“Really?”
“Yes,” Claire said, gauging his reaction to see how good a liar he was; she was convinced that by now he knew exactly where she worked. She had the impression that he was reaching into a pocket, pulling out an expression of surprise and pasting it on. It was an expression that was exaggerated enough to reach the back row.
“Miranda is responsible for this room and all the other rooms in the house,” he said. “She’s into Feng Shui and has exquisite taste, but to be honest, she chose those books for the color of the bindings, not the content. Miranda is not a reader.”
“Are you?” Claire asked.
“I like to read,” Erwin admitted. “I’m alone a lot when Miranda is on the road. Would you like to see the library up close?” He took a set of keys from his pocket and jangled them in his hand.
Under ordinary circumstances Claire would have loved to have seen the library, but the circumstances were not exactly ordinary. If Erwin intended to harm her, he could do so inside or out. Both were isolated, but there were ways she felt safer outside; the setting was more familiar and the escape route clear. The resident raven flapped its wings and flew away. She was reminded that yesterday she had told Lynn and Steve she was leaving for New Mexico, and she had told the center she wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. If she didn’t come back, it would be some time before anyone missed her. But Erwin needn’t know that. It was hard to pass up a chance to see a beautiful library, particularly this beautiful library where she might find evidence that would clear her name. She looked through the glass, memorizing where the relevant objects were.
“All right,” she said.
She followed Erwin around the house and across the patio to the kitchen door, where he inserted one of his keys in the lock. All the other keys on the chain jangled as he unlocked the door. The raven cawed again as if warning “don’t go,” but Claire straightened her back and entered the house.
Erwin stopped at the kitchen counter and asked if she wanted something to drink.
“No,” she said.
“Mind if I have one?”
“Go ahead.”
While he took a Corona from the refrigerator, Claire glanced at the notepad on the counter and saw that it was a shopping list. Erwin popped the cap and took a loud sip, playing the part of an uncouth beer guzzler. He was a man who played many parts. Claire wondered which was the real Erwin Bush—if there was a real Erwin Bush. He put the bottle down and began walking through the large house. She followed him across tiled floors, polished wood floors, Navajo rugs and Oriental rugs as he led her to the library. The floor in this room had a thick, white Berber carpet that swallowed the sound of footsteps. The room seemed wrapped in a cocoon of silence the way a library ought to be.
“May I look at the books?” Claire asked Erwin.
“Of course,” he said, “be my guest.” He stood still in the middle of the room and folded one arm across the other.
Claire walked up to the books looking for some organization to the shelving. Many of the books were bound in leather. She saw patches of deep red bindings complemented by forest green bindings; rusty orange balanced by navy blue in an arrangement as artful as a painting. The color she sought in the mix was warm brown. When she found it, she went to that section and placed her hand on the spine of the first book she came to.
“May I?” she asked. “It’s always a pleasure to examine a fine book.”
“Of course,” Erwin replied again. He remained standing in the middle of the room but began shifting his weight from one foot to the other and rattling the keys in his pocket.
Claire knew that books should be shelved tight enough to support each other and stay erect—a tilted book became a warped book. But the books shouldn’t be so tight that they were pressed together. There was wiggle room on this shelf and the book she had chosen, Herman Melville’s first novel, Typee, slipped easily from its place. She cradled it in her hands, wishing she wore gloves and detecting a slightly musty smell, which wouldn’t have come from this house but could have come from a previous owner. She turned to the copyright page and saw that, as she had expected, this was a first edition. Next she went to the title page and saw that it wasn’t a signed first edition. These weren’t books a decorator selected merely because they looked good on the shelf. This was a complete set of rare first editions that had been rebound in full morocco. As she put Typee back Claire noticed that Omoo, the adjacent book, had tilted into the empty space. She straightened it then walked past the remaining Melvilles, finding them in order, except that The Piazza Tales abutted the book that was published posthumously, Billy Budd, Sailor. She continued examining the shelves until she had worked her way to the far side and stood adjacent to the fireplace.
She turned toward Erwin, whose expression had become watchful and alert, one expression that didn’t appear to be a performance. He had stopped shifting from one foot to the other. His weight was evenly balanced, his knees were slightly bent, the hand holding the keys was still.
Claire’s right hand was at her side. Her left hand slipped into the pocket of the windbreaker, where it landed on the tape recorder. She felt for the record button and pushed it while she said, “Your copy of The Confidence-Man is missing.”
It was the moment to see who was the better performer, the person with experience or the novice. His role was to feign ignorance. Hers to feign confidence. Erwin laughed and took a step closer. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“It must be on the shelves somewhere, misshelved by Miranda or the maid. Miranda was always rearranging the books. She paid more attention to color than to author or title.”
Claire’s right hand reached behind her back. “Actually it was misshelved in my office. Detective Amaral found it there concealed beneath the dust jacket of The Scarlet Letter/’
His attempt to mold his face into an expression of surprise convinced her that he was a bad actor. “Why would the detective look in your office?”
“Someone told him that was where the book would be, someone who is trying to frame me. I’m the only known victim of Evelyn Martin who doesn’t have an alibi for the night she was presumed murdered. Finding the book in my office made it appear that I was in Evelyn Martin’s house that night. That I killed her, took it back and concealed it in my office.”
Erwin rearranged his rubbery features into an expression of false puzzlement. “Are you suggesting that Miranda is trying to frame you?”
“No. I’m saying that you are.”
Erwin sprung forward, moving surprisingly quickly for a heavy man. It only took a few leaps for him to cross the room, invade Claire’s space and make her feel threatened. “Why would I want to do that?” he asked.
Claire grabbed the handle of the object behind her and yanked it from the rack. It was an elegant brass-handled poker that resembled a rapier. Up close it was pointed and vicious. She jabbed the poker at Erwin with the sensation that his taut belly would puncture and deflate once the weapon made contact.
Actually it felt firm and unyielding until Erwin groaned and stepped backward, clutching a bloody stain on his shirt.
“You stabbed me,” he said.
“You attacked me.”
“I didn’t attack you. You just surprised me with that accusation. That’s all.” He stared at the wound, but it appeared to be a surface scratch that wouldn’t deter him.
“I told the Grangers I was coming here,” Claire lied. “They’ll be alarmed if I don’t get back soon.” Not being sure whether Erwin believed her or not, she kept the poker aimed at him. “Miranda’s dead, isn’t she?” she asked.
“Dead?” he asked, pretending disbelief but doing it rather badly, Claire thought.
“Dead,” she repeated. “You can stop performing now, Erwin. I know Miranda is dead, and I know how to prove it.” Although she spoke these words with more conviction than she felt, Erwin seemed to believe her.
He sighed and stepped back, appearing relieved to give up the p
retense.
“If she is,” he said, “I didn’t kill her. Evelyn Martin did. Once Lynn told Miranda she’d been robbed by Evelyn, it confirmed her suspicion that Evelyn had framed her all those years ago. She had to be at a presentation in Santa Fe. She wanted to have it out with Evelyn and she looked her up.”
“How did she know that Evelyn lived in Santa Fe?”
“Where do middle-aged women in the Southwest go when they’re looking for a new life? Santa Fe. Miranda searched the white pages on the Internet and found Evelyn’s address.”
“What color was Miranda’s hair then?”
“Blonde. When she went to Santa Fe, I went to Mexico. Miranda and I were estranged and spending very little time together. She intended to file for divorce. Marriages between actors are a struggle. One’s career goes up, the other’s goes down. It makes for competition and tension. Three weeks after Miranda went to Santa Fe, I came back home and found she wasn’t here. Steve told me about Evelyn’s death, how the body had been too decomposed to recognize, about the turquoise dress Evelyn was wearing. Miranda owned a turquoise dress.”
In Claire’s opinion, to have told no one about Miranda’s disappearance went beyond coldhearted and opportunistic into criminal territory. “How could you not tell anyone?” she asked. “You believed your wife was dead. Why didn’t you call the police?”
Erwin shuffled his feet as he attempted to justify his behavior. “I was embarrassed we were so estranged that I didn’t notice her absence for weeks. I didn’t wish her dead, but there were ways I could benefit from it. Miranda had written me out of her will, leaving everything to charity and distant relatives. She intended to put the house in her name only. I was looking for a place in Mexico. If I kept quiet, I thought I could sell this house and get myself some money for a new start. Whenever anyone called, I told them Miranda was on location in Mexico. If they had to be in touch with her, I e-mailed them under her name. I faked an affidavit from a producer for Amaral. I had a friend call him and claim to be Miranda.”
“Jerry Bartlett?”
“Yeah,” Erwin admitted, showing no regret about implicating a friend.
“Did you ever intend to tell anyone?” Claire asked him.
“Of course,” was Erwin’s blustery response. “As soon as I was settled in Mexico, I intended to tell the detective the truth and help him find Miranda’s killer.”
Claire doubted that, imagining that once the house was sold and the money in his pocket, Erwin Bush would disappear and the man standing in front of her now would turn into someone else. Someone with a different name and a different persona, although it would be hard to change his physical appearance.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked, taking a step closer.
Claire straight-armed the poker and said, “No.”
Erwin stood still, crossing one arm over the other. “Did I really do anything criminal when you stop and think about it?”
“You lied,” she said. “You concealed a death, you forged a document, you planted evidence in my office.”
“Would that be enough to drag me out of Mexico for? I believe that once Amaral learns Evelyn killed Miranda he’ll forget all about me. I’m not a murderer, only a petty criminal, an out-of-work actor trying to find a way to survive. You can put the poker down now.”
Claire ignored him, tightening her grip on the handle. “I’m taking a book with me.”
“Whatever,” Erwin said. “Are we done?” He touched the bloody spot on his shirt.
“Almost,” Claire said. She went to the Melville section, took off her windbreaker, wrapped it around The Piazza Tales and lifted it from the shelf. Still holding the poker in her right hand she headed for the door.
“Shall I walk you to your car?” Erwin asked.
“No.”
“One more thing,” he said. “You might tell your detective that someone has been using Miranda’s credit cards in Los Angeles. The bills have been coming here.”
******
Claire left Erwin standing in the middle of the library and found her way down the hallway, listening for the sound of his footsteps behind her but hearing nothing. Now that she was certain Miranda was dead, the paintings, the rugs, the furniture, the beautiful objects seemed to be whispering, “Who will take care of us now that she is gone?” She hoped they would end up with someone who appreciated them. As she passed through the kitchen she grabbed the notepad beside the phone and put that in her pocket, too. When she reached the front door, she let herself out. She was still clutching the poker when she got to her truck, but once the engine was running, she dropped it onto the gravel and left it there, thinking this house was where it belonged. Her relief at solving the crime and clearing her own name was tempered by a sadness that this house would never again be home to Miranda.
She suspected that Erwin would pack up the most valuable objects and that it wouldn’t be long before he followed her down the road with a loaded SUV.
Chapter Nineteen
SHE STOPPED AT THE FINA STATION, called Sid Hyland from the pay phone and told him all she had learned in New River. He managed to listen without interruption.
“Let me get this straight,” he said once she had finished. “You’re telling me you believe the body found in the Santa Fe house is Miranda Kohl and not Evelyn Martin?”
“Yes. I have a tape of Erwin Bush, Miranda’s husband, saying that he thinks so, too. The Santa Fe Police Department used fraudulent dental records when they identified the body as Evelyn Martin, and Miranda Kohl’s dentist here can prove that.”
“Are you coming back to Albuquerque now?”
“I plan to.”
“Call my office in the morning and make an appointment. I’d like to see you tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid Erwin is going to get in his vehicle and head for Mexico. Is there any way to keep him in the country until this is sorted out? Could the local police hold him?”
“Based on what you’ve told me, no. Has he harmed you physically? Do you feel you are in any danger? Did he follow you?”
Claire looked down the highway and didn’t see any vehicles that bore a resemblance to Erwin’s SUV. “No,” she said.
“I think you should get in your car and come back to Albuquerque. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
******
She suspected that by the time she reached Flagstaff Erwin would be on his way to Mexico. Nevertheless she kept her eye on the rearview mirror as she climbed I-17. Every time she saw a black SUV coming up behind her, she slowed down and let it go by. When she got to Flagstaff she turned east on I-40. Now she had to worry about the sun setting in her rearview mirror and keeping all the semis on the road from blocking her way or boxing her in. Sometimes she looked in her rearview mirror and saw one barreling down on her, painted, polished and decorated with the loving care of a low-rider.
She had hoped to be home by dark, but by the time she reached Grants night had fallen. There were no more slick paint jobs to study once the sun set, only the arrangement and intensity of lights. Red lights and white lights outlined the shapes of tractor trailers in the dark. The road wasn’t any emptier at night. If anything, more long-distance truckers came out, but Claire’s sense of solitude intensified and her thoughts changed. During daylight she had replayed the tape and was relieved that Erwin’s statement came through loud and clear. After dark her thoughts turned to the woman who was dead and the one who was missing. She inserted a piano concerto into her tape deck in an attempt to restore order, but the tape jammed and she couldn’t get it to play. She spun the radio dial but found nothing she wanted to listen to. She was left with the sound of the wind at her window and the wheels on the highway. One dark thought was that the light-as-a-butterfly Miranda had ended up a swollen corpse on Evelyn Martin’s floor, and she would have to tell Lynn about it. For Lynn it would be more than the loss of a friend, it would be the end of a dream.
Claire’s thoughts moved on to Evelyn. Now that she knew who had gone to
the house, she saw the scene in the kitchen differently. Elizabeth and Ginny could well have lost control and threatened Evelyn, but she didn’t see Miranda doing that. The murder might not have been an act of self-defense, but an attempt to prevent discovery. It made Evelyn’s actions seem more cold and calculating. Up to the point when she wielded the frying pan, Evelyn had merely been a thief, Claire supposed, but now that she had become a murderer, what would that do to her state of mind? Had she used Miranda’s credit cards in LA and, if so, was she still there? Claire saw it as a sprawling, anonymous place destructive to people with no roots or sense of identity, a place where people who were close to the edge fell off. What would she do when Miranda’s credit ran out? Rob another friend? Evelyn never had many friends. Approaching other people from the U of A days would be risky since she had no way of knowing who had been informed that she was dead.
Claire was relieved to finally get off I-40 at Tramway and out of the path of the eighteen-wheelers. Nemesis waited for her at the door and she picked him up and gave him a long hug. She had been gone longer than she intended and his food dish was empty. She filled the dish, checked her phone messages and found one from Lynn saying she hoped Claire got home safely. She postponed calling her back and walked through her small, neat house, which would fit into one wing of Miranda’s. It was comfortable but not elegant. She had some valuable things, some beautiful things, some that were neither. Many of them had been given her by family and friends. She treasured all of them, the plain as well as the beautiful. If there was Feng Shui in this house it had been created by love, not by money.
Ever since Evelyn robbed her, Claire had felt a disturbance in her home, but now she could see the possibility of restoring tranquility. She took the notepad, the tape recorder and the copy of The Piazza Tales wrapped in her windbreaker into her office and placed them on her desk.
Then she went to the guest room, took the black nightgown from the drawer, draped it in front of her and stood in front of the mirror thinking about identity and wondering how accurate an assessment Evelyn had made of her old friends when she’d chosen what to steal from them and what to give. Her visits to their houses gave her the opportunity to study what they owned and what that said about their characters. In Claire’s experience the powerless always knew more about the powerful than the reverse. The servant studies the master, the master doesn’t see the servant. Not that she and the other sisters had a lot of power, but Evelyn had so little. Claire had been busy with work during her visit and hadn’t paid much attention to her. But Evelyn had been watching. What had she learned?
The Confidence Woman Page 17
