  “Surely there’s no market for the old bones,” I murmured.

  Barton shook his head, his face handsome puppy-dog sad. “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. There’s a market, a black one involving a lot of money. Speaking of bones, care to see some?”

  Chapter 9

  “Bones, bones, bones,” Eddie sang merrily. “We’re off to see the bones, bones, bones.”

  The situation was disturbing for several reasons. First, there was the bone ditty, which would be creepy in any context. Coming from an adorable kindergartener, it sounded like a horror film in the making. Second, there was Barton and me, strolling down a cool, art-lined hallway like the happy couple of the estate. We held Eddie between us, swinging his hands so he could kick up his feet and “fly.” Celia loved this game as a kid, although Manny and I rarely got our swing coordination right. Barton, Eddie, and I were eerily in tune. Third, there was Mom, who’d practically shoved me off with Barton, insisting that she’d “just be in the way of you two young people.” Like that wasn’t a blatant matchmaker line. Plus, who could miss her pointed stare at the man’s well-manicured, ringless hand.

  I wasn’t worried about swooning over Barton Hunter’s smooth cuticles or charming dimples. Barton was too prettily handsome for my taste, although I could see his male-model appeal. If I ran into the British ladies again, I’d ask for some of their digital photos of Jake in hero cowboy mode to show Mom. Now that was a man I wanted to be alone with. Whenever that might be.

  I refocused on positives. I was about to get a private tour of Judith Crundall’s collection room. Plus, Mom had unknowingly helped my secret noninvestigation. Alone with Barton, I could ask him about Francisco and threats to devils.

  “So Judith inherited this collection,” I said as a way of breaking the spell of domestic bliss.

  “Yes, and it truly is amazing. Her grandfather collected pottery, baskets, hide paintings, amulets . . . It’s certainly not all bones, although that’s what we’re starting with, as well as the sacred and ceremonial objects.” He smiled conspiratorially at me. “For Ms. Crundall’s health, you understand.”

  I smiled back. “Dalia’s my neighbor. I know about her spiritual healings. She sage smudged my former landlord’s house so much I thought we’d need to have a smoke restoration company come in afterward.”

  “They’re two very different sisters,” Barton said diplomatically. “Different mothers from what I understand, but the same headstrong father. I think they both must have some of him in them. They’re each stubborn idealists in their own way.”

  We stopped in front of a key-padded door. Barton punched numbers, and I thought about my sister and me. We had our differences. Kathy never found bodies, for one. She’d also stayed in our hometown and enjoyed a seemingly perfect marriage. Last I’d heard, her kids had played nice, nonsatanic pilgrims in their school’s Thanksgiving performance. Maybe Celia and I had some of my father’s genes. I wouldn’t know. In the past, when I’d asked Mom about my father, she’d been uncharacteristically vague. Maybe I’d quiz her if she started pressing me about Jake again, which she surely would.

  “Here we are,” Barton said. Eddie ran in first. The windowless room had a dusty chill and was filled with rows of metal shelves packed with brown, archival boxes.

  I looked around in awe. “Wow. The collection must be huge. You said there are baskets and nicer stuff? Why keep it hidden away? Doesn’t Judith want to display some?” I felt bad that my Bundt pans were in a storage room at my landlord’s house. If I had a real collection, I’d want to see it.

  “It’s better preserved this way,” Barton said. “Stuff this valuable, you don’t want the maid knocking it over with her feather duster.”

  I laughed. “That’s one of my big worries!”

  Barton chuckled. “Yeah, I hear you. More importantly, though, most of the collection isn’t ‘art’ or items you’d display. The value is in its archeological and anthropological significance. Colleges or museums would be particularly interested in old man Crundall’s notebooks and the material objects.”

  Barton led us down a few rows, his fingers grazing the boxes. “Ah, here. I was going to start working on this bea
uty today.” He took a box down, opened the lid, and removed a black velvet cloth, revealing the suture marks of a pale, bare skull.

  “A head!” Eddie exclaimed with wide-eyed awe. The kid was either a budding archeologist or future creepy skull collector.

  Barton carefully reached inside and picked up the skull. “Yes, a cranium, actually, of a young woman. Probably in her late teens or early twenties. It’s an interesting specimen. You can see here, from this indention, that she suffered a blow.”

  “Cranium,” Eddie repeated reaching out his hand.

  I drew back, repulsed. Poor woman. Bet she never counted on being hit on the head, let alone stuffed in a storeroom. “Who was she?” I asked.

  Barton carefully replaced the black cloth. “Impossible to say. The bones were excavated in the late 1800s out in the Four Corners region. Some arrowheads Mr. Crundall collected in the same dig suggest this young lady lived in the 1200s or possibly earlier.”

  I forgot my revulsion and marveled. So long ago. What had this girl’s life been like? Cass, Sky, Celia, and I had driven out to southwest Colorado a few years ago and hiked around the amazing cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde. I could barely comprehend the time spans or remember the names and eras of all the peoples who’d called the region home. I asked Barton how he kept it all in his head. “Are you from around here?”

  “Me? No, I’m from all over. I go where my work takes me. I’ve been in this part of the world before, but I still have to keep on my toes. People can get awfully touchy about history in these parts, even thousand-year-old history.”

  I knew all about that. Cookie spellings and minor chile sauce modifications could get locals up in arms. “I’ve been living here full-time for a little over three years now,” I said, gazing at the lost girl. “I still feel like an outsider sometimes, and there’s a ton to learn.”

  Barton’s eyes twinkled. “That’s the fun part.”