The Blue Corn Murders

by Nancy Pickard

  “But they didn’t build something just as good,” Naomi pointed out, heatedly. “And it’s not just about buildings, Madeline, it’s about ideals and struggle and community and people.”

  Madeline shrugged. “So get new ones. Anyway, who says the abandonment had to be such a tragedy? Maybe they wanted to leave. Maybe they thought they were going to something even better. I say the real question is, what was in it for them?”

  She smiled slightly, as if she knew she had dropped a discordant note into their duet, and walked calmly away from them, back toward the hogans.

  Naomi said quietly and bitterly, “So easy for her to say.”

  Before the director could rush away, Genia reached out to touch her arm. “About the children—will you pass the word along when you know they’re all right?”

  Naomi’s entire face contracted, as if her facial muscles had spasmed in pain.

  “They have to be all right,” she said in a hoarse, intense whisper. “Oh, God, Genia! I have such a sickening feeling. Is it because of Gabby, do you think? Or am I having some sort of terrible intuition about those kids?”

  Genia found one of Naomi’s hands—cold as snow—and grasped it, trying to pass along a little extra strength to help her bear whatever must be borne.

  “Please,” Naomi whispered. “Pray!”

  “I will. I am.”

  In fact, Genia had already been doing quite a lot of praying. She felt suddenly humbled by a forgiving thought: Maybe that was the reason for our silent ride; maybe the others were praying, too.

  As Naomi walked hurriedly toward the lodge and Genia headed toward the hogans, she realized she didn’t share Naomi’s awful premonition in regard to the children. But she was worried about a certain young boy named Hiroshi, and she hoped with all of her heart that wherever he was and whatever he was doing, he was not frightened, and that he had no real cause to be.

  Her more immediate concern was for the emotional welfare of Lillian Kleberg. As desperately as Genia wanted to lie down, she wanted even more to comfort Lillian. But when she knocked on the door of hogan two, Madeline wouldn’t let her in. “Lillian’s trying to sleep, Genia.”

  She retreated to her own hogan, getting there just as her remaining roommates did, too. Their first sight of Gabby’s belongings—her bed, her toothbrush sticking out of her pink plastic cosmetics case—was a blow to the heart.

  Twenty-six

  Judith literally doubled over when she entered hogan one. She said, “Oh,” in a voice full of pain, and stumbled over to sit on her bed. Then she began to cry. “I forgot—it’s all here … I forgot.” It was the first time that Genia had observed anything that looked like genuine emotion in the schoolteacher.

  Teri went over and knelt down beside the bunk with the bedroll tucked inside the covers. She began to stroke the bedroll, to smooth the wrinkles, and then she put her arms on the bed and the side of her face on her arms, and she closed her eyes.

  Genia slowly walked over to where most of Gabby’s belongings lay piled in a cheerful heap against the wall near the bed. With trembling hands and an aching heart, she began to gather the girl’s things together, to put them away in the soft-sided suitcase. At the bottom of the pile, she found an old-fashioned steno pad, folded open. Genia glanced at the handwriting. Small, legible. She saw, to her surprise and then growing dismay, her own name.

  “Genia Potter: Theft/desecration due to abysmal ignorance of N.A. history and ignorance due to underlying cultural disrespect of N.A.”

  “N.A.” must stand for Native American, Genia surmised, her breath rather taken away by her discovery. Gabby was obviously referring to Genia’s artifacts. But how did she know Genia had taken them—unless she’d gone through Genia’s suitcase?

  Genia flipped forward, then backward through the notepad, discovering all of their names there, and a heading: “Story Ideas to Submit to Editors.”

  “Teri Fox/Judith Belove: Teachers/drugs/influence on young people/misuse of sacred medicine for selfish ends.

  “Madeline Rose: Reservations as real estate. Location, location, location! The profit in cynicism!

  “Lillian Kleberg: Perverting the sacrifice!

  “Martina Alvarez: The only good Indian is a dead Indian!

  “Susan Van Sant: White dreams mean Red nightmares!

  “Naomi O’Neal:”

  There was nothing written beside Naomi’s name, and Jon Warren’s name wasn’t even on it, so Gabby hadn’t gone completely around the original Talking Circle.

  Behind Genia, all was quiet.

  When she glanced back, she saw that Teri lay on her bunk with her eyes closed. Judith was slowly brushing her hair, staring into her own face in the mirror.

  Slowly Genia closed the notebook and put it away among the dead girl’s other belongings. They hadn’t been people to Gabby, Genia realized with regret, so much as they had been “story ideas,” grist for the mill of her profession and her obsession. She suspected that Gabby would not have hesitated to write any of those stories, at whatever cost to the target. How far would she have gone to make her point? Far enough to endanger Judith and Teri’s jobs? Their reputations? Far enough to embarrass any of them, including Genia, who already felt bad enough about letting her cattle walk all over a prehistoric site for years and years?

  Yes, Genia thought, she would feel completely justified in her actions. She wouldn’t give us a second thought. She imagined how easily the pure joy, awe, and reverence of her own moment of discovery could be made to look arrogant, uncaring, mercenary. And it was true that she was “abysmally ignorant” of the people who’d left the treasures, just as she’d been ignorant of the laws now protecting them. There was at least a kernel of truth in all of Gabby’s “story ideas,” no doubt, and that was what made the list so unnerving.

  I hadn’t stopped to think, Genia thought, as she remained sitting beside Gabby’s belongings, that Gabby, as a writer with an obsession, could be dangerous.

  Dangerous?

  Surely the word was too strong, melodramatic even. But Genia ran down the list in her mind’s eye and thought: No, I’m right. Dangerous is the word for it.

  She felt as if she’d had a near-miss from public humiliation, and she disliked having that feeling undermine her genuine shock and sorrow over Gabby’s death. What would the other women think of this? she wondered. And then she decided: They will never need to know.

  She piled one of Gabby’s sweaters on top of the steno pad. No need to stir up a hornets’ nest of resentment. Gabby is gone, along with whatever threat she might once have posed to anyone at all.

  Twenty-seven

  By suppertime, there still had been no sign of or word from the student group. An undercurrent of fear and dread was beginning to run through the campus like a stream about to overflow its banks. Where were they? Everyone was aware that the children were supposed to have been that day in the same vicinity where a woman had been killed. When had she been killed? Before they arrived? Today, or last night? After they had left? Had they seen Gabby’s body? Was it true, as the hiking group had reported, that there had been no bedrolls or other kids’ belongings near the deadly kiva? The kids and their adult leaders seemed to have scattered their things two-thirds into the empty city but no farther. Maybe they hadn’t seen her. Surely they hadn’t seen her, or they would themselves have returned to the campus and reported it.

  Where were they? The suppositions and rumors flew.

  At seven o’clock and again at eight, Naomi attempted to quiet things down by holding public meetings in the dining hall. She announced that according to law enforcement officers who were still waiting or working at the ruins, the sleeping bags were also still waiting for their young owners to arrive. As the night slid down the Rockies and covered the valley with a dark, cool blanket, the word was going out across the Four Corners area to other law enforcement agencies, ranging from federal to tribal: Keep an eye out for three golden vans carrying teenagers and the logo of the Medicine Wheel A
rchaeological Camp.

  The first time she addressed the gathered diners, Naomi stood at the head of the large room and said, “Their schedule was that they would tour Three Pot Cave and Joseph Mesa yesterday, and then camp on top of Antelope Ridge. This morning they had a lecture at their camp and then they were to travel to Red Palace Ruins to plant their sleeping bags for our women’s hiking group to find this afternoon.”

  Heads turned to stare at the table of women, where Genia sat. There were about forty men and women eating in the dining hall that night; from overhearing snatches of conversation, Genia guessed they included a couple of different groups of other tourists who were participating in digs, no hikes. She intuited the presence of a handful of field archaeologists as well. They all knew about the death, about the group of teens who hadn’t shown up and why they were supposed to. The campus was awash in talk, speculation, and rumor about little else. Now all of them, tourists and scientists alike, turned back toward the sound of the executive director’s voice. The room was so quiet—except for Naomi’s words—that the clattering from the kitchen came through clearly, like a discordant percussive accompaniment to the information being delivered. A faint undercurrent of classic music emanated from the kitchen.

  “After that, they were to drive to the Long Neck digs for exploration and climbing, but they were to meet us back at the Red Palace Ruins by three. We were to combine groups there for discussion led by Dr. Van Sant. After that, our women’s group would come back here, and the kids would travel to their next campsite, on the south side of Willoughby Canyon.”

  She paused, then hurried on. “They never showed up for the meeting at Red Palace. They also have not shown up—at least not yet—at the Willoughby campsite.”

  Genia glanced at a big round clock on the east wall: seven-ten P.M. Others did the same thing, and a man called out, “What time were they supposed to get there, Naomi?”

  “Around five, five-thirty at the latest. I sent two interns over there with a borrowed cellular phone to wait and call us the moment they show up.”

  “They’re only an hour and a half late,” someone said, “at most.”

  “No,” Naomi corrected him. “They’re four hours late, if you start the count from three o’clock this afternoon.”

  Lillian Kleberg spoke up. “Doesn’t Jon have a cell phone with him, Naomi?”

  “No, we’ve been trying to avoid the expense, Lillian. If I buy one, I’ve got to buy twenty, one for everybody who travels away from the campus. We figured we’ve gotten along without them—”

  “Shortwave radio?” someone called out.

  “No, no.” Naomi looked defensive, harried, exasperated. “They’re in three vans, for heaven’s sake. If one breaks down, that still leaves two others to go for help. There are still gas stations and pay phones in the world. We can’t outfit every one of our vans with phones, faxes, and modems, you see.”

  “I was just asking,” the man said apologetically.

  Naomi was immediately contrite. “I know.”

  Her sarcastic tone had not set well in a room where her audience’s questions sprang for the most part from simple concern and curiosity. She seemed to sense that now, and to hear the sound of her own explanations. She made a weary, self-deprecating grimace, as if in apology.

  “Right now,” she admitted to them, “I would gladly take the cost of one damn cell phone subscription out of my own salary.”

  It was like a press conference, Genia thought.

  “Do the parents know?”

  Naomi whirled toward the questioner, a haunted look appearing on her face. “I’ve spoken to the headmaster. I’m to call him every half hour until they show up. I am leaving the question of parental notification up to him.”

  Parental notification.

  It sounded so formal, so final, Genia thought, with an inner shudder, and she observed a similar reaction mirrored on the faces around her.

  “Jesus!” One of the men whom Genia had privately identified as an archaeologist muttered at a nearby table. “How can you lose three vans full of teenagers?”

  “God, those poor parents,” Judith said beside Genia. “If it were my kid, I’d be on the next plane up here. I’d be camping on Naomi’s doorstep.”

  “I’d hate to be that headmaster,” Teri said with feeling. “How’d you like to make those calls?”

  “If Naomi were Japanese,” Madeline said, looking indignant, “she’d commit hara-kiri. I mean, she is in charge, after all. It’s her job to see that these trips are safe enough, especially for children.”

  “Accidents do happen,” Teri responded. “She’s only the director, not God.”

  “Nobody even mentioned Gabriella,” Lillian murmured, though no one appeared to hear her except for Genia, who squeezed her hand. When she looked at Lillian, she was disturbed to find on the older woman’s face an expression as haunted as the one on Naomi’s. It looked like naked fear. And misery. “Oh, Lillian.” Genia held on firmly to the woman’s hand, unable to think of anything both encouraging and true to say to her.

  “What about Gabriella’s parents?” Lillian whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “Who made that phone call? What about the people who cared about her?”

  “Do you want to ask Naomi?”

  “Yes, I do. But not here.”

  But the heretofore silent woman who was seated on the other side of Lillian now spoke up, although in a surprisingly quiet tone of voice. “You don’t have to ask her.” It was Martina Alvarez, ramrod straight in posture, clipped in speech, haughty of expression. “I’ll tell you what you need to know. It was I who spoke to the girl’s parents.”

  To the surprised—and openly appalled—looks on their faces, the trustee shrugged, an almost imperceptible roll of her thin shoulders. “It is vital that these things be done in the correct manner. However unpleasant the implication, we do have to be always on guard against the likelihood of lawsuits.”

  Genia thought, despairingly: Lawsuits! Never before had the culture of blame seemed to her to so clearly be a corruption of the honest strength, power, and grace of grief.

  Twenty-eight

  “There’s a Harvard Moon again tonight,” Genia observed to Lillian, as they walked toward the circle of chairs that Teri and Judith had set up in the meadow.

  When Lew and Genia Potter had lived in Boston, their youngest daughter—four at the time—had heard the grown-ups speaking of an unusually beautiful full moon, and the child had thought they were calling it a “Harvard Moon.” It had ever after been a Potter family joke. Lew, especially, became inclined at odd moments thereafter to burst out in tuneful baritone, “Shine on, shine on, Harvard Moon, up in the sky.”

  Genia told Lillian the family story. It made the other woman laugh, which was exactly Genia’s intention in telling it.

  At the Talking Circle there was one empty chair again.

  But all of the rest of the women were there: Teri, Judith, Madeline, Lillian, Naomi, Susan, Genia, even Martina.

  The haunting music—flutes and drums—played once more.

  “I’ve thought of a question,” Genia began, “a topic, for all of us to answer, if you like the idea of it. It’s this: If you could now say anything to Gabby, anything at all, what would you say to her?” She gazed around the circle. “What do you think of that? Do you have other suggestions we might consider?”

  Nobody did. They agreed it was a good question for them.

  She passed the blue corncob to Teri Fox, who sat very close to her side, as if seeking comfort.

  This time everyone took a turn to speak.

  Teri said, “Gabby, you were one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure you knew that, so that’s what I would tell you, that you’re very beautiful. And … it was good of you to feel so deeply about other people’s problems, and … I’m sorry.”

  Lillian also said, crying, “I’m so sorry, Gabriella. I wish I could have saved you. If I had run a little faster, shouted a little loud
er, maybe I would have. You reminded me in many ways of my daughter. I know life was hard for you and that you suffered things deeply, just as my daughter did. I’m so sorry it had to be this way for you.”

  Judith said in a carrying voice, “I wish I hadn’t laughed at you, that’s what I want to tell you now. And I want to say that you meant well. You cared more than any of us. You were a serious and well-intentioned person, and I think I envied your passion. I’m really sorry.”

  Madeline’s voice was tight as she said, “I didn’t know you at all, and I thought you were kind of an idiot.” Across the circle Teri Fox gasped. “Well, I did. And I think you were especially an idiot to get high and end up out there in that kiva. If you’d had any sense, you wouldn’t be dead.” She shrugged, a gesture that was familiar to them all by now. “Nobody likes what I said. Nobody ever does. But it’s the truth. Sorry, kid.”

  Alone among them, Martina Alvarez had been nodding approvingly. Now she said, “I also would tell you the truth, Gabriella. It is true that you were an exceedingly foolish young woman. Perhaps you didn’t deserve your fate, but you might have avoided it, had you thought and behaved in a more mature, judicious manner. I make no apologies for speaking the truth, either to the living or to the dead.” Her severe tone seemed to take on greater meaning as she added, “I pray your death is a lesson to others in their own dangerous foolishness.”

  Naomi’s face wore a woebegone expression as she said, “I feel responsible, Gabby. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, for a lot of things to do with you. May you find peace and happiness, wherever you are.”

  From Susan: “Godspeed. I’m sorry.”

  Genia spoke at last. “I thought you were a sweet child, Gabby, and I saw how kind and thoughtful you could be. I hope you didn’t suffer. Like Lillian, I, too, wish I could have caught you and stopped you last night. I hope there’s a heaven, my dear, and that you’re in it. I hope you know—somehow—how much sadness there is tonight on your behalf. I will remember you with affection.”