The Stolen Blue

by Judith Van GIeson

  “Why didn’t he talk to me first?” Claire heard petulance in James’s voice. “I would have liked to have had just one good conversation with my dad before he died. Just one.”

  Claire was relieved there had been no unfinished business with her own father. The thoughts left unsaid gave death a ragged edge.

  “He didn’t tell me he was leaving his books to the library, either,” James continued.

  Claire had always known James to be more interested in cars than he was in books. Nevertheless she said, “If there’s anything you want, tell me,” handing him the inventory. “The ones I’ve checked are in here.” She indicated the special box. “The others are boxed alphabetically.”

  While James glanced through the list, she put The History of the Blue into the special box, which had space for another book, thinking that Burke would be pleased to know that she had included at least one history. Claire laid Taos Pueblo on top of the other books, closed the box, and taped it shut.

  James put the list down without choosing a single title. “Would you pick one out for me?”

  “When I get back to the library, all right?”

  “All right,” James said. “When do you leave?” “As soon as I pack the truck. I have to get back for a meeting tomorrow.”

  “I’ll help you take the boxes out.”

  “Thanks. Has Samantha arrived yet?”

  “She’ll be here later tonight. She was out of town and didn’t get our messages till this afternoon.”

  The sense of relief she felt embarrassed Claire. To compensate, she said, “I’ll get in touch with her when she gets back to Santa Fe.”

  “Are these ready to go?” James nodded toward the boxed books.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll start taking them out for you.”

  “Thanks. There’s a hand truck in my pickup.”

  Claire wrote “VALUABLE” on the special box, carried it out herself, and put it on the passenger’s seat. She helped James arrange the other boxes in the bed of the truck, then went inside to say her goodbyes. Another rancher had arrived, older and softer than the wiry Orin Stoner. He was balanced on the edge of a dining room chair with his cowboy hat on his lap, talking to Sheriff Henner. The sheriff thanked Claire for her cooperation.

  “Do you have to go so soon?” Corinne said. “I have to be at the library for a meeting tomorrow. Let me know what the funeral plans are, and I’ll come back. Your father was a brilliant man, Corinne, and a wonderful mentor to me. We’re so lucky to have had him in our lives. I know how much you are going to miss him. We all will.”

  “Thanks,” Corinne said, giving her a hug that left Claire with the sensation of having been embraced by a gnarled piece of wood.

  “Are you going to drive all the way to Albuquerque tonight?” Laura asked. The lights had come on inside the house, turning the world beyond the windows a featureless black.

  “If I get tired, I’ll stop somewhere,” Claire said.

  “Why not just leave in the morning? There’s plenty of room here.” Laura stood next to James and was absentmindedly rubbing the small of his back.

  “I think it would be good for all of you to be alone together.”

  “Let me know about the book,” James said.

  “I will.”

  “Have a good trip.” Mariah offered a firm handshake. Eric was beside her, and Claire was tempted to pick him up and give him a hug. He was the kind of child who inspired that reaction. Claire’s son had been like that, and she knew how damaging all the attention could be, so she just said, “Goodbye, Eric.”

  “Bye,” the boy replied.

  She was still surprised by Mariah’s composure. She needed to let go and have a good cry. They all did. Maybe when everybody else left, they would find a way to be a family together in their grief.

  ******

  The headlights of her truck led her up the tortuous dirt road. At one point she stopped at a lookout to peer back into the Blue and saw a crescent moon hanging over the valley. The air was cold and so still that the smoke from the chimneys rose straight up. By the time she reached Quemado, she was too tired to go any farther and she checked into a motel.

  She brought in the special box, put it down on one of the twin beds, and headed for the bathroom. The dressing room beside the bath had a plastic countertop beneath a wall-to-wall mirror. Claire studied herself in the mirror, wondering if recent events had left a mark. She could use a good cry herself, but she hoped to postpone it until she got home. Her eyes had a startled, deer-in-the-headlights expression. Her chin seemed to have dropped a little lower. She took pride in her posture, and didn’t like the way she had sunk into a slouch. She lifted her shoulders and straightened her back.

  She remembered Burke’s remark and wondered whether she was still a good-looking woman, whether she had ever been a good-looking woman, whether it mattered after she turned fifty. Sometimes she thought she’d married too young to find out how good-looking she was. Her layer of baby fat had lasted through high school. Only after she entered college did it fall away and reveal the fine bones in her face and her body. She had begun to discover there was power in her looks when she met Evan, who had subtle ways of turning her wattage down. Her clothes became more subdued after she got involved with him. She stopped lightening her hair. She became a wife, a librarian, and a mother with a quiet, professional style. Her purpose, as she saw it, was to support, not to attract. But she had remained thin. Her face was symmetrical, she had high cheekbones, her eyes were the pale, speckled blue of a robin’s egg. She wore her hair in bangs and a pageboy that fell softly around her neck.

  At this point in life, how good she looked depended on the light. In a diffuse light her hair was blonde. In daylight it was silver. In soft light she had fine wrinkles. In hard light her face was a road map of an overcrowded city. Claire knew that the more expensive the hotel, the more flattering the light—or was it a better quality of mirror? She had only paid thirty dollars for this room, and she was getting what she paid for. She gave up, turned out the light, went to bed, and hugged her pillow in an attempt to fill the void she felt.

  She woke up late not knowing for a minute where she was. That she was in a motel room (and a cheap one) was obvious. But where? Somewhere in the Southwest, she could tell by the trim on the furniture. She rarely left the Southwest, so that much would also be obvious. Then it came to her that she was in Quemado, and the reason she was in this room settled over her shoulders like a weighted cape. There was always a brief moment upon waking up, a little crack in the window of consciousness, before the problems of the day came in. The problem of this day was that Burke Lovell was dead. Claire needed to get to a meeting in Albuquerque, and she had several hours of driving time ahead of her. She peeked out through the curtains. At least it wasn’t snowing.

  Chapter Three

  ON THE DRIVE BACK CLAIRE REINSERTED MOZART into the tape deck. He was good for restoring feelings of predictability and order. When Claire was a student, she discovered she made fewer typing errors if she typed her papers to Mozart. She had read that the sound of one concerto was the equivalent of ten milligrams of Valium, but the effect on her was less soothing than clarifying.

  As Burke’s personal representative, she’d be walking through a minefield of unhappy heirs. She hadn’t wanted to face the ramifications while she was at the ranch, but now that she was on the road, she had to admit that family members would be resentful about the terms of Burke’s will and with reason. Still, his intentions were clear, and she had agreed to honor them. She looked at the box of books on the passenger’s seat. The driver’s seat was always kept in the most upright position, and she leaned against it.

  Ordinarily Claire enjoyed being on the lonesome highway. Driving could be a pleasure when there were no other cars on the road, but she was worried about making it back to the library on time. In the wide-open spaces north of Quemado, she saw a sunbow, a streaky cloud reflecting all the colors of the rainbow like a diamond in
the deep blue sky.

  By the time she reached the red rocks of El Malpais, she felt she could handle the Lovell family. By the time she reached Albuquerque, she wasn’t so sure. A semi had jackknifed on the West Mesa and held up traffic for nearly an hour.

  When she got to the library, she parked in her assigned spot and checked her watch. Director Hough’s meetings always started on time, and the accident had made her late. She locked the books in the truck, hurried inside, and let herself into the conference room through the back door. She took the only empty seat at the table, too close to Hough’s chair for her liking. He paused, from whatever he was saying, long enough to let her—and everybody else at the table—know she was late.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. She had good reason to be late and she might have taken this moment to blurt it out, but she wasn’t prepared to be the center of attention or to interrupt the flow of the meeting. There was a prior agenda that Claire preferred to follow.

  She had been put in charge of the exhibition room at the center and was expected to present the plans today for her first exhibit. In a drawer in the tower, she had come across an outstanding collection of Eliot Porter photographs. Porter had a gift for seeing patterns in the details of nature and Claire admired his work. To keep his photographs hidden in a drawer struck her as a waste.

  “I think we should devote the next exhibit to the Eliot Porter photos,” she said when her turn finally came.

  “Do we have adequate security?” Ruth O’Connor, the senior member of the department, asked. Ruth reminded Claire of a little brown bird, her plumage was nondescript, but her eyes shimmered behind the thick lenses of her glasses, and she had a lyrical voice that sang the most ordinary words. Ruth had been widowed recently after a long marriage and was doing better than anyone expected.

  “I’ll look into it.” Claire replied.

  “Irina’s exhibits were always of a historical nature,” Harrison Hough said.

  And duller than dishwater, thought Claire. Irina was her predecessor. If she had always done something, Claire thought that was reason enough to change the policy.

  “You haven’t seen them yet, have you, Harrison? They’re exceptional.” Ralph Monroe brushed away the sandy hair that had fallen across his forehead. He was the kid in the department, earnest, honest, working on his Ph.D. in anthropology. “They’ll bring in a lot of people.”

  “Do we want to bring in a lot of people?” queried Harrison. “This is a center for scholars, not an art gallery.”

  Claire suspected that if Burke had been sitting in that chair, he would have said go for it. Burke had been bold, Harrison was hesitant. Harrison was an administrator, not a trailblazer. Dealing with him resembled negotiating a shallow, rocky river in a tippy canoe. Claire was capable of doing it, but she resented the amount of effort and concentration it took.

  “Why don’t you take a look at the photos before you make a decision?” she asked, confident that the beauty of the work would win Harrison over. And, if he made the decision in his own office, he wouldn’t appear to be backing down in front of his staff.

  “All right,” said Harrison, moving along to the next item on the agenda.

  Celia Alegria, who tended to share Claire’s enthusiasms, smiled at her from across the table. Celia had a radiant smile. Her surname meant joy, and it suited her. Celia liked to wear long skirts, boots, embroidered Levi jackets, and Guatemalan vests. It was a style that looked tired on many people, but she managed to keep it fresh. Claire always looked forward to seeing what Celia wore.

  On the other hand, she never looked forward to seeing Gail Benton, also sitting across the table and stifling a yawn. Gail dressed drably—no color, no shape, no style. Her short brown hair should have been trim and neat, but she never seemed to get to the hairdresser on time. She was a tall woman who tried to appear shorter than she was by slouching and leaning.

  What did I do now? Claire wondered. Had a good idea, she answered her own question.

  While the meeting moved along, Claire wondered if Gail had wanted her job. Claire suspected that Gail made more money, but Claire’s job was more interesting than manning the reference desk in the Anderson reading room. Gail might also resent the fact that, while she had a Ph.D. in American Studies, Claire’s only postgraduate degree was an M.A. in Library Science. It took considerable drive to get a Ph.D., and that kind of ambition was often fueled by sibling rivalry. Ph.D.’s were frequently the eldest child, and Gail had three younger sisters whom she disliked intensely. Claire had been around universities long enough to know that there was often an inverse correlation between intellectual achievement and emotional maturity.

  If she resents me now, she’ll resent me even more when she hears I’ve brought in Burke’s collection, Claire thought with a mixture of apprehension and pride. She waited until the business had been concluded and the staff members began gathering up their pens and notebooks, then she stood up and said, “I’m afraid I have some very bad news. Burke Lovell died over the weekend.”

  Her announcement fell like a large rock into a deep pond. The exclamations and questions splashed around her.

  “Oh, no!”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “It appears to have been a suicide,” Claire said.

  “How did he do it?”

  “He disconnected his oxygen tank, took some Valium, went outside, and lay down in the snow.”

  “Why would Burke take his own life?”

  “Apparently he wanted to die before he lost his faculties.”

  “That sounds like Burke.”

  “Was anyone with him?”

  “His daughter, Mariah.”

  “I didn’t know he had a daughter named Mariah.”

  “Neither did he until recently.”

  “What are the funeral plans?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “We should have a memorial service for him.”

  “We should.”

  “What will happen to his collection?” Harrison asked.

  “He gave it to me for the library. The books are outside in my truck.”

  “That’s wonderful. Burke’s collection contains every book of historical or literary significance ever published about the Southwest,” Harrison said.

  “I set aside a box of special books to show you.” Claire said.

  “What did you put in it?” asked Ruth.

  “Bless Me Ultima, The Brave Cowboy, a limited edition of Death Comes for the Archbishop, a copy of A Thief of Time illustrated by Ernest Franklin, and more.”

  “All novels?” queried Harrison.

  “Mostly. I added a self-published history of the Blue and the limited edition of the Austin/Adams Taos Pueblo folio.”

  “We’ll be one of a very few libraries to have one.” Harrison beamed.

  “I know.”

  “You must be very proud of yourself,” said Gail, with the green-eyed monster dancing in her eyes.

  “How wonderful for the library.” Celia smiled.

  “As you all know, it’s an outstanding collection,” Claire said.

  “The best in the Southwest.” Harrison turned the spotlight of his approval on her.

  ******

  After the meeting, Claire invited Ruth into her office. Ruth perched on the edge of her chair and listened carefully.

  “Burke made me his personal representative in his will,” Claire said. “I don’t know exactly what a personal representative does. I wondered if you had any experience with that when your husband died.”

  “Everything went to me and the children, so it wouldn’t have been appropriate for me to be the personal representative. Robert asked his friend, Henry, to do that. Henry had to handle the expenses until the estate was probated. He hired a genealogical firm to search for unknown heirs who might have a claim to the estate. Now, in my husband’s case, that was an easy job; there were none. But in Burke’s…” She smiled and threw up her hands. “Have
you seen the will yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who got the ranch? There’s a place people will be willing to do battle over.”

  “It’s going to Mariah, the youngest daughter.”

  “Why her?”

  “She shared Burke’s interest in nature.”

  Ruth’s eyes grew a little brighter, the lilt in her voice more pronounced. “And when did Burke get interested in nature?”

  “Recently. Mariah has given Burke his only grandchild, a beautiful little boy named Eric.”

  “Well, you’ll have your work cut out for you,” Ruth said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are three other children, aren’t there?”

  “Right.”

  “They’re liable to contest the will.”

  “I hope not,” Claire replied.

  “The will sounds like a recipe for trouble, but then Burke always did like trouble. May I offer some advice?” asked Ruth.

  “Please.”

  “Hire a lawyer. The estate will pay the legal fees. With someone who led as complicated a life as Burke, settling his affairs is too much to ask of an amateur.”

  Claire hadn’t been in Albuquerque long enough to know any lawyers. “Can you recommend someone?”

  Ruth gave her the name of the lawyer Henry had used, and returned to her office. Claire called the lawyer, Sally Froelich, and made an appointment for later in the week. She went through the Eliot Porter folder on her desk and picked out a favorite print to show Harrison: an apple tree in the village of Tesuque, where Porter had lived. Claire hoped that at some point in her life she’d have the opportunity to live in a village, but the price of living in a New Mexico village was rising faster than her income. The photo was taken in late fall when the wind had stripped the tree branches bare, except for the apples that bobbed like golden ornaments against a misty gray background. She took the print into Harrison’s office.