"No, I'm meeting someone, but she's not here. The reservation is under Luxemburg, or maybe Ripken, I don't know."
Olga looked at her list. "Would that be Lucy Ripken?"
"That's me."
"I have a letter here for you," Olga said, handing Lucy an envelope.
"I can't believe it," Lucy said with a sigh, dropping her camera bag heavily. "I come across the country for lunch, and I get a note instead of a date."
"It's not from your lunch partner," said Olga. "It's from the owner of the hotel, Mr. Sobel. He was looking over the reservation list this morning, and when he saw your name he got very excited. He asked me to give you this."
"Yo, Luce," came a familiar voice, and Lucy whirled with excitement as Rosa dashed over. They met in a big hug.
"I can't believe it," Rosa said. "You look great. So fashionable!”
"Hey, I'm from New York, what can I say?" Lucy said. "But look at you! What's this, cowgirl chic?" Rosa wore faded jeans, a black t-shirt with a cowskull in white on the front, and black cowboy boots. "Jesus, look at those muscles." She grabbed Rosa's bicep. "You been wrangling steers, or what?"
"Four hours on horseback everyday'll do it to you," she said. Then she lowered her voice. "Can you believe it, I'm getting bowlegged from horses and sex, but my thighs are so big and muscular they rub together when I walk anyway." Lucy laughed, checking her out.
Rosa was a little shorter than Lucy's five eight, but built more solidly—all muscular legs, arms, and back, with a big firm chest. She had white skin with pale brown freckles, reddened now from the sun, dark green eyes, and thick black hair, cut medium long in back with bangs in front. Lucy thought her the most beautiful girl on earth, but that's because she was her best buddy. Though Rosa looked like Veronica to Lucy's Betty, they called themselves the Two Veronicas, since they both had her personality.
"So let's sit down and pig out," said Rosa. "I'm starved."
"Me too. I ordered a fruit plate for the plane, and it consisted of rotten strawberries and unripe cantaloupe."
"I hear the baby back ribs here are great," Rosa said.
"We're ready for a table now, Olga," Lucy said. She turned back to Rosa, and said, "Ribs? For lunch?" Rosa could eat twice her body weight every day and never gain an ounce. Intense exercise helped, but it was fundamentally a matter of genetics. She was simply built that way. Lucy, on the other hand, watched her weight constantly, swam a mile a day, did aerobics three times a week, and ate mostly salad. As a result she had a muscular butt but otherwise stayed slim. She would never put on muscle all over like Rosa did. Instead she put on fat, when she let her guard down.
Today was a day for sending the guard home, Lucy decided as Olga showed them to a table. They sat, picked up the menus, and put them down. "So," said Rosa. "We have a problem with the art."
"Yes. Well, not exactly a problem for me, since I got an assignment out of it," Lucy said. "But for Madeleine Rooney, a serious problem. Hey, let's forget about the art a minute, Rosita. Oh, I should read this," Lucy said, suddenly remembering the letter in her hand. Rosa looked curious. "It's from the hotel owner, this guy Robert Sobel," Lucy added. "The hostess had it when I got here. Remember I said I did a piece on the place? I interviewed him for it, and we had a pretty long phone chat. He's kind of a new age philosopher/entrepreneur type, you know?"
"Yeah. The town's full of them. They all want to make a lot of money without damaging the environment or exploiting labor. Which can't really be done," said Rosa, betraying her Commie roots. "So go ahead. I'll read the menu."
Lucy ripped the envelope open and pulled out the letter for a quick skim.
"Well, what do you know," she said. "Sobel wants to comp me."
"What do you mean?" Rosa said.
"He's offered me two nights free, and a couple of dinners, as a quote "gesture of gratitude" for the article. Nice of him to make the offer."
"I thought you were going to stay with me and Darren, Luce."
"I'm going to be here at least a week, Rose. We'll have plenty of time to hang out. Meanwhile, I can't pass up a couple of free nights in the lap of luxury."
"You're right. I was just being selfish. Hey, forget it. Our house doesn't quite cut it for luxury, I have to say. But check out the menu. It sounds like Alan Watts or maybe Carlos Castaneda wrote it up."
They perused the poetic menu; they ordered lunch from a waitress named Katrina, from Chicago, who was a Gemini with three planets in Leo. Then they ate massive quantities of great organic food. One of the many things that bound their friendship was a mutual love of food, and mistrust of people who didn't like eating.
"Well," said Rosa, putting down her espresso cup and leaning back, an hour or so later, "Now that we've achieved major bloatdom, and figured out what to do with Harry and Darren, give me the update on the Rooney situation."
"God, that was good, wasn't it?" Lucy tossed her napkin on the table. "Well, nothing's changed since we talked on the phone. I haven't seen the papers, Forte is waffling but sounds to me like he's leaning towards authenticating the stuff, and Quentin wants nothing to do with it."
"Will he raise a stink if Forte does what he has to and Rooney holds her auction?"
"Rosa, get real. There's no way this thing can work out that way. They're fakes, Rose. Nobody's going to buy them."
Rosa interrupted. "You should talk to Darren. He's been on the phone with Maddie—Madeleine—Rooney. Sorry, that's what he calls her. Anyway, she's called a couple of times. And now she wants to talk to you ASAP."
"You told her I was coming here?"
"Darren did, I think. Does it matter?"
"I don't know. Did you tell her why?"
"It may have come up. I don't remember."
"Well, maybe a little discretion might have been useful."
"Lucy, come on. How could Darren or I know you hadn't told Madeleine you were gonna write about the pieces?"
"You’re right, Rosita. But she's got a lot to lose when the truth comes out. As does your friend Clements. Has anyone talked to her?"
"We thought we'd wait for you to get here."
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
"More coffee, Miss Ripken?" Lucy looked up. A distinguished-looking man of about fifty, with silver hair pulled back into a short ponytail, and an elegant little Confucian goatee, held a coffee pot over the table. He wore not a waiter shirt but a tailored western style suit and a string tie with a silver clasp. He smiled at Lucy.
Confused for an instant, she suddenly remembered him from a black and white picture she'd seen in a press kit. "Mr. Sobel!" she declared, and stood. "How are you? More to the point, what are you doing pouring coffee? Rosa, this is Robert Sobel, the man I told you about—the owner of the hotel. Mr. Sobel, this is my friend, Rosa Luxemburg. She moved here from New York last year."
"May I?" he said, putting the coffee pot down on the table and taking Lucy's hands for a two-handed shake and a look in her eyes. With his silver grey smoky eyes, warmly tanned skin, and elegant diction, Lucy found him instantly and undeniably magnetic. "Lucy, so pleased to meet you at last. When I saw your name on the guest list I was just thrilled. I loved the piece. You captured our—zeitgeist—con perfeccion. Thanks so much. Hello, Ms. Luxemburg, lovely to see you." He shook Rosa's hand, then took Lucy's again. "So what do you think, Lucy, now that you’re here, does our little hostel match up to your expectations? Photography can be very flattering."
"Oh, it's wonderful. Everything feels very authentic—and the lunch was great. But why are you pouring coffee?"
"Remember what I told you about our efforts at getting the community involved in the hotel, and vice versa? Well, one thing we like to do here is stay in touch with what our employees are experiencing. What better way than to get on the floor and do it with them?" With that he finally let go of her hands.
"What a lovely concept," Lucy said. There was a pause. He smiled and held her eyes with his. "Well," Lucy said, a little unnerved by his unwavering gaze. Wa
s he enlightened, was he horny, or was he a body that had been snatched, replaced by an entrepreneurial pod from the New Age? "Would you care to join us for coffee?"
"I would, but I'm working," he answered. "Just a moment, Ma'am," he said to an irritated-looking woman waving at him from the next table. "I'll be right there." He picked up the coffeepot. "We've given you the Laredo Suite," he said. "It's one of the big ones." He moved away, coffee pot poised.
"Well," said Rosa when he was out of range. "Do you think the working class song and dance was entirely for our—I should say your—benefit, or what?"
"I don't think so," Lucy said. "I don't know how he made his first million, but I think his intentions are good these days. He's making a real effort."
"Yeah, yeah, well, do you think he lets that guy—" she nodded at a Mexican busboy standing in the kitchen doorway—"Make management decisions when it's his turn to play boss?"
"Hey, come on, give him a break. For a rich guy he's all right." Funny, her saying that to Rosa, with her fat trust fund. Besides, why did she feel protective of Robert Sobel?
"Yeah, you're right. Anyway, I'd say the food was up to snuff," Rosa said, and belched lightly. "So you wanna come over and check out the house?"
"Is Darren there?"
"I don't know," she said, looking at her watch. "Jesus, it's past three. I gotta go."
"Maybe I should get checked in and then drive over later."
"Sure. We'll do a late, light dinner."
"What about Margaret Clements and that business?"
"Mañana, honey, mañana. What's the rush?"
When Lucy asked her waitress for the check, she was informed that Mr. Sobel had picked it up. She looked around, and spotted him hovering over by the waiters' stand. She caught his eye and nodded thanks. He put his hands together in front of his chest, Hindu style, and bowed slightly. Namaste. Then he gave her that smile again.
Rosa gave Lucy directions to her house and left. Feeling flush, Lucy put a twenty on the table for the waitress. A little dazed from the alcohol and caffeine, she hauled her camera bag over to the registration desk and checked in.
The two-room suite was ruggedly plush: Western-style, yes, but not so you'd suffer from lack of luxury. Under beamed ceilings O'Keeffe prints adorned the walls, Indian baskets lined the shelves, and sandy colors dominated, with Navajo rugs and patterned upholstery adding brightness to the unmatched pair of Mission-style sofas. Between them, on a rough-hewn wooden coffee table, a huge fruit basket sat next to a bottle of Dom Perignon icing in a silver bucket. Jesus! Robert Sobel was giving her the treatment.
She left the DP unopened and wandered into the next room, dominated by a canopied king-sized bed. A beehive-shaped kiva fireplace curved out of the wall opposite the foot of the bed. She passed through to the bathroom, where she admired the white marble spa tub while having a pee, then took a look in the mirror to see what Robert Sobel was interested in. Why did she care what he thought? She asked, staring at herself. Not bad for 33, honey. The wrinkles are minimal in spite of all that sun, the eyes are true blue, the hair is naturally blonde, and you've finally transcended cute, become—well, not knock-your-socks-off beautiful, but good-looking anyway.
A tentative knock on the door popped her out of her reverie, and she let the bellhop in. His facial structure and long, braided hair were Native American and the name on his shirt was Victor. He delivered her four bags—two personal and one photo equipment—-showed her the air and tv controls, opened the curtains, gracefully took her five bucks and thanks, then left. Lucy locked the door and went back into the bathroom to run a bubble bath with some of the locally-manufactured, organic, detergent-free, herbal-essence, cell-restoring soap she found on the counter. She turned on the water, stripped, and faced her stomach in the mirror. She was guilty of daytime drinking, pasta and dessert eating, and non-exercising. For a moment she considered doing a hundred sit-ups as penance, but then the phone rang.
There was an extension on the wall by the toilet. It had to be Rosa, or Robert Sobel, she thought, picking it up. "Hello?"
"Hello, Lucy Ripken?" Neither Rosa nor Robert. The smoky croak of Madeleine Rooney. Damn!
"Yes?"
"This is Madeleine. Madeleine Rooney."
"Hi. How did you find me?"
"From Darren Davidson. I was trying to reach you at his house. Ms. Luxemburg said you'd decided to stay at the hotel."
"That's right." She waited. "What can I do for you?"
She wasted no time. "Darren tells me you are planning to write some sort of article on my—on the art he arranged to have sent up here."
"That's what I'm here for, Ms. Rooney."
"Well, you can't do that."
"Can't do that? What are you talking about?"
"You can't write about these pieces. I won't give you permission. It is simply out of the question."
"Ms. Rooney, it may surprise you to find this out, but I don't need your permission to write an article about pre-Colombian art," Lucy said, thinking, thank God I got that check and cashed it.
"About my pieces you do. About my gallery you do. Particularly if you start spreading lies and slander about the authenticity of the pieces I'm selling."
"Look, that's why I'm here. To find out about those pieces, and if they're real. You know as well as I do that Quentin Washington wouldn't make up a story. There’s nothing in it for him."
"I don't know what he's up to, but Herman Forte has vouched for the pieces, and his word is good enough for me."
"That's the starting point of my research. There are two expert opinions, and they're opposed. Don't you think we ought to try and get to the bottom of—"
"I think you should butt out, Lucy Ripken. I think you should do so right now. Otherwise you'll be hearing from my lawyer."
"Please, Madeleine. I can’t believe your threatening me with litigation."
"His name is Jacob Davidson, Lucy. The name ring a bell?"
"No."
"Well, he's Darren's father. So enjoy your stay with your friend Rosa, Miss Ripken." She hung up.
Lucy slammed the phone down. "Damn!" she said, then went over and turned off the tub, which was nearly overflowing with a mountain of bubbles.
She stood straight and still, and began deep breathing to ease off the anger. Her fists unclenched, her breath slowed, and after a moment, she calmly climbed in the tub. She found the button for the jets, punched them on, and stretched out in the warm, churning water to contemplate the ceiling and the shifting scenario.
Lucy soaked for an hour, then rinsed in the oversized black and white checker-tiled shower, dried off, and went into the bedroom. She picked up the phone and called Rosa's house. A man answered after a single ring. "Hello?'
"Hello. Darren? Hi, this is Lucy. Lucy Ripken."
"Lucy! Hi, God I've heard so much about you I feel like we're already friends. How are you? I hear you fell into a freebie at the Anasazi Lodge. Sounds cool, but I can tell you Rosa's really disappointed—so am I—that you're not gonna be staying with us."
"Hey, I'll be there in a couple days." God, he sounded so nice! She had been readying herself for combat of a sort, on hearing his voice.
"Well, that's good. I tell ya, I'd take the hotel too if I was in your shoes. Did Rosa tell you anything about our house?"
"No, not really."
"Well, I thought it was fine till she got here, but she's been agitating to make some extensive changes, shall we say. The girl seems to think I lack taste in interior design." He laughed. "I don't know where she got that idea, things are getting better, but it's a little Spartan around here, and I know you write about this stuff so I wanted to warn you."
"I write about it but I don't care about it, not on a personal level. Nobody I know can afford real interior design anyway. It's a racket for rich people."
"Well, you can count us——out of that category, Lucy. I was verging on crashing the upper middle class, but this move to Santa Fe has got me downwardly mobile, know
what I mean?"
"Rosa said you were trying to write. That's definitely a good way to get poor fast."
"Yeah, I'm like a hundred and fifty pages into a novel. Doing a little lawyering on the side but I don't have a license here so it's tricky. Teaching golf to make a few bucks. But we can catch up on all this later. When're you coming for dinner?"
"Actually that's why I called," Lucy said. The message light on her phone began blinking. "I'm so beat after flying out, and the huge lunch Rosa and I had, I think I'd rather just stay here and eat a room service salad."
"Oh, shoot. Rosa's going to be bummed."
"I know, and tell her I’m sorry. I’m just out of it. I'll come out in the morning."
"And we'll look into the Clements thing. By the way, Lucy, just so we don't have a misunderstanding: I'm sorry I gave you away to Madeleine Rooney. She has a way of getting things out of me. I've known her all my life and I still think of her as—like I'm the kid, and she's one of the adults. And I have to mind her. Anyways, I don't know exactly what the status of the whole deal is with those objects, but believe me, I have no intention of getting in your way, or letting Madeleine push you or anyone else around. And I'll do what I can to keep my father out of it too. So don't worry. OK?"
"Uh, yeah." What a relief! Lucy felt her anxiety slipping away. "Hey, Darren, thanks a lot for that."
"No problem. We'll pay a call on Maggie Clements tomorrow, and see what she's got to say. Hey, I think I hear Rosa, home from the store. You want to talk to her?"
"Nah, that's OK. Tell her I love her and I'll see her in the morning. Should I come there or you want to pick me up here?"
"Well, Clements lives up above Tesuque. It's out of the way, but why don't you come here—it'll give you a chance to see the house—and then I'll drive us all over there."
"See you tomorrow. Ninish OK?"
"We're up at dawn everyday. Rosa and her horse."
"Oh yeah! Right. Well, Goodnight Darren. Sorry about dinner. Nice talking to you. Oh, Darren, just one thing more, about the artifacts."
"Yeah?"
"Do you know what financial arrangements have been made?"
Mexican Booty: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 2) Page 4
