Kiss of the Shaman's Daughter―Revolt, Lost Treasure, and Smugglers (Diva Undaunted Book 2)

BOOK 2

DIVA UNDAUNTED

Second Place

2022 Arizona Authors Association Literary Contest

Copyright ©2010 by Peter Bernhardt

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the product of the author’s vivid imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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Second Edition: November 2022

To Marilyn

I want to express my gratitude to the members of the Sedona Writers Critique Group and the Internet Writing Workshop for their constructive criticism that improved this novel beyond measure.

Kerry Taliaferro, former role coach (Korrepetitor) at the Stuttgart Opera, and Ed Garrett, archaeologist, provided expert advice that enabled me to authentically write about opera, archaeology, the Pueblo Indians, and Native American culture.

I especially thank the readers of my early drafts for valuable feedback.

There were many others who made significant contributions to this work. They are too numerous to name, but I express here my deep appreciation for their help and support. They know who they are.

And as always, my gratitude to Marilyn for her keen insights that inspire me to do better, for being a thoughtful sounding board as each chapter was born, and for her unwavering support.

Prologue

He grasps her hand, pulls her through the doorway of his quarters and steps in quickly behind her. He shoves her forward into the room and drops the door’s heavy bolt into place behind them. Feeling trapped in the dim room, she looks around in panic. All she can see at first are a few slender cracks of light between planks that cover what was once a small opening in one wall. Could she possibly pull the boards loose to get away?

As her eyes adjust to the low light, she sees that he is leering at her. He holds out his hand. Do you know what this is?

Seed of the sun, she replies mechanically.

Give me your hand.

She obeys.

This is a gold bracelet. He slips it onto her wrist. You may wear it when you visit me here, but you cannot take it with you.

The graceful gold looks stunning against her dark skin, but this is not the time to be distracted by beautiful things.

I’m your friend. He lays his hand on her wrist. If you’re a good girl, you and your family will do well. Do you understand?

Understanding all too well, she plays for time. Let me tell you about tomorrow.

His fingers close tight around her wrist, and he jerks her toward him. Tell me later. There is something that won’t wait until tomorrow.

She averts her face just in time to avoid his wet lips. She pushes against his bulk. She is young and strong, but the lecher’s size and lust make him stronger. With one arm around her waist, he presses forward, rubbing against her small breasts. Even as she recoils, she feels him groping under her manta.

Frantic now, she staggers and bumps into a table. He pins her against it, forcing her to bend backwards, off-balance. His hand moves up her thigh, greedily exploring the soft folds of her flesh. Her throat tightens, stifling the cry rising inside her. She cannot stop him.

Then, a powerful surge of determination and strength courses through her. I am the daughter of a shaman and descendant of a proud people. I will not give in to this horrible white man. I will die here fighting him, if I must.

Chapter One

The Reunion

Santa Fe, New Mexico, Monday afternoon, 6 August 1990

Charles Slater stopped running when he reached the Sandia Hotel. He wiped sweat from his brow and scanned the street behind him for any sign of the two men who’d been following him. When he saw only tourists strolling and window-shopping through downtown Santa Fe, he stepped into the hotel lobby. A huge banner above the reception area bade welcome to New Mexico’s archaeologists. Late for the presentation he wanted to attend, he hurried to the meeting rooms. A sign on the door to the Santa Clara Room announced a lecture about the Pueblo Indian Revolts. Slater entered.

Even though the burnt-orange carpet muffled his steps to the nearest aisle chair, a few people in the back row turned. He sized up the room—seven rows of less than ten chairs each, no middle aisle, two rear exits. Not good, unless there was another way out. He relaxed a little when he spotted an exit sign above a small side door in front.

The lecturer, his gray hair and thick lenses barely protruding above the lectern, read from prepared notes in a stultifying monotone to an audience clearly fighting boredom. Slater was anything but bored. He kept glancing at the rear exits. Just when he thought he’d lost his pursuers, a stocky man entered through the left rear door and lingered there. Slater checked the other side. His stomach knotted at the sight of a bald-headed man in jeans guarding the right rear door.

He’d seen the two of them earlier at the Santa Fe Plaza among the throng of tourists perusing the wares of the Indian jewelry vendors. They’d crossed his path several times, and when they reappeared on a side street off the Plaza, he realized they were following him. Their presence at both rear exits dispelled any notion of happenstance. Who were these guys and what did they know?

Slater resisted the impulse to make a dash for the front exit forty feet away. To curtail rising panic, he took a deep breath, then another. He wiped perspiration off his forehead and rose. He approached the podium. Engrossed in reading from his notes, the professor kept up his monotone until the audience’s murmur caught his attention. When he looked up, Slater raised his hand.

The professor waved him off. I’ll take questions at the end, please.

Ten feet to the unguarded exit. Slater ran to the door, pressed on the steel bar and pushed. In his peripheral vision he caught a commotion at the rear of the room. He charged through the doorway and crashed into the far wall in the hallway. The door slammed shut with a clang that reverberated throughout the hall. Flakes of plaster rained down on him. He stumbled to his feet and bumped into a table and chairs propped along the wall. Straining, he pushed the heavy table in front of the door, grabbed a chair and wedged it between the table and the opposite wall. Just then the door sprang open a crack, smashing into the barricade.

Slater heard two angry male voices. He had a minute at most before his pursuers came around through the rear exits. He fled down the hall, which spilled into the lobby bar. Its wide-open space offered no hiding place. He sprinted across the lobby, past a row of telephones and the hotel restaurant, toward a door at the far end of another hallway. That had to be an exit. He depressed the handle. Nothing happened. He threw his shoulder against the steel door. It didn’t budge.

He couldn’t risk returning to the lobby. The restaurant was his only hope. A few quick steps carried him to a glass door, inscribed Chez Paul in sweeping white letters. He opened the door and stepped inside. Patrons enjoying a late lunch occupied most of the tables. At other times Slater would have found the cozy atmosphere appealing and the hushed conversations soothing, but not today.

A hostess approached. Do you have a reservation, sir?

Uh . . . no. I’m meeting a friend. Do you mind if I look?

Go right ahead.

Pretending to search for someone, he moved around the tables. On his way to the street exit, he passed a door to a side room. It might lead to a safe hiding place while his pursuers ran through the restaurant and checked in the street. Following his impulse, he opened the opaque glass door.

An attractive young woman, long dark hair falling over a red blouse, put down her fork. When her companion turned around, Slater stared at him in disbelief. Though his hair was now more brown than blond and he’d grown a mustache since law school, Slater instantly recognized Rolf Keller, the man who had cost him his diploma. Stunned, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

♫ ♫ ♫

Rolf eyed the intruder—lean, dressed in baggy cargo pants and a navy sports shirt. A sun-tanned face had replaced the pallid complexion from law school. Could it really be Charles Slater, his former classmate who’d been expelled weeks before graduation?

Slater’s breathless voice interrupted Rolf’s musings. I’ll be damned if it isn’t Rolf Keller, my old chum from law school.

Still the same smart-ass, Rolf thought while fighting to regain his composure. What are you doing here?

Sylvia shot him a quizzical look. Was she annoyed at the interruption or at his failure to introduce the intruder?

Slater took a chair facing the door and turned toward Sylvia. I’m Charles Slater.

Sylvia Mazzoni.

What brings you to Santa Fe? Slater asked.

Sylvia performs at the opera, Rolf said. What about you? Did you know I was here?

No. Sheer coincidence . . . but I’m glad I stumbled in here. I’m in a bit of a tight spot, and you might be just the person I need.

You’re kidding.

Sylvia stared at both of them. You want to tell me what’s going on? What’s between you two?

The law journal board accused me of plagiarizing my article and Rolf was the editor-in-chief. They got me kicked out of Brandenburg Law School.

That’s not what happened, and you know it.

Slater put up a hand. You can tell her your version later. You know I got the shaft. Only two weeks to graduation and they canned me for something I didn’t do. He pointed to their plates. You two go ahead.

Sylvia eyed her salmon filet but made no move to pick up her silverware. Rolf ignored his rare filet mignon. His appetite gone, he put down his knife and fork. So much for the intimate tryst he’d planned for this reunion with Sylvia.

Thinking that he might as well make the best of an awkward situation, he asked, So what field did you go into?

I’m an . . . Slater stared past him.

Rolf turned. A waitress stood in the doorway, looking at Slater. Would you like to see a menu, sir?

No, thank you.

The waitress shrugged and drew the door shut behind her.

Slater took a deep breath. I’m a professor of archaeology in the anthropology department at the university in Albuquerque. But I live up here between semesters. He looked at Rolf. I really do need to talk to you. He hesitated, glancing at Sylvia.

When Rolf didn’t react, Slater continued, I’ve never put much stock in the Pueblo Indian tales of lost treasure from Spanish colonial days, but something happened last weekend that completely changed my mind.

Rolf set down his glass hard.

Slater glanced at him, then at Sylvia, then around the room. Rolf caught Sylvia’s questioning gaze. Recalling Slater’s shifty demeanor during law school, Rolf felt rising skepticism.

Slater leaned forward. I’ve made a find . . . well, let me just say the kind of find I wouldn’t have thought possible.

I’m a lawyer, Sylvia is a singer, and you’re the expert. Why are you telling us?

Because I’m in trouble. I came in here to shake two rough-looking guys who’ve been following me.

Who’s after you and why?

Slater did not seem to have heard his question. He stared over Rolf’s shoulder at the door, then his eyes darted frantically about the room. Rolf turned and through the opaque glass glimpsed the blurry outline of three figures approaching from the restaurant.

He turned back and saw Slater freeze in his chair. Quick. Under the table.

Slater ducked beneath the white tablecloth that hung halfway to the floor. Rolf motioned Sylvia to move closer. The door opened. The hostess stood at the threshold with two men.

Feigning embarrassment, Rolf withdrew his hand from Sylvia’s shoulder. Do you think you could knock before you come barging in?

I’m sorry, sir. These gentlemen are looking for someone. They say it’s urgent.

The two men—one stout with blond hair, the other muscular and bald—did not strike Rolf as gentlemen.

The blond one spoke. A man in his mid-thirties, skinny, wearing khakis, navy shirt. Have you seen him?

Rolf shook his head. No, we haven’t. As you can see, we’re not in need of company.

The hostess looked confused, but if the waitress had told her about their visitor, she did not let on. Sorry to have bothered you.

She moved to close the door but the bald one blocked it, and scrutinized the room. Rolf could hear Slater’s breathing. Just when he thought the others had heard it as well, they stepped back from the door, and the three of them left.

A red-faced Slater emerged from under the table. He steadied himself by grabbing a table leg and in the process snagged the tablecloth. The glasses danced and spilled water onto the table. Slater returned to his chair, but kept an eye on the door.

He exhaled. That was close. Thanks.

Sylvia blotted a water spot in the tablecloth with her napkin. Rolf ignored the wet spot spreading in front of him. They looked like bad guys to me. Why don’t you go to the police?

Maybe I should. He paused a moment, then added, Rolf, how long do you plan on being in New Mexico? I’m serious about needing some help.

If you’re looking for legal advice on archaeology, you’ve got the wrong person. That’s an area I know nothing about.

That’s not it. Someone must have gotten wind that I’m on to something big and sent the tough guys after me. Look Rolf, normally you’d be the last person I’d turn to, but there must be a reason I ran into you here. I’m desperate and I’m asking: help me out here. At least think about it. I’d forgive and forget what happened back in law school—wipe the slate completely clean.

There’s nothing to forgive, Rolf snapped, but he couldn’t help noticing how quickly the man had regained his composure after his narrow escape, and despite himself, he felt respect growing for this new Slater. Besides, given Sylvia’s busy rehearsal schedule, he’d have time on his hands for something as intriguing as this sounded.

Rolf felt his trial lawyer’s curiosity kick in as he heard himself say, But I’m willing to listen.

Not here. Slater glanced at his watch. It’s two o’clock now. Can you meet me at my bank at four? I must show you something. He produced a pen and wrote on a paper napkin, which he handed to Rolf. Here’s the address.

I’ll think about it, Rolf said.

Slater walked to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. Then he turned around. See you at four. He glanced at Sylvia. Both of you.

He pulled the door closed behind him with an eerie swish. Fitting for a ghost from the past, Rolf thought.

Chapter Two

Amends

Santa Fe, Monday afternoon, 6 August 1990

After closing the door on Sylvia and Rolf, Slater scrutinized the restaurant. From his observation spot behind a potted ficus, he noticed several empty tables. Lunch hour was nearing its end. Nothing seemed off kilter. He stepped around the tree and headed for the street exit but slowed when he saw the hostess approaching.

She stared at him. Two men were looking for you earlier. I thought you had left, sir.

Thank you for your . . . discretion.

She nodded.

They’re gone?

Yes.

You didn’t happen to notice which way they went?

She hesitated, clearly weighing what to tell him. Finally, she said, One went back to the lobby. The other ran out to the street.

With both exits covered, how could he leave here undetected? He reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

An almost imperceptible smile played in her eyes as she took the money. This way.

He followed her through large swinging doors into the kitchen. They dodged cooks bustling about, walked through steam rising from black pots as the aroma of garlic and onion assailed his nostrils. No one paid the two of them any attention. She pushed open a door, and he stepped past her into a blind alley cramped with two huge Dumpsters. Careful not to slip on the food scraps littering the asphalt, he turned to thank her but found himself facing a closed door.

Apprehensive about being trapped in the dead end, he hurried toward the only exit. He stopped just short of the sidewalk and peered up and down the street. Sure enough, across the way the bald guy was trying to fade into the shadows of an alcove facing the restaurant.

Slater waited for a group of pedestrians approaching. Careful not to startle them, he nodded at the couple in front and stepped out. He used them as a shield, keeping a few steps ahead. When he rounded the next corner, Slater ducked into a shop entrance and watched the street. A wait of a few minutes allayed his concern about being followed.

He struck up a brisk pace to reach the bank in time to make the necessary arrangements before Rolf and Sylvia arrived. The more he thought about his pursuers and whom they might be working for, the more he became convinced that he needed to do some planning.

Crossing paths with Rolf today after all these years could be an omen. Over the last nine years, Slater grudgingly had to admit that he shouldn’t have so casually used sources in his law journal article without attribution. Still, he didn’t think it was a level of plagiarism that justified his dismissal just weeks before graduation. And he never doubted that Rolf, as editor-in-chief, could have kept the matter from reaching the dean’s desk.

Slater was still ruminating when he stepped into the bank lobby and put his name on a list to see Herbert Stanford. He sank into a soft armchair, wondering whether Rolf and Sylvia would show. Slater sensed that Rolf was remorseful about his role in the plagiarism matter, but would that be enough to get him to help?

Before he could finish the thought, Herbert Stanford came down the hallway, and Slater’s focus shifted to the arrangements he needed to make.

♫ ♫ ♫

Sylvia watched Rolf shake his head in apparent disbelief at the bizarre interruption of their lunch. She decided teasing might pull him out of his glum mood. Who would have guessed? A straight-laced lawyer with an interesting past. Did you really get your fellow law student expelled?

It worked. Rolf’s face relaxed a little. No. The dean did.

But Slater blamed you?

Yes. I was the editor-in-chief, and he felt I could have stopped the referral of his case to the dean. And perhaps I could have.

But the dean found him guilty and expelled him?

Rolf nodded. A foregone conclusion. The dean couldn’t abide him.

And still you feel bad? Sylvia touched his arm.

I guess I do. Slater submitted an article that had passages from various sources which he failed to cite. I thought it was more carelessness than intentional plagiarism, but still I voted with the other editors to send the matter to the dean. Even though I didn’t like him, in retrospect I wish I hadn’t gone along with the others. In any case, he swore revenge against me.

Do you think he meant it?

Maybe he did back then, but I thought he’d forgotten about it over the years. I’ve sure tried to. He squeezed her hand. But let’s talk about something more pleasant. You started to tell me about your rehearsal when Slater burst in.

She returned his squeeze. "You won’t believe this. There’s a chance I’ll be singing Tosca," she gushed.

Rolf’s mouth fell open. The title role?

Yes, Floria Tosca.

"But I don’t understand. They engaged you for Micaëla in Carmen."

They are looking to replace a soprano from New York who canceled. It’s all hush-hush, but I hear she’s developed voice problems.

"Have you performed Tosca before?"

No, but I know it well. I studied the role at the Stuttgart opera school, and I was an understudy at several German opera houses, but never got the chance to step in. She sought his eyes. Rolf, do you know what this could mean for my career? If they give me the part and I pull it off, that is.

Stardom. He smiled. What about Micaëla? You’re not singing in both operas?

She shook her head. "No, of course not. If they give me Tosca, they’ll probably have a recent graduate from their apprentice program sing Micaëla."

He slipped his arms around her shoulders and gently pulled her closer. Congratulations, my diva, he whispered and nuzzled her ear with a kiss.

For a moment, Sylvia relaxed into him, then pulled away. Don’t jinx me. It’s too early for congratulations.

When will you know?

Probably after tomorrow morning’s rehearsal with the assistant conductor. He wants to meet for dinner this evening. I told him about your passion for opera, and he said for you to come along.

I won’t be in the way?

No, I think he just wants to get acquainted. The real test comes during tomorrow’s rehearsal. She hesitated as she searched for the right words. Rolf, you realize what this does to the romantic time in Santa Fe we had planned. If I get the part, I’ll have to spend every available moment in rehearsals, and they’ll be intense. Tosca is so much more demanding than Micaëla.

But surely you can still make time for us, can’t you?

The naked disappointment in his face startled her. Rolf, there hasn’t been a day during these last few months when I didn’t think about seeing you again. She kissed him on the cheek. No matter what, I’ll find some way to make the time.

Good. He held her tight for a moment. I know you have to give it your all. This is what you’ve been working for.

I hoped you’d understand.

A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. Besides, my old law school buddy and his problems might keep me busy. I’m dying to learn about his find. It sounds huge.

You can’t be serious. I don’t trust him, and I thought you didn’t either.

Rolf shook his head. I don’t believe in coincidence. With all the lunch places in Santa Fe, Slater had to stumble in here. What are the chances?

She studied him. What are you saying?

I’m saying there’s got be a reason we’ve met up after all these years. AA teaches me that when I’m ready to do the ninth step, my higher power will provide the opportunity.

Are you talking about making amends?

Rolf nodded. I had the chance to make amends to you when we were thrown together in East Germany. My boss sending me over there last year was no fluke. Nor is my running into Slater here.

Could be, but I have a bad feeling about this. I don’t think you should go to the bank.

Sylvia, listen to me. To work my AA program, I have to make things right. If I don’t, they tell me I might drink again.

Rolf’s fervor convinced her. I guess I can’t argue with that, but if you go, I’m going with you.

You’re sure?

She held his gaze. Yes, I am.

He looked at his watch. Well then, we’d better get back to the room.

She was about to point out they had a couple of hours when Rolf reached for her hand and said, After all, Slater is not the reason we’re in Santa Fe.

Sylvia teased, You mean my singing at the opera?

Before Rolf could continue the banter, the waitress walked in with the check. While he paid, Sylvia’s thoughts returned to their appointment with Slater, and she considered changing her mind about coming along. Yet the man’s explicit request for her presence intrigued her. She pushed those thoughts aside as she interlaced her fingers with Rolf’s on the way to their room.

♫ ♫ ♫

Sylvia found High Desert National Bank’s façade of glass and steel a stark contrast to the ambience of the Plaza and its traditional surroundings. Too modern and not in keeping with Santa Fe’s character, she thought. Rolf stepped under the sensor, and the automatic glass door glided open.

Slater greeted them as soon as they entered the bank. This way.

They followed him to an office across the lobby. A sign on the open door read Herbert Stanford, Vice President. Slater gave a half-hearted knock and walked in. A middle-aged man in a navy suit rose from his chair, walked around the sizable wooden desk and extended his hand.

Introductions and handshakes out of the way, Stanford addressed Sylvia, I understand you’re an opera singer. Are you in town to perform at the Santa Fe Opera?

Yes.

Which opera?

After a slight hesitation, she said, I’ll know tomorrow.

Really? I thought they engaged singers months or years ahead. Doesn’t leave much time for rehearsal, does it?

Sylvia didn’t quite know how to respond. She didn’t want to jinx herself by talking about Tosca since it was by no means certain she’d get the part.

Slater’s voice filled the gap in conversation. If you’re ready, Herbert, let’s get my safe deposit box. His tone carried a note of impatience.

Of course. Stanford led them out of his office through the lobby to a tall steel door. He stepped to a small metal desk, which held an open logbook. He grabbed a pen, made an entry, and had Slater sign. The formalities completed, Stanford opened the steel door, shielding the combination lock from view. They followed him past a huge locked vault to a long room of safe deposit boxes. He selected a key from his ring and inserted it into one of the larger boxes, bearing the number 72.

After Slater opened the box with his key, Stanford withdrew the master key. If you need me, I’ll be in my office. He turned and left.

Slater pointed to the chairs surrounding a metal table in the center of the room. Have a seat.

Rolf pulled out a chair for Sylvia and took one for himself. She shifted her body, seeking to find comfort on the hard metal seat. They don’t encourage their customers to linger, do they?

If Slater had heard, he gave no indication as he was preoccupied with pulling the gray metal box from its bay. He stopped when it was halfway out and reached inside. As best as Sylvia could tell from her vantage point, the box was crammed full. He pulled out a metal shelf, deposited several items on it and kept rummaging. She thought she saw him shuffle a piece of paper, but she couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was, he put it back. He carried several small bags and leather pouches to the table.

Rolf stood. Can I help you with some of these?

Slater motioned for him to sit. No. I just want to show you a few things, so you know I’m not blowing smoke about my find. He returned to the shelf and took off the strings from the velour wrappings that covered articles of various sizes. Two of the strings had tags, which Slater laid upside down, but not before Sylvia caught a fleeting image of something written in bold black marker on one of them. She could only make out the letters HP.

After he’d transferred everything from the shelf to the table, Slater unwrapped several articles and carefully placed them side by side. Before Sylvia could finish her quick perusal of the objects—she recognized potsherds, spearpoints, and feathers—Slater pointed to the pieces spread across the table. "This might look like a bunch of bones and feathers and broken pottery to you, but trust me, it’s much