“In a word? Yes.”
“Well, you’re wrong. Besides, I think women are more obsessed with the issue than men are.”
“We could certainly debate the point, but we’re getting sidetracked. What I wanted to say is that Natasha’s body was lying on her very lovely rug, right next to her desk. The Erté was lying next to her head. The executive bathroom is behind the desk. If the killer hid in there and surprised her—which is certainly the logical course of events—wouldn’t it make sense that he’d grab something off the desktop to whack her with?”
Scott looked at me. “Oh, yes, I see. And Ramon said the Erté was on the shelf. How close was that?”
I tried to conjure up an image of the office in my mind. “Not very.”
“Don’t jump—”
“I can’t help it! This might even mean that the mystery statue was the murder weapon. We have to find out, Scott!”
“You mean somebody switched the statues? What for?”
“Two reasons. Maybe because the actual weapon is a lot more valuable than the Erté. Or maybe it could be traced to someone specific. That could give me something to go on in tracking it down.”
“And the other reason?”
I shuddered. “Maybe the killer was there all along. Watching. Maybe he saw Ramon touch the Erté, and when Natasha Ivanova surprised him sometime later, he saw a ready-made opportunity to frame Ramon. Whack her over the head, pick up the real weapon, substitute the Erté, and—”
“Wait.”
I paused.
“You’d have to hit her again with the Erté. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have had traces of her blood and scalp.”
I made a face. “That’s right. But you see where this is leading, don’t you?”
He smiled. “It’s a runaway train, and you’re the engineer.”
“Okay, I take your point, but if my scenario is true, then doesn’t it make sense that it was the killer who called the police and reported Ramon? That way he’d make sure they picked up Ray before he got rid of the stolen goods. And the real killer would be in the clear. It’s very smart.”
“It’s a good theory,” Scott said, “but it’s all speculation. There’s no evidence to suggest that anyone else was there when Ramon broke in.”
“What about his feeling spooked? Thinking he heard something?”
“Do I have to say it? He was burglarizing the place. He’s a dumb kid. He was nervous. Of course he’d start at every noise.”
“The light was on. The file drawer was open. Somebody was there, Scott.”
“Even if you’re right, we can’t prove it, can we? It would certainly be nice to know what Ivanova was doing there at that hour of the morning.”
“They said at the trial that she liked to come in early in the morning to work. Make calls to the East Coast. That kind of thing.”
“Bullshit,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Four-thirty in the morning is only seven-thirty on the East Coast. Nobody’s at work at that hour, and I doubt if they’re much interested in potential matches before the first cup of coffee, either. Come to think of it, Natasha was giving little soirées all the time, too, wasn’t she? Doesn’t that seem like burning the candle at both ends?”
I nodded. “Even a twenty-five-year-old would find that schedule punishing. So your conclusion is…?”
He shrugged. “The part about coming in to work early to make telephone calls was a mistake, or a lie, or she was up to something and invented a cover story for herself.”
“I bet on ‘up to something.’ There were rumors even before I heard about the IRS and all the things you’re working on. So maybe she went to the office for this mysterious purpose, and surprised her killer, and—”
“Or she didn’t surprise him.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes.”
“Take a right here,” Scott told me.
“So where do we go from here?” I asked him, when I had made the turn. “We’ve got a lovely theory—well, maybe several lovely theories—and no evidence.”
“At least it’s a starting point,” he said. He looked at me. “I have to hand it to you, you were terrific back at Tehachapi. Most people who’ve never been to a prison are put off by the experience. Quite frankly, I didn’t think you’d be that tough.”
I hadn’t felt tough at all. It was sort of appalling, and more than a little sad. “I don’t have a choice,” I told him. “I’m desperate. It didn’t seem like a good strategy to turn squeamish.”
“Don’t get desperate,” he said.
“I can’t help it. I want this resolved.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he said. “It may never be resolved. You might have to live with the status quo, at least for a very long time. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“Live with sending an innocent boy to prison? I don’t think so! How can I possibly give up now?”
“I’m not saying you should give up,” he answered. “On the other hand, I’m not as convinced as you seem to be that we’ve discovered with absolute certainty that Ray is innocent. I admit there are a lot of doubts, but you have to leave room for the possibility that he could still be lying about the whole thing. A sociopath can be utterly convincing.”
“Is that what you think?” I demanded. His hand was still on my shoulder, which made it hard to concentrate.
“I’ve told you, no. I’m just trying to prepare you, so you don’t get hurt. I can tell that this case means a lot to you. I’m not sure I understand why, but I hate to see you headed for a fall if it doesn’t work out the way you want it to.”
“Lots of things don’t work out the way you want them to,” I said, not looking at him. We both knew I was talking about more than the case. “There aren’t any shortcuts through pain. I’m a big girl,” I said, with a touch more bravery than I felt. “I can take it.” I turned toward him. “But thanks for your concern.”
He looked at me, and I thought he was about to say something more. Instead he pointed to the curb. “Pull over there,” he said.
We were in front of a Basque hotel.
24
“Is this it?” I asked him.
He grinned delightedly. “Have you ever been here? I love this place.” He looked as thrilled as if he were taking me to the Tour d’Argent, or some equally august recipient of the Michelin three-star accolade.
I pasted on a polite smile. “No, I haven’t been here.” Vivid olfactory memories of mutton fumes, imperiling my digestive equilibrium, came flooding back. Michael and I had barely survived the interminable wait for the check. At least it hadn’t been this particular restaurant. Maybe this one served something else besides extremely geriatric sheep.
“Trust me,” Scott said. “This place is a real experience.”
I imagined it would be, but I didn’t want to spoil his fun. “Why not?” I said brightly.
The interior was rustic, with a carved wooden bar and a few very dim oil paintings of Central Valley landscapes. The linoleum floor had seen better days. We were seated, family-style, at a scrubbed oak table with two weathered-looking men who appeared to be in their seventies. They recognized Scott and shook hands, grinning. They were introduced to me as boarders of the hotel, Basque shepherds whose flocks were long gone but who had stayed on here to live out their retirement.
“This is Ellen’s first time,” Scott told them.
“Then she must have some Picon punch,” one of them said with conviction. “To celebrate.”
Scott grinned wickedly. Whatever it was, it was going to be memorable, I could tell. I didn’t see how I could get out if it, with those charming old men watching me expectantly. “I’d love some,” I said. I turned to Scott. “Will you join me?”
“No, better not. Just one per automobile.”
Uh-oh. But it was delicious, a mix of herbal liqueur, grenadine, and brandy. I could feel it warm my throat and keep right on heating all the way down. Still
, I was a little worried about drinking on an empty stomach. “Maybe we should order,” I whispered to Scott.
He smiled. “You don’t order. You just get what they bring.”
I sat back, resigned. With two lifelong shepherds at the table, I wasn’t about to be snippy about the food. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
I asked our tablemates when they had come to America. “In nineteen forty-eight,” one of them said. The other nodded. “We were going to earn enough money to go home and buy some land. Get married.” He grinned. “And look what happened.”
“Marooned,” said his buddy. “With a bunch of sheep.” He almost spat the word out between the gap in his molars.
“You don’t like sheep?” I asked him, surprised.
He said something to his friend in what I presumed was Basque and they both laughed heartily. “Hate ’em,” he said. “Stupidest animals alive.”
Since all I knew of sheep I’d learned from Babe (if you didn’t count a passion for rack of lamb), I wasn’t in a position to argue. I took another sip of Picon punch. So many people seemed to hate their work. “That’s terrible,” I said.
They shrugged. “It was what we could get,” one said. “We had indarra. That’s what counted.”
“What’s that?” I asked him.
He offered me his bicep to feel, like a boy. I put my hand on his arm beneath the threadbare coat—it was hard and sinewy. “Strength,” he said proudly, “and also—”
“Character,” said the waitress, reaching around me with big arms to put bowls of peppery cabbage soup and some bread on the table. “Scott,” she shrieked joyfully, leaning down to kiss him on both cheeks. “It’s great to see you.”
Scott seemed to be very popular with waitresses. I tried the soup. It was outstanding. “Drink your punch,” she told me. “There’s Rioja coming.”
“Rioja?’
“Red wine. From Spain,” Scott told me.
“I’m not sure…”
“Go ahead, if you want,” he said. “I can drive.”
“This is a joke, right?” I asked him, when Marie, the waitress, had brought, in swift succession, platters of garlicky beans, two salads, cottage cheese, pickled tongue, spaghetti, french fries, and broccoli, followed by a plate piled with fried chicken and a gargantuan bowl of oxtail stew.
Scott poured me a glass of wine. “You have to pace yourself.” He himself was tucking into his third piece of chicken. The grease wasn’t exactly running down his chin, but he’d shed every vestige of dining formality.
“What happened to grilled fish? Sauce on the side?” I asked him, recalling our dinner at La Bourgogne.
He laughed. “That was business,” he said. “This isn’t. Sometimes you have to throw caution to the winds.”
Our tablemates were looking at me with amusement. “Do you eat like this every day?” I asked them.
They nodded. “You should see dinner.”
It was wonderful food, rich in flavor and very homey. I had to try something of everything, a heroic undertaking that was having a noticeably negative effect on the fit of my slacks. They didn’t call it the groaning board for nothing. By the time Marie brought out dessert, a slice of blue cheese and a bowl of ice cream reminiscent of Mont Blanc in size and shape, I was perilously close to groaning myself. After the austerity of Tehachapi, it was a sensory overload, in every sense of the word. But a blissful one.
I raised my glass, lifting it toward the shepherds. “Indarra,” I said, toasting them. It came out a little more loudly than I’d expected, but nobody seemed to mind. Several other diners raised their glasses in return. “Indarra,” we all said again.
“I think I’ll get the check,” Scott said, with a grin.
“I can’t believe how great that was,” I told him, as we made our way out the door. Marie had enfolded us both in her flowery bosom and kissed us each on the cheek. Scott had a crimson lipstick mark just above his eye where she’d missed the target on the first go-round. It looked jaunty.
“I mean,” I told him, “I’d always thought Basque food was their revenge for Guernica, but that was outstanding.”
Scott extended a hand for the car keys. “I’m glad you liked it.” He seemed amused by something. He opened the car door for me. My legs were a little wobbly, and I sort of slid in.
“Okay?” he asked me, when we were underway.
“Fine, but just don’t go too fast around the curves,” I said. I shifted. I couldn’t find a position where the seatbelt didn’t cut into overstuffed portions of my anatomy.
“Maybe we should have stopped for an Alka Seltzer,” Scott said.
“No, I’ll be okay.” I sank back against the seat. I tried not to let my head loll. “They were sweet,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I envy them.”
“Really?” he asked. “I don’t think I could eat like that three times a day. I’d be dead in a week, maybe less.”
“I didn’t mean for the food,” I told him, laughing. “I mean the Basque camaraderie. It’s nice.”
“It’s nice, but it’s sad, too,” he said. “There used to be hundreds of hotels like this, and thousands of Basques. Now the shepherds come from Chile or Peru, where the wages are still low enough to make this life seem tempting. The young Basques stay in Spain, and only a few old men are left.”
“That is sad, but at least they know who they are,” I told him.
“Ah.”
“What do you mean, ‘ah’? I hate it when you say things like that, like you know what I’m thinking when I’m not even sure myself.” Actually, I wasn’t sure if I hated it or not, but I didn’t like the idea of seeming too transparent.
“What do you want me to say?” he asked.
“I want you to tell me I’m inscrutable,” I insisted.
“You’re inscrutable.”
“You didn’t mean it.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying. It had to be the Picon punch talking.
He laughed. “Not this time, but I said it anyway. Doesn’t that count for anything? Anyway, we don’t have to discuss it if you’d rather not.”
He was onto me, so there didn’t seem to be any point in saying “Discuss what?” “You mean the part about telling Ramon my name was ‘Santiago,’” I said.
He didn’t reply.
“I knew you’d notice.”
“Is it a secret?”
I shook my head but stopped because it made me feel dizzy. “It’s my maiden name. But I don’t want to go into it.”
“That’s fine.”
“I mean, if I start, I’ll end up talking about my father abandoning us and then I’ll get onto my mother and how she gave my brother away. I don’t think I could handle that, not in my present condition.”
“Really, Ellen, I’m not pressing you.” he said. “It’s okay.”
Twenty minutes later, I was still hip-deep in my Life Story.
“…And the worst part of it was, I didn’t want to be Mexican. I mean, my mother clearly thought it was a disgrace. Her family had practically disowned her because she had married my father, and then he’d gone and proved them right. So what could I think? I didn’t want any part of it. Except when my grandmother brought my brother and I saw…I saw…”
A couple of tears dripped down on the leather. “I shouldn’t drink at lunch,” I said helplessly.
“Ellen, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Do you see your brother at all?”
I shook my head. “I want to, but he won’t let me get close.” I sniffed a little and smiled. “Maybe it runs in the family. He resents us because my mother kept me and not him. But he’s the lucky one. He had two people who wanted him desperately. A whole close family. It’s a Latino thing. And I missed out on it.” I realized how that sounded. “I’m forty-four years old, and I sound like a baby. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Maybe it’s just a delayed reaction to the prison or something. Or too much Picon punch.”
“It’s not bad to be honest
,” he said seriously. “Stop beating yourself up. Besides—”
“Besides?”
“Well, I don’t know you well enough to say for sure, but are you positive you really missed out on the whole ‘Latino thing,’ as you put it? In the first place, the family’s still there, isn’t it? That means there’s always a chance to get closer.”
“I guess so,” I conceded. “But I’m not sure they want to know me better.”
He was silent for a moment. “You know,” he said finally, “when I first met you, I admired your self-confidence about art. You made me feel a lot better about trusting my own taste. Why don’t you try to trust yourself in other ways?”
I looked at him.
“And then there’s your career,” he persisted.
“My career?” My head felt a little fuzzy, and I didn’t see the connection.
“Sure. It can’t be an accident that you specialize in Latin American art. Don’t you think you’re drawn to it because of who you are? That looks like embracing your heritage, not rejecting it.”
“I like enchiladas, too,” I suggested. I was making a joke out of it, but I saw what he was driving at. I must always have known it, but now it seemed clear that he was right.
He laughed. “You don’t get credit for that. This is Southern California. Everybody likes Mexican food. Look, you don’t have to go around with a rose in your teeth or wearing a serape to prove a point to yourself. I think the real point is, it’s always been a part of you.”
“Michael said the same thing,” I told him.
He smiled. “Your husband was a smart guy,” he said. “Lucky, too.”
My heart turned over. “Thank you,” I said. I was too full of emotion to say anything else.
“Besides, you have it, and that’s what counts,” he added.
“Have what?”
The smile widened. “Indarra,” he said.
I am lying with my arm thrown over his chest. His skin is warm beneath my cheek. His hand is stroking my hair softly. His touch is gentle, but so strong. Michael, I think contentedly. I am happier than I have been in a long time. As if he hears my thought, he turns toward me and whispers my name. I look up into his face.
Staying Cool Page 29
