by Susan Slater
+ + +
The ten-thousand-square-foot house, impressive and almost overpowering, was not half as awesome as the gardens and terraced landscaping surrounding it, Julie thought. She was always most impressed by what someone designed for the exterior and, in most instances, this was an afterthought. Yet, Connie had planned every inch.
Perfectly marked Koi, bright red-orange and black spots on glistening white, lazed in deep pools or swam along connecting moats that circled the house and paralleled the driveway. A stone amphitheater, fireplaces, natural rock walls, and arched gateways connected the outside living areas—and everything blended with nature. Color was provided by six-foot tall urns and squat, five-foot-diameter round pots in muted clay tones of tan and green and mauve. Some of the groupings were fountains with bubbling sprays of water cascading over their sides. Bronze statuary—life size figures of Apache women and men drawing water, riding horseback, and gathering wood—formed a silent community on a raised stone dais a quarter acre square.
To some, the desert was just one unending dull, crisped-brown panorama. Others could see the beauty and enhance it. There was a starkness about Connie’s landscaping that supported the cholla, prickly pear, juniper and piñon that crowded the edges of her property and stretched to the base of the mountains—at least her style wasn’t in competition with nature. No false ironwork or, worse, razor wire on chain link.
Their walk took them full circle and back to the garage. Connie left her to pull out the Range Rover, and they were both seated in the car before Connie turned to her.
“What did you think? Will I rival Mabel?”
Another reference to leaving a legacy. Odd, Julie thought, but added, “There will be no comparison.” It was the truth. What she had just seen would make a perfect museum—outdoors and in.
“Before we go to the office, I’d like to show you the project. I’ve taken a thousand acres from the original ten thousand acre land grant and planned it for an exclusive community. My house sits outside the compound but less than a mile from the entrance. We have six houses under construction at the moment—one nearing completion that’s sold. My house is the prototype. Each house will have five to ten acres of land—a good amount of separation between residences and landscaping that will carry out the theme of shallow canals, stonework and statuary. I have the architect on retainer—and his designers. The community is guaranteed to be exclusive.”
“Where is the lodge from here?” As a child, Julie had spent a few summers and one Christmas vacation at Skip’s infamous retreat where it was rumored the land was “salted” with elk and every hunter had to push animals out of the way to get a shot at the one he wanted. People stood in line to get invited.
“About two miles beyond the project. I’m thinking of razing the lodge. Old plumbing, drafty construction, someone vandalized the kitchen—it would take too much to restore it, and it’s not the image I want for the subdivision. Tranquility, not the bloodshed of hunting, is what I’m striving for.”
The arched entrance with the Land of Enchantment logo loomed up out of the desert floor, a combination of rock and bronzed plaque. Shiny green piñon clustered to each side, trees some twelve to fifteen feet high.
The first house on Julie’s left was set a quarter mile back from the road and appeared to be the one near completion. The vast red-tiled roof seemed to stretch forever.
“How big is the house?”
“Approximately 6,500 square feet.”
Connie turned into the winding drive. “I should have neighbors before Christmas, if all goes well.” She slowed the Rover. “I should tell you there’s a lawsuit pending. A neighboring pueblo is claiming this land and some of the federal forest adjoining as sacred tribal land.”
“But this land has been in your family for years.”
“Tribal offices came forward with new evidence that this ten-thousand-acre strip was originally part of the government’s gift to them.”
“Can they do that? I mean after so long?”
“They can and did. I expect there will be a hearing and, in the meantime, my hands are tied. It’s not going to stop me from advertising. This is just something that will slow us down—not shut us down.”
+ + +
The land office was on Juan Tabo, a street that once marked the easternmost perimeter of Albuquerque but not any more. Connie’s endeavor held the first floor of a modest faux-adobe building stuccoed a sandy brown with red brick trim around the top. Plainness proved to be on the outside only—the furnishings were exquisite. Hand carved doors, conference tables, credenzas, beaded cradleboards, framed early photos of Apache life, a buffalo rug with its leather side painted covered one wall. What surprised Julie was that Byron CdeBaca came out of the executive office to greet them.
“Byron is chairman of the board. You remember Julie?”
“Of course. Welcome. I’ve set up one of the offices for you. Great to have you with us.”
Bullshit. This was not a man doing somersaults over her joining the group. This was a man who barely met the laws of civility. The smile was pasted on and the handshake forced. Byron was probably mid-fifties, the oldest of Skip’s children and a lawyer, if she remembered correctly. And the child that looked most like his father—dark hair slicked straight back. A tie tack and two rings sported diamonds of a carat or more. Jeans, a leather bomber jacket, and hikers completed the “look.” Must be casual day, Julie mused.
“When will you be joining us?”
No time had been set, but the sooner the better. “I thought I’d be here in the morning.”
“I’d like you to brief Julie on the suit,” Connie said.
“Sure.” Byron turned and led the way to a large office at the back of the complex.
This was where good taste stopped and garishness took over. The office suite was brightly varnished golden knotty pine with a cherry wood floor. Furniture was black leather and the desk teak, yet another color of wood—expensive, modern, with svelte tapered lines and an inset of bird’s eye maple crisscrossed the top. Nothing could be less right for a room that looked like the inside of a barn. The conference room adjoining the office was dominated by a long carved oak table—yet another color of wood stain. Looking like the hand-carved door to a monastery, the twelve Stations of the Cross were preserved under glass. A built-in espresso machine, liquor cabinet and glassed-in, locked corner cabinet filled with silver jewelry made the room with its twelve roller-adorned chairs oppressive. Julie took a deep breath—it felt as if even the air was crowded.
Byron grabbed a folder of papers off his desk and flopped it on the table before taking a seat at one end. There was no invitation, but Julie rolled out a chair and sat about halfway down the left side. She had some kind of instinctive need to distance herself from this man.
“Haven’t the boundaries of this land been cast in stone?” Julie wasn’t an expert on reservation boundaries but knew most had been in place for a couple hundred years or more.
“The people in the Sandia Pueblo have been living in the Rio Grande Valley north of what became Albuquerque for centuries. Actually the crown of Spain set up the land grant in 1748, giving the Sandia Pueblo certain acreage and a 10,000 acre packet to the CdeBacas. A little over a hundred years later in 1859, the area was resurveyed under the terms of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. It’s this survey that’s under dispute. Supposedly, the government surveyor, Reuben Clements, couldn’t get anything right. All three tracts of land surveyed under the treaty had errors. In our case, whether the error was misunderstanding the pueblo’s eastern edge as the foothills of the Sandia Mountains rather than its crest is the crux of the argument.”
“What can be done now?”
“The pueblo is asking that Clements be judged incompetent and the survey set aside.”
“After more than a hundred years?”
“Exactly. One Reuben Clements has cost us a lot of money from the grave.”
“But the very top of the crest is governmen
t land—a national park—under the jurisdiction of the Forest Service, isn’t it?”
“The suit names the government as well. It seems the Indians have been charged for permits to harvest ceremonial plants. Dad used to just look the other way. Nothing was ever disturbed. It wasn’t like they were stripping the land, but you can imagine the Indians are a little pissed—hasn’t helped our cause, believe me.”
“What would happen if the pueblo was given back the land? The lodge, the houses that you’ve built?”
“They’ve indicated that they might overlook the six houses under construction and Connie’s. But who wants to live literally inside the jurisdiction of another government—new rules, new taxes—they would be under the jurisdiction of the tribal courts.”
“What about the one house that you’ve sold? How does the owner feel?”
Byron fiddled with a pen, screwing the point in, then out, then in—“the deal falls through. Dr. Swanson has a clause in his contract.”
“But what are the chances of the courts awarding the land to the pueblo?”
“I wish we had a feel for it. There was a time when I would have said, no way; now, frankly I don’t know. The climate is different.” Byron turned to pick up a newspaper clipping off of his desk. “The New Mexico Conference of Churches has just come out supporting the pueblo. Free front-page space for their diatribe on equality and supporting Roman Catholic interests. They get attention and make us out as the bad guys—the ones holding out, depriving the Indians.”
“We’re not giving up.” Connie leaned forward, opened the folder in front of Byron and pulled out a map. “Earlier this year we offered them a plan that gave them veto power over any new building. It was suicide for our plan of a special community. But it would get things moving again. We offered to let them use our land, tolerate the six houses, grant us an easement to run electrical power across the reservation, and they would have the final say as to how the land was to be used.”
“That seems generous under the circumstances.”
“A couple state senators stepped in and objected, said it would lead to more lawsuits,” Byron added. “We’re back to square one.”
“How many houses were you planning to build originally?”
“Our plan calls for fifty. Look.” Connie slid a map toward Julie. “Right now, the six we’ve started are here. We had hoped to place the community no further east than this.” She pointed to a boundary barely making a dent in what Julie assumed was a map of the entire ten thousand acres.
“We could reduce the size of the lots, but we wouldn’t be offering the kind of exclusive development that Dad and Connie envisioned,” Byron said.
“There’s another hearing tomorrow. Julie, I want you to attend,” Connie added.
That made one person in the room who did. Julie hadn’t missed the frown that lingered as a crease between Byron’s eyes.
“I’ll be there.” Was it her imagination or was there a twitch of muscle in Byron’s right cheek?
The rest of the tour included a stop at Julie’s office—a small but wonderfully tasteful room with three narrow floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing an inner courtyard filled with sculpture and fountains—obviously, Connie’s touch.
“As long as we have the time and the Range Rover, let’s go take a look at the lodge on our way back to the house,” Connie suggested.
+ + +
People who had never been to New Mexico couldn’t understand that the desert had mountains and thick forests. Julie marveled at how quickly they were above the city and off pavement, heading upward through the pines. The Rover was a blessing and didn’t falter as Connie took the off-road vehicle higher.
“Is all this part of your land?”
“Every bit of it. Beautiful up here, isn’t it?”
The road wasn’t much more than two tracks, but the Rover made it seem smooth as it effortlessly climbed over chunks of rock and rough dirt embankments.
“We’re almost there. I’m going to get out at the next turn. It’s that time of year—I need to check the propane tanks. If they need to be filled, I’ll get the truck out this week. Byron still invites friends to hunt. Drive the Rover down about a mile and a half. There’s a turn to the right and then another immediately to the left. Stay on the road; it winds back to the lodge. I’ll meet you on the front porch in twenty minutes.”
+ + +
Connie hurried along the path to the lodge. The tanks were just an excuse to go in alone. No one used the lodge anymore, and the tanks had been emptied and disconnected years ago. But the lie served a purpose—she’d bought enough time to find out what he wanted. No. Amend that to how much he wanted. He wouldn’t hurt her, knowing Julie was close by. Actually, he wouldn’t hurt her because he wanted money. If her suspicions were correct, he was here. And probably expecting her to come to him.
Only one person could have sent that skull. The man who had set her up—found her with her lover. The man hired by Skip CdeBaca to find them and put an end to what he couldn’t tolerate. Art McNamara—Mac, to her husband—grounds man, gamekeeper, guide, bodyguard, driver, confidant and murderer. When Skip died, she looked at the books, and she’d seen the withdrawals. And let them go until the last two were returned undelivered. She’d hoped he’d either died or developed a conscience about taking payoff money, but does the tiger ever really change its stripes? Her answer was looking down at her from the porch.
“Hey, squaw-lady. Good of you to come for a visit.”
She almost laughed. He hadn’t changed. Insolent with a streak of meanness. Worn cords and a flannel shirt, both threadbare at knees and elbows, his once-pale straw-colored hair now streaked silver. He would be in his mid-forties, possibly a bit older but still over six feet without a slouch or pound of fat. Whatever he’d been doing, he stayed in shape. Heavy-lidded eyes and a full mouth that would be sensual on someone else just made him look pouty. But his eyes, deep-set, dark and small gave him a feral look that made her shiver. A peccary or javelina. Would she be this brave without Julie—knowing she’d be there in minutes? She didn’t think so.
“Hi, Mac. I figured you were back.”
“Didn’t you like your present? The heart was my little addition just in case you didn’t recognize who it was.”
Connie stopped at the bottom of the wide expanse of wooden steps—four up to the porch that circled the lodge’s front. She loathed this man and the depth of her hatred shocked her. Maybe she hadn’t been ready for confrontation. Funny how impending death gave one a false bravado.
“Was there supposed to be some special meaning? I’m sorry if I missed it.”
“Oh sure, bitch, like you didn’t know whose skull you were holding in your hands. The head of the man sleeping beside you that night. The man who made a fool out of you. The man who needed to be taken care of.”
Connie reached out to a banister and steadied herself. She wanted to clap her hands over her ears to shut out the memory of the screaming—her screaming, begging Mac to spare him. But Mac dragged him off the bed, struck him as he tried to stand, staggered him and punched him again for good measure. She remembered Mac holding the gun to his head, her jumping onto Mac’s back only to be flung aside. And then Mac saying he had a better idea—“I’ll make you kill your own lover.”
He grabbed her hands, wound the cord from the blinds around her wrists and with his hands over hers held the gun in place. And then the shot—point blank. The gun in her own hands. Her index finger held to the trigger. A pocket gun, small and innocent, all chrome and blackened grip; until the blast, she’d actually thought it was a cap pistol, that it was all an act. Mac would rough them up, put the fear of God into them and then go away. Just something to scare her? And him. Teach them a lesson. But never murder. Too brazen, too final … too incriminating. But couldn’t anything be covered up with money?
Over and over, she heard Skip saying, “You can’t do this to me; you belong to me. You’ll have nothing. I’ll take it all away.” The s
hot preserved her world, kept her by her husband’s side and the bullet never even came out the back of his head. A 25 caliber short that burned through the pulp of that brilliant mind and erased it.
“What do you want?”
“Gotta admit that it takes guts to come out here alone.”
“First, you’re not going to kill the golden goose and second, I have a friend who will be bringing a Range Rover up that drive in about ten minutes.” She thought there was a flicker of surprise as his eyes darted to the drive and beyond. “So, why the calling card?”
“I figure you and me need to do some business. I don’t think you want anyone to know the particulars about that skull,” Mac said with a sneer. “I still have the gun with your prints.”
“And the cost for withholding the information?”
“Two years advance salary—let’s say, $150,000—and leave the lodge standing. I’ll move back as caretaker.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“No, we’re going to get this settled now.” He jumped to the ground, clearing the four steps, and towered over her. “The deal was for the rest of my life.”
“You know what they say—you should have gotten it in writing.”
“Skip wouldn’t have screwed me.”
“You got paid to dispose of the body. And you didn’t do a very good job of that.”
He was quick. She felt rather than saw the hand grab her throat and tighten, then release.
“It would be easy to kill you.”
“I think my being alive better fits your needs.”
“Maybe I should just kill your new lover.”
“Lover?” What was he talking about?
“Your fire dancing man. You think I don’t know what goes on down there?” He flicked a hand in the general direction of her house.