Fire Dancer

by Susan Slater

  Fire Dancer

  Ben Pecos Mysteries, Book 4

  Author Note

  Heartfelt thanks go out to Stephanie Dewey, my new, talented, publicist/web maven and never-tiring, go-to, idea person who was the impetus behind bringing out these new editions of my entire Ben Pecos series.

  + + +

  Get another Susan Slater book FREE—click here to find out how!

  Fire Dancer

  Published by Secret Staircase Books, an imprint of

  Columbine Publishing Group

  PO Box 416, Angel Fire, NM 87710

  Copyright © 2018 Susan Slater

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein. Any slights of people, places or organizations are unintentional.

  Book layout and design by Secret Staircase Books

  First trade paperback edition: April 2018

  First e-book edition: April 2018

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Slater, Susan

  Fire Dancer / by Susan Slater

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1945422454 paperback

  ISBN 978-1945422461 e-book

  1. Pecos, Ben (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2. Navajo Indians--Fiction.

  3. New Mexico--Fiction. 4. Christmas--Fiction. I. Title

  Ben Pecos Mystery Series : Book 4

  Slater, Susan, Ben Pecos mysteries.

  BISAC : FICTION / Mystery & Detective.

  813/.54

  Books by Susan Slater:

  The Pumpkin Seed Massacre

  Yellow Lies

  Thunderbird

  Firedancer

  Under A Mulberry Moon (summer 2018)

  A Way to the Manger – a Christmas mystery novella

  Chapter One

  She winced and caught her breath. The pain was sharp, but fleeting. Breathe in, one, two; breathe out, one, two. There, that was better. She smoothed her skirt and glanced out over the audience. Autumn shadows crept across the first two rows of seats, casting a dappled grayness. The end of the Indian summer was near—a metaphor for her life? Possibly. It would be one week tomorrow since she’d known—known that the lump in her groin heralded a far more pervasive, insidious illness than the muscle pull she’d thought it to be. She had leukemia. And she had very little time. The exit was cast in stone—four months without an aggressive round of chemo. A treatment she soundly refused. Or the long shot. A bone marrow donor. No. She had no right to ask. There was one person, one possibility, but hadn’t she burned that bridge forever?

  The crispness of the breeze made her pleased she’d chosen the black nubby wool suit. She loved fall in New Mexico. Sitting on the dais overlooking the crowd of perhaps a hundred well-wishers, the wind ruffled the scarf at her neck, but the sun warmed her face. And then the ever-present jolt—this would be her last season. The reminder of time evaporating shadowed her every move. Like a specter she must address. Meet head on, resolve—make decisions that would affect so many. She was being recognized today for her contributions to the University of New Mexico. When one had money there were always countless ceremonial thank yous. The obligatory gatherings to celebrate good deeds—an ostentatious show to, perhaps, encourage others to share their largess. She would be expected to say a few words.

  The Chancellor droned on about expansion and research—attracting the best to be had to lead the University in competition with other top schools—all this made possible by caring individuals like herself. He turned from the podium to acknowledge her. She nodded, but already her mind was skipping away, ducking into the reverie which paraded her past across her memory. She smelled crushed maple leaves—as if she’d just walked across a lawn kicking up the slightly sweet earthy dampness of muted reds and oranges. Something she hadn’t smelled since her youth at school in Vermont. But there it was. As real in the moment as if it had just happened. And it was this olfactory memory that repeated itself. The scent of lilacs out of season, rain on parched desert in October, sopapillas sputtering in hot grease in her office—her nose deceiving her with a rush of places and times past.

  Sixty years seemed both a long time and as fleeting as a second. There should be no regrets … but one. One regret, one irreconcilable action taken … but she’d been given a brief time to make it right. She had put out feelers, discreet inquiries. Hired someone who came recommended. She was dying—give her this last wish. Would it work? Would she come face-to-face with her past? Sit down and say, “I should have never let this happen. Forgive me. I’ve loved you with every breath I take.”

  “Consuelo Bigrope CdeBaca.” Her name. She bumped back to the present. The Chancellor beamed while most of the hundred guests were on their feet in polite applause. How sweet. She acknowledged the audience with a wave, thanked the Chancellor, reiterated how dear the University was to her and her late husband, spoke of its future in safeguarding the state’s youth, how the state university must remain the leader—no, the initiator in protecting the brain trust so needed to encourage industry to choose this state and establish employment opportunities for all. How the school should provide the national labs with top-notch candidates, those prepared with solid skills and a mission to maintaining the competitiveness of our great country. How her modest contribution should be used to retain the youth—offer scholarship opportunities to minorities, Native Americans who otherwise might not have a bright future.

  Her words—nothing new or earth-shattering—brought vigorous applause. The Chancellor jumped to his feet when she’d finished and encouraged the audience once again to stand. She smiled, nodded slightly and waited at the podium while the Chancellor approached her with a large box, a rainbow-hued bow dripping over its sides.

  “This token barely expresses our deep gratitude for your thoughtfulness, your magnanimous contributions over the years. Your gift of two million dollars comes at a time when …”

  She tuned out his officious droning and turned to smile her thanks at the five people sitting behind her—the Chancellor’s wife, the head of educational research, the Provost, acting Dean of the Medical School and his wife.

  The Chancellor stopped and politely withdrew, leaving her to acknowledge their gift. She lifted the lid of the box and placed it beside the podium before digging into the layers of tissue. Her fingers touched a rounded surface—a pot, of course. They would know of her collection. Something from Acoma, or Jemez, or San Ildefonso. A tasteful addition to what she’d gathered for years. With both hands, she scooped the vessel up, letting the box fall to the side.

  She brought it to eye level and gasped. She was looking into the vacant eye sockets of a skull. A hole, bullet-sized, squarely between those orifices was outlined in red—in the shape of a heart. She turned toward those sitting behind her. Their plastic smiles looked at her expectantly—not realizing, of course, what she held. Because not for one minute did she believe anyone on this distinguished panel had anything to do with what was happening. She could hear her breath coming in short spurts. There would only be one skull anyone would send her. But from a time so long ago … why now? Who would need to let her know that her secret was shared? The man who had held the gun? Held
her finger to the trigger? He was gone. Well paid to stay away. Could greed have brought him back?

  She swayed, struggling to focus, at least to stay upright, but it was the private knowledge that she knew whose skull this was that brought the terror to the surface, brought her fear in all its starkness and laid it bare. She had once loved this man more than life itself, and now someone was threatening exposure. Please … not now, not when so much was at stake.

  She swung back, clutching the skull in one hand and grasping the edge of the podium only to have it collapse with her weight and topple over the edge of the narrow stage. The skull popped from her grasp, and the screams of those in the front row barely drowned the clanging of metal chairs pushed into one another as the audience scattered.

  Chapter Two

  “A prank. I’m convinced that it was nothing more.”

  She was reclining on the sofa in her own study, thank God. She’d prevailed and had only spent an overnight at University Hospital. There would be enough of hospitals soon enough. The tumble from the stage resulted in a few bruises, nothing broken. She felt much more up to the obligatory questions in familiar surroundings. And though irksome, the discovery of a human skeleton—even a part—necessitated exhaustive investigation. A quick call to her lawyer stemmed the inevitable media frenzy. She had barely filled a half dozen sentences on the ten o’clock news. Still, persistent reporters might doggedly try to pursue an answer. Would they be able to figure out who—no, she couldn’t think that way.

  “Ms. CdeBaca—”

  “Connie, please. May I call you Ryan?”

  “Hmmm, yes, well, you have no reason to suspect someone is trying to scare you? Threaten you?”

  “None.” She knew the young detective wouldn’t be comfortable using her first name.

  “Is there any chance that you might know the deceased?”

  Had her intake of breath given her away? She shrugged, exhaling slowly, seeming to search her memory. “My husband and I have had hundreds of workers on the ranch over the years. Because of his time in public office, I’ve made countless thousands of acquaintances. I currently employ fifty people in my construction company. Of course, it’s possible I’ve known the person. Will you be able to come up with a date? Some idea of time when the …” She couldn’t finish.

  “Yes. I expect answers by the end of the week. About all we know now for certain is that it’s male. We’re treating this as a homicide but haven’t ruled out a self-inflicted wound. We’ll be looking at a time frame—they can get pretty close. Then we’ll try to match it with any remains from the same period—unexplained partials found in the vicinity. Actually, not just the vicinity, our scope is pretty broad.”

  She knew he was talking about the countless bones—bits of femurs, metatarsals, clavicles, that appeared on the mesa, in someone’s garden, or when excavating a landfill. Good for a story in the afternoon paper and speculation, then forgotten. Unless they identified it, found the match and made the connection. But wasn’t that impossible? A missing person, a few paragraphs on microfiche in some archive—but not a body. Hadn’t the ashes been scattered in the Sandias … the body assumed to be complete, decapitated in life but whole in its final journey? But what if they reconstructed … first by computer, then putty until he emerged as in life. How common was that practice? Would forensics spend that kind of money? Maybe, if they thought the stakes were important enough. She could never handle the questions—the relentless questioning. But she would be spared. Death seemed comforting somehow.

  “There’s a computer listing of unsolved murders—where only parts of a skeleton have been found. But that doesn’t explain the heart, does it? That would seem to indicate a more intimate knowledge.” She snapped to the present; he was watching her.

  “Certainly, a rather bizarre touch.” She reached for a cigarette. Funny how the minute she’d found out she was dying, she’d bought a carton on the way home from the clinic. Twenty years a non-smoker and then back in a second, the cravings, the need for menthol. She clicked the lighter shut. The smoke curled upward, dissipating before reaching the domed ceiling of stained glass. The cigarette gave her something to do with her hands. Kept them from trembling, she hoped.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s all right. Really. I just find it a bit gruesome. I admit to waking up last night after dreaming I was holding it in my hands again.” She shivered then admonished herself to collect her thoughts. No tears. She couldn’t let him see the wound, the fear … “You know, the skull might have been meant for the Chancellor.”

  “We’ve thought of that. But because of the presentation, it seems someone went to great lengths to make certain you received the skull. The original gift was purchased from Wright’s Gallery. We’ve interviewed the store owners.” He referred to his notes. “Mr. and Mrs. Bobrick. Both were instrumental in choosing the gift—an Acoma pot—I believe they are familiar with your collection?”

  “Yes. Over the years they’ve always called when something they knew I’d like came into the store.”

  “A graduate student picked up the gift—watched it being wrapped and brought it to campus, leaving it with the Chancellor’s secretary. The switch apparently happened while it was in the Chancellor’s office. I understand the university sent a replacement this morning? It seems the Bobricks had a difficult time choosing between the original gift and its replacement, in the first place. In fact, Mr. Bobrick indicated that he thought this was the appropriate choice all along.”

  Connie walked to a lighted glassed cabinet and took out a clay Indian corn maiden. “I agree with him. Beautiful, isn’t she?” She turned the ten-inch figure so that he could see the corn pattern intricately displayed down one side of her mantle. “I’ve collected Maxine Toya for some time now. This is really some of her best work. I’m honored, frankly.” The sun played tricks with the polished rust-red cloak that covered the figure’s head, causing the clay to look like shimmering cloth. The black accents had been polished to shine like obsidian.

  “Here. Beautiful, don’t you agree?”

  She handed the figurine to him and sank back down beside him on the leather couch. Ryan gingerly turned the figure over in his hands before placing her on the glass and iron end table. He paused for a moment, then, “You’re isolated out here. I think I’d give some thought to moving closer in. Just in case what happened was meant as a threat.”

  “The daughter of a friend is coming to stay for a few weeks. My friend is recovering from surgery or I’d have the two of them. I’ll be fine. Besides, I like being close to the site.” She didn’t add that she had servants. Of course, until their quarters were finished, there would be no one staying the night. She couldn’t have them there at night anyway, not for a while. But a cook, a housekeeper and grounds man were there during the day.

  “Ah yes, the construction site. Millionaire row—isn’t that what it’s being called?”

  “The houses will be—are large—all a minimum of five thousand square feet with natural accents. They are not cheap—I don’t have to apologize for that.” Why was this man making her feel defensive? The exclusive community was just another part of her legacy.

  “Choosing to build at the edge of the land grant encroaching on sacred Indian land has caused concerns. Six months ago a house was burned.”

  “A house under construction. The investigators traced it to faulty wiring.” She believed that. A simple explanation is often the true one.

  “There was a letter if I remember correctly. Some eco-terrorist group took responsibility—claimed victory?”

  “So much easier for those groups if they don’t have to do anything. It was an accident—one we’ve made certain won’t happen again.”

  “How many houses are occupied?”

  “This one, of course. Only one other is close to completion. Five have been started. The fire slowed us down a bit.”

  She wasn’t admitting to the lawsuit. She couldn’t talk
about it even if she wanted. The detective was correct in saying a neighboring pueblo was disputing her claim to the ten thousand acres left to her husband’s family and then to her. One of those details she needed to give attention to. Sandwiched between forestland and Indian land, the strip was of interest to a number of groups. Her husband had kept it stocked with elk and treated visiting dignitaries to a private, herd-thinning hunt once a year. She was certain more than one felled elk had bought her husband the favors he’d needed in the state house.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

  “Did your husband have enemies?”

  She stifled a laugh. Did he have enemies? Was there anyone who hadn’t wished Skip CdeBaca dead at one time or another? His own children fit into that category. And didn’t she? Didn’t she still berate herself because money and convenience made her turn her back … accept the fear, the heartbreak, do something that she regretted every minute of her life in exchange for everything around her, including her own life.

  “He’s been gone two years in December. He would have been eighty-one. I think he simply outlived a lot of ill-will.” She gave a short laugh. “I can’t imagine any grudges that might have lasted beyond the grave.” Only because those players were also dead. Except one. Didn’t the very skull she had held in her hands prove it? And her … but hadn’t her anger just turned to bitterness?

  “Sometimes answers are right under our noses. It’s a matter of examining things. You might want to make a list of possible trouble-makers, grudges, that sort of thing—”

  “You like what you do, don’t you?” She said it kindly. The young man was trying—probably had a promotion riding on some sort of swift closure to this case. And she knew she was still celebrity enough to warrant the time spent—meaning a far more heinous crime would lack manpower.