"What do you mean?"
"Has Madeleine Rooney paid Margaret Clements for the stuff?"
He hesitated briefly. "You know, I really have no idea. I'm just not that involved. I mean, I put them together, but—why're you asking?"
"Part of the story, that's all."
"Right. Hasta Mañana."
"Good night."
Lucy put the phone down and began rubbing her hair dry with the towel. Darren Davidson was all right. He sounded straightforward, honest, and self-deprecating. Perfect for Rosita, that lucky girl! Good for her. One less thing to worry about in her quest to save the world for her friends, and her friends from the world.
She picked up the phone and called the front desk. "Hi, this is Lucy Ripken in the Laredo Suite. Did someone call for me a minute ago?"
"Just a moment. Yes, it was Mr. Sobel. He asked if you'd ring the bar and find him. Shall I put you through?"
"Sure." She waited.
"Hi, Lucy?"
"Mr. Sobel?"
"Please, call me Bob. Did you get checked in OK?"
"Yes. Hey, the room's great. And thanks for the champagne."
"I hope you enjoyed it."
"Honestly, after two margaritas with lunch, I didn't even open it. I took a bath, and now I’m—"
"Drink it tomorrow. Meanwhile, are you busy tonight? I thought we might have dinner together." He waited, she thought, "No way," but then he went on. "I have a little project I'm working on that I'd like to discuss with you."
The sly dog. She would have turned him down had he not thrown in that last line, which sounded like it might mean work. "I'm not too hungry, but I could do a salad maybe."
"Great. Say around seven?"
"Eight would be better. I'm still working on lunch."
"Fine. See you then. Here in the bar for a drink first, OK?"
"Sure, Bob." She put the phone down, found the remote controller, laid back on the bed, and turned on the tv for a fix of bad news.
CHAPTER THREE
ART, ARTIFACTS, DEAD MEN
Lucy woke to the absence of sound: this was not New York. She lay in a fragrant bed, on linen sheets. Sunlight filled the silence with gold. Red digits read 7:17 a.m. Rosa galloped through the desert out there, horse hooves pounding. The thought made Lucy's head ache. She was hungover. Relentlessly, images from a lost evening pounded into view, counterpoint to the headache throb. They'd gone too far. She'd gone too far before putting a stop to it. And it had taken a slip of his tongue to save her from herself.
Stumbling to the bathroom, she drank a large glass of cold water before getting into the shower. Enveloped in the stinging massage of hot water, she reviewed her behavior, assessing the damage.
It had begun innocently enough, although in all honesty she had gone to meet Robert Sobel with conflicting feelings up front. She didn't dislike the man, even felt a certain attraction to him. But she knew the real reason she had agreed to the meet was the "project"—the possibility of work. She had done herself up in a somewhat seductive mode—a touch more make-up than usual, a low-cut black dress—without asking herself why. Had she more closely questioned her own motives, perhaps she would have dispensed with the bullshit, gone down there in jeans and a shirt, and talked business over a glass of mineral water.
Instead—Lucy sighed, and sank to the tile floor of the shower to wallow in the high pressure flood of hot water—she'd gone the floozy route, and dolled herself up to play games with the man.
They'd had cajun martinis at the bar, making small talk, and then segued—Lucy was already half-drunk at this point—with a bottle of wine into the dining room, where she and "Bob" had shared that bottle and another, and she'd eaten a grilled chicken salad which failed to sober her up.
Over dinner "Bob" had given her the project pitch, which had to do with a hotel he and some partners planned to build in Deer Valley, Utah. He needed pre-construction brochures written up extolling the virtues of the architecture and interior design of the new hotel. The brochures would be used to market the place to potential investors. With the design team from the Anasazi already signed on for this Utah sequel, it was a safe bet to assume the project would be of comparable quality.
With wine and dinner and more wine, Lucy had been entranced by Sobel's magnetic silvery eyes, his simple yet elegant manners, and his mellifluous voice. Visions of mountaintop lodges danced before her, as did visions of large paychecks for easy assignments, and other visions, of herself and Robert Sobel riding off into the sunset on designer horses to his designer ranch in the hills above Taos, which he wanted to show her if she had time this week.
It had all been so smooth and seductive. Lucy should have known, the way she was swilling that fine white wine, that she was bamboozling herself on some important level. Huddled in the shower, her head throbbing and her stomach churning, she understood. But last night? No. It had been so easy to fall prey to the soft, attractive noise of too much money. For that is precisely the voice with which Robert Sobel spoke, in spite of his empathetic, low-keyed style and his New Age credentials. This was about the seductive power of money. Lucy liked money all right, she needed it like everybody else, but she had always resisted writing PR, advertising, marketing. It just wasn't worth it. Though her editorial work verged on it often enough, at least it was editorial work. Maybe the difference was semantic, but she had always insisted there was one.
Robert Sobel had offered her $5,000 to write a brochure, she had tentatively accepted, and then they had decided to mosey on up to her room to drink that bottle of Dom Perignon to ice the deal.
At the door she'd let him kiss her, and then they'd gone in. Her telephone message light had been on. She ignored it. They sat on the sofa and popped the champagne cork—the bucket had been mysteriously re-loaded with ice—and drank, and talked about the desert and the mountains and the 1980s, when Sobel had opened Red Sails, a restaurant on the wharf in Sausalito, launching his hip hospitality career. He had kissed her again. Then he'd gone to the bathroom, and Lucy had called the front desk for messages. She'd gotten only one: from Harold Ipswich in New York. To call when she had a chance. Hearing his name knocked her halfway back to sobriety. Harold. She liked him a lot.
When Sobel returned he said, "Did you go to Pratt? I saw the gym bag in the bathroom, and..."
"Nah, I got it from a pal."
"My daughter wants to go to art school, and that's one of her first choices. But I don't know about sending her to live in New York these days. What do you think?" He sat down on the couch next to her, his intentions glowing in his eyes. He didn't wear a wedding band; she'd noticed that hours ago.
"I have friends that went there, and they liked it, but that was a few years back. It's way off in Brooklyn, so I don't know." Lucy watched him re-fill her champagne glass, and then reached for it. She had it halfway to her lips when she stopped and put it down. Struggling to pull herself out of the drunken swirl, she stiffened a bit. "What does her mother think?"
"Her mother?"
"Yeah. She has a mother, right?"
"Of course. But there's no need to talk about her right now, Lucy." He reached out for her.
"Wait, Bob. Just wait a minute, OK?" She slid to the edge of the sofa. "Just one more question: are you married?"
"Her mother and I divorced years ago, Lucy, she's not an issue here at all."
"You didn't answer the question, Bob."
He gave her a look, then crossed his arms on his chest, sinking back into the sofa, and finally said, "Yes. I'm married. But my wife—my second wife—and I have an understanding. She's in Provence right now."
"Look, Bob," Lucy said, standing abruptly, and with sheer willpower holding steady, making herself sober. "I like you, I really do. And I guess we should talk again about your Utah project. But you have to go." She walked to the door and opened it. "Right now."
He crumpled further into the couch for a moment, and with his arms crossed, gazing up at her from beneath his silver eyebrows, he sudden
ly looked very fragile, a small, late middle-aged, irritated man. Then he threw off the rejection and rose up out of the sofa in all his elegant glory and came to her at the door. He took both her hands and looked earnestly into her face. But now the sexuality implied in the soft firmness of his hands only felt clammy. "I'm sorry you can't accept me on my terms. But if you only knew what I've gone through with Patricia—my wife—you'd understand."
"I don't think I'm the person you want to talk to about this, Robert," Lucy said. "I'm sorry, but I have a long day tomorrow. You've got a wife and I've got a boyfriend. Thanks for dinner, the champagne, the room, the whole damn thing, but I need some sleep." She pulled her hands loose and held the door. "Good night."
Looking at once angry and forlorn, he said, "Good night, Lucy," and walked away.
Well, at least she'd stopped herself in time, she thought, sitting on her sunny morning bed and drying her hair. As to why she'd let the situation get that far to begin with, there was simply no excuse. You didn't lead on a man like Robert Sobel—a married man, a man with whom you're doing business or might be, a man to whom you are obligated—especially when your heart is in the hands of another. Though she'd gotten out cleanly in the end, last night would be gnawing at her for a while.
Lucy dressed in slim-cut black jeans, a black t-shirt, and a blue jean jacket that had been a gift from Harold Ipswich. Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent of Mexican mythology, was stitched on the back in emerald green. She wore her army green desert boots from her favorite hipster bootery on Eighth Street. She packed her purse with dark sunglasses, digital camera, extra batteries, a back-up memory card, sunscreen and miscellaneous junk, and headed out. She'd debated having room service breakfast to avoid the chance of a meeting with Robert Sobel, but decided that was cowardly. Instead, she went downstairs and ordered coffee, then sat on a leather sofa in the lobby, all morning light and Mexican tile and cacti in clay pots beneath a classic viga and latilla ceiling. She put on her sunglasses and drank her coffee, waiting for the bellhop to bring up her car.
It took ten minutes to reach Darren and Rosa's place among a dusty little strip of nondescript adobe-colored stucco houses. This was not one of Santa Fe's designer neighborhoods. A sprinkling of modulars, tumble-down trailers, and vacant lots enlivened the working class look. Several dogs lay in the dust at the side of the street, and hardly glanced up as Lucy drove past, looking for number 29. What gave away the gentrification of this particular piece of low end Santa Fe were the cars parked in the dusty driveways outside several of the ranchitos: Range Rovers, BMWs, and Volvo station wagons. The houses that sold for $15,000 in the 1960s now sold for $250,000 plus, and spiritual seekers and trust fund refugees from both coasts had snatched them up.
Lucy spotted Rosa's blue Volvo station wagon parked in a driveway behind an old BMW with California plates, and stopped in front, where a faded white fence corraled about nine square yards of dust and a single worn piñon tree. As she approached the house she heard dogs barking inside, and Rosa, in a t-shirt, dusty jeans, and big black riding boots, opened the door before Lucy had a chance to knock. "Luce!" she said, and they hugged. "How are you? You look a little zoned out. What, this clean air bothering you?"
"Nah, I got wrecked last night," she said, as they walked into the house. "Details at five. I see you've already done your miles," she added, checking out Rosa's threads. "Sigmund," she cried, as Rosa's brown and white spotted mutt scooted over and jumped up on her. "Siggy, you little desert rat! I can't believe it, this dog has lost ten pounds!”
"That's cause he's gotta keep up with Max, my overgrown idiot cur," said Darren, coming forward to greet her. "Hi, Lucy, I'm Darren. How ya doin'?"
"Hi." Lucy shook his hand, took him in. He was just over six feet tall, wore his dark brown hair combed back in a modified fifties kind of do, had brown eyes, a tan, a slim build going thick around the middle. He wore black gym shorts, tennies without socks, and a dirty green t-shirt. He hadn't shaved in a couple of days. Though his head hair was all brown, the grizzle was grey-tinged. "Nice to meet you at last."
"Yeah, it's about time," said Rosa. "Cool out, Sig, you idiot animule," she said, as Sigmund jumped up at Lucy.
"Hey, it's all right, he misses me is all," said Lucy. "Hey Siggie, what's up? What's up, pup?" She said, roughing him up. "You smell the big city, pupster?"
"You want some breakfast, Lucy?" Darren said. "I've got an omelet on the stove."
"He cooks too?" Lucy said, and laughed. "Such a deal! Does he do laundry?"
"Once in a while," Rosa said. "As you can tell from his shirt, it's often a very long while."
"Hey, I've been gardening, give me a break," Darren said. They wandered into the kitchen. The house was neatly furnished with old sofas, unmatched chairs, tacked-up posters, and worn-out rugs. Still a bachelor classic though Rosa had been there nearly six months. But the kitchen had a nice sunny eat-in area with a fifties formica-topped table, and one of Rosa's new paintings on the wall over it.
"Let's eat and then I'll show you around the place," Rosa said. "As you can see, it's no Anasazi Lodge."
"Where's all your fancy stuff from New York, Rose?" Lucy asked.
"In storage. We were planning to paint, and I figured I might as well wait. Now we're talking about getting a different place, and—hey, I don’t know, my stuff's too good for the neighborhood." She grinned as Darren scowled. "Just kidding, love," she added, then went over and kissed him.
"That one of your new ones?" Lucy said, gazing at the painting, of clouds over water, oil directly applied to a faded three foot strip of an old one-by-twelve board that appeared to have been peeled right off the side of a 19th century building. "It's gorgeous."
"Um, yeah, thanks," Rosa said. "I've made a bunch of these, and I think I'm going to be able to sell 'em. There's a gallery on the plaza that seems interested, and—"
"Sit down, sit down," said Darren, and pulled out a chair for Lucy. "Beat it, you dogs," he said, chasing them out the back door. "You want some coffee?"
"Sounds great." He poured her a cup, brought the food over, and they sat down to eat.
"So what's the plan?" Darren asked as they were finishing. "You want to cruise around town a little, take the tour?"
Rosa jumped in. "I thought we'd go over to my studio first."
"I've really got to talk to Margaret Clements," Lucy said. "And get to work. You didn't happen to call and tell her I was here, did you?"
"No," said Darren. "We thought it might be best if you broke the news yourself. But I'll give her a buzz and see if we can go up for a visit."
"Do you think Madeleine Rooney might have called her by now?"
"No. Maddie—Madeleine—was depending on me to handle things with Margaret."
"Does that mean she'll blame you for buying forgeries?"
"I don't know. I arranged the deal with Margaret, she had documentation, and I sent everything on by courier to Madeleine. We'll see what she has to say about it."
Rosa jumped up. "Let's go outside. I want to show you the garden.”
An hour later they had seen the garden, with its wan little rows of vegetable seedlings baking in the sun; and they had driven across town and seen the studio, a one story cinderblock bunker Rosa shared with two local talents. Paola made tapestries out of pebbles and beads and feathers, and Wanda made ceramic unicorns, dolphins, whales, and other mythical or politically correct animals, painted them with rainbows and mandalas, and sold them as fast as she could crank them out through several galleries in town.
"They're not quite New York-level artists, are they?" Rosa asked as the three of them headed out of town in Darren's BMW on the highway north towards Tesuque.
"No, not quite, Rosey," said Lucy from the back seat.
"So what is it that makes New York artists different?" said Darren, a little testily. "I think Paola's things are really nice."
"Exactly," said Rosa. "Nice. Don't tell me you think my work is really nice, bub, or I'll—"
> "Hey, hey, Rosa," said Lucy. "Your work is...full of dialectical information about surface and reflection, and exhibits a post-Modern sense of the ironic implications of subtextual materialism. Right, Darren?"
"Is that how they talk about art in New York?" he asked.
"Nobody I know does," said Rosa. "But then, I didn't exactly conquer the art world back there, did I?" She sighed. "I suppose if I had I wouldn't have come here."
"Hey, then you wouldn't have met this guy," said Lucy. "And then what?"
"Yeah," said Darren. "Then what?"
"I don't know," said Rosa pensively. Lucy put her hand on Rosa's shoulder as they looked out the window at the rolling, piñon-covered hills. "So where's this Margaret Clements live, anyway, Darren, in a cave somewhere?"
"Hey, that's not far from the truth. She owns a mountain up here a ways, and half the house is buried underneath it." He slowed down, then turned right onto a smaller paved road leading down into the village of Tesuque—a general store & restaurant, a scattering of houses—and a moment later turned up into the hills. "It's pretty amazing, actually—solar-heated, and filled with art from all over the world. Plus she's got like, a camel, two llamas, and a couple of ostriches."
"She collects art?" Lucy asked.
"Yeah. In a big way," Darren said. "Why?"
"Just wondered," Lucy said. Wondered why such a woman would need Darren to hook her up with Madeleine Rooney. Wouldn't she already have dealers in Santa Fe and New York if she was a serious collector?
"She's from Texas oil money," Darren said. "A trust fund babe who found her niche out in the middle of nowhere, which happens to be right about here," he went on, whipping a left turn onto an unmarked dirt road. "Now's when I wish we had a Range Rover instead of this wreck," he said to Rosa as they bounced through a pothole. "The suspension on this beamer is history."
"Well, I may be a trust fund babe, as you call it, but I'm not going to go buy you a fifty thousand dollar offroad toy, Darren," Rosa snapped as they crashed along on the rocky road.
Mexican Booty: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 2) Page 5