by Linda Seals
* * *
The next morning’s bright and unrelenting light cast blue grama grass, snakeweed, and cholla into sharp relief. A small covey of quail bobbed their way around a chamisa and streamed over a desiccated branch at the base of a weather-dwarfed juniper. Tom, Amy, and I stood outside their adobe, squinting in the sun, with steaming coffee mugs in hand. The brisk wind smelled of piñon smoke, and rattled a line of deep red ristras hung to dry against the dirt brown wall of the Murphy adobe.
After fond farewells, I drove back onto I-25 into Santa Fe and turned north through town, past the Opera and Tesuque, down the hill into Pojoaque, and on through to Española, stopping for a Blake’s Lotaburger—a greasy flat-top fried green chile cheeseburger, devoured while sitting in my car in the windy parking lot—and a Coke with ice. Yes, it was 10:00 a.m., but some things cannot be passed by. This was not my addiction alone; even at that hour, there were five or six cars in the lot in addition to my own. I was soon satisfied, and in a fog of onion breath, I headed north out of town past the Saints and Sinners Liquor Store doing a brisk business.
The highway followed the Rio Chama north until the river cut away west around Abiquiu. There the landscape spread out into a broad valley half filled by the man-made Abiquiu Lake, and flat-topped Cerro Pedernal sat in domination of the view to the southwest. A bit further north, at the iconic cow skull in a triangle sign, I turned east onto to the dirt road to Ghost Ranch, stopping along the way to gaze at the red sandstone bluffs and mesas that were awash with stone bands of orange, peach, buff, and cream.
A long circle drive led to the office, and I went inside to check in, and see if I could talk to someone who might have known Shannon Parkhurst. The woman at the front desk could help me with check-in, but not with much information about Shannon’s time there, no matter how many questions I asked.
When I persisted, and asked again about peace and justice groups using the facility, she looked irritated and said, “Oh, so many groups use Ghost Ranch, I mean, gosh, I couldn’t even begin to list them all, plus all the family groups and classes, I mean …”
“Surely you have records of who was here when?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And those would be in your computer?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, they would. But you have no right to see it!” She glared at me.
I had messed that one up, pushed too fast, was too impatient. I put an apologetic smile on my face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just interested in Shannon’s work, and I knew these groups were important to her.”
“All I know is that there are fewer big groups coming here, because of the economy and all. Now I have to work. Excuse me.” she said and turned away.
As I walked out onto the portal I thought ruefully, some lousy detective skills there, Lily. I knew I wouldn’t get any information out of her if she even had any. I’d have to find it on my own.
I walked up the dirt road toward the Agape Center, a dark brown adobe structure with large floor to ceiling glass doors opening out onto a pergola-shaded portal with a front and center view of Pedernal. An ancient looking metal folding chair was propped up against a wall, and I drug it out to sit in the sun on the portal, and enjoy the peace and the view. I didn’t really have any plan about how to go about this, so maybe sitting there with the leafy old cottonwood framing the view west would inspire me. Farther up the road I heard pots and pans clanging from the dining hall; maybe somebody there remembered Shannon?
Thinking it was worth a try, I continued up the road to the low brown building fronted with large windows and a covered portal on the west. Wooden Adirondack chairs were scattered among picnic tables under tall cottonwoods that rustled in the slight breeze. Walking around to the back, I saw two skinny teen boys smoking by a screen door that was propped open into the dirt parking lot. Kitchen sounds mingled with ranchera music, and the smell of hot grease came from inside. When the boys saw me, they tossed their smokes into a butt can by the back door, and started inside.
“Wait! Uh, wait, I was just wondering—” I called out. “Uh, do you know, uh, did you know—”
“Yo no hablo Inglés,” the taller one mumbled as he stopped just outside the door. “No hablo Inglés.” He jerked his pimpled chin toward the corner of the building. “Conchita—Conchita habla Inglés.”
A young woman in her twenties stood at the corner with her back to us, smoking; and when she heard her name, she turned and glared at us. She tossed her cigarette into the hard dirt, ground it down with her shoe, and then picked up the butt, put it in her pocket. She disappeared around the corner, her thick black hair shining in the sun.
I went after her and saw to my relief that she wasn’t actually running, otherwise I’d never have caught up with her. I called out, “Conchita? Uh, Conchita, could I talk with you?”
She stopped and looked over her shoulder, and allowed me to catch up. Her eyes were darkly ringed with mascara and eye liner.
“Look, what do you want? I’m just on my break. I don’t have a lot of time, and I really like to just walk around by myself! What do you want?” she demanded.
“Thank you! I won’t take up much of your time. I don’t even know if you can help me … I’m looking for a friend of mine’s friend.” Where did this story line come from? “Yeah, uh, this friend’s friend, mmm, would, uh —” I had nowhere to go with this. I started again. “I’m a friend of Shannon Parkhurst and I heard that she’d worked here, and I thought I’d see if I could find somebody who knew her.” Starting with the truth always made things simpler.
“Yeah, I know Shannon. We both worked up at the stables with the niños. She was way chill; not snooty like other Anglos,” Conchita said as a way to challenge me. I didn’t take the bait.
“That was a while ago. Why do you want to know?” She still looked irritated, and started walking toward the large grassy area in front of the dining hall at a brisk pace, but then indicated that I could follow.
“Did she hang around with anybody, you know, other staff or participants in the seminars?” I asked, avoiding her question and trying to keep up.
“Well, she worked at the stables a couple of months with me, and then started working at the seminars, with those groups she volunteered with. I think she even taught some classes. I still saw her around. She was only here through the fall that year, and I’m still stuck here!” She stopped half way across the field and looked at me. “And why do you want to know, señora?” Her nose flared and I could see that she was just about to get mad.
“I, uh, look, Conchita, I’m just trying to see if I can find someone who knew Shannon here.”
“And again! Why?” She started to come up in my face.
“No, no—wait. Conchita, Shannon is … did you know that … that Shannon is dead and—”
"¡Dios mio! ¡Dios mio! What? Shannon?” She looked horrified. She crossed herself, and tears came to her eyes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t give you that news very well. I’m sorry. Shannon … died, about a month and a half ago.”
“What? A car accident? Was she sick?”
“No—the police ruled that she committed suicide.”
“¡Dios mio! No way!”
“Yeah, that’s what they say. But you … you don’t think so?”
“That chica had the joy of life in her! No way was she gonna waste it!” Then her face became more troubled. “Tomás,” she whispered, “ah, bebé, you, too …”
She looked around to look at the cliffs for a moment, and then turned back to me and said in a tired voice, “I was thinking about Tomás … Tomás was her friend. He was younger than us, but a good kid, you know? Always hanging around, trying to get her attention. She was sweet to him, though. He said he went out with her, but I don’t know—”
“Can I talk to Tomás? Is he still here?” I interrupted.
“He’s dead, too.” Her face was hard now, and she looked older. I could see the lines around her mouth deepen as she turned away. “Those p
endejos got him.”
“Wait, he’s dead? Who ‘got’ him? What do you mean?”
She muttered something in Spanish that I didn’t understand, and when I looked questioningly at her she said, “Mexicans … Mexicans! Cut him up! The bastards!” She started crying, wiping the back of her hands under her eyes to stop the running mascara.
“I’m so sorry! Tomás was a friend of yours, too—”
“He was my cousin! He was 17! A kid! And they cut him up, they killed him, those fuckin’ bastards!” She looked up at the cottonwoods gleaming in the sun above her head and sighed, “I have to go back, my break is over.” She tried to dry her eyes and fix the mascara as she walked off.
“Wait, Conchita! Please—”
She turned around. “What? Look, I’m sorry about Shannon. I liked her, and I know she was your friend. But I don’t wanna talk about Shannon or Tomás no more.” She looked nervously at a white SUV with Arizona plates as it pulled into the office lot. “I don’t wanna talk about it. He lived with his tía then, Tía Regina. Go talk to her,” she said, and crossed the road.
“Regina who?” I called.
“Baca.”
