Hidden Heritage

by Charlotte Hinger

  Sam nodded.

  “I’ll go on, then,” Dwayne said. He shook hands with Sam and headed for his pickup. “If you have any questions, you know where to find me.”

  “Is she Catholic?” Keith asked, before we went back into the trailer.

  “Yes, I’m sure. There are a number of icons, saints’ pictures, candles.”

  “Father Schmidt is out of town. At a retreat.”

  My husband is a devout Catholic, but I’m an Episcopalian, and frankly have little or no religion compared to my husband. However, we do have an Episcopal priest in the area now: Ignatius P. Talesbury. He had set up residence in Carlton County in circumstances so bizarre they had a fairy-tale quality.

  Nothing was more startling in our little Western Kansas town than to see this thin, aesthetic, gaunt-faced priest coming down the sidewalk trailed by five or six African boys, always dressed in khaki shorts and shirts. He had established an informal orphanage and through the auspices of the church had managed to dodge a plethora of regulations because he rescued African child soldiers. It was a nearly impossible job.

  When I looked in the eyes of these poor shattered souls, safe now here in America, they seemed relieved to live in the middle of nowhere with their humorless protector. But even though Father Talesbury had once been a Catholic priest, I would not ask him to call on Maria. It was hard to imagine him in the role of comforter. Rescuer, yes, but not comforter.

  Sam and Keith crowded inside the room.

  Sam removed his hat. “We have a few questions, ma’am.”

  She nodded.

  “According to Dwayne, your husband was not supposed to be at the feedyard tonight. Do you have any idea why he went?”

  “No. He got a phone call and said he had to go. It’s not like it never happens, but he didn’t have a regular night shift anymore.”

  “Did the call come in on the house phone or his cell?”

  “The house phone.”

  “This one?” He pointed toward a cordless handset lying beside her.

  She nodded and handed it to Sam. He showed her the “most recent” list.

  “I made the first one. To Estelle Simpson. The next number would be the one Victor answered. Should be from the feedyard.” She glanced at the number.“Yes, from the office. I just supposed it was the usual. Too many trucks coming in for the night watchman to handle. Or some cattle down.” She reached for a Kleenex. “I don’t pay much attention to what goes on out there.”

  “When did he get the call?”

  “It was about one thirty, I think. Look at the call log. The time should show up there.”

  Sam toggled down again.

  “One thirty-five, in fact.”

  He just said he had to go. Nothing else. His last words to me. That’s all: ‘I have to go.’” She smiled bitterly. “And then he did. And I just went back to sleep. Just went to sleep like it was nothing at all. Nothing.”

  “Who would have keys to the office to make a call from there?”

  “He didn’t need one, Sam,” Keith said. “I’ve gone out there in the middle of the night myself a number of times and checked the board to see what feed ratio cattle are getting before I go out to the pens. Anyone can get into the building and the drivers’ area or look at the whiteboard information at any time. Only Dwayne’s and Bart’s offices are locked.”

  “So this number could have been dialed anywhere inside the office?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was Victor…are you, citizens?”

  Keith looked at Sam sharply, his thoughts obviously mirroring mine. Why would Sam ask such a question? Why would it matter if Victor was a Mexican national or an American or from Timbuktu? His nationality would not matter as to how or why he drowned.

  But Keith and I silently waited for her answer without taking our eyes off her face because Sam never asked idle or speculative questions. He rarely went fishing.

  Her eyelids fluttered. “Victor. Victor’s family has always been here. He’s an American.” She swallowed. “Was. He was an American. I’m Mexican. But I’m here legally.” Something in her eyes flared. “My papers are in order and I am preparing for the citizenship exam.”

  Sam nodded and closed his notebook. “And the other men who work at the feedyard?”

  “I’m sure they are here legally. Dwayne does a good job of running his business. Victor used to talk about how lucky he was to work there. The wages are fair. The hours are long and hard, but not slave hours. Not like some places.”

  “Anyone he had problems with? Did he talk about having fights with anyone?”

  “No.” She tapped her lips with her fingers. “Not really.”

  “Not really?” Sam pressed, his eyes steady.

  “It was nothing. Some of the men made smart remarks over his being promoted so quickly. It was unusual, I think.”

  “Did it go beyond making remarks?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “Just talk. But my Victor was smart. He had a degree in agriculture economics. And he was good at math. It made all the difference. He could figure feed ratios in his head faster than most people could do it with computers. And he was an honest and a decent man.”

  Tears filled her eyes again. She pressed a tissue against her mouth, but could not stop trembling. “So decent.”

  “One more question and I won’t trouble you any more tonight. Where do all the men who work here come from? This is the county’s largest employer.”

  “A lot of the men were raised in this county. And some have come from the village in Mexico where I grew up and from other towns close by. Dwayne asked me if I knew good men who were not troublemakers or drunks and who knew how to work. He cared about helping immigrants. He knew I helped people get settled. It worked out just fine. People who had any trouble at all or didn’t want to work hard, couldn’t or wouldn’t stay. They left.”

  Sam made a quick note, rose, slapped his hat back on his head, touched the brim, and walked to the door. “I’ll go on back to the feedyard, ma’am. Keith and Lottie will stay here until Victor’s great-grandmother and sister get here.”

  “No. Not them. Neither of them like me. I don’t want them on my property. Keep them away.” Her voice trembled. A mixture of rage and despair. “Keep that witch away from me.” She dabbed at her eyes. Then her voice softened with shame. “What you must think of me. Having so little sympathy for his great-grandmother, when I know this will just about kill Francesca. Just kill her. She was so proud of Victor. Even though she’s always hated me, I wish her no harm.”

  “Maria, we don’t want you to be alone tonight.” As law-enforcement officers we certainly couldn’t prevent his family from coming over. And by the look on the men’s faces, they were as shocked as I over her refusal to call her in-laws.

  “I’m sure the whole Diaz family knows by now, but please check. I owe Francesca that much. Not to hear about this from strangers,” she said softly.

  “Whole family? I thought there was only his sister and a great-grandmother and a cousin here.”

  “Here in this county, yes. But other kin scattered around Kansas. And other states, too, I suppose.”

  “Still, you need someone here with you.”

  “Estelle Simpson is on her way. She’s my closest friend. She lives in Dunkirk. Her husband is the head cowboy at the feedyard. He’s bringing her and she’ll stay a couple of days.”

  I knew Estelle by sight although I’d never made her acquaintance. A slight jangly woman with cropped blond hair and a flair for bling, her name popped up in all kinds of places. She was an effective and popular speaker on immigrant rights. When an organization needed a program, she was the first person who came to mind. Her aggressiveness counterbalanced Maria’s softer approach to problems.

  “She’ll be here soon.”

  “Shall I start coffee? Put on wat
er for tea?”

  “No. Thank you very much.”

  Keith knew what to do. He went out to the Suburban and retrieved the rosary he kept in his glove compartment. His religiosity was an odd trait in a man who could swear like a dockhand, and in his youth was a little too swift with his fists. When he came back inside he silently showed it to her. Tears streamed down her face and she rose and went to the bedroom and came back with her own. Then we heard a car drive up.

  Estelle Simpson came up to the door. Her husband followed carrying a small suitcase. The two women hugged, wept, then Estelle led Maria to the sofa. Hugh Simpson removed his Stetson and held it across his chest. Large wet patches stained the underarms of his pearl-buttoned shirt. His oversized mustache drooped unevenly in the hot room and his tall body seemed too close to the ceiling. Deep pouches under his red-rimmed eyes said more about the depth of his grief than his mumbled “sorry for your loss.”

  Estelle and Maria couldn’t stop crying.

  Hugh fidgeted and moved from one foot to the other. “Well, goodbye. Need to get some shut-eye. Got a big day tomorrow.” Then embarrassed by the crassness of words he couldn’t take back, tears stung his eyes. “Shit.”

  Estelle rose and gave him a quick hug. “Go on now. Try to get a couple hours sleep. We’ll be just fine.”

  “This never should have happened,” he mumbled.

  Keith and I said goodbye and drove back to the feedyard. I leaned my head against the headrest. Keith kept his eyes on the road and I tried to recall what I’d heard about Victor’s great-grandmother, Francesca Diaz. The legendary Francesca Diaz.

  So Victor came from that family.

  ***

  Sam waved to us when we drove up to the feedyard. Dwayne’s pickup was no longer there. Sam wore latex gloves. I wondered what evidence he had found to collect. Our tiny county didn’t have a team of criminalists on duty. Nor would we ever have the population necessary to sustain an effective crime laboratory. A couple of years ago, I would have said that was not a problem because there was so little crime. But our murder rate per capita has risen dramatically. We now compensate for our inadequacies by calling in the KBI right at the beginning.

  In fact, I was thinking of putting them on speed dial.

  “Something?” Keith asked.

  Sam jerked his head toward a heel ridge in the dirt. “Maybe. I’ll know when I compare it to Victor’s boots.”

  The print was slanted to one side. The stride was wide and veered from side to side.

  Keith knelt and examined the prints. “There’s blood here. Just a trace.”

  Sam nodded.

  “You saw something, Sam. When they removed Victor’s body. That’s why you had him sent directly to the district coroner. What did you see?”

  “His throat. Someone tried to cut his throat. He didn’t just drown in the shit pit. He ran for it and dove in to keep someone from killing him.”

  “My God.” I pressed my hand against my mouth to quell the sudden surge of nausea.

  “Jesus. Can’t imagine anyone following him into it,” Keith stared at the filthy lagoon.

  ‘No, but I’m willing to bet they find a couple of bullets in his body, because he had to come up for air.”

  “There’s no way to trace other footprints or tire marks or anything else,” Keith said. “Not after everyone came to gawk.”

  “Only reason I noticed those footprints is because they were made by a running man and ended at the edge of the pit.”

  “And the throat.”

  “I saw that when we turned him over, and covered his head right off before we put him in the body bag so no one else would see it. No one will look at him again until we get him to Hays and the KBI is there to observe.”

  Exhausted, I stared toward the east and the bloody gauze of rainless clouds highlighted by the first rays of dawn. Soon the merciless copper sun would explode from the horizon, and beat down on our brave, struggling county filled with good people who knew how to outlast the devil.

  We had always outwitted the damned sun bent on burning us up alive.

  We were getting good at ferreting out murderers, too.

  Chapter Four

  Keith’s voice woke me the next morning. I pulled on jeans and stumbled downstairs toward the coffeepot, then headed for his office and stood in the doorway listening to his questions. He was obviously talking to Sam.

  “Anything?” I asked after he had hung up the phone.

  “Yes. It’s just as Sam suspected. There were a couple of bullet holes in Diaz in addition to that gash on his throat.”

  “They were able to do an autopsy that quickly?”

  He gave a wry smile. “Yes, they have a funny way of expecting the worst from out here by now.”

  The KBI sends a couple of observers to our county right away for any autopsies of unattended deaths when Sam calls and even hints there might be trouble.

  “God, I don’t want to go through this again. But we can’t will this away. We can’t control something like murder.”

  Keith glanced at me. I knew I looked like hell and he didn’t look any better. Our jobs were killing us. “Neither one of us can keep up this pace, Lottie. I want us to get together with Sam next week and do some serious planning. I have some ideas for overhauling the department.”

  “Yeah, well good luck with that.”

  He laughed. “Stonewall Sam will come around. You’ll see. He knows we’re overwhelmed.”

  ***

  We were interrupted by a car coming up the lane. I went to the kitchen and glanced out the window. “It’s Zola,” I called. “Today isn’t her day. What is she doing here?”

  Zola Hodson is my cleaning lady. She had come in answer to an ad when I realized I could no longer keep up my household while holding a job at the historical society and serving as the undersheriff of Carlton County. Now I couldn’t do without her managing the house.

  “Forgot to tell you,” he muttered, “she’s going to work for me a couple days a week.”

  “Zola?”

  “Yes. Turns out her estate work included animals.”

  He felt my hard look. We talked most things over. Hiring Zola without so much as a word to me had a sneaky feel to it. As though he thought I might object to his working with a woman. Chagrined, I knew I had won a major victory. When we first married, Keith’s sense of men’s work and women’s work was seared into his brain. It took a while to get him to forget gender and give competence a chance.

  “That’s wonderful. I’m just shocked, that’s all. I shouldn’t be. There’s nothing she can’t do.”

  “You think you were shocked. She answered my ad in the High Plains Journal for a part-time ranch hand and of course, when she showed up, I knew there was no way I could do better.”

  “You’ve needed more help for a long time, Keith. We’ve both needed to say ‘uncle’ and get our lives straightened out.”

  But I didn’t appreciate his hiring Zola without a word to me. Did he think I would throw a hissy fit? He had run the same kind of silent maneuver last spring, when he became a deputy sheriff behind my back. I had been livid over the underhandedness of his move. It was a done deal, made by him and Sam without discussing it with me. Worse, I knew he had made the move simply to protect me. His wordless hiring of Zola brought back memories of my week of bewildered rage before I settled down and began to appreciate his quiet assistance.

  We watched her come up the walk. Today she was dressed in light blue coveralls and work boots. Zola Hodson is the Eighth Wonder of the World. When she first came into the historical society office in a dazzling white shirt with starched crisp jeans and wearing black boots with silver tips that matched her silver hand-tooled belt buckle, I thought she looked like a model. She was whippet-thin and the answer to my prayers. I was drowning, going under from overwork. Her coal black hair was
cut in a polished wedge. But it was her high-handed Mary Poppins attitude that set her apart.

  She had nearly refused to work for me. In fact, I felt like I had to audition to get her to agree. She required nearly total control over my household including consent to call in outside persons to take care of a problem. Provided, of course, it wasn’t a very minor plumbing or electrical problem. Those she took care of herself.

  Slowly but surely, all the maintenance issues of our large three-story house were being corrected. Loose floorboards on the front porch were repaired. She found an excellent carpenter and a painter. When we’d first hired her, she’d said her English grandfather was an estate manager in Northumberland, the northernmost county, and he had let her follow him around when she spent summers there as a small child. Her great-great-grandparents had helped colonize the little town of Studley, three counties over from Carlton.

  I opened the door before Zola could knock. “Come right on in. Keith is pulling on his boots.”

  She stepped inside carrying a bouquet of marigolds. “From my aunt’s garden,” she said. “If you don’t mind the odor.”

  “I love it.”

  “I didn’t have time to tell Lottie you would be working here for me a couple of days a week,” Keith called from the back porch. “When she saw you pull up, she thought she had gotten her days mixed up.”

  “I like working here. It’s a challenge,” she said carefully.

  “You mean a mess,” I laughed.

  “Not a mess. Please don’t misunderstand me. It’s that both of you have taken too much on.”

  “It’s not our nature,” I said. “In fact, it’s making us both miserable.”

  “I know that. I’ve seen the way Keith manages his vet supplies and the way you file material. You are both organized by nature.”

  “It all came apart at the seams when we got involved with law enforcement. And that was accidental.”

  She raised her eyebrows in disbelief and walked over to the stove and turned on the teakettle with a disapproving glance at my coffeepot. Although she had never commented on the contents, she clearly disapproved of my brew, a cross between espresso and battery acid.