Marco pulled open the door to the hallway, releasing a gust of warmth and golden light that made the sky overhead even more cold and beautiful.
Katie took one last look up at the stars before leaving the courtyard room. The coyote continued to howl in the distance, its eerie cry the loneliest sound she'd ever heard, like the ghost of joy.
Chapter 4
That Sunday night, for Katie's first dinner at Spirit Ranch, everyone gathered in the formal dining room.
Katie admired the room, the walls of which were bare except for a single one of Tilda's paintings, a rose-strewn skull. Katie stared at the painting, transfixed. Katie had grown up with a print of the painting on her bedroom wall at home. Her brothers teased her about it, calling her a goth princess. They didn't see that the skull was about life, not death. And the original was even more beautiful than she'd hoped.
Tilda noticed her staring at the painting.
“I'm glad you like it,” she said, choosing the tall-backed wooden dining chair directly under the vibrant image.
“My parents gave me a print of it for my birthday when I turned twelve,” Katie said.
Tilda wrinkled her nose. “Way to make me feel old, kid.”
Katie shut her mouth before she made the gaffe worse.
Tilda gave the skull and roses one last look over her shoulder. “Anyway, I like sitting here, right in front of it, so I don't have to look at the darn thing.”
“I totally understand,” Lee said, lifting his upper lip and sniffing the air like a gerbil. “Once I'm done with a painting, I'm done with it.”
“No,” Tilda said crisply. “You are never done. You simply abandon your piece, like a fussy, mewling infant, on the doorstep of some unsuspecting person.”
Marco was about to take the seat next to his mother but paused. “Jeez, Mom, I'm right here.”
“Not like you, darling,” she cooed. “You were a dream baby. You never made a peep.”
“I was a good kid,” he agreed.
“Always talking to your imaginary friends,” she said. “And laughing! Oh, you used to laugh yourself to sleep. You were your own babysitter.”
“Right.” Marco shot Katie a look that suggested his upbringing hadn't been entirely fun and games.
Katie walked around to the other side of the table. She didn't mind staring at Tilda's beautiful painting all night. Behind the roses and skull was a surreal landscape, a mix of curving shapes and cloudy skies. The flecks of orange in the piece brought out the glow of the room's long pine table, which had been nicked and scarred by years of use. She settled into a tall-backed wooden chair across from Marco.
Lee surveyed the room before scurrying around to Katie's side. He left a chair between them vacant so he could sit directly across from Tilda. The long table had seating for a dozen, so there was more than enough room to leave chairs empty.
The housekeeper, Holly Bagley, had composed herself since her outburst in Katie's room. She looked pleasant and sweet now, like a woman who wouldn't say hell if she was on fire. Holly set platters of spicy food on the table and then demurely tucked her dark-blond hair behind one ear, emphasizing the asymmetry of her scarred forehead.
“This is called carne adovada,” she said, waving her hands over a bowl of fragrant stew.
Lee quipped, “That sounds like a spell from Harry Potter.”
Holly bobbed her head. “Maybe. I don't know the fellow.”
Marco chuckled to himself, made eye contact with Katie, and winked knowingly.
His mother, Tilda, joined in with her own boisterous chuckling. Her red hair shimmered like hot lava as she leaned forward and back, tipping her wooden chair like a rocker.
Lee turned his head to the side and watched Katie with daring eyes as he laughed the loudest.
Katie stifled her amusement. Funny though it was that the housekeeper didn't know of the famous fictional wizard boy, it didn't seem right to make fun of someone who'd had a brain injury. Katie herself had been the subject of bullying as a child, due to her lisp and her shyness.
Holly carried on, blissfully unaware that the laughter at the table was at her expense. “Carne adovada is delicious pork that we marinate in red chili sauce and then cook slowly all day. What you want to do is take one of the flour tortillas, and put a dollop of this meat on there, along with some beans and rice. It's spicy but not too spicy.” She stuck her finger into the pot of meat and then licked the red sauce. “Okay. Maybe more spicy than you're used to.”
The most recent to arrive at the house, Clive Kingfisher, entered the dining room.
Katie had seen him in photos with Tilda before, but this was the first time she'd laid eyes on him.
Clive walked around to the head of the table without even acknowledging Katie or Lee.
He sat with a groan, then yawned and stretched his arms out wide, his fingertips brushing Katie's shoulder casually. He was not a large man, but he seemed determined to take up as much space as possible. If Clive were to be rendered in abstract shapes, he would be rectangles. His forehead was the largest rectangle, separated from box-like eyes by straight swashes of silver-flecked black eyebrows. He was about the same age as Tilda—fifty or perhaps sixty, though it was hard for Katie to tell because his leathery skin had the taut look of an aggressive face-lift. He wore his hair long, dyed black, and tied at the nape of his neck with an equally black leather thong. Either he was partly Navajo or aspiring to spray-tan his way to that look.
Clive watched as Holly stuck her finger into the pork stew a second time and then licked the sauce. “Too spicy,” she said, shaking her head.
Clive leaned back in his chair and rubbed his upper stomach. “Holly, trust me, I can handle whatever you dish out.”
She blinked at the dark-haired older man. “You want me to serve you? You want me to dish it out on your plate?”
Marco coughed and made eye contact with Katie. He had referred to his mother's long-time business manager and business partner as el diablo, and Marco seemed to be gleefully anticipating being proven right.
Clive shot a sneering look around the table, from Tilda to Marco, then Lee and Katie, before tenting his fingers on the table before him. He looked up at the housekeeper, moving his eyes more than his head—his rectangular neck looked stiff—and licked his lips before speaking.
Holly twitched under scrutiny. “I can dish it out, if you like.”
“Holly, it's a figure of speech,” he said with the condescending patience of one who was justifiably—in his mind, anyway—agitated.
She made a strangled noise that sounded like, “Que?”
He answered in a low, rumbling growl, like an angry man sending back toast in a diner. “Holly, don't play stupid because you think it's cute. It's not cute and it never will be. We've been over it and over it. Every dinner. First, you stick your filthy finger into the food, and you warn us that it's too spicy, and then I tell you that I can handle whatever you dish out. It's a thing people say.”
Holly sat down on a chair at the corner of the table with a heavy plop. “Yes, Mr. Fish.”
Marco made a choking sound. He struggled to control himself, his eyes watering. He banged the table with his fingers. “I can't,” he said through laughter. “Sorry, Clive. I can't take it when she calls you Mr. Fish.”
Clive scowled at the red-haired young man. “She wouldn't call me that if you didn't encourage her. If we had a parrot, you'd probably teach it to say insulting things, too.”
“Enough already,” Tilda snapped. “Nobody's getting a parrot.”
“A parrot?” Holly leaned forward and looked into the pot of stew. “Of course not. I told you, it's pork. That means pig. Who said anything about parrot? They're too small. You'd need ten of them to make a decent meal.”
There was silence for a few seconds while everyone processed what Holly had said. A paid comedian couldn't have delivered a better punchline. Soon everyone was laughing. Even Clive let out a rumbling, reluctant guffaw.
Dishe
s began clattering as they passed around the food and served themselves, family style.
Marco asked Clive, “To what or whom do we owe the pleasure of your company tonight?”
Clive grinned. “I don't know how much pleasure I'll be, son. Let's wait and see.”
Marco's lips scrunched together. “Don't call me son,” he said tersely. “Why are you here? Mom's new pieces aren't ready yet.”
“Fight with the missus,” Clive said, talking with food in his mouth. “The usual. Her squawking at me over nothing.” He looked directly at Katie. “Nothing at all.”
Tilda waved a hand at her art students. “Mangia! That means eat, in Italian.”
As they dug in, Lee leaned in close enough to give Katie a convivial elbowing. He whispered, “Isn't this great? Here we both are, breaking bread with the one and only Tilda Onassis. Marco told me she's going to be teaching us herself at the painting classes tomorrow.”
“Doesn't she normally do the teaching?”
Lee shook his head. “Your friend who gave you her spot didn't prepare you at all.”
“No, she didn't.” Katie tasted the stew. It was indeed spicy, and slightly sweet. Unusual, but delicious.
Lee gazed across the table at Tilda, whose head was perfectly framed by the painting behind her. She was talking to her son, talking about the food they were eating and telling him about his favorite baby foods. Clive was listening, nodding along, but seemed distracted. He kept moving the food around his plate without eating it, periodically lifting a rolled tortilla to his mouth before setting it down again, untouched.
Lee continued leaning over to Katie and explaining about the next day's sessions. “Tilda's assistant left yesterday because she heard this week's session was canceled. It's too short of notice to get her back, so we'll be spending the day with a living legend. Just the three of us. Can you believe our luck?”
“It's pretty great,” Katie said.
Lee frowned and slowly pulled away. “Don't make fun of me.”
“I'm not,” Katie said. “I'm just shy. This is how I am. I'm not animated and big like some people.”
“You talk weird,” he said. “Sorta sloppy. Do you have piercings in your tongue?”
She shook her head.
He lost interest in her and attempted to wedge his way into the conversation between Tilda and Marco. “When I was a baby, I wouldn't eat anything solid but applesauce,” he said eagerly.
Marco blinked at Lee the way a big dog might regard a yappy pug. “Applesauce,” Marco said, scratching his ear.
Tilda yawned.
She couldn't even feign interest in Lee's childhood diet, yet he kept at it for the rest of the meal.
* * *
After dinner, Katie helped Holly with the dishes. Spirit Ranch wasn't the sort of place where guests were expected to help with chores, but Katie wasn't ready for bed yet. She needed some vertical time for the spicy dinner to settle.
Holly didn't attempt to kindle a conversation, which was fine by Katie. She preferred the company of people who didn't ask much of her. It was why she and her college roommate, Darlene Silva, had gotten along so well their first year together and requested to room together again their second year.
It was a smooth pairing. Darlene was always in need of an audience, and Katie was happy to be entertained. The last three months since Darlene's disappearance had been lonely. Sure, there was the ghost of Darlene, who appeared in the darkness whenever Katie didn't take her anti-psychotic medication, but the ghost wasn't much company. The ghost never spoke. It just stood there at the foot of her bed, huge dark eyes imploring Katie to do something. But what?
A warm hand landed on Katie's shoulder.
Clive had entered the kitchen, and she hadn't noticed. He looked over her shoulder into the sudsy sink water, close enough for her to get a whiff of his cologne. It smelled of ginger and something foul.
“Easy now,” he said. “You don't want to scratch the glaze on that clay ware. It's an heirloom.”
She had been using a soft cloth, not the scratchy iron wool, but she dropped the cloth guiltily anyway and gave the plate a rinse.
“So, you're a friend of Darlene's,” he said, smoothing his dyed black hair back toward the leather ponytail tie. “Are you two close?”
“Roommates. Two years.” More like a year and a month, if you didn't count living with a ghost.
He continued to stand behind her, watching her wash the dishes. “Katie, you didn't answer my question.”
She didn't like the way he used her name, or his proximity. His cologne was the same as that of a professor she had admired at first, until he'd gotten too handsy. Clive breathed noisily, as though forcing the air through a deviated septum. Katie thought of the doors on the bedrooms, their lack of locks. She could push the dresser in front of her door, if she wanted to.
He repeated the question. “Are you and Darlene close?”
“Pretty close,” she said carefully. “That's why I'm here, taking her spot on her painting retreat.”
“And wearing her dress,” Clive said.
She whirled around to face him. “You seem to know a lot about Darlene's wardrobe.” The words came from her mouth with an unexpected fire.
Clive held up both hands, palms facing her, and stepped back. “Easy now. It's not like that.” He nodded down at the hemline. “I happen to know that dress is made by a local designer, because I was with Darlene when she bought it. The whole class was there. We had a full seven. Three of the girls bought dresses, and the shop owner gave them a discount, on account of being a close, personal friend of mine.”
Katie looked down at her feet. A memory came back to her, of Darlene describing the shopping trip and the discount on the dresses. In her version, she'd negotiated the discount herself. Darlene was like that. If she wanted something, she'd ask, whether she deserved it or not. Most times she got her way.
“Her dress looks good on you,” Clive said.
“Not really,” she muttered, hunching her shoulders forward. Katie couldn't take the compliment; she felt like a crazy person for wearing her dead roommate's clothes. Was she possessed? Was she in need of a higher dose of medication? Or an exorcism?
“Straighten up,” Clive barked. “If Clive Kingfisher pays you a compliment, you'll take it, young lady.”
She straightened up and raised her chin to look him in the face. He gave her an approving nod, smiled as though he'd won the round, and turned to leave the kitchen. He reached out and grabbed a leftover sopapilla on his way out.
“El diablo,” said Holly.
Katie dropped the serving spoon she'd been drying with the dish towel. She'd completely forgotten the housekeeper was even in the kitchen.
She caught her breath and asked, “You two don't get along?”
Holly made the sign of the cross. “He's not a good man,” she said.
Katie waited for the woman to elaborate, but she didn't.
Chapter 5
“Peinture sur le motif,” Lee said with an exaggerated French accent. “You could say en plein air, but peinture sur le motif means specifically painting landscapes outdoors.”
“Good to know,” Katie said between heavy breaths. She was struggling with her box easel. It was supposed to be highly portable, with its telescopic legs and built-in paint box and palette, but even packed up into its suitcase configuration, it was still heavy. Plus she hadn't realized until now how much hiking would be involved with the retreat. Monday morning's trek up the canyon path would have been a challenge even without the painting supplies, not to mention the added bonus of Lee Elliot correcting her art terminology.
She wanted to look at the landscape, but Lee had a way of weaving back and forth in front of her, standing wherever her gaze wanted to go. She was sick of the sight of him, with his mousy brown hair and his small, dot-like features. He had an ungainly way of moving, his rubbery limbs flailing about as though the ground beneath him was always shifting.
Tilda Onassis l
ed the way, her sleek red hair brushing against her delicate jawline as she glanced left and right. Whenever a bird flew by, she tilted up her face and smiled, as though recalling that particular bird and the secret name she had given it. This was her trail. It was part of a national park, owned by the government, and yet it was hers. Tilda's. Just like every stick and rock and clump of sagebrush they walked past.
The spry fifty-year-old had her minimal supplies tucked into a green canvas backpack. She didn't have a box easel that screamed “artist.” But she didn't need one. She was Tilda Onassis, the Red Desert Flower. Without looking back at her pair of art students, she waved left and right, pointing out the stunning vistas of red rock formations. They followed a trail running alongside a burbling creek edged with sycamores and cottonwood. Here in the mountains of New Mexico, there was more water than Katie had expected.
According to the schedule for the week-long retreat, they were supposed to be spending that Monday morning, from nine o'clock to lunch time, inside the studio. The time was earmarked for critique and lectures, followed by a demonstration and studio painting. But Tilda had declared the light that morning to be perfect for painting outside. “Dive in head first. With both feet,” Tilda had said over coffee. “Can you two do that? Dive in with both head and feet at the same time?” She grinned at her mixed metaphor.
There was no protest from Lee or Katie. Head and feet? That's what they came for. Most students worked under Tilda's assistant with minimal interaction with the famous artist. They were lucky to have the opportunity, eager to jump in with head, feet, shoulders, heart and soul, all the way.
Tilda suddenly darted off the trail at a brisk pace. “This way,” she called back. “Hurry now! The light is shifting.”
Lee and Katie ran after the red-haired sprite, puffing noisily as their supplies rattled in their cases.
They reached the vista overlooking the canyon. The view of blue sky stretched over red-rocked canyon was so stunning, Lee was unable to speak for several minutes.
Tilda unzipped her pack and unfurled a white parasol. “You two are quiet,” she said. “Good. There will be no speaking from either of you for the next two hours.” She looked directly at Lee. “Starting now, if I hear so much as a peep, I'll push you off that ledge.”
Dancing with a Ghost (Restless Spirits Cozy Ghost Mysteries Book 3) Page 3
