"Jesus, Rosa, I didn't mean to—damn," he said, gripping the wheel. "This is a bumpy motherfucker."
"Hey, Rose, I think you took that all wrong," Lucy said from the back seat.
"Really, love, I wasn't even thinking about you when I said that. I promise." He took a hand off the wheel and reached for her. She slid over and leaned against her door, hugging herself, looking out.
"Well, maybe you should have been, señor. Ah, forget it. I'm sorry, I was out of line." She didn't sound at all apologetic. "Seeing Luce makes me miss New York is all. Hey, stop here a minute, Darren, I want to take a picture of Lucy and the view."
He pulled over and turned off the motor and they got out of the car. High overhead a hawk cried out, there was an echo, and then silence fell.
They had climbed above Santa Fe, now hidden by hills to the south. Over them the mountains loomed closer. A ragged cloud, softly contrasting with the depthless blue of the sky, streamed like a banner hooked on the highest peak. The piñon forests were interrupted by rocky outcroppings in beiges and sandstone reds. Higher up, the forests gave way to meadows glinting with wildflowers. The air was noticeably cooler and felt thinner. "Damn," Lucy said, gazing out into the vast distances. Her voice sounded tiny in the immensity of space. "It is something, isn't it? Makes Central Park look like somebody's backyard."
They took a few pictures, Rosa's mood improving as Lucy mugged for the camera, positioning her arms in modern dance poses meant to interpret the myriad forms of the cactus, and then they continued their drive up the hill. They came over a rise abruptly, and startled a pair of odd-looking creatures gnawing on a tree at the side of the road. "Look at the llamas!" Rosa said.
"The house is just up here past those rocks," Darren said. "There are a couple of big noisy dogs, too, but they just bark a lot so don't worry."
They rounded the rocky outcropping, and the house came into view. Long and blockily graceful in the adobe pueblo style, the house's two stories appeared to hug the ground. A reddish sandstone mountain rose up behind, and the lines of the house clearly had been sculpted to echo the shape of the mountain. The architecture was classic pueblo, with a few differences: huge picture windows replaced the tiny square windows of the traditional pueblo, the basic building material was painted stucco not adobe, and one wing of the building had a slanted roof covered with solar panels. An ostrich stood perfectly still, calmly gazing at them. Over to the right of the house, a camel stared over the top rail of a small corral.
Two Russian wolfhounds bounded into view, barking vociferously. "Jesus, they must weigh 200 pounds apiece," Lucy said, as the enormous beasts dashed up to the car.
"Like I said, they're all bark," Darren said. Without hesitation he opened the door and got out. "Hey, Yash and Natash, how are ya?" he said, swatting at the dogs as they trotted up to him, panting and grinning. "How are you, big boys?" He scratched their heads, and they looked happy. "Not exactly fierce, are they?" Lucy and Rosa climbed out of the car. They headed up towards the house, escorted by the two giant dogs.
"Does she live alone?" Lucy said softly to Darren.
"I think so," he said. "Although I really don't know. Pretty far out place, huh?"
"Too far out, as far as I'm concerned," said Rosa. "I'd go nuts up here."
"Maybe that's the idea," said Darren. "She's a pretty eccentric lady."
The front door was set back deeply, an enormous oaken slab with wrought iron banding and a doorknob sculpted into the form of a coiled, sleeping snake. Darren rang the doorbell, they waited a minute, then he rang it again. No answer. They peered in the windows which flanked the door.
Suddenly the door swung open, and there stood Margaret Clements. She was fortyish, weathered by the sun, rail-thin, wearing old jeans, an old blue cowboy shirt, black boots, a silver studded belt, diamonds on her ears, and a red scarf over her long, dark blonde, grey-tinged hair. Her eyes were pale blue and clear, with a glow to them. A million dollar trueblue cowgirl, top to bottom. "Darren Davidson," she said, voice a Texas drawl trained halfway out of her. "Sorry, I was in the mountain, didn't hear the bell. Howdy, Rosa. That's it, isn' t it?" The timber of her voice was surprisingly frail, belying the sinewy sturdiness of her appearance.
"Yeah. Hi," said Rosa.
"Hello, Margaret," said Darren. "This is our friend from New York, Lucy Ripken. Lucy, this is Margaret Clements. Lucy's doing an article on pre-Colombian art."
"Darren told you I have some wonderful pieces. So you're here. As long as you don't tell anybody my name or the whereabouts of my house, you can write whatever you want about my collection." In spite of the shaky timber—it sounded as if her voice had prematurely aged—she trained her gaze, and her words, precisely on whomever she spoke to.
"Thanks," said Lucy. "I'd love to see what you have."
"Come on in," Margaret said, leading the way. They followed her into the entry. The floor was buffed flagstone, the walls were white, hand-finished textured plaster, with sculpted niches containing colorful kachina dolls and Pueblo Indian pottery. They followed her down a long white arched hall into an enormous living room. Shelves full of Pueblo pottery lined the walls, Navajo blankets were thrown over the leather sofas, and a huge window in a wall at one end offered a stunning, endless view encompassing desert, mountains, and sky.
"Wow," said Lucy, admiring the breathtaking vista.
"I know," said Margaret. "You can almost forget about the art, with the desert to look at. You oughta see it when a storm's comin' in sometime. Like having a piece of heaven tumbling right into your lap."
"Pretty nice," said Darren. "I must say."
"This is fantastic," Rosa said. She was examining a low-slung, black and white, geometrically-patterned pot set on a shelf by itself in the corner. "Is it—"
"Anasazi? Yes. I have several, but I only bring them out one at a time. The rest are in the mountain."
"Have you had this house published?" Lucy asked. "I'm sure one of the design magazines would love to do a story."
"The last thing I want is publicity," Margaret said. "And a bunch of tourists up here admiring the view."
"I could get it done anonymously. I'm sure your designer—who is your designer?—would love to see the house on the cover of, say, Architectural Digest."
"Actually, I designed it myself. And no, I wouldn't like to see it on the cover of anywhere. I'm sorry, Ms. Ripken, but I'm just not interested."
"That's fine. Please, call me Lucy. And believe me, I don't blame you. I'm just so unused to your attitude. These days most people with places like this seem to think that having them published is the main reason for building them."
"Well, I guess if I was a professional architect and I needed more work, or my ego stroked, I might feel the same way. But this is the only house I ever plan to design."
"Well, you've done a wonderful job. Would you mind if I take a few photographs, just for my own interest?"
"Of the art? Feel free. Of the house? Absolutely out of the question. In fact you should be careful, Natasha and Yasha are very mellow, but when you put a camera up to shoot they can get quite rude."
"I see." Lucy looked at the two enormous dogs, who lay side by side on the tile floor, heads resting on crossed paws, watching. "Take it easy, kids," Lucy said. "Maybe I'll skip the photos for now."
"Well, I was just doing some work in the mountain," Margaret said. "Do you want to join me back there?"
"In the mountain?" Rosa said.
"Follow me." They did, back down the hall, through a dining room and a library, and through double steel doors into a long cool hallway sculpted out of stone. "This is where the gallery is. In the mountain. Where I keep most of the collection. The air and light are great out there, that's why I love New Mexico, but it's hard on old things. So I created this space—the lights are all uv-free—for my collection." They had entered a vault-like chamber with a network of lightweight steel beams overhead supporting a sophisticated track lighting system. The floor and walls were st
one. The room was occupied by display cases, and each one—there were at least a dozen, set out in neat rows on both sides of a central aisle—was filled with figurines, pots, vessels, and statues. Enhancing the illumination from the overhead tracks, the glass cases, framed in black-finished steel, contained built-in lighting.
"This is incredible," Rosa said, as they wandered around the vault. "You've got stuff from—"
"All over the world," Margaret said. "African, Asian, Mesoamerican." They stopped at a case. "This case is all Greek. I've dedicated my life to this collection. The best work I have is over here," she said, as they followed her to another case. "The pre-Colombians. That's where I began. When I was a kid my mother used to take us down from the ranch to the Yucatan in the winter—we had a beach house—and I bought one of these in a street market in Merida for about ten dollars." The three glass shelves housed pots, figurines, pendants, bowls, and other objects, in a variety of materials and styles. There were several similar to those Lucy had seen recently in New York. "It seemed like a lot of money at the time, but I had to have it. I just love them so much. Such power, and yet such delicacy."
"But it must have been a real bargain, even then, wasn't it?" Lucy said. "These things are practically priceless."
"It was definitely a find, because there's always been a market for this stuff. It would cost a lot more now, I'll tell you that."
"Margaret, if you don't mind my asking," Lucy said after a moment. "You seem to care so much about these objects. Why did you decide to send the Mayan pieces up to New York to sell?"
"Lucy, that's none of your business," Darren interjected.
"No, it's all right, Darren, I don't mind her asking. Actually, it's very simple. By selling the half-dozen I sent up, I make back the money I spent, so it pays for the two pieces I get to keep."
"Which are?"
"Which are what?"
"The pieces you kept. Are they here on display?"
"No, I've got another display case on order, and I'm waiting for it to be delivered. They make them in Phoenix and it takes a while with installing the special lights and all. The pieces are still in storage down in town."
"Have you had a good look at them, Margaret?"
"The new ones? Not since I bought them. Why?"
Lucy paused, glanced at Darren, and answered: "Well, it's time somebody told you. I went to the Desert Gallery the day they arrived. The other pieces you sent. I was going to photograph them for Madeleine Rooney for a catalogue. I had some friends come by to help me figure out how to shoot them, and they said—Beth and Quentin Washington, and they know their stuff—"
"Yes, I've heard of them," Margaret said.
"Well, anyways, Quentin took a look at one of the Jaina Island shell carvings, and discovered it was a fake. Then he checked the others. He's sure they're all fakes."
"Fakes? What? That's impossible."
"I'm sorry, Margaret, but—"
"Now hold on, Lucy," said Darren. "Madeleine Rooney had another expert look them over, and he wasn't so sure."
"That's true," Lucy said, "But Quentin convinced me. This other guy—his name's Forte."
"Herman Forte?" Margaret said. "I know him."
"He's not so sure they're forgeries," said Darren.
"Well, I'm sure they're not. I had them appraised and authenticated. There's no way."
"Herman Forte didn't tell Madeleine Rooney the truth because she didn't want to hear it. Darren, don't insult Margaret by doing the same thing here," Lucy said.
"Hey, wait a minute, Lucy. The issue of authenticity is not yet resolved," said Darren. "It's not like Forte is some kind of phony."
"Get serious, man. Have you met him?" Lucy said.
"Dr. Forte? No," Darren said.
"Well, take my word for it. He's not a phony, but if Madeleine Rooney told him the sky was green, he'd eventually agree, and probably find several experts to back him up."
Margaret laughed. "The hell with your experts in New York. I know one thing we can do," Margaret said. "I've got my pieces in a safety deposit box downtown. We'll just have to have another look at them. Get Calvin to come in to town and we'll check them out."
"Calvin?" Lucy asked.
"Calvin Hobart. He's the one that authenticated this stuff. He's an archaeologist, an anthropologist, and a serious collector himself. Lives up past Pojoaque towards Los Alamos. Plus his roommate—a full-blooded Mescalero Apache name of Hamilton Walking Wind—is the appraiser of the pieces. They both have impeccable reputations, I can tell you that. I'll call and ask them to hook up with us at the bank. Meanwhile, let's go back to the house. You folks can have some juice while I call."
She took them out of the mountain, locking up the steel doors, and back through the library. Then they turned left off the dining room and found the kitchen, which was huge, sunbright, and homey, dominated by a big rough rectangular table under a chandelier made from an old wagon wheel. In the center of the table sat a large old wooden salad bowl filled with—Lucy could hardly believe her eyes!—peyote buttons. Sitting right there, along with the bunches of herbs on the wall, and the basket of fruit on the counter, and all the tasteful accessories. Margaret brought out a bottle of organic apple juice and glasses, then picked up a phone and called while they sat drinking juice. Darren and Rosa appeared not to notice the buttons. After a minute Margaret put the phone down. "He's not answering. Probably out running. They're always out running. He and Walking Wind are jogging fools. Well, let's get down into town, I'll call again from the bank. As you can imagine I'm sort of anxious to have another look at my new babies."
"You want to ride with us? I can drive you back up later," said Darren.
"Nah, I'll get out my truck. Lucy, why don't you ride with me so that we can talk about this situation a little more, OK?"
"Sure." And so Lucy found herself driving down the mountain with Margaret Clements in a pick-up truck, the two pony-sized dogs in the back, one on each side, heads out grinning in the jetstream.
"I'm sorry you didn't get a chance to shoot pictures of the art, Lucy," Margaret said as they bounced down the dirt road. "You'll have to come up again."
"I was hoping you'd say that. But first you've got to resolve this problem with the fakes."
"If they are."
"Right." Why argue? She liked this woman. "If you don't mind my asking, Margaret, who's your source for the pieces?"
"Oh, that's confidential, Lucy. Everybody's got their own connections, you know. You're not gonna find any collectors willing to talk about that. See, since the Unesco laws passed a few years back it's against the law to bring this stuff over the border. You can't get legitimate documentation on smuggled goods. But I've been buying from the same people a while, and they've never sold me fakes. I will tell you that."
"The issue of fakes aside, doesn't it bother you to be involved in the market for illegal goods? National treasures of Mexico and all that?"
"Well, I don't buy in the black market unless something really hot comes up. Besides, if I thought the pieces would end up in one of the museums down there it would bother me. But if they're going to end up in private collections anyway, which is what happens to almost everything that gets dug up these days, it might as well be up here instead of down there, way I see it."
"So why not be a hero and buy the stuff and simply give it back to the museum down there? Repatriate it to the Mexican government?"
"I tried that once. Found myself seriously harrassed by people on both sides of the border, who put the squeeze on me to discover my sources. Plus I returned four pieces and only two ended up in the museum. The other two I'm told were put in storage, but no one's seen them since."
"So the system is so hopelessly fucked up that all you can do is play along, contribute to the mess."
Margaret looked at her. "Yeah, I guess that's one way of seeing it. On the other hand, I have to admit I love owning them. I love having them. I don't have any kids—I gave up on marriage after my third—so bet
ween my animals and my art—well, they're my babies. I look at them—I spend hours in the mountain every day, just looking at them. I love knowing they're mine."
"Yeah, I guess I can understand that," Lucy said, although she really couldn't. Oh, she could understand the aesthetic attraction of the pieces all right. What she couldn't understand, or chose not to, was the possessiveness, the hunger for having, that she believed underpinned Margaret's attitude. The operative word was "mine."
"So tell me, Margaret—you've obviously been involved with this stuff for a while. Why'd you decide to work with Darren Davidson and Madeleine Rooney? Didn't you know dealers in New York before?"
"Sure. But Darren told me Rooney could turn them around quickly, at higher prices, with a smaller commission. She's got good connections. It was strictly business."
They made their way into town, and soon arrived at the Santa Fe National Bank, which happened to be directly across the street from the Anasazi Mountain Lodge. As they pulled into the parking lot, Lucy saw a slightly unnerving sight out of the corner of her eye: Robert Sobel and Darren Davidson chatting amiably just inside the open entrance to the hotel lobby. "Well, here we are," Margaret said, pulling into the lot next to the BMW, in which Rosa still sat. "I assume you all want to come in and have a look with me?"
"Yes, I sure do. But I need to make a phone call first. I'll catch up to you. Hey Rosa," she added, as Rosa got out of the car. "Where's the husband material?"
"Surprise, surprise," she said. "Darren knows your pal Robert Sobel. He ran into him in the street, and they're over there chatting." She nodded in the direction of the hotel. "He asked me not to tell you earlier. Thought it might upset you after last night."
"Upset? Not to worry, I'm a big girl, Rosey. I just hope you guys don't invite him to dinner anytime soon," Lucy said. "I've seen enough of that dude for now. Hey, listen, I gotta make a call," she added. "I'll catch up to you in the bank."
Lucy called the museum in New York. As agreed, it was noon in Santa Fe, two pm in New York, and Quentin had promised to be near a phone. He answered on one ring. "Museum, hello."
Mexican Booty: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 2) Page 6