Copyright 1991 Aya Katz
FROM THE FILES OF ROBERT DUNCELY
FIELD AUDIT NOTES
Being that my appointment with Cabeza de Vaca was for 09:00, it was unfortumate, but quite understandable, that I got sidetracked and didn't arrive there till noon. That is to say, I was amazed by the bumpy country roads without markings. With such a high per capita tax base, one would think that a wealthy county like Vacuum would take better care of its streets and roads. Judging from the state of affairs to which I was subjected, they in all likelihood have not had a bond election in a very long and protracted period. At this point in time, the taxpayer under investigation for evasion of the voluntary self-assessment of personal income taxation is also the primary payer of property taxes in the region and this demonstrates a pattern of conduct that may be relied on as an indicator of civic irresponsibility, if not as an outright signpost of dereliction of duty. The tardiness of my arrival, then, can be readily laid at the feet of the taxpayer in question, not to speak of the disorderly conduct of a cow that stood in the middle of the road and wouldn't let me pass. I kept waving at it and saying "Shoo, shoo." Due to my inexperience with the bovine population, perhaps my choice of words was inappropriate. In any event, despite my entreaties, the cow stood its ground, and I was forced to delay there for a good fifteen minutes until the fortunate arrival of a young man, who eventually appeared on horseback and moved it along. That is to say, the cow in question. "Thanks," I told him. He tipped his hat: can I help you, Sir?" "Name's Duncely. I've got an appointment with Mr. Cabeza de Vaca." The man responded by reclining his head. That is to say, he nodded. "I'm Gary Hittner. Let me know if I can be of help." And he departed the scene astride his horse.
The residence was covered by a double-coat of whitewash, much as it can be expected that the taxpayer's financial past has been doctored, and it glowed in the sunlight, the residence, that is. My eyes suffered considerable strain -- in that the light was reflecting of the surface of the adobe -- staring at the pitch black door, with their family crest on it, a V with a C stuck through it, in bright red.
An antique doorbell was the only security system in evidence, on which I duly pulled to announced my arrival. There was no response for a considerable period of time. I was beginning to perspire profusely, and had occasion to pull out my pocket handkerchief, to dab at my forehead and neck and face, and there was much concern in my mind that I could not safely remove my jacket once entering the building, my antiperspirant having thoroughly failed me, despite the manufacturer's warranty to the contrary, when the door opened slightly. That is to say, some person or persons unknown had answered my summons.
A cheerful young woman with shiny, straight black hair and impeccably applied cosmetics, that is to say, who was extremely well groomed, although perhaps in a somewhat vulgar, that is to say, loud or insufficiently subdued manner, stuck out her head. "Yes?" she asked. It was not difficult to determine that her ethnic extraction was of the hispanic persuasion, that is to say: she was a Mexican-American.
"Name's Duncely, Ma'am. Revenue Agent. I have an appointment with Mr. Cabeza de Vaca."
It took her some time to take in my appearance, that is to say, she looked me up and down, eyes narrowing to little slits, and it was apparent this was not the natural condition of her eyes, unlike those of Asian-Americans, for example. "No esta en casa," she finally said, and started to close the door.
Acting quickly, to avert a complete closure of the aperture, I reached out and stopped her, that is to say I held the door open. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but I have an appointment and I've come all the way from Austin."
She shook her hair and waggled her shoulders, which might be described as shrugging. "No esta. Lo siento."
I took the initiative and proceeded into the residence, despite not having been invited, in view of the urgency of my mission. That is to say, I pushed my way in. "If you don't mind, I'll wait."
She followed me in reluctantly, after the securing the entrance door, whereupon we found ourselves in a foyer-like space. My vision was diminished and I was unable to discern my surroundings immediately, due to the contrast of lighting within the residence, as opposed to the glare without. That is to say, my eyes took considerably longer than I anticipated to adjust to the relative darkness in the dwelling. I took occasion to examine the decorative hangings displayed in the immediately visible surroundings, in view of the fact that the value of household furnishings can often betray a greater income than the taxpayer has in fact reported. I immediately took note of and cataloged a bright and black tapestry picturing a toreador hung on the wall of the anteroom. The Mexican-American, who facilitated my entry on the premises, viewed me, not suspiciously, I would say, but as if she were taking my measurement. Her abbreviated black dress adhered to her, without an inch to spare. She showed no sign that I would be accomodated.
"Are you Mrs. Nabal Cabeza de Vaca?"
"Sure ... and you're the Pope."
"So you speak English," I concluded.
"Sometimes." It was a virtual admission ... and she receded from the entranceway into the depths of the hacienda.
I waited a few moments, then wandered into the hall. Two broad, ebony doors were open, leading to a well furnished room. Over the mantle, there hung a life-sized portrait of a woman. I went to check whether it was a print or an oil. It was not a print, but I couldn't tell whether it was oil or acrylic. The woman, whose likeness peered at me from the genuine original whose value I could not properly estimate without expert assistance, but which undoubtedly would command a considerable price at an auction, at least provided the event were properly advertised, had light brown to medium blond hair and middling grey eyes, and she smiled confidently. On the other side of the room was a bronze colored metal statue of a young cow. I approached it for a closer examination. It was not bronze, it was ...
The lights just went out and I am writing this by the light of a candle so graciously provided me by my hosts. The candlestick is of silver, with unusual designs of bearded men and goats, and the wax is trickling down onto the antique dressing table which is the only substitute for a desk in the bedroom in which I have been installed for the night, possibly decreasing the value of the furniture, but how can I hope to prevent it when they didn't give me any instructions as to the proper operation of a candle, but more on that momentarily. Let me see now, where was I? I haven't even been able to secure the window properly, and the rain is wetting the sill, which I suspect is not the way it was designed to function.
I had been in the process of examining the statue on the table, when behind me and a little to my left, a voice sounded. I could tell at once that she was a senior citizen due to the dry quality of her enunciation.
"Have you never seen a golden calf before?"
I turned around. She, unlike the young hispanic woman who had answered the door, and the obvious Anglo in the portrait, was difficult to classify as to ethnic extraction, so that for the time being, and until further information was provided, I decided to class her as Other.
"Pipa, who is this man?"
The girl stood in the doorway, in a somewhat hostile posture; that is to say, her hands were on her hips. "I told you. He's the agent." Her enunciation had a singsong quality, and a certain degree of disrespect was evident in her bearing, as might be expected considering their positions vis a vis one another, what with the state of labor relations these days.
"Agent? What agent?" The senior citizen looked around in a disoriented manner, much as if she was suffering from Alzheimer's disease or Parkinson's or post traumatic stress disorder.
I drew out my identification. "Robert Duncely, Internal Revenue Service, Ma'am."
"Oh, dear. Then call your father, child. And hurry." The hispanic young woman turned to go, although she took no pains to expedite her departure. The senior citzen continued speaking, to no one in particular. "Angelo, Angelo, there's a revenuer in the house!"
We stood there for some time examining each other. "Mrs. Cabeza de Vaca?" I inquired.
She eyed me critically. "Yes."
"I have an appointment with your husband."
She smiled, revealing a perfect set of teeth and I would have ventured closer to ascertain whether she was wearing dentures, but it did not seem appropriate at that point in time. "I am a widow, sir." She paused. "But no doubt, we can arrange a meeting."
I looked down at my notes. The taxpayer had listed his mother as a dependent. "I'm very sorry, Ma'am. Then it's your son I want."
She stood her ground. "My son is an orphan."
"I have here, Ma'am, that he's thirty-five."
"He's been an orphan now these twenty-three years."
I didn't quite know how to respond to that and was about to inform her that the service does not discriminate on the basis of color, creed or the number of living parents a taxpayer may possess, but just then a laborer of obvious Mexican-American extraction appeared on the premises.
"Oh, Angelo, I am so glad you're here." She then lowered her voice to a whisper that was perfectly audible. "There's a revenuer in the house." She pointed to me.
Angelo waved. "Hi."
"Quick," she said. "Hide the still."
Angelo flashed me a toothy smile. "Don't pay her no mind," he said and pointed to his forehead.
"Well, Ma'am," I explained, "in actual fact, the Internal Revenue Service doesn't handle that sort of thing any longer." I cleared my throat. "In 1972 the former Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms Division was transferred out of the I.R.S. and was made a separate bureau within the Treasury Department."
She turned toward the hispanic. "He must have done well on his civil service exam."
He smiled at me. I asked: "You aren't Mr. Cabeza de Vaca, are you?"
He shook his head. "He waited for you, but when you didn't show, he had other things to do. Se·or Cabeza de Vaca, he is very punctual."
"Then I'll wait. Perhaps the Missus is home? I could ask her a few questions?" They stared at me blankly, that is to say, with uncomprehending stares, or at least so I thought at the time.
"His wife." I looked down at my documentation. "Abigail."
The man stirred. "Oh. No, she is dead."
The senior citizen motioned toward the property I had been examining. "That is she."
I nodded. "A lovely woman. I'm very sorry."
"My son killed her," she said. "Shot her dead."
The hispanic tried to be conciliatory. "Se·or Cabeza de Vaca, he is a very ... serious man."
I tried to smile, but didn't quite manage it. It was then that I began to ruminate on the operating manual provision to the effect that the choice of a field versus an in-office audit is determined based on a number of factors, namely, the convenience of the taxpayer, whether the volume and extent of the records to be examined is of such a bulky nature that it it would require undue hardship for said records to be moved, and last, but certainly not least, the safety of the revenue agent.
"Maybe you could wait in the library," the hispanic offered and I agreed with a nod, so that I was led away, following the hispanic -- that is I followed his lead, and I did not even look back when the senior citizen called after me: "Beware of trap doors."
The library has a considerable collection, the inventory of which, once taken, I believe would undoubtedly include any number of antique volumes. I began a careful examination, when I chanced upon an open book at one of the reading tables. I turned it over. It was a biography of Hannibal, the author of which was one Ernle Bradford. I flipped through the pages and found nothing of any interest until I came across the following:
"An amusing, but possibly apocryphal story, tells how when Hannibal made his home here he made a point of openly depositing his treasure in the local temple of Artemis --much as one would in a modern bank. Rightly suspicious of Cretan honesty (as St. Paul was to be some centuries later) the 'treasure' that he sent for safety to the temple was no more than a deception; large clay vases being weighed down with lead with a scattering of gold coins visible on the top. The bulk of his remaining fortune was concealed in some hollow bronze statues that stood in the garden of his house. In due course, a Roman squadron visited Crete bent on stamping out piracy and investigating the potential of the island's resources and harbours. Hannibal, in his inland retreat, was undisturbed, but he knew that it could only be a matter of time before the Romans heard of the wealthy Carthaginian living in retirement at Gortyna, and learned his name. As he had done at Carthage, and as he had done at the court of Antiochus, Hannibal left secretly and swiftly. With him went the statues from his garden. When the Cretan priests of Artemis or Roman soldiers broke open the jars stored in the temple one can imagine his ironic laughter on the wind."
It was unclear what the significance of this biography could be, but one thing at least seemed very clear: whoever was reading this book had the unmistakable mental profile of a tax evader.
It was then that I noticed the little black book beside the biography on the table, whose fake leather cover bore only the inscription Record, leading me to believe it might be a ledger of some sort, containing financial information. I randomly flipped it open. It contained a messily scrawled handwritten account of something, the exact topic of which was unclear to me. I started transcribing what portions I could make out into my notebook.
" ... feeling guilty so I went to Abner's funeral. Nathan presided over the service, but David gave the eulogy. He said that Abner was a good man and a faithful Sheriff. That he --David -- was appalled at his murder and washed his hands of the person or persons who had done it. That there was no excuse for something like this. And that the whole County would forever mourn the loss of the best Sheriff it had ever had.
I sat there thinking, David gives a good eulogy. I looked at Eb and Pipa and wondered what they were feeling. Mickey was there, too, and, beside her, her little brother was fidgetting in his wheelchair. Yeah, David gives a fine eulogy. Did a great job for Saul and Jon. I wondered what he would have said about Nabal, if Abby had managed to kill him, instead of the other way around. I suppose he could praise him to the sky.
Everybody knows that Joe Moore did it, but he hasn't been charged. Instead, he was appointed to fill in for Abner until the election. Which probably means he'll get the job permanently, like David with the Judgeship. But nobody says anything. After all, Abner, for all his vices, was David's last critic.
I kept thinking about what the difference is between doing something wrong and merely benefiting from the wrongful act of another, when you never even solicited it. If David's guilty, I'm guilty. Abner did me a big favor when he charged me with DWI. Even if nothing ever works out, he did me a very big favor. I can't imagine what my life would be like otherwise.
I went back into the church after the burial, just to be alone. I was pacing down the aisles, thinking, when Nathan walked in on me. He didn't remember who I was at first, but then he figured it out. It's not that I count for anything as a person, but the whole County knows of me, just for the status my position affords. Which is so strange.
"Is there anything you'd like to talk about?" he asked me.
I was going to say "no," but then I figured why not? Maybe, after all, this was more in his line than anything else. "Well, Reverend..."
"Brother Nathan ..."
That sounded silly, but I didn't want to offend him. "Brother Nathan... I was just wondering about ... when bad things happen ... and people benefit..."
He interrupted me again. "You want to know why bad things happen to good people?"
I laughed. "No. I don't even want to know why good things happen to bad people."
He looked confused.
"Actually, I don't need you to tell me why anything happens at all. I think I understand the mechanism pretty well. Natural selection and survival of the fittest and all that. My question is more along the lines of ... right and wrong, not why. You know, like what is a sin and what isn't."
He had looked pretty bewildered for a while there until I mentioned the word 'sin', after which he perked up, as if on solid ground again. "Well, Verity, a sin is a trespass against God's law ..."
I interrupted him. "No. My question is much more specific than that. It isn't theological -- it's moral." I kept thinking, they must have dealt with some moral issues in seminary. It couldn't have all been the study of godhood. "I mean, it isn't about how you arrive at your morality, it's about how you apply it, once you have it. You know what I mean?"
He shook his head.
"Well, this is sort of like a legal question, only it's not legal, it's moral. You know, like when you go to see a lawyer. You don't expect him to tell you why the law is the way it is, or how it was enacted. You just want to know how to apply it. Right?"
He tried to look understanding. "I can see you are troubled. What is your problem, Verity?"
"Well, if a certain action, for instance, like bearing false witness or murder or something like that -- if a certain action is wrong, then shouldn't everything that directly results from it, in a straight line of cause and effect, also be wrong? Isn't that how it should work, if it's consistent?"
Nathan frowned. "Which action in particular?"
"It doesn't matter."
He smiled benevolently. "Now, now, of course it matters." I looked at him. It was hopeless. He just wasn't catching on. I thought I'd try another tack. "Suppose someone commits a sin --any sin will do-- and as a result, something really wonderful happens. Something that would never have happened if no sin had been committed ..."
"Are you expecting?" he asked.
"Huh?"
"Are you going to have a baby?"
"No! Where'd you get an idea like that?" We were both confused and silent for a time, and obviously speaking at cross purposes. But I tried again. "Isn't there some sort of fruit of the poison tree doctrine?"
He smiled. "Now you are confusing God's law with man's law. But I'm still not sure I understand."
"Well, suppose a government official commits a wrongful act ..."
"Oh," he said. "You're talking about the Judge. The Judge and Betsy Hittner."
"I am?"
Nathan was all gentleness. "That's very perceptive of you, Verity. But trust in God. No sin goes unpunished."
The narrative continued unabated and I was having great difficulty following its intricacies, feeling uncertain of whether it in fact pertained to my investigation, but feeling likewise certain that, as it had been left in plain sight, I needed no search warrant to peruse its contents, when my work was interrupted by someone from behind.
"Give me that! It's mine."
I turned to face a young woman of no obvious ethnic extraction, so that I would probably put her down at a Caucasian and stop there, though her eyes and hair were brown, and her expression contained something not quite wholesome, something to do with the creases on her forehead which are unseemly for one so young -- she was in her early twenties -- or the hollow look of her eyes, indicating at the very least, that she had engaged in too much thinking and not enough responsible social interaction, for she was not well groomed and wore no make-up, all indications of improper socialization and insufficent respect for one's fellow man. I gave it back to her. "Robert Duncely, Internal Revenue Service, Ma'am. And you are?"
She seemed taken aback. She muttered her name, but I couldn't hear it. Which was just as well since my reading informed me it was Verity. But I didn't know her surname, so I ventured: "Are you a member of the Cabeza de Vaca family?"
She shook her head, thereby indicating a negative response. "Are you a guest?" Once more she shook her head and her hair became greatly disarranged in the process, displaying insufficient reliance on hairspray and similar products. Somehow she did not strike me as a domestic, but I asked her anyway: "Employee?"
She hestitated momentarily, then answered: "Yes."
In that case, she ought to be listed in my reports, as he would have been paying FICA and FUTA on her. "What was that last name again?"
"Lackland." Her speech was faint, but audible. "Strange," I muttered, "but you are not listed here. You're not a domestic?"
She shrugged. "I don't think so. I mean, I don't imagine that I am, for tax purposes. But if you could show the regulations that define it, I could maybe give you a more definite answer..."
She kept talking, and her sentences began taking circuitous routes so that I could barely follow their meaning, and coiling like snakes in upon themselves so that by the time she had finished speaking I doubt she remembered the inception of the thought that gave rise to the initial outpouring; which is to say, she was babbling.
"I'm sure it can't be that difficult," I prodded. "What is it that you do here?"
She might have answered, but she was looking helplessly a little behind me and to my left. I was about to turn round to see what she was looking at, but just then he said: "Miss Lackland is my slut."
I turned in time to see him. He was about my height, dressed in farm clothes, and it would have been difficult to class him as to extraction, though I soon decided he must be a hispanic, for it turned out that this was in fact the taxpayer whose possible evasions were even now under investigation. "It's very nice to finally meet you," I said, vigorously shaking his hand. And referring to the issue that he had so succinctly settled, I said: "Then she's a dependent."
He shook his head. "I'm not claiming her."
She stood there helplessly clutching her record book. The taxpayer looked at her and eventually she averted her eyes, and excusing herself with a muffled "excuse me" she filed past me and out the door. I tried to set the taxpayer at ease. "Between you and I, Mr. Cabeza de Vaca," --he winced-- "I have no problem with whatever arrangement you've got going here, but I think it would be best if you did claim her as a dependent, because if you don't, she'll be in trouble for not reporting taxable income and you'll be in trouble as an employer."
He shrugged and then leaned forward a little, confidentially. "Between you and me, Mr. Duncely, I suggest that you make another appointment. You see, I was ready at nine oclock this morning, but I'm not ready now."
I sobered. "That is fine for now, but you must understand that if the facts warrant it, we may have to conduct an ongoing investigation in loco, which would require me to be present for a considerable period. Also, if we had begun at 9:00 am, we might very certainly still be at it now. So, I will certainly allow you to reschedule, but I suggest that next time, you clear a full day and place it at my disposal. Longer if necessary. And I expect that you will be able to accomodate me here overnight, if required."
He said: "I thought the bill of rights had something about quartering soldiers."
I wasn't sure at first whether he was referring to the taxpayer bill of rights that is currently being fashioned. He didn't stop to explain it. "Pilar will see you out," he said.
I was happy to depart. I felt I had more than enough material for a preliminary evaluation, not so much of the tax liabilities in question, but of the environment under which the investigation is to be conducted. But when I went out the front door it was pouring rain viciously, I had no umbrella, and I had to walk against the wind for quite a way to where I had parked the car. I flung my briefcase into the seat beside me and activated the windshield wipers full force as soon as the engine was started. Everything began to fog, so I had to avail myself of the defrost option. I was driving along, barely seeing anything, when I noticed that the road ahead of me was covered with water. I slowed down, but kept going, hoping that I could wade through the worst of it, but as it turned out this was a decision, which although not clearly erroneous, was nevertheless at the very least regrettable, or to be avoided in the future under similar circumstances. Which is to say, that not only did the vehicle refuse to move any further and the engine gave way, but also I perceived that water was beginning to flood into the car and my briefcase was already partially immersed. I sat there for a moment wondering what to do. I was afraid to open the door, for fear more water still would come in, so I sat there, with the rain continuing to pour down and myself unable to even see through it, much less take action against the elements. Then I noticed a knocking at my window, not so much from the sound of it, but because an object vaguely resembling a fist came into my peripheral vision and it kept receding and approaching intermittently, so that finally I turned round and looked at it. At first I wasn't sure, but there was in fact someone there. I rolled it down a bit, the window, that is, and he said something but I couldn't make out just exactly what. When I didn't respond he reached inside and started rolling down the window. "Come on out through here," he said. "The crick is flooded." I tried to climb out feet first, but I got stuck and it took a considerable effort on his part to unstick me. I lost one of my shoes in the process. But I managed to bring my briefcase with me. The water was about waist deep and he led me to his vehicle, several yards away. It was hard going at first, but the water came down fast. When he had me safely in the pickup truck I wiped my glasses several times, but they kept fogging over. Finally I recognized him. He was the cowboy I had met coming in: Gary Hittner.
I tried to engage him in conversation concerning his employer, but Hittner was not cooperative. "Mr. Cabeza de Vaca strikes me as being a difficult man to work for," I ventured, as the pickup truck made its way through the flood.
"No, sir," the cowhand responded, "he's not." I was at a loss as to how I might continue the conversation, and I did not wish to distract my rescuer from the arduous task at hand, so I allowed the matter to drop. It was not clear whether fear or loyalty or possibly a combination of both motivated his response.
He drove me mostly in silence back to the hacienda and there was a long consultation between him and Angelo, the gist of which was that there would not be room enough to lodge me at the workhands' station, since more of them were stranded there now than would have been anticipated. It seems that many of the hands live on the premises in a barrack-like set of habitations. Most are single and otherwise unattached. But on further inquiry I found that there were several families with women and small children living in detached houses near the barracks.
"Most all the townspeople won't work for him," Hittner explained reluctantly. "So he brings in people from outside and they don't feel too comfortable off the ranch, see." I found it difficult to believe that anyone could consider the ranch comfortable, in view of the socially backward conditions fostered by the taxpayer. I had no time to inspect the employees' housing, but I have little doubt that it must be substandard and that de Vaca is taking advantage of the non-local laborers' natural lack of familiarity with the County to foster fear of the outside and thus ensure himself of a working class so totally dependent on him that they might easily be mistaken for serfs. Further inspection of the compensation records is obviously in order.
"There's no need for me to stay," I began to protest as arrangements for my lodging were discussed.
"The crick's flooded, you can't get out till it goes back down," Hittner said and Angelo concurred. "It's best you stay put till it comes down."
"How long will that be?"
"Could be a day; could be a week," Angelo said.
I was beginning to become concerned. "A week? I can't stay a week. Besides, won't we run out of food?"
The Mexican-American laughed and Hittner reluctantly answered my query only after I prodded him several times.
"Don't you worry none, Mr. Duncely, we've got enough food put away for a year or so."
"Five," Angelo put in. He held his hand up, as if to numerically illustrate his point.
"Five?" I echoed, wondering whether these rations appeared in his inventory.
"Se·or Cabeza de Vaca, he is a very ... prudent man."
Prudence did not strike me as the most salient feature of the taxpayer's personality, but I was distracted from the converation by the entrance of the black-clad young hispanic girl. "I can entertain Mr. Duncely till dinner time, if you like, and find him some fresh clothes, too. And a shoe. Make that two shoes." She inspected my wet apparel. Angelo did not protest, and she began leading me down the hall.
"How long have you worked for the Cabeza de Vacas?" I asked her, trying to make conversation.
"I've never worked for them."
"You are not an employee?"
She smiled playfully. "I'm a guest."
"Like Verity Lackland?"
She laughed. "No. Verity lives here. I'm a guest."
She took out a key and unlocked one of the doors.
"For a guest, you seem to have a pretty good knowledge of the premises."
"Huh?"
"You know your way around."
She opened the door and motioned me inside. "I used to live here."
"With Mr. Cabeza de Vaca?"
"With my parents. I grew up here. But, where I work, they closed it down for a week, because the Sheriff died. I'm in mourning, see?" She indicated her tightfitting black dress. "So I came home for a bit. He doesn't dare throw me out."
"Who?"
"Nabal. After all, my parents live here. I'm their daughter. He can't throw me out. Wouldn't look good."
"Is the whole County in mourning over the Sheriff?"
"No, just the Brown 'N Serve, seeing how it's owned by Abner's brother." She sorted through a drawer. "Now, then, maybe these would be good. Abner and me, we were real close, see. I was sorry to see him go. Take your pants off, why don't you?"
I was caught off guard. "I beg your pardon?"
"Well, they're all wet. Try my Daddy's pants. See if they fit you."
We were interrupted by the entry of Pilar, the woman who had led me out of my first interview with the taxpayer. She scolded Pipa in Spanish, and the young girl disappeared, mumbling in English that she was just trying to help.
Pilar addressed me: "I am very sorry." And she left me there alone, presumably to dress.
The evening meal, at which the taxpayer, his mother, his paramour, the ranchhand Gary Hittner, the servants' daughter, and I were present. Pilar was serving and Angelo was nowhere in sight. The conversation was restrained, except for the jabberings of Pipa.
"Why, it's still raining. At this rate it'll take the crick more than a day to go down."
The senior citizen said: "Floods are always a portent. Mayhaps the gods dislike tax collectors. It bodes ill, Mr. Duncely, for you."
I tried to smile. "Well, you know what they say, Mrs. Cabeza de Vaca. Death and taxes."
"Yes," she said. "In that order. Death before taxes."
I turned to Hittner. "You know, if you hadn't come along just then, who knows what might have happened."
"There's still time," she said. But her son gave her a look that seemed to quiet her.
After dinner, there was some confusion as to where I should be placed, that is to say, what room I should occupy, or in other words, where they would put me. The discussion was held between Pilar and Pipa, after the others had dispersed. The problem seemed to be that there were not enough suitable rooms. They consulted for a while in Spanish, until Pipa decided to bring in a third party.
"I don't see what the problem is," she said, cornering Verity Lackland in the hall. "Why don't you just bunk with Nabal tonight and I'll take your room?"
The other girl blushed. "I can't do that."
"Why not?"
Pilar intervened. "Now, that is enough."
Pipa shrugged. "After all, what is she here for, anyway?"
Pilar said something harsh in Spanish and Pipa relented.
"All right, then I'll stay with Verity."
"I don't think that would be a good idea ..." the other girl stammered.
Pipa laughed. "Oh, he likes to do it in there. Well, then I've got it. Nabal can move in with you and I'll sleep in his room."
There were a few more remonstrances from the mother, all in a foreign tongue and beyond my ability to catch.
"Well, I must say, this is a terrible waste. Isn't it, Verity? ...of space, I mean. But look, with Gary staying here and the bunkhouse overflowing and the tax collector and me, something's got to give."
Pilar was businesslike. "You will show Mr. Duncely to your room, and I'll fix up one of the empty rooms for you."
Pipa pouted. "Well, okay. Don't bother, I'll find one. Give me the keychain, then."
Pilar hesitated.
"Oh, come on, you have other things to do."
Soon Pipa was leading me down the hall again. She looked around stealthily before unlocking the door. "I'm sure you'll love this room, Mr. Duncely," she said. "It's very special."
And without a word she left me here.
The room has an aroma of lilacs and a motif of gray and pink, with a predominance of gray or silver. It was very evidently a woman's room, furnished tastefully.
An inventory of the drawers has kept me busy for most of the evening. When I opened my briefcase it was full of water and most of my documents were soaked. But the notebook in which I had been keeping track of the incidents of the field trip was almost untouched, except for one little water stain that covered the topmost part of every page. The notebook had been the last thing I had placed in the briefcase, and because of the way it lay in the car, had somehow managed to be protected from the deluge. The lingerie is interesting, but it cannot have been of much value. The letters are mostly about matters of the heart and had no financial significance. But the bottom drawer contain the most extraordinary jewelry. I expect that the sales tax alone would amount to a considerable fortune, not taking to account the value of the gems themselves. But we will need to have them professionally appraised, in due course.
I was still in the process of examining the horde a little while ago when the lights went out, that is to say, the electricity was cut off. It was pitch dark, and still raining audibly outside. Pilar came by with some camdles, and so I proceeded to jot down my notes. I expect I'll turn in now as soon as I have found a toilet. I believe there is one close at hand, as this room has two doors.
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