Claire pushed the doorbell, a button protruding from the back of a rusty lizard, and heard the bell chiming somewhere inside the house. She waited, heard no movement, and pushed the bell again. “Coming,” Lola called out, but it took her so long to get to the door, Claire began to think she had imagined the sound of Lola’s voice. It was easy to imagine voices in the wind. While she waited, the wind picked up a black garbage bag, blew it down the street, and impaled it on Lola’s picket fence, turning it into a flapping raven. Claire began to turn away when the door opened, and Lola stood before her, bracing herself against the bars of a walker.
The last time Claire saw her, she was standing tall and walking unassisted. Stifling the impulse to blurt out “I’m sorry,” Claire said only, “Hello, Lola.”
“Claire Reynier,” Lola replied. “What are you doing in Las Vegas?”
“I came to see you. I’ve been calling, but I never get an answer.”
“It takes me so long to get to the phone these days, a lot of people just hang up. Most of the time that’s all right with me.” Lola focused her sharp black eyes on Claire. “Did you come all the way from Tucson?”
“I live in Albuquerque now.”
“Come on in. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Claire followed while Lola made her way down the hall, scooting like a crab from one side of the walker to the other. Lola went into a tiny living room and lowered herself into a recliner, motioning Claire into a deep and dusty armchair. Once she was out of the walker, Lola looked more like the person Claire knew. She had a thin face with a hooked nose and a shock of white hair. Her eyes were lively and bright. Claire remembered her father’s comment that when a person aged, either the body went or the mind. To Lola, the mind would be more important than the body.
“What are you doing in Albuquerque?” Lola asked.
“Working at the Center for Southwest Research.”
“I was sorry to hear about Burke’s death.”
“That’s part of the reason I’m here.” Claire told Lola about the theft and the missing History of the Blue.
“When did I publish that book anyway?” Lola asked herself. “Seventy-two? Seventy-three? There weren’t very many of them as I recall. See that filing cabinet in the dining room? Take a look, please, and see if you can find a file for deWitt.”
Lola’s oak filing cabinet was jam-packed with files—thirty years worth—but High Plains Press had only published three or four books a year in its heyday and hadn’t published anything at all for several years. Claire found deWitt’s manila folder in the d’s where it belonged, pulled it out, and took it to Lola, who brushed the dust off and opened it up.
“I published thirty copies,” Lola said. “DeWitt wanted it to go to local libraries, historical societies, and members of the family.”
Claire knew that if Lola published it, she had read it and might well remember what it said. “What was in it? Was there information anyone might want to steal the book for?”
“You mean maps of buried treasure or the answer to who killed Arthur Manby?” The Manby murder was one of the great unsolved crimes of the Southwest.
“I don’t know. It’s odd that so many of them have disappeared.”
“As I remember, it was just a nice little history of the Blue. Who settled where when, who married who, who begat who. DeWitt died before the book came out, and Burke made all the publishing arrangements. I have an invoice here that he paid.” The phone rang, but Lola made no attempt to get out of her chair.
“Do you want me to answer it?” Claire asked.
“No. It’ll just be somebody trying to sell me something. They think because I’m an old lady, I’m an easy mark.”
“You’ll never be an easy mark.”
“I would hope not.” The phone rang a perfunctory four times and stopped. “Burke picked the history up. He said he was going to distribute the books as Ben requested, and I assume he did.”
“We had one, the U of A had one, John Harlan had one, but they’re all gone. Do you have a copy here?”
“Not anymore. I’ve been getting rid of things. It’s that time of life, you know?”
Claire did know, but Lola’s mind had been so focused and clear while they talked that she had temporarily forgotten what the walker indicated.
“I gave my copy to the local library a couple of years ago.”
“I’ll try there.”
“Could I get you a cup of tea or anything?”
Claire said no. Lola’s energy seemed to be fading, and she didn’t want to watch her struggling to get out of the chair. “Your High Plains Press records would be very valuable to the center, Lola.”
“Really? Do you think anybody will be interested?”
“I think a lot of people would be interested.”
“Would you like me to get them together for you?”
“Yes, but there’s no rush. Whenever it’s convenient.”
Lola’s hand gripped the arm of her chair, and she started to pull herself forward. Claire put her hand over Lola’s. “Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out and lock the door behind me.”
“It was good to see you, Claire,” Lola said. “My pleasure,” Claire replied.
******
She drove to the library, which had been donated to the town of Las Vegas by the capitalist/philanthropist Andrew Carnegie, who, in Claire’s opinion, was a contemptible human being. He would lock the unions out of his factories and let the workers starve before he’d pay them another nickel. His vast profits had been made on the backs and the souls of his workers. He screwed his business partners and left a trail of human wreckage behind him, but he also left a string of magnificent libraries. Small towns and cities all across the country felt the results of Carnegie’s beneficence. Could it really be beneficence, Claire wondered, if the impulse to give came from atonement? Was that generosity or blood money?
Whatever the cause, the Andrew Carnegie Library in Las Vegas, was a wonderful building. Long after the Carnegie controversy was over and the people involved in it were dead, the library went on providing shelter and encouraging people to read. Having already found three empty slots on three shelves, Claire was apprehensive about locating the history. Nevertheless, she looked up the call number on the computer and went searching for it among the shelves, only to find another empty space.
A librarian was sitting at a desk, working on a computer. Her head was bent, and the overhead light brought out the black sheen of her hair. Claire stood in front of the desk and waited until the librarian had finished typing out her sentence. When the woman looked up and acknowledged her presence, Claire introduced herself.
“I’m Claire Reynier. I’m in charge of collection development at the Center for Southwest Research at UNM.”
“Yes?” the woman asked. Her name, Rosa Martinez, was printed on a plaque sitting on her desk, and she didn’t repeat it. Rosa was a small person with large eyes and quick movements. Claire didn’t know what kind of reaction to expect from her. Sometimes being a UNM librarian inspired respect, sometimes hostility; in some circles university people were considered arrogant, as John Harlan liked to remind her. It wasn’t often that Claire encountered indifference, but that appeared to be Rosa’s attitude.
Her fingers hovered over her keyboard, making it clear that Claire’s time was limited, and she got right to the point. “I’ve been looking for Benjamin deWitt’s The History of the Blue printed by High Plains Press. It’s not on the shelf.” Claire expected a shrug and a comment about the vicissitudes of misshelving.
But Rosa turned her attention away from the computer screen and into the archives of her mind. Her fingers drummed the edge of the keyboard while she thought.
“Could it have been stolen?” Claire asked.
“No. We had a library sale last year and got rid of a lot of those regional histories,” she said. “We haven’t updated the computer yet to reflect the sale, but as I remember, the deWitt book was one of the ones we sold.
Do you know Anthony Barbour?”
“Yes,” Claire replied. Anthony was an itinerant book scout who made a living, more or less, by picking up a book at places where it wasn’t appreciated—garage sales, library sales, estate sales—and taking it someplace it would be, then selling it to make a quick buck.
“I’d give him a try,” Rosa said. “He was here for the sale, and I know he has customers who collect small-town histories. Would you like his number?”
“I have it.” In Claire’s card file, there was a business card that read “Anthony Barbour, Vagabond Book Scout. Have books. Will travel.” “But that doesn’t necessarily get you Anthony.”
“Leave a message,” Rosa said. “Sooner or later he’ll show up or call you back.” She looked back at her computer screen. “Anything else?”
“Have you read The History of the Blue?”
“No.” Rosa shook her head.
“Thanks for your help.”
Rosa had started typing again. “Glad to do it. Good luck,” she said.
On the drive back to Albuquerque, Claire thought about Anthony and his vagabond life. A man in his mid-thirties, he lived like a sixties hippie driving a VW van that was twenty-five years old at least. Anthony was happiest on the road, and even during the time he had been married, he’d always spent a lot of time there. It was rumored that he came home unexpectedly one day to find his wife in bed with another man, and after that the van became his home. Anthony shared Claire’s love of books and maps, and a visit from him was always a good way to spend an afternoon.
When she got home, she called him and got a recording of Willie Nelson singing “On the Road Again.” She left a message on his machine, which resembled putting a note in a bottle and tossing it into the ocean. Claire knew that it could be awhile before Anthony called her back, but she also knew that once he got her message, he wouldn’t sell the history to anyone else.
Chapter Ten
ANTHONY’S FOOTLOOSE LIFESTYLE HAD A CERTAIN APPEAL when the alarm went off Monday morning, announcing that Claire had to get to the library. There were catalogs to read, coworkers to deal with, and a message to answer from Sally Froelich.
“I heard from Walter Massey,” Sally said when Claire returned the call.
Claire took a large sip from her coffee. “What does he want?”
“To set up a meeting with his clients, who, as you know, are not happy with the will. You need to be there; you know better than anyone what Burke intended and whether there is any possibility of coming to terms with the heirs.”
“All right,” Claire sighed. “Set it up.”
The meeting was arranged for Friday in Massey’s office on the grounds that his location was more convenient for everyone, including Claire, since it was close to the interstate and the university. Claire suspected that the real reason Massey wanted to have the meeting in his office was that it would give him more control and put him in a better bargaining position, but she agreed, saving her energy for what she felt was the important battle—honoring the terms of Burke’s will.
Massey’s office was in a strip mall. His conference room had gold shag carpeting on the floor and fake wood paneling on the walls. All it needed to make it a male bonding den was a TV screen displaying the Denver Broncos and a coffee table overflowing with chips and beer. There was a conference table big enough to play pool on. The plastic blinds on the windows were open to reveal a view of the parking lot. Claire arrived on time and found Massey’s clients lined up at the conference table, suggesting that they’d already had a meeting. Corinne was absent, which didn’t surprise Claire. She hated to leave the ranch, and Claire wasn’t convinced she was committed to the purpose of this meeting. James and Laura were at the table, wearing matching navy blue leisure suits. Laura looked crisp and efficient with every strand of her blonde hair in place. Every strand of James’s comb-over was in place, too, but he slouched in his chair. His body language was tired and defeated. Or was it repressed? Claire wondered. The spark was gone from the James she once knew.
Samantha’s hair was carefully tousled, and she wore a jacket woven into the pattern of a Navajo rug. She was sitting beside a man Claire didn’t recognize. His coarse red hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He had a thin, bony face and a sharp nose. His hazel eyes had an amused expression that appeared to have been perfected by practice. His lips were too soft and full for the rest of his face. He wore painter’s pants and two T-shirts, a faded red one with tears strategically placed so the faded blue of his under T showed through. Samantha introduced him as Rusty Siler, and Claire recalled this was the artist she had mentioned she was involved with. He was not a party to the will, and Claire felt he had no business being at the meeting unless he and Samantha had gotten married. She glanced at the hands on the table, not seeing any wedding rings, and noticed that Rusty Siler’s fingers were stained with paint.
Massey entered the conference room, greeting everyone like an obsequious host. Claire recoiled at his overbearing manner, but his arrival kept her from having to make small talk with the heirs. Sally arrived a few minutes later, complaining about the traffic on Central. She wore a voluminous cotton dress, and a silver ear cuff hugged her ear. Massey sat down at the head of the table. Sally and Claire sat on the side across from Burke’s offspring and their significant others.
Massey made his opening remarks. How was everybody? Did everybody know everybody? Their purpose for being here was to discuss the terms of Burke’s will, to make sure that everyone was treated fairly, that the family was taken care of, that Burke’s wishes were followed, that differences were settled amicably. Claire began to wish Sally had insisted on having the meeting in her office. The extra ten minutes driving time would have been worth it. Sally’s office was gracious and comfortable. People wouldn’t be slamming car doors and arguing outside the window. To discuss rare and valuable things would have made more sense in an atmosphere where they were appreciated.
While Massey droned on, an underlying annoyance Claire had been feeling about Burke surfaced. Why hadn’t he foreseen that the terms of the will would cause trouble? Why had he given her this responsibility? She loved him and admired him, but his irascibility could be annoying. Her eyes looked out the window and focused on a patch of blue sky visible above the parking lot. Massey cleared his throat, opened the file he’d placed on the table, and got to the point.
“It is our belief that Burke Lovell was incapacitated and the victim of undue influence at the time the will was signed,” he said.
Claire had already been over this weary ground with Massey. “That’s not true,” she replied.
“We have in our possession a signed affidavit from the witness Kassandra Wells.”
“We’re aware of that,” Sally said. He reached into his file and pulled out his ace. “Now we have one from the second witness, Jed Acker.”
The family members stared out the window or down at the table, but Rusty Siler looked up and smiled at Claire without opening his soft, full lips.
“I’d like to see that affidavit,” said Sally. Massey handed it over. Sally read it and passed it along to Claire, who studied the document with a sick feeling. “Just how did you get Jed to sign that?” Sally asked.
“He volunteered.” Massey hunched his vulture shoulders and hovered over the table. “That’s two out of the three people who were with Lovell at the time the will was signed. And the two who say he was incompetent were witnesses.”
“If they thought he was incompetent, why did they sign?” Sally asked. “I would say that witnessing a will implies competency.”
“Or coercion,” Massey replied.
“Coercion!” Sally jeered. “What coercion? Did Burke or Claire hold a gun to the witnesses heads?”
“He was their boss.”
“Oh, please,” replied Sally.
Massey continued down this slippery path. “Claire is the only one who claims Burke was competent at the time the will was signed, and Claire has a vested interest.”
He had begun talking about Claire as if she weren’t in the room, focusing his eyes on Sally as he spoke.
He lacks the courage to face me, Claire thought, because he knows what he’s saying is a lie. She had been letting Sally do the talking, but Massey tried her patience. “And what is my vested interest?” she inquired.
“He left his rare-book collection to you,” Massey said.
“He didn’t leave it to me. He left it to the library. Has anyone else here expressed the slightest interest in Burke’s book collection?”
James studied his hands. Laura smoothed her hair. Samantha looked out the window, seemingly fascinated by a car that was pulling out of a parking space. Only Rusty Siler looked at Claire with amusement in his eyes.
Massey changed his tactic, focusing on Claire and saying in a coaxing tone, “You hadn’t seen Burke in a while. Is there any possibility you misread his mental state?”
“No,” Claire replied, digging in her heels.
“Do we have anything else to discuss here?” Sally asked, making a show of looking at her watch.
“We intend to file a petition to prevent probate under the law of undue influence or incapacity,” Massey said.
Sally looked across the table at the family members. “You can spend all your inheritance fighting the will,” she said. “Then the principal beneficiary of Burke P. Lovell’s estate will be”—she turned toward Massey—“your lawyer.”
“You are well aware that a lawyer does not speak directly to another lawyer’s clients,” Massey said.
Sally shifted her weight in her chair, faced him, and said, “All right, then, I’ll say it to you. You are involving your clients in a frivolous and unnecessary lawsuit. Win or lose, your legal fees will take up most of what they stand to gain from their inheritance.”
“There is also the issue of paternity,” Massey continued.
“Whose paternity?”
“Mariah Geraty’s.”
Sally nodded to Claire to say forewarned is forearmed. “It’s a nonissue. The will says the ranch goes to Mariah Geraty, not Burke’s daughter Mariah Geraty.”
The Stolen Blue Page 13
