Black Gold, White Gold

By Sandra Toro

After a middle-of-the night gangland-style murder of three young Indian men, Nancy Chavez, a reporter for the Albuquerque Journal agrees to take a leave from the newspaper and help the tribe solve the murders. Douglas Ford, a Harvard Law grad joins the team, and the two of them, at great risk to their lives, pursue the clues and uncover another related crime: oil theft from the Indian tribes being carried out on a regular basis by several oil companies. The cast of characters includes a charismatic Indian chief and his flamboyant wife, a much honored lawyer for his wins in Supreme Court cases on behalf of the tribes, and a scandalous love story involving the parentage of Douglas Fordl

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandra Toro
• Release date: Dec 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310003851

Book preview

BLACK GOLD, WHITE GOLD

A NOVEL BY

SANDRA TORO

Published by Sandra Toro at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Sandra Toro

Discover other titles at Smashwords

Olivia’s Triumph

Olivia’s Legacy

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CHAPTER ONE

SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

Good, I’m one of the first to arrive, Nancy Chavez thought a she surveyed the nearly empty parking lot across the street from the Fenn Galleries. She locked her red Camaro, then straightened her olive green suede skirt which had stuck to the leather upholstery during the hour long drive from Albuquerque. Satisfied that she looked her best, she watched for an opening in the traffic on the Paseo de Peralta, the always-busy urban highway, so she could cross to the gallery.

As she crossed, she made mental notes for the story she would write. The architecture of the Fenn was an outstanding example of the adobe style—borrowed from her people, the Pueblo tribes. It was a magnificent large example of the multi-storied pueblos which dotted Indian country in the southwest. Dark brown weathered vigas protruded from the exterior walls, magnificent hand-carved and finished oak doors and flickering gas lights led the way into the gallery. She passed through the outer courtyard: ancient trees, a honey-comb oven for bread baking, a large grouping of three Indian women in bronze, two bears, and a mythologically inspired grouping of half-human, half-mermaid creatures populated this first outdoor gallery. It was as impressive a collection of sculpture as you could find anywhere in the state—but Nancy knew there was more, much more in the inner courtyard.

An attractive blonde, probably an art student greeted her and gave her a press badge, then invited her to browse through the many rooms of the gallery. Cocktails will be served in the garden, starting in about an hour.

Thank you, Nancy replied, as she accepted a copy of the evening’s program and auction catalogue. This was an unusual assignment for her, but one she had requested. Normally, an investigative reporter for the Albuquerque Journal, she had decided to branch out, to do free lance articles for slick national magazines such as Art and Antiques, Southwest Art, and American Indian Art. The article she would write as a result of this major social event, an auction of historical pueblo artifacts combined with a festive dinner-dance, would appear in the lifestyle section of the Albuquerque Journal on Sunday. She would then use copies of it to secure further assignments with major magazines.

Immediately, she walked toward the room where Nedra Matteucci, the new owner of the galleries founded by Forrest Fenn, had hung Nancy’s favorite painting, Girl in Moscow by Leon Gaspard. Her spirits lifted as she studied the pretty young peasant girl, dressed in a multi-colored floral shawl and vivid blue babushka, with the famed onion domed cathedrals of Moscow in the background. It was a superb impressionistic rendering, a painting which would only increase in value with the years. But priced at $550,000, it would probably stay at the gallery for awhile.

Nancy walked slowly through the other rooms, looking carefully at her favorite canvases by Joseph Henry Sharp, Doug Higgins, and Ernest Blumenschein. All around her the waiters and musicians and gallery staff were setting the stage for the events of the evening. And once more she found herself viewing her surroundings through two sets of eyes and emotions, a result of her hungry and threadbare childhood on the impoverished Chio Pueblo Reservation, juxtaposed against her four years of higher education among America’s privileged best and brightest at Stanford University in California.

Douglas Ford arrived with Richard and Lucy Blumenthal at seven-thirty and joined the throng of guests, now crossing Paseo de Peralta with the aid of a uniformed policeman who stopped traffic every couple of minutes. They too had driven up to Santa Fe from Albuquerque. Doug had willingly caught the collecting fever from his boss Richard, widely reputed to be the nation’s leading expert on energy and water law in the West. Blumenthal had amassed a world-class collection of pre-Columbian pots and plaques with the help of his Laguna Pueblo wife, Lucy. Doug was learning about ancient Indian artifacts, refining his taste by leaning heavily on Blumenthal’s advice. Because Doug had strongly insisted, both Richard and Lucy had agreed to attend the evening’s festivities.

It’s for a good cause, Doug had assured Lucy, the profits will go to The Earth Circle Foundation’s Wings of America project, a project, he went on to explain, which demonstrably increased the self-esteem of the young reservation boys. No one could argue with that!

Once inside the galleries, guests were immediately ushered outdoors to the famous Fenn sculpture garden. It was not yet dark: the setting sun cast interesting shadows over the sparkling lake and gardens. The gentle tinkle of the mini-waterfalls and the sudden rush of a breeze cooled the evening air. A fantasy setting, Doug thought, a million miles removed form the Plaza with its hordes of tourists, from the bustling highway outside the garden walls, from the poverty and despair and drugs and alcohol abuse of reservation life.

It’s ironic, he mused as he surveyed the scene, that we come to this lush garden, filled with incredible representations of Indian life in bronze, to sip our margaritas and spend huge sums of money on what were once basic everyday utensils for these ancient impoverished tribes. If only some of the effort which went into producing this evening of entertainment for rich white folks could be focused on the people on the reservations.

His thoughts were interrupted by the entrance at the garden portico of John and Tanya Maria Santee, arguably the most glamorous Native American couple in all of Indian Country. There was a palpable silence, an instantaneous turning toward the Santees, then after a moment of hushed homage, the crowd resumed its eating and drinking and chatter.

They really are a dramatic, show-stopping couple, Doug decided as he watched them make their entrance and begin to circulate in their aloof manner. John, as always, was dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, a cowboy shirt and for this special occasion, he had donned a bolo tie. Several inches over six feet, he looked like central casting’s idea of a modern day Apache warrior—exactly what he was, though he usually confined his wars to corporate board rooms and courtrooms. The president of the Rio Grande Apache tribe, though he was a graduate of Harvard, made it a point to proclaim his heritage: he wore his sleek black hair drawn severely back from his head and braided in one long braid which reached below his waist.

Tanya Marie, John’s wife of Portuguese descent and Radcliffe education, is beautifully exotic in the way Cher is, Doug decided as he watched her greet gallery owner Nedra Matteucci. The women were obviously discussing Tanya Maria’s dramatic dress. It appeared to be a tightly fitting body suit, painted in rippling waves of blues and purples, topped by a chiffon multi-layered tunic which was painted in the same shimmering waves of color. With each movement, the patterns and colors shifted making Tanya Maria a walking art object, a sort of kaleidoscope in fabric.

She’s the only woman I know with the nerve to wear something like that, Doug thought, yet on her it’s breathtaking. He made his way through the crowd, half-way around the lake, to greet them. John, he knew, would feel like a fish out of water. He hated white social functions. But Tanya Maria insisted on as cultured a social life as possible, and furthermore, she truly loved art, had majored in it , and had made a point to know everything about the art available in New Mexico. This was an evening made to order for her.

John, great to see you. And you, Tanya Maria, Doug said as he bent to kiss her lightly on the cheek. You look splendid, very dramatic and colorful, I must say!

Tanya Maria glowed at his compliment, and even John managed a weak smile but said nothing besides nodding hello.

Come, sit with us. I’m here with Dick and Lucy. We may as well make up a table of folks we like.

John smiled warmly and Doug knew he had psyched out the situation. The only way to make the evening tolerable for John would be to put him with Blumenthal so they could talk shop. Blumenthal’s law firm had represented the Rio Grande Apache tribe for over twenty years and had won several landmark decisions in the United States Supreme Court. Blumenthal was one of Santee’s few heroes and Blumenthal thought of Santee as almost a protégé.

That’s a wonderful idea, Doug. Thank you! Tanya Maria exclaimed. Then she took her husband by the hand and said, I’ve promised John a tour, complete with commentary, of the wonderful sculpture. So please excuse us for the moment, Doug.

Nancy Chavez had joined the Chairman of her Chio Pueblo tribe, Ken Vigil and his wife Marguerita. They were looking over the items which would be auctioned off after dinner. A special marquee had been erected over by the Bear—a magnificent, life-size bronze of a grizzly sniffing the wind in the far north-east corner of the garden. Under this marquee, guarded by two armed security guards, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of pueblo artifacts were assembled, labeled and numbered. Zuni jewelry, a Navajo headstall, drums, rattles, game hoops, shields and moccasins. Several dozen colorful Hopi kachinas from the 19th century, an Acoma kachina doll and a Navajo Yei doll.

When they arrived at the display of tabletas, Ken stopped abruptly and pointed to a brightly colored headpiece worn by the women during ceremonial dances. See that one, he said. My great, great grandmother made that tableta. It’s wood, carved from cottonwood and painted with mineral paints. I’m told that wand attachment is typical of the late 19th century.

Nancy gazed at the primitive-looking red, green, black and white headpiece which looked like it might have been made by a child in grade school. The card identifying it suggested that it would probably go for between $2800 and $3500. She found it hard to believe it could be worth that much. If it was made by one of your ancestors, wouldn’t you like to have it back? Shouldn’t we own it as part of our own historical collection?

You bet! The Council authorized me to go as high as $3,000. So keep your fingers crossed that no one else wants it.

By far the most table space was reserved for pueblo pottery. Nancy was particularly attracted to a Hopi Olla, a ceramic bowl with abstract profiles of birds and mountain lions, painted in polychrome polacca. It was only seven inches high, made between 1890 and 1910.

Further on, they saw a set of four San Ildefonso high-polish black plates, signed by the famous Maria, which would bring at least $3,000.

My stomach tells me it’s time to eat, Ken announced, taking Nancy and Marguerita by the elbow and guiding them toward the hor d’oeuvres table which had been set up over between the bronze skipping children and the Hopi maidens.

They were feasting on crab and chili tortas and miniature lobster tacos when Ken saw Jeff Bradfield, the president of Merriam Oil Company, talking with Tanya Maria Santee by the bench at the edge of the lake.

He made it after all, Ken said to Marguerita and Nancy. When I spoke with him yesterday he wasn’t sure he’d be here. In spite of all the financial backing he’s given to this event.

Nancy’s curiosity was peaked at the excitement in Ken’s voice and eyes. You really admire the man, don’t you?

He’s one of the best, the greatest. It’s a pleasure to do business with him. He’s been so good to our tribe…

My God, Ken, think of the money he’s made from the minerals he’s extracted from our lands. Of course he’s good to us. He wants to continue doing business with us.

No, Nancy. He’s special. He’s a prince among men, a real prince.

Nancy turned to Marguerita, Do you agree? I understand you’ve gotten to know him pretty well too.

Marguerita, always shy, always soft spoken and deferential to her husband said, He’s promised our children college scholarships to any school they want to attend.

That could be construed as bribery, Nancy thought, but didn’t say. She sometimes questioned Ken Vigil’s naiveté in dealing with oil executives, but so far there was no evidence that he’d made mistakes. Everyone seemed pleased with the job he was doing as chairman of the tribe.

As for Jeff Bradfield, Nancy didn’t know him personally, had never been introduced. But from a distance he struck her as too handsome, too slick, too polished to be real. His white, wavy hair looked like it was lacquered in place; his skin had that look of the perpetually tan playboy, who also uses lots of moisturizers. His clothes reeked of money, and though she couldn’t see from this distance, she’d bet he was wearing ostrich skin boots. She’d read about his lifestyle: five palatial homes, a private jet, a yacht which he kept in Acapulco, and businesses all over the southwest. Everything from real estate to oil to a boot company to a chain of restaurants. He had his finger in everything. It’s a wonder, come to think of it, that he has the time and interest to be here tonight, Nancy decided. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. For Ken’s sake.

As was his habit, Jeff Bradfield worked the crowd like a politician running for high office. And because he was famous in New Mexico—the result of numerous newspaper and television profiles—small groupings opened to admit him, eager to hang on his every word, to laugh at his jokes. He took this in stride as the kind of deference due him by virtue of his power and wealth. A power and wealth which had benefited him, but, he’d long since decided, benefited the economy and the minority citizens of New Mexico even more. His various companies had been the source of steady jobs and thus dignity for many Native Americans who would otherwise have lived out their lives in dire poverty and ignorance. And he took his social obligations seriously too, as was evidenced by this evening.

Not only had he made a seed money contribution of $5,000 to the sponsoring organization, but he had personally arranged for Kenny Rogers and Cristal Gayle to provide the entertainment and he was picking up the tab for their travel and lodging, as well as their standard fee.

Harmer Johnson, the Native American expert for Sothebys, had flown in from the East Coast to preside as master of ceremonies and auctioneer. When he announced over the loud speaker that dinner was about to be served, Bradfield looked around for the California crowd with whom he preferred to spend the evening. They were already seated—he should have known—at the first two tables to the right of the podium, right next to the dance floor. Sitting with them meant he didn’t offend either Ken Vigil, chairman of the Chio Pueblo, or President John Santee of the Rio Grande Apache. He pumped oil from both their reservations, and had, for the most part, smooth relations with them. He wanted to drink this evening, and he didn’t want to have to guard his tongue. Besides, the California women were much more interesting.

Nancy Chavez, seated at Nedra Matteucci’s table, began imagining her lead into the article as she sipped the roasted red pepper soup with corn. As the sun gradually set, changing the lake from a shimmering green and blue mirror into indigo glass, some four hundred New Mexicans and their guests from Texas, California, and even Europe…

I thought you only covered bribery across the street at the Capitol, William Tarnover, one of Santa Fe’s leading art experts and gallery owners said, by way of conversation opener. Tonight will be rather tame, won’t it?

Pleased that her reputation had preceded her, Nancy focused on the man seated to her left. She knew him by reputation too, and realized he could be helpful to her in her future articles. Every now and then it’s good for a journalist to try something different. And though I’m certainly not the expert you are, I did grow up on the Chio reservation and I know a good deal about Indian lore and history. Besides, I studied art a bit at Stanford. So I’ve decided to do some pieces on Southwestern art. This is a pretty good place to start, don’t you think?

Sure. We’ve got as good an exhibit as you’re likely to find anywhere. Should bring in some big bucks too, judging from the folks I see here. Some of the leading collectors in the country. The committee has done a good job of advertising this auction.

Yes, even a piece in The New York Times. That was quite a coup!

Tell me, since you’re a member of the Chio pueblo tribe , are you a collector too?

No, I’m afraid the price is too high. It’s a pity, though, when the price of ancient artifacts has become so inflated that the tribes themselves can’t afford to own pieces of their history. I know Ken Vigil would like to own that tableta his great, great grandmother made. And I think he should.

Ah, yes. But speaking as a dealer, you must realize the tribes’ very survival over the years has sometimes been linked to selling their possessions. As dealers, we’ve created a worldwide market. And, generally speaking, its been of great benefit to the tribes.

And to dealers such as yourself.

Tarnover smiled at Nancy. I understand why legislators turn the opposite direction when they see you coming. You manage to cut to the chase mighty fast. He moved his chair back a bit and stood. Miss Chavez, the music sounds so inviting. Would you like to dance?

On the other side of the huge tent, Tanya Maria Santee led Doug