Bye, Bye, Love

by Virginia Swift

  Cat slipped out of her coat, a perfectly tailored, glove-soft leather job the color of corn silk, and inspected the places where melting slush was leaving water spots. “This particular garment might have been an unwise choice today,” she observed, draping it across the back of a chair, reaching for her drink, raising her glass in salutation. It was a squat old-fashioned glass, not a fancy-stemmed martini glass (saloon, not boutique). She took a large, grateful swallow.

  “You never can tell about winter weather here,” Sally said.

  “It’s not just the weather. I assume you understood that I was making a statement,” Cat told her.

  Sally drank a little more coffee, watching Cat’s eyes, and nodded over the rim of her cup.

  “Thomas told me that some of them were animal rights fanatics,” said Cat. “The Dub-Dubs, as he’s named them.”

  “Looks like,” said Sally, wanting to coax but not divulge.

  “I thought I’d let them know where I stood,” Cat said, setting her glass on the table.

  “I think you succeeded,” Sally said.

  “I’d better watch my back,” said Cat. “That Lark looked like the type who might decide to come pour pig blood on me some day when I’m lunching at Chinois.”

  “She’s a woman of firm convictions,” Sally agreed.

  Cat snorted. “Fuck her convictions. I’ve seen places where thousands of people are sick with AIDS because the men in charge, from the village chief to the president of the country, are too damned ignorant and evil to admit that the plague spreads through sex. I’ve seen women who know how to make the most beautiful crafts go begging in the street because they can’t get a loan of thirty-five dollars to start up a little business that would make them self-sufficient for life. I’ve seen people bathing in and drinking out of rivers so polluted, they get sick before they get dry. I’ve spent the better part of the last five years in places where children have worse lives than most dogs in Wyoming, or any place else in the U.S., for that matter. Let’s just say animal rights isn’t a high priority with me,” Cat said, draining the rest of her drink and motioning to the day bartender, who had his professional radar on. Looked like he’d been expecting a refill request from their table in fairly short order.

  “And so you think...” Sally prompted.

  “That this is abso-fucking-lutely ridiculous,” Cat said, enfolding her empty glass with her hands, interlacing her ringed fingers, staring down at her stacked thumbs. “I can’t believe that this is what Nina left behind.”

  “Wild West?” Sally asked, taking the last swig of her coffee and welcoming the arrival of another cup, glad to see that the bartender had taken the order as not simply another martini, but another round.

  Cat looked up from her thumbs. “Yeah. Nina had a lot of money,” she explained.

  “I’m not surprised,” Sally said, expecting elaboration. “Most people would be. She played the whole ‘screw capitalism, I’m an artist’ thing to the hilt,” Cat said.

  Sally made the obvious assumption. “But while she was doing that, she had you managing her money.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Cat nodded. “Not that I didn’t have high ideals. We used to sing protest songs together. Even did a kind of Mamas and Papas thing with Stone and my ex,” she began.

  “I know,” Sally said. Cat’s husband, one of Stone’s tight drug buddies, had OD’d. Rolling Stone had run a really heart-wrenching story.

  “I didn’t much feel like singing anymore, and Nina’s career was taking off. So we made a deal. We’d stay true to what we believed, and she’d keep on singing. I’d handle the financial end of things, and kind of look out for her. I’m two years older. It came naturally. Especially after our mom and dad died.”

  Sally wondered if there had been some tragedy that had taken both parents from the Cruz sisters. Cat understood. “No, no, nothing like that. My mom died in eighty-six from lung cancer. She was a two-packer, and it was horrible— drawn out, excruciating. My dad went in ninety-three. Heart attack on the golf course. We decided we should never smoke or learn to play golf.”

  Oh Cat. Oh Cruz sisters.

  “It was a good partnership. It turns out I’m good at managing money, and Nina, God knows, was good at singing, and not half bad at songwriting, either. You can’t imagine how much a song like ‘Ruby Rose’ or ‘Down to Dust’ makes in royalties every year,” Cat said.

  Sally had no idea, but it must be big money. Everyone from Lucinda Williams to Vanessa Williams had covered Nina’s timeless “Ruby Rose,” and the last time Sally had been in New York, much to her horror, she’d heard the Hollyridge Strings version of “Down to Dust” in the hotel elevator.

  “She trusted me. Not that we didn’t get into it from time to time—we’re sisters, right? But Nina understood that her money made shitloads of money in my hands, and she pretty much left it to me to manage things. We did great, if I do say so myself. I ended up handling some things for other musicians, who’d come to me on her recommendation. Did pretty well for them, too.

  “But in the last eighteen months, she started doing stuff without telling me.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Sally asked.

  Cat shook her head. “Everything. This whole Wild West project, for one. Incorporating the foundation, hiring people, and who the hell knows what else. That’s what I’m going to try to find out by going through her stuff, although I wouldn’t be surprised if Kelly Lee and Mr. Whitebird have squirreled away some documents they’d rather I didn’t see.”

  “Why?” Sally asked.

  “Because Kelly Lee Brisbane is the most deceitful, manipulative, self-serving creep on the planet,” Cat answered.

  “Don’t hold back, Cat,” said Sally.

  “I’m serious. Why the hell do you think she calls herself Kali? Talk about goddess complexes,” she finished.

  “How long have you known her?” asked Sally.

  “Forever. Nina brought her down to Santa Fe, to a family thing, maybe fifteen years ago. They’d been friends for a couple of years by then. They met in Aspen. Nina had a way of collecting acolytes. A select few, like Nels Willen, actually became friends. Most of them worshiped her for a while and then moved on. But not Kelly Lee. She sank her hooks in and never let go.”

  “Did she call herself Kali back then?” Sally said.

  “Nope. In those days, she even had a last name. She was just a little blonde Utah snow bunny who worked for some biotech firm in Salt Lake City and spent her big paycheck on lift tickets.”

  Snow bunny? An odd way to talk about a woman Stone Jackson said had a Ph.D. in biology. But Cat was on a roll. “As the years passed, she began to imitate Nina in ways that got weirder and weirder. It wasn’t just the clothes and the haircuts and the politics. Her sentences, her phrasing, every opinion about everything. About eight years ago, they both got heavily into green politics, and, I guess, animal rights. That’s when Kelly Lee started referring to herself as Kali.”

  “Were they lovers?” Sally asked.

  Cat took a deep breath. “Yeah, they were. Nina believed that heterosexuality and monogamy and sexual convention of all kinds were hang-ups. She thought human desires were a whole lot more complicated and varied than our society permits, and she wasn’t going to be hemmed in. As a matter of fact, I agree, and I didn’t have any problem with her being bisexual. I reserve the right to decide who’s a jerk and who’s not. I liked a lot of Nina’s women, but this girl was bad news from day one.”

  “Did they live together?”

  “Not at first. Nina bought a condo in Sundance, and they used to get together there. Sometimes Kali would come out to California to visit. They were in and out of each other’s lives. I don’t know about Kali, but there were plenty of other people who were close to Nina. That is, until she found Shady Grove and moved out to Wyoming.”

  “And since then?”

  “Who knows? Wyoming’s a million miles from anywhere. I assume lots of her admirers thought she’d gone to the dark side o
f the moon,” Cat said.

  Sally laughed. “No offense taken, Cat,” she said.

  Cat appeared surprised that any offense might have been given, and plugged on. “Kelly Lee, of course, was from Utah, so she probably thought settling in Wyoming was just kind of like going to Oregon or something. She moved right in, as soon as she could. I was only out here once, but I paid attention to what was going on. They kept separate bedrooms, but they were definitely living together.”

  “From what those kids Quartz and Pammie told me,” Sally said, “they were inseparable. Or at least Kali made a point of sticking close to Nina. When did Whitebird come into the picture?”

  “Less than a year ago. I don’t know exactly how or where or why. And it blew my mind, when Stone and I got up here last night, that Whitebird was staying in Nina’s bedroom!”

  “Sounds cozy,” Sally said.

  “Sounds like a setup for somebody getting shot,” Cat replied coldly. “I know Kali was supposedly in Salt Lake when my sister was killed, but I told your Detective Atkins that if it were me, I’d be checking her story out pretty carefully. Especially since Nina got this idea about changing her will six months ago. Without consulting me, or even telling me about it! The first I knew was when she sent me a draft for my files.”

  “Were there a lot of changes?” Sally asked.

  “Not many. It had been years since she’d made a will, and apart from not mentioning it to me, it made sense to update. She’d made a few new bequests, eliminated a few of the old causes she didn’t care about anymore. The one big red flag was a huge endowment for the Wild West Foundation, which, to my knowledge, didn’t even exist before that. She didn’t use our lawyer to set it up. Which is why I’m going to rip her place apart, and tear every one of those fools a new asshole, until I get to the bottom of what’s going on.” Cat polished off her drink. “Seriously, that was the only thing that stood out. Mostly the changes weren’t any big deal. There was some stuff that I didn’t understand at first—like a donation to your women’s history center, for example—but that was easy enough to research and figure out. I took a look at your website, then went and got your book about Meg Dunwoodie. Plus, as I said, Nina told me how much she liked you, and, of course, she was big on women’s history. So I had no problem with the idea that she’d want to leave you a couple hundred thousand to do your work,” Cat said, as if such figures were chump change in her world.

  “Glad to hear it,” said Sally. “Did you say a couple hundred thousand?”

  “Yeah,” Cat answered. “Two-fifty, to be exact. Our lawyer will be in touch with your lawyer.”

  “Right,” said Sally. Two hundred fifty thousand? “Wow. I’m dumbfounded.”

  “Don’t be. I’m sure you’ll put it to good use,” said Cat. “If I hadn’t already had two martinis, I’d have them bring the wine list and order a bottle of champagne.”

  Sally thought that Cat Cruz would find the wine list at the Wrangler a big disappointment.

  Cat stared down at her empty glass. “Despite what her toadies think, Nina wasn’t a saint. She liked to play the martyr, and it was a pretty convincing act. But she broke more hearts than you can believe. She’d throw herself into a relationship, and then one day turn it off, and treat somebody who thought they were the love of her life like a total stranger.”

  “Not Stone Jackson, surely,” Sally said.

  Cat shook her head. “She had poor Thomas convinced that he was the root of all evil in her life for years. I think he still believes that, in some way. He’s never understood that she was part of his problem. The more sanctified she acted, the worse he looked. I’d call it codependency, but that’s such a hack word.”

  “Not if it’s the one that fits,” Sally said.

  “I guess. I just think that what happened wasn’t all his fault, or even the fault of his disease. They adored each other, and were bad for each other.”

  “That’s not the way he tells it,” said Sally.

  “Oh, he’s figured it out by now. A few months ago he called to let me know he’d bought a place in Wyoming. I asked him why he suddenly felt compelled to spend a big chunk of change on his own personal wind tunnel, and he laughed and said, ‘You know.’ And then, when Nina told me she’d asked him about him doing this benefit, I called Stone and told him I was sure he’d lost his goddamn mind, letting her jerk him around. And you know what he said? ‘Look, Cat. I’ve given up all my other joneses. Can’t you leave me just this last little addiction to pain?’ ”

  “You really care about him,” Sally observed.

  “I’ve known him more than thirty years. He was married to my sister for eight,” Cat said, fighting back tears. “He’s the only reason I’d let this insane hootenanny go on. He needs to say good-bye this way.”

  Strong feelings. Sally made a mental note and moved on. “If you don’t mind, I still don’t understand why you want my band on the program. You’ve got world-class talent. We don’t suck, but we’re not in their league. And as for raising money for Jimbo Perrine’s widow, you need to know that Jimbo was one loathesomely reactionary bad ol’ boy. Not that Mrs. Perrine and the kids don’t need the money, but they may not even want to accept it.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about that,” said Cat. “Not that many people turn down free money. And if she’s got issues, I’m sure you can talk her out of them.”

  “Me?” said Sally.

  “Of course. You’re the obvious choice to approach her.”

  Sally sighed. Of course she was. “Cat, what do you really want?” she asked, wishing there was more Jim Beam than coffee in her cup.

  “First, crazy as it may seem, I actually do believe in giving local folks a voice and a part. From what I’ve seen, it’s the main thing, whether it’s in Lhasa or Laramie,” Cat said. “I don’t know whether Wild West will survive three more days, or four more weeks, or into the cosmic future, but if it does, it’ll have to have local support.”

  “Okay. But you could do a whole lot better getting a bunch of elementary-school kids up there singing ‘We Are the World.’ Why the Millionaires?”

  “They’re your band. I want you around and in contact with these Dub-Dub fools, because Stone Jackson and I are convinced that you can help us nail whoever murdered my sister,” Cat finished fiercely.

  “Easy, Cat. The police haven’t called it murder—”

  “But they will. You know it. Especially with this Perrine guy getting shot, and Nels happening to find him. Something really bad is going on.”

  “Do you think Nels is in on it?” Sally asked.

  “I hope not. I’ve always liked him. But I don’t feel as if I can trust anybody,” Cat said.

  “You don’t even know me, and you’re trusting me,” Sally pointed out.

  “Look, Sally. As I understand it, you’ve solved one or two ugly cases, at some personal risk. The sheriff is your good buddy, and it’s clear that he and his guys think Thomas and I are a couple of candy-butt Californians who’d like nothing more than to turn Wyoming into one big cappuccino bar. You’re part Californian yourself—you might say you’re practically bicultural. Frankly, we can use that. Maybe most important, Nina had a hell of a lot of respect for you, and considered you a close friend.”

  “I wasn’t her close friend,” Sally said, a little more vehemently than she needed to. “Both Kali and Whitebird were a whole lot tighter with her than I ever was, and you hardly trust them.”

  “There’s a big difference between parasites and friends,” Cat declared. “You had no idea she was leaving your center any money. You didn’t have any idea that you stood to gain from Nina’s death. Both of them are named in the draft of the will she sent me, as is this foundation they’re so devoted to. Maybe they’d seen the will. Maybe one or both of them decided to hurry fate along. Or maybe they know who did.

  “You’re good at asking questions,” Cat pointed out, “and you’re nosy enough to ask them. You’re a historian. You have a sense of what to look
for, rooting around in somebody’s papers.” She pulled out the carrot. “It’d help both of us if you’d come out to Shady Grove and work with me. See what you can dig up.”

  And now she pulled out the stick. “You, and your Dunwoodie Center, have got at least two hundred fifty thousand reasons to do what I’m asking,” Cat Cruz told Sally. “Before you ever write a word of a book I might or might not end up authorizing.”

  “Okay, Cat. Yes, I want to write about Nina, but I don’t like threats,” Sally said. From what she’d seen of Cat Cruz that day, she couldn’t afford to look like a patsy.

  “Sorry,” Cat said, putting a hand on her arm. “Really. With all the time I’ve spent dealing with people in the entertainment business, I sometimes catch myself falling back on playing Hollywood hard-ass. How about a deal instead of a threat?”

  Sally said, “Let’s hear it.”

  “Come out to the ranch. Look through her papers. Ask some questions around town. See what your pals Langham and Atkins are willing to share with you.”

  “Atkins isn’t my pal,” Sally said, not quite knowing the name for what he was to her.

  “Probably not, though he’s sexy in a hard-boiled kind of way, don’t you think?”

  Sally declined to offer her opinion.

  “Do what you can,” Cat said, “and I’ll do two things. I’ll promise not to challenge the part of the will that deals with the bequest to Dunwoodie. And I’ll sign an agreement authorizing you as her biographer.” Cat took a breath.

  “If you do that,” Sally said, leaning in on her elbows and looking Cat straight in the eye, “I’ll expect you to stipulate that whatever I do, nothing will in any way jeopardize the bequest to the Dunwoodie, that I will have unlimited access to her papers, and that you have absolutely no authority to censor anything I write.”

  Cat smiled slowly. “Who’s a Hollywood hard-ass now?”