Faye Kellerman - The Burnt House

They had come in before dusk, and by the time that they had secured the rental SUV and hooked onto the I-25 North toward Santa Fe, it was dark. Marge drove and Cathie kept her company in front. The boys sat in back. Dunn had been to New Mexico’s capital a half-dozen times in the last three years and she seemed at ease on the highway. Within fifteen minutes, the lights of Albuquerque had faded, an infinite sky blanketing the desert terrain with a myriad of pinpoint lights. There wasn’t anything to see except a few lit billboards and highway signs stating that they were traveling in and out of Indian territories.

“The area was dominated by the twelve northern tribes,” Cathie explained. “They settled the land thousands of years ago. The northern tribes weren’t decimated like the Cherokee and the Sioux, although the Spanish didn’t treat them as equals, that’s for certain. My mother is from the Santa Clara tribe; my father’s family, originally from Mexico, has been in Santa Fe for five generations.”

The woman measured a little over five four, her weight tipping the scales at 125. She had gleaming black hair that fell past her shoulders, and when she turned her head to talk to the boys in back, the tresses were like a wave of inky silk that swirled about her head. She had light green eyes, a broad nose, and a full face. She had dressed simply, in jeans and a cotton sweater, stating that no matter how hot Santa Fe was during the day, there was always a chill at night due to the seven-thousand-foot elevation.

When the car finally crossed the Santa Fe County line, Decker didn’t see much of anything that constituted a town. It took another ten minutes before Marge got off the interstate and onto a three-lane boulevard. Not much traffic interfered with their schedule. It was hard to see in the dark, but Decker could tell that the Western capital was low-rise and almost all the buildings were adobe or stucco and colored in various shades of brown. Many of the structures appeared to be fluid masses without corners and sharp edges, as if fashioned by whimsy. Others were just square boxes. Still, the uniformity of the color and material gave the town a distinct, Old West character.

The hotel where Marge had made reservations was in the center of town, right off the Plaza. It wouldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes to check in, but the detectives had elected not to waste any time on triviality. They drove straight to the Ruiz house, pushed not only by a crushing sense of urgency, but also by the very real fact that they were dealing with anxious, elderly people and it was already close to nine.

The house was located in a residential area called South Capital. The streets were narrow, some without sidewalks, and many of the dwellings without clear address numbers, and it took some maneuvering on Marge’s part to drive the dowager SUV through the dark alleyways. Cathie pointed out a dirt driveway and Marge hung a left. The rut in the road dead-ended at a garage.

Two women were waiting outside, the headlights illuminating their bony frames and colorful shawls. Marge killed the motor and turned off the headlights, and instantly the environs went black except for a yellow small-wattage bulb placed over the garage. Cathie opened the car door and dusted her jeans. She went over to the wizened women and wordlessly gave each of them a small hug. The trio made their way through the darkness and opened a back door.

The detectives followed, Oliver closing the door as the last one to cross the threshold. They walked through a toasty-warm kitchen, smelling of yeast and sugar, and down a couple of steps until they stood in a low-ceilinged living room crammed with knickknacks and doodads. Crosses, candles, pottery, tapestries, woven baskets, and folk-art icons graced every shelf and sat on every table. The furniture was rustic and heavy, blending nicely with the thick-beamed ceiling and a broad-planked wooden floor worn smooth by thousands of footsteps. Although it wasn’t cold inside, gentle flames were licking the insides of a beehive-shaped fireplace.

The two old ladies had taken off their shawls and wore similar outfits: loose-fitting blouses tucked into flowing, floor-length skirts. Their feet were housed in sandals. Cathie Alvarez made the necessary introductions. Lucy Ruiz, Cathy’s mother, had knotted her salt-and-pepper locks into a bun. Sandra Devargas-Tía Sandy, who was Beth’s mother-had tied up her gray hair into a ponytail that hung halfway down her back.

Up to this point, Cathie had spoken to Decker with animation and anxiety. But as she spoke to her mother and aunt, her voice was almost emotionless. The two women nodded and graced the detectives with tentative smiles. Then Lucy invited everyone to sit down at a round dining-room table that had been set with multicolored stoneware. As soon as the detectives were in the chairs, the old women started bringing in the food.

First came the warm corn tortillas wrapped in a towel, and served with bowls of red salsa, green salsa, chunky tomatoes, chili, cured mixed olives, roasted vegetables, and grilled chicken. When the food was on the table, Lucy came back from the kitchen with a pot of hot, spicy tea, which she poured into animal-shaped mugs.

Cathie took a tortilla and filled it with the proffered accoutrements. “Wow, Mama, how did you know and Tía Sandy know I’d be so hungry?”

The ladies’ smiles were dainty. Sandy picked up the plate of tortillas and offered them to the detectives. “Please help yourself.”

Lucy said, “Don’t be shy. There’s no sense being hungry.”

Marge and Oliver each took a steaming tortilla. “Everything looks terrific.”

Decker explained that he was a vegetarian, asking which, if any, of the dishes contained lard.

“Vegetable oil only,” Lucy responded. “Besides, corn tortillas are not made with any kind of fat. Only flour tortillas, and even with them, I now use vegetable oil.”

“It’s not quite the same taste as lard,” Sandy remarked.

“Yes, lard is better, but it is not good for the arteries,” Lucy said.

Sandy said, “I still use lard for piecrust.”

Lucy gave her a nod. “Yes, you cannot make good piecrust with oil. It is a choice between what’s good for the heart and what’s good for the taste.”

“It isn’t just taste. To get the flaky texture, you need lard.”

“That is true,” Lucy concurred, “that is true.” She took a tortilla and filled it with meat. “Still, I’ve developed a decent piecrust without lard.”

“Yes, it is very decent,” Sandy told her. “You make very good pies.”

“None of them are as good as your pumpkin pie.”

Sandy blushed. “Oh, I don’t think that’s true.”

Lucy said, “She makes the best pumpkin pie, but will only use fresh pumpkin. It’s not the season right now.”

Marge smiled and said, “Then we’ll have to come back in the fall.”

“Oh yes,” Sandy said. “Please do.”

Decker had finished off one tortilla and was working on a second one. He was starved and the food was delicious in the way that only homemade could be. It was a shame that Rina wasn’t here. She would have dazzled the two women with her natural ability to converse on any topic. But his wife’s favorite subject revolved around anything to do with the kitchen. Rina had an affinity for anyone elderly and into ethnic food.

The women got up and went into the kitchen. The savory food was followed by several plates of dried fruits, nuts, and assorted cookies. They managed lots of small talk. They asked about the detectives without being intrusive. When the polite questions thinned, Decker managed to get the women talking about their childhood. They spoke about how small and rural Santa Fe had been when they were growing up, describing it as a small pueblo town with several naturalist health spas for those who’d been stricken with rheumatic fever and had damaged lungs and hearts. Then they segued into their tumultuous adolescence during World War II, and how everyone gossiped about the secret scientists living in a makeshift, clandestine housing project in Los Alamos.