A Black Place and a White Place

by Patrice Greenwood

  Contrast. O’Keeffe had been a master of it.

  The soup and salad were the perfect counterpart to the rich tea food I’d shared with Angela. Even though January’s afternoon tea menu had been designed purposely to be lighter, it was still a filling meal, with scones and three sweets. The salad, especially, was welcome after that indulgence.

  Finished, I took my tray back to my suite and washed up, then braided back my hair to keep it out of the way, and headed for Kris’s office. The box I had carried up was gone from the credenza; I found it inside the storage room. Turning on both the standing lamp and the bulb that hung from the ceiling, I went to the northwest corner and got down on my hands and knees, peering at the floor.

  I had already spent a lot of time knocking on the walls in here, especially the outside walls, with no result. Gut instinct told me the floor was the place to look. Captain Dusenberry had hidden Maria’s letters under the floor downstairs; it made sense he’d do the same up here, if he had more to hide.

  Which, essentially, he’d told me he had.

  I swallowed, remembering Kris’s séance, which had taken place in the dining parlor below. Still not comfortable with that event, I focused instead on searching for a loose board.

  Unlike the oak floor downstairs, the boards here were wide, rough-cut planks of pine, probably unfinished to begin with, but some time in the past hundred and more years someone had decided to varnish them. They were now darkened with time and a good deal of engrained dust. I poked and pressed at the end of each board, but found none that were loose. Working my way from east to west along the north wall, I eventually encountered the boxes. I carried them out into Kris’s office, determined to examine every inch of the storage room floor.

  I did. No loose boards.

  Frustrated, I sat back on my heels and gazed back toward the west wall. A thin, dark line near the west wall caught my attention. I crawled over to it, and found that it was the end of a board that was a tiny fraction of an inch—maybe a millimeter—higher than its neighbor. I poked at it. Felt solid, didn’t budge. Still, it was the only difference I’d found.

  I got to my feet, taking care not to whack my head against the low side of the sloping ceiling, and went across the hall to my suite. I had a toolbox under the sink in the kitchenette, from which I extracted a hammer and a small crowbar. Thus armed, I returned to the storeroom to attack the uneven board. The end that was higher was perhaps two feet from the wall.

  Time was my friend in this case. It had shrunk the pine boards over the decades, so they were no longer snugged tight together. I was able to work one end of the crowbar between the high board and its neighbor. With a few taps from the hammer, I got the bar beneath the lower edge of the board. Gently, I pressed it back, working to lift the end of the board. It took some wiggling, and moving the bar back and forth a couple of times, but eventually I got the end of the board up about a half inch above its neighbor.

  Pausing, I set the bar beneath the board to keep it up, and went to my suite for a flashlight. When I aimed it into the gap beneath the board, I let out a sigh.

  Nothing under there but dust. I shone the light into all the corners I could see, but the struts supporting the floor ran crosswise to the boards, so the space I’d uncovered was only about a foot long. It was empty.

  If I pulled the board out, I might see more. I might also not be able to get it back in.

  Was I nuts? Tearing up the floor in my house? If I found nothing under this board, how many more would I be willing to pull up?

  Movement caught my eye. I sat back and looked at the board. Its shadow was shifting back and forth.

  I looked up, blinking at the light of the bare bulb hanging above. It was swaying slightly at the end of its cord.

  “All right, all right,” I muttered. “Might as well finish it.”

  I moved the crowbar aside, took hold of the board, and tugged it toward me. It came free with a few small “pops” of cracking varnish.

  Two more struts were now visible, one between me and the wall, and one just a handspan from the wall. I put down the board and picked up my flashlight, shining it into the spaces. Nothing between the first and second struts. I scooted closer to the wall and aimed the light into the small gap near the wall.

  Almost the same color as the boards, a small pouch of heavy leather lay tucked against the outside wall. It reminded me of the cartridge pouch worn by Mr. Quentin, the reenactor who had talked about Captain Dusenberry during the ghost tour teas we had hosted with Willow in October.

  That was another item for my to-do list: talk to Mr. Quentin about a metal detector.

  Later.

  I reached into the gap and took hold of the leather pouch. It was hard, belt leather: old and dry and dusty. Heavier than I expected. Definitely not empty. I lifted it out carefully.

  Yes, it might be a cartridge pouch, or maybe some other belt pouch. Mr. Quentin’s had a brass plate with “US” stamped on it; this one was unadorned. There were slots in the back, where a belt could thread through, but there was no belt with it. I held it in my hands, almost unwilling to believe it. Captain Dusenberry had told me to look here, and this is what I had found.

  I swallowed, then sneezed. The dust was getting to me. Leaving the tools and my flashlight, I carefully stood and carried the pouch out into Kris’s office and through to the hall. There I brushed off the worst of the dust, then took the pouch to the sitting area and put it on the table while I brushed dust off of myself.

  Sitting down, I carefully lifted the pouch’s front flap. Inside were two soft leather drawstring bags—one full and heavy, one nearly empty—and a folded piece of paper. I set them all on the table, hesitant to open them. I felt a little like an intruder, prying into these things.

  But they were mine. They were part of the house, and the house belonged to me.

  Deciding I should document them, I fetched my camera and took several pictures of the pouch and its contents. Then I began to examine them.

  The paper, which I unfolded carefully, was a marriage license issued to Samuel Dusenberry. Blank lines awaited the names and signatures of the bride and groom and their witnesses. Tucked inside it were two tickets for a northbound stagecoach.

  So he had planned to take Maria away from Santa Fe after the wedding. Maybe for a honeymoon? He wouldn’t have abandoned his post, so he must have made arrangements for someone to cover his job until he returned.

  Add to the list: check the captain’s official correspondence.

  I opened the smaller pouch, after a little trouble with the strings, which had been wound very tightly around the drawstring opening several times. Inside were two plain gold rings, one smaller than the other.

  Wedding bands.

  I couldn’t help glancing at my engagement ring. I turned the rings this way and that, looking for any engraving on the inside, but they were unmarked.

  Finally, I picked up the heavy pouch. In my hand, it was the size of a small apple. When I opened it, I found it was full of coins, mostly silver, but a few gold. Some were tiny, smaller than a dime.

  Oh. My. God.

  These might be worth a lot. So many coins! Was this the captain’s life savings?

  Carefully, so as not to drop any, I took a few coins out and spread them on the other pouch with the rings, then took more photographs of everything. My hands were shaking a little.

  This was amazing. This was a treasure! Here were all of Captain Dusenberry’s hopes and dreams. They had waited hidden beneath the floor for over a century, never to be realized.

  Why had he led me to them? My finding them wouldn’t change the past. They were proof of his intentions, but what good would that do him now?

  Was this his gift to me, simply because I cared?

  I sat gazing at everything for a while, feeling rather stunned. Finally I decided I needed to protect these items, put them away someplace safe. They belonged in my safety deposit box, actually. I would take them there tomorrow.

&nb
sp; Carefully, I put the coins and the rings back in their bags, and slid the stage tickets back into the folded license. I tucked them all into the pouch, closed it, then carried it into my office and locked it in my desk.

  Tomorrow morning, I’d take it to the bank. Better take Maria’s letters, too, I decided. This was becoming an important collection of artifacts.

  Feeling a little melancholy, I returned to the storage room. For good measure, I turned on the flashlight and peered into the little gap to make sure there was nothing else hidden in there. It was empty now.

  The board slid back into place pretty easily, and when I pushed, it settled down level with the rest of the floor. My fiddling with it had apparently loosened the fit just enough that it no longer stood proud.

  Well, if I ever needed a place to hide something secret, I had it now.

  I moved the boxes back into the storeroom, then turned out the lights and closed the door. I felt drained and exhausted, and now I had even more questions. I put away my tools, then took the camera into my office and turned on my computer so I could download the photos.

  The computer time showed 11:49. Really? Ay, yi, yi!

  I saved a copy of the photos onto a thumb drive, which I locked away with the pouch and Maria’s letters. Then I shut down the computer and went across to my suite to shower off the dust.

  3

  Idreamed of a wedding on the Santa Fe Plaza. A small orchestra was playing on the bandstand, and I waltzed with Captain Dusenberry on the grassy grounds. We were both dressed in white, though I wasn’t the bride. There was more to the dream, but I didn’t remember it after my alarm went off.

  The day was crazy busy. The tearoom was nearly sold out; reservations had ramped up that week, possibly in advance of the holiday weekend. I was on the go from 7:00 a.m. on, and only Nat’s assistance enabled me to get away long enough to take my treasures to the bank. I dusted off an attaché case that I hadn’t used since college for the occasion, using it to protect the leather pouch—which I also wrapped in a clean dishtowel—and the box containing Maria’s letters, as well as the thumb-drive of photos.

  I had to rent a bigger safety deposit box to contain everything. I winced at the cost, and at the extra time it took, but there was no question about it. These things had to be kept safe. Even more, now, I felt an obligation to consider donating them—or maybe selling them—to the historical museum. They should be appraised, I realized. Claudia Pearson might be able to recommend an appraiser, but it would have to wait. I was leaving town the next evening. On my vacation—the first in over a year.

  Returning to the tearoom, I put the empty attaché case in my office and poured myself some tea. I hadn’t told anyone about my find, not even Nat. I would tell them, but I wasn’t ready yet. I was still a bit stunned by it.

  Captain Dusenberry’s treasures had waited hidden in my floor for a hundred and sixty years. They could wait a few more days.

  Friday evening, it was already dark by the time Tony and I left Santa Fe for Ghost Ranch. We’d opted for a quick green chile cheeseburger at Lotaburger on the way out of town, saving our splurge money for the big Sunday night dinner. I sipped what was left of my chocolate malt and nudged the heater up a click as I steered my car into the flood of northbound traffic, a river of red taillights flowing into the darkness. Commuters, mostly, on their way home. Fewer cars were driving into Santa Fe.

  “Why is it called Ghost Ranch?” Tony asked.

  “I don’t know. I thought you would.”

  He shot me a mischievous look. “You’re the native.”

  “So are you. And you’re the cop. Don’t you ever have to deal with stuff north of town?”

  “Not that far north. That’s Rio Arriba County. Not my jurisdiction.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, it’s an Anglo tourist place,” Tony said as he reclined his seat a notch and shifted to get comfortable. “I figured you would have looked it up.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” I took one long, gurgly pull at the remains of the malt, then put the cup down. I was tempted to respond to the “Anglo tourist” remark, but I didn’t want to start this weekend with a disagreement. “I’m sure someone there can tell us. Some ghost story.”

  “Yeah.”

  Also, Tony was right. The book Nat had given me had filled in my knowledge. Ghost Ranch had been a dude ranch in the early 20th century, and it was primarily patronized by Anglos at that time. Rich Anglos from “back East,” specifically. White folks looking for adventure in the “Wild West.” Georgia O’Keeffe didn’t precisely fall into that class, because she was looking for solitude rather than adventure, but she had stayed at Ghost Ranch, fallen in love with the scenery, and cajoled the ranch’s owner into selling her a rather remote old adobe ranch house on the property. She’d spent several years there (when she wasn’t in New York), and painted a bunch of paintings of the surrounding landscape. This was the area through which we’d ride on our horseback tour.

  Ghost Ranch was now owned by the Presbyterian Church, and operated as a retreat and education center. Still, admittedly, patronized mostly (but not exclusively) by Anglos. Habits of thought and attitude were slow to change. Even though everyone was welcome, New Mexicans tended to think of it as a place for Anglos. A tourist place.

  Well, so we were tourists in our home state this weekend. So be it.

  Traffic remained heavy until we were past Española, then dwindled to nearly nothing. Now I noticed the moon—full, or nearly so—riding over the Sangre de Cristos to the east. Being busy driving, I hadn’t noticed it rising. Our destination was to the northwest, so we were angled away from the mountains a bit, toward some other mountains and bluffs and cliffs. Bathed in moonlight, they were silent and majestic. I remembered the book about O’Keeffe saying she’d climbed onto the roof of her Ghost Ranch house every evening to look at the sky.

  Well, New Mexico skies were amazing. The brightness of the moon washed away most of the stars, even as it painted the land in light you could read by.

  We passed the Abiquiu Inn, brightly light and nestled among tall, leafless cottonwoods that reached skeletal branches toward the moon. Its parking lot was full of cars, mostly SUVs. A large, cubic building that I didn’t remember stood to the north of the inn; the new Georgia O’Keeffe welcome center. Abiquiu proper—including O’Keeffe’s second home and studio—was on the left, up a hill, a short distance farther along the highway. The road that led to it began opposite a large convenience store: Bode’s. After that, a whole lot of empty scenery for a while.

  We drove past Abiquiu Lake, but didn’t get much of a look at it. Much lower than the road, and frequently obscured by mesas or hills.

  I almost missed the gate to Ghost Ranch on the north side of the road. It wasn’t lit, but it was tall, and the cow’s skull logo caught my eye just in time to slow me down for the turn. A cattle crossing sign just inside the gate had been augmented with a tiny, cartoon UFO, which gave me a chuckle. The road was unpaved, and the smell of New Mexico dust began to seep through the heater into the car. I drove slowly, wary of potholes, but the road was actually broad and even, well-maintained. It rose steadily; we were driving into the hills.

  A light shone out ahead, from a building up on top of a hillside to the left. I stopped in a broad, graveled parking lot that fronted the hill, looking up toward a long, low building reminiscent of a ranch house. We got out and climbed a number of irregular steps to where the comforting porch light welcomed us outside a set of double doors.

  The place seemed deserted. We stepped inside and looked around at bulletin boards, two closed office doors, a closed “Trading Post” gift shop, a closed snack bar. Straight ahead there were restrooms, which I was grateful to see, and just to the left inside the front door a brightly lit room with a reception counter. I poked my head in.

  “Evening!” a blonde woman about my age said, looking up from a book. She was white as could be and looked nothing like a ranch hand—Protestant, probably, since that
church owned Ghost Ranch. She wore jeans and a pretty sweater with geometric patterns in cream, gold, and blue. Also a name badge that I couldn’t read this far away. She got up and came forward to the counter, smiling. “Rosings?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Come on in, I’ll get you checked in.” she said, typing on a computer keyboard. “You’re the last ones tonight. Glad you made it.”

  Financial details were exchanged. I noted the name badge bore the Ghost Ranch cow skull logo and said “Debbie, Guest Services Specialist.” Something about her demeanor convinced me that Debbie was probably a Presbyterian. Along with the keycode to our room, she gave us a map of the grounds, including a confusing number of buildings and the starting points for several hiking trails.

  “You’re in the Ghost House,” she said, drawing on the map with a highlighter. “It’s just up the road right here. There’s a parking space for you right nearby.”

  “The Ghost House?”

  “That’s right. Oldest building on the ranch. There are some photos and displays on the public side of it—that’s open all the time, but don’t worry, nobody’ll bother you. And it’s on the walking tour at 11:30 in the morning. That’s free to guests, so be sure to catch it.”

  I had opted to pay more for a room with a private bathroom, preferring not to share bathrooms in the more dorm-like lodgings. When I’d called to make reservations, the person I talked to had said I’d reserved the last available room with a private bath that weekend. They had not informed me of its name.

  The Ghost House. My luck.

  “Are there any ... actual ghosts, in the Ghost House?” I asked.

  The woman smiled. “Depends who you talk to. Legends, sure. It was built by the Archuleta brothers, the first people to live here. Colorful legends—you’ll hear all about them on the tour.”

  “Legends, but no hauntings?” Tony asked.