“In a minute,” Vivian said.
Joe went back to furtively glancing at his watch.
“Oh, all right,” Vivian said, making a show of standing up and adjusting the ruffles on her dress. “Let’s go.”
“Thank you for your time,” Joe said to Claire.
“I was glad to help,” Claire said.
Vivian clutched her hand. “Let me know, please, please, please, if you find out anything.”
“I will,” Claire said.
She stood in her door and watched them walk down the hallway, thinking how some people’s looks shaped their lives. Since Vivian, even at forty-six, looked like a child, people were inclined to treat her like one. Claire wondered if her youthful beauty had become a burden and if she smoked to make herself look older. Smoking was a reckless act. Recklessness was one trait Tim and his mother had in common. He had showed little of his father’s respectful wariness, making Claire wonder if Joe didn’t feel out of the loop. Even in her grief Vivian stepped lightly down the hallway, while Joe’s motions were tight and economical. Claire wondered which of them was right about Tim’s death. And what did she herself believe? Was it murder or an accident? Should she be investigating or should she leave it to the rangers? Were they doing anything?
She called Ellen Frank to find out. “I’ve just had a visit from Vivian Sansevera.”
“How is she doing?” Ellen asked.
“Getting by. She’s upset that you would consider Tim’s death a suicide.”
“We do have to explore every option,” Ellen replied.
“Tim told Vivian he found the duffel bag.”
“We searched Sin Nombre thoroughly, but still haven’t found it. Our archeologist examined the cave, and she believes the Jonathan Vail initials are authentic. He was in that cave. He may well have left a duffel bag behind. Someone else may well have removed it, but we’ll keep looking. It’s unfortunate that Curt didn’t get there sooner.”
“The center’s handwriting expert has authenticated the journal,” Claire reported, “and we now know that the briefcase it was in came from Vietnam. It was sent to Jonathan by Lou Bastiann, the fan who is mentioned in the journal.”
“The autopsy and the drug screen on Tim Sansevera came back,” continued Ellen. “I’ll give Vivian a call about it. There were no drugs in his system. He had numerous broken bones and the massive internal injuries consistent with a long fall. Death was caused by impact. The medical examiner couldn’t establish the exact time of death, but it did happen the day you found him.”
“Could he have been pushed?”
“There’s no evidence of that.”
Claire felt a duty to persevere, for the sake of Vivian Sansevera, for the legend of Jonathan Vail, for her own sake. “He might have met someone in the cave by arrangement or by accident. They fought over the duffel bag, and Tim got pushed off the ledge.”
“I can understand how people who are in the Jonathan Vail business might want to believe in a conspiracy and to find a connection between the deaths,” Ellen replied. “It’s weird that Tim would die in the same place where his hero is believed to have died and possibly even in the same way. It might indicate murder. But it could also indicate carelessness, which we see often enough in Grand Gulch. We’ll go on looking, but until we find evidence of a crime, I can’t involve the FBI.”
“Are you checking alibis? There are people who might have found the contents of the duffel bag incriminating.”
“Such as?”
“Jennie Dell. She knew that Tim had reported seeing it.”
“Curt Devereux talked to her. She claims she was at home writing the day Tim died, although her only witness is her cat.”
“There’s Nick Lorenz, the private investigator Ada Vail hired to look for her son. She told him about the duffel bag.”
“What possible motive would he have?”
“He admitted to me that he was tailing Jonathan in 1966 before he vanished. He might have followed him into Slickrock and been responsible for his death in some way.” Claire was aware that she was moving out of the black-and-white world of historical fact and into the speculative realm of fiction.
“I’ll look into it,” Ellen said.
“There’s also Curt Devereux. He was coming out of the canyon when I met him. He told me he had breakfast at the Navajo Cafe in Bluff, which should be easy enough to substantiate.”
Ellen hesitated, and Claire wondered what she was doing. Staring out the window? Playing with her hair? Considering the fact that Curt was her superior in age and position? “Curt is the investigator on the Vail case,” Ellen said carefully. “I am not in a position to investigate him. But…” She paused again, leaving Claire time to consider whether she was in a position to investigate Curt. “I’ll let you know if anything new develops,” Ellen said, indicating that the conversation was over.
“I’d appreciate that.”
Staring out her own office window gave Claire a view of the hallway and her coworkers passing by, so she turned to the screen saver on her computer monitor for diversion. As Portrait of a Lady and Huckleberry Finn sprouted wings and flew off the shelves, she thought about her own work, which involved tracking down rare documents, checking facts, comparing handwriting, searching the Internet. It was a form of investigation that usually meant following a paper or database trail. Claire’s work rarely poked into the lives of the living. Did she have any right to investigate them? she asked herself. How would the suspects feel about her questioning their motives and their lives? Would Ellen Frank object, or could the pause in her conversation be considered a sign of encouragement? If Jonathan and/or Tim had been murdered, the murderer could strike again. Knowing that and remembering the fierceness of Vivian Sansevera’s grip were enough to involve Claire emotionally, but mentally she wondered whether she had anything to add to the investigation. Her professional knowledge of Jonathan’s work could be an advantage, and her amateur status could allow her to follow hunches, while Ellen Frank needed evidence to proceed. Getting involved could put Claire at risk. But she might know enough to already be at risk, and Ellen Frank didn’t appear to be taking any steps to lessen the odds. When it came to investments, Claire knew that risk had to be balanced against return. The same could be said of this investigation. The return could be enormous, not in money but in prestige and satisfaction. To Claire the best return of all would be solving the puzzle and setting things right. On the other hand, the risks were also enormous, extending possibly to her own safety. Her children were grown and on their own, but she was still a mother. Nevertheless, a question had been posed that she felt she could answer. If she proceeded, she would have to do it subtly and carefully, but that was how she did everything.
Claire began by thinking through whom she suspected and what she knew. She hadn’t mentioned Lou Bastiann as a suspect to Ellen Frank. If Ellen thought Nick Lorenz was far-fetched, she would have to think Lou was out of the ballpark. He was said to be in Vietnam at the time of Jonathan’s disappearance, a fact that should be easy enough to check. Besides, what motive would a devoted fan have for killing his hero? And Lou was presumably in Missouri at the time of Tim’s death, although Claire had no way of confirming that.
Curt and Nick had possible motives, and their guilt or innocence could rest on their alibis. She put them on hold for a moment and turned her thoughts to Jennie Dell, the lover and the fiction writer. Her appeal to men was obvious, but what kind of a writer was she? A novel set in the Southwest ought to be on the center’s shelves, yet when she searched the database for Jennie Dell nothing came up.
She decided to call Jennie. “Hey,” Jennie said when Claire identified herself. “I’ve been intending to call you.”
“What about?”
“I talked to Lou Bastiann. He’s bothered about Ada’s plans for the journal. We all agree that Jonathan’s work should be published exactly as is.”
“I wish it were our decision to make.”
“I called Ada,�
� Jennie whispered in her husky voice, “and set up a meeting with Lou and me. She wouldn’t do it just for me, but she’s always receptive to flattery from a fan. Would you like to come? Maybe the three of us can change her mind.”
“She seems determined.”
“True, but we have to try, don’t we? If Jonathan were here, it would break his heart to see his journal cut to bits.”
“Should I let Ada know that I will be coming, too?”
“I’ll tell her,” Jennie said.
“When are you meeting?”
“Tuesday at three-thirty at her house.”
“All right. If Ada has no objection, I’ll be there.”
“Thank you so much,” Jennie sighed. “Now, why was it you called me?”
“I wanted to read your novel, but I couldn’t find it in the center’s database.”
“It had a very small print run. Still, you ought to have a copy. I’ll bring one with me on Tuesday.”
“Good,” Claire replied.
“I’ll call if Ada objects to your coming. Otherwise we’ll see you at her house.”
Claire decided she would tell Harrison about the meeting with Ada after the fact. There was always the possibility that he would discourage her or would want to come himself, which could make a tricky negotiation impossible. Harrison had a way of hardening people’s attitudes.
Chapter Thirteen
SINCE JENNIE NEVER CALLED BACK, Claire assumed the meeting was on. She left the library at three on Tuesday afternoon. On the drive to Ada’s she thought about Lou and Jennie, wondering how often they saw each other and what kind of relationship they had. She arrived at the Vails’ typically early, at three-twenty, and saw Jennie’s green Honda and Lou’s motorcycle with Missouri plates already parked beside the curb. When she rang the doorbell, the maid answered, looking straight at Claire and smiling, in contrast to her previously diffident manner.
“They are in the living room,” she said, turning and padding down the hallway.
Claire followed, preparing herself to face Ada, doubting it would be possible for even the most devoted or obsequious fan to change her mind. Charm might accomplish what reason couldn’t, but she hadn’t seen much charm in Lou Bastiann. He sat on a white sofa with his back to the door, leaning toward Otto, who was in his usual place in his wheelchair. Lou held his sunglasses in one hand and gestured with them as he talked. Otto’s faded eyes were riveted on him and didn’t move when Claire entered the room. Jennie stood behind Otto, gently massaging his shoulders.
“Claire,” she said. “We’re so glad you could come.”
“Hey,” said Lou, putting on his sunglasses and turning to face Claire. The light was bright in Ada’s living room, and Claire hadn’t taken her own sunglasses off yet, although she intended to do so, as a sign of respect for Otto.
A lawnmower droned in the backyard. Ada was not in the room. Claire had the sense that every piece of furniture was exactly where it had been on her previous visit, yet Ada’s absence created a disturbance and a void, making her feel that it would be better not to step any farther into the room. She paused at the first sofa and asked, “Where is Ada?”
“Something came up, and she had to cancel at the last minute.” Jennie smiled. Her cheeks were flushed. She wore a plum-colored dress with long, full sleeves. “Isn’t that right, Esperanza?” she asked the maid.
“Sí,” the maid answered.
“And the nurse?” Claire asked.
“It’s her day off,” Jennie said.
“I don’t think we should be meeting without Ada.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t mind,” Jennie said with a careless wave of her hand. “I left Madrid early. She probably called after I left, and I didn’t know not to come. Since I was here already, I just thought I’d say hello to Otto and introduce Lou. A lot of fans have been to see Ada, but Otto gets to see so very few.”
Once again Claire wondered what Otto saw. Although his eyes were focused on Lou, his expression was blank.
“Come in,” Jennie coaxed with a seductive smile. “Otto would like to see you, too. He sees well up close, but not across the room.”
Claire doubted that, remembering how Otto’s eyes had followed her to the painting above the mantel. The lawn mower hiccupped and resumed its steady drone. The signals were strong that this meeting was a sham: the vehicles parked outside before the appointed hour, the smile on the maid’s face that might have been induced by money in her pocket, the fact that it was the nurse’s day off and that Jennie could well have known that Ada had another event scheduled for this day and this time. If this assumption were correct, and Ada found out a meeting had been held behind her back, she would be furious and could cause Claire considerable trouble. Yet she found herself being drawn into the room, passing the first seating arrangement and approaching the one that included Otto.
“Do you remember Claire Reynier, Otto?” Jennie asked him.
At least she didn’t yell at him as if she were talking to a stupid child, Claire thought. She was beside the wheelchair now, and she removed her sunglasses. “Hello, Otto,” she said, bending down and touching the back of his wrinkled hand. Otto’s eyes remained focused on Lou Bastiann, but there was no indication that his brain registered what he saw. Lou could have been a person, a knickknack, or a piece of furniture.
He leaned back into the sofa, crossed his arms, and watched Otto. He wore the same black jeans, black T-shirt, and boots that he’d worn the day Claire met him. With his muscular arms and calloused hands, he was a rough edge, a burr in the polished living room. Claire had the sensation that when he stood up he would leave a stain on the white sofa.
“Let’s tell Otto about the journal,” Jennie said, sitting down on the sofa beside Lou.
“He already knows,” Claire said, in consideration of the fact that Otto’s brain might still be working.
“I’ll remind him,” Jennie said. “Otto, Jonathan’s journal was found in Sin Nombre Canyon, the journal that has been missing for so many years.” Otto gave no response. Claire knew this conversation should not be taking place, but she was too fascinated to pull herself away.
“The University of New Mexico Press wants to publish the journal,” Jennie continued, “but Ada intends to edit it and cut the heart out of the book. She wants to take out the anger and the passion that made Jonathan’s voice unique. She intends to silence him and turn him into her good son. You know that wasn’t Jonathan. He was a protester, an activist. How do you feel, Otto? We”—she looked to Lou and Claire for confirmation—“believe the journal should be published exactly as it is. Can you find a way to tell us what you feel, Otto?”
Lou’s rough hand rested on top of Otto’s, which was pale and soft and dappled with age spots. The old man’s eyes seemed to be losing definition, giving Claire the sensation she had when looking at La Sagrada Família or at the walls of Slickrock Canyon from the helicopter, that reality was segueing into hallucination. They filled as slowly and gently as a depression in sodden ground, when the last drop of rain was one too many. As Otto’s eyes filled, his lips moved, though not a word came out. Eventually his eyes overflowed and a teardrop fell onto his wrist. How terrible, thought Claire, to be able to cry but not to wipe the tears away.
Lou lifted his bandanna and gently dabbed Otto’s eyes. “It’s okay, old man,” he said. “It’s okay.”
“He does understand,” Jennie crowed. “The one way he can communicate is through tears, but he is capable of telling us what he wants.”
It was a moving demonstration, but even if Otto had said in a loud, clear voice that he did not want to see Jonathan’s journal edited, even if he had written a note in his own hand, Claire didn’t know what she could do about it. The decision of how to publish the journal was in the hands of Harrison and the UNM Press committee. Claire certainly didn’t want to discuss the possibilities in front of Otto and reduce him to a deaf-and-dumb statue again. “We should go,” she said. “Otto is getting tired. We’ve violated
his privacy enough.”
“Of course,” Jennie said. “We don’t want to wear him out.” She stood up, bent over Otto and gave him a hug, letting her long blond hair fall across his shoulders. “Thank you so much, Otto. We’ll do all we can. Our thoughts will be with you.”
“Take care,” Lou said, giving Otto’s hand a final squeeze. He stood up, leaving not a stain but an imprint on the white sofa.
The maid led the way down the hall, closing the front door after the visitors as they left the house. Claire heard the tap of Lou’s boot heels behind her on the sidewalk. The sun lit up a cottonwood tree across the street, turning the leaves to gold. She felt she’d been duped, and her anger burned. When they reached the street, she turned to face Jennie and Lou.
Before she could speak, Lou glanced at the cottonwood leaves and said, “They look like pieces of eight.”
Jennie laughed. It was the first time Claire had seen any real interaction between her and Lou. Her laughter had a scornful edge. “The old pirate metaphor,” she said.
Claire had more on her mind than metaphors. “You set up that meeting up without ever talking to Ada. You knew she would be gone this afternoon,” she accused Jennie.
“Oh, come on,” Jennie replied, tossing her head and flipping her hair across her shoulder. “You’re an intelligent woman. You must have known what I was up to. Did you really believe Ada would let us in to see Otto?”
“You told me we were going to see Ada.”
“Did I?” Jennie asked.
“If Ada finds out we were here, she could cause me a lot of trouble.”
“She won’t find out unless we stand out here discussing it and waxing poetic about the cottonwood trees until she comes home.”
Lou seemed embarrassed and stared at his boots, but Claire persevered. “You lied to me,” she insisted. Once a person is discovered in a lie, her words form a continuous loop, with no telling when the lies began or when they will end. Everything Jennie had ever said had become suspect in Claire’s mind. She didn’t enjoy standing in the street arguing, but she was too angry to just walk away.
The Vanishing Point Page 13
