by Meryl Sawyer
“It might take another dozen,” Zach said, his voice level. No way was he going to let Stegner rile him. “Have you seen or heard of anyone around here selling Roofies?”
“Roofies? In my club?” Stegner looked at him with a slack-jawed stare. He was sneaky as hell, but Zach believed he’d caught him off guard.
“Yeah, Stegner. Here in your club.”
The ridiculous spurs Stegner always wore clanged as he stomped over to the draft beer tap. “No Roofies around here, Sheriff.”
Stegner’s reaction confirmed Zach’s suspicions. Someone with West Coast connections—probably Angela Town-send or her studmuffin or—. Aw, hell, the possibilities were numerous. Many of the people who had second homes here lived on the West Coast. Any of them could have brought in the drug.
The question was who had the motive and the opportunity to drop one into Claire’s drink. She was a chick with balls bigger than most men’s. She’d gotten herself in trouble rescuing Lucy. A little over a year later, she’d raised a real stink about Khadafi, and made Zach look bad because he couldn’t do a damn thing about the bear.
And she’d brought to the attention of the art world the number of phony lithographs being passed off as the real thing. Yes, Claire Holt had more than her share of enemies.
But why would one of them slip her a Roofie?
Zach eyed the rattlesnake tattoo leering at him from the top of Stegner’s shoulder. He let Stegner stew for a few seconds before saying, “I just thought you might have heard something about someone bringing in Roofies from California. You usually know everything first.”
Zach had played to Stegner’s ego, but it didn’t work. Stegner merely shrugged, admitting nothing. Zach left, no closer to solving the case than he’d been that morning.
Seven
“Why did I let Zach Coulter make a fool of me?” Claire asked out loud even though only Lucy and Lobo were around. The dogs were in the back of the used Jeep she’d bought. They were half hanging out the window, more interested in keeping their noses in the wind than listening to her.
“You’re so stupid,” she muttered. She despised herself for allowing Zach to kiss her. She didn’t give a rip about that lowlife. He was crude and into down-and-dirty sex, the exact opposite of what she wanted in a man.
You’re as hot for me as your mother was for my old man.
“It’s not true!” She slammed the palm of her hand against the steering wheel. But if she was totally candid with herself, there was a kernel of truth to it. Some dark, primitive part of her psyche responded on an instinctive level to Zach Coulter. Had the same compelling sexual attraction lured her mother into a short fling with the town stud, Jake Coulter?
Like mother; like daughter.
There. That was the bare-bones truth. Now deal with it. Refuse to give in the way your mother gave into … into what? She thought a moment, then came up with the right word. Temptation. The mother she’d worshipped had given into temptation. Claire promised herself she’d be stronger, learn from her mother’s mistake.
She rounded the corner and saw The Rising Sun. On Sundays she opened the gallery at noon after having met her father at church and having had an early lunch with him. They had done this every Sunday since she’d returned home—until today. No doubt her father would be worried about her, which meant he’d appear at the gallery. And ask questions about Lobo.
She neared the gallery and saw her father’s customized van parked at the curb. She drove around behind the adobe building and drove under the shade of a cotton-wood, then rolled all the windows down and left the dogs in the car.
“You’re a coward,” she said to herself as she opened the back door of the gallery. She did not want to explain Lobo to her father. She loved Alexander Holt, and understood his pride because she’d inherited every ounce of it. The humiliation he’d suffered after her mother betrayed him still hurt him even after all these years. Seeing Zach Coulter, the image of his father, walking the streets of Taos only brought back the pain.
Alex Holt had given her mother everything, and had loved her with all his heart. But it hadn’t been enough. She’d taken up with Jake Coulter, a man notorious for his affairs. Her father had been devastated when his wife had been killed in an automobile crash while running away with her lover. The exposure of their affair to the entire town had added humiliation to his grief.
Her father could be difficult and demanding, but she reminded herself how much he truly loved her. After her mother’s tragic death, Claire had been inconsolable, blaming herself. Her father had comforted her, and for the next few years had been both father and mother to her.
Claire came through the back entrance to the gallery and saw her father’s wheelchair stationed at the front door. At this angle she couldn’t see his handsome face with his square jaw and full head of hair that once had been blue-black, but now was the color of burnished pewter. She saw the curve of Maude Pfister’s broad hip as the woman stood in her usual place behind the wheelchair. Since her father had lost the use of his legs after a stroke five years ago, Maude had functioned as a live-in housekeeper.
Alex Holt never used the word nurse, unwilling to admit he was disabled, but that’s what Maude really was. The actual housekeeping was done twice a week by a cleaning service, and Tía Sanchez came in to prepare the meals.
“Good morning.” Claire tried for a cheery voice as she unlocked the front door.
“You missed church, honey,” her father said as Maude lowered his wheelchair down the two steps into the gallery. “Is anything wrong?”
The older woman winked, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners. Maude was built like a tombstone with a square, flat chest and hulking legs, but she had a quick smile and a great sense of humor. She had to have or she wouldn’t have lasted all these years with Claire’s father.
“I didn’t mean to worry you, Daddy. I overslept. Sorry.”
He wheeled his chair over to Wild Horse, leaving Maude and Claire behind. He gazed at the bronze that been her mother’s prize possession, a piece Claire knew he hated because it reminded him of everything her mother had achieved, then had thrown away for another man. Claire had kept it all these years and gave it the prime spot in the gallery because it represented the high standard of work she wanted in her gallery.
And it reminded her of the mother she’d loved and still missed even after all this time.
Whenever she looked at Wild Horse, she remembered the loving patience with which her mother had taught her young daughter about Southwestern art. Even though Claire was grown now, there was a part of her that remained a child who longed for the nurturing companionship of her mother.
What would have happened had mother lived? Claire wondered.
Finally, her father said, “I called you last night. You never called back.”
Maude rolled her eyes upward as if inspecting the gray bangs that hung across her forehead. It was her way of saying Alex was in one of his moods. When he was in a snit, nothing could be done to appease him. Waiting him out was the only alternative and both women knew it.
“It was too late to call,” Claire said, resenting her father’s attitude. She refused to account for every move she made. Her father would overwhelm her if she allowed it.
She loved him and understood why he’d become so bitter. Fate had dealt him a cruel hand. First her mother betrayed him, then just as he was adjusting to life without her, a devastating stroke deprived him of the use of his legs.
He spun around to face her, pivoting the wheelchair with amazing dexterity. “Were you out with Seth again?”
Claire shook her head, saddened by the hopeful expression on his face. Nothing would make her father happier than having her marry Seth. Alex longed for grandchildren—especially a grandson who would one day inherit the bank.
A successful attorney, Seth was perfect in her father’s eyes. But Claire had never been serious about Seth, and now that she knew he’d lied, she had no intention of going out with him again.<
br />
“You were working late again, weren’t you?” Her father’s tone was once more accusatory.
“Don’t be hard on her, Alex,” Maude spoke up. “Claire’s business is as important to her as the bank is to you.”
Her father’s huff clearly said he had his doubts. He had tried to talk Claire out of reopening The Rising Sun Gallery. He didn’t want her following in her mother’s footsteps. If he had his way, she’d be a vice president at the bank.
With a flash of red, Seth’s Ferrari pulled up to the curb, and Claire stifled a groan. She itched to question Seth about his version of what had happened at The Hideaway, but she reminded herself that she couldn’t. Not only didn’t she want her father to find out about this mess, she had promised Zach that she would keep quiet.
Wearing a lightweight navy sport coat and tie, Seth breezed into the gallery. A smile spread across her father’s face, but Claire caught Maude’s slight grimace and realized the other woman didn’t particularly care for Seth. By Taos standards, which were Western and extremely casual, Seth with his expensive sports car and Harvard ties, stood out like an orchid in a weed patch.
Seth might not have fit in with the local “look,” but he had fit right into the business community. Alexander Holt, impressed by Seth’s status as a Harvard law school graduate, had paved the way for the attorney who had practiced briefly in Los Angeles, before moving to Taos. Even with her father’s help, establishing a lucrative law practice in Taos hadn’t been easy. Most wealthy people came from other states where they already had attorneys, but Claire gave Seth credit for working hard and not relying on the money he’d inherited.
“Claire, you’re all right,” Seth said the second he saw her. “Whew! I’ve been so worried. What happened to you?” Then he spotted her father across the gallery and walked toward him. “Hello, Alex. What do you think of all the excitement?”
Claire braced herself. Her father hated surprises especially when they involved anyone close to him. He liked to believe those closest to him confided in him. She wished she’d had the opportunity to break the news to him.
“Excitement?” her father asked with a smile for Seth. “You mean Morrell’s murder? I’m just surprised someone hadn’t bumped him off before now.”
Seth’s attention was focused entirely on her father, which wasn’t unusual. “Why’d he have to get himself killed at The Hideaway? Now that creep, Zach Coulter, is on the case. I was out at Max Bassinger’s working on a real estate contract and Coulter barged in, asking questions.”
“I was dead set against giving that troublemaker the job,” her father said. “He isn’t worth a damn.”
Claire couldn’t resist; she despised Zach, but she refused to attack him behind his back when he was trying to help her. “Personally, I’m glad to have Zach Coulter on this case. Do either of you seriously believe Ollie Hammond is capable of conducting this investigation?”
“Well, the police chief did find the hit and run driver who bashed into Irma Pacheo’s van,” Maude put in. “Of course, the man’s front fender was hanging half-off.”
Seth frowned at Maude. Claire knew he didn’t care for the woman, never really understanding her wry sense of humor.
Her father glowered at Claire. “Mark my words, Coulter will screw up this case. He hasn’t got what it takes.”
“That’s the truth,” Seth agreed. “He isn’t even looking for the killer. He’s just trying to drag innocent people into the mess like Claire and myself.”
“What?” her father’s voice boomed through the gallery like a volley from a cannon.
“Seth and I went to Hogs and Heifers to hear Flash and the Rusty Roots,” Claire said, determined not to let Seth put his slant on the events. “The drink had hit me pretty hard. I went to the restroom, and when I came out, I couldn’t find Seth.”
“I looked everywhere for you. How did you get home?” Seth asked.
“A friend gave me a ride.” Now this was stretching the truth. At dawn she’d hitchhiked home, catching a ride with a man who was delivering fresh-baked bread from the pueblo’s famous outdoor ovens.
“Why on earth would you go to Bam Stegner’s place?” her father asked.
“It was my idea.” Seth’s voice was smooth. “The Rusty Roots is the best band to play here in years. Half the town went to hear them.”
Her father didn’t look convinced, but since it was Seth’s idea, there was little he could—or would—say to criticize.
“I read in this morning’s paper that someone had stolen Bam Stegner’s bear,” Maude said.
Her father scowled, his brows forming a deep V. “Claire, you didn’t.”
“I swear. I did not take Khadafi, and I don’t know who did.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a couple interested in baskets from one of the pueblos. Claire explained that she had baskets, but since pueblo Indians weren’t nomadic, they did not need woven baskets to carry their belongings the way the plains Indians did. Instead pueblo tribes crafted exquisite pottery.
She led them to the back of the gallery where she had a display of distinctive black and white pottery with intricate designs from the Acoma Pueblo. While the couple examined it, and the other pottery by the talented Diane Reyna from the Taos pueblo, Claire heard Seth and her father making plans for lunch. A few minutes later, they left, saying they were going to lunch.
As soon as the couple bought a modestly priced vase, Claire dashed out to get the dogs. Lucy was asleep, but Lobo’s watchful eyes tracked her every move. When she went back into the gallery with the dogs at her heels, Nevada was waiting for her.
She mustered a smile, but the familiar surge of anger pulsed through her. She’d discovered Nevada, nurtured his talent only to have him desert her fledgling gallery for Duncan Morrell.
Nevada smiled at Claire, and she had to admit he was a handsome charmer who knew how to merchandise himself. His jet black hair was in long, sleek braids, which hung from behind his ears to the middle of his back like a Sioux warrior’s. As usual, he wore leather jeans so tight they squeaked when he moved. The belt circling his trim waist was multi-colored woven horsehair with a silver buckle the size of a saucer.
His Navajo mother belonged to the Lost Hills clan, but she’d married a Cherokee blackjack dealer who was part Irish. They had lived in Las Vegas, so when their son was born, he was named Nevada Murphy. Always one who’d pursued commercial success with frightening determination, Nevada dropped his common last name when he began painting.
His warm blue eyes were a sharp contrast to his gloss-black hair and copper-colored skin. He used his eyes and his wide, disarming smile to get what he wanted. And Claire knew exactly what Nevada wanted—to be the next R. C. Gorman.
“How’ve you been?” Nevada asked with another smile.
“Fine,” Claire said, recalling he’d barely nodded at her two nights ago when she and Seth had been seated near Nevada at Stegner’s club on the night Duncan Morrell had been brutally murdered. Duncan’s death had changed everything. She knew exactly why Nevada was here—smiling for all he was worth.
“Looks like Artistic Impressions is going to be closed for a while,” he said. “I don’t know if Duncan Morrell’s wife will reopen it.”
Claire shrugged, stubbornly refusing to give Nevada the opening he wanted.
“Next weekend is the Rodeo de Taos and Art Festival,” he said, as if she weren’t totally aware of the event which officially opened the tourist season. He looked at the gallery walls, then stated the obvious, “You don’t have a showcase artist yet.”
“I don’t need one,” she informed him. “I have a few Navajo wedding blankets I’ll be hanging. I’m showcasing Jim Lightfoot’s collection of drums.”
“I’ll help you, Claire,” Nevada said quietly. “You can sell my oils.”
She knew that this was as close as an apology as she was likely to get from Nevada, but it didn’t change her mind. He was uniquely talented, and extremely marketable, but she refu
sed to get involved with him. As soon as opportunity knocked, he’d dump her again.
“I can’t help you, Nevada, but someone will. Try one of the other galleries.”
“You need me,” he said with more than a hint of sarcasm, “yet you won’t help me. I did what I had to do, what was best for my career. You’re just being stubborn.”
“How many prints did you authorize Duncan Morrell to make?” she asked.
Nevada hesitated. She had warned him about Duncan’s ethics. If Nevada authorized a hundred reproductions of an original, Morrell probably flooded the market with thousands. No doubt he’d pocketed the money without telling Nevada.
“I let him reproduce two dozen originals.”
“Two dozen?” She tried to calculate how many Duncan might have reproduced legitimately, and how many more he undoubtedly counterfeited without Nevada’s permission. “That’s overexposure and you know it. Now each original oil will be worth less.”
“Duncan thought—”
“Duncan Morrell only took care of himself,” she insisted, once again amazed at Duncan’s ability to charm people. Women adored him, even famous actresses like Vanessa Trent, she thought, recalling Vanessa’s stricken expression when she’d learned Duncan had been murdered. Fools were born every minute.
Nevada’s face turned sullen. “Most tourists can’t afford originals. Prints are a gold mine.”
“Not anymore. Now they’re quicksand. Remember all those galleries the Beverly Hills Police department shut down because they were selling phony prints? The galleries eventually reopened, but who do you think got hurt? The artist.”
“No one ever proved Duncan was involved in that scandal. He wouldn’t ruin my career,” Nevada insisted. “He was going to make me a star.”
That was the trouble with Nevada, she thought. An ego the size of the Hindenberg. Duncan Morrell would have kicked babies aside to make a dime. Ruining Nevada’s career by flooding the market with phony prints wouldn’t have given him a second thought.