Home was Florida.
“Yeah. It is all that and then some. I am thinking that this is a good night for a swim at the pool and then going to bed with a glass of wine. A big glass.” They walked away from the guards at the visitors’ kiosk and turned toward the cafeteria. There wouldn’t be any food at that time of day, but there was always coffee and maybe a stale muffin or bagel. The ambience of the cafeteria was also refreshingly modern. There was nothing haunting about laminate tables and plastic chairs.
Juliet was sure that she could feel Geary’s gaze on her back as she walked away.
“That sounds good. Maybe the wine will help me sleep. So far all I have managed is catnaps. Even meditation isn’t helping much. Guess I’ve had a lot of stuff on my mind.” This sudden confidence felt a bit odd. Vickie hadn’t sought her out for socializing before and Juliet was cynical enough to wonder what she might want.
“Your display is all ready?” she asked sympathetically, giving her the benefit of the doubt. Juliet had been serving as a sort of dogsbody, helping the various artists with staging. She had learned a lot about lighting from doing other shows, and the staff and visiting artists, shorthanded because of some intestinal bug making the rounds, were glad of the unofficial help. But the last day or so she had needed to give all her time to Esteban.
“Yes, all but the back drapes. They should be in tomorrow morning. You were right about the blue velvet. It looks so much better than the red under these lights. I don’t want to look like I’m trying to stage Dracula, or I guess these days, I should say Twilight—though I suppose I would need glitter for that,” she added with a rare display of humor.
“And an underage hottie to wear it.”
Vickie nodded seriously.
“Models are awfully expensive though. I thought about having a living mannequin to model my jewelry.”
“That’s an interesting idea,” Juliet said sincerely. “But she or he would need period clothing.”
“Yes, and it is just too expensive.” Vickie waved a hand, shooing the idea away. “I love what you and Esteban have done with that theater. It’s macabre but not really gruesome.”
Juliet nodded though she thought it quite gruesome enough. She had learned about the different kinds of lights and their effect on fabric from Raphael. He was always very particular about lighting and the kinds of drapes he used in his Renaissance paintings.
She found herself wishing that he was there to help advise—or anything at all. But Raphael had a major piece to finish for some German millionaire’s schloss, and he was taking care of her cat, the fastidious Marley, so that Juliet could be with Esteban at this important show. Esteban had made a financial go of his bone puppets, but his audience was limited and almost exclusively located in the western U.S. This show would, he hoped, bring national and even international recognition.
Behind them she heard Geary resume what sounded like an interrupted rant which the other guard, Bowman, didn’t seem to be listening to. Bowman was pretty mellow, observant and able to command respect without being aggressive. It was just his bad luck that he had partnered with a big mouth.
“Well, I know about these L.A. bitches—have since I was twelve. And I tell you the prettier they are, the more trouble they are. And they’re the same everywhere. Bitches,” he repeated, then went on to present anecdotal evidence of this claim.
Apparently he did know bitches. Not that the knowledge had done him much good, Juliet thought as he continued to complain about women he had known.
“I think he must have some built-in woman defect-finder,” Vickie whispered, proving she had been listening too. Her eyes were suddenly hard.
Sensing a strong undertow of bad life experience that she didn’t want to get caught in, Juliet returned a light answer.
“And a severely limited vocabulary. I wonder if we’re bitches too,” Juliet asked. “Or are we too old to be plain bitches?”
“I don’t think my boobs were ever big enough to suit someone like him,” Vickie said with a quick and rather unpleasant grin which surprised Juliet. She hadn’t seen much evidence of humor before that afternoon and certainly no crudity. In fact, the thought crossed her mind that Victoria might have already been drinking. Could the hateful wind have gotten to her enough to make her drink on the job?
“But you have a lot of yardage in your legs,” she said generously. “You don’t even need heels.”
“But I’m not an ass-jigglin’, money-grubbin’ ho.” This had the sound of a quotation.
“No, thank God. That might be more than I could stand right now.”
They had their choice of tables since the museum was nearly empty, but only one option for coffee which was overdone and under-caffeinated. It smelled a bit off since it had been stewing on the hotplate for the better part of the afternoon, but they opted to take their chances anyway since neither of them was in a hurry to get back to work.
Another of the artists fluttered in and snagged a cup of the odorous coffee, her shoes loud on the marble floor. That day she was wearing something that looked like it had been ripped off a carnival tent and Vickie squinted her eyes, either against the dress or the perfume Celeste wore which drenched the room like a chemical fog. Celeste Ames seemed to be in perpetual motion, fidgeting even when she ate. She was twenty-eight but looked at least ten years older. Celeste was also very truthful. Meaning she spoke without much thought or consideration for her audience’s feelings. If the habit of fidgeting had been accompanied by amiability Juliet might have liked her, but since she seemed to be made of nerves and boundless verbal discontent, Juliet avoided her as much as possible. Probably she qualified as one of Geary’s Los Angeles bitches.
Though, rendering unto Caesar what was Caesar’s, Juliet had to admit that she liked Celeste’s skull pocket watches. She left the gears visible behind the face and they were a mix of silver and deer antler. Juliet was still debating whether to get one for Raphael. He would admire it, but the damned things were expensive and she wasn’t sure that she could justify the expense after paying for a hotel for a week.
Vickie was watching her with a small frown.
“Feeling exhausted by so much youthful energy?” Juliet asked.
“Yes,” Vickie admitted. “She reminds me of my older sister.”
And apparently not in a good way, so Juliet let the subject die.
The museum director’s assistant stalked by the door, speaking loudly into her cell as she tried to find better reception without actually stepping outdoors. Delores could no more function without her cell phone than she could without her pancreas. In fact, her telephonic conversations left her refreshed in ways that face-to-face conversations did not. Herrick had had a dental emergency and had finally been persuaded to leave long enough to see the dentist and then to go home and rest. Obviously, he wasn’t willing to delegate for even a few hours with the opening so close. Fortunately, Delores didn’t mind being on an electronic leash.
“They don’t have red carpets—not in the fifty feet we need. They have royal blue, gold, black, and white.” Delores Chapman paused. She was also a woman of boundless energy, but she considered her words very carefully and favored subdued clothing. “What? You’re slurring…. Yes, black would be very appropriate.”
Juliet looked beyond the older woman and saw Geary was also watching her with a look that could only be called hostile. Delores had caught him smoking in the bathroom that morning and upbraided him for it, threatening to fire him if he did it again. Their insurance rider which covered the borrowed artifacts in the museum was adamant about there being no smoking anywhere in the building. It was also the law in California.
“Yes, the caterer confirmed on the salmon—but only for two hundred. If we need more we will have to choose something else or go with farm-raised. And it is going to be at least fifteen a bottle for wine fit for human consumption. Have we gotten a revised headcount from the press office? You know, they always eat like wolverines when the food is free.” Delo
res paced away, taking Herrick’s medicated anxiety with her. The last thing Juliet heard her say was about the bonfire. “No, no letup yet, but I ordered the fire extinguishers in case the wind dies down and we get a green light.”
The wind. Everyone was at the breaking point because of the endless moaning. It was chafing their brains, scouring their souls.
“I’d have an ulcer if I had her job,” Vickie said, and Juliet nodded.
It was quite usual for museum staff to be worried about publicity and attendance, and this opening was no exception. That was completely understandable given the financial realities of the art world. Museums and art galleries have a problem not faced by other businesses. Cultural force-feeding is not allowed in a more or less free society and the arts in the United States are not subsidized to any degree. That meant that the public and their dollars had to be lured to events. And when that wasn’t enough, and it rarely was, a sponsoring patron had to be found. The museum didn’t want the name of a bank or a car manufacturer painted on the side of their building so they were trying to go it alone. That meant they needed a good turnout on opening night and lots of publicity to draw people in later.
Their location was a bit remote, but Juliet thought they had a fair chance of making it a hit since the subject matter was so “accessible” to the public and death was always popular with a certain crowd.
“So, I heard on the grapevine that Esteban has another job, that he is a.…” Vickie trailed off, her face becoming blank.
“Hello, Bella,” Esteban said, joining them at their table. He looked tired. “So you have been driven to drinking the local hemlock? It will give you an ulcer.”
Juliet sniffed her cup and then pushed it away untasted. She was pretty sure that Vickie had intended to ask her if Esteban really was a private detective and she wondered if the question was more than idle curiosity.
“Can we go get some dinner?” Juliet asked when Vickie passed up the chance to ask Esteban a direct question. “I’m starving. I need to eat or I’m going to go on strike.”
“Certainly. Vickie, you will join us?” Esteban asked politely if unenthusiastically.
“No, thanks. I have some work to do yet.” Vickie was equally polite but she remained distant with Esteban. In fact, Juliet thought that she was a little standoffish with all the men on the project. And the women too. Her seeking out Juliet for coffee was a first and it seemed that maybe this occasion had had an ulterior motive driving it as well.
Esteban stood.
“See you tomorrow, Vickie. Let me know if you need any help hanging your drapes,” Juliet said and then started for the door. She actually wasn’t all that hungry and was in no rush to return to her small hotel room, but getting out of the morbid museum felt like a really good idea. It was giving her what her old boss would have called a cauld grue.
“Any preferences for food?” Esteban asked.
“You’re down here more than I am. Surprise me.”
Esteban chose a Spanish restaurant for dinner. They were lucky to find it open because they only served dinner three nights a week, and those were rather random since the main business was catering. They had to eat on the terrace because a remodel of the small house was in progress, but it was on the protected side of the old adobe building and the wind couldn’t reach them. The tablecloth was actual linen and there were votive candles and calla lilies on every table.
“It’s lovely,” Juliet said, pleased that they had found somewhere without plastic chairs. Monday nights were not popular with the local restaurateurs who closed early if they opened at all.
They started with escalivada, a kind of hot salad with grilled eggplant. Esteban had the pulpo a feira, an octopus dish which sounded revolting to Juliet. She ordered a tortilla de patatas, a kind of potato omelet. The waiter suggested flan and churros and Esteban agreed though he didn’t usually care for dessert.
Juliet’s hunger returned once the food began to arrive and she found herself relaxing under the influence of good food, good wine, and good company.
“So, what do you think of our fellow artists?” Esteban asked. “You have spent more time with them than I have.”
Juliet thought about it.
“They’re weird. Nervy even for creative types, and they seem kind of stunted in their humor. But then I guess they are working in a kind of fringe area where one’s customers might be a bit odd. I’m not speaking about you,” she added hastily.
Esteban’s dark eyes danced in the candlelight.
“My customers are indeed most odd,” he said.
“Yes, but you’re not.…” She tried to think of a way to explain. “You don’t define yourself solely by your art. You managed to go out into the world and develop a well-rounded personality. I can’t tell with Vickie, but Celeste acts like she was raised on another planet, one where the sun revolved around her. She makes me tired just being in the same room.”
Esteban nodded.
“I have sensed this too. Unfortunately, great talent does not mean great intelligence in other fields.”
“There is another artist coming, isn’t there? The coffin maker?”
“Yes. Matt Meyers. He has been delayed.”
“I hear he’s a master carpenter. There is no bad press on him anywhere. I looked.”
“Yes, but then his customers would hardly complain, no?”
Later that night, Juliet pulled the curtains closed, shutting out the chain of streetlights stretching into the city’s glow until they disappeared in the municipal nebula. She was not the only one at the hotel who had their drapes drawn against the orange light. The windows were curtained in Celeste’s and Vickie’s rooms as well. They were probably trying to quiet the pummeling moans with other noise from televisions or iPods.
Usually Juliet wanted to know something about the people she was working with, even if it wasn’t her business. Especially if it wasn’t her business, she admitted to herself. But something about their situation, or maybe the wind, prevented any impulse to visit her neighbors though there was a penciling of light under the edge of the drapery announcing they were still awake.
The room smelled of dust and air freshener. This wasn’t surprising given the dust in the closet that suggested the elderly maid preferred spraying to vacuuming.
Though not a fan of network television, she turned on the set to the weather channel, hoping to drown out the moaning wind that leaked under the doorjamb and around the ill-fitting windows, causing the curtains to stir uneasily as the air conditioner wheezed weakly and inefficiently. She took no pleasure in learning that it had been 103 degrees that day and was still an unpleasant 87.
The mattress on her bed was hard but that was not what would keep her from sleep.
Giving in to impulse, she pulled out her cell and dialed Raphael’s number. He was a night owl and there was little chance that he would be asleep yet.
“Juliet.” Raphael’s voice was warm. “How go the preparations?”
“We’re almost ready,” she said, trying to force the pillows into a comfortable mound. They weren’t cooperative. The feathers had probably come off their donors around the time of the Truman administration.
“And the devil wind?” he asked.
“Still blowing…. Raphael?” she hesitated.
“You have a feeling that something is wrong?” he asked, his voice warm with concern. “Esteban called earlier and said you seemed on edge.”
“It’s nothing specific,” she answered, feeling both relief but also embarrassment that he had detected the worry in her voice and that Esteban had also guessed that she was nervous.
“Yes?”
“I think it’s the wind. They say that it makes people crazy and it may be true. And being in that damned museum stuffed with dead things day after day…. Well, I have an old fashioned case of the creeps,” she confessed.
“I think that is understandable. Especially since the people there are also a bit strange and annoying.”
Juliet
laughed reluctantly.
“They are a little. Though I haven’t seen any obvious signs of advanced mania among the artists. There is just a lot of tension, worry, some rivalry perhaps—and some anger in the staff,” she added, thinking of the guard and the way he looked at Delores.
Bitches.
“You are being careful?” Raphael asked.
“Always. I’ll just be glad when the opening is over and I can leave.”
“You could leave now. Esteban would understand and I think Hough has left town.”
“He would understand, but I can’t do it. There is too much to be done on his display and the museum is operating on a shoestring budget. Half the staff is down with flu. They actually need me. In fact, I half expect to get assigned to the cafeteria next. Or maybe grounds maintenance.”
And she couldn’t leave Esteban, not while there was the horrid feeling of violence in the air. She knew he sensed it, but was too preoccupied with his theater to pay sufficient attention. She would have to be the one to watch his back.
“Then I will not try to persuade you.”
Juliet changed the subject and asked about the painting for the schloss. But her thoughts never strayed far from the present, and eventually she asked if he knew anything about Vickie or Celeste. The art world was small and she hoped that he knew something about them.
“No, not personally. I saw one of Celeste’s clocks in San Francisco. It was a masterpiece.”
But he hadn’t liked it. Juliet could tell from his voice.
That was how she felt about almost all of the art and displays at the museum. Masterpieces, the apex of creativity and craftsmanship—but she didn’t like them and wouldn’t want any of the art in her house or on her body.
Juliet laughed once.
“I guess this means that I am off the hook for getting one of Celeste’s watches.”
“Definitely.” Raphael’s voice was dry. “I do not need anything else to remind me of my mortality.”
Juliet understood. She didn’t see the point of a whole museum full of reminders that they were doomed animals and that being smart or rich or famous or good would not keep death away. Be of good cheer—all men are mortal.
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