Miranda's Revenge

by Ruth Wind

  “Of course,” he said. He touched the small of her back. “Two,” he said to Sarah.

  They settled beside the window, paper cups in their hands. “How have you been, Miranda?”

  “All right.” She shrugged. “You know me. I land on my feet.”

  “You look wonderful.”

  Miranda forced a smile. “So do you, as always.” And it was true, she had to admit, but there was a dark stone of resentment or resistance in her as she looked at him. A wisp of a French love song brushed through the hollows of her heart, and she straightened. “How’s your leg?”

  A shadow moved over his mouth. “It is healing, but more slowly than I expected. In truth, I came here to see a physical therapist who is known to help with difficult cases.”

  “So it’s serious?”

  “It could be.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was so foolish,” he said, peering into his coffee. “I was on a yacht and a wave came and I stumbled on the stairs. Twisted my knee.”

  Miranda couldn’t help it—she laughed. “What did you tell the newspapers?”

  His lips curled up in amused acknowledgment. “Training accident.”

  “Ah.” Miranda wondered how to bring the conversation to Christie without seeming obvious.

  “And you? You’re here with the runner?”

  Startled, she blinked up at him. “Runner? Oh, James. No. Not at all. He—ah.” She made herself stop. Breathe. “I’m here to see my sisters. They both live here now. Didn’t Christie fill you in?”

  “No.”

  “She certainly seemed hostile enough.”

  Max took a slow sip of his coffee, settled the mug before raising his gaze. “It seems you two are on opposite sides of a conflict, but I do not think that is true. One of the reasons I came to Mariposa is that the skiing community is concerned about her. She is a friend. She loved him—the one who was murdered. Claude, is it?”

  “Right. My sister’s late husband.”

  “Your sister’s marriage was failing, yes?”

  Miranda shrugged. “I have no idea. I was in Europe at the time.”

  His gaze raked her face. “Yes. I remember.”

  “And philanderers all say their marriages are in trouble.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Christie is very young, however. Perhaps she thought it was genuine. For all we know, perhaps it was.”

  “Genuine? Claude? I doubt it.” She didn’t know how to get more information. Or what to even look for. How did investigators lead without tipping their hands?

  Maybe it was just a matter of conversation. “Doesn’t she usually live in Europe, too?”

  “In Bavaria, which is where we met.”

  Bavaria. Why did that ring a bell? Miranda made a mental note of it. “What was she doing here to start with?”

  “Training. She keeps a home here. How do you say it? A condo. The slopes are particularly good.” He paused. “She met Claude at a hotel bar. He swept her off her feet.”

  Miranda sighed. “I know. I feel sorry for her, but her lack of cooperation with the investigation might end up putting Desi in jail. I love my sister. She’s in love and pregnant and her ex-husband was awful to her. She doesn’t deserve this, either.”

  “Perhaps I can speak to her.”

  “Will you, Max?”

  He reached over the table, took her hand. “Will you give me another chance?”

  She pulled her hand from beneath his as hastily as if he were on fire. “No.”

  “I was a fool, Miranda. You frightened me. The fire frightened me. Haven’t you thought of us since then?”

  She stared at him so hard he bowed his head. Sunlight danced in the wheat thickness of his hair and a memory—quickly shoved away—trailed over her vision. Laughing on a Mediterranean beach, with the sound of a dozen languages in the air—

  So romantic! It had all been so romantic. Had she been in love with Max, or with the pleasure of the story they could tell, the way her love affair could embroider her life.

  Either way, he’d been cold in the way he’d cut it off. Her heart had been broken, and it didn’t really matter whether it was broken over a man or a fantasy. The pain had been quite real.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve thought of it. The answer is no. I am happy to be your friend. There will be nothing else.”

  He swallowed. “Very well. I will still try to speak with Christie on your behalf.” He stood. “I am sorry, Miranda, for everything.”

  She only nodded.

  Chapter 6

  While Miranda had coffee with her skier, James headed over to the casino. Claude had been gambling there with Christie just before he was murdered, and it seemed a logical place to see if anyone would talk to him. See if anyone had seen anything that should be remembered.

  At midday on a Thursday, the casino still held a fair number of people, mostly stationed with zombie gazes at the slot machines, fingers pressing buttons, lights flashing. A few poker tables and blackjack hard cores played. It was mercifully smoke-free, and all the employees were Indian.

  James wandered around getting the feel for things, then chose a bar at random and sat down with a stack of quarters in front of a video poker machine. A beefy Native man with long braids wrapped old-style in leather, approached and put a napkin down on the bar. “What can I get you?”

  “Soda water with lime.”

  The man ambled over to the spigot, poured the soda. James played a few quarters, won a few, played another hand, won five bucks. “Huh,” he said, and grinned at the bartender. “Beginner’s luck, I guess.”

  “I guess.”

  He took a sip of the soda water, laid a five-dollar bill on the bar. The man’s tag read Bear. “Bear, you worked here a long time?” James asked.

  “Since it opened.”

  “You here the night the artist got murdered?”

  “Yep.” The dark eyes were hard. “You a reporter?”

  “No. I’m working for his ex-wife, the one accused of killing him.”

  “Sure, Desi Rousseau. She’s good people, man.”

  James nodded. “You see Claude that night?”

  “He played blackjack. Lost a bundle, then won a bit. His girlfriend was with him.”

  “The skier. Christie Lundgren?”

  Bear nodded. “He brought in a new one all the time. Dog.”

  “Yeah? Like you know any of the others?”

  “Tourists, mainly. In town to ski or hike, you know? Out for a good time. Once in a while, he came with a German, and for a little while there, he was with that model. Elsa?”

  “He sounds like a bastard.”

  “Lotta people coulda killed him, that’s for sure.”

  “Where would you put your money?”

  “The girlfriend, man.”

  “She’s got an airtight alibi.”

  “Mebbe she put somebody up to it. They were fighting over Desi when they were here. I heard ’em.”

  “And if not her, who?”

  “Some woman. A man would have just counted crow all over his sorry ass.”

  James laughed. “Chased him back to the res?”

  Bear rolled his eyes. “Urban cowboy, man. Didn’t know nothing about Navajo ways. My mom’s Dineh. He didn’t know nothing.”

  “Did you see Claude talking to anyone else that night?”

  “He was always talking. The developer was here, and the model. They were all talking. Having a good time, looked like.”

  James’s phone rang and he said, “Sorry. Gotta take this.” He flipped the phone open and said, “Miranda. Talk to me.”

  “Not sure what I got, but I talked.” Her voice sounded thin. “You want to meet me somewhere?”

  “Come to the casino. I’ll buy you a 7-Up.”

  “I just had coffee.”

  “Okay, where do you want to meet? Your call.”

  “I don’t know, James. I don’t know this town, either.”

  She sounded like a slightly cranky
five-year-old, and he smiled. “You know where the church is, don’t you? It’s right between us. Dead center of town. Go in and sit there in the cool and I’ll find you.”

  “The church? I don’t—”

  “You’ll like it, Miranda. Trust me.”

  She sighed. “Whatever. I’ll see you there.”

  The day had grown hot. Miranda put on her sunglasses, and strolled down the upscale village streets of Mariposa feeling mysterious and beautiful, like Jackie O. The thought made her smile—and she felt her walk change, her spine grow straighter. Imagination was a powerful thing. Feeling like Jackie O, she became Jackie O on some level.

  Imagination. Maybe that was what had been so appealing about her whirlwind love affair with Max. It had all been staged against the dashing backdrops of Nice and Austria, Paris and Zurich.

  Just like her parents.

  The thought startled her. Unpleasantly. Had she really imitated her narcissistic, annoying parents to that degree?

  But hadn’t they done exactly that—spun a fantasy of two worldly people who traveled and studied and cleverly hosted the wealthy, the brilliant, the talented?

  With a sick sense of recognition, she yanked off her sunglasses, afraid to be anything like them at all. High altitude sunlight blasted her irises, and she winced and put the glasses back on. Jackie O, after all, had adopted the glasses in Greece, hadn’t she?

  Oh, what was wrong with wanting to be worldly? She’d dreamed of the faraway and exotic from the time she was a small girl and Desi read to her from the Arabian Nights. Everywhere seemed intriguing. All names exotic.

  But—to return to the original thought—that slice of the exotic probably had contributed to her feelings for Max.

  What was real? she thought. What was a fantasy spun out of some need?

  And how could you tell the difference?

  The church stood on a corner facing the San Juans, built of reddish sandstone at the turn of the century. A bell tower rose from one corner, and heavy steps led to arched wooden doors. To one side was a deep nicho sheltering a statue of Our Lady of Butterflies, a classic dark-skinned Madonna with black robes edged in blue, and butterflies lighting around her shoulders. A real butterfly rested on the statue’s nose, and Miranda chuckled, pulling out her camera. Easing close, she focused on the shimmering wings and snapped the photo. Then again.

  A low, softly accented voice said, “What are the chances, hmm?”

  Miranda lowered the camera as if his voice did not disturb her in the slightest. “That a butterfly would land on a statue of Our Lady of Butterflies?”

  “No,” he said, and took a step to stand beside her, admiring the statue and the church. He smelled of herbal shampoo and clean skin, and she had a swift vision of that place in the middle of his chest, the shallow dent where ribs met. Dark, soft hair…her mouth—

  She bent her head. “Then what?”

  “That I would twice in one day find you while you were photographing butterflies.” He smiled down at her, his eyes a dark chocolate, his lips full-cut and red and imminently kissable.

  She shrugged, against him, against the lure of the visions. “I take photos all the time.”

  Unaccountably, he smiled. It was, she thought darkly, an awfully knowing smile for a man who was once almost a priest. “Let’s go in, shall we? It’s quite extraordinary,” he gestured with one hand, “particularly given your interest in altars.”

  He stepped aside and Miranda climbed the steps, her feet tracing the worn spots where thousands of feet had gone before. It would be slippery in the rain or the snow. She pulled open the doors, and startled as something brushed by her face on its way into the church. A butterfly, then another.

  The interior of the church was cool and smelled of dust and candles and rose incense. After the vivid brightness outside, Miranda couldn’t see much at all, and pulled off her sunglasses.

  “Oh!” she breathed. She halted for one long moment, the glasses in her hand, then drifted forward as if reeled in by the altar itself. As she caught the full spectrum of it, her mouth opened and she let go of a small, delighted laugh. “Oh!” she said again, and touched her heart.

  The church itself was not large, just a classically designed cross with the chancel at the back and a single center aisle with old, dark, wooden pews to either side. Windows were cut high on the walls on either side, and they were set with earnest but not particularly well-done stained glass of biblical scenes.

  But the altar was huge, wooden, with a dozen niches. The style was adamantly Spanish colonial, with carved flowers and cherubs and winding vines and mournful looking male faces. It had been well-cared for, with fresh paint on the orange and blue flowers and the white robes of the monks and the shining pink and orange robes of the Lady, her arms and head dancing with butterflies. Carved ones, painted carefully to resemble the local mourning cloaks, and real ones, their wings moving on currents of air as the Madonna smiled down kindly.

  “It’s spectacular,” Miranda whispered, hungrily devouring details of color and proportion. “The niches are fantastic.” It drew her closer and closer, her hands over her heart, camera forgotten. Bowls of flowers in single colors, orange marigolds, blue pincushion flowers and shell-pink roses, sat on a table before the altar. Racks of candles flickered.

  James came quietly behind her. Miranda felt the heat of his body down her spine, pooling around her left shoulder blade, her hip. “Worth seeing?”

  “It’s much older than the church,” she said with certainty. “Mexican, maybe 1800s?”

  “Very good. It’s Santa Fean, 1802.” His voice resonated through her collarbone, into the thin cartilage of her outer ear. His breath touched her neck. Like a warm butterfly.

  Miranda brushed the spot. “How do you know that?”

  “It’s famous,” he said. “Carved by a priest who was known as an advocate for the Indians. He was killed eventually, under mysterious circumstances.”

  “I wish I could touch it.”

  “Let’s find the priest. I’m sure it will be all right. You’re an artist.”

  Standing before such a magnificent carving, Miranda knew the smallness of her art. “No, I play. This is art.”

  “You stay and admire it. I’ll find the priest or someone to ask if we can touch it.”

  Miranda nodded, sinking into the first pew to absorb it. She put her tickling palms together, feeling a peculiar lure on her neck. What would it be like to create a real altar? In a Santa Fe importer’s shop, she’d seen a collection of Tibetan altars, many of them ancient, and those had affected her this same way. She felt both humbled and inspired, challenged and enchanted.

  So much love.

  Which was why, of course, she could not ever create such a thing. She was too cynical.

  James returned, smiling, and gestured for Miranda to approach the altar. “He said it would be fine, that we should be respectful and be careful of the candles.”

  “He did?”

  “I know him,” he admitted with a twinkle in his eye. “We were at seminary together.”

  “Ah. The brotherhood thing.”

  “Yes.” He tucked his hands behind his back. “After you, señorita.”

  “I’ve never been on an altar,” she said, feeling odd as she stepped forward and passed the low wooden railings that marked the priest’s area. It somehow did feel more holy, and the altar itself was so insistently drawing her forward that she had no time to think about just how odd she felt. Her palms practically burned to feel it, and she reached out with both hands and pressed them to the wood, as if her flesh was putty and she was imprinting the designs.

  And in a way, she was. Her strongest method of gathering information had always been touch, and she remembered more when her hands were involved. This wood was cool, thickly painted, well tended, and yet, below it all, she could sense the artist who had created it, could almost see him out of the corner of her eye, his tools in hand, his robes long around his legs.

  James sa
id, quietly behind her, “What do you feel?”

  She closed her eyes. “Love.”

  Perhaps it was the priest in him, but he seemed to understand she needed to be quiet, to feel things. He waited quietly nearby without fidgeting or rustling. Just waiting.

  After a few minutes, she realized she could feel him as strongly as she felt the spirit of the altar. His body, a foot or two away, pulled at her. She could smell the shampoo in his hair, and more. The scent of him, wafting around her. “I don’t mind if you feel it, too,” she said.

  “No?” He stepped next to her, and put his hands on the wood, too. “What am I trying to feel?”

  “Whatever,” she said. “There are no rules.”

  His hands were lean and graceful, a warm cinnamon next to her carp-white flesh. His forearm was corded, his wrist strong. It just touched her own. Electric.

  She looked up at him, and he was gazing down at her, just so steadily, so clearly. She felt captured, aroused, dizzy—

  Abruptly she dropped her hands and moved away. “This is weird. I need some air.”

  “Wait,” James said. “Let’s talk a minute in here first. Where no one will overhear us.”

  She stepped off the dais and turned around. “All right.”

  James still stood on the platform, and for one swift moment, she saw him as he might have been as a priest, that sensual mouth and haunted face framed by the white collar, his hair trimmed neatly. Why had he turned away from the call?

  “When you stand up there,” she asked boldly, perhaps hoping to push him away a little, “do you wish you’d stayed in seminary?”

  He paused, looked around him, shook his head slowly. “It was not this I wanted, exactly, sermons and the Eucharist.”

  She plopped down on the first pew. “What did you want?”

  “A story for another day,” he said, and stepped down and joined her on the pew. “We must find Claude’s story for now, and hope it shows up who wanted him dead.”

  “Agreed.” She lifted a shoulder. “I didn’t find out much, honestly. Christie really loved Claude, that’s all. Oh, and Christie also lived in Bavaria at one time. Why did that ring a bell?”

  “That’s where the art dealer is from. Franz?”