by Lynne Hinton
“I knew that boy was trouble. I tried to tell your sister, but she was so convinced he was changed. Yeah, five thousand dollars changed . . .”
Eve blew out a long breath; she hated to hear him start in on her sister. She stopped listening to him and found the entry. He had sent her two hundred dollars almost six weeks ago.
Seeing the date, Evangeline vaguely recalled her dad telling her a little bit about the conversation. Dorisanne was late on the rent and said her hours were docked at the bar where she was a waitress. She had missed a few days because she’d sprained her ankle. At least that’s what she told him when she called in May. When she was a child, Dorisanne was always falling and getting hurt, but Evangeline thought she had moved out of that accident-prone stage. Once Dorisanne had become a dancer as a young teenager, she wasn’t as careless or awkward.
“Did she say how she injured herself?”
“What?” He wasn’t paying attention; he had moved from the front page on to the sports section.
“Dorisanne,” Evangeline answered. “Did she say how she sprained her ankle?” She was still looking through the entries in the checkbook ledger. She couldn’t help herself—she was adding and subtracting, checking the numbers as she flipped through the pages.
“Fell down the stairs at the apartment, she said,” he replied.
“I thought she lived in a downstairs unit,” Eve noted.
“Then maybe she lied about that too.”
“What do you mean, ‘lied about that too’?”
Captain Jackson folded the paper and placed it on the desk in front of him. He studied his daughter. “Your sister isn’t exactly known for her honesty.”
Evangeline was surprised. “What do you mean by that?” Dorisanne had her flaws, but lying had never been one of them. She had always been one of the most truthful people Evangeline knew.
Her father shrugged. “I checked on some things,” he answered.
“What kind of things?”
“On Robbie, his job, their bank accounts, things like that.”
Evangeline shook her head. “I should have known you’d be playing private detective with your daughter.”
“A man has to look out for his own interests.”
“She’s a human being, not an interest,” Evangeline replied.
“Whatever. Let’s just say she’s not been as forthcoming about how things really are as you think.”
Evangeline closed the checkbook. She tallied up the days again and confirmed that it had been more than a month since she had heard from her sister. They usually spoke every other week, and the length of time since their last communication bothered Eve. She was just about to comment about the month without contact and her father’s recent detective activities in Las Vegas when the front door opened, the small chime sounding as a tall, gray-haired stranger entered.
FIVE
“Is this Mr. Divine’s office?”
“It’s Diveen,” Evangeline and the Captain answered at the same time.
The man glanced from one Divine to the other and then to a small card he held in his right hand. “Private Detective Agency?”
“That part you got right,” the Captain responded, putting down his paper. “What can I do you for?”
The man moved into the office, shutting the door behind him. He turned in the direction of Jackson. “I’m searching for someone,” he said.
“Okay,” the Captain responded. “Do you expect they’re here in Madrid?”
The man appeared confused. “Seems like I have that one wrong too. I thought it sounded the same as the city in Spain, Madrid,” he noted, placing the emphasis on the second syllable.
“Common mistake,” Jackson replied. “Just like the last name. We appear to be something we are not.”
The man waited, taking all of this in. He sneezed.
“Bless you. This is my daughter Eve. No tricky syllables there. And I’m Jackson, sounds just like it’s spelled.”
The visitor looked over at Eve, who was still holding the checkbook in her hand. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Sorry,” he said.
“Good morning,” she said, wondering who in his life had gone missing. She noticed that there seemed to be no sense of urgency about his search; rather, he seemed more concerned about correct pronunciation. “You got a cold?”
He nodded at her and smiled. “Allergies,” he answered. “I’m Caleb Alford,” he added, walking over and holding out his hand. He looked around the office. “Do you have a cat?”
She shook the offered hand. “Nice to meet you. And yes.”
He turned back to Jackson, moved in his direction. “Caleb Alford,” he repeated, his hand out again. “That’s it then. I’m allergic to cats.”
Jackson reached forward. “Jackson Divine,” he responded, saying his name again as well. “Here, have a seat,” he said and motioned over to the empty chair placed next to his desk. “Eve, get that cat out of here.” He pointed to the corner where Daisy, the stray cat, was sleeping.
Mr. Alford sneezed once more and sat down.
There was a pause as Eve walked over, petted the animal, and picked her up. She held Daisy under her arm and carried her out the door.
“So who is it that you’re looking for?” Jackson wanted to know.
“My great-grandfather,” came the answer.
Captain Divine glanced over at his daughter, who had returned and was wiping the cat hair from the front of her jeans, then back to the man sitting next to his desk. “When did your family first notice his absence?”
He was careful with the words he chose, but Eve could read her father. She could see the same thing he did. The man sitting in their office had to be in his sixties. His great-grandfather was surely long gone from Madrid or anywhere else on the earth for that matter. This would definitely be classified as a cold case. She took out a pad of paper to write down a few details.
“It’s been a while,” the man replied, understanding the question. “Eighteen ninety, to be exact. But I read about the skeleton that was found in the mines by those boys.”
“Did that make national news?” the Captain asked.
“Not exactly. I’ve been reading the news of this place for a while. My search has been a hobby for a number of years, but mostly from home.”
“You think your great-grandfather came here?”
The gentleman nodded. “He came here to mine for turquoise, left his pregnant wife back in North Carolina. He wrote letters.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out a clear plastic bag, placed it on the desk. “The last one is dated November 13, 1890.”
Eve watched as her father took the plastic bag, opened it, and took out a small stack of yellowed papers. He unfolded one and began to read.
“I was named for him. Caleb,” he explained. “His name was Caleb Alford. His son and grandson were both named Jessie. I was given his name, and for some reason I don’t know, I’ve just always felt connected to him somehow.” He was talking to Eve, since the Captain was reading the letters and appeared not to be listening. “When I read about the skeleton, I finally decided to quit just reading stories from home at my computer. I decided I needed to come and see for myself if it was him.”
Eve nodded. “Are you from North Carolina too?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Virginia,” he answered. “I’m from Norfolk, Virginia. Moved out of Carolina after college. Just retired from teaching school,” he volunteered. “I was in the Navy for a while, then got my teaching certificate. History and math,” he continued.
“This the last letter he wrote?” Jackson interrupted.
“It’s the last one I have,” he answered. “I don’t know if there were others after it.”
“These are in good shape,” Captain Jackson noted. “You can still make out every word.”
Caleb nodded. “My great-grandmother kept them in a cedar chest and then passed them on to her son, who passed them on to my father. He always talked about drivi
ng out here to find out what happened to his grandfather, said it was the great heartbreak of the family. But he was not well for much of his life; he died when I was a teenager. Anyway, I was given the letters at that time, and I guess when he passed them on to me, he also passed on that desire to find answers.” He leaned back in the seat. “It’s taken a while, but I finally got here.”
“You could probably do the search by yourself,” the Captain explained. “You don’t really need a private detective for this. You could just go down to the courthouse, search the mining records; there’s probably information there. And as far as the identity of the skeleton, you can ask for a report.”
He nodded. “I made a call to the medical examiner’s office. I told them I’d like to submit an example of my DNA to see if there is a match.”
“And did they agree?” Captain Jackson asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “I should have a report in a couple of weeks.”
“So, again, you don’t really need a private detective. While you’re waiting for the results from the DNA test, go over to the courthouse.”
“I did that too. I went to the Santa Fe County Courthouse, found the old mining books, even found his name. Caleb made a minerals claim with a group of six other men—about thirteen miles from here—had it staked off, legally recorded, and everything. But that’s all there was. That’s all I could find.”
“What was the date?” Eve asked, jumping back into the conversation, pen in hand.
“Eighteen eighty-nine,” he answered. “July 2, 1889. That’s three months after he left, about a year and a half before his last letter.”
“Who were the other six men?” the Captain wanted to know.
The man pulled a sheet of paper from his front shirt pocket. “Claude McCaskell, Deming Dixon, Paul Hernandez, Louis Wiggins, Jose Gonzales, and Philip Lucero.” He folded the paper and placed it back in his pocket.
“A few of those names are familiar,” Jackson noted. “Some of the families are still around.” He studied the man sitting near him. “What does your family think happened to your great-grandfather?”
Caleb turned to Jackson, thought about the question. “Is that information important to your job?”
Jackson shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I just want to know the story you’ve been believing all your life. Maybe it might help me understand what it is you’re looking for.”
“I’m looking for the truth. Shouldn’t matter what I was told.” He paused for a minute, thinking. “But to answer your question, I was told the same thing that my father was told, the same thing that his father was told: that Caleb died in the mines. That he came to New Mexico in search of turquoise, had plans to bring his wife and newly born son out here when he got settled. He was doing what every miner did, trying to strike it rich and make a good living for his family. And then something happened along the way to seeing that dream come to pass, that he fell and broke his neck or had some unforeseen accident that ended his life. That’s the story I was told.”
Jackson and Eve waited. They glanced at each other, and it was Eve who made the comment they were both thinking.
“But that’s not the one you believe.”
And Caleb turned quickly to look her in the eye. He shook his head. “No, you’re right. That is not the one I have ever believed.”
SIX
“The story sounds logical enough to me,” the Captain noted. “Lots of families got the same story yours got. And it was the truth. Those boys dealt with explosives and rattlesnake dens, and that doesn’t even call into account all the thieves and robbers that showed up in the mining heyday. It was dangerous work. Well, you got the proof with that skeleton.” He studied the man sitting in front of him.
“What makes you think your great-grandfather’s story is different? What makes you think he didn’t come out to New Mexico, crawl into one of those shoddy mines, and get killed in some sort of accident?”
Caleb fidgeted in his chair, appearing as if he was trying to decide what to say, how to explain, and then he reached up and began to unbutton his shirt. Around his neck was a long strand of turquoise beads. Even from where Eve was sitting she could see how beautiful the blue stones were. He lifted the necklace over his head and placed it on the desk in front of Jackson.
“About forty years ago, not too long after my father died, in fact, just a year or so before my son was born, this came in the mail delivered to North Carolina, addressed to ‘The Family of Caleb Alford.’ At the time the Alford family farm was being tended to by my cousins. I was the only Caleb they knew, so they forwarded the package up to Norfolk to me.” He nodded at the beads. “This was in it. No note, no explanation, no return address, just this piece of jewelry, wrapped in a piece of old handkerchief that had the initials CA sewn into a corner. I kept it, and I never told anyone except my wife about it.” He watched as Jackson held up the necklace, eyeing the stones.
“It’s a nice strand,” the Captain commented. “Looks like the turquoise from around here, over at Cerrillos. Stones are a little greener. Where was the package postmarked?”
“Madrid, New Mexico,” he replied, mispronouncing it. “I mean, Madrid,” he corrected himself.
“CA?” Eve called out, joining the conversation. “Caleb Alford?”
The man turned to her and nodded. “Seems like it,” he replied. “I remember my great-grandmother was known for her embroidery work. She added a lot of intricate details. My grandfather had a set of pillowcases she made for him and my grandmother; the thread-work looked the same.”
“You still have the handkerchief?” Jackson asked.
Caleb nodded his head. “Yes, but it’s back at the hotel. I brought it along on this trip, just not with me today.”
“You said you have a son?” Eve phrased it more like a question than a complete sentence, even though she wasn’t really sure why she was asking.
“Richard,” he replied. “He’s thirty-nine.”
There was a pause.
“I don’t see much of him since his mother died six years ago.”
Jackson glanced up.
Caleb shook his head. “In fact, I’m not even sure I know where he is. Last time I heard from him he was working on a pipeline, somewhere off the Gulf of Mexico, Louisiana or Texas, I’m not sure.”
Father and daughter looked at each other.
Caleb noticed the exchange. “I guess you think it’s weird that I’m searching for a long-dead great-grandfather and not my son.” He reached for the strand of beads that Jackson was holding out in his direction. He placed them back around his neck and began to roll the stones between his fingers.
Eve watched, noticing how he handled them much as she would the beads in a rosary, and she wondered if that was what this necklace was to him—some symbol, some form of prayer.
“I don’t think it’s weird at all,” Jackson noted.
“My son and I never really got along,” Caleb explained as if he had been asked. “He was more of a mother’s boy. And I, well, after coming back from Vietnam, I wasn’t much of a father.”
“You fought in Nam?” Jackson asked.
“Signed up for the Navy so I wouldn’t be drafted into the Army. That’s how I ended up in Norfolk.” He looked at Jackson. “You?”
“Frog, underwater demolition. Naval Amphibious Base, Coronado. But I got out in’59, before the war.”
“You guys were crazy,” Caleb responded.
“True, some of them were,” Jackson replied.
“You see any action back then?” Caleb asked.
“Nothing I really want to talk about,” Jackson replied, glancing over in his daughter’s direction.
Caleb nodded.
Eve didn’t comment. She knew her father had never talked much about his time in the service. He’d served a few years, met her mother, married and became a police officer, and settled in the Desert Southwest. She hardly remembered him talking about his time as a Navy UDT Frog as she was growing up. She had prac
tically forgotten about it.
“But I never had to deal with what a lot of men dealt with. I consider myself pretty lucky.” Jackson began rubbing his leg, something Eve had noticed him doing since the amputation whenever he felt uncomfortable.
“War is hard,” Caleb responded. “Especially that one.” He shook his head. “It took me a while, but I got some help and I got better. I think it just came too late for my son. He mostly remembers me messed up.”
Jackson nodded and cleared his throat. “So you want us to find out what happened to your great-grandfather, a miner who was here mining for turquoise in the 1890s. You want to know how he died and where he’s buried.” He was guiding the conversation back to the business at hand.
“That’s what I want,” Caleb answered. He placed the beads back underneath his shirt and fastened the buttons. “And I’d like to know who sent the strand of turquoise. Forty years ago Caleb Alford had to be long gone. So, somebody here in”—he paused, hoping to pronounce the town name correctly this time—“Madrid . . .” He looked at Eve, who smiled. “Somebody here sent this back to North Carolina, so somebody here knows something.”
“Where are you staying, Mr. Alford?” Eve wanted to know.
“Santa Fe,” he replied. “And please, it’s Caleb.”
“Okay, Caleb,” she responded.
“So, Caleb, Eve here will go over the fees for our service. If it’s all right, I’ll keep these letters for now.” Jackson held up the stack Caleb had taken from his front pocket earlier in the conversation. “I can make copies and then I’ll give them back.”
He nodded. “That’s fine. If you can’t trust a Frog, I don’t know who you can trust.” He smiled at the Captain and turned to Eve. “And I can see that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. The two of you seem to make a good pair.”
Eve began sorting through the papers, found a contract, and slid it over to their newest client. As she did that she glanced over at the Captain and, for a second, thought she saw him smile.