by Ann Myers
He was right. It was fun and I wished I could know more about the long-deceased woman in the box and how he planned to find her rightful home. However, I wasn’t here for archeology or bone repatriation.
“You’re feeling better?” I asked. “I heard you had to miss the play the other night.”
He gently put the cranium back in the box. “Yeah, thank goodness! At the time, I was feeling awfully sorry for myself. Then I heard what happened. I could have ended up like this unfortunate woman.” He gave me a wry smile. “That sounded terrible, didn’t it? I feel truly terrible about what happened to Francisco.”
“Did you know him?” I asked.
The handsome consultant shook his head slowly. “Just to say hello. He worked outside mostly, in the garden and fixing up the patio and walls. I’m holed up in here or the main archives room. I feel responsible. I should have been on that roof, not him.”
Eddie, oblivious, grabbed Barton’s hand and expanded on his bones song, adding in “cranium” and the even more disturbing refrain of, “Miss Rita has a secret. Secret, secret, secret.”
Conscious of Edison’s impressionable little mind, not to mention his parroting repetition, I said, “You can’t blame yourself. Migraines don’t make appointments.”
“Still,” Barton said. “I keep thinking if only I’d done something differently. I rushed to a pharmacy to get my prescription medication, but it takes time to work and makes me dizzy immediately. I knew I couldn’t get up on that roof.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, hoping he’d forgive himself. “Who else knew you couldn’t make it?”
“Ms. Crundall and poor Francisco. It came on fast. I was working and planned to get into costume here and drive Ms. Crundall down. I felt like an ungrateful wimp begging off. It’s not like a migraine is something other people can see, like a broken leg, you know? Francisco was here fixing a table in the archives room for me. Ms. Crundall recruited him as my replacement.”
I gave what I hoped was a comforting smile. “Did you tell anyone else about the devil switch? Shasta? Someone at the pharmacy?”
Barton shook his head no. “No, I didn’t think the pharmacist would care, and Shasta had left with Dalia to help with the donkey and goat. I think I owe Shasta a bonus. I hear that she thought I was dead and was actually worried. I must not be the world’s worst boss.”
I pondered who could have found out about the devil switch. Francisco had called Lorena Cortez. Maybe he’d called someone else too. Or maybe Lorena had told Wyatt and now didn’t want to admit it. Or Wyatt could have recognized Francisco, the presumed romantic rival he’d banned from his hotel. I made a mental note to ask Manny these questions, not that I expected many answers from him.
Another idea occurred to me. What if murder hadn’t been part of the plan? Perhaps someone simply wanted to scare Barton off and set Judith on a different path, and things got out of hand. “You said that some collectors would kill for the Crundall collection. Is there anyone particularly upset that Judith is giving it back rather than selling it?”
Barton didn’t answer. He tucked the skull box under his arm and wandered down the row of shelving, tapping numbered labels as he went, Eddie skipping behind. I followed too, not skipping, and wondering how many of the neat cardboard boxes were coffins in disguise. Near the end of the row, Barton pulled out a small, slender box. “This goes off to the cataloging room, Edison,” he said, handing the box to the child. “Can you carry it very carefully for me? Whatever you do, don’t open it.”
Eddie gripped the box and took off toward the door.
“No running,” Barton called out. He and I followed. I wondered if he’d heard my question.
Barton shut and locked the door behind us. “You asked if anyone is upset,” he said. “The police assured us that they have a suspect, someone with a beef against Francisco. Do you know otherwise? Why do you ask?”
Because I can’t keep my nose out of crimes? Because I can’t refuse nice people bearing pies? “I’m worried about my daughter being in the play,” I said truthfully. “And about the other devils. There are some . . .” I searched for the right word. “There are some questions still about whether Wyatt Cortez is the killer.” Then I added, pointedly, “And if Francisco was the intended victim.”
Frown lines creased his otherwise perfect forehead. For such a clever guy with millennia of historical facts stuffed in his head, he was taking a long time to catch on. “But if Francisco wasn’t the target?” He paused. “You mean me?”
“You did say people would kill for some of the stuff in there,” I reminded him. “With you gone or scared off, Judith might change her mind about the collection. Do you know someone who might think that way?”
Barton sighed. “Someone,” he said with a sarcastic edge. “But I doubt that someone’s going to come after me with a pitchfork during a Christmas performance. A bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“You don’t know what people are capable of.”
He gave me a smile that has probably melted weaker hearts. “And you do?”
“I do. I was married to a cop, and I’ve been involved in . . . well . . . incidents around town. You shouldn’t brush off the possible danger.”
His dimples really were cute. I wasn’t about to take the handsome glow personally, though. Barton Hunter was probably the type who flirted with everyone. I used to think Jake was a serial flirter, until I realized he was aiming his charm primarily at me.
Barton thanked me for my concern and added, “Are you watching out for me? I’d like a pretty personal bodyguard.”
Saying I had a boyfriend sounded way too presumptuous. I smiled and deflected. “So who is upset with Judith?”
The dimples dimmed. Barton hesitated, as if debating whether to tell me. “It’s no one. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“But if you or another devil might get hurt, and the next performance is Saturday night—”
My anxious speech was interrupted by the door to the main archives room swinging open. I cringed for the sake of Judith Crundall’s perfect plastered walls. Shasta held a precarious stack of papers.
“More calls!” she announced, thrusting slips of pink paper at Barton. “That man from the Rosebud Reservation called again about some eagle feathers. And an elder from Ohkay Owingeh called. They’re a Pueblo just to the north of here, you know? Anyway, he thinks we have some kind of ceremonial cloth of theirs. If we do, he demands it back, like last century, and also some turtle shells that he says would be theirs, definitely not Acoma’s. If the turtles are here, he wants them back in time for the turtle dance on Christmas Eve. And that lady from Tesuque, she wants a timeline on some dress for their dance . . .” She paused to take a breath. “Long morning,” she said by way of apology to me.
Tell me about it. I’d help spark a miniature livestock stampede and pretty much agreed to look into a Satan slaying. At least I didn’t have to take Barton Hunter’s messages or work for him. The charm he’d practically oozed at Mom and me had dried up. He ticked off orders to Shasta, telling her to call the eagle feather guy back pronto. “I don’t know of those feathers right off, and we don’t have time to look for them. The turtle-shell guy’s called before, asking about other objects. He’s grasping at straws. Everybody thinks we can send their stuff back yesterday. There’s a process. Deflect, Shasta. That’s what I’m paying you to do.”
Her face went as red as her hair. For a moment, I thought she was about to snap back. I might have, but then Barton was her boss, and archeology grad students can’t have tons of job opportunities in their field.
“Fine. I’ll call them all back,” she said, pushing her glasses into a new state of askew. Then she added, with admirably low sarcasm, “Anything else? Coffee? Lunch?”
“Cappuccino,” Barton said briskly, before listing other tasks they—as in Shasta—needed to get done.
Time for me to get going too. I had my own lists to make and Mom to entertain and a teenage devil to check
on. I told Barton and Shasta I’d get out of their way. “Thanks for showing me the collection. I’ve taken up too much of your time.”
Shasta opened the door to the main archives room right at the moment Barton took me by the shoulders and kissed both my cheeks. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Mom, beaming. So much for my plans to issue a firm, professional handshake. “It has been my pleasure,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said stiffly, trying not to lean back too obviously. “I mean, thanks again for the tour. It was great.” Except for the skull and Eddie’s bone ditty and the awkward kisses.
Barton escorted me to my glowing mother. “I’d be happy to show you lovely ladies around anytime,” he said. “We’re never too busy.”
Shasta’s harried look said otherwise.
I waved to the kids. Eddie waved back. Emilie continued reading. At least she’d given up on her campaign to sue Mr. Peppers and me for buñuelos losses. I took Mom’s arm and guided her toward the door. She was gushing about how we’d both “absolutely love” to come by again, especially me. She was right. I did want to return, although not for the reason she hoped.
We stepped outside, accompanied by Shasta, Barton, and Dalia.
“Thanks again. I have to get back to work,” I said, hoping to ditch him and get Mom headed toward home. We had just stepped off the porch when a bright yellow SUV skidded into the driveway. Brakes squealed, gravel peppered my face, and I yanked Mom—hard—out of the way. She gasped, yet recovered quickly to grumble about reckless drivers. The vehicle was sporty and laden with roof and trunk racks. Thumpy bass beats vibrated the tinted windows until the driver shut off the engine and stepped out. He wore the too-big, childlike clothes of a ski dude. Baby blue nylon pants slipped below his hips and neon orange ski goggles held back a tussle of sun-bleached hair. He was probably in his late twenties and had a long, tanned nose with a characteristic dip. He raised the imperious nose, gave an offhanded “hey” greeting, and strode toward the house.
On his way, he patted Shasta on the butt. She stifled a yelp and a smile.
“You can’t park there, Trey,” Dalia said, jogging after him. “Your mother’s physical therapist is coming this afternoon. She wants to take Judith out in her wheelchair for some lung cleansing.”
“She can manage,” the man said. “I live here too, you know.”
He slammed the front door in Dalia’s face, ending their conversation.
Barton leaned close to me. “You asked who’s upset about the repatriation, Ms. Lafitte? I give you Judith’s only son, the third William Harold, better known as Trey.”
“Only son,” I murmured.
“The heir apparent,” Barton went on. “And in case it wasn’t apparent, he changed his surname to Crundall following his father’s death. The way he acts, he’s already the lord of the manor. It’s no secret what he’d do with the family collection.”
“Keep it?” I asked, already guessing I was wrong.
Barton snorted. “Only long enough to find the highest bidder.”
Chapter 10
“Your sister touched stingrays,” Mom announced later that evening. “She said they felt like wet velvet.” We were hanging out in my tiny kitchen after dinner. Mom had insisted on washing and drying the dishes. I was seated at the table, staring at my laptop. Instead of checking e-mail like I told Mom, I was Googling men. Namely, Trey Crundall, Barton Hunter, and Francisco Ferrara. If Mom took the time to polish the glasses, I’d add Wyatt Cortez.
“That’s nice,” I said, distracted. Thanks to online newspapers and Trey’s laxness about social media privacy, I’d learned that the Crundall heir was a low-ranking amateur snowboarder and ran a ski shop downtown. He’d studied at the University of New Mexico, where he’d majored in sports administration with a minor in anthropology. His extracurricular interest in marijuana legalization aligned with his police record. He’d been cited for transporting a backpack full of pot gummy bears and brownies out of Colorado. He also had over a dozen traffic citations, from speeding to driving off with a gas nozzle attached to his vehicle. In the dozens of online photos I found, he was either blissfully skiing and raising beers with buddies or zoning out in slack-jawed boredom at Crundall Foundation events. Nothing pointed to him working up the ambition to kill a fake devil.
I’d also skimmed through various news clips about Barton Hunter. He was mentioned in stories about wealthy collectors like Judith Crundall, who were doing the right thing with questionable collections. He’d served on some boards and penned opinion pieces, as well as academic articles. I only glanced at the academic pieces. His dry summary of pot shards from central Oklahoma wouldn’t drive anyone to kill, I figured. The few photos of Barton I found included him looking good in suits at posh gatherings and supervising an archeological dig as a blonder, prettier Indiana Jones.
“The kids went swimming in the ocean,” Mom said, shaking her head unhappily. “Did you know that shark attacks are quite common in central Florida? I looked it up.” She pulled open my silverware drawer with a clatter. “You need a different drawer divider, Rita. Your dinner and salad forks are mixing.”
I peeled my eyes from the computer screen, feeling guilty. I should be paying full attention to Mom. Just one more search . . .
“You’re right,” I said as I typed. “I would separate the forks, but there’s no space.”
Mom’s voice brightened. “What if we moved those bowls you have over there into the cabinet here? Then you could clear out this drawer to the left and move all your spoons there, and I’m sure you must have items we could thin out.”
My eyes drifted back to the screen, where search results for Francisco Ferrara + deadly accident awaited me. “Sure,” I said, vaguely aware that I was sentencing my kitchen to total reorganization chaos. I noticed an article far down the screen. Francisco Ferrara, a professor of history and archeology, involved in a deadly accident on Christmas Eve, fifteen years ago.
“That’s it,” I murmured to myself.
“I knew you’d approve,” Mom said, gathering up an armful of spoons and forks and dumping them on the table. “I’ll just move the silverware and the can openers and other clutter to the right, and do you really need all these corkscrews, Rita? My goodness, three corkscrews?”
I let her have her way. She hummed happily as she worked. I skimmed a flurry of news stories. All said that there was no indication the perpetrator had been drunk. All discussed the victim, a hardworking single mother named Juanita Ortiz. She was my age at the time, walking home from work along a dark road, treacherous with ice. One article mentioned her young son, Angel, who would be taken in by relatives. The family, as expected, was devastated.
I gave silent thanks that my loved ones were inside and safe tonight and shut the computer. The accident had happened around this time of year but years ago. If a family member of the deceased woman wanted vengeance, why wait?
“Ta da!” Mom declared, waving a hand.
I dutifully got up and admired Mom’s first emptied drawer, fearing I’d never find my vegetable peeler, let alone a corkscrew, again.
“I’ll tuck away all the things you probably don’t use very often,” Mom said. “Like those wine and margarita glasses. Really, they shouldn’t take up a whole cabinet, should they? You have such limited space.”
“Sure, Mom,” I said, resigned.
“You’ll wonder why you didn’t do this sooner,” Mom said, patting me on the arm.
I thought about her words after she retired to the living room to watch Jeopardy. Had someone craving vengeance decided they’d waited long enough?
Mom went to bed by nine to keep on her “normal” Central Time zone schedule. I called Flori. I knew she’d still be up. I hoped she wasn’t gearing up for another night of knit tagging.
“I need some information on Francisco, our dead devil,” I said after polite greetings and apologies for disturbing her and Bernard. “I know it’s late, but—”
“Perfect timing!” Flori sa
id. “Come on over, I’m throwing a Knit and Snitch. Oops, Hazel’s spiking the punch. Gotta go.” She hung up.
I left Mom and Celia a note saying I’d run over to Flori’s. I didn’t describe the Knit and Snitch because I didn’t know what it was.
Flori ushered me in out of the cold. “The gang’s all here,” she said.
The gang, crowded around Flori’s long dining table, consisted of seven elderly women and Bill Hoffman, the kingpin of Flori’s elderly informant network. Bill, now in his nineties, had suffered insomnia for decades. To while away long nights, he kept track of international gossip over a ham radio and local happenings with a police scanner.
I wondered which he was listening to tonight. Headphones suitable for a nightclub DJ covered his ears and he was writing on a yellow notepad. The rest of the group brandished knitting needles, some in shapes and sizes I’d never seen before. One lady worked yarn around a hoop the size of a basketball net. Another wielded four needles and several balls of yarn. The lady sitting at the far end of the table brandished needles the length of my arm and yarn the thickness of my finger.
“Those needles are massive,” I said to Flori, nodding toward the jumbo knitter. “What’s she making? Socks for a brontosaurus?”
“How did you guess?” Flori said.
I decided I didn’t need—or want—to know any more about Flori’s rogue knitting pals and their nocturnal activities. I told Flori it was nice that her friends were visiting.
“I summoned them,” she said. “It’s like those quilting groups where they stitch and . . .” She hesitated. “It isn’t a nice word.” Flori, who has no qualms about pinching hunks and breaking and entering, is chaste as an angel when it comes to swearing.
“Stitch and bitch,” said a sweet-looking grandmotherly type with fluffy white hair and a massive margarita in her hand.
“Hi, Miriam,” I said to Flori’s rogue knitting partner.
Miriam raised the margarita. “After sunset, I’m the Silver Purl.”
