Mystery in Arizona (6 page)

He sighed. “I can do the marketing myself and have the laundry sent out, but where am I going to find someone who will cope with the other household chores? Who is going to wait on the tables, tidy the ranch house and the cabins? I could probably find someone who would come out once a week and do the heavy cleaning, but the beds have to be made daily, the furniture must be dusted.…” His words ended in a groan of despair.

“It’s really a very serious problem,” Mr. Lynch put
in. “You kids are old enough to understand that. Mr. Wilson’s many guests have paid him in advance. They naturally expect service. Most of them are asthma sufferers and stay out here for eight months of the year for that reason. Even in an emergency like this none of them could be asked to do any household chores whatsoever.”

“I’m not particularly worried about the asthmatics,” Mr. Wilson said. “Our resident R.N., Miss Girard, and her assistant, a practical nurse, can take care of them. And I did have the good fortune early this morning to hire a friend of Maria’s, a full-blooded Navaho girl who for some reason has left the Indian school here in her senior year. Her real name is something like Rose-who-blooms-in-the-winter, but Maria calls her Rosita. She’s as pretty as she is competent, and is already very popular with the guests.”

He shook his head. “She can’t begin to take the place of the Orlandos, of course. You don’t often find a wonderful family like that. They came to me last January, and after they showed me what they could do, I hired the whole clan then and there. And clan,” he added emphatically, “is the right word to use when describing them in the English language. They are a very close-knit family, proud of their ancient lineage. I
gather that they can trace their family tree back to an Aztec noble.”

“They sound like wonderful people,” Honey said. “I can’t understand why they left you in the lurch like this, Uncle Monty. Didn’t they give any explanation?”

He shook his head again. “All they said was, ‘A family emergency,
señor,’
as they departed. I simply don’t understand it. My own conscience is clear. I treated them all very well. Let them run the whole place without any interference whatsoever. They did a grand job and apparently loved it.”

Still shaking his head he added, “But it’s my problem, not yours, kids, so forget about it. I only wish you could be here tomorrow night for the beautiful ceremony in the elementary school. It is strange that the Orlandos would want to miss
La Posada
. I think you know that it is based on ancient Mexican-Spanish tradition, which holds that Joseph and Mary spent nine days during their journey from Galilee to Bethlehem searching for a
posada
which is the Spanish word for lodging. On the ninth night they found it, in the stable where the Christ child was born.

“Here in Tucson
La Posada
is staged on only one night, but in Spain and Mexico it is celebrated for nine days. A procession, consisting usually of school children,
travels by candlelight from door to door seeking admission. A boy and a girl representing Joseph and Mary may head the procession, and figures of Mary on a burro with Joseph walking beside her are carried on a decorated litter.

“The children chant the ancient Spanish litany and are refused admittance until the ninth night, Christmas Eve. This is the end of the ritual and from that moment on it becomes a gala festival—a joyous
fiesta
. Do you boys and girls know what a
piñata
is?”

“No,” they chorused.

“Well,” he said, “it might be compared to the custom we Americans have of allowing each child to open one present on Christmas Eve. In the home where the procession is finally admitted on Christmas Eve, there will be suspended from the ceiling a beautifully decorated pottery jar which is filled with candies and little toys. Now the
fiesta
becomes a sort of blind man’s buff. Each child in turn is blindfolded and given a stick with which to whack the jar. When the
piñata
finally breaks, the kids scramble all over the floor to gather up the Christmas goodies as they descend from the ceiling.”

“What fun!” Honey cried. “Sort of like the old nursery rhyme about Little Jack Horner. Do the Mexican and
Spanish children receive their presents the next day as we do, Uncle Monty?”

“Well, yes and no,” he told her. “Those who have become thoroughly Americanized celebrate Christmas the way we do. But according to tradition the day of gift-giving does not take place until January sixth, the day when the three Wise Men came to the manger. The night before, children fill their shoes with hay and then place them on the window sills. The hay is for the camels and the Wise Men show their gratitude by refilling the shoes with gifts.”

“Oh, how Bobby would love to hear about that custom!” Trixie said enthusiastically. “Every Christmas Eve he insists upon leaving cookies and milk under our tree for Santa and a box of hay for the reindeer.”

“Said box of hay,” Mart added, “being a shoe box, Bobby’s size, and filled with grass cuttings which, when dried out, are barely enough to line the bottom of the box.”

“But it’s the spirit of the thing that counts,” Honey said quickly. “Bobby is so cute and funny that I’m almost glad we’re going back home tomorrow so we can spend Christmas with him.”

“We’re not going back tomorrow,” someone said.

Trixie jumped. It was she who had said that!

“I’m sorry—” Uncle Monty and Mr. Lynch began, but Trixie went right on talking just as though she were all alone in the station wagon. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from thinking out loud.

“We boys and girls could easily take the Orlandos’ place. The boys have had lots of experience waiting on tables at camp and they’re all grand cooks. We girls can help Rosita with the housework. Even Honey learned how to make beds and keep her room tidy at boarding school. She—”

Trixie’s voice dwindled away. Honey and Di and the boys were staring at her in amazement. The expression on their faces said plainly, “Do housework on our vacation? Are you cra-azee?”

Of course I’m crazy
, Trixie thought miserably and wished like anything that she had held her tongue. The sensible thing for them to do was forget about Arizona and go back home tomorrow. She opened her mouth to say, “I was just kidding,” when Uncle Monty pulled the car over to the side of the road and braked it to a stop.

“Wow!” he breathed. “Are you serious, Trixie? That would be the answer to my problem. I’ll pay you what I paid the Orlandos, two hundred dollars a week, and you could still have plenty of time for fun.”

Trixie closed her eyes. It was too late then to back
out. The other Bob-Whites would hate her for the rest of their lives. Why was she forever doing and saying impulsive things that got them all into scrapes? This would be the scrape to end all scrapes: Two weeks of sheer drudgery loomed ahead of them instead of the good times they had planned. Why, they probably wouldn’t even have time to go near the corral let alone get on a horse and gallop across the desert! And as for
La Posada
and the other festivals, they’d be lucky if they had time to read about them in the newspaper.

In the awful silence that followed Uncle Monty’s offer, Trixie died a thousand mental deaths, but somehow she managed to say, “We’d love the job, Uncle Monty. All of us would.”

Because, after all, they had flown more than a thousand miles to spend the holidays in Tucson. It didn’t make sense to fly back again the next day. Maybe it wouldn’t be much of a holiday, but at least they could say for the rest of their lives that they had spent Christmas in Arizona!

Honey, who was always both tactful and sympathetic, came to Trixie’s rescue then. “Of course we’d love to take the Orlandos’ place, Uncle Monty. It’ll be fun.”

Nobody else said anything except Uncle Monty. He let out a loud sigh of relief and started up the motor again. “Great! The work, with all of you helping, won’t be awfully hard. I’ll see to it that you have plenty of time for riding and swimming.”

Trixie opened her eyes and to her amazement in that short interval it had grown dark. The sun had dipped down behind the mountains, the flaming sky had changed to dark purple, and the air was growing chilly. Trixie shivered and slipped her arms into the sleeves of her coat.

The others followed suit and then Mr. Lynch said, “Well, it would certainly solve a lot of problems for you, Monty. How do you feel about Trixie’s suggestion, Di?”

“I’m very much in favor of it, Dad,” she said, and the boys added, “So are we.”

But Trixie could tell from the tone of their voices that far from being in favor of the plan they thoroughly disapproved of it—and of her.

Ten minutes later when they arrived at the ranch house, Mart made it plain how he felt. “Well, Calamity Jane,” he whispered, as he pretended to help her climb out of the station wagon, “I hope you end up with dishpan hands and housemaid’s knee.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Trixie retorted. “And, in case you’re interested, four hundred dollars is not to be sneezed at.” She brushed past him to join the others on the patio.

Uncle Monty opened the door and, bowing, said,
“Bienvenidos!
Welcome.” He led the way into a spacious living-room, all four walls of which seemed to Trixie to be nothing but picture windows. On one side were the purple mountains and on the other a shadowy expanse which must be the desert. The “picture window” facing her, she slowly realized, was really a double glass door which opened onto another patio.

“Welcome to my humble home,” Uncle Monty was saying. “It started out as an adobe hut. Then during the Civil War when Arizona had little or no military protection from Apache raiders, it became a small fortress. When I bought the land and renovated the house I decided to try and keep as much of the Old Pueblo feeling as possible. So you will find that in contrast to this room and the dining-room, the bedrooms are so small you could almost call them cells.” He turned to Mr. Lynch. “I know you’d like to call the airport about your plane reservation. The phone is in my study on the other side of the west patio.” The two men went out through the glass doors.

“The rooms can’t be too small for me,” Mart said. “Cell-sized housekeeping is the only kind I’m interested in at the moment.”

“If only,” said Brian, “we had had brains enough to put Trixie in a padded cell before we embarked for the great Southwest!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Jim easily. “If you’d stop complaining and think about it, men, you’d find that the idea grows on you. The girls will have to do all the dirty work, because it’s a known fact that we boys are no good at bed-making and dusting.”

“That’s right,” Brian agreed, brightening. “Except when we’re scouring a few pots and pans and waiting on the tables, we’ll be free to do exactly what we please.”

Mart raised his sandy eyebrows. “Have you forgotten the dishes? Mountains of them after every meal.”

“Squaws’ work,” said Jim.

Trixie sniffed. “Says you.”

Uncle Monty came back through the glass door and with him was a beautiful young Indian girl who Trixie guessed must be Rose-who-blooms-in-the-winter. She was wearing a flame-red cotton dress with a full skirt and a dainty white apron. Her sleek, jet-black hair was cut short in front to form thick bangs, but the back was long and was tied with a piece of bright red cloth to match her frock. On her bare brown feet were multi-colored straw sandals, and on her pretty face was one of the warmest smiles Trixie had ever seen.

“
Yah-teh
—greetings,” she said, and her voice was low and soft. Her black eyes flitted from one face to the other so that it seemed as though she had welcomed each one personally.

“This is Rosita,” Uncle Monty said. “Her father is a famous silversmith and her mother makes exquisite jewelry. Some day she will show you her bracelets and necklaces.”

The girl’s smile faded and almost imperceptibly she shook her head. Trixie, feeling very disappointed, couldn’t help wondering why Rosita didn’t want to show them her jewelry. Trixie had read a lot about Navaho silver craft and had seen color photographs of lovely things that were studded with shell, turquoise, and
coral. She had also learned that Navahos love to decorate themselves with jewelry, but Rose-who-blooms-in-the-winter was not wearing even one small ring.

There’s something mysterious about all this
, Trixie decided.

“They call themselves Bob-Whites,” Uncle Monty was saying as he continued the introductions, “and they are, from left to right, Trixie, Honey, Di, Jim, Brian, and Mart.”

“I’m awfully glad to meet you all,” Rosita said without a trace of an accent in her voice. “If the boys will carry the luggage I’ll show you to your rooms now.”

The rooms were, Trixie discovered, truly cell-sized but charming in every way. There was a doubledecker bunk in the room she would share with Honey and their room was connected to Di’s by a tiny bathroom.

“The boys have a similar ‘suite’ on the other side of the patio,” Rosita said. “This is the old part of the house and the rooms were built during the old days when the hacienda was a fortress. Mr. Wilson never rents them to paying guests, except in an emergency.” She smiled ruefully. “I am afraid they have not been dusted properly, but Maria and I had barely time to put clean linen on the beds and get out the blankets which you will need because the nights are cold here.”