by Ann Myers
“Likely lard,” Dalia said, making her half sister wince.
“They’re vegan!” I announced proudly. “Yep, no butter or lard or even eggs in these beauties. They’re our special health-food bizcochitos.”
The corner of Judith’s mouth twitched into the hint of a smile. “You all are determined to make me live, aren’t you? All right. Let’s go to the kitchen and try a vegan bizcochito. There’s something for my bucket list.”
Dalia fussed about staying positive and kept up a peppy chatter about cookies and energy-enhancing vibes as she rolled Judith’s wheelchair down the hall. I tried to keep up with Dalia’s conversation and her speed. However, I was distracted by taking in the many rooms of Judith’s mansion.
“This is an amazing place,” I said. “I had no idea it had so many corridors and separate wings.”
“Lots of additions over the decades,” Judith said as we whizzed around a corner. “The oldest room’s back to the left. You step down into it. My father did an archeological dig right here in his own house. Said the foundation and a few walls are from the 1700s. We think it was built by my relatives.” She reached up and patted her half sister’s hand. “Our relatives.”
Dalia said something grand and New Agey about how we’re all brothers and sisters. “The old home has seen a lot,” she said, coming back to earth. “It needs a fresh start. When the collection is cleared out, Judith is going to make the space into a library.”
“If I live that long,” Judith said.
Dalia lovingly chastised Judith and eased her chair into the kitchen. Unlike the other rooms I’d glimpsed, the kitchen was surprisingly humble. The stove and refrigerator had the rounded curves of the forties, a retro look that was back in style. The floor was soft orange Saltillo tiles, similar to those at Tres Amigas and my casita. The cabinets were covered in tin punched in decorative outlines of birds and flowers. Through the lace curtains covering the windows, I could see well-pruned shrubs waiting out the winter, and a small adobe cottage.
“Is that where Francisco lived?” I asked.
Dalia said a prayer to the stars. Judith gave a succinct yes and wheeled herself out of her sister’s grasp to a glass door overlooking the garden. With effort, she hefted herself out of the chair.
“Judith!” Dalia said, before being waved off.
“I can stand, Dalia,” Judith said. “It’s good for me.” She allowed me to lend her an arm for balance. I was afraid she’d want to go out to the patio, where last night’s snow lingered. Instead, she gazed out at the little house. “I could say that I felt sorry for Francisco, that that’s why I hired him and put him up in the casita.”
I waited, sensing that she’d go on.
She did. “The real reason? When I heard he was an archeologist and historian, applying for my gardening job, I thought I could get him to work on that blasted collection. It’s always been a mess. I should have given it to a museum years ago, before all those laws about repatriation got passed. Let someone else deal with it!”
She wobbled, and I helped her back into her chair. Dalia plopped a furred and feathered doll on her lap.
“You’re making peace with it now, Judith,” Dalia said. She handed her half sister a porcelain plate with some of Addie’s bizcochitos on it. Judith nibbled one and declared it “Not bad.”
“Not bad” was a high compliment for Addie’s cooking. I’d have to tell her.
“But Francisco didn’t want to work on the collection?” I asked.
Judith, still gazing outside, said that he’d focused on the garden. “Always so much to do out there in the yard. He kept saying he’d get to the collection when he had time. I knew he was politely putting me off. I was telling Dalia about it once and she volunteered to make the inventory.”
“I cleansed it too,” Dalia said. “With thyme and sage essences and the help of a lovely shaman.”
“Very helpful,” her serious half sister said dryly. “I rather hoped that Francisco would take pity on you, Dalia. But he didn’t. He was good at that and fixing things and kept to himself. I appreciated that. I don’t like people bothering me.”
I scratched my theory that Francisco might have discovered something particularly valuable or scandalous in the collection. “Francisco hadn’t mentioned anyone bothering him or any worries?” I asked. I realized that I could be breaking my cover of this being a simple cookie-delivery stop. However, Judith had brought him up.
Neither she nor Dalia reported noticing any changes in Francisco’s demeanor. “He tried to hide it, but he was excited to play the devil,” Judith said, a crack of sorrow appearing in her hard outer shell.
She pointed out into the garden toward the left. “He was working on the patio, keeping himself busy in winter. He reset some stones heaved by that cottonwood and dug out aspen suckers by Trey’s rooms. Those trees are so tenacious. They’ll shoot into the house if you let them. Trey said that the sound of Francisco’s trowel bothered him. I told him, he was a grown man who could get his own place if my gardener bothered him. I suspect he’s waiting me out.”
This time, Dalia didn’t fuss that her sister was wrong. She frowned deeply before passing around the bizcochitos again.
I wanted to know more about Trey Crundall, but not as much as I wanted to know more about the threatening note. “The policeman who was just here, he’s my former husband,” I said. “Did he find anything useful?”
“He tramped all over outside,” Judith said. “He wanted to search Francisco’s casita again. I told him he could. It was his time to waste. He came up with nothing.”
Dalia said, “He asked about some library books Francisco had out on Pueblo history, but the subject was hardly surprising. Francisco was a historian by training.”
“Silly man,” Judith said.
I would have wondered if she meant Francisco or Manny except she added, “He tried to order me around. Told me to cancel my play. Did he do that with you when you were married? I didn’t like it one bit.” She gazed outside. “You know what I like even less? He was right, although I’d already made the decision. I’ll send out the carolers and that devilish donkey. The human devils are grounded for now. You’ll be happy about that, won’t you?”
“Not happy,” I said, truthfully. “Relieved. Best to be safe.”
Judith muttered something about the threatening note writer should be worried about his safety.
“What did your note say?” I asked.
“Nothing but foolishness,” Judith said dismissively.
“A death threat,” Dalia said with a shudder. “I can tell you exactly what it said, ‘Death to all devils! Death to the disturber of the bones!’ Then there was a drawing . . .” She clamped her lips shut and gripped the turquoise bear hanging from her neck.
Judith made a scoffing sound. “The fool tried to draw Mr. Barton. At least, that’s who we think it was meant to be. It was a very amateurish drawing. I’d expect better from Edison. And the text, so melodramatic.”
And creepy. “We got a threat too,” I said. “Did Officer Martin tell you?”
Judith said that he had. “I’ll keep Gary on as Celia’s bodyguard for as long as she needs or wants. So rude to threaten a young woman! People are terrible.” She had Dalia write out Gary’s contact information and told me to call on him anytime.
I pondered the letters. One threatened Celia, aimed at me. The other threatened Barton Hunter, a devil but also the “disturber of the bones.” The third devil hadn’t been contacted. I wondered again if there was a connection between the collection and the killing.
A soft knock at the kitchen doorway caused me to jump.
Judith reacted calmly. “Ah, Barton, I thought you might want to take the rest of the afternoon off.”
The consultant politely thanked Judith for her concern. “I’m not scared of a little note. Plus, I’m afraid I have more work than ever. Remember when I told the police that the archives looked fine?”
During his pause, I prepared for ba
d news.
He continued. “Well, everything seemed okay, until I checked some of the boxes that were already packed for shipping. Judith, there’s no easy way to say this. We’ve been robbed. Right under our noses.”
Judith was no longer calm. She spun her wheelchair toward the kitchen door.
Dalia rushed after her. “A break-in?” she asked.
Barton shook his head. “That’s the odd thing, the door to storage was locked. Shasta isn’t in yet, but I’ll get her to cross-check more of the inventory. Should I call the police or do you want to see first?”
Judith was already wheeling out the door. “No police,” she said curtly.
No police? “An inside job?” I whispered to Barton as we followed the sisters down the hall.
“Afraid it could be,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “I was pretty shocked when I lifted one of those boxes and it was as light as empty. Well, it was empty.”
I was about to be shocked too, for a different reason. When I entered the archives room, I saw Celia holding one end of a stationary red jump rope. Sky held the other end and little Eddie jumped over the string, laughing giddily. Gary stood a few feet away, his dark glasses pushed up to his forehead so he could manhandle a burrito into his mouth. Emilie was reading a book.
“Celia? What are you doing?” I asked.
My daughter flashed a beaming—and surely fake—smile. “Babysitting, Mom! Gran’s resting. She says the altitude’s getting to her. Dalia called to tell Sky and me that our devil and imp acts are canceled, and she mentioned that she needed a babysitter and Gary would be here. You know how much I love kids! And Gary makes us feel so protected.”
Gary blushed and took an extra-large bite of burrito.
Warning bells clanged in my head. First, the Celia I knew wouldn’t cheerfully accept the cancellation of her devil diva act. Second, Celia did like kids, to a point. She likes to encourage them in kid versions of defiant art, like washable finger paintings on sidewalks and chalk graffiti on tree trunks. She likes to have them do her bidding. However, she has never, ever expressed an interest in babysitting. In fact, the last time someone offered Celia a babysitting job, she declared sexism and stomped off. And that bit about Gary making her feel safe? She’d taken the lie too far there.
I turned to Cass’s tall son. He, like me, was a bad liar. “Sky, what are you two up to?”
Sky twitched the end of the rope, causing Edison to leap out of the way. “Ah . . . earning Christmas money and having fun. We’re going to play hide-and-seek, right Eddie?”
The little boy agreed happily. I figured Eddie wouldn’t be too hard to fool. Neither would Gary.
I went over to Gary and put a hand out to halt his work of burrito lifting. “Gary, this is very important,” I said, slowly and enunciating each word. “Do not leave Celia’s side. Do not let her out of your sight.” I lowered my voice and snitched on my own daughter. “She may try to trick you. Be very careful.”
Gary switched his burrito to the other hand, took a big bite, and informed me through a mouthful of beans, cheese, and chiles that he would watch them “like a raptor.” He swallowed and added, “I’m real good at hide-and-seek too.”
I kissed my daughter’s cheek and she smiled back benignly. “Have fun detecting, Mom.” Before I could protest, she said, “Oops, no, I remember, you’re not doing that. You’re too busy.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Have fun babysitting. Do not evade Gary, do you understand me? He’s guarding you. Judith generously hired him, and we don’t want to make him feel bad, okay?”
Gary muttered that no girl could evade him.
I eyed Celia. “Do not take that as a challenge,” I said.
“Okay, I promise,” she said, holding up both sets of black-painted fingernails to show me she wasn’t crossing her fingers through a fib. “I’ll keep Gary with me the whole time. We’re fine and just having fun playing games with the kids.”
My skeptical stare failed to get her to open up. I wasn’t thrilled about her hanging around the scene of another threatening note. However, the casita faced the same problem, and there, the only protectors were my altitude-afflicted mother and an overly affectionate cat.
“Okay,” I said. “I have a few things to . . . er . . . look into,” I said, as evasively as my teenager. “I’ll pick you up on my way back home. Say an hour or two?”
Celia patted Edison’s silky head, flat palmed like bouncing a basketball. “Sure, that should give us enough time,” she said.
Chapter 20
Barton Hunter followed me out the door. He gripped his cell phone in one hand and a Ziploc bag filled with some of Addie’s cookies in the other. “Impossible to get decent help,” he grumbled, striding past me toward his car.
I realized that I’d parked him in. “I’m leaving too,” I said, jogging to beat him to our vehicles. “I’ll get out of your way.”
He slowed and gave me a strained smile. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s been a frustrating day already. That note, the missing objects, an assistant who’s hours late for work.” He rolled his eyes and held up a paper bag, “At least I have some of those cookies you brought. I noticed your daughter and her Native American pal are hanging around too. My job offer still stands, for both of them. I need to get boxes cross-checked and headed in the right direction. Won’t do Judith’s karma any good if we send stuff to the wrong place.”
“Too bad Celia’s busy babysitting,” I said. Whatever Celia was up to, if it kept her out of the creepy collections that was a good thing. Besides, babysitting was a job Mom could tell her friends back home about. Bone sorting and shipping? Not so much.
“A pity,” Barton said. “Babysitting seems a waste of sharp minds.”
Exactly what Celia might say. I got into my car quickly, before he could press the matter. Glancing in my rearview mirror, I saw that Barton was heading the same direction. That wasn’t surprising, since there were only a few routes leading downtown. I doubted we were going to the same place. I planned to scope out Trey Crundall’s ski shop.
The narrow streets of Santa Fe can be challenging at any time of year. This season, they were especially packed. Navigating through art lovers strolling along Canyon Road and weaving through side streets, I kept my eyes scanning the sidewalks and road ahead until I reached a small dead-end street a few blocks from the Plaza. When I’d first moved to Santa Fe, a building at the end of the street had sold fabric and crafts supplies. Sadly, the shop had gone under. I hadn’t been down the lane since.
When I pulled up, I almost turned around. “Bums?” I said out loud. Who names their shop Bums? A ski bum, I supposed. Especially a man/boy who still lives with his mother.
To my surprise, a car pulled in next to me, and Barton Hunter stepped out and smoothed his fashionable wool peacoat. “Ms. Lafitte, we meet again. If you hadn’t arrived before me, I’d say you’re following me.”
I laughed and said I was curious about Trey’s shop.
“This classy establishment? I’m sure you’ll find many lovely items for your Christmas list,” Barton said, jokingly. He headed toward Bums.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted out. “Stocking stuffers?”
Barton stepped onto the front porch of the building, a nondescript structure with cracked adobe and a sagging portico. Ski boards and a mannequin, nude except for opalescent goggles and mittens, decorated the porch.
He said, “Then you aren’t following me after all. A pity. This building is also my temporary home, compliments of Ms. Crundall. Shasta has a studio apartment in the back too, easier for her than taking the train back and forth to Albuquerque, though she still can’t manage to be on time. Care to see my place? It’s much nicer than this, thank heaven.” He scowled at the saggy porch and the mannequin, which, at closer inspection, was missing a foot.
I’m never one to turn down a Santa Fe architectural tour. I also saw a benefit. I could check out two people close to Judith Crundall and get Barton’s take
on Trey.
As we walked by Bums, I spotted Trey through the window. He slouched in front of a computer, black headphones over his ears, laughing to himself.
Barton glanced in and sniffed. “I’m grateful for those headphones. Before he got them, I was subjected to action movie soundtracks during my lunch breaks.”
“I thought adobes had thick walls,” I said.
He unlocked an ornately trimmed wood door painted in chipped turquoise. “The walls are thick. Trouble is, this building used to be all one place. Trey’s office is the old living and dining room, separated from my side by flimsy doors and panel walls.” He opened his door and swung his arms out. “I’m not complaining, though. The apartment’s a gem.”
An amazing mix of colorful Mexican tiles and brick covered the floor. The front room featured a huge kiva fireplace and dark log ceiling beams. The beams were connected by concave plaster, like rolling waves. “Gorgeous,” I agreed. “So, when you’re here, do you hear Trey doing a lot of business?”
Barton’s scornful snort answered that question. “I’m mostly working at Judith’s during Trey’s ‘work’ hours. When I am here, though? Pretty much all quiet except for him watching videos. Mostly he’s gone, playing with his inventory on the slopes. You want my opinion, he’s a big spoiled kid who’s mad that his mommy doesn’t give him an endless allowance.”
Mad enough to send mean letters and steal from her? “Do you think Trey could be behind the missing objects? Or those awful notes?” I asked.
Barton apologized for possibly giving me the wrong impression. “I shouldn’t talk of my employer’s kid that way. I can’t speak to the recent theft or crazy notes either. I’m hired to repatriate the collection, that’s all.”
He sounded like Jake, refusing to speculate about his clients. “Hypothetically?” I prompted.
“Hypothetically? I’d speculate that Trey Crundall has been skimming off parts of that collection for years.”