Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  The line goes dead.

  When I walk into Dream Weavers at nine thirty Wednesday morning, Elaine Cumming is unpacking two huge boxes from UPS.

  She looks up and smiles. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

  “Avery James. I was at the show—”

  “Oh, right. Of course. Knew I knew you. Can I assume that you’ve come into an inheritance and you’re here to buy us out?”

  I leave my sunglasses on and stick my hands down in my jeans pockets to keep myself from nervous fidgeting. “Yes, I have sort of come into an inheritance, but it’s not money. And what I’m looking for is a little information.”

  She holds up an elaborately pieced kimono, shakes it out gently, and lays it over a chair with several others. “Sure. How can I help?”

  “That tunic vest, the one by Isabel Colinas,” I say.

  “Yes?” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and eyes me expectantly.

  “I’ve…um…just learned—or confirmed, I guess—that she’s my mother. Or was.”

  She stares at me for a minute. “Really?” She folds her arms across her chest. “Really?” she says again. “That’s…What a surprise.”

  “The reason I came here is because I never knew her. Never even knew her name. The other night you said that you worked with her some, and I was hoping maybe you could tell me about her.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Basically, anything. I mean, you said she was a nice lady. That’s more than I ever knew.”

  She looks down into the UPS carton as if it might contain information. “It really wasn’t a personal relationship. We saw her work and loved it, and we contacted…Paul because he was representing her. Suzanne and I both had a lot of respect for her as an artist, but we…” Her eyes find mine. “How well do you know Paul DeGraf?”

  “Not well. I met him when I was working a party at his house. That’s where I saw Isabel’s picture.”

  “He was her agent and her manager and—” She stops, disconcerted. “I don’t know what else. He pretty much ran interference between her and the rest of the world. I’m sure he can tell you a lot more than I can.”

  “I know, but I want to get as much information as I possibly can.” Only now do I recognize the truth of those words.

  “I understand, believe me,” she says. “It’s just that it’s been almost ten years since she died. Let me think about it.” She looks at her watch. “Listen, Drew’s going to be here in a few minutes and then I can get out of here. Can you meet me at Starbucks in about an hour? I’ll tell you what I can.”

  Elaine’s already got a table when I get there. She waves, then picks up her cup and blows on the liquid to cool it, sending a fine spray of foamed milk all over the table.

  “Damn, that’s hot.” She wipes the table with her napkin over and over.

  I get coffee and a scone and sit down across from her. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Oh, of course, of course.” She pushes a brown-and-green brochure across the table at me. “I brought you this.”

  There’s a sun logo in the middle and underneath are the words: Katalysis Partnership, Inc. Bootstrap Banking.

  “What is it?”

  “It was Isabel’s favorite charity. Suzanne reminded me how she was always hitting galleries up for donations. You can keep the brochure; we’re on their mailing list. But basically it’s a nonprofit organization that makes loans available to small businesses in Central America.”

  She waits a few seconds while I give the brochure a quick once-over and fold it into my purse.

  “I wanted to give it to you because I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help otherwise. After you left, Suzanne and I racked our brains trying to think of what to tell you, but the fact is, we didn’t know her that well. She ran with a different crowd. We admired her work, and all of our dealings with her were pleasant, but other than that…” Her voice trails off and she stirs more sugar into her cup. “The only time we ever saw her socially was once when she and Paul split up.”

  “Can you give me any other names of people that I should talk to?”

  “Well…I can, but…most of them are artists.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not exactly. It’s just that…” She pauses, biting the inside of her cheek. “When you have an artist who’s successful, like Isabel was—”

  “Which is what? How successful was she? I don’t even know that.”

  “Oh. I’d say maybe she was in the top half dozen fiber artists in Santa Fe. Based on where her things were showing and who was buying them and for how much.” She studies her chewed-down fingernails. “When you’re successful like that, there’s bound to be a certain amount of professional jealousy. A lot of artists are like overgrown children, you know? Some of their resentments can get really petty.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like ‘You copied off me.’ ‘Did not. I thought of it first.’ That kind of thing. In truth, it makes so little difference. Even if one artist copies another’s technique, it’s what someone does with a technique that matters.” She rests her chin on her hands and looks at me questioningly.

  “Did Isabel ‘borrow’ someone’s technique?”

  Elaine laughs. “Not someone. Everyone. She learned from every artist she met. But her work was totally her own. She had no equal as a colorist. It’s just that some artists feel like if they thought of something, then no one else is allowed to try it. Which is ridiculous. There’s really nothing new under the sun. It’s all just variations on a few themes. Know what I mean?”

  I nod. “I think so.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not a lot to go on.” Then she brightens. “What I can do is give you the names of people or galleries who own works of hers and you can go look at them. Then if you have questions, maybe I can answer some of them for you.”

  She rips a piece of paper out of her notebook and scribbles: Buena Vista, Full Moon (Cate Mosley), Liza Gardner (Good Earth Herbs), Lindsey Hemmings.

  I look up from the list. “Lindsey Hemmings has one of her works?”

  “I think she has a ruana. Do you know her?”

  “Not well. I mean, we’re doing a party for her and I’m sort of riding herd on it, but she…her husband…”

  That laugh of hers that’s so contagious bubbles up. “I see you’ve heard the ballad of Isabel and Tom. Well, Lindsey Hemmings has her quirks, but she’d never get rid of a piece of art just because she didn’t like the artist.” She looks thoughtfully at her own scribbles. “You know, you might want to give him a call, too. Tom Hemmings. His studio’s up in Taos.”

  “Been there, done that.”

  “Wouldn’t he talk to you?”

  I shake my head. “He hung up on me. Of course, I called him at noon, but I think I woke him up.”

  “Yeah, he’s a moody bastard, too. Well, try him again sometime. If you catch him in a good mood, he can be fairly charming.” She smiles. “What else can I tell you?”

  “What’s with you and Paul DeGraf?” The question just pops out, surprising me almost as much as her.

  The smile doesn’t go away, but it hardens on her face like quick-dry cement. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s something between you two. Bad blood or something. I feel it whenever his name comes up.”

  Her eyes slide away from mine. “Nothing as exciting as bad blood. We just have your garden-variety personality conflict. That’s all.”

  “That night at the gallery you said something about him bringing things up from Mexico. What was that about?”

  “Oh, I was just needling him a little bit.” She chews on the end of her red plastic stir stick. Elaine Cumming is definitely a chewer.

  “And this morning you asked me how well I knew him. What did that mean?”

  “I just wondered what all he might have told you. About Isabel.”

  I drink the last of my coffee and set the empty cup in the thick white saucer. “It’s hard, talking to peo
ple about this, you know.” I try to catch her eyes so she can’t look away. “I have no idea why, but I’m pretty sure I’m not getting the truth from anybody.”

  She wets her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. “Well, I guess some of the people involved have their own idea of the truth.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “I’m not involved. All I can tell you is what I saw, what I heard. I don’t know what relationship it bears to the truth.”

  I put my arms on the table and lean toward her. “I think lots of people know a little bit. I think if I could just get them all to be honest about what they know, I could figure out the truth.”

  I can practically hear her arguing with herself. Finally she sighs. “All right.” She purses her mouth. “Like I said before, Paul and Isabel ran with a different crowd from Suzanne and me. He was a player in the art scene before we ever got here. When we bought Dream Weavers from the previous owner, she gave us her admittedly biased opinions of everyone that we’d be dealing with. She didn’t like DeGraf because he controlled where Isabel’s work was sold and for how much—”

  “But didn’t Isabel have to give him that control?”

  She shakes her head impatiently. “I’m just telling you the story as I heard it. A lot of people—mostly Isabel’s friends, I guess, mostly women—thought he had sort of taken over her whole life. Supposedly they were Santa Fe’s longest-running soap opera. They were notorious for their breakups and reunions. Everybody thought that after the Tom Hemmings episode, it was over, but not long after that, they announced their engagement and she moved into his house. We were all taking bets on how long it would be till they killed each other.”

  She stops abruptly, her face fiery. “I’m sorry. It was just an expression. I didn’t mean it literally.”

  “I know. It’s okay. But what else? What about bringing stuff up from Mexico?”

  “I wish to God I’d never said that. I wouldn’t have if I’d known—I mean I had no idea you were her daughter.” She pulls a face. “It wasn’t one of my finer moments, in any case.”

  I just keep staring at her.

  “It’s all hearsay.”

  “I’m not asking for sworn testimony.”

  Another sigh, this one louder and longer. “There were rumors about him dealing in stolen art. Religious art from churches in Mexico and Central America. Isabel was big into Katalysis, and of course, people said that’s what their fights were all about. Hemmings was supposedly involved somehow…”

  “So what happened? Was it all just rumors? Did he ever get investigated?”

  “I don’t think so.” She shrugs. “Maybe it was just nasty gossip. On the other hand, DeGraf is very well connected. All I know is, he suddenly started getting his picture in the paper with the Mexican consul and receiving awards for repatriating some work called the Santo Niño that was stolen from a church in Guadalajara or something. I don’t know. And of course…” Her gaze shifts out the window.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  seventeen

  Horacio is chopping onions, tears streaming from his eyes. Juana and I are rubbing the blistered skins from charred peppers when the phone rings. I mutter Shit! under my breath, wiping the sticky juice from my hands onto the clean dishtowel.

  “Dos Hombres, how can I help you?” I jam the phone between my shoulder and my head.

  “Avery James, please.”

  The phone squirts out of its niche at my ear, and I fumble to hold it. My heart begins to thud in my chest.

  “This is Avery.”

  “It’s Paul DeGraf,” he says. “How are you?”

  “Fine.” Unless you count the fact that my hands are shaking.

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Well, I’m busy right now.”

  “Are you working this weekend?”

  “Yes.”

  “When are you off?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Don’t make any plans. I’ll pick you up about ten A.M. All right?”

  “It’s my only day off, and I have a lot to—”

  “Please. This is important.”

  “All right.”

  I wipe the receiver, hang it up. I rinse my hands at the little prep sink, dry them, and go back to the stack of blackened peppers, ignoring Juana’s inquiring look.

  A small brick bungalow in a former incarnation, the herb shop on Guadalupe is a relic of another time. The faded sign over the door says THE GOOD EARTH. The bell on the handle jingles melodically when I enter, and a pretty olive-skinned woman with golden brown dreadlocks smiles at me from behind an old-fashioned counter filled with apothecary jars. The shelves behind her are covered with more jars and bottles and tins. Bunches of dried herbs hang from racks, perfuming the air with a pleasant, grassy smell that I’ll always associate with Cassie.

  “I’m Avery James,” I say. “I called about talking to Liza Gardner.”

  “Yes, I’m Cookie. Her niece.” Her voice is clipped, but oddly musical. English maybe? “I’ll have to warn you, my aunt’s on medication that sometimes plays havoc with her memory. I don’t know that she’ll be of much help to you. She has good days and not so good days.”

  “I’ll try to keep it short.”

  “Auntie?” she calls, seemingly into space. “You have a guest.”

  For a few minutes nothing happens, then a movement draws my eye to a wooden door behind the counter. A woman appears, dressed in some kind of green kimono thing. She doesn’t look ancient, but she moves with agonizing slowness, as if every step is excruciating. Her wild gray cloud of hair sets off her coffee-colored skin, and the blank look in her dark eyes doesn’t give me much hope for her memory.

  “Auntie, this is Miss James, the lady I told you was coming to call. Shall I make some tea?”

  The woman looks around the room, still not focusing on me. “Oh, yes. I think tea would be good.”

  “If it’s not a good time, I can always come back another day,” I say awkwardly.

  At the sound of my voice, her eyes find me, and some shadow flickers there. She studies me silently and then she frowns. “Isabel?” Her accent is like Cookie’s, but less pronounced.

  “She’s not Isabel, Auntie. Her name is Miss James. She’s Isabel’s daughter.”

  Isabel’s daughter. In her gently accented voice, the words sound strange, like a familiar song in a foreign language.

  I inch closer and she moves toward me, then stops, gasping.

  Cookie is right there steadying her. “Is it bad?” she asks. “You want your medicine?”

  “No, not now.” She looks from me to Cookie, and a small weary sigh floats from her lips. “When you’re young, you can’t even imagine all the ways there are to hurt.”

  But pain seems to sharpen her mind. She looks at me again. “So you’re the daughter.” I hold my breath. A million questions are pushing behind my teeth, but I don’t want to break this delicate chain of thought. “Come over here,” she says.

  In a few minutes she and I are sitting in big old club chairs in front of the window. From the back room I hear the sounds of tea. Kettle banging on a tile counter, water running, the chink of cups against each other.

  It’s probably eighty-five degrees in here, but Liza huddles in a corner of the chair, almost like she’s cold. I lean toward her slightly. “I’m trying to talk to people who knew Isabel. I’d like to know anything you remember about her.”

  She lays her head back and closes her eyes and I wait, wondering if she’s fallen asleep. Suddenly she’s speaking. “Isabel could have been quite a wonderful herbalist, but she wanted to be an artist. Always collecting little bits of things, scraps of material, buttons, ribbons. For her pictures. They were quite beautiful, but I always thought—”

  Her eyes open at the sound of footsteps. Cookie hands me a mug with chamomile steam rising and sets one down on a table beside her aunt. “You’ll want to let this cool, Auntie.”

  Liza watches, hypnotized, as her niece stirs
in a dollop of golden honey and a squeeze of lemon.

  “What did you think?” I prompt her.

  “I always thought she would have been happier as a herbalist.”

  “How long did she work for you?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Four years. Maybe five. I can’t remember now. There was a lot of back and forth.”

  The bell on the door jingles again, and Cookie goes to greet a tall, thin man with stringy yellow hair. The minute her back is turned, Liza’s crabbed hand slips under the pleated skirt of the chair and pulls out a small flask of something, pouring a healthy shot into her mug. Eyes on her niece, she screws the cap back on and replaces the bottle under the chair.

  “World’s best painkiller,” she says, and when Cookie’s head turns our way, she adds, “Chamomile.”

  “About Isabel…” I begin, but Liza’s sipping thoughtfully at the spiked tea.

  “Impatient. Very like you. I suppose it’s a young person’s disease. For someone who understood plants so well, how everything happens in its season…she was just hell-bent. Couldn’t wait to make a big splash with her work. Couldn’t sketch her ideas fast enough. Always impatient to get the shop closed and get back to her pictures. Worked like a demon, that one did.” A pause. “Maybe she knew she didn’t have much time.”

  “Elaine Cumming said you might have some of her work that I could see.”

  Cookie is bagging purchases for the blond man, charging them on his credit card. When I look back at Liza, her eyes are closed again, her mouth slightly open, her breathing labored.

  “Are you all right?” I ask uneasily.

  “Of course.” She wipes saliva from her chin and tries to sit up very straight.

  I should go. Leave her alone, let her rest. But instead, I sit waiting.

  “I have a picture she did. Called Remembering Yellow or something.” The bell jangles again as the customer leaves. “Cookie, fetch that yellow piece for me, will you, dear? The one over the desk in back.”

  “Sure, Auntie.”

  “Did she talk about where she was from?”

  “Ortiz. Up in Colorado. On some river. Called her mother Josephita. She always talked about going back and finding her again, but she never did.”