“Starting a regional crime center is not subject to a vote.” Dimon finally lost his temper. He managed to keep his voice under control, but his face flushed. “This is a legislative decision. It’s not up to you.”
All hell broke loose. I knew how these “come let us reason together” meetings could go, but Dimon didn’t. He clearly could not think of how to regain control.
Keith rose, glanced at the agent with something akin to pity and strode to the front of the room. He glanced at me, and with a tiny movement of his head made a silent apology to Sam for taking the place that he probably should have assumed. But Sam gave a slight shrug and there was an amused glint in his eye over the hole Dimon had dug himself into.
I sat with my arms crossed. It was certainly not my place to ride herd over this makeshift mob.
“Stop it, right now,” Keith said. “This is a bunch of crap. In case any of you have forgotten, a man was murdered right here in this county. An ugly death.”
Dimon looked like a drowning man who had just been thrown a life saver.
“Now, Agent Dimon, do you have anything more you would like us to know? Something you want to ask us?”
Dimon nodded at Keith who then walked back to his seat.
“Gentlemen, although I appreciate your sense of justice and willingness to stand by your neighboring counties, the fact remains there’s been a serious crime here. And none of you have the skill or resources to solve it.” The room fell silent.
I glanced at Sam. One of the shrewdest men I knew. Too smart to start a public brawl. But I knew that look. It was the same one on his face when he was studying how to break a prisoner. Dimon would regret slamming this man’s skill.
Dimon braced his hands on the podium. “And I’ll guarantee you that someone is making money out of it somehow, because they for damn sure didn’t do it for love. It’s hard to imagine that there is any power to be gained by being king of the feedyard. I’m going to delay further discussion about the regional crime lab until you’ve had time to consider the advantages. I apologize if this has been too much, too fast. It’s a lot to take in.”
Deeper and deeper. We were too dumb to think very fast. Too dumb to understand when we did think.
“Instead, I want you all to ask around in your own communities and let us know if you can learn anything about the murder of Victor Diaz.”
“And that’s it?” Keith asked. “That’s all you are going to do? Have us ask around?”
“It’s all we can do, Keith. We’ve processed all of the forensic evidence with zero results.”
“So we are on our own?”
“That’s about the size of it. Now, unless someone has more questions, I don’t have anything else to add. Basically, just keep your eyes open and let us know at once if there is anything we should know. Do not try to confront anyone suspicious. We’ll be out here is a flash if anything comes up.”
We rose and silently headed for the door.
“Miss Albright, would you stay a minute longer.”
Certainly.” I looked at Keith and shrugged.
When everyone had left, Dimon shut the door. He still looked shaken.
“Lottie, we want more information from the records at the feedyard. In the meantime, go back to collecting family stories and concentrate on the Mexican families in this area until you hear from me. Will that work?”
“Yes. In fact, I was already planning to appeal to immigrant groups that settled here in colonies. The French, the Bohemians.”
“Terrific. Now it won’t look like we’re paying special attention to the Mexican community. Start building profiles of the families here in this county. Since Maria Diaz helps bring families into the United States I want to make sure there is no connection between her activities and her husband’s death.
“Okay. That shouldn’t be too hard.”
We said goodbye. I felt as though I had won a great victory. It was the first time he had called me “Lottie” instead of “Miss Albright.”
Chapter Ten
Back at the historical society the following Monday, I appealed to immigrant groups through my monthly column. Then I laid out an ad asking for stories from residents whose ancestors had settled in Carlton County.
Tell us your grandparents’ stories. Were your ancestors discriminated against because of their ethnicity? Who were their friends? Their enemies? If your heritage is Volga German, Bohemian, African American, French, or Mexican, share your family story with the Carlton County Historical Society.
When I was satisfied with the wording, I carried it down to the paper and asked the editor, Ken McElroy, to send the bill to the historical society.
“Any new information you can give me about the killing?”
Ken couldn’t stand not knowing everyone’s business, although I supposed a local murder was fair game for someone who fancied himself an investigative reporter. Pale, slight, with a harmless appearance, Ken had just enough hair to keep from being referred to as “balding.” His light blue guileless eyes fooled people into thinking he could be trusted with every little secret.
“Nope. I’m afraid not.” I reconsidered. Perhaps, it would be better to give him a tidbit. Something to take the edge off his curiosity. “And the KBI…”
“Rumor has it that the KBI has tucked its tail between its legs and skedaddled back to Topeka?”
He had cleverly framed it as a question, wanting me to confirm the coffee shop gossip. Hell, why not? I hoped he didn’t read too much into my bitter smile.
“Right now, I’m afraid that is more or less the case. But I’m sure they are keeping a close eye on people out here.” There. I was becoming really good at telling just enough of the truth to appease my conscience without giving too much away.
If I got any better at it, I would run for the state legislature.
“Yes, I can imagine they are,” Ken said with a little snort. A pencil rolled off the desk and he bent down to retrieve it. This was not my first rodeo. I knew he had switched on a tape recorder on his way back up. He leaned back and settled his hands across his little paunch, clearly settling in for a nice visit. Hoping I would inadvertently say something worthy of a quote in tomorrow’s paper.
“Goodbye, I’ve got to go now,” I quickly turned and walked to the door, then paused. “If something does come up—news, a change, a lead, anything at all, I will make sure you are the first to know.”
He gave another little snort, recognizing my ploy to cut off any discussion, and rose with a knowing smile. “Thanks, Lottie; ’preciate it. You know we’ll treat you right. No automatic bad-mouthing of the sheriff’s department. No matter what they do.”
“I know that, Ken.”
Monday morning brought the first response to my column. A Bohemian woman came over from the neighboring town of Hanover.
Jane Jordan carried a whole box of artifacts and souvenirs. She had brushed her neat brown hair straight back from her forehead and tamed the carefully permed curls with a nearly invisible net. “I was worried that you wouldn’t be open during the lunch hour, so I decided to bring this stuff over bright and early.”
“That’s fine.” I groaned inwardly. We couldn’t collect artifacts because we lacked the storage area. But I never passed up a chance to look through their boxes just in case there was something of historical value. Although most items would be given back to the donor before we had to record it as a contribution, I didn’t have the guts to tell them it was garage sale stuff. I left that task to Margaret, who seemed to enjoy it.
“You can’t keep them,” Jane said. “I just thought it would save time if you went through the box before we get together. I imagine you’re busy too.” She wore navy double-knit pants of the kind of fabric that lasted at least ten years. Her coordinated white-and-navy print blouse had a soft self-tie bow at the neck. I suspected she had never done anything unconv
entional in her entire life.
“Perfect! That will give me a chance to prepare some questions if any of the items are out of the ordinary.”
“I work at the abstract office. All-around clerical and some research work, but not too much. In fact, sometimes I feel like a robotic copying machine operator. I would love to do what you do. Look into stuff, I mean. Oh, not as an undersheriff, goodness me.” She looked at her feet as though shocked by her own boldness. “I mean hunt up documents here in the historical society.” She covered her mouth and her fingers drummed her lips to hide her nervous half-smile. “I don’t mean to imply that I could…that I have the training, you understand.” She rose.
“We could easily use you here if you would like to volunteer.”
She sank back down on the chair and looked like she had been granted entré into Heaven. “I would be so grateful. So very grateful if I could.”
She blinked and dabbed at her eyes with an old fashioned-handkerchief with a blue crocheted edging. “They are cutting my days to four. There’s not much going on in real estate nowadays. I won’t be busy enough.”
“That’s beginning to be a common story.”
“I don’t expect to be paid, you understand. I would just like to make a contribution.”
“I’ll give your name to Margaret Atkinson right away. She’s in charge of volunteers and I know she will be grateful for the help.”
“Oh, here’s my number.” She handed me a business card from the local title search company. She rose again, then nodded toward the box. “There’s some really old letters from my great-great-great grandmother when the family was still in Moravia.”
“I don’t read Czech.”
“Neither do I. They have all been translated.” She glanced at her watch. “We open at nine, so I’d better be getting along.” She got as far as the doorway this time. “It’s a great family,” she said. “You won’t find many secrets hidden there. We were good members of any community we settled in. Quick to buy land, quick to pay for it.”
She turned back with the wistful look of someone who wanted to tell me more. Family secrets maybe, despite her insistence that there were none.
“My great-great-grandfather and his seven sons came over in 1886. They all spread out. He was an Eagle, I don’t know the Czech name for it. It was an organization of the highest order. A blending of physical and mental attainment. Sort of a fraternity, I think. I know he was very, very proud.”
“And church? Were these religious people?”
“Not my family. We believed God helps those who help themselves and after a time, I guess God just got downsized.”
God downsized! Well, there was a new perspective. She waved goodbye and hurried down the hall. But I knew we had a real find. The ideal volunteer. She had worked in the abstract office since she left high school and obviously relished locating old documents. Everything about her said she didn’t mind being bossed around. Margaret would be in hog heaven.
Relieved that I was expected to return these possessions instead of having to find a place for them, I carried the box over to a sorting table in back of the room. Her airy dismissal of God rang a bell. I went to my collection of college dissertations and located a manuscript on the reasons for the immigration of the Czech people from Europe to the United States. There was a whole chapter on religious persecution.
About half the Bohemians were Free Thinkers and hated Rome. The other half were devout Catholics.
The Free Thinkers had survived the pogroms and Crusades of Europe and were eager to come to the United States where they would be free not to believe.
I tapped my fingers on my desk, walked out into the hall, then went downstairs and stared out the heavy glass double doors. How did that work for them, I wondered, moving into a heavily Catholic county? Did they run into the same bias here? Or did the neighbors leave them alone? Restless, I turned and headed back up the stairs, eager to start on the mysterious box and see what I needed to copy before I returned it.
I barely made it back to the office when Inez Wilson, the county health nurse, flapped into my doorway like a hopped up crow. “You won’t believe this. You won’t.”
“Okay. What?” I was in no mood for her guessing games.
“She just came through the front door. She has. Swear to God she has. Priscilla said they asked where your office is. They are coming to see you.”
I waited.
“Doña Francesca Diaz. The old woman herself. Don’t know how old, but she’s lived in Roswell County forever and most folks have never seen her. She lives out at that compound. There used to be a passel of kids and grandkids. But not anymore. They say she still goes to their first house every day to do God only knows what. Her great-granddaughter looks after her. Folks say their grandparents used to go to her for cures and stuff.”
“I look forward to meeting her.”
“Now don’t go making the mistake of thinking that Francesca Diaz is like a…a…a well, you know, someone who knows about healing.” Inez leaned forward as though she had read my thoughts. “Heard tell she’s a witch and knows all kinds of stuff good Christian people have no business knowing.”
Her pager went off. “Oops. Gotta go.”
I hastily put back the dissertation and gave the room a quick shot of Febreze® to zap any lingering odor of glue. I wished the room looked more professional. Although I doubted she could tell me anything about her great-grandson’s murder, it would be my first time to talk with a woman who knew about the medicinal uses of plants and herbs. I had once heard a professor from Nebraska say that one-third of the medicine used today was present on the prairie in another form, and there was always someone who knew how to put it to use. Certainly Indian women did.
If Francesca Diaz was actually a healer, a curandera, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Overwhelmed with sadness at the thought of this woman losing Victor in such a grisly manner, I didn’t know what I could say.
She lived in Roswell County, a tiny maverick slice of land that seemed to exist apart from any other governing body. Keith had once told me the geometric shape was classified by mathematicians as a kite quadlateral. The county was occupied exclusively by the Diaz family and had been attached to our own Carlton County for judicial purposes when Northwest Kansas was first settled.
Francesca Diaz was the great-grandmother of a man who had been well known in this county. Yet, curiously her birthdays came and went without any write-ups about celebrations. One would think, even if the majority of the family was scattered across Kansas there would be big parties for special events. Or family reunions. Some kind of a blowout.
Instead she was never mentioned at all.
Chapter Eleven
Moments later, two women appeared in my open doorway. I rose. The famed Francesca Diaz, this tiny old woman, might have stepped out of an ancient painting. Her head was covered with a black lace-edged scarf. She wore a black slightly gathered cotton skirt and a black blouse. No jewelry. Her mahogany face looked like it had been glued together from strips of sun-dried beef.
It takes superb effort to hold oneself that straight. I had never seen such regal bearing in the aged. It spoke of an aristocratic childhood with bevies of aunts and tutors instructing her in carriage and manners.
“Mrs. Diaz…” At the sudden spark in her eyes, I knew I had fumbled. Used the wrong term of address. Should it have been Senora? Doña? Or should I have acted as though I didn’t know who she was? There was no going back. “Please come in. Words cannot express my sorrow for your loss.”
Both of the women’s eyes were red from weeping. “I am so terribly, terribly sorry.” Every word out of my mouth sounded inept.
“We are honored to have you visit the historical society.” Embarrassed anew by the mismatched utilitarian files and cabinets in my office, I helped the old woman settle into a folding chair
and went to the storage closet and got another one for the younger woman.
“I’m Lottie Albright and I apologize for not having more comfortable places to sit.” I gestured helplessly at the crazy array of pipes networking the ceiling, the unattractive proportions of the room. It wasn’t called “the vault” for nothing.
“I am Cecilia Diaz,” said the young woman. I glanced at her modest dirndl skirt, her high-necked blouse, her dark guileless eyes, and doubted that anyone had ever uttered a word of profanity in her presence. Or that she would understand it if someone did. Surely, no one had ever violated her dove-like gentle innocence. She then spoke to the old woman in rapid fire Spanish, who in turn gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “And this is my great-grandmother, Doña Francesca Bianco Loisel Montoya Diaz.”
I regretted that I had studied French and ignored Spanish in college. All that registered was the honorific term “Doña” which was used to indicate high birth. In years past, “Doña” indicated a member of the nobility. I would ask Cecilia to write down the stream of names later.
An image came out of nowhere: The Little House on the Prairie. A wisp of memory that dissipated like smoke.
Francesca’s eyes flared, and Cecilia laughed gently, reached and fondly patted one of her hands. “Yes, and Diaz, Grandmother. You are also Diaz.” Cecilia faced me again.
The old woman’s eyes never left my face. I gazed at her hideous hands—knuckles gnarled, with bones jutting at twisted angles, one part of a finger missing. Ruined hands, no longer capable of handwork and pleasant diversions. Embarrassed, I quickly looked away.
“I want you to find out who murdered my great-grandson.” Her words were clear and totally unexpected. I would have guessed that if she spoke at all, it would be with the harsh rasp of the elderly. But even more surprising was her unaccented English.
“You are surprised. Surprised that I speak English. We are American. My family has always lived here.”
I blushed. “Please forgive me for assuming that when you spoke in Spanish…”
Hidden Heritage Page 9
