When the veal arrived, Ginny ordered another glass of Chardonnay. By the time the meal was over she had four wineglasses in varying degrees of fullness lined up in front of her as if she was a pack rat stockpiling sustenance for a dry day. Would those glasses be considered half full or half empty? Claire wondered. When the check arrived, the waiter placed it in the middle of the table. Ginny grabbed for it.
“I’ll get it,” Claire said.
“It’s on me,” Ginny replied, whipping out her credit card.
“It was my idea to have lunch.”
“Don’t worry about it. I had an excellent divorce lawyer.”
As they left the restaurant, Ginny wove her way through the maze of tables, bumping into one and apologizing for the silverware that clattered to the floor.
When they reached the parking lot, Claire became afraid to send Ginny out onto the road in her condition. Even if she didn’t hurt herself, she could hurt someone else. She lived close enough that she could walk home, but Claire doubted she would.
“I’d be happy to give you a ride home,” she offered. “You could take a nap, walk back, pick up your car later.”
“What do I need a nap for?” Ginny snapped.
“You’ve been drinking.”
“I had one glass of wine. Big deal. So what?”
“You had four glasses of wine.”
“I did not.”
“You did. I counted them.”
“You’re counting my drinks, Clairier?” Ginny’s face turned red and puffy with anger. Like liquid in a too-full glass her emotions seemed to be sloshing over the edge. “Who the hell are you? My mother?”
Claire put out her hand. “Just give me the keys, Ginny.”
“You know ever since you reappeared in my life, you’ve done nothing but criticize me. I write artbabble. I drink too much. I lied about my alibi. Well you’re wrong about one thing. I’m quite capable of driving my own self home if you would just get the fuck out of my way.” She took the keys from her purse and shook them in Claire’s face.
A well-dressed woman walking down Canyon Road stopped and stared at them. A tussle in Geronimo’s parking lot went beyond unseemly in Claire’s mind. She stepped aside, let Ginny pass and watched her stumble across the parking lot to her car, wondering what to do next. About the only thing she could do now was follow her home, and then what? Pick up the pieces if Ginny ran into something on the way? As Claire began walking toward her truck, she heard the sounds of an engine starting and wheels crunching gravel. Then the sound of a car racing across the lot. Claire turned around to see Ginny’s black BMW backing rapidly in her direction.
“Stop,” she yelled, but Ginny seemed to have lost control of the car and it careened toward Claire.
Time entered another dimension. The BMW was speeding toward Claire, yet at the same time it appeared to be moving in slow motion, allowing her time to watch in disbelief. She knew she had to get out of its path. She needed shelter and she needed protection. The only shelter handy was under the bed of her truck. At the last second Claire threw herself out of the way and under the truck. Ginny hit the brake and the car spun gravel, barely missing the next vehicle. The gravel flew like buckshot and stung Claire. She felt she was a shooting-gallery target that had been shot full of holes. Ginny shut off her engine, opened the door, jumped out and ran toward Claire, who was crawling out from under her truck.
“Oh, God,” she cried. “I must have popped it into reverse instead of drive. I am so very sorry, Clairier.”
Claire brushed the gravel from her hands and knees and examined herself, half expecting to find bullet holes but seeing only scrapes and bruises. “You don’t need to floor your car to get out of the parking lot, Ginny.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled, letting her shoulders droop. Her spine appeared to contract as her body sank into a posture of remorse. She handed Claire the keys. “Would you park my car and give me a ride home in your truck, please?”
Claire took the keys and got into Ginny’s car, which was still in reverse. She looked at the gears and saw that one would have to be very out of control or very drunk to mistake reverse for drive.
Ginny huddled in the corner of Claire’s cab and her body language was contrite on the way home. All she said was, “When I knew you in college, I never would have imagined you driving a truck.”
Ginny apologized again when they reached her house. Claire gave her back the car keys and said, “Promise me you won’t go after your car until you’re sober.”
“I promise,” Ginny replied. “Thanks ever so much for bringing me home.”
Claire drove down Acequia Madre and parked in the first lot she came to, which was at Downtown Subscription, feeling bruised and shaken and not up to driving any farther. Books of the West, the bookstore she intended to visit, was on the far side of town, but the walk would do her good. She walked down Paseo de Peralta past the Gerald Peters Gallery, turned left onto East De Vargas, walked through downtown and across the Plaza. Santa Fe might have been a ghost town for all she saw of it.
All she could think about was Ginny Bogardus, wondering if she had really been angry, drunk and out of control or if she’d been pretending. There was a lot of wine left in the glasses. If she hadn’t been drunk, what could have prompted her to aim her car at Claire? Poor anger management, or was Ginny more calculating than she pretended to be? What good would it do her to run over Claire and have two old friends dead in the space of a month? Scaring her, however, might serve some purpose. Obviously she and Elizabeth were not simpatico, but the dinner alibi had served both of their interests. Claire didn’t believe it for a minute, but she didn’t know what she could do about it other than tell Detective Amaral. She wasn’t afraid to tell him, but she hated to think that her only defense was to keep pointing her finger at someone else.
When she got to Books of the West, Josh Brainard sat her down in the back room and left her alone while she picked through a box of Western Americana he had recently acquired from an estate. The routine of picking up the books, examining them and setting aside the ones she thought the library could use helped calm her nerves and restore some sense of tranquility to the day. She found five books she wanted and paid Josh for them.
As she walked out of the store, she glanced at her watch. It was five-thirty. If she left Santa Fe at this hour, she’d be battling commuter traffic as well as driving into the setting sun. There was something else she could accomplish here before she left for home.
With the books in hand, she walked to the main library on Washington, where the bulletin board was always a good source of information. She searched through the notices of lectures, conferences, events, massage therapists, yoga instructors and astrologers and found a posting for Forest Watch on a sheet of recycled construction paper. The notice had a listing of conferences for the spring season. She checked the dates and found there had been a conference in Santa Fe the week of April 21, and the subject had been restoring endangered species to New Mexico’s forests. A Web site was listed and a number to call for further information. She copied the URL and phone number.
Then she walked back across town to her truck and drove to Tano Road. The hour of the day when the runner had seen someone arguing with Evelyn Martin was approaching. Claire was curious about the evening light, the lay of the land and how much the runner would have been able to see. As she drove west on Tano Road the sun outlined the clouds with gold and highlighted the dead bug smears on her windshield. At this time of day beauty was intensified, but so was ugliness. It was a light that emphasized every flaw and wrinkle.
Claire remembered exactly where Evelyn’s house was and parked in the driveway. Apparently no one had decided to exorcise Evelyn’s spirit yet; the house looked just as empty as it had the last time. The windows were still blank. It was a house where someone had died, but Claire had to wonder whether it was a house where someone had lived. Had Evelyn had any life here? She walked down Tano Road and stopped beside the juniper bushes. Th
e land sloped and there were steps leading down toward the house, which would make it possible for two people to stand on different levels and create an illusion about their respective heights. Two people of different sizes might appear to be the same height, or conversely, two people of the same size could appear to be different heights. As the sun sank over the horizon, one last ray moved across Tano Road, warming the stucco walls of the house and landing on Claire’s hair. She could see her reflection in one of the blank windows. It was impossible to tell in this light whether her hair was silver or gold. The sun dropped behind the horizon, turning Claire’s hair gray and the house the color of mud.
She heard the sound of feet pounding the road and stepped out from behind a juniper. The runner approaching was a thin woman with long white arms and legs and a lanky, loose way of moving. Her light-brown hair bobbed up and down behind her. Claire judged her age to be mid-thirties. She seemed very focused on the run and didn’t notice Claire standing in the shadows beside the road.
“Excuse me,” Claire said.
The woman darted to the side, then began running in place. “You startled me.” She grimaced. “I don’t like this house. A woman was murdered here. You’re not thinking about renting it, are you?”
“No. I knew Evelyn Martin, the woman who was murdered here.”
“Really?” said the woman. She stopped running and stared wide-eyed at Claire.
“Have we ever met?” Claire asked. “You look familiar.”
The woman shook her head and said, “I don’t believe so.”
“Are you the runner who talked to Detective Amaral?”
The woman’s hands were on her hips and her knees were slightly bent. Her expression turned wary. “How do you know about that?”
“He thinks it was me you saw arguing with Evelyn Martin.” Claire was aware that she was taking a risk. If the woman perceived her as a threat, she might tell Detective Amaral, who could consider this trying to influence a witness. If Amaral indicted her and the case ever went to court, the woman might identify her just because Claire’s face had become familiar. If she antagonized the woman, she might identify her because she disliked her.
“It might have been you,” the woman said, studying Claire. “It was at this time of day. The sun was setting. The women both had highlighted hair. Their age was around fifty. One of the women was heavier than you.”
“How much heavier?”
“One was a fourteen, the other was a twelve, is what I told Amaral.”
“What about height?”
“They were about the same height.”
“Were they standing on the steps?”
“They might have been.”
“Were they arguing?”
“I’m not sure I should be telling you this if Amaral considers you a suspect.” She began jogging in place again.
“If I am a suspect, it will come out sooner or later.”
“One woman seemed very angry. I heard her call the other one a bitch.”
“Had you ever seen Evelyn Martin before then?”
“No—she was reclusive. She never came out of the house. I wish they’d get this place rented and someone would move in. It gives me the creeps.”
“Do you live nearby?”
“Just down the road.” She looked at her watch. “Is that all?”
“Yes. Thanks for your help.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Claire watched her run away and disappear into the growing darkness like Alice’s white rabbit. She looked back at the house and saw the shadows of the juniper reaching for it like arms full of evil intent. The shadows could work on her behalf. She wasn’t a lawyer, but she thought a good one could make use of the shadows. The runner was right—this was a spooky place. She got in her car and drove back to Albuquerque.
Chapter Ten
WHEN CLAIRE OPENED THE DOOR TO HER HOUSE that night, she had the same sensation she’d had since learning about Evelyn’s death—that her home was not the haven it had once appeared to be. As if he sensed her unease, Nemesis allowed her to pick him up and hug him before darting out the door. She walked through the house, looking for signs of disturbance, wondering if Evelyn Martin had taken anything else while she was here, something that might not have been missed yet. Claire examined the living room, the bedrooms, the bathrooms and the kitchen but found nothing amiss. The mug with coffee residue at the bottom was still in her kitchen sink, an unread newspaper lay on the sofa in the living room, the books in the bedroom were in place on the shelves. She played back the phone messages, found one from Lynn Granger and called her back.
“Did Amaral check your alibi?” Lynn asked.
“Yes.”
“I figured if he called me then he contacted all of us. Steve and I were home on April twenty-first. Amaral got in touch with Miranda and asked her for an alibi, too. She was in Mexico on location for her new show.”
“You’ve heard from Miranda?”
“She contacted me after she heard from Amaral.” Lynn paused then asked in a hesitant voice, “How did Amaral know about the connection between Miranda and Evelyn, Claire? Did you tell him?”
“Yes,” Claire admitted. “I felt that I had to. I thought she should tell him herself, and I left a message for her with Erwin. But she never called me back. Amaral believes I fit the description of the woman the runner saw arguing with Evelyn.”
“Did you tell him about Miranda because you don’t have an alibi yourself?”
Although Lynn was speaking, Claire heard Steve’s skeptical voice. Lynn was her oldest friend, and Claire had always known her to be a trusting person. She had to overcome some skepticism herself before she told Lynn the truth about her lack of an alibi, but she did it for the sake of honesty and friendship. “Yes,” she said. “I was home with my cat as my witness.”
“What about Ginny and Elizabeth? Do you know if they have alibis?”
“I had lunch with Ginny today. She told me Elizabeth was in Santa Fe on the night in question and they had dinner together. It sounded like a manufactured alibi to me. After lunch I told her I thought she’d had too much to drink and that she shouldn’t drive home. We had an argument, and she almost ran me over with her car.”
“Deliberately?”
“I’m not sure whether or not it was deliberate. Maybe she was drunk. Maybe she was pretending to be drunk. It’s hard to tell with Ginny.” Claire was aware of the Freudian theory that the results of a person’s actions could be interpreted as the intent of that person’s actions. When the person wasn’t willing to admit her motives consciously, the subconscious took over. She supposed that principle could be applied to drinkers. Alcohol made it possible for unacknowledged anger to seize the moment.
“That makes you the only suspect who doesn’t have an alibi?” Lynn asked.
“Apparently.”
“Amaral can’t be serious about suspecting you, Claire, even if you don’t have an alibi.”
“I hope you’re right. I went to Evelyn’s house this evening. Amaral’s witness ran by and I talked to her. Her description was vague enough to fit any of us. The woman she saw had blond or gray hair and was middle-aged. I suppose Miranda is blonde by now, too.”
“The last time I saw her she had red hair. I have it on video. Would you like me to send you a copy?”
“Please.”
“The Lemon Pledge commercial and some other clips are on the tape. Have you checked your email today?”
“Not yet.”
“Miranda said she was going to send you one.” When Claire got off the phone she got on her computer and found the e-mail from Miranda. “Hi, Claire,” it began.
Erwin said you wanted to get in touch with me. It has been a long time, hasn’t it? I hope you’re doing well. As for me, the new series that I am working on is very promising. I play a mother, wouldn’t you know? We’re on location in Mexico and I am muy busy. I hardly have a moment to myself. Erwin said you wanted to talk about Evelyn. I did wonder if
she had set me up in college, but I didn’t believe she was capable of it until recent events. I don’t hold a grudge. Time wounds all heels. I have Erwin and my career. My life has turned out well and hers did not. Living well is the best revenge. Hope to see you again one of these days.
Miranda Kohl
Claire supposed that any day now technology would advance to the point where people could affix their signatures to their e-mail, but it hadn’t happened yet. Signatures played an important role in Claire’s profession. She studied them and felt they could reveal something about the state of mind of the inscriber. She had to rely on the tone of the e-mail to judge Miranda’s state of mind. It was so offhand and breezy it might have been dashed off by a college student. Miranda seemed far less troubled about Evelyn Martin than Claire was, but she had been on location on the night in question. She was not a suspect.
Claire began to ache from the tension of the day and from tumbling beneath her truck. She filled her bathtub with hot water, scented it with lavender oil and climbed in. The smell of the lavender and the heat of the water helped to put the day in perspective. The bad news was that Ginny had almost run her over and she had the scrapes and bruises to prove it. From the point of view of the investigation, however, there had been some good news. Elizabeth and Ginny’s alibis could well be bogus. The runner had not recognized her, making Amaral’s case more circumstantial. That she could be a suspect seemed so absurd—she hoped Amaral would drop his investigation and she would never have to mention the fact that she’d talked to the runner or that she doubted Ginny and Elizabeth’s alibis. She revised her gettingdivorced mantra and repeated it to herself. “You know who you are, you know what you haven’t done.”
In the morning she answered Miranda’s e-mail. “Nice to hear from you,” she wrote. “I’m glad to know you are doing well. I hope our paths cross again someday. I’ll look forward to the new series. Your old friend, Claire.”
Even though it was a short message, she rewrote it several times before sending it into cyberspace. No matter how often she rewrote it, the college-girl tone remained. It seemed to come naturally for former acquaintances to lapse into the lingo of the time they knew each other. Every group had its own way of talking. These days as people moved in and out of marriages, homes and jobs, language changed to fit their new circumstances. The only person she knew whose language was unlikely to have changed was Harrison. She imagined that the first words he ever spoke were pompous. She thought about his phrase, “the existential enigma of the self.” It was one of those phrases that could mean everything or nothing. One possible meaning was that it was the condition of humans to change, redefine themselves and wonder exactly who they were. Her old friends might not be wondering about their own identities, but she was. Even if they weren’t lying outright they could be using language to conceal their actions and intent. Miranda’s offhand breeziness, Lynn’s thoughtful hesitancy, Ginny’s drunken bravado, Elizabeth’s dramatic anger could all be performances.
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