The Other Side of Death

by Judith Van GIeson

  I kept my cool. “I believe my question was ‘How well do you know Jorge Mondragon?’ ”

  “I know about him—this isn’t that big a town—but I don’t know him personally. The only time I ever actually met him was at the hearing. Okay?”

  “How long has he been a real estate broker?”

  “Couple of years, I guess.”

  “What did he do before that?”

  “Worked for the state.”

  “So he’s not exactly loaded.”

  “No, but he’s not starving either. He’s lived here all his life, he probably bought a house for thirty thou thirty years ago that’s worth ten times that now.”

  “His wife’s illness must have been costly.”

  “That’s what people have insurance for.”

  “People who work for themselves don’t always have insurance. Maybe he was starting a new business, putting everything into it, and he couldn’t afford the premiums at first. Maybe he started a new policy and his wife’s illness fell under the preexisting condition clause.” Our health insurance system has a crack running right through the middle of it. I knew that because I was one of those who’d fallen through. “You’re self-employed, how many years have you gone without insurance?” I asked him.

  “A lot,” he admitted. “I couldn’t afford it.”

  “See?”

  “I didn’t pay Jorge Mondragon off. Okay? My building is good, it stands on its own merits, I didn’t have to pay anyone off. As a matter of fact, even if I’d wanted to, I don’t have the money to pay anyone off. I don’t even have the money to pay you to go away and leave me alone.” He stood up and began pacing the floor in his black Reeboks.

  “I wouldn’t say Marci was poverty-stricken.”

  “Marci didn’t pay him off either. Believe me, I’d know it if she did.”

  “Maybe you don’t know everything there is to know about Marci Coyle.” I felt through my bag searching for the parking ticket.

  “What have you been doing? Following her? Taking pictures? Pursuing your private-eye fantasy? Too bad you never went to the trouble to find work that was satisfying, Neil. That’s the point of having a career, isn’t it? Not just to work, but to love the work you’re doing?”

  I could have said that’s the point of making love, isn’t it? Not just to do it, but to love—or at least like and respect—the person you’re doing it with? But I stuck to my business. “The Mercedes-Benz is Marci’s car, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you ever drive it?”

  “No. I have a BMW.” She gave him a BMW would probably be more like it. I took the ticket out of my purse and laid it on his desk. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “A parking ticket for the Mercedes.”

  He looked at the ticket and saw I was right. “Big deal. She was parked in front of some stud’s place? Is that it?”

  “No, she was parked on West San Francisco.”

  “So?”

  “It isn’t the place that makes it interesting, it’s the date. See? March seventeenth.”

  “So what?”

  “Lonnie died that night.”

  “And?”

  “You told me Marci went to Texas that weekend.”

  “I did. Oh, shit.” He buried his head in his hands and when he looked up again the robin’s eggs had cracks in them. “I … um … I lied, Neil.”

  What else was new? He’d always lied. “You mean she didn’t go to Texas that weekend?”

  “No, not about that. I thought she went. I … um ... I lied to Marci. I wasn’t home that night. I went out.”

  “Where?”

  “It was nothing, someone I met at Club West.”

  “Someone? Just someone?”

  “Yeah. No threat to Marci. Honest. God, I hope she didn’t stay here to check up on me. Do me a favor, for old times’ sake, please don’t tell her I told you this. Even if she asks.”

  “Do me a favor, will you? Put that ticket back in her glove compartment before she notices it’s missing, at the bottom under all the other stuff.” It was evidence. I could have turned it over to Detective Railback, but he was unlikely to be impressed and I had come by it illegally. It was also evidence he could obtain easily enough himself … if he chose to. Besides, I’d made myself a copy.

  “What? Oh, yeah, okay.” He’d put his head back in his hands again. It was a good performance, but the trouble with liars is that they can be lying even when they are confessing to lying. Philanderers lie, criminals lie—it went with the territory. Even if you know liars are lying, you don’t necessarily know what they’re covering up. Was he protecting her? Him? Both of them? Was Lonnie the someone he’d met at Club West? It was a quagmire and I wanted out of there, because no matter what Rick told me about March 17, I’d never believe him. Besides, I’d said what I had to say.

  There was a clock on his desk, a black plastic model that flashed red numbers. Three o’clock. The afternoon was shot anyway, there was no point in rushing back to my office, and there was one person I hadn’t spoken to yet. “Do you happen to know where Ci lives?” I asked.

  “At the end of Pajaro off Old Santa Fe Trail, the last house on the right.”

  I passed the model on my way out—I had to, it filled most of the reception room. It had gotten bigger, lumpier, uglier.

  ******

  Along with the shops that sell howling coyotes, slithering snakes and turquoise jewelry, the Mile High running-shoe store was a few blocks from Rick’s office. I walked over there, went in and picked up a pair of black Reeboks, the shoes Rick and Marci, the power couple, wore. They were selling for the incredible—to me anyway—price of $64.99. I looked at the rubber sole. It had a series of wavy lines indicating moving water or air, not the Vs of birds in flight. “Can I help you?” asked the clerk, the kind of semi-fit, semi-athletic, semi-inconspicuous guy who lurks in running-shoe stores.

  “Maybe,” I replied. “I like a certain type of cleat in my running shoe, one that’s shaped like a V. It’s kind of a quirk of mine. Does Reebok make any like that?”

  “You mean like a V on the bottom of the shoe?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

  He shook his head as if to imply that I was one wild and kinky lady. What did he think I did with these shoes anyway? “I don’t think so, but why don’t we take a look?” He went all around the store picking up Reeboks and Nikes looking loudly for Vs. He picked up an Air Jordan, a Wind-runner, a Pegasus. “No, not this one, this one’s a square, or maybe it’s octagonal. You want to take a look?”

  “Octagonal,” I said.

  Next he picked up a Reebok Pump for $170.

  “One hundred and seventy dollars?” I said. “Why would anybody pay that much for a pair of shoes?”

  “They’ve got air,” he said.

  “Air’s free, isn’t it?”

  “Not in a shoe it isn’t.”

  He looked at every shoe in the store with and without air, but none of them had Vs.

  “Well, thanks anyhow,” I told him.

  “Hey, no trouble. You find a pair, you let me know, okay? I’d like to see those shoes in action.”

  “Don’t let it break your heart,” I replied, “but you won’t be the first one on my list.”

  13

  PAJARO, THE ROAD Ci lived on, was steep, unpaved and patterned with the kind of ruts that said rich people live here. It’s a reverse snobbery they cultivate in Santa Fe—the more expensive the houses, the bigger the four wheel drives, the worse the roads. There was a medium-size Subaru in the driveway and a large gray junker, a low-slung American model that must have scraped its belly on the ruts. The site had a spectacular view and the house took full advantage of it. Not one of those closed-in East Side adobes, it was new, sprawling, filled with windows and the latest in solar tech. There were collectors on the roof, a Trombe wall to grab and hold the sun, a large solarium filled with plants, ordinary houseplants that had grown to rain-forest proportions in the cont
rolled environment. There was a patio on the west side of the house to catch the sunset and one on the east for the rise. There was probably a skylight somewhere, too, for looking at el cielo.

  The doorbell chimed and tinkled. A captive audience, I had to listen to the performance until Ci answered. “Neil, is it?” she asked when she opened the door. “The woman warrior?”

  “You got a few minutes? I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Of course.” She smiled, as if she might even have been expecting me. “Come on in.” She led me into an oval living room that opened onto the solarium. There wasn’t a square corner in this room; it was all curving lines and there were more windows than walls. The floor was covered with a deep white carpet. The furniture was curved to match the walls, large, white commas of sofas with lavender silk pillows. There wasn’t a print or a painting on the white walls, only a lone Indian pot in front of the fireplace. The effect was soothing and expensive and indicated to me that Ci was charging her clients a lot more than the $100 per hour some lawyers in Albuquerque got. Her dressed-for-success look was a broomstick-pleated Navajo skirt made out of metallic silver, material that you’d never find on a reservation. She had a shirt to match and a concho belt over it. Her silver-streaked hair was loose and full, her eyes were turquoise blue. Her bare feet waded through the carpet without a sound. I was aware that my shoes had been sullied by city streets, but I didn’t feel like taking them off. I followed her across the room and sat down on a sofa between two lavender pillows.

  “Could I have a glass of water?” I asked, having worked up a thirst in the dusty road.

  “I didn’t have a chance to get to the store today. Sorry. I don’t have any.”

  “You don’t have any water?” We were deep in the twentieth century; it had been some time since indoor plumbing had become the basis of Western civilization. As this place was probably worth a cool million, I would have insisted on hot and cold running water, if it had been mine. “What do you use to bathe in, do the dishes, flush the toilet, wash your hair?” I asked.

  “I have tap water for those things, but I wouldn’t wash my hair in it…”

  “Oh, that’s right. You use Perrier, don’t you?”

  “Evian,” she said. “And I don’t drink tap water.”

  I’d lived in Mexico and had every parásito known to man, the Santa Fe reservoir didn’t scare me. “I’ll take a chance,” I said.

  While she was in the kitchen getting the water a cat strolled into the living room, one of those calm, self-possessed cats that push at the limits of the pet envelope. He had a long, white coat with a lustrous sheen to it—maybe he got washed in Evian, too. This pet was well fed and well cared for and he knew it. I bet there was no smelly Puss ’n Boots getting moldy in his dish. He zeroed in on me, which I expected—cats always go for those of us who are allergic or antagonistic; what I didn’t expect was that I’d let him do it. He walked over, jumped into my lap and before I could bounce him out began to purr and rub my hand with his back. It was irresistibly silky and crackled with electricity.

  Ci came back with my water. “Get down, Como,” she said.

  “I don’t mind. He has a beautiful coat.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t eat meat,” she replied.

  “How do you keep him away from birds and snakes and mice out here?”

  “He doesn’t go outside either,” she said. “I suppose you came to talk about Lonnie.” She curled up on a sofa and tucked her bare feet underneath her, spreading her skirt over them in a sunburst pattern.

  I would have liked to cross my legs, but I couldn’t with Como on my lap, so like a lady I placed one ankle over the other. “Yes. I was wondering if you saw her or have any idea where she went after the Malones’ party.”

  “She went to the ruins.”

  “I mean before that.”

  “My impression was that she left with you.”

  “She took me to her house, but then she went out on her own. Were you home? Maybe she came here.”

  “We were home all alone, weren’t we, Como?” He purred as if on cue. “Lonnie didn’t visit us. Are you conducting an investigation and, if so, may I ask why?”

  “The Darmers hired me to look into it.”

  “Into what? The police said she died peacefully, didn’t they? No trauma, no wounds?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “Then those are the facts of her death. Saturn was conjunct her sun in the eighth house, which indicates a death experience. That’s a power spot that she died in.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Yes. Both Lonnie and I experienced some powerful past life vibrations in that cave. The way I see it, she had completed this incarnation and done what she came here to do. It was her time to move on.”

  Assuming that we were here to do anything besides reproduce and consume sugar, that seemed like a large statement to me. “How can you say she’d done what she came here to do?” I asked. “She hadn’t stopped the Ugly Building, had she? If there was anything she wanted to do, that was it.”

  “She set the wheels in motion. It’s up to us to finish the work.”

  “It’s pretty hard for the Darmers to accept her death. She was their only child.”

  “Accept it they must. We will all miss Lonnie; she had a wonderful kind of loving, accepting, but at the same time challenging energy. But it will be very distressing to her spirit if we hold her to the earth plane. Trust me. You will be doing a great harm if you continue this investigation. Clinging keeps her from moving into the light.”

  “Into the light?”

  “People who have the death experience are met on the other side by the being of light.” She smiled as if she’d already been there.

  “The Darmers believe Lonnie was murdered,” I said.

  “How could she have been murdered? Wasn’t the cause of death poisons that she voluntarily ingested into her system? And even if she were murdered, her soul chose the moment of her death; it was her destiny. If that happened, the murderer was only the instrument of her destiny.”

  “She could have been smothered with a pillow,” I said, picking up a lavender silk model. “There would have been no marks if she didn’t struggle.”

  “If she didn’t struggle, then she acquiesced in her death, didn’t she?”

  The New Age was beginning to seem pretty heartless to me. “She was drinking and taking Valium and she didn’t know what was happening. That doesn’t mean she acquiesced.”

  “The cell’s recesses always know what’s happening.”

  Como heard something that struck a chord of fear in his cat consciousness. His ears picked up, and he pressed his claws deep into my thighs to gain a footing, leaped off my lap and dashed across the carpet and out of the room. I flexed my legs to make sure they still worked. He hadn’t drawn blood, anyway.

  “Oh, Como, Como, Como,” Ci said, “you’re such a scaredy, scaredy cat.”

  “What’s he scared of?”

  “The shadows. Isn’t that what everybody’s afraid of—the dark? But in the darkness is the light and in the end is the beginning. There is nothing to fear.”

  It seemed kind of metaphysical for the cat whose long tail was rapidly disappearing around the corner. “Rick First told me that you use pillows to deprive people of oxygen and give them a vision of the next life,” I continued. “What do the cell’s recesses think while that’s happening?”

  “Oh, is that stupid rumor circulating again?” She smiled and rearranged the pleats around her legs. “That was started by malicious people years ago, coagulated lumps of spirit, who won’t take the trouble to understand my work. Rick First should look into his own heart and see what responsibility he finds there. I don’t need cheap parlor tricks to see people’s next lives. I can read it in their auras, their gestures, their body language. You, for instance.”

  “Me?”

  “Neil Hamel, Albuquerque attorney. I can see your next life very clearly.”
<
br />   I took a look down that lonesome highway. “Well, I hope I get a car that runs.”

  “What I see is a more fully developed Venus, the feminine side, the Martian masculine has taken the ascendancy in this lifetime. Your nurturing, mothering, intuitive function is inferior, creating an imbalance, and nature always seeks balance. You will be a mother the next time—not a lawyer. You’ve gone as far as you can go in that direction.”

  “There are women who are both.”

  She waved her hand as if to dismiss that lump of thought. “Of course. But you’re not one.” The doorbell rang, the chimes tinkled around the house. Ci got up and padded over the thick carpet in her bare feet, then across the quarry-tiled entryway. Lonnie’s neighbor, Dolby, was at the door, and she let him in. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, gardener’s gloves. He had the smile of an eager, hyperactive stray in search of a meal, a room, a mother.

  “Dolby, are you finished already?” Ci asked.

  “Sure. Hey,” he said, noticing me sitting in the living room. “I know you.”

  “That’s right. We met in the driveway at Lonnie’s wake.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s right, Lonnie’s driveway.”

  Dolby started to enter the room and got as far as the white carpet when Ci stopped him. “Dolby,” she scolded, “your shoes.”

  He looked down at his running shoes whose brand name had been obliterated by red New Mexico mud, but probably wasn’t anything to brag about anyway. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

  “They’re dirty.”

  Dolby looked at my shoes. “She’s wearing shoes, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” said Ci, “she is.”

  “They’re dirty.”

  “Have you had a reading yet?” I asked to change the subject. Dolby stayed in the entryway with his shoes on, fidgeting. Standing still didn’t seem to come easily to him. Too much stored-up teenage testosterone, I guessed.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  What foundation was he laying with the building blocks of his life? I wondered. “So what’s it going to be for you the next time around?”