by Ruth Wind
“Hello, Christie,” he said, gesturing toward the seat next to hers. “I hope I am not late.”
“No, right on time.” She glared at the athletic youth and he slunk away with a shrug.
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said.
“I guess.” She gestured to the barista, who hurried over. “Do you want something?”
They ordered, plain coffee for James, a chai with soy for Christie. “So what do you want to talk about?” she asked.
“Let’s move over to the window, huh? Little more privacy.”
When they were stationed on tall chairs overlooking the view of the San Juans all around them, sunny and brilliant in the morning, he said, “I just want to find out who really killed Claude. Desdemona Rousseau didn’t do it, and I think you know it.”
Christie lowered her eyes. “I don’t know if she did or didn’t. I think there are things the police haven’t bothered to ask about.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like why are his paintings worth so much?” She twisted her mouth in disdain. “Have you seen them?”
“No.”
“They’re not bad,” she said. “But it’s not like he was some great artist. And he hadn’t even been painting for that long, really. Only a few years. So why the big excitement?”
“Good question,” he said. “Very smart question. You have any ideas?”
She shook her head. “It just crossed my mind a few times. I heard somebody paid a hundred grand for one. That’s just crazy.”
“Anything else you can think of?”
She took a long swallow of her chai, and looked into the distance. He saw the pain around her mouth and touched her arm. “It has come to my attention that he might have had a lot of women, not while he was with me, but before. While he was married.”
“Anybody in particular?”
“This wacko woman who is married to a dentist around here. They have tons of money, but she acts like—” She shook her head. “I don’t know what. She’s crazy. Alice something. She has—or had—a bunch of his paintings, too, and I think she sold some of them on the Internet.”
Her sorrow and pain and regret came radiating from her in almost visible waves. James waited.
“I really did love him, you know,” she said quietly. “Maybe it wasn’t right or whatever, but I didn’t date him even one time before he left his wife. He chased me for ages, and he was really smart and beautiful and he seemed to see me, you know?” She raised her eyes. “I think he loved me for real.”
Kindly, because it would not hurt anyone for him to say it just this minute, he said, “It sounds like he cared a lot for you.”
She nodded. “Have you ever had a really terrible broken heart?”
“It’s the worst,” he said. “And I’m not going to tell you to get over it. Just let it be broken for a while.”
A single heavy globe of a tear rolled out of her right eye. She nodded. “I don’t think Desi killed Claude. She was mad at him, but I think maybe she really loved him, too.”
“I think she did,” he agreed. “Listen, what do you know about the connection between Renate and Elsa?”
Christy frowned, obviously bewildered. “They’re sisters. I knew them in Europe, with Max.” Suddenly she looked troubled.
“What is it?”
But she shook her head. “Nothing. Never mind. If you need anything else, just call me,” she said, and stood to put on heavy black sunglasses.
“Thanks.” He watched her walk away, tense and strong, her blond curls almost unnaturally shiny. In time, she would get over Claude Tsosie and find another lover. She was young. She would be all right.
He would light a candle for her.
Miranda slept till nearly nine, and jumped out of bed in a tizzy. Juliet had left a pot of coffee and some store-bought cinnamon rolls and a note that said she’d be off work around noon. She ran a small nonprofit and had built a strong staff over the past six or eight months, so could afford to take time off as needed for the wedding. Go see Desi, the note urged, and call me with a report. I saw her this morning, but there is a lot to do.
She gulped the coffee, took a quick shower and then agonized over her clothes. She had brought little with her, but what if she had a chance to see James? It needed to be something beautiful. A blue silk tank seemed too fancy, a white T-shirt too low-key, a green peasant blouse entirely too sexy for meeting salespeople.
Finally, she settled on a simple shirtwaist dress made demurely sexy by the transparent floral print and an old-fashioned, forties-style slip beneath it. She wasn’t a shorts kind of girl, and wasn’t about to show off her paste-white legs in shorts in a town where everyone took their exercise in the outdoors. She’d look like a freak.
Smearing SPF 50+ sunscreen on every inch of exposed skin, she grabbed her purse and walked to the little hospital. The desk nurse directed her to a room on the second floor. When she got there, Tam was sitting next to the bed, reading aloud from some adventure story. He was a robust and wonderfully cheerful man, just right for the direct and sometimes gloomy Desi.
Speaking of Desi—Miranda’s stomach flipped when she saw her sister lying there on the bed looking wan and bruised. Her face looked awful—purple and blue around her right eye—and her arm was immobilized in a temporary cast up to her shoulder. It always frightened her to see someone hurt badly, and the closer she was to the human, the worse it got. Her hands shook as she moved into the room, across the floor to Desi’s bedside.
“Hi, honey,” she said. “How are you doing?”
“I’ve had better days,” she said with a wan smile. “But the baby is fine, so that’s the important thing.”
“Oh, I am so glad.” She narrowed her eyes. “I think it’s a very good thing there are saris on the way here. The scarf will offer a lot of possibilities. Not sure we can get even a sari around all this taping, though.”
“I have to wear something!”
“We’ll work it out. I’m supposed to report back to Juliet what’s going on, so give me the scoop. I also need to know where you’ll be later. Are you going home?”
Desi shot a mutinous glance at Tam. “No, actually. I’m not allowed to go home for another day or two.”
“They want her to really rest,” Tam said, raising an eyebrow. “And I told them she wouldn’t if they let her go.”
“You evil man, you.” Miranda touched her sister’s hand. “Is there anything you need for me to do?”
“Thanks, I’m fine, honestly. Everyone has pitched in very kindly. The wolves are covered and Helene now has the dogs.”
“Want some magazines or books or something? I could bring my laptop in for you to watch movies on.”
Desi brightened. “The movies would be great. I never have enough time to watch them.”
In her purse, the cell phone rang. Miranda pulled it out and saw James’s name. She didn’t answer it, but a thrum of pleasure went through her when the message indicator trilled a minute later. To Desi, she said, “I’ll give you a call when the guy gets here with the saris. And I guess I can give you some warning over Mother and Daddy, too.”
“I’m really looking forward to this,” Tam said, his Kiwi accent drawling.
“Oh, I’m sure we all are,” Miranda said. “When are you going to tell her about the baby?”
“I guess I have to tell them now, since the doctors keep talking about it. They’ll hear it and know anyway.”
“That’s a good idea.”
A head popped around the corner. “Are you Miranda?” the nurse asked.
“I am.”
“There’s someone here to see you.”
Miranda wondered who even knew she was here. “I’ll be back.”
Max, sturdy and blond and looking gigantic, waited in the plain chairs lined up against the wall. He rose when he spotted her, and objectively, she saw that he was a very attractive man, with gold hair glittering on his strong legs, those broad shoulders and classically handsome
face.
But nothing in her responded to him at all. Not even the slightest quiver.
Uh-oh, said the voice.
Surprised, she sought out the details of him that had so thrilled her in Europe—the blue of his eyes, his big hands—and…nothing.
Uh-oh.
“Hi, Max. What’s up?” she said. Surely when he spoke, that accent would catch her, charm her.
“I have only been trying to call you for most of these two days. I was worried about you, your sister.”
Nope. Not even that gilded Continental accent could give her a shiver. She crossed her arms. “She’s banged up, but she’s okay.”
“Will you come walk with me? I found out some things you might wish to hear.”
“Really? Yeah, just let me tell Desi what’s going on.” She dashed back to the room, grabbed her purse. “I have to go,” she said. “I’ll explain later. Hey—you want a chai?”
“Now that sounds good. Thank you.”
“Where would you like to go?” Miranda asked as they headed out to the brilliantly blue and gold summer day. “Have you tried The Black Crown?”
“I have not.”
“It’s only a few blocks. We can walk over there and have a cold drink.”
“Very well.”
Bizarre, Miranda thought. How could her grand passion just dry up and blow away like that? Was it as simple as chemistry?
The voice started to say uh—but she cut it off, slammed it into a box where it could go yell all it wanted without her listening. She was tired of thinking so much.
At The Black Crown, they took a seat in a booth near a bank of windows. Miranda ordered iced tea, and Max asked for lemonade. There were few customers so early—an obvious business sort at the bar, eating meat pie, a couple of girls chowing down on grilled cheese sandwiches, their packs at their sides. She thought, in a faintly distracted way, of how James said he’d never traveled that way. With his curious, open mind, he would enjoy it very much.
She realized she’d drifted off and brought her attention back to Max. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. What did you say?”
“The woman with dark hair there is Renate Franz.”
Miranda eyed the woman curiously. Small, neat and dark, she had a great figure and good bones in her face. Probably close to sixty, but didn’t look it unless you noticed her jawline. “How do you know her?”
“Christie introduced me last night at the hotel bar. Renate has come to town for her holiday. She likes to watch the runners.”
Of course. Renate represented Claude’s work, and Christie had probably met her in those circumstances. But a little light blinked on, too. “Did Christie know Renate in Bavaria?”
“I don’t know.”
Miranda nodded. The whole thing kept getting more and more tangled, like a maze with no outs. That was why Bavaria had rung a bell when she talked with Max before. “So what did you learn?”
“Not a lot, Miranda, but I offer it in goodwill.”
“Okay.”
“Claude lived in Bavaria for a long time. Not just a student period. Years.”
“Doing what?”
“I do not know that. Christie said he spoke perfect German with a Bavarian accent.”
Miranda had not spent tons of time with her dead brother-in-law. He and Desi met around the same time Miranda flew the nest, and she had not been around him a lot. Mostly she’d liked him. He’d been charming, intelligent, easy to get along with. She knew he’d spent time overseas, as a student and in the Peace Corps, which is where he and Desi met. “Hmm. But that would make sense if he lived in Bavaria, right?”
“I suppose,” Max said.
Except, somehow it felt wrong. How did a guy like that, raised in the barrio in Denver—and he’d often made much of his ghetto childhood—get the chance to go to Europe? It didn’t add up.
Suddenly she realized she was missing a fantastic opportunity. “Max, will you do me a favor?”
“Yes. Anything.”
“Introduce me to Renate, then make up some appointment you have to keep so I can talk to her. Don’t say my last name.”
“I was hoping we might have lunch, Miranda. I was hoping you might give me another chance.”
“Sorry,” she said. “That’s just not ever going to happen.”
“I was an idiot to let you get away,” he said with what sounded like genuine remorse.
“Maybe,” she said, “but maybe we are just not right for each other.” Reaching across the table, she took his big hand. “Can we be friends? I do so like your company.”
For a moment, he looked at her, then squeezed her fingers. “Yeah, sure. Friends.”
“Good. Now introduce me to Renate, and remember, I’m an artist from New York City.”
Renate looked up with a pleasant expression when Max approached, including Miranda in her smile. “Hello.”
Max spoke in German, and at first, Miranda was afraid of what he was saying, but that was silly. He gestured to Miranda, and she heard her name, but nothing else.
“So you are an artist?” Renate said, pushing her plate away so she could put her hands on the table.
“Yes. I’ve been to your gallery in Manhattan. It’s wonderful.”
“Please, sit down. Tell me about your work.”
“I have to go,” Max said, and bent to give each of them polite kisses on both cheeks. “Call me, Miranda, and we will have a lunch before I go to New Zealand.”
“I will, Max. Thank you.”
He raised a hand in farewell. Renate politely focused on Miranda, who suddenly felt clammy. What would she say? What did she want to find out?
Anything that would help, she realized. Brushing hair from her face she said, “I’m mainly a sculptor,” she said, “with a sort of whimsical style.”
“Yes. Have you a gallery you work with?”
It wasn’t a lie to say, “Not at the moment. I was working with a woman who died, and the son didn’t want to continue.”
“Not Rosa Hart?”
“It was,” Miranda said. “We worked together a long time.”
“Well, give me your card, and we will meet again in the city. Will you like that?”
“Of course. Yes. I don’t actually have a card on me, but I’ll be glad to bring you one, or I can call you when we go back to the city.”
“That would be fine.”
Now what? Miranda hadn’t got anything! “I saw the Tsosie exhibit a few months ago. Did it do well?”
“Very well. Native American art is extremely popular now, which is why I come to Mariposa on my holiday. Often, I have found good work at the craft shows here.”
“The Tsosie work seemed to really take off after his death. Did you help create that demand? It seemed so smart.” Stupid, Miranda thought. And leading.
But Renate straightened a bit. “The story added a layer of—” She struggled with the word. “Magic? Mystique.”
“I can see that would be true. Did you know him very well? I seem to remember reading he spent time in Bavaria, is that where you met?”
Renate frowned. “Were you his lover?”
“God, no!”
“I knew him well, since he was a child. I think, had he lived, he would have made a big mess of his life and there would have been no more art.”
“What, like drugs or drinking or something?”
She shook her head. “Women. He had a weakness for women.”
Miranda lifted a shoulder. “Well, he obviously pushed somebody too far finally, didn’t he?”
“Yes. It is too bad,” she said, but it was rote, not meant. Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “What was your name, please?”
“Miranda Rousseau.” Only after she said her whole name did she realize her mistake. So much for playing private investigator.
“I thought so. You are the sister of Claude’s wife, is that right?”
Miranda hesitated, but there was nothing to be gained by lying. “Yes. Desi Rousseau is my sister.”<
br />
“I do not want to speak with you any longer.”
Miranda stood, partly to keep Renate from running away, partly out of respect. “I’ll go in one minute. But it seems like you might know something, or maybe your sister—”
“What sister?”
“Elsa. She told us that you are.”
The art dealer’s face went very still. “I see.” Her graceful hands rested on her forearms. “What do you want?”
“I just want to think about this a little. Claude led her on a merry chase, and she didn’t deserve it. Now she’s fallen in love, she’s happy and she’s going to have a baby and all that needs to happen is for everybody to come forward with the information they have so that she can get on with her life.” She tossed hair over her shoulder. “Doesn’t that sound fair?”
“I did not know she was pregnant. And I thought the charges would be dropped by now.”
“They haven’t. If you would just go tell the police what you know, it might really help.”
“I will think about it.”
In her purse, Miranda’s phone rang and she suddenly remembered the sari guy. She held out her hand. “Thank you for giving me this time. I have an appointment. Thanks for your time, Ms. Franz.”
“I am still interested in your work. Call me when you return to New York.”
“I will. Thank you.” She rushed out and on the sidewalk, yanked her phone out of her pocket and looked at the name. It was Naagesh and Sons Imports, and she stabbed the number in. When a man answered, she said breathlessly. “I’m sorry. This is Miranda Rousseau. I’m here. Do you have the saris?”
“I do. Can I show them to you?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“I am at the Hotel Mariposa, in the lobby.”
“I’ll be right there.” She slapped the phone closed, and dashed the two blocks to the hotel, hoping she wasn’t looking too rumpled in case she ran into James. She paused for a moment, brushing hair into place, smooth her skirts, and she even took a second in the blazing sun to put on her lipstick.
A butterfly danced nearby and she smiled. James must be about somewhere. Smiling happily at both the possibility of finding a beautiful sari for her sister and seeing James, who might just be her lover someday soon, she pushed through the giant doors of the old hotel, into the light air-conditioned lobby.
