Not a stakeout, no, I told myself. Just some place to eat a meatball sandwich and look at the view. The fading pink paint of the Squirrel’s Nest made a decorative contrast to the tall pine trees sticking up from the pile of snow near their parking lot. I munched and tried not to think about how to act like Maggie tonight. That wouldn’t be too difficult and might even provide a small diversion from the tumult and heartache of this weekend. I wondered idly if Gloria would even propose having Nordic Nights next year. Certainly I wouldn’t be inviting any Norwegian artists into town again.
The dead-end street was quiet. The rusting station wagon sat listing in one of the parking lot’s many potholes. Isa and Peter would have to come out for dinner. Or at least Peter would go fetch something. That was my hope, to corner him and get some information. Isa didn’t look like the type open to prying. But based on Peter’s willingness to meet me in the Wort’s coffee shop, I could at least expect him to be civil.
At five-thirty I had finished my meatball sandwich and used four napkins to clean up. Gathering all my trash in the white paper bag supplied, I exited the Saab and pulled my down jacket together. The warmth of the day had gone, the first stars popping out overhead. The street had melted off in the sunshine, but a thin layer of water had frozen in the chill. I picked my way over the ice in my clogs, wishing I hadn’t sworn off the clunky but functional boots. The Squirrel’s Nest didn’t shovel their sidewalk, I noticed as I almost landed on my better side more than once.
My destination was a garbage can on the corner of Pearl Street. When I got there, I ducked into Mama Inez, where a public phone hung on the wall near the kitchen. Somehow in my short life I had come to know where every public phone in Jackson was. I borrowed the cashier’s phone book, found the Squirrel’s Nest number, dialed, and asked for Peter Black’s room.
Unfortunately, Isa answered the telephone. I started, improvising: “This is the manager. Do you need any extra towels?” I sputtered in a vaguely Oriental accent that was absolutely politically incorrect.
“No, I do not,” Miss Mardoll declared.
“Ah, yes, fine,” I said. “Is your automobile a Dodge station wagon, beige in color?”
Breathing on the line. “Yes.” Irritated.
“We are beginning to use the snowplow on the parking lot,” I went on, Charlie Chan-like, wincing at the improbable nature of it all. “If you would be so kind as to move your automobile to the street now for an hour or so?”
“Right now?”
“If you would be so kind?”
Annoyed sigh. “All right.” She hung up.
Head down, I plodded through frozen slush back down the street toward the Squirrel’s Nest. As I approached the motel, Peter emerged from Room 16, jacketless, and jumped into the station wagon. Slipping on the icy mess of the lot (which was essentially unplowable at this point), the wagon spun out on the incline to the street. After a minute of false starts Peter piloted the car over the sidewalk, against the curb where I walked slowly. As he stepped out of the car into the street, I stopped and faced him.
“Peter? Is that you?”
He blinked into the dim lights of the motel. Beside us “Cheep and Cleen” flickered in green neon. He looked at the motel door, then back at me.
“Alix Thorssen, remember?” He blinked, looking scared. I walked closer, around the front of the car to the street side. “How are you?”
“Okay,” he said quietly, taking a step back.
“Can we talk for just a second? I know Isa’s probably waiting, but—”
“She is waiting.”
“I saw her today,” I said, ignoring his retreat. “Out at the ski area. Did she come out to watch Bjarne race? That’s why I was there.” I paused for confirmation in his eyes. Forward movement on this one-sided conversation was paramount. “I saw you too, driving the car. I thought you left town—but then, you have to testify tomorrow, don’t you? You are going to testify at my stepfather’s hearing, aren’t you, Peter?”
He nodded. “I have to go.”
“Is Isa going to see Bjarne tonight?”
He shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“I just thought maybe they had, you know, a thing going.”
That got his interest. He frowned. “A thing?”
“Lovers.”
Peter’s eyes grew huge, the green neon glow of the sign gleaming off his dark skin. He spun suddenly and took two steps away and stopped. His fists at his sides clenched angrily. I could see his shoulders shake slightly under the thin black turtleneck he wore. He turned back toward me, intensity tightening his face.
“Stupid girl. Don’t you see? How could anything be plainer to you?” He jerked his head toward the motel room, then looked at his feet in black motorcycle boots, then back finally at me.
“I am Isa’s lover.”
A small smile crept onto my lips as I watched him walk briskly back to Room 11. Not only had I discovered that Bjarne was telling me the truth, or at least enough of the truth, but I had forced Peter to reveal the nature of his feelings for Isa. I wasn’t completely sure Isa felt the same way. She seemed like the kind of woman who used men to suit her purposes, and the way she ordered Peter around, made him chauffeur and wait on her, wasn’t exactly like a woman in love. But what did I know? Maybe it was an act for the public. Maybe in private she waited on him.
I thought about her haughty airs, the harsh white hair, the set of her crimson mouth. No, I don’t think she did any waiting on anyone, in private or public.
Maggie drove her old Wagoneer with fake wood side panels through the sage-studded snowfields toward Grand Teton National Park, singing along with Loudon Wainwright’s “I Wish I Was a Lesbian (and Not a Hetero)” at the top of her lungs. Between joining her and Loudon on the chorus, I wondered briefly about the wisdom of wearing her clothes as well as her name to this party. It was possible I would know some people, even though it wasn’t my usual crowd. I sold art to some of these nouveaux riches now and then. And Maggie was known to have insured a number of them too. But she was oblivious to these worries, so I let it slide that she had on my sister’s ancient blue wool blazer and my clogs. How many black-haired Thorssens there were in the world, I couldn’t be sure. Tonight, at least, there was one.
The house in question, a mere cottage—a shack, said Maggie—loomed in the darkness behind a sweet grove of bare-limbed aspens flanked with towering spruces laden with crusty snow. According to our meager information, the million-dollar log home belonged to the scion of a railroading fortune who had his sights on a Hollywood career. Right now he had little else to do with his time but manage the foundation that gave away daddy’s money, and give parties for causes that attracted the “right” people.
His name was Michael James Fairchild III, husband of Reenie, of whom I had heard a few stories around town for her personal diet and fitness plan that created fabulous bods and took only six hours a day and several thousand dollars a week to apply to you, glorious you. The Third, or Jim, met us at the door, a trim and attractive man of forty, tan, relaxed, and vacant of face. He wore his Wyoming outfit, an Abercrombie & Fitch fishing shirt with incongruous leather pants. His smile was automatic and impersonal when he realized we were nobody. Maggie practiced our first switched introductions on him and winked at me as we eased into the crowd.
Almost immediately R2D2—aka Earl Simms—spotted Maggie and trotted over. He gave her the Hollywood air kiss and shook my hand. I guess you have to meet twice for the air kiss. He had warm eyes and hands, and smelled like oranges, some new citrus cologne. He was still very short, but his hair was absent the itsy-bitsy ponytail, so he looked more grown-up.
Earl didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, that Maggie and I had a good six inches on him when he took both of our arms and led us to the bar. Ordering up a gin and tonic for me and white wine for Maggie, Earl began to give us the lay of the land.
“You met Jimmy, right? And Reenie? Oh, I should say James and Irene, what they
call themselves now. I knew Jimmy back in prep school when he was a ninety-eight-pound weakling who used to get pounded on every night by the football players.”
“Which one is Reenie?” Maggie asked.
Earl pointed out a reed-thin woman chattering and waving her hands at a white-jacketed server with an empty silver tray in his hands. Reenie had overstreaked hair and seemed to have taken the “never-too-rich-or-too-thin” maxim to heart. I looked over the crowd of men and women, dressed in various hides and pelts and silks, checking each other out over their wineglasses. Women pointed at each other’s shoes, discussed them animatedly. Men clapped each other on the back and guffawed bravely. Small talk. Cocktail parties. I felt a yawn grow deep in my throat, and only a splash of gin squelched it.
Another server came out of the kitchen with a large tray of intricately wrapped canapés. He set them down on the table and scooped up the empty one. I realized with a shock that it was Merle Tennepin of Phallus Phame. Making a step toward him, I wondered if it was bad form to hobnob with the help at one of these society functions. What were we raising money for again? Clean air, wolves, black-footed ferrets? I took another look around for a clue and found none.
Patting Maggie on the arm as I edged away, I found Merle in the kitchen with a staff of six, madly rolling, cleaning, pouring, and shouting. At the doorway I paused, taking in the size of the room. At one end a restaurant-style kitchen gleamed and hummed with activity, its long, antique table covered with trays ready to go out. Seven people fit easily into the confines of the work area. On the other end of the room, connected by broad, heavy timbers that soared up to a high peak, was a sitting area including three sofas, five armchairs, assorted tables, a chess set on a game table, river-rock fireplace ablaze.
The kitchen of this house was as big as my apartment. When I recovered from that, Merle was frowning at me from under his white chefs hat. He looked ready to bite, so I bit first. “Merle, hi, remember me from the ice carving competition? Alix Thorssen.” I said my name before I remembered I was someone else. Ah, hell. I stuck out my hand. He stared at it and went on stirring a big bowl of something.
“I guess this was why you needed more time on your carving.” He shrugged. “I’m pretty curious to know what it’s going to be. And I’m not the only one.”
“The carving’s done. The rest will be finished tomorrow.” He set the bowl aside and wiped his hands on his apron. “And for your information, I didn’t ask for the extension. That was someone else.”
“Okay,” I said, suddenly very interested in the art over the fireplace. What was I doing chatting with this asshole?
“You know, Miss Thorssen, I have heard of contestants sucking up to judges, but I have never heard of it the other way round.” He picked up another large silver tray and disappeared out the doorway.
I set down my glass on a wood table, hoping immediately for a water stain. My stomach churned, and I realized I needed to eat something. Maybe I could hang out in the kitchen with the staff for the rest of the night, eat rich canapés, and trade barbs with Mr. Personality Chef. Now, there was a plan.
A woman server with kind blue eyes stepped up to my elbow as I frowned at the fire. “Try these,” she said, handing me a plate of warm crepes and a fork .“They’ve got rum in them. They keep all of us back here sane.”
I thanked her and accepted the plate. “I guess I better go back to the party before, you know.”
She nodded and went back to work. I sighed, popped a mouthful of huckleberry-rum crepe in my mouth, and headed back into the milling crowd. It seemed to have gotten larger. I checked my watch—eight-thirty. We’d been here only half an hour. How long would Maggie want to stay?
The next forty-five minutes passed slowly for me. I had another plate of crepes, two shrimp rolls, some sushi, a glass of fumé blanc, carrot and celery sticks, more sushi. One can never eat too much sushi, can one? I smiled at people but struck up no conversations, preferring to blend into the wallpaper. Well, the walls were log, massive ones, the furniture oh-so-correct in the grand lodge manner, the large room easily containing the fifty or sixty guests. No one talked to me, a fact I found more curious than hurtful. Everyone was too self-absorbed to bother. No one asked me about the bandage on my hand, even though I had a story all ready about a stapler accident. I didn’t even get hit on, which might have been because of Maggie’s yellow sweater or the sushi juice on my chin. I prefer to think it was the sweater.
Commotions attended the entrances of several guests. First Harrison Ford came in (I recognized him this time) with one of his children, then Roscoe Penn blew in, dolled up in knee-high snakeskin and an Indian blanket jacket. For peace of mind, I stayed away from him. He probably wouldn’t talk to me anyway, at a party like this.
Then the fun started. Reenie clapped her hands and announced the evening’s entertainment. First Merle brought out a small ice carving he’d made in honor of the cause du jour. It turned out we were raising money for wilderness areas. The ice depicted a forest of pine trees with tiny bears and moose and elk embedded in the icy wonderland. Merle had colored the animals with food coloring or something so that they stood out among the white trees. He even included a tiny green tent and two wee backpackers. Coexisting with nature, I guess.
The bidding on the ice carving, a symbolic gesture for the wilderness itself, began at five thousand dollars. It rose steadily, with no help from me, to thirty-five thousand. At that point Reenie stopped the bidding and said she would be glad to take everyone’s final bid (or just a little bit more, ha-ha-ha, it’s for a fabulous cause) in the form of a personal check made out to the Rocky Mountain Wilderness Alliance and dropped on the silver tray that was just now being circulated by dear James. How subtle, how coy.
The second part of the entertainment began as I exited a luxurious guest bathroom tricked up in granite and bent willow. There had been a bit of a wait before the woman ahead of me got her face rearranged and squirted another bottle of Poison on her cleavage. She paused as she came out, allowing me the honor of her odor and a dear sliver of smile. My stay was much quicker, long enough to wipe the sushi juice off and freshen the lipstick. As I came out I too paused, but because of what I saw.
Framed against drawn curtains stood Mistress Isa, White Queen of the Runes, and her pal Peter. Isa wore a floor-length cream wool robe tonight, trimmed in fur, over her habitual turtleneck and slacks. Already she had the runes out on a blue velvet tablecloth in front of her and was examining them for a young woman. About half the party attended this demonstration idly, drinks in hand, while the other half talked and ignored the whole thing. I positioned myself between the two groups, close enough to see, but not so close as to be seen. I tried to find Maggie and Earl but couldn’t spot them in the crowd.
Isa smoothed the sides of her platinum hair with both hands, eyes closed, conjuring up the spirits in the runes. The young woman whispered to her boyfriend and giggled. Somebody in the back yelled, “I think you’re levitating, Muff!” Muffy giggled again. Isa frowned, an angry stare at the disbelievers.
“The runes are ancient ties with the world, a cord that draws us nearer Mother Earth and the bonds we refuse to acknowledge in our everyday lives,” she lectured, challenging us to put aside our frivolous ways. “The runes tell stories of war, death, and destruction, of heartache and life beyond the body, of spiritual paths that take us out of mean pursuits that pollute our bodies.” She looked sharply at the cocktail glasses and wineglasses in everyone’s hands. More than a few dropped their glasses lower. “The runes illuminate our inner souls, release energy and creative fevers, foretell events. With the runes you can be anyone, go anywhere, do anything.”
Now she had them. The attentive crowd was still, silent, ready for Isa to unlock the secrets of power, money, and success. James, who had been chatting with the movie star, moved away to listen to Isa, along with several others. Isa smiled benignly and began the reading.
The first rune Isa held up for the group to see was Ty
r, the upward-facing arrow, ancient symbol of war. Mistress Isa eyed Muffy, a slender brunette with preppie lawyer written all over her, and declared that some legal action was imminent for her. The woman smiled knowingly and flung back her shoulder-length hair. Isa placed the rune back on the tablecloth and picked up the next one.
“Raido,” she said loudly, holding up an R-shaped rune. “Some think Raido is symbolic for riding, for the knights who avenge the lady’s honor on horseback. This is closer to the truth—for Raido is the tightness inside of us. Our responsibility to honor, to justice. Combined with Tyr, Raido tells us that your legal problems will be resolved favorably, with honor and honesty.”
The lawyer whispered something to her boyfriend, and both laughed. Probably calculating their take from the lawsuit they were involved in. I glanced at Big Roscoe, rocking back on the heels of his boots, thumbs in his belt loops, giddy. The lawyer probably worked for him.
When I looked back, Peter had spotted me, his dark eyes darting immediately away after the brief acknowledgment. So much for concealment. Isa finished the reading with an eloquent speech about Mannaz, the entwined M that stands for mankind, all earth’s folk. Cooperation with peers, Isa counseled, in the legal affairs to follow. A plea bargain, or out-of-court settlement, I guessed she meant. Or not pushing so hard for the corner office.
The runes were swept back into the box held by Peter. He waved his long, slender fingers over the facedown runes in preparation for another reading. I blinked and rattled the ice in my glass. Time for a refresher.
Maggie and Earl sat behind the bar on a sofa, talking. I asked the bartender for tonic and a lime and snagged another shrimp roll on the way to break up the cozy tête-à-tête. It was ten o’clock, and I had done my duty. I wouldn’t have minded talking to Peter again, but with Isa so close by, that seemed impossible. I was ready to bag it.
Nordic Nights (The Alix Thorssen Mysteries) Page 18
