“Me, too,” Claire replied. She thought Sally would be pleasant to work with and the office was charming, but she hoped she wouldn’t be spending too much time here. It was obvious she would have to spend time in the Blue, and she had mixed feelings about that. She loved the ranch, but it wouldn’t be the same without Burke.
******
After dinner that night Claire got on her PC and played a couple of hands of computer solitaire. She liked the odds in solitaire; she won often enough to make it rewarding, lost often enough to keep it interesting. She played until she had an easy win, then she typed the letters to Samantha, James, Corinne, and Mariah, notifying them that she was Burke Lovell’s personal representative.
******
The following Tuesday she got a call telling her that Samantha Lovell was at the information desk. Claire had been expecting a reaction from Samantha, but not this reaction. She walked out to the information desk, trying to remember how long it had been since she’d seen Samantha. Several years at least. At a distance she didn’t look a day older—still slender and blonde—but up close Claire could see fine lines radiating from the corners of her eyes. The New Mexico sun could be unforgiving, but it warmed even the coldest days. When people went out, they dressed for the temperature in their car not the temperature outside. Samantha, in New Mexico style, wore no jacket. She did wear a lot of silver and turquoise Indian jewelry over a black dress. Her blonde hair was held up in a clip and carefully tousled.
Samantha gave her a hug, kissed the air in the vicinity of her cheek, and said, “Nice to see you,” in a voice that was a thin layer of ice over a freezing cold river.
“You, too,” Claire replied, trying to put some warmth in her own voice.
“Can we talk?”
“Let’s go to the Garden Court and get something to drink.” Claire didn’t want to air grievances about the will in her glass cage of an office.
They walked to the Garden Court in silence, picked up coffee in the cafeteria line, and sat down at a table in the window looking down on the campus.
“I’m very sorry about your father,” Claire began. “I know what it’s like to lose a parent.”
“Do you?”
“My father died last year.”
“I got your letter.” Samantha ignored her coffee and studied Claire with hard eyes. “I always liked you, Claire. I cannot believe you are participating in this fraud.”
“There’s no fraud, Samantha. Your father asked me to be his personal representative. I’m following his wishes. That’s all.”
“He was on Valium and Jack Daniel’s. He didn’t know what he was doing when he signed that will.”
“The will was made out beforehand. He’d had time to think about it. I understand why you’re not happy with the terms, but he seemed perfectly sober and rational to me when he signed it. I think the nurse and Jed will attest to that.”
“Doesn’t it seem suspicious to you that as soon as the will is signed, the primary heir, Mariah, takes my father outside and arranges for him to die?”
Claire aligned her back against her chair. “I don’t know that Mariah was aware the will was signed that afternoon, and it appears that Burke chose his own death.”
“If he took his own life, then why didn’t he leave us a suicide note?”
The will was his note, Claire thought, but she kept the thought to herself. Samantha wrapped her hands around her mug, and Claire noticed that she was wearing long, polished, artificial nails, and every finger had a silver ring.
“We’re asking the Catron County DA to investigate, to do an autopsy and a drug screening,” Samantha said. “Assisted suicide is a crime in New Mexico.” A muscle near her cheekbone twitched as if a cricket had crawled under her skin.
Claire wondered what would happen to the terms of the will if Mariah was prosecuted for Burke’s death. It certainly would make it easier for the family to gain control of the ranch.
“Mariah shows up out of nowhere, claiming to be my father’s daughter, and you believe that?”
“Apparently he believed it. That’s what matters, isn’t it?”
“I suggested she take a DNA test to prove her claim, but she refused.”
“Maybe she resented being asked.” Claire expected the truth of Mariah’s claim to be proven or disproven by the genealogical search, but she didn’t want to get into that with Samantha yet.
“She’s a member of a radical environmentalist group. We believe Mariah’s a front for them and that they are scheming to gain control of the ranch and do us out of our inheritance.”
“I understand how difficult this is for you, Samantha, but it was your father’s stated wish that the ranch go to Mariah to be used for a wildlife preserve. When I agreed to be his personal representative, I agreed to uphold his wishes. You are being provided for.”
“With what? Two hundred thousand dollars?”
Claire knew that two hundred thousand dollars would barely buy a starter home in Santa Fe. She wondered how Samantha was earning her living. “What are you doing now?” she asked.
“Working as a massage therapist.”
It was one of those low-paying jobs that people gravitate to in Santa Fe, where professional jobs are hard to find. In some ways Samantha reminded Claire of Evan’s new wife, Melissa. Both were tall, slender blondes with little ability to earn money and a lot of ability to attract men. “You know that your father left his book collection to the center?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything you’d like? I made that offer to James, and I’d like to do the same for you and Mariah and Corinne.”
Samantha stared out the window at the students walking by. “I’ll think about it.”
“A box of the books was stolen from my truck after I got back here.” Claire waited for a reaction, but she didn’t get one.
Samantha turned the conversation to personal matters. “I hear you got divorced.”
Claire had been more comfortable talking about books. “Yes.”
“You were married for a long time.”
“Twenty-eight years.”
“Anybody new in your life?”
“No. I like being on my own. And you?” Claire expected there to be someone, possibly someone richer and older.
“I’ve been seeing an artist named Rusty Siler.”
Claire had never heard of him, but she thought it might be considered rude to say so. “Is he with a gallery?”
“Not yet,” Samantha answered with a defensive tone that made Claire suspect Rusty wasn’t a very successful artist. Samantha struck her as a woman who had been deeply bruised as a child and who seemed to go through life pressing the wound over and over again. No amount of money or beauty or men would change that. Claire felt her job would be a lot easier if only Burke had paid more attention to his children. The world would be easier if everyone had paid more attention to their children. “I want you to know that we’ve hired a lawyer. His name is Walter Massey, and he will be getting in touch with you. We’re considering contesting the will.”
“On what grounds?”
“That my father was not of sound mind when he signed it. That Mariah is not who she claims to be.”
“It’s your choice.” Claire’s voice was calm, but she could feel heat rising and flushing her face.
When they finished their coffee, Claire walked Samantha back to her car, which she’d parked in the visitor’s lot next to the university bookstore. It was dusted with a layer of brown dirt that made it impossible to tell how old the vehicle was or what condition it was in, but Claire could tell it was one of those big, tippy SUV’s that gets terrible gas mileage, rolls easily in an accident, and does a lot of damage when it plows into a smaller car.
When she got back to her office, Claire called Sally Froelich. She expected that one day now, the face of the person she called would appear on her computer screen, replacing the books with wings that were her screen saver. Whenever Claire’s computer was idle for ten minu
tes, the classics leaped off their shelves and flew across her screen. For now she’d have to settle for a mental image of the person at the other end of the line. She saw Sally as sitting at her polished desk surrounded by beautiful things.
“Samantha Lovell, Burke’s daughter, came to see me today,” Claire began.
“Oh?” said Sally. Claire imagined her eyebrows plowing furrows in her forehead.
“She’s not happy with the terms of the will.”
“I’m not surprised now that I’ve read it. The will certainly favors daughter Mariah. Is she the one who cared for Burke in his old age? Often that’s the child the parent remembers with gratitude.”
“I think it’s more likely she charmed him. There was a private nurse, and Corinne, Burke’s oldest daughter, who lived at the ranch. Burke was well taken care of. Mariah has an adorable child, Burke’s only grandson, and she shares his interest in turning the ranch into a nature preserve. He feared if the other children got the property, they would sell it.”
“Would they?”
“They might. James lives in Phoenix, and Samantha lives in Santa Fe. They weren’t close to Burke, and they’re not interested in the ranch. I imagine Corinne could be swayed by them. Burke wasn’t a particularly good parent.”
“How come Mariah turned out all right? Assuming she did turn out all right.”
“Burke had nothing to do with her upbringing. They only discovered each other recently.”
“Oh,” said Sally. “Well the deceased’s parenting skills aren’t the issue here. Your job is to see that his wishes are carried out.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Samantha told me the family has hired a lawyer, and they’re considering contesting the will.”
“Whom did they hire? Did she say?”
“Walter Massey.”
“That bag of wind,” Sally snorted. “On what grounds do they intend to contest?”
“That Burke was under the influence when he signed the will and not of sound mind.”
“Is that true?”
“I was there, and he seemed perfectly rational to me. The witnesses can corroborate that. He did have a drink at dinner, and apparently he took some Valium later that night. The family asked the DA to do an autopsy and are waiting for the results of a drug test.”
“That won’t establish exactly when he ingested the drugs, so your testimony and that of the witnesses will be important. I noticed he bequeathed his book collection to UNM. Do you stand to benefit from that?”
“Not financially, but it will help my career. A box of books that I set aside was stolen from my car after I got back to the library. I’m trying to find a way to get them back. Would there be any money from the estate if I have to pay for them?”
“I doubt it, since the books were in your hands when they were stolen. I’d check the library’s insurance policy.”
“Samantha also says the family is asking the Catron County DA to prosecute Mariah for assisted suicide.”
Sally laughed. “I don’t think that’s going to happen. Law enforcement in Catron County gets hired by whether or not they fit the uniform. Assisting a suicide is a crime that’s unlikely to get prosecuted there. They believe that if a man wants to kill himself, he can kill himself; although I suppose the method used is unusual. Out there they usually blow their brains out.”
“Samantha says they don’t believe Mariah is Burke’s daughter, which could also be grounds for overturning the will.”
“Is she?”
“She says she is. He said she was.”
“It’s typical of Massey to try every sleazy trick in the book and to run up a big fat fee. If he wins, the fees come out of the estate and all the devisees pay. If they lose, it comes out of the challengers’ pockets or their inheritance. Massey will get paid no matter how frivolous the lawsuit. No matter who wins, he wins. I’ve seen cases like this where the whole estate goes to pay legal fees. The genealogical search should establish whether Mariah is the daughter, but that will take a few weeks. Did you call them?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know that it will make any difference. I have the will in front of me, and it says Burke Lovell is leaving the ranch to Mariah Geraty, not to his daughter Mariah Geraty. Why does she use the name Geraty?”
“I don’t know. It’s her mother’s name? A husband’s name?”
“Something for you to find out. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
But Claire had her work cut out for her at the library, too.
“Are you planning on going over there anytime soon?”
“I’ll have to.”
“While you’re there, take a copy of the will to Lovell’s bank, and get permission to write checks on the account. You’ll need to keep the estate’s bills current. And see if you can find a copy of the deed. We’ll need that, too. Keep track of your hours. You will be compensated for your time and expenses.”
Claire wondered what would compensate her for her time away from the library.
******
After she got off the phone, Claire went to the Internet to see if any of the stolen books had been listed for sale yet. The Internet was the perfect place for a thief to operate, since no one needed to know the seller’s name, age, sex, address, or even what country that person lived in. Claire wondered how the exchange of funds would take place, always a problem when doing business over the Internet. Did the seller trust the buyer to pay? Did the buyer trust the seller to deliver the books? Claire had heard that even cashier’s checks could be forged. The way to sell books anonymously, she decided, would be COD through UPS or another shipper. The seller would use a phony name and insist on cash or a cashier’s check made out to cash. Claire hoped her thief would not be smart enough to figure this out. She might be able to buy the books back, but she’d never find out who had stolen them. She wanted to know who; the books had been in her truck in her care. The theft felt like a personal attack.
First she went to Dejanews, the search engine for news groups. There were news groups for every interest Claire could imagine, and some she couldn’t. Rec.arts.books was a place fans got online to compare notes about favorite books, as well as to buy and sell them. Professional booksellers tended to use Web sites such as Bibliofind or Alibris that charged a fee, but news groups were free, and amateurs bought and sold there. Claire searched for Tony Hillerman, and got two hundred and fifty hits. She opened all the messages dated after the day the books were stolen. Several A Thief of Times were for sale on the rec.arts. mystery news group, but none of them had been illustrated by Ernie Franklin. When she searched for The Brave Cowboy, she didn’t get a single response. A Thief of Time had a first printing somewhere around two hundred thousand. The Brave Cowboy would have been closer to two thousand.
Claire got out of Dejanews, went to BookFinder.com, and searched for The Brave Cowboy again. She felt a tinge of excitement whenever she sent a query out into the wide world of cyber space, but her computer was having a slow day, and excitement turned to impatience while she waited for an answer. She drummed the desk with her fingers until The Brave Cowboy came up. This time, in addition to all the limited editions signed by Kirk Douglas, Alibris had a first edition, very fine, with no wrapper at a price of seven hundred dollars, the correct price for that book without an inscription or a dust jacket.
Claire knew Rex Barker, the dealer who had listed it. Rex was a dealer in Western Americana and modern firsts who operated on the fringes of the rare-book world. He was six feet three and skinny as a post. He liked to gamble, drank Jack Daniel’s, and had once written a well-reviewed book of poetry. That was enough to set him apart in the rare-book business, but he also happened to be the only dealer who lived in Socorro, New Mexico, a town that was a blip beside the Interstate. Claire had always found Rex to be a shrewd dealer and very quick to spot a hot new writer. He was drawn to small print runs like a coyote to a coddled pet. Sometimes he bought up a publisher’s entire stock of a book, storing them in his ga
rage and parceling them out as sparingly as DeBeers’ diamonds while he waited for the writer’s reputation to grow and the price to escalate. Some people found this tactic offensive, but Claire felt the books were better off appreciating in Rex’s garage than they were getting pulped. Rex liked to talk about how close he’d been to Edward Abbey. Hanging out with Edward Abbey resembled sleeping with John Kennedy. If all the people who claimed to actually had, neither man would have gotten any work done. Claire was surprised that Rex would sell an Abbey, but he could well be in a situation where he needed the money. It happened often enough in the rare-book world.
She had left a message on Rex’s machine after the theft, and mailed him a list of the stolen books. She wondered if someone had sold Burke’s Brave Cowboy to Rex and had taken off or damaged the jacket not knowing how valuable it was. She called and waited through his message, knowing that Rex screened his calls.
“Rex, this is Claire,” she said. “Pick up if you’re there. I want to talk to you about The Brave Cowboy you listed on Alibris.”
He came on the line. “Hi. I had that book before Burke died. It’s not his,” he said quickly.
“Is there an inscription?”
“No.”
“You should have had Abbey sign it before he died.”
“If I’d had it then, I would have.”
Claire had his word that he wasn’t marketing the stolen Abbey. For some people that wouldn’t be enough. Still, she knew Rex to be too shrewd a trader to sell an inscribed book at an uninscribed price. To test him, she offered to buy the book for the listed price of seven hundred dollars.
“Too late,” he said. “I sold it this morning.”
“Full price?” she asked.
“Full price.” Rex wasn’t much of a talker, and that was all he had to say.
******
When Claire got home that night she let Nemesis out and watched the sunset while he ran around the yard on the trail of a bird or a rodent. The best sunsets were in the winter when wood smoke and pollution turned the colors even more intense. When the sun dropped behind the West Mesa, it outlined the clouds near the horizon in gold. The color reflected off the clouds high in the sky, then slid up the Sandias, turning them the color of pink zinfandel. Nemesis’s white fur began to stand out in the growing darkness. Claire called, and when he didn’t respond, she lured him inside with a dish of tuna. She checked the call screening box (all the calls were from Anonymous and Unavailable), went into her study, and logged on to her PC. She had decided to put out a want list for some of the stolen books, and couldn’t do that anonymously on unm.edu, the university’s net server. Anyone outside the university would realize the request had come from within, and anyone inside would know it had come from her. Claire maintained an account on AOL so she could e-mail her children and friends in privacy. She’d followed AOL’s advice of making her screen name a series of numbers, but it was hard to remember a string of meaningless numbers. Her own birth date would have been too obvious, so she used her mother’s. She saw her coworkers often enough that she’d had no reason to give her screen name to them.
The Stolen Blue Page 7
