by Meryl Sawyer
Claire managed to return Tohono’s smile, but it was a struggle. Having a new artist was supposed to be a surprise. Only two people knew about it, Suzi and Zach. Since Tohono and Zach were very friendly, Zach must have told him. Criminy! Every time she turned around, Zach was there.
“Tohono, this is Paul Winfrey, the artist I’m featuring. I wish I could tell you I had discovered him, but an old friend, an art teacher, sent him to me.”
Paul extended his hand. Neither man said a word as they shook hands. Claire waited but did not speak. It was Tohono’s turn to say something, and it would be considered rude by Native Americans for her to speak before he did.
Instead of addressing her, Tohono spoke to Paul. “I find your paintings most unusual. Both make the viewer ask questions. What is happening? What are these people thinking?”
Did that mean he liked them? Claire wondered. With Tohono, it was hard to tell. Years as governor of the pueblo, dealing with the white man, had made him master of the poker face.
“This I like,” Tohono said to Paul. “Art that makes us question ourselves. You are very talented.”
Claire wasn’t sure whose smile was wider, hers or Paul’s. As pleased as she was, she longed for an art connoisseur to plunk down money to buy a painting. Tohono had more power than most men, but his net worth didn’t put him in a league with art collectors. Even if it did; the Taos pueblo was unbelievably conservative. They refused to install electricity or running water. There was no place for a white man’s painting.
“I’m glad you appreciate my work,” Paul said with a shy yet genuine smile that Claire knew would go over well with the public.
“I must be going,” Tohono said. “These old eyes are no longer the eyes of the eagle. My pickup has to find its own way to the pueblo when it is dark.”
He nodded to Paul and headed toward the back of the gallery. Claire went with him, realizing he must have parked in the lot behind the gallery. When they came up to the back door, the dogs jumped up, wagging their tails, and Tohono stopped. He looked at Claire with the world-weary eyes that had experienced so much.
“Claire, did you not heed my warning? Beware the coyote.”
“I’ve thought a lot about what you’ve said, but I didn’t understand exactly what you meant. Coyotes are tricksters and they’re evil. Are you warning me that a friend or someone I trust is trying to hurt me?”
“My people believe the coyote was created at the same time The Great Spirit created the first man and woman. From the very beginning Coyote was in trouble. The first couple were carefully taking stars out of the blanket and arranging them in the night sky. Coyote came along and shook the blanket as a joke.” He pointed upward where crystal-clear stars were just beginning to emerge in the mountain sky. “Look at the mess he made. There is no order in the heavens.”
Claire had heard this story before, but did not commit the white man’s sin of interrupting before an elder had finished his story, or saying she was familiar with the tale. Tohono was a wonderful person, but he was born to the Talking Water clan. She could very well be here all night listening to Coyote myths.
“Coyote has the unique ability to change shapes,” Tohono continued in the measured pace he used. “He can be a man, then a woman—whatever suits his needs. Look at those around you, Claire. Ask yourself who does not wish you well, man or woman. Perhaps both.”
She didn’t want to insult Tohono by saying this was perfectly obvious. “Who do you think shot Duncan Morrell?”
Tohono looked up at the night sky with its haphazard arrangement of stars caused by Coyote. “A chindi killed the evil man.”
“What?” she cried, then remembered who she was talking to before saying this was ridiculous. Tohono was a leader who deserved respect. He was trying, in his own way, to tell her something. She just wasn’t getting the message.
Before she could stop him, Tohono walked across the parking lot to his pickup. He opened the door, stopped, and looked up at the night sky that spread wide and dark above the mountains, the stars nothing more than blazing pinpricks of light. From a nearby bluff a coyote’s howl rose to the moon half-hidden behind a peak. Then from another ridge came a few yips that became a full-throated howl.
Two coyotes, Claire thought as Tohono drove off. Could two people have been involved in Duncan Morrell’s murder?
Thirteen
Angela Whitmore walked into the Rising Sun Gallery and was surprised to find so few people. She had deliberately missed the cocktail party before the Art Festival. Cocktail parties bored her, especially parties where the same people saw the same people and talked about the same things. Over and over.
Was it any wonder she was so … so what? Maybe she needed counseling. What she was experiencing went beyond simple boredom. She was adrift on an uncharted sea. She didn’t know where she’d been, or where she was going.
Lowell Hopkins spotted her and came toward her with a solicitous smile on his face. Can it, Lowell. She had two of Nevada’s originals already. They were worth less than half of what she’d paid Claire for them. She could thank Duncan Morrell for that. He’d printed so many lithographs of questionable authenticity that Nevada’s reputation was in shambles. Why would Lowell bother to take on such an artist?
Before Lowell could reach Angela, he was intercepted by a beast of a woman in a dress that must have been designed by Omar the Tent Maker. Judging by the delighted smile on Lowell’s face, the fat woman had pots of money.
“Good evening,” a masculine voice came from behind her.
She turned and found Seth Ramsey offering her a glass of champagne. One look at the huge bubbles told her how cheap it was. The finer the bubbles, the finer the champagne. It was her father talking to her from the grave. Too often, especially lately, her father’s elitist words kept haunting her.
“You look lovely as always,” Seth told her as she took the glass.
“Thank you,” she said, knowing Seth could bury the world in East City Gallery, taking care of Taos was no problem. What did Claire see in him, anyway? He was pretty, almost too well-groomed. She suspected he had been a mama’s boy.
“Where’s your a-a-a … friend?”
“Carleton’s over at the Neon Cactus,” she said, glancing around the room. Stacy Hopkins, Lowell’s wife, was nowhere around. She was probably in the back room of the Neon Cactus where they kept the kegs of beer, getting it on with Carleton. The two had been making eyes at each other for weeks.
So what? It was Lowell’s problem. Any man who married someone young enough to be his daughter, deserved what he got. For her part, she had insisted Carleton go to the bar. The last thing she wanted was him tagging along while she attended the Art Festival.
“I missed you at the cocktail party,” Seth said.
Angela staged a smile, taking a half step back. While she’d been thinking about Carleton, she had failed to notice Seth had moved closer. He was smiling at her in that haughty way of his. “Cocktail parties are a bore.”
“You’re right. It was deadly dull. I needed someone interesting to talk to.” He gave her a look that said she was the “interesting person” he’d been waiting to see.
She gazed off across the gallery to let him know he bored her. For cripes’ sake, he was dating one of the few people she could call a friend. Did he seriously think she would be interested in him if he were seeing Claire? Probably. Some men were all ego.
“Notice how few people are here? The Last Supper,” Seth said, using the industry term for a poorly attended show. “Claire’s got some hot new artist. Everyone’s over there. They aren’t on the munchie circuit, making the rounds of the other galleries the way they usually do.”
“Really?” Angela silently cursed her decision to come here first, then make her way around the plaza, dropping by the other galleries, but going to The Rising Sun last because she wanted to stay there until it closed. Afterward, she planned to talk to Claire about some sort of a joint venture.
“Should we go o
ver together?” Seth asked. “Max Bassinger is with me.”
Angela had met the fabulously wealthy Texan. Short, built like a fireplug with a bald head and watery blue eyes. She didn’t care how much money Max had. He gave her the creeps. What she wanted to do was ditch Seth and beeline over to Claire’s gallery. But before she could open her mouth, Lowell Hopkins appeared at her elbow.
Max Bassinger took a swig of champagne. Sickly sweet, bubbly puke. Give him Johnny Walker Black Label any day. While he toyed with the glass, his eyes never left Seth Ramsey, and heat built in his gut, warming him like a shot of fine whiskey.
Max was a self-made man and damn proud of it. Starting in the oil fields, he’d worked his way up. He’d parlayed his successful oil venture into a fortune, then he’d bailed out before oil hit the crapper. Investing his megabucks in the emerging computer software business, he’d struck another geyser.
He knew what he wanted; he knew how to get it; and he didn’t give a shit what people thought. Trouble was Seth Ramsey did. Right now, he was coming on to that red-headed broad, Angela Whitmore, because she had big-bucks.
He gave a derisive snort that caused the woman next to him to move away. Angela Whitmore wasn’t worth a fart. She had made her money the old-fashioned way. She’d inherited it.
It was money Seth was after, Max knew. Seth had run through his trust fund. He had expensive tastes that required moolah. Seth intended to marry Claire Holt and get his hands on her father’s money.
But Claire was a frigid bitch. Seth had been dating her for months, yet she wouldn’t go to bed with him. Max had told Seth that it was obvious Claire wasn’t interested in him. Seth refused to believe it, but he was hedging his bets, sugaring up the redhead.
Seth coveted money and respectability. He wanted to run for senator. That’s why he was hovering over the woman who was at least ten years older. Angela Whitmore had a fortune, but she was notorious for preferring muscular young bucks. Max couldn’t fault her there.
The heat in his gut intensified as he gazed at Seth and recalled the night in The Hideaway. It had been tricky to lure Seth into that pig sty of a room. Mighty tricky. But worth all his trouble.
“Ouch,” he muttered, then rotated his shoulder to work out a kink, but the dull ache persisted. What the hell? He’d taken his heart medicine. It wasn’t another spell, was it? The ache suddenly disappeared, and he took a deep breath, promising himself that he’d take his medication regularly.
“Hi, there,” a woman said, and he turned to find Stacy Hopkins beside him.
“Howdy,” Max replied, almost laughing out loud because he’d just been thinking about how he’d used Stacy to entice Seth at The Hideaway.
“Have you, like, got anything for me?” Stacy asked in her breathy voice as she cocked her head to one side. Her long, black hair fell across her bare shoulders and he was treated to more than just a glimpse of her sweet tits.
Max wondered if Lowell Hopkins had any idea what his wife was really like. For a second, he toyed with taking her into the back alley and letting her relieve the ache in his groin with those pouty lips. Been there; done that. He put his glass down and walked away from her without another word.
He headed toward the group now clustered around Angela as if she was some highfalutin queen. Time to blow this joint and get a real drink. Max came up behind Seth and stood close, pretending to, listen to Hopkins as he spouted off about Nevada’s talent.
Max slipped his hand down Seth’s tight butt, fondling the sleek curve for a fraction of a second, then he squeezed. Hard.
Again. Extra hard this time.
Always let ’em know who was the boss.
There were so many people in The Rising Sun Gallery that they had spilled out onto the sidewalk in front of the shop. Paul Winfrey was a hit, and Claire couldn’t help smiling. But she had a problem. Nobody had bought either painting. They stood around discussing them, but no one had come up with the money.
It’s still early, she assured herself. The clients most likely to afford a high-priced painting had yet to arrive. She consoled herself by watching Paul. In his own quiet way, he was working the crowd. He seemed to have no trouble making conversation without discussing his past.
“Don’t look now,” Suzi said as she nudged her way through the crowd.
Vanessa Trent swept into the gallery, and the throng parted to allow the actress to enter. She wore a black silk blouse cut Western style, with long fringe swishing from the sleeves. Each strand was studded with tiny silver beads. The same high-gloss silver detailed the lapels of the blouse and trailed down the front, accenting her impressive cleavage.
She wore black suede jeans that were simply cut, adorned only by a black crocodile belt with a buckle the size of a satellite dish. Her cowboy boots were black crocodile studded with the same silver beads that were on her blouse.
The effect was breath-takingly dramatic. The black was a perfect foil for the long, blond hair fluttering across her shoulders. Claire couldn’t help feeling a twinge of envy as a hush fell over the crowd.
“Oh, my,” Vanessa said, halting in front of Paul’s paintings.
Claire wended her way between people and came up beside the actress. “Isn’t Paul Winfrey’s work absolutely moving?”
The only sound in the room was the whir of the blender at the bar where the bartender couldn’t make margaritas fast enough. Everyone waited for Vanessa Trent to pass judgment. Claire scanned the room and met Paul’s steady gaze.
Vanessa Trent knew how to play the moment. She let Claire’s question hang in the air as she stared at the painting of the cowboy handing the woman the bouquet. Finally, she turned to Claire, tears misting her eyes, but not spilling over to ruin her mascara.
“He’s fantastic! Look at how he’s captured her feelings. The man has hurt her badly, and now he’s trying to make up. Of course, she isn’t going to take him back. She’s learned her lesson. He’s history.”
People nearby, especially the men, murmured their agreement. Chatter resumed gradually, fueled by the arrival of a noisy group. Claire wasn’t shocked by Vanessa’s interpretation of Paul’s work. The actress was extremely self-centered, and undoubtedly saw herself as the woman in the painting.
But the point of view was clearly the man’s. Thought-provoking emotion etched every line of his face while the woman was turned away just slightly, her face indistinct, concealed by shadows. It was impossible to tell if she was rejecting him or assuring him that she loved him dearly.
“It would be a perfect addition to your collection,” Claire told the actress.
Vanessa moved away from the paintings, saying, “My financial manager has advised me to divest myself of the art I have before acquiring more.”
It was a backhanded way of saying she had no intention of buying one of Paul’s paintings until Claire helped her get rid of Nevada’s lithographs. Claire smiled, nodding. She refused to trade Paul’s masterpiece for lithographs of questionable authenticity.
“I’m simply parched,” Vanessa announced. “What I wouldn’t give for a margarita.” In an instant five men were stampeding their way toward the bar. “I called the sheriff about my personal security after those chukes kidnapped Bam Stegner,” Vanessa said, her voice so low that only Claire could hear her. “What do you think the sheriff did?”
The flicker of envy Claire had experienced when the beautiful actress arrived increased until it became the dull ache that she recognized as full-blown jealousy. She could just imagine Zach discussing “security” with this woman. “What did he do?”
“He sent some doofus deputy with the ridiculous name of T-Bone. He checked all my locks and windows, then recommended getting a security system.”
Claire almost smiled. “You need to get a rottweiler. They’re real protection.”
Two men arrived with margaritas, and Vanessa allowed them to pay court. Claire slipped away, wondering where Angela Whitmore was. She was a client who had enough money to acquire one of Paul’s pain
tings. She looked toward the entrance and saw Maude Pfister guiding her father’s wheelchair into the gallery.
People moved aside as Alexander Holt passed, his head held high. She knew that his pride suffered a blow each time he had to go out in public, relying on Maude. Claire hurried over to them, and quickly kissed her father’s cheek.
“Quite a crowd,” commented Maude with her usual happy smile.
“The other galleries looked deserted,” added her father. He wasn’t smiling, but he seemed happier than she’d seen him in some time.
“At the eleventh hour, I found a new, talented artist,” she told her father. She looked around, and saw Paul nearby. She motioned for him to join her.
“Where did you find him?” asked her father.
“An old friend sent him to see me.” She deliberately avoided mentioning Quentin’s name. Her father had never liked her mentor. Quentin had been instrumental in Claire going into the world of art when her father had expected her to come to work at his bank.
“Paul,” she said, as he came up. “This is my father Alexander Holt, and Maude Pfister.”
“Howdy,” Paul extended his hand and smiled.
Maude greeted him warmly, but her father’s greeting was less enthusiastic. Alexander scrutinized the artist with the eyes of a father evaluating a prospective son-in-law. Sheesh! Would her father ever be happy until she married and gave him a grandson?
“Are you from around here?” her father asked.
“No, sir,” Paul replied. “I was born in Tennessee.”
“Really? You don’t sound like it.”
Paul smiled, or tried to. Claire knew how intimidating her father was. Being confined to a wheelchair made him feel like less of a man, and he became even more authoritative, a slightly threatening edge underscoring every word.
“I’ve worked hard to get rid of my accent, sir.”
Claire smiled at Paul, saying, “Come on, Daddy. I want you to see how talented Paul is.”
People moved aside as Claire led her father and Maude up to the two paintings while Paul followed a few steps behind. Claire watched her father study the painting of the cowboy offering the woman the bouquet. Every muscle in her body was tense, awaiting her father’s judgment.
