by Ann Myers
Arsenic? I mouthed so that Eddie wouldn’t continue caroling about poisonings.
Sky got up and walked to the far side of the room, with Celia and me following. “I was researching NAGPRA,” he said. “That’s the law about returning sacred objects and human remains to First Nations.”
Emilie, presumably still reading her book, flipped several pages in succession.
“You tell,” Sky said to Celia.
She said, “In the gross old days, archeologists and collectors treated feathers and fur and other materials with arsenic as a preservative.”
Sky wrinkled his young face in disgust. “Sacred objects, poisoned. When museums give stuff back, they’re supposed to make sure it’s clean so it doesn’t hurt the recipients.”
I was beginning to see their point. “You think those kachinas and good-luck charms Judith has been holding are poisonous?”
The teens nodded. Sky listed off symptoms of arsenic poisoning that matched Judith’s many complaints. “And there’s more,” he said.
Before he could tell me, Barton Hunter entered the room. A thick bandage ringed his forehead. He gave a weak high-five to Eddie and came over to greet us. “Rita, I fear I didn’t say hello properly the other night.”
“You were kind of busy,” I said. Busy collapsing from a head wound! I smiled sympathetically and asked, “Are you okay?”
“Flesh wound,” he said. Then he said, self-mockingly, “Dalia keeps following me around watching for signs of a concussion. I feel like a duped fool more than anything else.”
I yearned to ask him what happened, yet the little kids had sharp ears. I said instead. “You’re not working, are you?”
He leaned against the table. “Someone has to fix this mess. Anyway, I’m not supposed to lie down and fall into concussive sleep unsupervised. More than that, I’m not sleepy, and I’m the one who hired you-know-who.”
“Who?” Eddie said, showing off his keen kid hearing. He then declared that he wasn’t sleepy either.
“Good man,” Barton said. “Now, what were you saying, Sky? You found something?”
Celia started to say, “We found—”
Something made me cut in. “We found a great coloring book for Eddie,” I said, going over to the table. “He was telling us all about trains.”
Trains was a magic word to get Eddie talking. He chatted on about the caboose he was sure he was getting for Christmas tomorrow.
Barton said he was off to find things himself. “Off to the room of messed-up boxes,” he said.
When he’d left the room, the teens and I huddled. “If Sky’s right about the arsenic, we don’t know who’s involved or if it’s an innocent accident.”
“Trey,” Sky suggested. “Or that fake Shasta person or . . .” He stopped, his face conflicted.
“No way,” Celia said, shaking her head violently. “If you’re thinking Dalia, she’d never do such a thing. She’s Ms. Crundall’s sister. Right, Mom?”
Right, I wanted to say. But Dalia was also the half sister who didn’t get the Crundall name or fortune, the person who plied Judith with possibly poisonous objects and treatments. “Let’s keep this all to ourselves for now,” I said.
Standing in the hallway with the archives room door shut, I called Manny. My ex added a few choice words between “Merry” and “Christmas.”
“Happy holidays to you too,” I said, forcing a beaming smile at the phone for the sake of Celia, hovering nearby. I decided flattery was the best route. “You know how Celia takes after you, how she’s confident and determined and . . .”
Manny sighed. “What’s going on now, Rita?”
I told him the teens’ theory. “Arsenic poisoning fits with Judith’s symptoms,” I said. “What we don’t know is if the objects Judith carries around are actually contaminated. And even if they are, maybe no one realized. I wouldn’t have known they contained arsenic. ”
“Someone familiar with her house might,” Manny said. He was silent for a few beats. “We found a bunch of old chemicals back in what Ms. Crundall was calling her grandfather’s ‘laboratory.’ Some in that garage too. I’ll send the lab techs over to collect samples. Christmas Eve. They’ll be thrilled.” He uttered a few more unholy words and ordered me to take Celia home. “I don’t want her in that house or turning into a snoop like you,” he grouched.
“You’re welcome,” I said, in lieu of true sentiments, and hung up. To Celia, I said, “Your father’s going to send tech people over. Let’s find Dalia and tell her we’re going home, okay?”
We went back inside to tell Sky. Cass’s tall son perched on a metal stool, staring down at spreadsheets and mailing lists. To my surprise, he readily grabbed his coat.
“Sure,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
I told the teens I’d go look for Dalia. I found her near the kitchen, in a cloud of smoldering cedar and sage.
“I’ve been purifying,” she said. She held a clump of herbs and announced that she was off to Trey’s quarters. “Judith thinks I’m silly,” she added. “It can’t hurt, I keep telling her.”
Unless it could. “Dalia,” I said carefully, “How did you choose the . . . ah . . . healing objects for Judith?”
She waved the sage toward the ceiling. “They called to me. I found some of them last year in Granddad Crundall’s laboratory. They looked so lonely and sad. Shasta picked out some others. Oh, but she’s not Shasta is she? What should we call her? In any case, she said they’d be perfect, since they were uncataloged.” Dalia smiled serenely. “They’re doing Judith a world of good. I know they are.”
Shasta said . . . I covered my shiver with a cough and told Dalia we’d drop the kids off at her place to hang out with their grandfather. Judith Crundall’s rambling old house seemed suddenly ominous to me. I wanted to get out as soon as possible, and especially before the crime scene techs showed up.
Chapter 30
Thousands of farolitos glowed across the adobe city on Christmas Eve. Bonfires crackled in courtyards, and throngs of revelers strolled the streets. Mom—after noting that the falling snow might hold down mass conflagrations—acknowledged the beauty.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said. “You were right, Rita. It’s gorgeous, and so nice that the streets are shut to traffic.”
Of course, a few drivers were still flouting the rules. Their cars crept at the pace of the crowds, who resisted parting for motorized annoyances. I’d parked a few blocks away from the main farolito extravagance of Canyon Road and the surrounding east-side neighborhoods.
“How are we going to find Flori?” Celia asked, standing on her tiptoes.
“She said she’d be by the elementary school,” I said. We were weaving that way. The paper kites powered by candlelight were once again taking to the skies, and Flori wanted to get in on the action.
“There!” Celia said, bending to peer across a big bonfire. She pointed to two figures decked out in matching puffy tundra wear. Flori and her husband, Bernard, held steaming paper cups and stood dangerously close to the fire. I headed their way. Celia veered left. I spotted Sky, tall amid the crowd. “I’m going to say hi,” Celia called back. “We’ll catch up with you.”
I wanted to hold her hand and keep her close. Like that would go over well. And she’d be right to be grumpy. We were literally surrounded by happy, festive people.
“Keep your phone close,” I said instead.
“Sure, Mom,” she said with an eye roll and a smile. “You too. I’ll catch up with you and Gran soon.”
I watched her go. She’d be fine with her friends, I told myself. Safer than with the snack-obsessed Gary, who had the night off anyway. Poor Judith, hiring bodyguards for others when she was the one who needed protection.
“I heard,” Flori said, when Mom was busy greeting Bernard. “Judith Crundall checked into the hospital and is getting tested for arsenic poisoning. Dalia always said that collection was toxic, didn’t she? Do you suppose she knew all too well? J
udith did get the family fortune . . .” She waved a mitten-covered hand. “I can’t see it, though.”
I couldn’t either. I told her how the missing imposter-Shasta had selected some of Dalia’s “healing” objects. “And there’s Trey too. He clearly resents his mother and wants to have free access to the family fortune.”
“That boy doesn’t seem smart enough,” Flori said.
I had to agree, somewhat. “But he went to college and minored in anthropology. Plus, he’s been around that collection all his life. He could know more than he lets on.”
Flori and Bernard decided to stay by the fire awhile longer. “You and your mother go stroll and take in the farolito displays. By the time you do the loop around the main streets, the kites will be going up.”
I texted Celia to let her know which way Mom and I were heading. She wrote back promptly, saying that she and Sky would catch up with us later.
“Stunning,” Mom said as we walked. Farolitos lined pathways, walls, and rooftops, casting a golden glow over the silvery, moonlit night. Carolers and musicians gathered around the crackling bonfires. Some residents even offered up bowls of hot posole and invited strolling strangers into their kitchens.
“It’s all so different,” Mom said, taking a slug of water. She’d filled her dual hip holster with essentials: water and oxygen. “But what marvelous old traditions. I can see why you like it here, Rita.”
Her words warmed me more than a bonfire. We walked and gazed and for a while, I forgot about the dead devil and Judith Crundall’s troubles. I didn’t forget about Celia, though. I occasionally glanced back. Far down the street, I saw a car pushing through.
Rude, I thought, which turned my mind to another irritation. Namely, Manny, griping that he didn’t want Celia turning into a snoop like me. Typical Manny. Gazing into an ember-spitting bonfire, I chided myself. Tonight was a special night, not a time to get dragged down by my ex. Still, something I couldn’t quite grasp gnawed at the edges of my memory.
Behind us, the pesky car had crept closer. I hoped the driver wouldn’t take Gormley Lane, my planned shortcut over to Canyon Road and its glittery art galleries. The short, unpaved lane cut across remnants of the pastures and orchards that once existed in this part of town and felt like an insider’s secret.
“Let’s turn here,” I said to Mom. “I’ll text Celia.”
A few yards down, Mom said, “Wouldn’t you know it? That car is turning too. Why anyone would try to drive here tonight . . .”
Mom and I kept walking. The car hovered in a parking area near a house and turned its lights off. A resident, getting home late, I thought, until I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.
“Ugh,” I groaned, as we stepped off to the side, waiting for the car to pass.
However, the driver stopped a few feet ahead of us and rolled down the window. In an instant, I recognized Barton Hunter. In another instant, my mind wrapped around the foggy memory that had been bugging me. Shasta, at Barton Hunter’s door, upset by the bloody devil doll in the mailbox. Barton, usually a smooth flirt, grumping at her to calm down and have some of her favorite cookies. The red silk and lace on his bed. Shasta was supposedly a temporary assistant, someone unknown to Barton. Or so she and Barton claimed. Now we knew that Shasta wasn’t who she said she was. What if Barton wasn’t either?
I backed up a step. His eyes followed me, and in the lowered lids and upturned lips, I glimpsed something my sister also encountered this Christmas . . . an alligator sizing up its prey. Adrenaline spiked through my temples. I tried to cover with perky Christmas greetings.
“Merry Christmas, Barton! Aren’t the farolitos gorgeous? Canyon Road should be amazing, although you might want to go park somewhere else. Probably back that way.” I gestured wildly in pretty much all directions but here. I grabbed Mom’s elbow and began moving us in the direction we’d come from.
“No need to hurry off,” Barton said. “We should talk.”
“We should talk too, Rita,” Mom murmured at my side.
Barton tilted his chin toward the backseat. “Get in.”
No way was I getting in. “Come on, Mom,” I said in a low but urgent tone. “Hurry.”
Barton leaned out the window. “Don’t you want to take a ride with your daughter?” With a mean smirk, he nodded again toward the backseat, then slowly drove forward.
I lunged and grabbed at the rear door. Yanking it open, I saw a blanket-covered figure writhing on the floor, moaning in a high, feminine pitch. I couldn’t tell if it was Celia, but I couldn’t take a chance.
Mom stood frozen a few feet away. “Go, Mom! Get help!” I yelled, clinging to the door. I leapt in and Barton sped up, but not before Mom landed heavily on top of me.
“Mom, no!” I cried.
“I’m not leaving you, Rita,” she said breathlessly.
I wanted to push her back out. Before I could, she yanked the door shut, and I heard the sickening thud of automatic door locks behind her.
While Mom sputtered about rudeness, I struggled to uncover the figure at our feet. I loosened the blanket and pulled it back to reveal the bruised face of the woman who called herself Shasta Moon.
Mom gasped. The fake Shasta groaned and tried to sit up.
“Surprise,” Barton said lightly. “Now, hand over your phones. We’re all going on a little holiday drive.”
I didn’t have a chance to call for help. Barton twisted in his seat and waved a gun. “Hand them over,” he ordered. “Don’t try anything stupid, or I’ll shoot you all.”
Shasta called him a foul name. He responded with a mean chuckle and more unpleasantries.
I gave Barton my phone and the travel phone Mom carried for safety. Some safety. Hauling Shasta up on the seat beside me, I saw her hands were pinned behind her back with plastic tie cuffs. Flori probably would have had a knife handy, or a knitting needle shiv. I had nothing. Mom buckled up and told me to do the same. I did as she said, thinking that car safety was the least of our problems.
At the end of the lane, Barton turned away from the revelers, and we passed one of my favorite landmarks, a giant sculpture of a horse’s head. Even through my fear, I noticed the red and green knit mask the horse now sported. A clutch of people snapped photos. Flori and Miriam’s “big surprise,” I guessed.
“Cute,” Shasta murmured.
Barton’s scornful snort set off bickering between the two. Like an unhappy couple. I should have noticed. Barton hadn’t been pleased when Eddie sang about Shasta kissing Trey, or when Manny flirted with her in the name of police work. The consultant and his assistant, as was now apparent, were a lot more acquainted than they’d let on.
Shasta accused Barton of being a fake and a bully. “I’m so sick of you,” she said. “You’re a fraud and always will be. You only married me to shut me up and make me do all the work.”
“A lot of good it did me,” Barton countered. “You’re a terrible assistant. Plus, did you really think you could double-cross me? Any of you?”
Mom reached over and gripped my hand.
“This is between you two,” I said. “My mother and I should get out of your way.” I said this lightly, as if we’d just stumbled into an awkward breakup luncheon.
Neither of them took any notice. “At least Trey’s real,” Shasta said. She nudged me and raised her chin toward Barton. “He grew up a nothing. He still is. A thief and con, like his daddy, trying to swindle his way into class.”
They resumed bickering, hurling insults at each other’s families. I leaned into Mom, both glad she was here and desperately wishing she wasn’t.
“Rita,” she said quietly. “About your father . . .”
“We can talk about this later, Mom,” I said.
Barton stopped insulting Shasta’s mother and said, “You have something to say to your daughter, you should say it now. Could be your last chance . . .”
All of us in the backseat went quiet. I didn’t want to ask what Barton had planned. There were three of us. Goo
d odds, except for the gun and handcuffs and my worries about Mom.
Mom sat up straighter beside me. Her voice was strong. “Rita, heaven forbid, if this is our last chance, you should know. I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you the entire time I’ve been here. Your father . . .” She paused. Shasta leaned forward, eyeing Mom expectantly.
“Yeah? Spit it out,” Barton said.
“Your father’s alive!” Mom stammered. “He didn’t die when you were in kindergarten. He left us and then faked his death. There. I’ve told you.”
“Nice one,” Barton said, sounding truly appreciative.
My head spun. All I could manage was, “Alive?”
“Great,” Shasta said sarcastically. “Let’s hope he’s not a loser and a con like Barton here.”
“He was,” Mom said.
“Better to stay dead then,” Shasta said, suddenly an advice columnist.
Mom nodded thoughtfully. “That’s what I thought. I honestly did believe he’d died. Years later, he reappeared when Rita was thinking of leaving college and going to culinary school. She was already so confused. I thought it best to keep the shock from her.”
“Hey!” I said, forgetting my terror long enough to be indignant. “Culinary school’s one of the best decisions I ever made.” Then the full implications of Mom’s words struck me. “But what about his grave and the obituary?”
Mom squeezed my knee. “Your father got involved in shady financial dealings with a dishonest client, Rita. He was a restless man. He wanted a new life and lifestyle. When he left, his client had just gone to jail. I thought he was scared of jail himself. Honestly, I was rather relieved he’d saved us the embarrassment. My mother said I should consider him dead, but I couldn’t until we saw his obituary in the Bucks Grove paper a year later.”
“People always believe the obituaries,” Barton said. “And the morgue? So few people take the time to actually verify a body. It’s almost too easy. Except when your partner double-crosses you!” In the rearview mirror, his glare fixed on Shasta.
“Yeah?” she countered. “How about I get the glamor role sometime? Why is it me who always has to play the assistant? Why not you?”